Fizzy Follies: The Keys to Humiliaton

Hello my loves! I’m a very spastic person. I don’t ever pretend to have even an ounce of grace in my person, and I accept this about myself. I own my flailing. There seems to be two kinds of people in my world. The people who understand my clumsiness and those who just stare at me and hope whatever is causing me to act like this isn’t contagious. A week ago, I went to pick my son up from preschool. I always get to the school about ten minutes early so I can sit peacefully in my car, turn on the seat/ass warmers, and listen to whatever music I want before the Little Sir joins me and demands we listen to Katy Perry’s “Roar” on repeat all the way home. It’s adorable, by the way. He calls it the Happy Song. Awww. Anyway, I was zen’ed out, feeling the flow, embracing the calming sounds of the rain on the roof and watching as the little droplets meshed to form tributaries on the windshield. Plus I was rocking out to Pink which had me feeling a little more badass than I actually am. I exit my car, feeling confident and strutty. I had to park across the street and usually jaywalk my way over the school like it ain’t no thang. That day, seeing that I was being drenched in rain as I waited for a lull in passing cars, a nice lady in a pretty red car decided to stop traffic to let me pass. Aww, what a kind person. Yay, faith in humanity! I take two steps, raise my hand to wave a thank you. Except, when I waved, my keys flew from my hand, landed on the hood of her car with a horrible CLANK and then...

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Fizzy Follies – Egg-mageddon

Hello my darlings! Today is a day that always brings with it a lot of feelings, and so I am posting this story for a moment of levity for anyone who could use it. Also, a pal on Twitter requested I share this tale, and you know me, I’m a giver. I’d like to tell you about the time I was attacked by eggs. Not *with* eggs. By eggs. And explosions… When I was a teeny tot, I loved to help my mom in the kitchen, as kids do. For reference, the first “dinner” I ever made for my family consisted of mutilated tomatoes and oranges schlomped up with a butter knife because I couldn’t use sharp ones. And they ate that bowl of mangled tomato/orange gloop because FAMILY. Anyway, one night when I was about seven or eight, my mom and I were chilling out, watching Golden Girls (We were awesome.) and mom mentioned that we needed to make some hard-boiled eggs. Possibly we had a family gathering the next day. Possibly we just wanted hard-boiled eggs at 9PM on a Saturday. Being the helpful kidlet that I was, I offered to let her sit and *I* would go prepare this glorious treat myself. So she gave me instructions. “Boil water in the microwave. Put the eggs in, and let them cook for ten minutes.” Here is what I heard: “Boil water in the microwave. Put the eggs in, and then cook them for ten minutes using the microwave…” This is an important distinction. I get the water boiling, I get the eggs in, I set the timer for ten minutes, and I go back to the couch proudly, waiting for delicious eggs while the Golden Girls waxed poetic over cheesecake. A few minutes later, there was a...

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Fizzy Follies: The Rodent Within

Hello my darlings! Okay, so the following story is entirely true. Hideously, hilariously true. When I was pregnant with my daughter, almost seven years ago, the hubs and I lived in an old farm house that had actually been my childhood home. It was over 100 years old and acted like it. Yes, this house was it’s own entity. Sentient house is sentient. Anyway, I was an enormous pregnant lady. I am missing part of my spine (birth defect, no tears!) and so when I am about four months along, the babies hop up and sit on my ribs for the remainder of my pregnancy. Makes things easier with breathing, but when they kicked, it would make my boobs bounce. Seriously. Imagine the looks I got in various public locations when this would happen… Here is an actual pic of me a month after this story for reference: So, there I am, super enormous pregnant lady. And it’s a few days before Halloween. Hubs decided he was going to go see the new scary/slasher whatever movie that I was too chicken to watch, so off to the theater he went while I stayed at home, snergling my critters and watching edited for TV versions of scary movies because I was determined not to be a weenie. Later in the story it will be important to note that we had three dogs and a big cat at this time. The cat weighs 20 pounds, the smallest dog was 45 pounds, the biggest 75. There I am, hanging out in my pregnant lady jammies, all by my lonesome in a sentient house, hanging with critters, watching scary movies. Like an idiot. Then I hear a noise… Trying to be a super boss, I don’t follow my instinct and call Drew immediately...

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Fizzy Follies: Agent X and the Peepee Dance

Hello my darlings! When I signed with my lovely, dream-tastic agent, I swore that I would tell you all some of the shenanigans I managed to get myself into on my quest to sign with said dream agent. And, as always, I’m a giver. We all have that one friend. The one that says wildly inappropriate things, always by accident, who lacks grace in social circumstances, who gets too excited and flails around like squirrel that just drank a case of gin. I am that friend. So, being that my calling card is almost always verbal incontinence, you can imagine how scared I was when I started getting close to agent calls. These are terrifying in their own right. You are talking to AN AGENT. Like, the person who could take your hand and lead you into the world of literary awesomeness. Ermahgerd, right? Okay, let’s just cut to the chase of how I set myself up for stupidity here. I didn’t always know the things I know now about agents. Case in point: I assumed that if an agent was taking the time to call you, it meant that if you didn’t get an offer by the end of that call, you done screwed up and lost your shot. Let me clear this up really fast. THAT IS NOT TRUE. I was wrong. Agents call for all kinds of damn reasons. I honestly lost count of how many phone calls I had with agents in the last few weeks before I signed with Sarah, only two of them were from Offer-ville.  The rest were chatting, revision talk, and so on. Now, keep in mind, when the first phone call came, I DID NOT KNOW THIS. So there I was, Monday morning, bright and chipper. When suddenly, a short...

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Fizzy Follies – Naked With the Postwoman

Hello my dears! Okay, I have been putting this one off.  But, I promised I would share the tale, and I am nothing if not dedicated. A few weeks ago, I shared a story in which I very nakedly opened the door for the gas man. Well, I have managed to outdo myself. It’s a gift, I tell you.  My knack for public humiliation. As I mentioned in my gas man post, I will occasionally nap when my little sir naps in the afternoon.  I haven’t been getting a lot of sleep in the nighttime hours, and hey, they always say to sleep when the baby sleeps, right? Someone please assure me this rule still applies onces baby is a toddler… Yes? Well, last Thursday, I was wicked tired.  And with a sleeping lad, I scampered off to bed and passed out with a quickness. It was glorious.  I was in a deep and delightful sleep. Here is where I set myself up for failure. To properly nap, I must assume my nighttime sleeping stance.  Which generally means a naked stance. What?  I hate the way clothes twist and ride up in bed.  I’m a toss and turn kind of gal. Earlier on this fine Thursday, the dogs had been barking off and on, and I would go to the door like a good girl and there would never be anyone there.  I don’t know why dogs do this.  Maybe they heard a car door slam down the block.  Maybe someone was outside walking and the pups heard them. Perhaps a squirrel farted three states over.  Who the fuck knows.  My dogs are crazy bastards. Normally, this is just an annoyance and I throw them a Beggin’ Strip and politely instruct my canine pals to SSSSSHHHH. However, when the...

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