I wear my roommate's socks.

Before you get all grossed out, they are clean whenever I wear them. Just sayin’. But this sock wearing business is just a scratch on the surface of this previously foreign concept I call sharing. Buh, I shudder still at the thought, but I’m getting better about it.

I’ve never had a sister before, and I’m still getting used to the whole thing, but sisters share, or so I’ve found out. I grew up with a little brother, and when I say ‘grow up’ I mean I was nearly nine when the little demon was spawned and ruined my only child mentality…eh hem I mean when the lovely boy was born and brought into this world… anyways we were not sharers. The only thing we shared was our DNA, everything else was, ‘That’s mine! Don’t touch it! Moooooooooom! Give it back!’ Yes, I’m embarrassed to admit that even with the almost nine year age difference, we still fought over everything and anything and wanted to share nothing. Seventeen years later, I’m proud to say that we’ve gotten better, but there is still that hard-to-kill habit of wanting to say no when it comes to sharing. What can I say? We’re both stubborn.

Anyway, when my roommate moved in about three years ago (actually exactly three years ago nearly to the day) I had never before been introduced to the idea of being okay with sharing. What I thought of as ‘sharing’ would have included air, living space, and taking turns driving to the grocery store to equalize gas spent on doing things. That was logical to me, I would most definitely not have considered ‘sharing’ to include food, DVD’s, or socks. Especially not socks. And by no means would I ever have imagined people willingly lending out their things to other people, or allowing them to eat their food without expecting payment or anything else in return. SO WEIRD!!! I wouldn’t say that I was necessarily selfish in my thoughts of not sharing, well maybe a little, but I had never been met with that kind of generosity before, and the first time my roommate said I could have some of her food shocked the hell out of me. I was like, ‘Uh, you sure?’ and she was like, ‘Duh.’ That’s basically how the conversation went. She explained to me that family is all about sharing, and whatever you have, you give to your siblings or your parents. I think I broke out in a sweat when she was explaining it to me, but very gradually I became accustomed to the idea of sharing. And of course the benefits of it too.

I actually think now before letting someone borrow something instead of automatically saying no. Don’t get all crazy now, I said ‘think,’ not ‘I always share my things with everyone because I’m such a good person.’ Definitely didn’t say that, but I will actually think about it, and consider if I know where they live and how long I’ve known them in case they don’t return it…kidding, only kidding. Something I find funny is that I’m the worst at getting people back their stuff. I still have a book from someone (well, more than a few books from more than a few someones) an anime series (sorry! I promise I will return it, and it will be watched! Swear!) and I believe I just returned someone’s binder that I’d had for a couple of months… yep it’s not on my shelf, definitely returned it. (phew). Sharing can be so stressful!

When my roommate got home today, I smiled hugely and said ‘I had some of your chips, oh and a little Sprite too. And, I’m wearing your socks!’ Her automatic reaction was a scowl followed by, ‘Bitch,’ and then immediate smile and shrug. As I said before, we’re sisters, and sisters share. You might be thinking what does she get out of this because it seems a little one-sided on the sharing thing… but I also share my food, and she wore my socks last night, oh and I have a wealth of knowledge that is completely at her disposal, along with the largest RomCom DVD collection in the world. Yeah, I’d say she’s sittin’ pretty.

Sharing is caring. Especially when you share socks.

Adventures in Writing Land Part 2

So, for those of you who follow me (and I must say that I appreciate every one of you) you know that I’m writing a book. Or attempting to write a book. And by ‘attempting to write a book’ I mean unsuccessfully filling blank pages with words that may or may not be completely useless phrases strung together with a flurry of punctuation. Yes. That’s exactly what I’m doing right now, and I’m rolling my eyes at myself. ‘Come on,’ I tell myself, ‘it shouldn’t be this hard,’ again an eye roll, ‘hundreds of people get books out every year that don’t have as much time as you or don’t follow any logical sentence structure and they still find time to find someone to publish them…’ This is a constant argument that I have with myself, in my head of course because having it out loud would mean that I’m crazy, and I still can’t find the fire that I need to keep myself rolling. And by ‘rolling’ I mean find a steady pace with which words flow freely from my mind down through my fingers and alight prettily in a special font on my gargantuan computer screen. Try saying that five times fast.

And so, lately, I’ve taken to extremes. Nothing weird or abnormal mind you, although at this point perhaps that’s what I need to try in order to get my brain functioning properly, but what a friend and fellow writer told me to try was this: pick an alcohol. Okay, after looking in my freezer, I had whiskey or tequila. My spicy roommate is more for the Ta-kill-ya, so I pulled out the whiskey and put it on the counter. She then told me to pour three fingers, add a few ice cubes, and a splash of Coke if necessary, and proceed to get drunk. She swears by it. So, that’s what I attempt to do. I sit at my computer, brain fuzzy, and start writing what I think is fantastic stuff. Character development, plotline, amazing descriptions of places, visualizations of a map to use for the realm I’ve created. I think that I should do this more often, that writing is easy when I’ve been drinking because I don’t hold back…. Ya come to find two days later when I finally reread what I wrote that it’s all shit. And not even potentially-workable-shit. I mean I-must-have-put-more-whiskey-in-my-glass-than-I-thought-shit. Needless to say, I erased the whole thing (measly 3 pages anyway) and now I’ve started over. Sober. But I’m stuck again.

I’ve tried to do the whole clearing of the mind, putting myself in a calm, clear state, but my upstairs neighbors make that nearly impossible no matter what time of day it is. My lack of focus is really irking me, and now I’m whining to you. I feel that I’ve been doing a lot of unnecessary whining lately, and I apologize to those who have heard it outside of the writing realm. My inattentiveness might stem from the fact that even though I’m incredibly busy, I’m also bored, and when I’m bored there seems to be a lack of focus. I’ve said it before and here I go saying it again, I think I have a form of ADHD when it comes to writing a book. Whine, whine, whine, bitch, bitch, complain. Okay, I’m done. Thanks for listening.

Squirrel!

There I go again… onto the next project.

Men aren't dogs... they're more like cats.

Where did the association between men and dogs come from, anyway? Dogs have a bad rep when it comes to men and the comparison drawn between members of the opposite sex and their canine counterparts. Sure, dog might be man’s best friend, but behavior-wise, I say men are far more like cats. That’s not necessarily a good thing. What perpetrated this rant, you ask? A variety of observations as well as recent and ancient encounters with guys (both negative and positive) that collected in my brain to produce this. I don’t believe that all men are like this, I’m just trying to prove a point that when a man is associated with an animal, the cat is actually more apt of a description.

 Here’s why:

Intelligent. Their conniving intelligence is awe-inspiring. No really, it is. You might think that I’m giving them too much credit, but really, I don’t think we give them enough.  They know exactly what they want, they just sometimes pretend to be stupid so that they can get it. From the beginning, guys just know what it is they want, and are often single-minded in their pursuit of getting that. While it may be something material like an expensive car, this also applies to women. I’ve seen it, I’ve lived it, it sucks, but such is life. Now once they get that thing in particular, they want to move on to something else, something new, something different. A better version of that car perhaps, a newer model. Again, it happens, nothing we can do about it. If guys were more like dogs, their intelligence would be limited, and they would be unthinkingly happy once they got what they wanted. Have you ever played fetch with a dog? They never tire of that game because it makes them so happy, they only stop to sleep, and when they wake it starts all over again. Their simple stance on happiness is quite refreshing, if a little boring.

We clean up after their shit. Literally and otherwise. Stupidly, we choose to do it. ‘Oh, but he’s so cute! And look how he’s so loving! Of course I’ll clean up after him if I can keep him!’ While that may sound like I’m reducing women to nothing but brainless bimbos, the fact is that it’s true. Something in our brains is just preprogrammed to want to accept their shit in our lives. With a dog, it’s more of a legal obligation than a choice in accepting that responsibility. Don’t ask me why we choose to do it, I don’t understand it myself. It’s a conundrum, really, and one that is enough to be its own focus for a future post.

Hit it and quit it. While a cat might not follow that exact term, they do like to play when it’s convenient for them, and then peace out when they’ve had enough. A cat will rub against your leg, get your attention, and then when you give him enough scratching behind the ears, he’s gone to go fulfill another need. I feel like I have to mention again that this isn’t meant to encompass all men, just the ones that we would commonly refer to as ‘dogs’. I’m not trying to bash the entire male race, I’m just saying give the dog a bone and leave him alone, because the cat is the one you’ve got to look out for.  

I feel sorry for the dog. There’s no need to feel sorry for the cat. They’ve got it made. Just sayin’.