I'm short on "the funny" today (arguably, I'm short on the funny every day, but let's not debate that). So instead, I thought I'd direct a post at my fellow e-publishers. I'd call myself an "Indie" publisher, but that sounds wannabe Williamsburg hipster, like I'm auditioning for an episode of Girls. So e-publisher it is.
In any event, there's a slew of marketing options out there who go the e-publishing route, which is wonderful, but also daunting and confusing. I thought I'd share my backstory on getting my book published, which marketing venues have worked, and which have been a waste of money. And, because I'm also short on "the pride" today, I'm willing to give you the hard numbers.
THE BACKSTORY
I've been trying to break into traditional publishing for a long time. Less than a decade, but pretty dang close. Granted, my early efforts read like . . . well, like early efforts. I did manage to write a nice historical novel for a middle grade audience, set in the 1920's Southwest. But while agents and editors had kind things to say, they were also unanimous that it would never, ever sell.
So what's a girl to do? Write something brashly commercial, that's what. Thus was born The Grave Artist: my paranormal murder mystery for young adults. Yes, it has ghosts and a teen romance and rather lurid thrills and chills. But it also has a protagonist with a genuine voice and a story that makes you think, besides just keeping those pages turning.
The Grave Artist received offers from two well-respected literary agents, and strong interest from a third. I signed with an agent, who gave me excellent advice on honing my manuscript. Months later, when it was polished up, she pitched it to the big New York houses. Twelve of them were eager to read my book! I was in the catbird seat, what with competing offers of representation and so many editors willing to take a look. Surely, I was on my way now!
(Cue sound of the mirthless, embittered laughter of disillusionment.)
Yeah, I was clueless. A few rejections came in within a few weeks of the pitch, tempering my optimism. However, the rest took months. As of this blog post (nearly a year from my pitch), I still haven't received an official "no" from two houses. I thought with an agent, I'd at least get the courtesy of an answer. However, submitting even an agented manuscript these days is like that scene in 2001: A Space Odyssey, after HAL cuts that astronaut's lifeline:
Seriously, you should be reading THIS: http://www.thebigjewel.com/we-need-to-talk-about-braden.
Hi, doctor. Yeah, I was wondering if you could take a look at that freckle-thingie by my eye. The one that’s shaped like Florida – at least if you stare at it long enough. No? Maybe that’s just me. But it’s okay, right? Nothing to worry about? Whew, what a relief. Yes, I’ll make sure to wear sunscreen. And a hat.
Umm . . . I’m 42. Why do you ask? Actually, no, I’ve never thought about Botox. I mean, I know I have a few lines, but – really? “Moderate to severe”, huh? Sure, I can understand how that might bother some women. Oh, I see – most women are bothered. Deeply.
Gee, come to think of it, I’m bothered, too. But . . . I’m going to have to pass on the Botox. See, as I’ve aged, my kids have taken to sticking things in my wrinkles and timing how long they stay put. Dimes, Pokemon cards, stray bits of cat food or what-have-you. They call it “Let’s Stick Shit In Mom’s Face.” One time, I held a squirt gun between my eyebrows for over a minute just by frowning. The little guys went nuts! I’d hate to ruin what amounts to good clean family fun.
You’re right, doctor, I do have a “masculine brow”! I’m glad you noticed that, it’s something I’m very proud of. I’ve worked long and hard to cultivate my eyebrows into a heavy, menacing hair-ledge. I call it “The Ferrigno”. It really comes in handy when I need to glower at wait staff or small children. So I guess I’ll pass on the laser hair removal, too.
You’re saying those lines around my mouth are actually “nasolabial folds”? Oh, I get it: “marionette lines”. Hmm . . . the filler does sound tempting. For a while now, I’ve been thinking it might be fun to have some spongy, gelatinous junk injected into my face. Kind of like having a pet worm, except trapped under my skin. It could “migrate”, though? I actually count that as a plus.
0 Comments on My Dermatologist and I Discuss Options as of 1/1/1900
Well, folks, I have just uploaded my paranormal murder mystery, The Grave Artist, to Amazon and BN.com. A mere two to three years ago, this would have made me a desperate, self-published author. Now, it makes me an "Indie" author, sticking it to the Publishing Man.
Apparently, I'm part of a vast econo-technological uprising, which makes me kind of hip. Who knew?
Anyhoo, I encourage anyone who loves a good ghost story to take a gander. You will get more than your 99-cents worth, I promise. Coming soon to the Apple iBookstore!
For immediate release
Hedging and Betton Publishing is passionate about the art and craft of writing. We believe in books that challenge, inspire, and tell stories-- especially with words, printed on paper. We champion authors who explore and celebrate what it means to be human (or a cat). To that end, we brought you the mega-bestsellers:
I'm at Errant Parent today, discussing my botched attempts at teaching my kids the Facts of Life. To illustrate what a consummate failure I am in that department, you need only look at the diagram of the female reproductive system I made for my then-4-year-old son:
It is with great dismay that I report that over 90% of my blog traffic is generated by readers googling "Pikachu thunderbolt attack". For reals. An additional 9%-plus of my traffic is due to google searches for "granny panties". The remaining .001 percent is my mother, who is elderly and can't actually see what she's reading, which is really all for the best.
I could become dismayed at these stats. Instead, I am emboldened. No, I am not going to post naked pictures of myself. That would likely result in someone's cardiac arrest and a protracted wrongful death lawsuit. But while I'm unwilling to whore myself out for blog traffic, I'm more than willing to whore out my dog.
And so I give you . . .
CUTE PUPPY! CUTE PUPPY! CUTE PUPPY!!!!
Hold it right there, young lady. Just where do you think you’re going? “Out”, she says. Out! Not dressed like that you aren’t.
What are those things you’re wearing, anyway – tights? Oh, they’rejeggings. Never heard of ‘em. I don’t care if they’re “in”, they’reunflattering. They thicken you, sweetie. Your thighs look like something out of the4-H fair. Now, don’t get upset withme. I wasn’t criticizing your legs – Iswear! I love your legs. They’re nice and sturdy. It’s just that thosejeggings – well, honey, they don’t do anything for you. They’re tacky.
I’m Mayflower, muthaf$$$a. Don’t tread on me, or I’ll start a revolution on your ass. I’ll take a musket to your head. I’ll cut you with my whalebone darning needle(but then I shall quickly repent and beg the Lord’s mercy).
Ah, McSweeneys. When will you recognize my brilliance? At least my repeat attempts at publication provide blog fodder . . .
Hi, doctor. I’m thepatient you saw today, about that freckle by my eye. I just wanted to thank you for wonderful careyou demonstrated during my appointment. After examining the freckle, you assured me it was fine, but stressedthe importance of wearing sunscreen. Will do, doctor!
Now, in these days of managed care, most physicians wouldhave ushered me out the door and collected their fee. Not you, doctor. You showed genuine concern – not only for myskin, but for my mental and emotional well-being. I really appreciate how you handed me one ofthose mirrors that magnify the face to funhouse proportions, then said: “Whydon’t you take a look and tell me what you don’tlike.”
I admit, I was taken aback. Not so much because no one has ever asked me point-blank to look at myreflection and list the ways it repulses me. More because I was mesmerized by the sight of my own pores, enlarged sothat my skin resembled a giant orange peel. Thank you for giving me a moment to take it all in: the crepe-y bagsbeneath my eyes, the nascent chin whiskers. And when I responded that “I’m pretty okay with my face,” thank you forsetting me straight.
For instance, I had no idea that, as you informed me, my frown/smilelines are “moderate to severe.” Youassured me a little Botox would take care of them. Then graciously, you assured me that if I wasn’t bothered, no Botox wasnecessary. Then very, very graciously, you assured me mostwomen of my age and demographic wouldbe bothered. Deeply.
After thinking it over, I’m now bothered as well. However, I’m still going to pass on theBotox. See, as I’ve aged, my kids havetaken to sticking things in my wrinkles and timing how long they stay put. Dimes, baseball cards, stray bits of cat foodor what-have-you. They call it “Let’sStick Shit In Mom’s Face.” I’d hate toruin what amounts to good clean family fun.
Next, you commented on my “masculine brow”. I’m glad yo
Dear Aussie Skank:
I tried, I really did.
I thought about what I want. I listed what I want. I even made a vision board of what I want. For reals! Check it out:
Here’s the deal: you need to shut the fuck up, andyou need to do it now. Seriously. Onemore peep out of you and you’re dead.
Remember Hurricane Irene? You know -- that storm that hit a couple of natural disasters ago? Well, here in our neck of New Jersey, we weathered it just fine, thank you very much. Those news-people act like a little rain and wind is some kind of Weather Event -- but seriously! No big deal. I mean, yeah, we're out a couple grand due to the basement flooding. But we're up one Valium prescription and God knows how many mold spores! I think even Charlie Sheen would agree that we are WINNING!
Of course, not everyone escaped Irene unscathed. But then again, not everyone was ready for Irene the way we were. And not to brag (much), but we were hell-of ready.
I know, you're dying for our gameplan. I'm besieged with requests for advice. They may not be actual, verbalized requests. But still: I sense your curiosity through the telepathic cable-ways of the Great Interweb, much in the same way as a shaman senses an aura, or that creepy midget chick from Poltergeist sensed the presence of some really foul-tempered Indians.
As such, I give you a detailed checklist for hurricane preparedness. No thanks necessary, although cash donations are always welcome.
4 Days Prior to Storm: Call elderly mother, who will fly from California to your home in New Jersey the next evening. Watch Project Runway repeat while you half-listen to her natterings, catching words like "flashlight batteries", "storm windows" and "Al Roker". Ask her who the hell this "Irene" person is.
2 Days Prior to Storm: Swing by grocery store for some more of those mini Dove bars. Marvel at lines of people hording water, packaged donuts, and all manner of lunch meats, a la that movie about nuclear holocaust you were forced to watch in grade school. Mentally predict mass uptick in post-apocalyptic cholesterol. Get Dove bars and go on your merry way.
1 Day Prior to Storm: Chat with neighbor about what unusual weather you're having! Experience twinge of nerves when she says she drove eight hours to a Home Depot in the Pennsylvania hinterlands to purchase the Last Generator on the Eastern Seaboard. At the words "duct tape", proceed to full-on panic. Rush back home to locate flashlights, candles and cell-phone charger. Succeed in locating a penlight, the stumps of ten birthday candles, and last remaining Paxil tablet.
Day of Storm: Pace before windows. Make prescient, Cassandra-like comments, such as Those clouds don't look good, or Storm's a-comin'. Cluck as wind sways tree branches, raining down hundreds of twigs (Who's gonna clean that up? Not me!). Survive remaining daylight hours courtesy of Paxil tablet, chased down with half-bottle of Two-Buck Chuck.
Evening of Storm: Grow anxious about pounding rain and shrieking wind. Attempt to quell anxiety by watching some god-awful rom-com wherein Kate Hudson acts all slutty. Agree with eldery mother that, while Ginnifer Godwin is adorable, "Kate Hudson is a bitch".
11:30pm: Gasp as power goes out, as this means 1) sump pump will fail, and 2) you may never see that whore Kate Hudson get her come-uppance. When power returns, rush to basement to find sump pump in working order and dry floor. Marvel at your luck. Laugh at Gaia. Give God the L-is-for-Loser sign. Go to sleep, courtesy of remaining half-bottle of Two-Buck Chuck.
12:30am: Awake to husband muttering about a little flooding. Run downstairs to find basement submerged in three inches of murky puddle-water. Scream like Medea. Determine that water is managing to circulate back in through windows and walls. Accompany husband outside, in rain, in skivvies
Ms. Taylor? Wake up, Ms. Taylor.
Who said that? Andy? Opie? Oh, good heavens -- where am I?
In a hospital, Ms. Taylor. In the year 2011. You've been cryogenically frozen for the last half-century, but there's a defect in your preservation tank. We thought it best to thaw you out.
Like one of those TV dinners, you mean? Sakes alive! Well, thank you, gentlemen. And please, call me Aunt Bee.
Certainly. And no thanks necessary, Aunt Bee. We're just glad you made it, and in perfect health. Or at least healthy enough for a woman your age. Who lived a half-century ago, that is.
Say, fellas, what's that supposed to mean?
How do we put this, Aunt Bee? You make a respectable 50-ish woman, circa 1960. But in 2011 . . . ahem . . . taking together your skin tone, your muscle tone, your weight, your hair . . .
Oh, now, quit your hemming and hawing!
. . . you translate into roughly ninety-eight years old.
Ninety-eight! Why, you're as crazy as a Bessie bug!
Believe it, Aunt Bee. But don't fret. Thanks to 21st-Century Know-How, you have the tools to look like a 45-year-old who's desperately trying to look 30!
You don't say!
We do say. Let's start with those saggy, oversized breasts of yours. Nothing a set of surgically-implanted silicone baggies can't fix.
Hold it right there, mister. No one's going to stick a Glad bag in my bosoms!
Can't be helped, Aunt Bee. Your floaters don't float. They droop like 30 pounds of wet pizza dough.
But can't I just borrow a set of falsies from my friend Clara? She only wears them when she needs an extra "oomph", like at the church bake sale. Helps to sell pound cake, Clara says. Or how 'bout I stuff my brassiere with a pair of Opie's socks?
Insufficient leverage. See, it's not enough that your nipples are above your navel. They need to be upright, Bee. The boobage needs to be tight, shiny and wrinkle-free. Ideally, you should look like you have a child's buttocks stapled to your chest.
But -
Moving on: let's talk about those extra pounds. You're fat, Aunt Bee. As in grossly, horrifically overweight.
Well, I suppose I do over-do it on the fried chicken. And I've always had a weakness for butterscotch pecan pie. But flibbertigibbet! Can't a gal treat herself once in awhile?
No, a gal cannot. Your deep-fried, carmelized da
Editorial Note: In recent weeks, there has been much uproar over Amy Chua's memoir, Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother. In it, Ms. Chua chronicles her controversial parenting methods, including how she withheld food, water, and bladder-emptying privileges from her daughter until she mastered an obscure piano piece by an even more obscure French composer. Some pundits champion Ms. Chua's tough-love approach as an antidote to the flaccid, weak-willed parenting favored by non-lawyers who did not attend Harvard. Others claim her tyrannical style puts her daughter's psychological well-being at risk.
No one, however, has questioned how Ms. Chua's "Tiger Mothering" has impacted another member of the Chua household.
No, not her husband, Jed. That poor bastard will shut up and keep his head down if he knows what's good for him. I refer instead to Coco, the Rubenfeld-Chua's Samoyed dog. Chua devotes a chapter of her tome to her struggles with housebreaking Coco, obedience training Coco, and teaching Coco to bark in Mandarin.
And how does Coco feel about her "Tiger Mom"? No one has bothered to ask. UNTIL NOW.
I conducted an in-depth interview with Coco over a can of Alpo. The following represents her response to how she is depicted by Ms. Chua in the book. And yes, those are actual excerpts.
Coco is our dog, my first pet ever. 
We had an earlier ordeal that was thankfully short-lived. When the girls were very young, Jed got them a pair of pet rabbits named Whiggy and Tory. I disliked them from the moment I saw them and had nothing to do with them. They were unintelligent and not at all what they claimed to be. . . Eventually, the rabbits mysteriously escaped.
Coco is a Samoyed . . . born on January 26, 2006. The runt of the litter, she has always been unusually timid.
. . . My first instinct was to apply Chinese parenting to Coco. I had heard of dogs who can count and do the Heimlich maneuver . . . [Samoyeds] were also the lead dogs for the explorer Fridtjof Nansen's famous 1895 attempt to reach the North Pole.
. . . I was convinced that Coco had hidden talent. I began to do extensive research. I bought many books . . . befriended other dog owners . . . I found a place that offered a Doggy Kindergarten class, a prerequisite for more advanced courses.
Pitch #1: Sixteen-year-old Kira Belle couldn't be more bored when she moves to a remote Irish fishing village to live with her estranged mother. But then she meets Seamus, a brooding young man with a dark secret . . .
. . . he's a leprechaun.
Wait. Not that kind of leprechaun.
There we go. Much better.
When Kira first resists his attentions, Seamus plies her with her one weakness: shoes, each pair cobbled with his own hands. She falls for Seamus -- hard. But can Seamus resist the urge to trick her? Will he jealously guard his pot o' gold? Or will he finally offer his treasure up to Kira . . . in more ways than one?
Verdict: Intriguing premise. However, Irish demographic may be too narrow. Additionally, leprechauns are related to pixies, which have been done.
Pitch #2: Sixteen-year-old Anna Lovely couldn't be more bored when she moves to Cornhusk, Nebraska to live with her estranged father. But then she meets Demetrios, a brooding exchange student with a dark secret . . .
. . . he's a satyr.
Oh, for God's sake, not that kind of satyr.
Yes. Thank you.
When Anna first resists his attentions, Demetrios plies her with her one weakness: gyros, lovingly turned on the spit by hand. She falls for Demetrios -- hard. But can Demetrios love Anna without succumbing to his lusty satyr nature? Or will he seduce Anna into a drunken, violent, bacchanalian frenzy?
Verdict: I like the bestiality overtones. Edgy! But could be problematic with Middle America, not to mention PETA, ASPCA, etc.
Satan's minion is living in my basement until the weather warms. Yes, you heard me. Satan's Minion, also known as Katy the Bunny.
She's my daughter's rabbit. Actually, he's my daughter's rabbit. We thought he was a she. He was sold to us as a she. But when I dropped him off at the vet's to get fixed, prepared for an overnight stay, the nursing staff called me within the hour, saying Katy was ready and waiting.
"That was fast!" I said.
"Castrations usually are," said the nurse.
My daughter is none the wiser, and continues to address him as Katy. Fine by me: trannies are hip now, are they not? But maybe not so fine by Katy - er, Kevin. Maybe that's why the rabbit is the most evil small mammal I've ever encountered.
Seriously. To paraphrase Tim the Enchanter, he's no ordinary rabbit. He's the most foul, cruel, and bad-tempered rodent you've ever set eyes on.
In a nutshell: he charges. He grunts. He bites. You barely set foot in the basement and he bullets out of nowhere and nips your ankle.
I have made sincere efforts to rehabilitate him. Truly. Just the other day, I spent a good ten minutes stroking his head, which he loves.
You're not so bad, little rabbit, I thought to myself. You're soft, at least. And there's no denying you're cute.
"Who's a good bunny?" I asked Katy. "Who's the best bunny in the whole wide world?"
I stopped stroking him. He lunged at my face and nipped me on the nose.
Ever since then, when I visit a French restaurant, I order rabbit. I'm a nice person, but once you break skin, all bets are off.
I compiled the following footage in Katy's honor. Take a gander. If you dare.
My 8-year-old son recently brought home his latest selection from the school library:
I could dedicate an entire post to the unconventional, inscrutable being that is my son. But not today.
Today, I'll share a few gems I discovered when I paged through this sign language treatise. Signing is tricky business. To express yourself clearly and quickly, using a minimum of manual effort, you sometimes rely a bit on stereotypes. It's like cultural shorthand, you see.
For instance, the sign for IRISH is also the sign for POTATO since, as we all know, that humble vegetable is the foundation of all Irish cuisine.
Likewise, the sign for ARGENTINA is the same as the sign for GUITAR, because . . . 
. . . because?
Huh. Just because.
Moving on, the sign for JEWISH or HEBREW requires the speaker to run his fingers over his chin as if stroking an imaginary beard. Which I guess makes sense, as many Jewish men are bearded and quite . . . uhh . . . contemplative, studying the Torah and all. I guess.
See how this works? Cultural shorthand! Which is why the sign for JAPANESE or ASIAN requires the speaker to pull his eyelids lengthwise and -
Wait. That can't be right. Really - THAT. CAN'T. BE. RIGHT. Let's take another example.
To sign the word HOMOSEXUAL, you simply pinch your fingers together into "ballet hands" and mince your shoulders back and forth as you emulate an effeminate walk . . .
Oh, COME ON, deaf people. That's just not nice. Can't you substitute another word for 'homosexual'? Like "Broadway", for example? Or "Barry Manilow?"
Wait. Hold the phone. It appears that there IS a sign-language substitute for "homosexual". Based on this definition, the sign for "homosexual" is nearly identical and virtually indi
Saw this on the bulletin board at the market this morning. Alas, I prefer my housework to be done by immature Lithuanians. Although the quotation marks make me question whether this person is indeed "mature", or "Polish". Or, for that matter, a "woman".
Ash: Hi! I'm Ash Ketchum! Welcome to the Sinnoh Region!
Me: Oh . . . right. Hey, Ash. Nice to meet you here in Pokemon World. Or whatever. I'm thrilled to be here.
(under my breath) Thank God there's still alcohol in this animated, parallel universe.
Ash: What did you say?!
Me: Nothing. Could you lower your voice, please? This isn't pep squad.
Ash: Right!! Are you a fellow Pokemon Trainer? What is your Pokemon?
Me: I have an Anxietor.
Ash: Anxietor! But I have never seen or heard of such a Pokemon!
Me: She's agoraphobic. She pretty much stays inside the Pokeball.
Ash: Let my Pikachu do battle with your Anxietor!
Me: Yeah . . . not a good idea.
Ash: But I insist!
Me: (sigh) All right. Anxietor, it's time to do battle. Come out, please. No, you don't look fat. I swear. Yes, I promise no one will laugh at you. That's right. Step outside.
Ash: What a peculiar pocket monster you possess! Let me emphasize my mirth with loud and frantic laughter! HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!
Me: (to Anxietor). Ignore him. He sounds like a girl.
Ash: Let us begin! Pikachu! Use Thunderbolt!
Me: Anxietor! Use Panic Attack!
Ash: How strange! Your Pokemon appears to have turned blue!
Me: Yeah, she does that when she hyperventilates. (slapping Anxietor) Breathe, dammit! Get ahold of yourself, bitch!
Ash: She's recovered! Pikachu, use Volt Tackle!
Me: Anxietor, use Meltdown!
Ash: Your Pokemon is defeated! I'm afraid this Meltdown Attack was completely ineffective!
Me: It always is, Ash. It always is. Come, Anxietor.
Meet my shame spiral. His name is Floyd.
Floyd’s job is to guilt me out over my various and sundry failings. This causes me to engage in all manner of unhealthy and self-destructive behavior, such as eating Nutella straight from the jar with my fingers. Or blowing off dinner to watch consecutive showings of The Real Housewives of Atlanta (a little take-out never hurt nobody). All of which, in turn, brings on another visit from Floyd.
See how this shame spiral thing works? Good. Let’s watch Floyd in action.
Here’s Floyd passing judgment on me as I eat the last Skittles from my daughter’s Halloween candy. Skittles happen to be my daughter’s favorite – and why not? It’s the Original Fruit Bite-Sized Candy!
Please don’t give me that look, Floyd. It’s not as if she’ll ever know. Besides, no eight year old girl should eat her weight in sugar. I’m just looking out for her health, right? RIGHT????
Whatever. Where’s that Nutella?
Here’s me borrowing from my son’s change jar so that I can tip the pizza guy.
Floyd does not approve.
Oh, COME ON Floyd. I said borrowing! I’ll pay it back . . . PROMISE! What’s the kid done to earn twenty-three bucks, anyway? Aside from losing a few lousy teeth?
Know what, Floyd? You’re starting to get on my nerves. A woman can’t live in this kind of a pressure-cooker. Besides, Showgirls is on, and I want to watch it guilt-free. With my Nutella. And a bottle of good white.
Floyd, meet my kids.
That’s right. Spend some quality time together. 
One day this past summer, I was stricken with an acute case of MID -- known to the psychiatric community as Mommy Inferiority Disorder. Unlike most mental illnesses, MID is communicable; I myself contracted it after visiting a friend whose child flawlessly performed a piano sonatina for my benefit. Said child is also tri-lingual, gorgeous, and unfailingly polite.
I returned home from this visit to find my own spawn sitting slack-jawed in front of the TV, playing Nintendo.
"Hi guys!" I said. They didn't bother to look up, although my son did flick his wrist like he was brushing away a fly.
"Hello!" I repeated. "Not now," said my daughter. "Sonic just reached level 5 and we don't want to blow it."
This marked the precise onset of MID. I yanked the Nintendo power cord from it's player. After the kids finally stopped crying, they confronted me.
"Whatdja do that for?" asked my son.
"Because playing too many video games turns your brain into mashed potatoes."
"Really?" asked my daughter."Seriously?"
"Oh, yeah. Totally." I sniffed her head. "Smells like gravy."
After the second round of crying subsided, I announced that we were going to do something fun. Something productive. Something creative. "Let's make a movie!" I said.
It got off to a good start. We created a plot, although I had to nix my son's suggestion for an alien ambush. We created the characters out of play-doh. We grabbed some props.
And then it got ugly. First off, my idea to make a stop-animation movie proved to be over-ambitious and totally deranged. I thought it would be "fun" and "educational" for the kids to move their clay figures increments of an inch and shoot pictures of them. Over and over again. Hundreds of times.
Yes, I am batshit.
Secondly, never entrust your children with doing set work. NEVER. Props were moved before I yelled "SHOOT!" A pivotal scene where the car backs over a character and flattens him had to be shot -- and the character re-molded -- twice, as my son couldn't figure out how to press the "ON" button for the video.
Another scene required my daughter to drop a basketball onto a character. She dropped it from a standing position and missed by a good two feet. I told her to crouch, and she missed again. I told her to squat and hold the ball directly above the character, AND SO HELP ME GOD THE GIRL STILL MISSED, EVEN THOUGH THE TARGET WAS A SCANT TWELVE INCHES AWAY.
I admit, I said some inexcusable things to my children. Along the lines of: "A monkey could press that button. And I'm not talking about one of those smart Rhesus monkeys. I'm talking about a regular chimp, straight out of the jungle."
They were outraged, of course, and rightfully so. My son told me "you have a problem with your attitude" -- words I usually direct at him. Man, that karma's a bitch.
I apologized to both of them and assured them that one day I would burn in hell for my words. This seem to satisfy them. They scooted away -- literally, on their Razor scooters. Meanwhile, I got down to the business of editing the footage.
It was like slogging through wet cement in hip-boots. I called for my son and tried to convince him that dragging and clicking with software is a damn good time. He pointed, he clicked, and then he left to go play Pokemon.
By the time I was done, I was unhinged. My husband returned home to find me in my underwear doing martial arts moves in front of the mirror. Luckily I didn't punch it, like Martin Sheen did in Apocalypse Now. I just punched my husband instead.
And so here's the end result. It turned out decent, except for the fact that I seem to have the voice of an 80-year-old hillbilly woman.
Now my kids call themselves auteurs. They also run like hell whenever I suggest turning off the TV to do something "fun".
The following dialogue represents my recent visit to the skin doctor.
Doctor: Hello. What can I do for you today?
Me: I wanted you to take a look at this spot on the side of my face. Kind of a raised freckle.
Doctor: Uh-huh, I see it. Nothing to worry about now, but I'll need you back once a year to check up on it. Now about your melasma . . .
Me: My what?
Doctor: Your melasma. All that discoloration on your cheeks. You must be Celtic, right? It's common in people of Celtic descent.
Me: Talk about the luck of the Irish!
Doctor: (confused silence)
Me: So - is melasma a problem?
Doctor: Only if it's a problem for you. I mean, it's not that noticeable. But if it bothers you, we can do something about it.
Me: Umm, okay. Like what?
Doctor: I can prescribe a lightening agent. And you should never, ever go in the sun without sunblock. And you need to apply it five times a day. Seriously. With your skin, just two minutes in the sun will cause melasma. You should also start wearing a hat.
Me: How about a burka?
Doctor: (more confused silence)
Me: Anyway, my freckle's okay, right?
Doctor: Right. And those crow's feet around your eyes aren't that bad, either. Your frown lines, though, are fairly marked. If you want, I can do some Botox on those. Like I said, only if you want. Some women are bothered by frown lines. Very bothered. As in really, extremely upset. But if you're not bothered, then I'm not bothered.
Me: (confused silence) But my freckle's good, right?
Doctor: So do you want some Botox?
Me: No. Just some cyanide. So I can go home and kill myself.
Okay, I'm going to say it. And damn the consequences.
I hated, hated HATED Ponyo. Hated it!
Yes, yes, I know. It's visually arresting, creatively ground-breaking, magical, exquisite, insert-your-own-breathless-adjective here.
It's also unequivocally and purely wrong.
It's bad enough that Japan unleashed the scourge that is Pokemon. No, they had to create yet another cutesy-yet-deeply-disturbing blight on the cultural landscape.
I'm sure you know the set-up by now. Ponyo is a fish that yearns to be human. When she's first caught by the young protagonist, Sosuke, she looks like this:
Now, I don't know about you folks. But if the little minnow I caught had bug-eyes and a vaguely human face, I'd be a little unnerved. I might even scream and throw the devil-spawn back into the depths from which she came. But no one in Ponyo, whether child or adult, seems remotely troubled by a fish that looks like a genetic hybrid experiment gone tragically awry.
But wait, there's more! Ponyo's transformation from fish to human is instigated when she consumes ham. Yeah, you just read that right. No fairy intervenes, no magic spell. It's the ham. 
She just scarfs down a slice of pork, and BOOM! The next thing you know, she's sprouted bi-toed chicken limbs! She looks like newly-animated flesh that's just crawled out of a petri dish!
Dear readers, there will be no more ham sandwiches in this household.
I could go on about how Sasuke's mother takes him on a hell-ride through narrow, winding cliff roads, in the middle of a hurricane. Or about Ponyo's ostensibly transgendered father, a cross between the frontman for Poison and a Barbie doll. Or about Cate Blanchett, doing her uber-enchanted-sexy-fairy accent.
But I won't. I'll just leave you with the subtitled Ponyo theme song, which bores into your head like Satan's own drillbit.
It ain't right, people.
0 Comments on Vision Boards, of Varying Success as of 1/1/1900
That is awesome. Congrats!!!