Drop Edge of Yonder
When I bit into it, I could hear the ocean.Note to Visitors
Please note that this website contains my personal blog as well as links to/information about my freelance business. As such, it comes with violence, strong language, and enough nerdgasms to embarrass even me. If you’re interested in freelance services only, please proceed to the About Professional Me and About Drop Edge of Yonder Freelance pages.
Delaying His Dreams
In the first meeting of my creative writing class, the instructor ripped pages from the most recent issue of the National Enquirer and distributed those tear sheets to me and my classmates at random. From those tear sheets we were supposed to use snippets from the articles to create found poetry.
I ended up with parts of stories about Bill giving Hillary weight loss advice, OJ’s daughter considering visiting him in jail, an overweight couple who lost an enormous amount of weight together, a woman who stabbed her husband multiple times, and Chelsea Clinton’s newlywed blues. This was my on-the-fly piece:
While she was criss-crossing the globe—shattering glass ceilings and walking on sunshine—he was at home, racing on treadmills and Stairclimbers.
The honeymoon was already over.
“Trophy husband” sounded good in theory; he just never realized the masculine version of “barefoot and pregnant” was “rock-hard abs and an obsession with the Juicer.”
He was mocked in public for his place. He just knew it.
She doesn’t make all the decisions. Just the ones that count.
Diplomatic Immunity
I’m fond of saying I have more degrees than a pot of boiling water, although that’s not really true (no matter what temperature scale you use). That said, I am really good at going to school, and I kind of love it. Today I was filling out the education portion of my new Facebook profile, and I remembered that I never technically graduated high school.
I was really busy in high school…with extracurricular activities. In fact, I was so busy with three kinds of band and two kinds of choir and two publications (but absolutely no sports whatsoever) that I couldn’t fit all my academic classes into the regular school day.
But because pretty much all the academic classes I did take were advanced placement or college level, the guidance counselor let me fulfill my last math class via a correspondence course. In fact, I took the paperwork in one day to show her I’d enrolled in it, and she promptly wrote it down on my transcript as completed—even though I hadn’t cracked the spine on the book.
I did do a few lessons, but come on: it was math. Eventually I realized the guidance counselor would never know the difference, and it was already on my transcript as a done deal. That was enough for me.
So despite my not, strictly speaking, having enough academic credits to graduate, I still came out at the top of my class. Because of that, I was invited to attend a special event the Clintons hosted at the Governor’s Mansion for that year’s high school valedictorians. At the time I didn’t think much about it. Arkansas is a small state, and I’ve met each of the Clintons several times; once I even played in a band wherein Bill sat in and shared his smooth sax sounds.
In retrospect, though, it was a pretty sweet deal. It was May 1992, and it was the last time I’d see either of the Clintons in person. Six months later, the nation would elect him as its president.
Frank Bonner, best known for his four seasons on WKRP in Cincinnati, attended the event as well. While I was busy schmoozing with the next leader of the free world, my daddy was chatting up Herb Tarlek about the state of Razorback athletics at the University of Arkansas. Good to know he had his priorities straight.
In retrospect, I suppose it’s fitting that over the years I’ve lost my diplomas from high school as well as three universities; after all, I never technically earned the first.
The Morning After
Last month my roommate kept her four-year-old grandson (Brayden) so her daughter (Shawn) could go out to celebrate passing passing the nursing boards. I went to bed relatively early (for me, anyway) because I had a dress rehearsal the following afternoon.
Brayden slept in the extra bedroom, so I wasn’t terribly surprised when I heard my door open around 6 a.m. and “felt” someone padding around my room; after all, he was just a disoriented kid in a strange house. But then he crawled into bed with me, and I got a little weirded out because I sleep naked. When I rolled over to look at him, his mother was staring me in the face.
“I’m just going to put some clothes on now,” I squeaked, and then I felt around on the floor until I found my pajamas (Thank goodness I have a platform bed just inches off the floor.), shimmied into them under the covers, and went back to sleep.
Four hours later I woke up because Brayden was running around the house like, I assume, little boys tend to do in the early a.m. As soon as I emerged from my room, he yelled, “Hey, Bradi! Did you know my mom slept naked with you last night?”
“Yes, well, I put clothes on when she got in bed with me, so I was naked for only a minute.” I wasn’t embarrassed. I mean, it wasn’t my fault my roommate’s daughter crawled into my bed with my naked body.
“No! Not you! My mom didn’t have no clothes on! She took ‘em off and got in bed wif you!”
It turns out Shawn was INCREDIBLY over-served the previous night. She and her designated driver friend stumbled in just before daybreak and slept in the living room, but somehow Shawn managed to drench herself and the couch in water. She stripped and climbed into bed with me—I guess because she’s slept in my room before when I’ve been out of town and was too drunk to remember the “when Bradi is out of town” part.
So although I didn’t know it at the time, I woke up that morning with a smokin’ hot 25-year-old naked chick in my bed with no effort on my part whatsoever.
And how was your weekend?
Perfect Moment Monday: The Write Stuff
My Perfect Moment Monday for this week actually came on a Monday. (Note: that’s probably the only time this will ever happen.)
Today I started a creative writing course. If you’re reading this as a potential client, you’re probably freaking out and wondering, “How can she bill herself as a writer and editor if she thinks she needs to take a writing course?” Fear not: I have a perfectly legitimate explanation.
The key word there is “creative.” I’m fantastic at technical, journalistic and academic writing. And if you give me a topic, I can usually do “creative writing” pretty well, too. But I absolutely stink at coming up with ideas on my own. My hope is that this course will help me grow more comfortable with that style of writing and help me generate new and original ideas. We’ll see how it goes!
Beginning Jan. 03, 2011, I commit to participating weekly in Perfect Moment Monday, sponsored by Write Mind, Open Heart, in which I will reflect on and share a perfect moment from the previous week. You can join in, too!
All Out of Love
It’s no secret that there are a lot of stereotypes about home schoolers, and some of them have roots in reality. For instance, many families who choose to home school do so for religious reasons. Other common stereotypes I hear revolve around home schooled kids being way better educated than your average public school student or, alternately, way more poorly educated than your average public school student. (Both of those have merit, too.) And, of course, there’s the argument/belief that because they don’t go to school, home schoolers don’t interact with peers and are socially inept.
Regarding the last point, “my” two home schooled kids (that is, those for whom I serve as a learning coach) get tons of social interaction. On occasion they even do things with a statewide home school organization. Most recently the kids attended a field trip with other home schoolers at a local television studio. I tagged along with the kids and their mom (who is also my cousin) with the promise of Taco Bueno.
While the kids played around the green screen and explored the sets, my cousin and I sat off to the side. She eyed the other parents and students critically, then leaned down to whisper to me, “The stereotypes are true: home schooled kids really are nerds.” Then she paused. ”Of course, my son is watching Air Supply videos on my iPhone as I say this.”
NPR Debut: Diamond in the Rough
You can listen to my NPR debut on the “Tales from the South” radio program here on the local affiliate. My story appeared on the Dec. 16 broadcast. You can also download/listen to the podcast at NPR’s website or at iTunes. It’s a 30-minute show, and I present about 20 minutes in. And finally, you can watch the video of the live recording here on YouTube or watch it below.
Please view, comment, “like” or all three on the video if you’re so inclined. The show chooses the year’s best stories to go in an anthology, determined in part on the number of hits, likes and comments the video recordings of the readings get on YouTube. If you can, please do one (Or all!) of those three things on my video. That would give me a leg up, and perhaps I’ll officially be a published author under my own name instead of as a ghost writer!
Nipplectomy
I often refer to the fact that I’m mostly missing one nipple. I tend to leave it pretty cryptic; but since this happened almost 20 years ago, plenty of people know the story now. I figured I ought to post it somewhere permanently so I wouldn’t have to rewrite the whole thing every time someone asks for details.
Thus, here is the story of how I ended up with, essentially, one and one-third nipples instead of the typical two. Warning: Graphic (but hilarious) injury described ahead.)
I stepped into the shower on a particularly crisp and cool October morn. Unbeknownst to me beforehand, my roommate had fully opened (rather than cracked) the bathroom window. Hence, it was nipply: so said my nips!
I set about my regular hygiene routine. I shampooed and rinsed, washed my body, etc. Then it was time to shave my ‘pits.
I soaped up my hands, then dabbed my underarms. Then I proceeded to shave, using a razor with a brand-new (replaceable) blade. Shaving under my left armpit while using my right hand was fine and trouble-free.
Then tragedy struck.
As I tried to transition the razor from my right hand to my left, my grip slipped due to the slipperiness of the soap and the shower and the water. I freaked out for a split second, envisioning the brand-new blade neatly slicing off a tiny, terribly cute toe on my foot on its descent down. (Oh, what could have been!)
Operating purely on instinct, my right hand grasped wildly for the razor’s handle—thinking only of saving my terrific toes. (Look, I’m short and chubby—but I have nice feet. That’s not something with which one gambles.) I didn’t count, unfortunately, on the fact that the cool, wafting breeze from the open window had put me in peril.
So, yeah. My nipples were at full attention—as if they were in a life-or-death drill down at band camp—but I wasn’t at that point fully aware of my body’s autonomic responses.
My right hand continued its reach for and successfully grasped the razor, but a split second too late! I sliced right through that erect left nipple—and that was all she wrote.
Well, you know, except for the fact that “she wrote” torrents of blood in the shower stall. Turns out there must be some sort of huge artery or vein or something beneath the mammary glands, because the wound poured blood for fuckin’ ever. In fact, it didn’t even pour initially: it shot like a machine gun: PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA.
And in the meantime I had the unique and shiver-inducing privilege of seeing that meaty sliver of niplet I’d accidentally excised swivel around, around, around the drain until it disappeared into the depths of some unholy receptacle reserved for piss and turds.
I know you think I’m making this shit up: Everybody does. But I have two measures of defense.
First, you can ask anyone who’s seen me in person in the last 20 or so years.
Second, take a good, hard look at my physique if we ever meet. I have PHENOMENAL BOOBS, but the nip slit mars their magnificence. It’s particularly noticeable when it’s cold, but if there’s even the hint of a breeze you can usually tell I suffered “an accident” because one nip points north and the other points south—much like Hagdalena Magdalena Hoopasteina Walkadeina Hogan Logan Mogan’s teeth.
And that? Really was all she wrote. 
I swear. (Because who would lie about this shit?)
Photo courtesy of Laszlo Ilyes and used under Creative Commons.
Wait. Would the Cave Have Cable?
Yesterday I heard this story on NPR’s All Things Considered. The gist of it is some scientists descended into and explored a couple of supercaves, the depths of which the article compares to inverting Mount Everest.
A clip promoting the segment was enough to scare the bejesus out of me. I mean, let’s think about this for a second. These guys plumb the pits of the planet, seeking to see and explore things no human ever has. And do you know why the deepest interiors of these supercaves have remained untouched for all time? It’s only partly because, as the segment explains, there are at least 50 “normal” ways to die while exploring supercaves. But apparently I’m the only one who paid attention when television and film were busy teaching us that if you go poking around in deep, dark, dank mysterious holes, you are going to awaken some awful ancient evil—and there will be hell to pay.
Seriously. Do you know what lives in caves? Balrogs. You might not have heard, but one time a balrog fought the greatest wizard ever, and they both died. Now that is some serious shit. Also consider the Grootslang. The Grootslang might not look scary in that artist’s rendering, but think about this: it’s a serpent that lures elephants into its cave to devour them. Elephants, people.
Even a lot of non-cave dwelling creatures are pretty fearsome and favor subterranean lairs. Perhaps you’ve heard of the Turok-Han—which live in (that’s right: not on, but in) the Hellmouth. How could that end well? The best-case scenario is you lose an entire coastal city to a giant pit of nothingness. (But, mysteriously, that giant pit doesn’t fill with ocean water. I think that’s what they mean when they say “look at the bright side.”) Also, you always run the risk of rousing C.H.U.D.s, and everyone who grew up in the 1980s knows that can’t end well.
My Glee Wishlist
If you know me at all, you know I’m obsessed with Glee. And when I say “obsessed,” I mean I have it as bad as I did for Buffy and Star Trek. But just like with those shows, I know Glee isn’t perfect. Here’s my open letter bulleted list to Ryan Murphy and company regarding how they can keep this show from going completely off the rails. (No spoilers ahead; I am, in fact, completely spoiler-free.)
- Stop after season two. This show is already getting a bit meta. (You can’t use the term “Puckleberry.” That’s way too shippy for showrunners, you guys. It wasn’t worth the cheap joke you got out of it, anyway.) Besides, the actors who play Puck and Finn already look like they have wives and 2.3 kids each sitting at home. Let’s not do the whole Andrea-from-90210 thing here, okay?
- Stop with the frequent guest stars. You have a HUGE (and incredibly talented) ensemble cast, and some of the members get precious little screen time and even fewer lines. I love Kristin Chenoweth and am still smarting from the cancellation of Pushing Daisies, but her second appearance was unwarranted. Would it kill you to let T-T-T-Tina talk (Especially now that she’s lost the [unconvincing] stutter?)?
- If you can’t (or won’t) give up your guest star addiction and devote more screen time to your awesome ensemble, realize that at some point in the second season you’re going to have to take a cue from BtVS‘s “Superstar” episode and turn the whole show on its head for 44 minutes. I need to see how this club appears from the perspective of bit players such as Mike and Matt. And also Brad. I would LOVE an entire episode from Brad’s perspective; in fact, if I don’t get it, I’m probably going to have to satisfy that desire by writing my first fanfic. (Readers, you’re probably wondering to yourself, “Who is Brad?” Kill yourself! Also known as Tinkles, he’s the plucky piano player who gives the most delicious eye rolls and dubious expressions on the entire show. I mean, the man writes chorales with his countenance when he accompanies Glee members who are being especially douchey or diabolical.)
- That said, don’t EVER let Matt say a word. (Readers, you probably also don’t know who Matt is because we’ve gone through 14 episodes and the kid has never once spoken. You might call him “handsome black guy who dances with Other Asian,” or perhaps you call him “Shaft”—just as Sue Sylvester once did.) Show, you’ve gone so long without letting Matt speak that now his doing so can’t possibly live up to the audience’s expectations no matter what spectacular dialogue you give him; as such, he’s going to have to remain the affable, strong and silent type. (Alternate option: If the actor has the chops, let Matt go off on an angry, vicious, two-minute tirade when the club [inevitably] dissolves into fingerpointing during [another] crisis—and then don’t ever let him speak again.)
- I’m not the first person to say this and certainly won’t be the last, but Matthew Morrison needs to stop with the rapping and break dancing. I know he loves it, but it’s embarrassing and NEVER, EVER WORKS. (The Thong Song was absolutely wretched, and you can very clearly hear him fart when Emma falls on him. Don’t believe me? Pull out that DVD. See, even your sound people realize it’s ridiculous and aren’t cutting him any slack—even when he cuts the cheese.) Besides, if he’s capable of doing stuff like this, you can do without that bullshit.
- Please tell the promo monkeys over at Fox to stop putting Brittany’s remarks in the previews/commercials. It’s like unwrapping a birthday present and having someone yell, “It’s a Samaurai sword!” before you get all the Scotch tape off or sever the first slice of a sliver of skin. I’d rather be surprised, you know?
- I know you may find this hard to believe, but one of the big draws of the show initially was the emotion. You’ve traded much of that for cheap laughs, anvils and lampshading all over the place. You can’t rely on Rachel’s Sad!Face and Kurt’s coming out story for the heart-string tugging. (Although you can’t do away with those things, either. Besides, I will CUT YOU if Burt Hummel doesn’t appear at least once every four episodes.)
- Stop so strictly alternating in what order who writes the episodes. Going straight down the list of who wrote what episode shows you haven’t yet deviated from this order: Ryan Murphy, Brad Falchuk, Ian Brennan. This has to stop. Perhaps a more collaborative effort is in order, because the tone of each episode immediately indicates to regular viewers precisely who wrote them—and not in a good way. If you want to please your audience, stop pandering to it and instead collaborate so we get all the gooey goodness in every ep.
- Stop giving Sue so much…heart. It’s just all wrong. Sue is the one character who can be a caricature because Jane Lynch brings so much to the table. Sue doesn’t need to be a villain with vulnerability: she just needs to be completely outlandish and outrageous.
(Readers [if you still exist], you’ll notice I didn’t explain my seven-month hiatus from blogging. I was busy, okay?)
