My Yahoo mail account and I have been in an abusive relationship for 10 years now. It started out sweet, as most relationships do. He’d give me cute little emails from long lost high school friends. I’d save the emails and treasure them as if they were handwritten notes on Electric Youth scented Hello Kitty stationary. We were in love.

But as time progressed I noticed he changed. Little things at first. An occasional unsolicited solicitation, offers of car insurance, extreme pornographic images…little things. It was annoying, but cute in a way. At least he cared.

But then he changed a lot. It was like he became obsessed with me…creepy obsessed, not cute obsessed. Dozens of emails a day…from people I didn’t even know! And some of them weren’t even sexual solicitations! That’s when I gave him some space. I started seeing Gmail. And I gave Yahoo his own little folder for his creepytown emails. Still, I couldn’t let him go. Not after all we’d been through…

I was feeling sentimental today, and I decided to visit Yahoo at his little spam house I gave him. And even though I had just deleted all his freakshow emails two days ago, there were over 70 waiting for me when I got there. Over 70 unsolicited, generically addressed emails, sitting quietly, like 70 long stemmed red roses. And even though I actually don’t like roses (and Yahoo knows this) I couldn’t help but be impressed. I almost cried when I read some of his notes:

u think i’m hot? (lol Julie, I’m not even gay!)

Buy cialis, viagra online, save up to 40%! (lol Ira Barker, I don’t know what cialis is!)

Your credit card debt: Action required (This one looked legit. I sent my credit card and social security number right away.)

I’m 30, single and hot. Come and see pictures! (OMGosh! Me too! Except I’m 30 + 1 and married and the hot thing is debatable! Come see my pictures! We can be pen pals!)

Clean your colon. (Just like that huh? Let me tell you something, C olonCleanse, nobody’s cleaning my colon without a little effort. Nobody.)

Add four inches in lenght (Now that’s totally tempting. I’m sick of being short.)

How to get bigger? (Ummm, eat your vegetables?)

How cute is that? Offers to make me taller, cleanse my colon, do some action with my credit card…I think I’m in love again!

PS - I can’t wait to see what sorts of Google searches show up on my website tomorrow. Can’t. Wait.

It started like this:

When Will was a kid he went to summer camp. While at summer camp he got to go sailing. Years and years later, he swore to me that sailing was the best THING EVER and he would never be happy unless he got a sailboat. Ok…not exactly in those words, but he was adamant that sailing was awesome and I couldn’t prove otherwise.

I went to summer camp, too. And I have my own memories of sailing. They were of me hating the stupid life jacket I was wearing and ducking to avoid the boom thingy and feigning deafness so I wouldn’t have to help do the actual sailing in any way. I was not yar.

So how did my previous ambivalence towards the sport of sailing give way to a hearty endorsement? It took awhile. Will was set on sailing as soon as he saw the beautiful lake in our backyard. And anytime your husband gets enthusiastic about something, especially when that something isn’t violent video games and that something can potentially involve the whole family, you tend to come around, even if you’re really not all that interested in the first place. So we visited a marina last summer, just out of curiosity. Here’s a synopsis of what happened:

Us: Kids! Stop running on the docks! You’re going to drown!

Various older couples: Are you looking for a sailboat?

Us (shuffling our feet): Uhh…yeah…kinda…we’re…uh….just….uh…sorry to bother you…

Various older couples: We started sailing when our children were this age. We all learned how to sail together. Sailing was the best thing we ever did as a family. (Various older couples hug and confirm their lifelong love for one another. I shed a silent tear.) You have to get a sailboat! The kids will just love sailing! You have to do it for your family! (Chanting) SAIL-ING! SAIL-ING! SAIL-ING!

Once more, the conversations didn’t exactly happen that way. But that was definitely the gist…sailing was the best thing that ever happened to them. Family after family. And looking around on that beautiful, beautiful day, I thought…why not? Why couldn’t we be that family? And that’s when I came around. Now I am yar.

So we have a countdown in place. In approximately 7 months we will have paid off our Dodge Caravan. At that time, and no sooner, we will finance the purchase of a sailboat. A thirtyish year old O’Day, apparently. In the meantime, I try to picture myself looking very Katharine Hepburnish and not throwing up over the side of the boat from the motion sickness. I picture my husband knowing exactly how to sail the thing and not yelling at me for pulling the wrong rope and nearly killing us all. I picture my children wearing their life jackets and having the time of their lives, not begging to go home and puking all over each other and also me as I try to pull the wrong rope. And I will not, I repeat, will not, watch Swiss Family Robinson, Joe vs the Volcano, Titanic, The Posiedon Adventure, Mutiny on the Bounty or Lifeboat until then. Or Gilligan’s Island, but I wouldn’t watch that show anyway because it was so stupid. That’s right, I said it. Stupid.

…kinda. Now aren’t you dying to read this post to figure out the context for the phrase ‘trashy ho store?’ Of course you are.

This meme is stolen from Planet Nomad, who didn’t tag me, but stolen nonetheless. And if you go to Planet Nomad and read the places she’s been, try not to stab yourself 70 times with a dull butter knife for having not lived such an exciting life as her. Seriously, you’re not helping anyone by stabbing yourself.

1. What were you doing 10 years ago?

Loooong agooooo, and oh so far awaaaaay… Sorry. I just started nostalgically singing in my mellow alto voice for some reason. We celebrated our first anniversary during the summer of 1998. And we moved from San Antonio back to Abilene, Texas, so I could finish up my undergraduate degree. And in August of 1998, we went to New York for my best friend’s wedding. And that was the last summer, incidentally, before we got knocked up and ended our free and easy days. Don’t ya remember you told me loved me babay?

2. What are 5 things on your “To Do” list?

Other than rewrite my novel, find an agent, find a publisher, get published and join the literary intelligentsia as a fantastically successful author? Not much.

* join Earthwatch. This is my new obsession. I dare you to go to their website and not fall in love with ‘citizen science.’ Leigh and I are thinking of doing a trip together next year. I’ll keep you posted.

* Exercise daily. Fatkins is over, thankyouverymuch, but exercising everyday is a huge goal this summer. I’ve kept off the little bit of weight I loss during the carbless torture, but there’s more to lose. This is definitely my most boring goal of all time.

* Collect original art. Specifically 19th century American watercolors. Until I’m bored with 19th century American watercolors, then I’ll switch to Islamic prayer rugs or something cool like that. How pretentious did the previous sentence sound? Be honest.

* Buy a sailboat. This is on the agenda for 2009, no lie.

* Come up with a cool fifth thing to be added to this list at a later date. Nothing else comes to mind, other than clean out my garage. Clearly not cool enough.

3. What are 5 snacks you enjoy? (In no specific order)

Dr. Pepper, red wine, almonds, cottage cheese, Cadbury’s chocolate bars.

4. Name some things you would do if you were a millionaire.

Buy real estate. Travel. Buy art. Invest in microloans. Lather, rinse, repeat.

5. Name some places where you’ve lived. *
Nouakchott (Mauritania), Chambery (France), Swansea (Wales), Three Hills (Alberta, Canada), Alturas (California, US), Bonney Lake (Washington, US), Tacoma, West Seattle, SE Portland, Tigard. (you should know where Seattle and Portland are)

*Ummm…I couldn’t bring myself to delete her list. Texas and Idaho can’t compete.

6. Name some bad habits you have.

I’m entirely too fussy with my children. Arbitrarily fussy. It’s ridiculous, really. And I’m awful with keeping up with my family. And I’m quick to get enthusiastically psychotic about a project, only to drop it five minutes later. Now I’m feeling bad about myself. Let’s move on.

7. Name some jobs you’ve had.

Whilst in college I worked at the trashy ho store previously known as Jean Nicole. I think it turned into ‘Melrose’ or maybe ‘Trashy Ho Store.’ I also worked at Sears a few times. I did telemarketing with Olan Mills once. That was fun. I did daycare and attempted waitressing, twice, and failed horrifically both times. Like, crying in the bathroom because I forgot to actually place the orders horrifically. I was a glorified secretary at Merrill Lynch a few years. And then I started teaching. Then I quit to stay home.

8. Name those whom you are tagging.

Hmmm…so with my recent absence, I’m not entirely sure who’s reading and who isn’t. So I’m tagging the few of you that I know are around: Smartypants Beck, Bren, Crazy Elaine, EMama and Jenica. Try not to steal my awesome answers, as tempting as they may be. We can’t ALL have the opportunity to work at the Trashy Ho Store, previously known as Jean Nicole.

“To succeed in life, you need two things: ignorance and confidence.”

Mark Twain

Check and check, Mr. Twain. Ignorant of the craft of writing, confident in my own ability to do anything, absolutely ANYTHING, I have to say that there is nothing more humbling than trying to do something big, then not quite succeeding as quickly as you assumed you would. I’m an impatient person. So impatient, that 2.3 seconds ago I wrote ‘inpatient’ and debated going back to fix it. Ok, that story was a lie. Sometimes I lie about things that happen to me. In this way I am like James Frey, except without a publisher or book deal or a Oprah Book Club autobiography based on a mountain of lies.

Back to my impatience: I finished The Palace Sweeper. I like it. But would I read it if I picked it up in a Barnes & Noble (public library)? I don’t know. Maybe not. Even if I did, that’s no tribute to me, because I’m not a great reader. I’ve been reading countless literary agent blogs lately. Countless. And I have to say…I don’t get it. I don’t get the stuff they like. I ABHOR chick lit, so much that I capitalize ABHOR instead of just writing ‘dislike.’ And most of the agents I stalk eat that stuff up. And as for my genre of choice, young adult, mmmmm, not so much. You have no idea how many teenage vampire bounty hunter love triangle type stories are out there. Neither do I. I just made that genre up.

Once more, back to me and my impatience. STOP DERAILING ME. I get this sense of panic every now and then (every ten minutes) when it comes to writing. On the one hand, I love to write. I cherished the hours I crept away with my little notebook to handwrite my little story. On the second and much heavier hand, I get b-o-r-e-d working on the same project for seven months. And the thought of putting another seven, or eight, or thirty-three months on the same project terrifies me. Why? Probably because I’m flighty and shallow. Or maybe because I’m not sure I have a re-write in me.

Will, who is not a writer, but knows me very well, keeps me in check. “I can’t re-write this thing!” I screamed/whimpered upon realizing The Palace Sweeper wasn’t as good as it could be (something he realized a week before.) He reminded me, nicely, that doing something right isn’t always about doing it quickly. Damn the bastard with his earthy common sense. Sometimes I swear I’m married to Morgan Freeman.

Look at him…judging me with his earthy, wise eyes. Judging me, I tell you. STOP IT, MORGAN FREEMAN! I’M DOING MY BEST! So thanks to Willgan FreemanHarrison, I’m back to the beginning of the journey. Which is definitely the scary part. Writing a novel is easy, y’all. Writing a nuanced novel worthy of an intellectual reader’s attention….not so easy. And now that I’m no longer ignorant of the work required, or overly confident in my ability to do it, I’m cursing Mark Twain for calling me out in the first place.

I hate you, Mark Twain. I hate you. And you, too, Morgan Freeman.

Here’s what I like: You for showing up at my blog today. If you’re from Cracked and you don’t know me, I’ve been on a self-imposed writing fast for about three weeks. If you’re my friend and you do know me, wow. Thanks for showing up day after day and getting a whole big fisftul of nothing from me. That’s true friendship.

Here’s what I don’t like: People who lie. But I make an exemption for L. Ron Hubbard, due to the fantastic amazingness of his stupendous lies. If I could lie like L. Ron, you could bet I’d have my own Kristi army by now. (They’d go by the name K.A. and wear red wigs and also do step like on those episodes of A Different World. My army is going to RAWK.)

Here’s where I should send you: To my article. At Cracked.

PS - Having finished my little book-type literary fictional novel, I’ll be returning to regular posting soon. Not yet. But soon. Thank you. Good night and good luck. Amen.

All is well. The lovely Kate is up and apparently high as a kite, but up. It was pneumonia, but hardcore, textbook material, not-sure-if-we’ll-make-it pneumonia. But she did.

Now I shall back into my eccentric Howard Hughesesque retirement. Gleefully.

I soooo did not want to write this post today. And I’ve soooo been avoiding my own blog.

Not a good sign.

I’ve been writing this blog for two years now. Here’s the post I wrote on Mother’s Day two years ago. Read it. It’s cute.

Here’s the post I wrote last year. Read it. Especially if you’re feeling sorry for yourself or wishing your husband had gotten you what you really wanted for Mother’s Day this year. This post will help you be less of a selfish jerk.

I’m not sure why I’m avoiding Here in Idaho. I think it’s because I don’t have any news to report about Leigh’s little girl. And that I feel like this blog is more about frivolity and fun and silliness (see May 2007 post titles) and less about sadness and first Mother’s Days without moms and sick two year olds and all the not-silly stuff that’s been going on lately.

So I wonder…is it time? Is it time to start something new or take a sabbatical from blogging? My friend Riley did it. She quit to finish her novel, then came back when she was ready. I think I need a break from the self-imposed pressure to be silly and fun like I want Here in Idaho to be. And I need to pour myself into The Palace Sweeper and finishing the school year and enjoying summer and all the little life-improvement projects we’ve got going on at the Harrison household.

So here’s what I’m going to do, in list format:

1. I’m not going to write for a while. I don’t know how long.
2. I will, for my family and friends and all those still reading a blog that will become as boring as a dead rock, post pictures of the family. (FIRST PIANO RECITAL ON THURSDAY, Y’ALL!)
3. That’s it. We’ll see how it goes.

I’m still writing for Cracked. A new article on Scientology should come up soon. I’ll link to it so you can read it before it gets shut down and/or I get assassinated by Tom Cruise himself. Other than that, I don’t know. I think I’ll give myself a month. Or two. What I know is that I don’t want to write a mediocre blog. I don’t want to be a diarist, which is definitely a fun word to write because it sounds like diarrheaist, which is also something I don’t want to be.

So I need to focus on the things I do want to be. A writer. A good mama. A skinny girl who looks cute in short tailored shorts. And when I get those things down, I’ll come back.

And, most likely, even if I fail at all of the above, I’ll still come back. How else will I get the attention I so desperately require from strangers? Not by being a high-class hooker, I can tell you that. (Truck stop hooker is more like it.)

My friend, my best friend, has a sick baby. Scary, ICU, baby can’t breathe, no one understands what’s wrong kind of sick. Intubation, sepsis, unknown virus, life-threatening sick.

And when your best friend’s baby girl is very sick, many things seem suddenly petty and trite. And at the same time, it’s absolutely inappropriate to start blathering profound jibber-jabber about life and death or things that are for the best or God’s plan and don’t worry because everything is going to be alright in the end, I promise.

No. Not when it’s your best friend’s baby. You don’t have the right to say such things.

The song is up there for a reason. It’s a celebration of life. It’s a anthem of joy and promise and hope and all the goodness that the world holds for us lucky enough to live in it. Wake up, it says. You’re alive. Wake up. Stop with the excuses and whining and self-pity and drop that nonsense like there’s no tomorrow. Wake. Up.

Listen to the song again. This story isn’t over. Her story isn’t over. Neither is yours. Wake up.

It’s the end of day three of the worst diet ever, and I’ve lost five pounds. Damn you, evil, weight melting, bread denying, hateful diet. But OOOOH CHILD, five pounds in three days…I can handle Cobb Salad and bacon and sausage and eggs and cheese and whatever else the deceased Dr. Jerkkins throws at me until I get so skinny that I get recruited to be a supermodel for little people.

Question: How crazy is it to be entirely motivated by vanity?
Answer: Not crazy if you’re me. I’M NOT CRAZY! STOP LOOKING AT ME!

The lack of sugar is affecting my brainz. I HATE YOU ATKINS! I LOST FIVE POUNDS! WEEEEEEE!

The end.

(You know you make me wanna shout.)

Here’s the part where I write about losing weight again. First, I must establish a few unequivocal truths in this conversation:

1. I do not have an unhealthy view of my body. If anything, I have a super unrealistic view of my body. Like size six view. Which is why I go into shock when I see recent pictures of myself and my sausage legs. Those are not my legs. Those are someone else’s sausage legs. Duh.

2. My husband has the metabolism of some sort of superhero who’s powers have something to do with metabolism. I have the metabolism of the laziest rock on the planet. This is inherently unfair.

3. As 31/32 is the new 17/18, I can’t go out this way. By ‘go out’ I mean give up on being hawt again. We mustn’t give up the dream, must we?

No. We mustn’t. Today I started the Atkins diet. WORST. DIET. EVER. FOR. ME. But this is the nonsense that jumpstarted my husbands fantastical weight loss, so whatever. No pasta, no bread, no wheat crackers or goldfish or almonds or good things that I like to eat. And like any easily distracted monkey learning new tricks, I need rewards to change my bad habits. My reward for finishing the story called The Palace Sweeper, which is sooooo very close to being done, will be a 19th century watercolor painting. My reward for losing some weight will be a trip to Boston.

BOSTON? You ask. Yes. Boston. HEATHER, WE’RE COMING TO YOUR WEDDING. Sorry, that was just for my college friend named Heather who lives in Boston and is getting married at the end of August. This reward is something like offering Charlie a new car for cleaning his room, but that’s ok. I’m not interested in this stupid Atkins diet. I am interested in going to Boston with my skinny husband. So it looks like Tricky Will gave me an offer I couldn’t refuse. Here’s what I ate today:

two hardboiled eggs, which suck when not accompanied by a bread of some sort

tuna fish salad wrapped in spinach, also not nearly as good as tuna fish salad atop a cracker of some sort

cottage cheese, which oh crap, turns out is not allowed during the first two weeks of Atkins. My bad.

beef jerky, which is not nearly as good as chocolate jerky or beef Dr. Pepper

And then we’re having steaks for dinner. So that’s cool. I guess. I refuse to become the dieting blogger, except that I might, since I can’t get my mind off my diet at the moment. So don’t be surprised if that’s all you get from me for the next two weeks. And I won’t be surprised if you stop reading.

Here’s the part where I go walk around my neighborhood three times. Because three times equals a mile. Yay me.