Sticker Collection

Remember what it felt like to be tethered to a plastic rotary phone for HOURS while your best friend just talked and talked and talked?

And you didn't really care...you just wanted to get up and do something else, but all you could do was sit on your parents' bed and wrap the coiled cord around your finger over and over while your friend yammered on and on about jellies and Christmas presents and Nancy Drew books and new bicycles and then an hour would pass and your mom would FINALLY tell you to hang up and you were like THANK GOD! I CAN'T STAND IT ANYMORE.

And then you'd go and pull out your Lisa Frank stationery and write a letter to your other friend, because you're feeling very fond of them all of a sudden, but you don't know if you should actually use any stickers on the letter because those stickers cost money, unlike the digital crap we have today. No, these are irreplaceable stickers that could actually die if you give them away. So, you send the letter and stash the stickers.

Twenty years pass. You find yourself at 30 years of age, having had moved the last of your items out of your parent's house a few years ago, and yet...and yet there sits that freaking box of stickers. Stickers that you never used.

Well, isn't this the WORST?

For the first time in your life you wish that you'd been more wasteful in your childhood. Or at the very least you wish that you could be more wasteful now.

But you can't! You can't do it! You can't part with the box of stickers that meant so much to you all those years ago. And so you pack them away in a box labeled "mementos," knowing you will most likely not open the box for another ten years and thus your stickers will live on.

And hopefully, 40-year-old you will finally have that thing called "common sense" that you've seemed to lack your entire life.

How Game of Thrones SHOULD Have Looked

There is this weird thing that happens when you read a book before seeing its movie or TV show…you end up utterly disappointed. And not just disappointed in the “oh, she’s supposed to have silver hair and instead it looks just…white” sense, but in the “wait, WHAT? Is this really supposed to be the face of my favorite character for the next FIVE SEASONS?!”

This is exactly what happened to me with the Game of Thrones television show.

I’m a HUGE fangirl of the books. So much so that I saw the author George Martin at WorldCon some time ago, and I was incapable of walking up to say hello. We’re talking glued to the ground, unable to think, wasting space and air. I’m not usually like that around people I admire, so it ended up being a mild form of entertainment for the practical side of my brain—the side that kept taunting “he’s just an old man! You’re a blond! GO SAY HI, you wimp!”

Ahem…where was I? OH YES…the tv show.

I had read the first two books by the time I saw the show, so I’d had plenty of time to create my own better  versions of these characters. And let me tell you they were lifelike! And awesome!!! And way better than any HBO casting director could have imagined!

And naturally as soon as the opening scenes played out, my dreams were shattered. My excitement depleted. This show was going to be horrible. And all because the characters looked nothing like they were supposed to look.

Time has passed. I am rewatching what I had previously watched and I have finally been able to move past the casting atrocities. And I’m even starting to forget my original versions of these wonderful characters. So, to forever lock my imagination in place, here are my original interpretations of some of the key characters in GAME OF THRONES:

ROBERT BARATHEON

Amanda's version: Henry VIII

TV version:

Not too shabby, but clearly, I imagined him fatter.

TYRION LANNISTER

Amanda's Version: Wee Man from Jackass

TV version:

Can you tell Tyrion is one of my least favorite characters? He's a close second after Bran. I am beyond bummed that Peter Dinklage makes him tolerable. I wanted to hate this character forever.

JON SNOW

Amanda's version: A dreamy Christian Bale from Newsies

TV version:

Jon Snow was supposed to be able to sing "Santa Fe" on cue. Sigh. Oh, what could have been...

JAIME LANNISTER

Book 1, he seemed to be written to be more sinister. Less attractive. So, book 1...

Amanda's Version: this guy from Knight's Tale only with blond hair

Book 2, suddenly he was attractive!!! And likeable!! So, this...

Amanda's Version:

TV version:

A decent match with the book 2 version, but what happened to book 1 Jaime?!

CATELYN STARK

Amanda's Version: Cate Blanchett (with red hair)

TV Version:

The show really aged many of the adults, and ugh...I hate it. And I'm sorry, but the actress they got for Catelyn can't hold a candle to my top pick, Cate Blanchett.

There are other disappointments, of course. Cersei is supposed to have awesome, curly golden hair. Not a wavy straw-colored wig. Daenerys is supposed to have silver hair and purple eyes. The Hound is supposed to be more menacing. Joffrey is supposed to actually be handsome. 

There are a few perfect picks, of course. Khal Drogo is spot on. As is Ned Stark and Varys. And Viserys. Definitely Viserys.

But the good ones don't make up for the bad ones. Especially when the good picks die one after the other and bad picks like Hodor live on to see another episode. And another. And another.

HODOR:

Amanda's Version:

TV version:

Yeah, I'll never get over how disappointing this one was. 

My Twenties at a Glance

In my twenties, I...

Led an all-girl band in a Battle of the Bands.
Directed two plays.
Made friends.
Lost friends.
Met Tad.
Graduated college.
Began life on my own with nothing more than a BA degree in writing, a car full of stuff, and $500 to my name.
Married Tad.
Worked as a waitress.
Worked as an Admissions Counselor.
Traveled to Boston, NYC; San Diego; Dallas; Atlanta; St. Louis; D.C.; Anaheim; Portland; Springfield, Mo.; Turkey; Chicago; Cleveland; Grand Rapids; Indianapolis; The Blue Ridge Mountains; Kansas City; and more.
Did odd-jobs for Chip MacGregor.
Wrote for Vera Bradley.
Wrote for Peg Perego.
Held two full-time-ish jobs for three years.
Started my own business.
Became an agent.
Met Nora Roberts' handler's daughter...then met the handler.
Saw Nora Roberts.
Participated in my first dance party.
Saw George RR Martin.
Met Charlaine Harris.
Received a hug from Ted Dekker. :/
Met Tosca Lee.
Saw Jim Carrey.
Saw Tim Gunn.
Saw that Giada lady.
Befriended numerous authors and editors.
Mistook Frank Peretti for a very confused, old man.
Was *this close* to convincing a big-time NFL player to do a book.
Wrote many words.
Freelanced for local papers.
Wrote two books. One fiction; one nonfiction.
Self-published my nonfiction book.
Got a dog.
Became obsessed with said dog.
Found a shampoo that allowed me to grow my fragile hair past my shoulders.
Moved into a rental house (life on the top floor of a random building had gotten old after five years of it).
Baked a pie.
Baked another pie, and another...
Grew out of my love for playing video games.
Grew into a love of working :/
Took up running.
Stopped running.
Took it up again.
Stopped again, meaning that I...
Gained weight.
Lost weight.
Etc.
Owned an Audi 100.
Owned a Jetta VLX GR6.
Now I own a Toyota Corolla :(
Reached the "Medium and sometimes Hard" levels on the drums on Rockband.
Drove a lot.
Flew a lot.
Navigated NYC (taxis, subways, publisher meetings, etc) on my own without having ever been there before.
Was inside the Flatiron building, the Woolworth building, and more.
Felt fancy at a number of NYC publisher parties.
Rode in an elevator with Mr. Romance 2011.
Went to a Broadway show.
Moved to Indiana.
Missed Chicago.
Became obsessed with genealogy.
Became an aunt.
Became a sister-in-law.
Began the hunt to buy a house.

In my thirties I will blow this list away.

(Me, on my birthday with one of my gifts.)

And I will also continue to be frozen in time as "forever 23."

Frienemies with Katy Perry

Well, Rachel Hauck...you've done it this time. You've gone and gotten a blog post written JUST FOR YOU so that you can understand that yes, my love for Katy Perry IS in fact a "heart/soul connection" that goes back more than a decade...

I present to you, Katy's first ever album with a written dedication on it TO ME:

Now I know what you're thinking! How cute! How sweet! Amanda met Katy before she became way famous and now she has this wonderful little memento along with a cursed desire to watch and know and listen to all things Katy Perry!

Oh, dear Rachel. If only it were that simple...

I have often thought that if Katy and I had gone to the same high school we possibly would have been frienemies. I mean we both came from families heavily involved in ministry, and we both have hearty amounts of experience leading worship at homeless shelters and rescue missions and outdoor evangelism parties. So on those counts, we probably would have been BFFs. BUT! when it comes to boys, our fate was doomed from the beginning.

It all started when I went to a concert and found myself being squished against the stage by a bunch of raging psychos. Panicked, I remember looking with a helpless expression to the lead singer of the band, who WINKED at me. Not a lame, boring, meaningless wink. This was a wink that said, "It's okay, I've got you. You're going to be fine and then you and I are going to get married and live happily ever after."

This boy was Matt Thiessen of Relient K.

So, naturally, I left the show, thinking that my life was about to get awesome because I was going to have a rockstar boyfriend!

Wrong. It was only a few weeks later that I discovered via an old school Christian music message board that Matt had started dating Katy Hudson (now Katy Perry).

RE: she stole him from me

*insert childish girl scream here*

I did my best to move on and forgive her. I mean her music was great, and I secretly wanted to be her, but there was always this voice in the back of my head that was like "She took him him! Now you can't have him! AND SHE'S YOUNGER THAN YOU!!!!"

This was the first time that Katy and I shared a romantic interest. The second time, was way weirder...

There is a name...a very specific name that if I were to whisper it in Katy's ear, she would probably gasp and cover her mouth and then whisk me away to a quiet corner so that she could ask me how in the world I know that name...

You see, Katy's and my intertwined romantic interests didn't stop at Matt. There was this guy on a different message board (I guess there were lots of those then). And he had this MAJOR interest in Katy.

But he also had an interest in me.

And he was like 40.

Now this guy had SUCH an interest in Katy and SUCH an interest in me, that he is the reason I have the above signed album. He went to one of Katy's concerts (he went to a million of them because she was a no-name back then and did small, accessible shows), bought the CD, had her personalize it for me in such a way that it proves that he actually spent time telling her about me, and then mailed it to me along with other nice gifts and such.

Yes. This. This happened. Katy and I shared an admirer for what I can roughly estimate to be a year-year and a half.

Of course this was an admirer that neither of us wanted, but still. It totally counts and is weird.

So THERE, Rachel. THAT is my "heart/soul connection" to Katy. A strange game of 6 degrees without a single Kevin Bacon in sight.

All of this points to one truth and one truth only...if my and Katy's romances are destined to overlap, SHE IS NEVER ALLOWED TO MEET TAD BECAUSE SHE WILL STEAL HIM.

Also, it was probably a good thing that Tad stopped me from chasing that Russell Brand lookalike that we saw at the fair this summer to ask him if it was really him.

(I was just curious).

Conversations with Myself While Shopping

Me: Oh, here's a good store to check out...act natural, act natural, act natural...
Myself: Why are you saying that?
Me: I don't want them to think that the only reason I came in was to check out the clearance section.
Myself: But that was the only reason--
Me: Yeah, but they don't need to know that. I mean there's totally a stigma associated with clearance shoppers.
Myself: But you're a clearance shopper.
Me: Yeah but I don't want to be. Big difference.
Myself: ...
Me: There, we made it to the back!
Myself: Hooray.
Me: This is cute! Oh man, only $14.
Myself: Great. Try it on.
Me: Hmm...I don't know.
Myself: What now?
Me: I mean it's cute, and it's a great deal, but...
Myself: Oh boy.
Me: I'm just not sure it's my style.
Myself: What?
Me: I mean it's just not hardcore enough.
Myself: I'm sorry, I didn't know you and P!nk were friends.
Me: Oh, shut it.
Myself: No seriously, I didn't know you had a hardcore style.
Me: I do. At least in my head. And the way you think about yourself really does impact who you are.
Myself: And you want to be hardcore?
Me: I'm just trying to go after the whole intimidation factor, okay?
Myself: And this shirt doesn't do that for you?
Me: No, it's way too Barbie. I mean I'd have to get a tan and bleach my hair for this shirt to work. Even though it's cute.
Myself: Okay, so put it back, and let's move on.
Me: But it's only $14...
Myself: Just stop.
Me: Oh no, sales associate alert!
Myself: SAVE ME!
Me: I can't believe she called me "kiddo."
Myself: Well, you are in the clearance section.
Me: Not fair. I already told you that I don't want to be here.
Myself: And you have your hair in a messy bun.
Me: Messy buns aren't mature?
Myself: Well, they definitely aren't hardcore if that's what you're going after.
Me: Shoot. You're right. Okay, new store.
Myself: Thank God.
Me: Hmmm...
Myself: What? Why are we hesitating?
Me: It's just that it's Forever 21...I'm afraid to go in.
Myself: But you always shop there.
Me: No, I shopped there. Big difference. I haven't been shopping for like a year or two. What if I've outgrown it? What if I go in and all of the items are ugly to me and then I find myself wandering into Christopher Banks?
Myself: That's not going to happen.
Me: You can't be sure. I mean every woman makes the CJ Banks switch at some point in her life. Why can't mine happen right before I'm thirty?
Myself: Stop. Just stop. Go in there and see if you can find something you like. Anything.
Me: Okay, but if I'm miserable, I'm blaming it on you...OH I LOVE THIS STORE!!
Myself: Remind me again why it was wrong of the sales associate to call you "kiddo?"

My Brief Career in the Rap Industry

You know how rappers feature guest artists on their tracks?

And you know how those artists are usually women, tasked with the role of turning a meandering jumble of verse into a song by belting out a meaningful hook that brings it all together?

Once upon a time, I was one such artist.

I should probably stop there and let you imagine all sorts of horrible or awesome things, depending on how you view the genre, but the story is just so bizarre that if my sister weren’t there to witness the actual recording process, I probably would have convinced myself that I imagined the whole thing.

I’ve been a rap fan for awhile…well…I should clarify. I’ve been a fan of white rap for awhile. Which makes me sound racist, except it has nothing to do with race and everything to do with sound. White rap is just different from black rap…which is different from what I would currently categorize as dance rap.

But anyway…

The story picks up in Peoria, Illinois. I’m sixteen or seventeen, and in the midst of a major crush on a local rap artist, when I’m introduced to a local rap duo. Now I can’t for the life of me remember their names. Something like Doughboy and Rocket (yeah, real winners). But they were local CHRISTIAN rappers.

Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s the best part of the story.

So anyway, I head them perform at my dad’s outreach event a few times and in turn they heard me sing to my accompaniment tracks. (Classy!). And the next thing I knew they approached me, told me how great I sounded, that they were looking to re-record one of their songs (because the original vocalist on the record was Doughboy’s wife and they had since divorced and I guess there’s something uncool about a rapper still performing with his ex-wife’s vocal track…because we all know rappers must must must be bitterly divorced…), and that they thought I would be perfect for it.

Now, I don’t think I’ve done a very good job of communicating their excitement here, but they were PUMPED UP. I mean it was as if they won the lottery. Or as if the biggest problem the world had ever thrown at them had been solved! And now everything was going to be great and they were gonna be rich and famous, rapping about Jesus. (Which hey, Toby Mac did it, so it’s possible…)

Now before you laugh at me and wonder what the heck I was thinking, remember:

This was a time in my life when I was convinced that I had a shot at making it in the music industry.

This was also a time in my life when I had a major crush on a local rap artist and I thought in some crazy way that doing this would make him notice me.

So, I said yes.

A bit later my sister and I drove to their recording studio which was in some guy’s basement, and almost as soon as we got there, they shoved me into the booth with a pair of the biggest headphones I’d ever seen, and they started playing the track.

Mind you, I WAS SIXTEEN. I had no idea what I was doing. So for some dumb reason instead of making the song my own I tried to recreate what Doughboy’s ex-wife had done.

Note for note.

And I’m REALLY good at recreating vocal stuff.

I imagine Doughboy had some kind of panic attack as the ghost of his ex fluttered through his thoughts. He asked me to re-do it. Then he asked me to switch it up a bit. And after only about three tries, all of which I was very proud of myself for NAILING the original sound, they brought me out of the booth, told me what a great job I did, and then …

Some random guy… maybe it was Rocket. I can’t remember. I guess he’d been singing along while I’d been recording. Someone suggested he try laying down a track or two. And then someone else said that they could layer us.

And I can only imagine that Doughboy saw this opportunity to forever erase his wife’s stamp on the song, because he took the idea and ran with it.

Random guy was thrown in the booth and started singing.

AND. HE. WAS. HORRIBLE. Flat. Weak. No breath support whatsoever.

And the end result? A chorus in which the two of us are singing the exact same melody. One of us sounding like the ex-wife. The other sounding like a dying mouse.

I’ve often wondered if maybe I was biased. If maybe it really wasn’t as bad as I’d remembered, and if I was simply reacting out of jealousy and anger and hurt. So, I asked my sister about it a few weeks ago.

And she was like “Yeah, that guy sounded horrible. It totally ruined the song.”

Every time I think back on that experience, I cringe. And not just because I never got my promised CDs and t-shirts. Or because I blew it.

But because the end product was SO BAD. And they probably re-re-recorded it soon after.

AND because I realize now that featured artists are usually introduced somewhere in the song. You know, where they’re like…

“Doughboy!”

“Wassup?!”

“ROCKET!”

“aw yeah!”

“And introducing…AMAAAAAAAANDA PAAAAAAAANDA…”

*cue hook*

Bummer.

Now, even if the recording survived, no one will ever know it was me.

Though maybe that’s not such a bad thing…

Just when you thought Succubi didn't exist...

I like to use this blog as an outlet to be witty, sarcastic, and silly. Well, I haven't been feeling particularly witty or sarcastic or silly lately, so good content has been hard to come by. Now bad content? There have been plenty of those ideas. You should probably thank me for stopping myself from posting photo streams of Helo or video of myself playing Rockband or inspiration boards for my office redecoration or my imagined audition for Les Miserables. Yes, all of these things I've considered and then wisely unconsidered. Because not only would they be painful for me down the road (as I'd look back and wonder what the heck I was thinking), they'd be disastrous for my readership.

So for today's post (because I really should be consistent about posting regularly), we're going to get a bit serious. We're going to talk about my sleep disorder.

It all started in high school. I'd wake up in the night, eyes wide open. And I'd see something in my room. Usually, it was a person. Sometimes it was a creature. Always very terrifying. I'd keep staring and staring and staring at it until it dissolved and there I'd be alone in my room.

When this first started happening, I was so freaked out and confused and frustrated that once when I awoke to find a man standing at the head of my bed, looking down on me, I started to talk to him. I asked him what he was doing there. He answered me, though I don't remember what exactly he said, and then he dissolved.

So this...this suspension of the dream world...continued. I experienced it through college, post-college, and I even experience it now (it happened last night, actually). I've come to accept it as part of my sleeping experience. I go to sleep, knowing it's very probable that I'll awaken in the night only to have the crap scared out of me due to some super-sized Helo, or bugs swarming the ceiling, or an old man sitting in a chair. I've accepted this and told few people. Because to be quite honest, this isn't really the type of thing you want people to know about you. Mostly because it sounds like you're demon possessed. And secondly....because it sounds like you're demon possessed.

But then today, my whole world changed.

On Yahoo!'s home page, it had an article that said "Strange Sleep Disorder Makes People See Demons."

You bet I clicked on that thing so fast it were as if I were playing Gopher Bop.

Come to find out, I am NOT demon possessed. I'm not even being haunted by spirits. Turns out I probably have Sleep Paralysis--a sleep disorder in which the mind remains suspended between dream world and reality while the eyes are open. (Okay, it's either Sleep Paralysis, or I'm being stalked by an incubus...which is gross and exactly what the ancients would have told me back in the day had I explained my symptoms).

Sleep Paralysis is also the likely explanation for those who claim to have been abducted by aliens (!) or had ghostly encounters (!).

I can only hope that some night my SP leads to imagined alien abductions and sweet encounters with Casper. In the meantime, I'll settle for seeing antlers grow out of light fixtures and random appearances of my siblings as the foot of my bed.

If I Were to Design a Miniatures Game

Miniatures gaming is a freaking awesome business. I mean where else can you charge $40 for a bunch of tiny pieces of plastic that the customers will not only assemble themselves, but then spend hours and hours painting? It's genius.

The cutie below costs $25 and probably stands at 2 inches. He comes as a sheet of plastic in which you pop out the pieces, assemble, and then paint and paint and paint (with the help of a magnifying glass, no less).

So after watching Tad throw his money at such a hobby, I decided I needed to create my own miniatures game and dupe unsuspecting gamers into buying my lazy plastic.

Now, as a former marketer, I've noticed a few things about the gaming world...

1) Nearly every game title contains one of the following words: Dungeon, Quest, Battle, War

2) The act of assembling and painting is supposedly as fun as actually playing the game itself (some gamers will simply assemble and paint without any desire to play!)

3. Gamers are easily excitable with anything Dragon

So, I introduce to you my miniatures game:

DRAGON DUNGEON BATTLE QUEST WARS

In this miniatures game, not only do you get to assemble your dragons, but you can choose your unique look! That's right! Each of the four dragon components (head, body, wings, tail) come sold separately. This means not only will you be spending that much more money, but you'll get to have a completely unique dragon!

Select numerous power card combinations to give your dragon one-of-a-kind feat combos and abilities (cards sold separately in packs).

AND add plenty of magic to the mix by buying, assembling, and painting your very own Dragon Master! (Dragon Masters boost the dragon's abilities for as long as the masters are in play!)

RESERVE YOUR DRAGON PIECES OF PLASTIC TODAY and you'll be battling other dragon in search of dunegon treasure in approximately 40 labor hours!

Dragon Head (20 models to choose from): $25

Dragon Body (20 models to choose from): $25

Dragon Wings (20 models to choose from): $25

Dragon Tail (20 models to choose from): $25

Dragon Master (10 different masters to choose from!): $30

Total before paints, paint supplies, and terrain doo-dads: $130 (and you MUST have all these components before you even THINK about playing).

Tad and I joked about my game idea for awhile.

Then, he showed me this from Kickstarter...

All I know is that they could have chosen a way better name.

The stuff you find...

I'm in the midst of making my office a REAL office and not just a place where we store random stuff and from which I occasionally work. We're talking an adult work space here. Something that if we had kids would be a DO NOT ENTER zone.

So in the process of whipping this room into shape, I had to empty my desk to replace it with a new one (!).

And it soon became quite apparent to me how long it's been since I've actually looked inside my desk drawers.

Here are a few of the gems I discovered:

Yes, this is exactly what you think it is!! A sheet of really sweet vintage Apple decals. I feel I should have used these on my previous cars (an Audi 100 and then a VW Jetta GLX VR6)...because putting them on a Toyota Corolla just isn't right.

This is the second diary I ever owned (runs from 12-24-93 to 8-24-98), and the level of awesome in this thing is just unreal. I mean FIRST, you have a tampered area where the lock sits because I'd lost the keys one day and needed to bust in, and THEN you have entries such as this:

I am now fully eleven for my birthday was December 22 of last year.

I am not wrapped up in Tyson for there is now Austin St. John and Jason Frank of the Power Rangers. I almost forgot John Bosch of the Power Rangers also...

I had this strange desire one day to give myself a tattoo sleeve, so I bought this pack of temporary tattoos. Not one of my best moments...and of course if I ever follow through I'll need to time it right, because showing up at a professional event with a sleeve of these fading bad boys probably wouldn't be the easiest thing to explain.

My wedding invites and programs!! Not sure why this was particularly exciting aside from the fact that my dessert cards say "Let them eat cake!" and there is a Charles Dickens quote in the program. Tad and I hate Dickens.

Oh, my years in marketing! These colorful catalogues are filled with catchy headlines such as:

Here's lookin' at style!

Color meets clarity.

See things your way.

Styles for the starry-eyed.

It's a wonder I didn't win any awards.

This is an article I wrote for the college newspaper that covers *gasp* tattoos! And whether those with tattoos are going to hell.

I'm not even joking. This is the real deal.

The article made some people mad, including the dude on the right who had a crush on me (I mean he was a blind date my freshman year and what can I say...I'm just really hard to get over).

But things settled down after awhile, and I eventually decided I never ever wanted to be a journalist. I mean what's the point in rattling cages when you can't even take a side?!

Now, where did I put those temporary tattoos again?

Bachelor of Arts in Awesomeness

So I'm in this process of creating an actual office for myself, which requires sifting through things and OH MAN, I REMEMBER THIS RANDOM THING FROM COLLEGE or high school or whatnot, because as I arrange this office area, I have to actually move stuff. Stuff that got tossed into this side room when we moved in a year ago and, well, there it's sat.

Anyway, I say this, because a moment ago I was poking around all of these boxes of good and bad memories, when I stumbled upon this envelope on the floor. Now I must say that this room isn't cluttered with stuff. So to stumble upon something without knowing it was there takes quite a bit of effort.

Especially when that something is your college diploma.

Alright, folks. Here's my big, bad confession. I've only looked at my diploma like twice in my life. I mean I'm pretty sure I checked it after receiving it to make sure it had my name spelled correctly. And I probably glanced at it after I pulled it out of my trunk (where it had lived for roughly a year post-graduation...because yes, I was that kid who left college with nothing but a car of possessions and $500 to my name...oh, and a diploma in the trunk. Quite Hallmark, wouldn't you say?). But other than those two probable events, I haven't looked at the thing.

Until now.

Am I the only one concerned by the fact that it nowhere states what my major was? I mean what happened to Bachelor of Arts in Dance or Bachelor of Arts in History or Bachelor of Arts in Guitar-Making? I mean this makes me look as though I had no major at all!! Just one of those "general studies" types, who end up working pottery studios where fifth grade birthday parties are held while the workers smoke pot in the back room!!!!!!

Okay, breathe. BREATHE, I SAY!!!!

But the school could so eeeeasily afford the stupid little protecitve tissue paper. Couldn't they afford ink for three more words? Three more simple, clarifying....

SNAP OUT OF IT!!!!!!

There has to be an upside--a way to turn this into a positive...

Like telling people I have a Bachelor of Arts in Medicine or Neurology or World Peace or ... SUPER MODELING.

You think they'll fall for it?

Helo, Mr. CrazyMan

I work from home. And on occasion, I have to make very important phone calls. I mean, we're talking 212 area code phone calls. And every time, I have to very carefully plan when these calls take place.

You see, Helo is still a puppy, albeit a 95-lb (and quickly fattening up) puppy whose shoulders come to my waist. And Helo has very specific times during the day in which he likes to be a crazy man.

Now whenever it's revealed that Helo is the reason I can't talk before 11am or after 3pm, I always get the same, sweet, well-intentioned but highly ignorant response:

"Oh, I LOVE dogs!! Don't worry about it! We'll be fine, I'm sure."

No, my friend. No we will not be fine. Because unlike most puppies who can be ignored during their romp around the dining room table or incessant banging into your leg. when Helo plays, couch cushions are flying through the air, the rug is skidding across the floor, and every once in awhile, my lap appears to be the perfect launching pad for his ginormous frame.

In other words, when Helo decides it's time to play, my work day comes to a screeching halt.

Here's what a very tame play time looks like...anyone want to suffer through the no-holds-barred version?

My Juvenilia: A Cat

When I was in Kindergarten, I had a sort of epiphany--the epiphany went something like this:

I like books!!!!
But where do books come from?
They don't just appear out of nowhere.
*Gasp!* Someone has to MAKE them?!!!!
How fun!! How fun to make a book!!!
That's what I'm going to do!! I'm going to make a book!!!

I imagine this epiphany involved a very serious conversation with my mom, because before I knew it, I was in the living room, surrounded by my "Publishing House." My "printing press" was my baby doll's high chair. Then of course I had my illustration desk and my writing desk and so on.

And I did not leave until I made a book.

The result? The 1990 Newberry award-winning classic, A Cat. 

It appears that early on in life, I desired to be mononymous. It was quite epic of me, really. That, or I couldn't spell my last name.

 

Sorry for the low quality images ...scanner was having difficulty with the staples.

Wow! What a fantastic opening line. It evokes suspense and concern. Truly, an attention-grabber. Brilliant! Now, if only someone would have told me that despite my left-handed tendencies, page numbers for all right-side pages go...on the right.

 

Is it just me, or am I getting lazier with my illustrations? I mean Cat used to have thicker legs, right? Also, the letter 'e' was a doozie to write.

 

I specifically remember drawing each and every one of those rug tassels. I was sure that more tassels = better artistic quality. Boy, I was right. Those tassels are spot on.

 And there it is! The great conclusion!! What IRONY! What symbolism!! (And in case you can't see it, that gray blob amidst the black blob is the mouse, standing in his mouse hole. Laughing, of course. Just like my super-comedic manuscript describes.)

P.s. I had to ask for my mom's help with spelling the -ing words.