How to Cause Panic With No Effort

As amazing as Facebook is, you do need to take what is posted with a grain of salt. What used to be a place for nothing but facts, written and posted by drunken college students, the mainstream of it has caused Facebook to have the same credibility as a tabloid.

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What used to be the encylopedia of relationships, trips, parties, exams, and classroom changes is now a dumping ground of emotion.

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People post things to let the world know that their boy/girlfriend is a/n [censored for family reading]. Or they have a job interview, or you know, trying to become arrested. The status updates are beyond fantastic for comical relief, past that, well, proceed with caution. Not everything you see on Facebook status is real. Shocker!

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You especially need to proceed with caution if your mother is on Facebook. Like really pay attention to what you write, or be prepared for consequences-a phone call.

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Over the years I've learned something very important. It is not hard to make my mother crazy. I do not have to much more than post a Facebook status for her to call me and say "What the hell?" Hi mom, nice to talk to you.

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My status said something about me TRYING to convince police to arrest me and put me in jail on kidnapping charges.

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I think she missed the "trying" assumed I was arrested, and decided to call me. Because we all know Police allow you to answer your cell phone while sitting in a jail cell. Maybe they would. It is a cell in a cell....right, back to my point.

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While she was trying to figure out what I was talking about, I sat here on my couch writing away.

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She realized it is research for a novel I'm working on, said goodbye and hung up. Her comment on my status: "things you do for a story."

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Yup, it is the things I do for a story, and you know, for a good laugh. But Mom, I promise if I am arrested you will not find out via Facebook. Most likely Skype.

Hallmark Cards

Hi, I'm Mo and I cannot remember to send a card, if my life depended on it.

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Birthday, Christmas, anniversary, graduation, baby, mother's day, father's day, or any other day that involves a card, and according to Hallmark, everyday is card worthy. Seriously, they have a Everyday category.

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This past Saturday we celebrated two friends birthdays. Our one friend is awesome at remembering every ones birthday, and has a card for all major events in one's life. So of course, you need to get her a card, it's only polite. This means that our other friend also gets a card.

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I returned from Phoenix at 4:30 p.m. on Saturday, and we were meeting up with everyone about 9-9:30ish. I was not going to mess this up, I was going to make sure they each has their own birthday card.

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I went to the store to grab a card, lo and behold they had cards for every occasion this summer. In one swoop I had a card for father's day, which is a week later than I thought, giving me plenty of time to get the card in the mail. I grabbed wedding and wedding shower cards, who knew those were two different categories? Graduation cards for my two cousins who enter college in the fall. And then finally the reason for my mission: birthday.

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I don't understand why there can't be one birthday card, congratulation card, and whatever else. It's hard enough to choose one, let alone trying to figure out if you want to give a funny, a serious, a loving, a boring, a blank, a belated, or a million other options.

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I decided on funny.

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Leaving me with 75 different cards to read through. I have an hour until we need to leave, and I still have to shower, because I smell like airplane, and straighten my hair.

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Speed reading to the rescue! Actually, pictures won out. A cupcake and a monkey was selected. Done!

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I was proud of myself. I remembered cards. I was actually going to have a card to pass along to people. So excited.

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Except, we were in the car, on our way and I remembered that I had forgotten the cards. Even when I am on the ball, I forget the cards. Good grief!

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Luckily, we weren't that far and could rectify the situation. Chris turned around, and I ran back to grab the blank cards and their envelopes. Okay, totally under control.

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Umm, no. Not under total control. I still had to figure out what I wanted to write in the card, because as hard as Hallmark tries to make their cards personal, it's never as personal as a nice little hand written note.

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I don't mind writing these little notes, the downside of these notes is my handwriting. My handwriting, while unique, can be difficult to read. I had finished the notes, our names were signed, and I noticed it. My illegible handwriting.

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Whoops!

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Luckily, my friend was able to read it. That's all that matters.

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But, if Hallmark was smart, they would have people sending cards for you, based on your Outlook calender or whatever. And if they were really, really smart the hand written notes would already be in the card.

House Hunting

I think the older you become the more stuff you acquire. And the stuff can no longer fit in toyboxes, or under the bed. Well, I guess a couch could fit under a loft, but after sleeping in one for four years, I like how my feet can touch the ground, without the use of a ladder. But I digress.

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Chris and I moved across the country with only items that could fit in our cars. Then over the last two years, we've acquired bookshelves, skis, dressers, a coffee table, golf clubs, skis, and wedding gifts. YAY!

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The downside to acquiring stuff, is you eventually run out of space. And as well as we designate stuff to the basement aka our cars, a little more room is apreciated. Hence, us looking for houses/condos.

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I envy The Sims' families. All they have to do is stand at the curb, and wait for their perfect hosue to be built. It's the perfect size, has everything they could want in a house. Complete with vaulted ceilings, large living rooms, plenty of storage space and a kitchen that doesn't look like it could fit on a dingy.

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The Sims also don't have to worry about mold in the walls, hardwood floors that need to be redone, if the house is being coinhabitated by animals that should be outside. They don't have to worry about location, taxes, and every other thing on the planet.

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Needless to say, I kind of wish I was a computer character.

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The house hunt involves not only driving all over the Seattle area, but looking at a million living rooms, and a million kitchens, and looking at a million neighborhoods.

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It involves imagining living in this place that has other people's stuff in it, and places that should be torn down, or put on a TLC reality show. We have left places feeling like we need a shower, and wishing the floors were in better condition. We wished there was more space in the living room, and that the kitchens were existant.

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How many places have we looked at? MILLIONS!

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How many more places are we planning on looking at? MILLIONS!

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Yup, really wishing I was in The Sims.

I'm 12?

I've learned when you're in your early and God forbid mid 20s (yes, that's right, I'm nearly in my mid 20s sooooo old!) that there is an interesting balance to the world.

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You are either thought to be an adult, with large amounts of responsibility, like mortgages, car payments, student loans, insurance, and actually having to do stuff, like really clean, because the house elves, aka parents, are no longer in service.

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Then you have the world thinking you are to young to be unaccompanied for any length of time. That you are to young, or don't have enough experience, or just seen as a child, because that's the only thing some adults know you as.

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And then those two worlds collide. The world that expects you to pay your monthly rent on time, is now demanding why you're parents aren't there to watch you.

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Interesting, isn't it? How half the world expects you to be an adult, and the other part, is like: No, you're not old enough yet.

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I was working out the other day, at the apartment complex fitness center. I was walking on the treadmill backwards, trying to loosen muscles, and work on my nonexistent agility. Things were going well, I had control of the remote, and I'm closing in on the end of my workout, so I could go home and take a shower.

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"Where are your parents?" An employee of the apartment complex asked.

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There were two young children in the room playing with medicine balls and other equipment, Yeah, where are your parents? I thought to myself trying to find adults that would take responsibility of children who were messing around some heavy equipment.

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"Excuse me, I asked you where are your parents?!" The lady demanded. That's when I noticed she was looking at me.

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Umm, what? Okay, I know that I act more like a five-year-old, than a 24-year-old majority of the time, but seriously? I at least look the part of an adult! (76 percent of the time)

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This is beyond weird for many reasons. One, this lady sees me quite often in the main office picking up packages. Two, I do not look like I am 12.

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"Umm" I stammer, trying to figure out if she is for real. The lady was certainly for real. She stared at me, in a pose that can only be described as Vegas Bouncer.

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"I'm twenty-four," I told her. "I live in T207 with my husband." (Please send cookies) I wanted to tell her my parents are traveling the world on a yacht, met some fantastic pirates and left me to live in the fitness center. Or you know, that they live several thousand miles away, and would probably tell her "good luck!"

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"You know I can easily check to see if that's true or not!" She threatened.

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I kind of wonder if she could check to see if the pirate story was true.

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Obviously this woman is an idiot, and I know she can't remember what apartment I'm in for longer than five seconds, based on how many times she's asked me where I live when she's grabbing packages for us. Four times for one package. The very large box was right in front, but I digress.

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"I want you using this equipment properly!" She said, sounding a lot like my third grade teacher.

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Again, you're yelling at an adult, who knows what she's doing, and completely ignoring the small children? Who, by this point have managed to take all the dumbbells off the rack, lay them all over the floor, and are now trying to stand on them, while the other is pushing to roll his friend around the room. Things that make you say: "huh?"

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Yes, it's a complicated world out there. A world where helmets seem to be neccesary in the fitness center, and 24 is the new 12.

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I do like how she thought I looked young enough to be 12. In the words of Monty Python, "always look on the bright side of life!"

Day of a Writer

The impression of Mo is she either sits around the house all day doing nothing. Or she's a housewife. I've already addressed the housewife myth, now I'm tackling the "doing nothing" part.

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I understand how the perception of me being a lazy bum came to be. I'm pretty sure I've been leading that charge with comments like 'I'm a ski/beach bum," depending on the season. Or when people ask what's new I shrug and say not a lot, or nothing.

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In truth there is stuff going on, and new things are happening. I swear I do not spend my entire life or my entire day at the beach, pool, or skiing. As much as I would love to do that.

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So you're probably trying to figure out how I do spend my day. So here is a general time line, times vary based on when I wake up.

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10 a.m. (granted I didn't sleep until noon) to about 1 p.m. I write my brains out. I work on short stories, novels, freelance magazine articles, or free writing. Free writing is just taking a pen and writing whatever. Sometimes it is a list, sometimes a random conversation I insert in something later. Or it's whatever, and I never use it. Or I use this time to update this lovely, lovely blog.

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1 p.m. to about 3 p.m. RESEARCH! What happens with steroid use? What does an overdose of heroin and cocaine look like? What is the underground world of surfing like? This will most likely involve me either becoming an amazing surfer or kidnapping one. If I'm at the beach or pool, I make notes of what I need to research later, and will take care of it after Chris has gone to bed.

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I'll also take this time and READ! I'll go to the library and just read. I read everything twice. The first time for the story, the second time on how the author advances the story in first and third person. I think I do more reading than research, mostly because I try to write about what I know, as opposed to making life more complicated.

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3 p.m. to 6 p.m. Edit what I wrote earlier, and keep writing. I refuse to delete anything until the piece is done. I take the editing time to move stuff around, add details or context. Fight with commas (it's a battle I've been fighting since first grade. I still feel like I'm losing). Again, if I'm someplace without my laptop, I'll use a different colored pen to circle and move what I wrote. Sometimes my notebook looks like the Huns are fighting the Greeks.

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I'll also just keep reading. If it wasn't that productive of a writing day, like the clock hit 10:30 and all I want to do is destroy my notebook or computer, I don't try to push it. It's not fun trying to write like that, and it's not good writing.

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Whenever Chris gets home from work until he goes to bed, I don't write. I'll read, or do whatever but I try really hard not to write. One, it's nice to talk to him. Two, it's nearly impossible to get voices on the page or let my characters come to life when other stuff is going on. Three, it's not fair to him to come home and see me with a sign on my back saying "Do not disturb, I'm writing." And finally, he shouldn't have to share me with fictional people. It's not fair to him. On occasion I will jot down notes, quotes, or whatever, but I try really really hard not to.

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So yeah, that's my exciting day of allegedly doing nothing.

Fire!

Dear Sir/madam, I am writing to inform you of a fire. (Context can be found here: IT Crowd Season 1, Episode 2)

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You will not find me reading cook books, or experimenting with recipes, or watching the food network, or spending my weekends making cakes. To my credit I do know where the fire extinguisher is, and I've never had to use it. Shocking, really.

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The stove, the oven mitt, the box, and the grill, the grill shouldn't count since you have to set it on fire to cook. So we'll just say, expect the flames to grow a bit when you open the lid. Also, when you smell gas, you'll get a slightly larger flame. I chalk this one up to a learning experience.

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I could probably chalk all the fires to learning experiences, but I knew better with two of them. I had a friend over to watch the Red Wings, and decided Coney Dogs were in order. Smoke began to come out from the bottom of the pan. Where there is smoke, there is fire. I removed the pan, causing a quick pop sound, and a small birthday candle sized flame.

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My friend and I stared at it for a moment.

"Should I get a lid? or...." I ask.

My friend just blew it out. The source of fire? Food from a previous meal had fallen below the electric burner.

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You're probably wondering how I managed to set an oven mitt on fire. They are designed to handle high heats, and disasters in the oven. Surprisingly, it wasn't the oven that started the fire of the mitt it belongs to. I get along well with the oven, we're great friends. It's the stove that has attitude.

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For the record, the oven mitt is fine. It's probably stronger after the ordeal, just don't try to hang it up on a hook in the kitchen, for that loop has been melted. A touch of water put out the fire, if you could call it that. The flame made birthday candles seem intimidating. When using the stove it is important to make sure everything is at least 10 feet away from the burner.

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Is there a list of cardboard box abusers? If there is I should probably register. Although, I have found a different element to destroy the boxes. I may not be a pro at cooking, but I am a pro at opening a box and adding water. Luckily, I did add water after I managed to knock over the box (no, I was not adhearing to my 10 foot rule) and it landed on the burner. There was a lot of smoke, charring, and there was a flame, but it was so small Smokey the Bear wouldn't have cared. Sorry, he probably would have. He's a bit strict about fire, no matter how small.

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The cooking skills are improving, and while some serious chefs may stress out about the quality of meals, I'm okay with my plan B of ordering pizza.

Subtle Subjet Change

In a family where the only safe subject is weather, the weather is rarely discussed. Everything from politics, religion, politics, healthcare, the Navy, politics and the Navy are discussed.

I have great respect for the military, and no, the military itself is not a controversial subject. The 1948 version of the Navy is on repeat, and most people in the family are getting tired of hearing about it.

So when a controversial subject is raised which is quite often, you can do one of two things.

1) Leave the room

2) Change the subject

I tried option one, but the conversation rolls and I was quickly someplace I didn't want to be, when I returned.

So, what does an adult do when she doesn't like the conversation? Change the subject of course!

The weather is always a safe subject. I tried commenting on the weather. "Wow, it's a nice night out!" I exclaimed as we were sitting outside.

"What?" Someons paused the conversation long enough to ask, before going back to the conversation I was trying to steer us away from.

"Look at those clouds!" I yelled over the others. This time, the crazy person went ignored.

"I have five toes!" I yelled, looking at my bare foot. That, stopped everything. Apparently, a crazy declaration you would expect from a three-year-old, is enough to change the subject to something less controversial.

I know this method will probably not be an approved Emily Post method. In fact, I know this will not work at any dinner party. Standing in my chair and declaring "I hate kiwi!" Will probably have me in the mental ward faster than you can say: Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.

While declaring how many toes I have, or the foods I prefer is not the most adult thing I could do, it is effective. Darn you adulthood, for making me trade in my effective subject changer for something that does not work. No one likes talking about the weather.