You are NOT a Professional

I can't help but cringe everytime I utter the words "I have a blog". Everytime I happen to mention to someone that I write, and follow up the statement by some how pointing out that my writing is done on a blog, I get this half cocked look from people, dripping with judgemental disdain. Online blogs have done to writers what YouTube has done to musicians: everyone thinks they have an original talent to share with the world. I'm sorry your mother, or dear Aunt Agnes could never bear to tell you that you're tone deaf, but let me make things clear to you Miss YouTube phenom... you suck. You're not talened, and you're not even pretty enough to fake being talented. Please sit down, step away from the front of the camera and point it at something worth watching, like an ant hill. At least the ants are doing something productive with their lives. So, similar to these musicial YouTube geniuses, most bloggers have zero writing ability. There are a plethora of blog sites out there; so much so now it's almost embarassing. Aside from sites dedicated to blogging, all credible online newspapers and magazine have blogs too, for their already paid journalists to write about what they had for lunch today.

(How many times do you think I can say the word blog during this entry?)

I'm definitely not going to sit here and pretend like everyone should be interested in what I have to say. Really, my blog is the Seinfeld of all blogs: it truly is about nothing. I can string some words together eloquently enough that they might make you giggle, but that's really all I have going for me. I'm an active complainer in writing form, just not in that whiney way that makes you want to poke your eyes out and rock in the corner. I add a cheery, positive spin to my words.

I do have a snobbish opinion of the articles I like to read, and I will not be afraid to voice my opinion. There are some rules that should be standard when writing a blog.

1. Please know and understand basic grammar. If you're in your 20s or older with a college degree and still don't know the difference between "to", "too" and "two" or "they're", "their" and "there", you need to stop writing immediately and go try to breathe underwater.

2. Do not write a blog that is just one big negative rant about the world and how horrible it is and that there is a giant black cloud of death over your life. Bad things happen to everyone; suck it up.

3. If your blog starts off with anything like "mm well what should I write today!? I don't know what to say", please warn me in advance so I can take a Prozac.

4. Please keep your eating disorder between you and your therapist. Documenting your daily caloric intake of 500 or less, while posting pictures of your rib cage and screaming that you're fatter than Kirstie Alley isn't what I would call "relevent reading material".

5. Accept the fact that you may not be that talented. It's okay, but maybe writing just isn't your thing. You don't see me running around tattooing people, or fixing cars. Want to know why? It's because I can't, and I accept my level of ability. Stop lying to yourself.

I've seen blogs that are truely original, edgy and make-your-sides-ache hysterical and I realize that I will never write like those people. I'm sure there's a niche for my style somewhere in the world though. What other creative outlet would I have, if not writing in a blog like the rest of the schmoes out here? Until I can actually figure out a way to make a living off of my thoughts and words, I suppose I'm stuck with your judgement.

Contamination

An upper respiratory infection has been trying to ruin my life in every aspect imaginable for almost a week now. It started last Thursday quietly with a scratchy throat and that "sick feeling" in my body when I woke up. I did my best to ignore it, and revel in the gloriousness of having a personal day off of work the next day. Friday morning came, along with body aches, and a burning throat. I forced myself out of bed and into the nail salon. I promised my chipped polish I would bring life back into my toes that day and wasn't about to back out on my word now. As the hours passed by slowly, my energy level seemed to run further and further away from me. Perhaps a good night's rest would be the cure I needed.

I called my mother Saturday morning. She picked up, said hello and when I offered out my most delightful sounding morning greeting, she paused, and said frightfully "Who is this?!"

"It's me Mom... Heather?"

She told me I sounded like a man.

Sunday came, but my voice had already fled the scene. I sounded like Ving Rhames.

I called out of work Monday morning, but I had to send an email to my boss too because I'm pretty sure he would have thought it was a prank call. I had now developed an ear ache, a cough, and the sneezies on top of my burning throat and man voice. I'm usually anti-doctor when it comes to getting sick. What exactly is the doctor going to say that I don't already know? A cold is a cold. I'll waste money on a co-payment and gas to sit there amongst other sickly people just for the doctor to confirm that I have a cold. She'll tell me to drink hot liquids and get rest.

I'm almost convinced this might be the plague though. So I took a trip to Kaiser.

I dragged myself out of bed, took a shower, made half an attempt to look presentable enough for public viewing, packed my bag full of honey-lemon cough drops and headed out to the Urgent Care center for after hour sick people. Turns out that getting sick outside the hours of 9am to 5pm is inconvenient to Kaiser doctors. When I got there, the building seemed awfully dark though. Wouldn't you know that the power had gone out in half the building, including the Urgent Care center? Plus, all of their patient files are only accessible electronically and backed up no where in paper format. The doctors couldn't see anyone until the computers came back up.

Isn't it just poor planning to have zero backup for medical records? One woman asked them for a note to give to her job stating that she was at least there in the building waiting to get treatment, and the staff told her they couldn't provide this to her because all letters are drawn up on the computer. No one could think to hand write something for her? This should have been the opening scene to one of the Terminator movies.

In any case, I sat there and popped cough drops for three hours and waited as I slowly start smelling like a mentholated foot. I was given a 5 day supply of antibiotics to kill the upper respiratory infection and was sent merrily on my way.

I managed to get up for work Tuesday morning, and put on the sorriest excuse of my wrinkled clothes. I still don't understand why everything was wrinkled, it's not like I keep my clothes in a ball on the floor. Everything was neatly hanging up in my closet. I think my clothes knew I didn't feel well, and they just wanted to present me as the sickest and rattiest looking human being possible. My boss got to work about 2 hours after I did, came into my office and went "Ew, you look like hell. Please go home".

Yeah, he said "Ew".

My friend Niles called me a few hours later to make sure I was still alive. When I picked up the phone and greeted him with a friendly "yo", I heard the same pause my mother gave me when I spoke to her on the phone. He said I sounded like James Gandolfini. I guess I can't pull off that sick, sexy, raspy voice thing too well, since everyone keeps reminding me that I sound like an array of different fat men.

My mother brought me Robitussin and tissues at around midnight, since I now developed the uncontrollable urge to sneeze and cough simultaneously. I didn't get much sleep last night; I think there's traces of my lungs still left on the floor.

I hope to return to humanity tomorrow morning.

Thought of the day

I have concluded that Hilary Swank and Jennifer Garner are, in fact, the same exact person.

Can you tell them apart!? Because I sure as eff can't.