I WILL PUT OUT FOR MONEY.

I have never asked you for anything. I have poured time and energy into this blog to entertain you and to give you the feels when I'm feeling feely. Let's be honest, this blog is half "I love my family" and half "I feel like being an asshole today" and maybe half "self-deprecation is funny, right?!" and probably two-thirds "I am whiny and sentimental." Man, math is not my strong point. Thank god I word good. Anyway, all of that has a place, but today I'm taking Filthy Nerdy on a little detour; let's get philanthropic in this bitch!

I'm not going to get all Sarah McLachlan on you. Here's the SparkNotes to the tragedy in my life: Logan Larrabee is 3 years old. He was very recently diagnosed with Neuroblastoma. He's currently undergoing chemo and is looking at a bone marrow transplant. He has three brothers. His parents are friends of mine and really, really good people. I realize that the holidays are coming up and something about a recession and I'm sure you're still pissed about Obamacare but this family could really use some financial support. When I last spoke to Jim, Logan's dad, he told me about this fundraising campaign that a family friend started to help with hospital bills and expenses since both parents are missing work to deal with this awfulness and insurance won't cover everything. Jim said it perfectly: "I hate asking or being pushy, and I guess all of my pride is going to completely disappear, but it ain't about me anymore."     

Guys, seriously. I would really appreciate it if you could CLICK HERE and give whatever you can, if you can. I realize that it may be rude to disappear for months and pop up to ask you for a favor, but that's exactly what's happening. I've been fine, if you're wondering. I've stayed out of jail and mostly out of trouble. I still pay my taxes and drink on Mondays. I went to Dallas, I was a dinosaur princess for Halloween, I fell in love, I went fishing twice. See, I'm fine. I got a really wonderful email from a reader saying nice things about this blog and how I should write more because I'm entertaining. Well, I'm about to make your dreams come true, Ryan, (and the rest of you who might have missed me) but it will come at a price. 

When you donate any amount of US dollars to Love for the Larrabees, I will write for you. I will give you 1,000ish words on your topic of choice, and I promise not to shy away from anything. Want me to write about my most embarrassing moment? Cool, I will, go donate. Want to hear my thoughts on the Cuban Missile Crisis or how much I fucking hate birthday cake? I'll write it. I'll write about whatever. I'll write sappy things or sassy things or silly things. I'll write about you if you want. I'll write you a goddamn sonnet if you help my friends out. If you can't donate, don't worry, I am not going to hunt you down in the night. I will hopefully be too busy writing You-Call-It blogs for all the people who did donate. But you can still help by posting the link around your social media. Facebook it, tweet it, pin it, tumblr it, fuck, put it on your LinkedIn. It really can make a difference. 

Recap:
1. Cancer fucking blows.
2. My friend's kid has cancer.
3. You can help by opening your heart and your wallet and DONATING HERE.
4. When you donate I will post a blog on a topic of your choosing.
5. If you can't donate dollars, please consider sharing the link. The more people who see it, the better.

I realize that this arrangement makes me kind of a whore, and I am surprisingly comfortable with that. I'll throw out of a couple of blogjobs if it helps Logan. I have realized - truthfully and not tragically - that writing is one of the few things I truly have to offer.

Reasons to Donate: 
1. Cancer fucking blows. 
2. You know the family like I do and you want to help. 
3. You don't know them but you know me and want to help. 
4. You don't know me either but you like my blog and want to help. 
5. You are not a heartless asshole. 
6. I will write 1,000 words of whatever you want, however you want it. (Don't think I won't write about public pooping in the style of Ernest Hemingway.) 
7. Please?

I really do appreciate any support you guys can give, and any contribution really will help the Larrabees out tremendously. 

If you are interested in learning more about Logan's story and the Larrabee's journey through childhood cancer, you can like the Prayers for Logan page on Facebook. 

And really, thank you. 

I'm not selling myself short, I'm just sold out.

If I were to quit my job right now I don't think anyone would miss me, save the girl I eat lunch with and the manager we get lunch for sometimes. This is not a self-deprecating twenty-something moment, just a fact. The twenty-something self-deprecation comes later. While I'm probably the most entertaining receptionist ever, I'm not very important. And one of the managers goes on a weekly tirade about how we're all expendable and she can just get rid of us all whenever she wants, so I'm half expecting to get fired every other day anyway. Which would be okay too. 

I'm not exactly sure how it started, but someone noticed that I have more than four brain cells and the ability to follow directions, so I help a few different departments when I can. It's fun, although I'm not ever exactly sure what I'm doing because I'm not an engineer and words like "splitter add" and "jumper" and "ipid" mean absolutely nothing to me. I don't know what cut sheets are. I don't understand the process of throwing switches. But you know what, I kick fucking ass at data entry.  

I know that these kinds of work orders go on this tab in The Spreadsheet. And if it has that code? It goes over here in The Spreadsheet. I spend a few hours a week updating The Spreadsheet. I respect The Spreadsheet. I fear The Spreadsheet. 

The guy I help with The Spreadsheet is arguably one of the nicest people I've ever met. He has tattoos that I refrain from asking questions about. He is probably a foot and a half taller than me. His shoulders could carry 9 bushels of apples. (I hope 9 bushels is a lot.) I think he's an MMA fighter when he's not at work creating The Spreadsheet. He once showed me pictures of a baby that I assume is his. He sent me a link to a cool Pedro the Lion song recently. And four months ago he told me to stop saying "I'm dumb" when I make a mistake. 

He told me not to sell myself short. 

Now about The Spreadsheet; the information that I put into The Spreadsheet comes from other less revered spreadsheets and a labyrinth-like website that requires ninja access and a Nancy Drew sense of urgency to figure shit out. It gets confusing. 

And today I fucked it up.    

That's not really true. Today I realized that some of the less respected spreadsheets had been sorted a certain way when they arrived in my inbox, and I should unsort them in order to see if there was anything for me hidden in those rows and columns of mysterious technical gibberish. Did I think to do this? No. I was all like "SEEMS LEGIT, NOTHING TO SEE HERE, LET'S CALL IT A DAY!"

Creator of The Spreadsheet was very gracious, saying it wasn't my fault and not to worry about it and he maybe should have unsorted everything before he gave me the inferior spreadsheets. He told me this wasn't business critical and I shouldn't be freaking out. 

Well, I excel at freaking out. And I over-zealously attempted to fix everything. So I went through the last week of emails and looked at everything and caught a few work orders I'd missed and, feeling very smug, I thought "SEEMS LEGIT, LET'S CALL IT A DAY." And off the email went. 

Then I realized I fixed last week's but didn't update today's work orders. 

Perfect. 

And then chaos ensued - a barrage of phone calls and people needing staples and shit out of the supply room, random drama with managers screaming at each other in the hallway behind me, people on break asking me if there were anymore mints for the candy dish - just chaos. 

And I finally emailed the Creator with The Final Updated Spreadsheet. And he, of course, had already fixed it himself. 

I wanted to march back to his desk, through the drafting floor and past the soda machines, silently crying the whole time in that broken but regal way, and collapse at his feet. I would look up, and seeing the Creator would unleash the sobs I had been choking back. I would breathlessly explain that I am exhausted, I am stressed about school and both of my jobs and home and my family and I'm not really this stupid, I just haven't slept in days and I drink until I pass out just so my mind will shut down for a few hours. He would hand me a tissue with his massive arm and I would finally ask about his sleeve of tattoos. 

But that's not the way it works, because I'm at work, and I'm supposed to be all grown up. Or at least not crying in people's laps. And as much as I'd love to fling myself on someone's desk (or up on a cross, apparently) and beg for mercy, it's really not that necessary. 

What I actually did was send him a message apologizing for the chaos. He said, once again, that it was fine, that I'm still learning and it's okay, and I shouldn't sell myself short. 

What's that? A minor glitch in a spreadsheet isn't the end of the world? Well for fuck's sake, I wish I would have known that earlier. 

When so many of us define ourselves by what we do and how well we do it, I think it's important not to let little mistakes turn into anxiety-ridden stress-fests like how I did earlier. I should have made the mistake, learned from it, and moved on. Instead I let it snowball and made it so much worse all because I couldn't calm down. 

So I put on my best Tony Robbins face and told myself to put on my big girl panties and deal with it. I reminded myself that I'm a goddamn member of Mensa and that utilizing some of my critical thinking skills wouldn't be such a bad idea. I'm not too smart to make mistakes, but I am too smart to let mistakes get the best of me. 

Determined to take back control and not let this keep me frustrated all day, I grabbed Lunch Girl and headed to Subway to bring back food for us and Mama Bird Manager. 

Where I promptly forgot her chips. And her straw. 

Sonofabitch. 

#3, extra pickle, homophobia on the side.

It has always been my intention not to get political here. And hopefully, this post doesn't come off that way. The only agenda I'm interested in pushing is how awesome I am, and while that sounds horrible, it's at least honest. So please, don't take this as political, read it as personal. Because that's all it ever is with me.

Whenever something really gay happens, my friends look to me for my opinion because I am half gay on my mom's side. My mom is "married" to a woman who also has kids and we call ourselves the Gay-dy Bunch because we are hilarious. I'll insert a few FAQs here because I always get questions:

     1. How long as your mom been gay? Forever. She just took a while to figure it out. She's late for everything, this was no exception. Yes, she married a man (hi, dad) and had some kids and then got a divorce and started dating ladies. I was about 8 when I figured this out.

     2. Do you like your mom's wife? Yes. I love my mother's wife. She came into the picture when I was 18 and out of the house so it's not like she helped raise me. Regardless, she is a swell lady. And for what it's worth, I love her kids too. Remember when I wrote about taking my step-brother to the zoo? That's her youngest son. Any of the problems I've had with her would have happened as a result of her being with my mother and not because of her sexual preference.

     3. Did your mom try to push her gay agenda on you? Yes. As I child I was only allowed to watch Ellen and NEVER Oprah and I wasn't allowed to play with straight kids in the neighborhood. My Barbies had to date other girl Barbies and when I asked to go to church she told me I had to stay home and practice witchcraft with her. I was home schooled to avoid learning about straight conspiracies like the moon landing and global warming. Stupid questions get stupid answers.

If you have questions about what it's like to have a gay mom, you can email me and I will answer you honestly. But back to my original point...

YOU CAN NEVER EAT AT CHICK-FIL-A AGAIN BECAUSE THEIR NUGGETS ARE FILLED WITH HOMOPHOBIC HATRED AND THE SWEET TEA IS BREWED WITH INTOLERANCE.

Haha, just kidding. GUYS, it's a chicken fucking sandwich, and it's delicious. In the midst of the most recent controversy surrounding Christ-Fil-A's President speaking out against gay marriage, I've seen all kinds of "well I'm gonna boycott the shit out of that place" type things on Facebook. And as hilarious as the memes are, I am going to tell you a secret:

Liking a post does not make you an activist. The fact that you watched the Kony video or reblogged a clever quote or pinned some picture of chicks making out doesn't make you a champion for gay rights.

I have a problem with the Chick-Fil-Gay outrage for two reasons. First, the mentality that not contributing (i.e. spending money) with the enemy is helping is false. Dick-Fil-A will make millions regardless, and they will continue to donate to Focus on the Family whether or not they swindle you out of 4 dollars (American) for a chicken sandwich. Second, there is an alarming rate of inconsistency amongst reactionary boycotters. Are you boycotting Salvation Army, Target, Best Buy or Heinz? Do you know why you 'should' be? Are you doing anything else? Protesting unfair laws or campaigning for equality in any other way? Are you writing letters to congressmen or helping to lobby for equal rights? Are you fighting discrimination against the LGBTQWERTY community? No? You just gave up the chicken caesar wrap? Well, don't be surprised when the gays don't rush to give you a rainbow sticker at the next PFLAG meeting. Did you have to google PFLAG? I rest my case.

Go volunteer at an AIDS clinic. March at Pride. Donate to charities that help gay youth. Vote on legislation that matters. Do something that will actually make a difference. The fact that you swore off waffle fries isn't going to help my moms get legally married in the state of Florida.

Related: my brother, step-brother and step-sister all work at a Chick-Fil-A. As teenagers, they are smart enough to realize that they don't need to prescribe to their company's beliefs. Making milkshakes and stocking straws doesn't mean they are standing in their mothers' way to equality. And our moms are just happy they have jobs.

Unrelated: my step-brother and step-sister are Jewish, but they thank Chick-Fil-A for the Sundays off.

NaNoWriMo - See you in December

Sometimes I get myself into messes that even I can't explain. November will be one of them. 

I signed up for NaNoWriMo, a contest that urges both amateur and professional writers alike to bang out a first draft (at least 50,000 words) of a fiction novel. That's 1,667 words a day. That means I have to write. On. The. Daily. 

It also means I have to write fiction, which I admittedly suck at. I can write ad nauseam about eating mint chocolate chip ice cream for the first time. I once wrote 19 pages on the non-existence of aquifers, peer pressure and grape soda. 2,500 words on green markers? Done. But fiction? I have to just make shit up? Oh hell. It comes out clunky and contrived. And it does not please me. 

But luckily that's kind of the point of NaNoWriMo. It's all about quantity over quality; this exercise forces you to write now and ask questions later. I won't be able to spend hours agonizing over plot threads and character revelations like usual. I'll just have to go with it, no matter how bad it is. 

There is no "prize" for completing your 50,000 word draft, just mad bragging rights, which I plan to exploit for years. And realistically, I will have a rough draft that I can laboriously tinker with, should I try to get it published in part or in whole later.  

My friend Mike (this is his blog) is doing this as well. As you can see from his post (read it after mine, you A.D.D. sons of bitches) he's all about the community that NaNoWriMo offers, he wants to go meet the other people in Tampa who are subjecting themselves to this, and I bet he'll be all over the forums asking for and offering advice. I think he compares NaNoWriMo to boot camp- bonding through a stressful environment- which I think is stupid. This can be done solely online, there is no physical labor, no abuse, no eating and showering and bunking together, no isolation from friends, family, pop culture, etc. 

Now that I've called his point stupid, something I strive to do on the daily, I will say I understand it. It will be stressful, especially for us perfectionist types. But I'm not interested in meeting new people and building creative relationships. I want to sit in my room, writing, ignoring my phone and friends and family. I want to lose track of days, I want insomnia to consume me. I want to forget what the outside world looks like. I want to emerge on November 30th, pale and confused and wild-eyed. I want to mutter "it is finished" before collapsing. 

That's if I don't give up on November 10th.  

Here's the Super Official website for NaNoWriMo.

See you in December.

By the way, because I am sometimes a spoiled princess, Fiancé bought and built me this desk and chair from IKEA. Because I totally "needed" it for NaNoWriMo. I am in love with it.

And he says if I don't finish 50,000 words by November 30th, he will take the desk and awesome chair away from me. I swear, there is no justice in the world.  

Moving, Orange Juice and Shame.

I think moving is the worst thing in the world. Moving, and the associated packing of things, make me a neurotic mess. I would rather have a root canal than move. I've never had a root canal; I hear they're painful but I understand they come with drugs. Not that bad of a deal if you ask me. I would rather have a pap smear than move. I have had a pap smear, and they are outrageously uncomfortable, but I'll take half an hour of awkward over three days of stress and panic.

"Nothing? Nothing?! Tra la la?" (Bonus nerd points if you can name the movie)

If you know me or follow this blog, you know I lost my job. If not, let me explain: I lost my job. Well, the company went bankrupt and I was left out in the fucking cold, but that's neither here nor there. Well, if you're interested, it's all documented here. Anyway... 

I spend a lot of my time doing very unproductive things that still interest me even though I know it's a rabbit hole of procrastination and idle despair. Play ball in the house for an hour? Done. Fix all the uncatalogued songs in iTunes? Done. Name each one of my toes? Did it twice. Update my resume? Go fuck yourself.