SPOOKS 'N' STUFF

So, Happy Halloween Wednesday and all that, but I won't spend too much time on that because it's pretty much over. Tomorrow, however, is the first day of November and that means the start of NaNoWriMo! That also means the start of No-Shave November and the more gender-specific Movember. Any one of these is a harrowing experience, but for those who attempt all three, I applaud you. And good luck at Thanksgiving dinner with your concerned family.

Every week this month, I will post a different writing tip to inspire and aid those of you who will also be staggering haphazardly through the next month, but these helpful ideas aren't just for writers. They're also tips for life. Like, brush your hair from the bottom up to get a sexy, tousled look. Everybody can use that tip, but it applies specifically to writers because their success depends on cultivating a worn, disheveled image - as if the world is their bed. 

Confession: I got that hair tip from Bob Dylan, who read it in Cosmo.

Some Useful Tips to Help You Survive This Harrowing Month* begins tomorrow. 

* Working title.

Images via Kooky Kuckoo, Nine Pound Hammer.

The Rain Rain Rain Came Down Down Down

THE STORM IS GETTING WILDER, SO I'M AFRAID I'LL HAVE TO SHOUT SO YOU CAN HEAR ME. EVERYTHING IS OKAY HERE SO FAR - I HAVE OFF WORK TODAY, SO ALL I HAVE TO DO IS SIT AROUND WRITING AND BAKING AND FLIPPING LIGHT SWITCHES ON AND OFF BEFORE THE POWER HAS A CHANCE TO CUT OUT. WHILE OUTSIDE THE RAIN STREAMS DOWN AND THE WIND GOES GALUMPHING PAST.

MAYBE IT'S THE STORM, OR IT COULD BE THE CABIN FEVER, BUT SOMETHING STRANGE IS HAPPENING AS I WRITE TODAY. THIS TUMULTUOUS WEATHER SEEMS TO BE EKING INTO MY BRAIN, MAKING EVERYTHING I WRITE ALL VIOLENT AND CHAOTIC. FRANKENSTORM ISN'T JUST WREAKING HAVOC WITH OUR CITIES AND POWER; IT'S AFFECTING OUR VERY MINDS, UNLEASHING ALL THE HORRIFIC IDEAS AND CHILLING THOUGHTS WE USUALLY MANAGE TO KEEP STIFLED AND HIDDEN AWAY.

FOR INSTANCE, IN THE STORY I'M WRITING NOW, AN ELDERLY LADY JUST KILLED A MAN. THAT'S BAD ENOUGH, BUT IT WAS AT LEAST PART OF THE PLOT. I WAS IN CONTROL OF THE SITUATION. TODAY, HOWEVER, THE OLD WOMAN WENT ON A MAD SPREE, SPENDING A PAGE AND A HALF SPEWING SOME VERY INVENTIVE CURSE WORDS AT THE CORPSE WHILE LAPPING BLOOD OFF THE MURDER WEAPON. AFTER THAT, SHE WENT INTO A SPRIGHTLY RENDITION OF "PAPA DON'T PREACH" AS SHE SWERVED HER WHEELCHAIR DOWN THE HALL.

AND YOU SHOULD SEE WHAT I LOOK LIKE TODAY.

Images from Winnie the Pooh, via Vivalicious; Arrested Development via Penny Arcade.

There is Salt All Over the Floor.

Lately, things have been going really well for me. Almost too well. So well, in fact, that I've spent the last two weeks hiding out and staying very still. Nothing bad can happen to you if you stay very still.

Unless people mistake you for a chair. And sit on you.

On the other hand, I was probably due a bit of luck after those months of struggling, and the good luck came all at once. First it was the job interview that turned into a second interview. Then at the second interview I accepted and started my new job that same day. That meant money to buy actual furniture for my apartment, and then today I received an email saying I'm going to have a two-sentence story I wrote published on a postcard. I CAN DO NO WRONG.

Still, it just seems good sense to prepare for my luck's inevitable downturn. Not that I'm a pessimist or anything, but I do believe it's prudent to cram all of my ambitious endeavors into the small window of time before karma nudges me off this golden pedestal and sends me tumbling back to my normal, blundering state of mediocrity. So I'm knocking on wood and crossing my fingers and throwing salt over my shoulder, hoping for just a little more time - just one more moment in the sun.

I'll tell you about everything that's been happening as soon as I catch up on sleep. Who knew that normal working hours actually are really early. I tried to convince my boss to hire me for a night shift, but he was all like, Nobody calls to schedule meetings at three in the morning, and I told him people might if they knew he had a law firm open twenty-four hours a day, and that really, this was a niche that needed filling in the community. 

Aside from working, I've also been shopping for my apartment, which is small and a little scary, but cheap and cozy and mine. For me, though, shopping means I spend most of my time on the interwebs, stoically coming to terms with the fact that I will never be able to afford that antique, shabby-chic writing desk or the delicate little silver espresso cups that are ludicrously tiny for how expensive they are. Five dollars per cup would be fine if each cup could hold a piglet.

This particular teacup is half-off, since a pig actually has been living in it.

The rest of the time I spend looking at things like this: 

The matching pin says HUMANS CAN SUCK IT.

Images via Science, Sort Of; Books, Art & Sci Fi; and Etsy.

EMPLOYED

Aw, yeah.

Image via Dr. X.

Interview Schminterview

Yesterday morning I had another interview. I didn't mention it before because I didn't want to jinx it, but it happened. I went in for a marketing position, and I came out with a new friend.

Not really, but that would have been a really cute story.

In keeping with the whole Spooktober thing (I'll think of a better name soon), imagine that the interview took place in this creepy mansion:

But in reality, it was in a low, boxy building: the kind of place with four entrances, but only one way in. Of course, the door I needed only had a tiny parking lot outside, so I had to park in a far-off lot and dash along the rainy street, hoping that no cars drove by and splashed my neatly pressed pantsuit. Because Pennsylvania doesn't believe in sidewalks.

This was also the first place I've been to where I was required to wear one of those clip-on visitor passes with elastic so you can pull out the tag and snap it back derisively. It was very fancy. The receptionist looked just like Amy Poehler, which immediately put me at ease. She asked me to sign in, then left me alone in the waiting area to replay Parks and Rec episodes in my head until a young, friendly-looking lady came to fetch me.

We chatted and joked as she led me through a labyrinth of cubicles, and I was so delighted that this wouldn't be another interview with a middle-aged man I had no chance of connecting with . . . until she introduced me to David and left me there to flounder and die.

David was a thin, eccentric-looking man who kept intense eye contact - the sort of person who would tell you his name seven times in a row and then offer you a cherry soda before shouting, "You've got the job, you precious creature!"

Unfortunately, that didn't happen. Instead, he made a comment about the rain and then immediately started explaining the position in remarkable detail. Without any chance to build up a rapport and make some uncomfortable jokes to relieve my nerves, I fixated on my body: the way my arms were hanging, how tightly my fists were clenched, whether my mouth was doing that twitchy half-smile, how wide my eyes were open, if I really were swaying from side to side in my chair.

I stumbled my way through his questions, as he demanded I prove my competence in Microsoft Office. How can we be sure you know what you're doing in Powerpoint? Your degree is in English and you look like a twelve-year-old!

After fifteen minutes of this, I was introduced to David's boss, a capable-looking woman who quizzed me on Excel charts and looked at me like I had set the feminist movement back sixty years. Little did she know that I had bought my navy pantsuit in the little boys' section of the department store. How's that for equality, Sharon!

Interviews are the worst, but somehow I tend to forget that in the days leading up to them. I'm always really confident on the drive over, listening to Beyonce and telling myself that this time, I will articulate my qualifications and answer their questions with intelligence and poise! This time, I'll charm the pants right off 'em, but only metaphorically because I'm not that kind of girl! This time, they won't have to offer me some water halfway through because I'm so dehydrated from all the nervous sweating!

And every time, I start off strong, but each interview seems to end the same.

"Are you alright?" they ask, leaning forward with a concerned look.

Right in the middle of my story about a time I overcame an obstacle in the workplace. Rude.

"Yes?" I say.

"Oh!" They put a hand to their chests and let out a relieved laugh. "I thought you were having a stroke. Well, thanks for coming in, Cara, we'll let you know in about a week."

So I trudged back to my car and drove home in the rain, almost hitting an Amish man with my car on the way out.

Image via Shadowmill Productions.

Stroke, or a Ghost?

Since October, the spookiest month of the year, is officially upon us, I'm going to spend the weeks leading up to Halloween only posting scary things. Like this spooksy tale, which took place just last night. After reading it, let me know if you think it sounds more like a stroke or a ghost, and whichever one gets more votes is the one I'll go with.

Because I value your opinion.

You delightful thing, you.

Anyway. Last night I was watching Arrested Development while looking at internets, as ya do, when I noticed that somehow, it seemed the lower left corner of my vision had been cut off. When I glanced down at my feet, my left ankle disappeared. I looked in the bathroom mirror, and my left hand was gone. 

Almost as if . . . I were becoming invisible. 

Hipster Ghost has never felt so alive. Ironic!

My vision returned soon enough, bringing with it a pounding headache. To be honest, though, I kind of missed my wonky vision. It was sort of nice, knowing that if I ever wanted to keep a secret from myself but tell everyone else, I could just write it very small in the lower left corner of a letter. I'd never know it was there!

But that was not to be. I'll never be able to keep plans for my own surprise party secret from me.

Dejected, I started getting ready for bed. However, the eye problem was soon replaced by a tingling in my left middle finger. I thought some mouth wash had made its way under my fingernail, but by the time I was under the covers, the numbness had spread to my entire hand and jumped up to the left side of my mouth. Trying to remain calm while sweating an inordinate amount, I grabbed the nearest interwebs and looked up symptoms for a stroke; although I'm pretty sure that I wouldn't have been able to manage a Google search in the middle of an actual stroke. But this was no time for reason.

Symptoms of a Stroke 

(interspersed with my increasingly hysterical train of thought)

1. Sudden tingling or numbness of arm, leg, or face - especially on one side of the body.

Usually both my arms go numb together, like when I sleep with my arms above my head and then wake up with Kermit arms flopping about as I try to shut off my alarm clock. Although thank goodness it's only one side with a stroke, because if I have to go to the hospital, I'm going to need at least one hand to put some pants on first.

2. Sudden trouble seeing in one or both eyes.

That did happen. In one or both of my eyes! God, it's like they know me.

3. Sudden severe headache.

All of these symptoms are sudden. I should have expected a stroke today - why wasn't I more alert?! Always expect a stroke! I could have prepared for this instead of spending all day trying to figure out the actual lyrics to Red Hot Chili Peppers songs!

4. Sudden trouble walking, dizziness, loss of balance or coordination.

Wait, strokes happen to old people. The only person I've even heard of having a stroke at my age is Aubrey Plaza. But, she's okay now, and plus she's famous and really funny . . . so this could be alright - I could write a darkly comedic memoir about my stroke and then everyone will want to be just like me and have strokes! 

5. Trouble forming coherent thoughts.

As I sat up quickly to call The Boy so he could take me to the hospital, I felt something like a cold gust of air as the feeling snapped back into my arm all at once. I wiggled my fingers and looked in the mirror to make sure one side of my face didn't droop when I smiled.

Everything was normal. It was over, as suddenly as it began. As if the numbness had been expelled from my body. Or, you might say . . . exorcised from it. 

WHAT IF that tingling in my fingertips had been nothing more than a bashful ghost trying to hold my hand? And the left side of my mouth went numb at the touch of a little ghost kiss? I don't think it's such a ridiculous idea that a ghost could have a crush on a human. Ghosts are people, too. Or, they were, once.

I'd tell you how I feel about you, but . . . I'm shy.

So now, tell me what you think. Was it a blood clot, or maybe a neurological spasm, or just a little spirit who wanted to be friends?

Not that I'm trying to sway your opinion or anything, but whatever it was did leave this little gem up in Paint for me to find when I woke up. It's a little sloppy, but what can you expect from someone who doesn't have a body?

Carrie + Ghost. Foreverrrr.

Images via [theo]culture, Collider.com.