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Some days it feels like I’m getting “pitched” by PR people in droves. Five emails in a day, all addressed to…

“Ms. Stephanie Wetzel, Blogger, The Red Clay Diaries.”

My favorites say something in their opening paragraph to “personalize” the pitch. Of course, it’s hard to feel like they know me when their opening is, “I’ve read your blog, and I appreciate the quality information you share.” Um, you’ve read my blog? Which “quality information” do you appreciate most? The bra-gasmask article? My voodoo dog? Or my fixation with poo?

Anyway, today I received what I consider a TRUE quality pitch, from Stacey Clark at Just Drive Media. She said my puppy rules had made her laugh.

(Always a good idea: tell the humorist that you find her humorous. We don’t even care if you humor us.)

(SNORT. Language puns crack me up.)

Another point in Stacey’s favor: Her pitch actually applied to my life, with info about Open Table, the online restaurant reservation site.

(I can’t tell you how many emails I get from people wanting to tell me about maternity products and BP-free baby bottles. Really? My youngest is almost EIGHT.)

So, even thought I really wasn’t gonna post today, Stacey’s email did impress me. And then she actually CALLED me on my cell phone.

(I need to ask how she found my number…)

(Cuz either she’s an excellent PR person — or a stalker.)

Have you heard about all those group buying sites that have sprung up lately around the US? Groupon, Living Social, Scout Mob, etc? They all offer regular deals from businesses in certain cities, usually for significant discounts. Since all three are in Atlanta, I signed up for their alerts. Heck, Scout Mob actually has an iPhone app that you can use ON SITE at the store/restaurant offering a deal.

I don’t often write about topics that only apply to my city, but I think Atlantans need to know about Open Table’s new discount program because it’s pretty cool.

(Also? If Stacey’s stalking me, I don’t want to make her mad. She might boil the puppy.)

HERE’S THE DEAL:

Open Table has a new group buying discount program called Spotlight, and it’s expanding into Atlanta. The program went live in New York and Boston earlier this month, allowing people to purchase weekly deals (typically) for $50 of food and beverages at select restaurants for just $25 — a 50 percent discount. OpenTable Spotlight has been so popular in Boston and New York that all deals (for upscale restaurants like Ginger Park and Metrazur) have sold out – with several exceeding 1,000 buyers.

Here’s how it works: Each week’s restaurant starts out as a secret, with hints posted on the company blog. You can post guesses about the secret before it’s revealed, then buy into the deal and encourage friends to do the same. When the maximum number of spots has been filled, buyers will be alerted via email and receive a coupon to bring to the restaurant. Clues about this week’s Atlanta deal have already been posted, and the secret will be revealed by 8 p.m. ET tonight (Tuesday).

Do you live in Atlanta? Or Boston or New York? Do you like to eat? And save money? Then Spotlight is worth checking out.

And check out the other sites I linked to above. They’re in a lot more cities and offer amazing deals on more than just restaurants (retailers, spas, salons, etc).

I hope you save loads of money!

Hello from La Petit Puppe’, the daycare for the discerning puppy owner!

As you may remember, we have a new puppy. After three weeks in her new home, Tess has done her best to leave her mark on everything inside.

Wow. I haven’t had a puppy since Callie was little in 1996. Over the years, I’d forgotten WHY we always called Callie “Monster Dog.”

Tess has brought it ALL back.

So over the past 20 days, as a public service to anyone who has forgotten what it’s like to have a puppy, I’ve compiled a few guidelines.

I hope you find them useful.

***

Puppy Rules

1. If it fits in my mouth, it must be eaten.
2. If it does not fit in my mouth, it must be gnawed.
3. If it moves, it must be chased.
4. If it moves and fits in my mouth, it must be chased, played with until it stops moving, and eaten.
5. If it makes noise, it must be chewed on until it stops making noise. Then eaten.
6. If it’s got one loose fiber, it must be completely unraveled. Then eaten.
7. If it is in a flowerpot, it must be eaten.
8. If I’m not allowed in/on it, it must be gotten in/on. And, if at all possible, eaten.
9. If it’s where Mommy can’t get to me, it must be entered.
10. If Mommy wants me in/on it, it must be fled.
11. If it’s been peed on before, it must be peed on again.
12. If it’s clean, it must be jumped on.
13. If it’s another dog’s, it must be stolen from that dog.
14. If it’s wet, it must be walked through.
15. If it’s dew-soaked grass that Mommy is begging me to walk thru to go potty, it must not be touched under any circumstances.
16. If it smells like chemicals, it must be sniffed until I sneeze. Then sniffed again. And possibly licked.
17. If it approaches the house/car, it must be barked at.
18. If it has to do with Dad, it must be groveled at and peed on.
19. If it’s in the trash, it must be removed and shredded. Then eaten.
20. If it will make me throw up, it must be eaten.
21. If it has ALREADY been thrown up, it must be eaten.
22. If it smells like another animal, it must be eaten.
23. If it actually CAME OUT of another animal, it must be eaten.
24. If it actually IS another animal, it must be eaten.
25. If it’s a sleeping dog, it must not be allowed to lie.
26. If it’s an old dog, it must be vigorously taught new tricks.

© Stephanie Wetzel

Yep, that slack-jawed yokel is my Beloved Husband, in character as an extra for a short film, The Candy Shop.

What? You didn’t know he was an actor?

Well, he’s not really. I mean, he had dreams of being one. He even did some community theatre before we met. But he’s never seriously pursued it.

And in spite of this photo, taken today in downtown Atlanta, he hasn’t suddenly changed careers to act in movies.

Some of you might know what Charlie does for a living, but for those who don’t, here’s how he keeps me in Lindt Truffles and shoes:

He’s a writer.

Yep. A work-at-home-in-shorts-if-you-want-to writer.

Not just that — he actually earns a living as a writer.

I KNOW. I caught me a rare one, I did.

Charlie’s been writing and earning a living at it for 16 years. Before that, he was a community college dean who (oh the irony!) hated to write and took years to complete his Master’s dissertation.

Through a set of circumstances that I’ll have to share another time, he was clearly led to take a new job in 1994: Writer for John C. Maxwell, leadership expert.

And that’s been my husband’s day job for almost two decades: partnering with Maxwell, translating John’s work into literary form.

So why is Charlie on a movie set this weekend, when he has no plans to become an actor? And already has a good job with a great employer?

Because this movie is special.

Why is it special?

Because Charlie Wetzel wrote it.

Oh yeah. I said it.

My husband wrote a screenplay that is being made into a movie.

Through another strange set of circumstances, over the past couple of years Charlie has found himself partnering with the people at Whitestone Motion Pictures. It’s a small boutique film company based just outside of Atlanta that, in owner Brandon McCormick’s own words, makes fairy tales.

Here’s how Brandon describes what they do.

And here’s my take: Whitestone creates fantasy like Tolkien and Lewis did. Good vs evil, heroes vs villains. From a Christian worldview, but not overtly Christian.

Charlie’s worked with them on three short films so far. He’s even credited as a screenwriter on IMDB!

What a gift. What a blessing. I’m incredibly proud of Charlie and what he’s accomplished.

Now, as for the movie currently being filmed? I think it deserves its own post.

I’ll just say for now that it’s on a weighty topic. And they’re striking a delicate balance between emotional intensity and sensitivity to the people impacted by the topic.

And I’m sorry about the gushing, but I’m super proud of Charlie.

If you’re interested, here’s the most recent completed Whitestone movie that he contributed to:

It’s 22 minutes long and in HD, so you might want to wait for it to load. (Or if you’d prefer, you can turn off HiDef by clicking the “HD” at the bottom of the screen.)

Shameless Spousal Plug — OVER.

The other night Charlie and I were watching Design Star on the HGTV. Which we normally view between The Ultimate Fighter and What Not to Wear. Except during football season.

(Our viewing choices, they are schizophrenic.)

At the end of this episode of Design Star, the network aired a commercial for a new show. At this moment, I have NO IDEA what the show was about. But that is because my attention was grabbed – nay, SEIZED – by the appearance of the host.

The guy hosting the show-with-no-name looked super familiar to me. But I couldn’t decide from where.

(My grammar, it is arbitrary.)

So I gazed and gazed at the screen, staring intently whenever he was on. (It probably didn’t help that we had the TV muted, so I couldn’t hear his voice. But c’est la vie.)

This is not the first time I’ve seen/met someone that I knew that I knew from SOMEWHERE.

In fact, the biggest gift Facebook has given me (besides “Farmville,” DUH) is the info tab. By reading the info on any Facebook friend’s page, I can actually figure out where I know them from. (eg: old church, high school, college, current church, online only, my childhood, kids’ gymnastics, Abby’s Pre-K, etc.)

Having said that, I have to admit that at my current age, my lifelong people-association problem has gotten much. Much. Worse.

So where was I? Oh yes, familiar TV guy.

First, I thought he had to be from some past show, like a reality show. Maybe a previous season of Design Star? I distinctly remembered him addressing an audience. But no, not a décor show. Maybe Survivor?

(Side note: Did you know that Colby from Survivor: Outback from many seasons ago now hosts a show on the History Channel? True story. Look up Top Shot. He’s perfect for it. How do I know? Because we watch it whenever Color Splash: Miami! isn’t on.)

But although I racked my brain for every obscure reality show I have EVER watched, this guy just did not fit. I shared my curiosity-bordering-on-obsession with Charlie, who of course had no memory of ever seeing the guy.

What to do, what to do…? With that slight underbite and emo haircut (flat bangs, sticking-up back), his odd appearance had really made an impression on me on whatever show that was….

And then I figured it out. He WAS on a TV show.

It was…

….

…

…

I’m too embarrassed to tell you.

I’ve decided that my knowledge – nay, my awareness – of this show says too much about my personal TV viewing habits, my short attention span, and my parenting skills.

Seriously. I can’t bring myself to tell you.

However, I WILL let you guess.

I’ll even give you hints. Here you go:

1. This young man HAS done some hosting/talking to camera stuff. On more than one show, in fact.
2. The show that I know him from is NOT in the reality genre, however.
3. So he acted, but he PLAYED a host.
4. He has a punny stage name.
5. He actually has a talent and has performed with Jason Mraz.
6. Oh yeah, and the show that I saw advertised in that commercial? Is not on HGTV. I figured I should share this.
7. The show he hosts now is on Food Network.
8. The show that I remember him from is one that I do not ever watch intentionally.
9. It is, in fact, one of my least favorite shows on TV. But it’s SO BAD that it’s like a train wreck. I can’t avoid it.
10. I also can’t avoid it because my kids watch it at a volume that I can hear from every room in the house.
11. Have I mentioned that I hate this show? If you guess the answer, I want to be crystal-clear on this point:  I AM IN THE SAME HOUSE WITH THIS SHOW ONLY UNDER DURESS.
12. In spite of the fact that I HATE THIS SHOW that he was on, I am STILL embarrassed to remember any scene, actor, or character from it AT ALL.

And now, having established my total lack of connection to the show that I remember this guy from, I will even share a photo of him.

If you can name the actor (or his stage name), the show he was on, and the character he played (not necessarily the character’s name; I don’t remember that either), then you will win….

…

…

Oh, let’s not kid ourselves. All you win is the opportunity to mock me, and how low parenthood has brought me culturally. Which, when you think about it, is really a darn good prize.

You want to win a real award? Sorry, you’re SOL (“Superduper” Out of Luck*).

Although I WILL pay a million dollars to the person who can erase that show from my mind. And maybe get it cancelled by the network.

*I define the acronym in code in order to spare my mom’s virgin eyes. If you want to know what S.O.L. REALLY stands for, just email me. I’d be happy to corrupt you.

One day. One whole day’s worth.

That’s how much freedom I got to experience with the start of school. Well, technically, it was a day and a half.

But that doesn’t matter; what’s important is that I’m an idiot.

The details of my descent into dementia aren’t really relevant.

Okay, one detail is totally relevant. And will explain EVERYTHING.

Just LOOK at that. How can you be mad at a puppy? Especially one that cute, even when she steals all your freedom and chews on your coffee table and pees on your favorite couch quilt when the kids put it on the floor for her to cuddle on?

No, the above photo is NOT of Callie, our (late) wonderful first dog. Although I can see why you might think so.

(If I believed in reincarnation … and if this new pup hadn’t been born a month BEFORE Callie died … I might be really suspicious.)

Anyway, say hello to Tess, our new puppy.

On Friday afternoon, after the kids’ second full day of school, I picked everyone up and we drove to get her.

Tess had come over for a “home visit” on Thursday, and it took everything in me not to adopt her on the spot. But the Humane Society had paid for her shots and she had one scheduled for Friday and I had a coffee date that I didn’t think it’d be good to bring an unknown puppy to. So we waited and got her Friday afternoon.

The Chronicles of Tess:
The Towel, the Kids, and the Potty Spot

Friday night/Saturday: Tess was timid and afraid of Bob and Scruff. Bob was curious and confused. Scruff was cranky and growly. Tess was so afraid that anytime we wanted her to go through a door, we had to pick her up. All 27 pounds of her. Otherwise, she’d just sit and stare at us.

Sunday: When we left for church, we locked Tess in her crate. She was there for a couple hours, but she had a Kong toy (big indestructible hard rubber hollow oval) full of peanut butter. I suspect she never noticed that we were gone.

That afternoon, as I sat on the floor with her and Scruff, I let her pester him mercilessly. He growled and bared his teeth and ran away for awhile, then chased her down and put her in her place. I allowed all of this because it made me laugh hysterically. But it actually made Scruff less cranky and skittish around Tess in general. Go figure. Fun (for me and Tess) AND beneficial.

Monday: I delivered the kids to school like I usually do — accompanied by Bob and Scruff. Tess did NOT come along because of the aforementioned peeing that I didn’t want to occur on my lap in the SUV. So she spent the 20 minutes that I was gone crying to Charlie of the disappearance of her new pack. And even after I got home, she spent the day puzzled.

We spent a lot of time outside that day, where she focused on finding her new favorite potty spot. She soon settled on the patch of vinca vines right by my front porch.

And so, just like Callie in her final year, Tess has already filled my life with the aroma of poo. This also means that for her, high vegetation = potty spot.

And for some reason, quilts and towels and throw rugs in the house remind her of high vegetation.

I washed a few loads of unplanned laundry on Monday.

Monday night: Tess discovered that Scruff actually liked to play. After dinner, he walked up, turned around, put his butt in her face, and growled over his shoulder. Then he did that thing that boy dogs do after peeing? You know, where they kind of moonwalk/scratch the ground with their hind legs? Tess cowered at first, but soon she went on the offensive: She stuck her head under Scruff (the only part of her that can actually FIT under Scruff) and gnawed on his legs. So he whirled around and attacked her face. Then she raised one of her mammoth paws, bringing it down on his little paw-size head and flattening him onto the floor. Then they took off running and scratching and skidding and sliding and falling all over the house. (Technically, that was all Tess. Scruff ran a lot less like a toddler and kept his feet under him.) They did this for hours.

Tuesday: I caved in and brought Tess along for the morning dropoff. She hid on the floor of the backseat, under the girls’ backpacks. Until the girls got out of the car and DISAPPEARED. She tried to climb up front. Then I dropped off LC. Suddenly Tess REALLY wanted to ride on my lap. I managed to contain her to the front passenger seat. Mostly. Except for the mammoth front paws that stretched across and smooshed my arm.

Also, since I felt pity for Scruff being displaced by the puppy, I let him ride on my lap for the 3-mile drive home.

(I know, two dogs in the front seat = risky. But I drive on these country roads past loads of people with dogs on their laps. Some even with livestock. Like sheep. Or a rooster on the steering wheel. A country fact of life. It’s like seeing a tractor lumbering down the road. You just slow down and give it a wide berth.)

Anyway, we came home and Tess spent the day chasing Scruff and finding things to chew on that she wasn’t supposed to and taking long naps.

For all my whining, I’m having a blast with the new addition to our family. You just can’t stay mad at a puppy – even after she pees on your bathroom rug – because you’re too busy laughing at her reaction to seeing herself (and another MOM???!!!!) in the full-length mirror.

Any doubts? Look at this:

GAAA. I’m hopeless.

That’s riiiiiight! They’re gooooiiiiiiing BACK!

In the early morning, before even the sun had risen, my alarm rang. After sleeping in all summer, I’d forgotten what it was like to wake up before dawn.

And yet… I BOUNDED out of bed.

I cheerfully awakened my children. I happily fed them breakfast and helped them pack their backpacks. I even selflessly honored Abby’s request for me to curl her hair.

And at 7:45 a.m. today, August 5, 2010, my children leapt out of my SUV and skipped into SCHOOL.

YAYYYYYYYYYYY!

Don’t get me wrong; I deeply love my children. And I enjoy our summers together.

However.

It. Was. Time.

And now, for the rest of today, I intend to do WHATEVER I want WHENEVER I want. That may or may not include some dancing in public places.

PS: Today is also Katdishmas! Otherwise known as the birthday of The Amazing Katdish! Go visit and wish her a good one. No, seriously. Go. You won’t like her when she’s angry.

Today I’m sitting in my bed, but not because I’m sick. Actually I’m hiding. Listening to Snow Patrol and trying to write.

From down the hall and through my locked door, I can hear what I’m hiding from. After exhausting every option for manipulating Mom into entertaining them, my kids have finally decided to go play.

And from what it sounds like, they’re playing racquetball.

In their bedroom.

With a bowling ball.

And quite possibly a small herd of goats.

Conversation with Abby through the door a few minutes ago:

“Mom?”

“Yes…”

“Can I come in?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m working.”

“Oh. Well, Scruff wants to come in.”

“He’ll live.”

(Wow. I totally remind me of the old man in the movie “Up.”)

How do I sum up my summer, which ends this week, when all the while this house is being torn apart brick-by-brick by intensely energetic children?

Oh wait. I think I just did.

No, this has actually been a very nice summer break. Nine weeks flew by, which is the best measure that I’ve found for a successful break from school.

In June, we traveled to Missouri to visit my parents and sister and her husband and kids. They live in Springfield, Missouri (hometown of Brad Pitt!), which is a 12-hour drive away from here. Which we did in one day.

Note to self:

Add to gratitude list the following: Portable DVD players. And kids who are all potty-trained and can read.

And the lovely Springfield is only one hour from Branson, Missouri, the Las Vegas of the Ozarks.

(Catch phrase: “What happens in Branson, stays in Branson. Because nobody is desperate enough for entertainment to listen to you talk about it.”)

Did you know that Yakov Smirnov (“I LOVE thees contree!”) is still performing? That he’s still alive? Well, he IS in Branson. AND HE LOOKS EXACTLY THE SAME.

Along with some musician named Shoji Tabuchi, who, if we rely on his billboards, is actually a wax figure from the 1970s.

And no Branson “Strip” is complete without a Ripley’s Believe It or Not Museum. Oh, and Dolly Parton’s Dixie Stampede.

Which is actually pretty cool, if you like horses and trick riding and a hillbilly version of the feast they serve at Medieval Times. (Moonshine extra.)

We only went into Branson once, for a visit to Silver Dollar City (or, as my dad likes to call it, Steal Your Dollar City).

Silver Dollar City is celebrating their 50^th anniversary, so they offered a free annual pass to anyone born or married in 1960.  So guess which Georgia resident now owns a pass to a Missouri attraction (good until 12/31!!!!). Yep, my old man.

Charlie was happy to accept free admission to the park. And he even wore the silly “I’m celebrating my 50^th with SDC!” button. But mostly because we all hoped it’d get us discounts or at least cuts in line for the attractions. No dice. Instead, he just gave people proof that he WAS as old as he looked.

(I kid, Hubbly. You’re still devastatingly handsome. After all, you’ve kept all your hair. And your girlish figure.)

So… we spent the day riding rides and sweating and squinting. Then we barely escaped to the parking lot at closing time before a HUGE thunderstorm rolled in.

And most exciting: we left with overpriced taffy!

Did you see what I just did there? I told you about my trip to Branson. And if you’ve lasted this long, then you really ARE desperate for entertainment.

I think I’ll stop here and write later about the rest of our visit. Including the Great Height-Measurement Caper and the (entirely-unrelated) introduction of a seven-year-old to roller coasters.

Just makes you want to click that “Subscribe” button, huh?

I live to please.

And now I’d better unlock my bedroom door. It’s gotten ominously quiet out there.

GAAA! I abandoned Charlie to fend for himself with them!

On Twitter last week, my lovely friend Sarah laughed at my use of the word “stabby” to describe my mood at the time.

(Stabby: A word that I can’t take credit for but am totally willing to be considered creative for using.)

Anyway, I was feeling stabby about traffic in the Atlanta metro area, which is worse than usual this summer because my state is currently tearing up our freeway, leading to traffic jams at 10pm on a weeknight 40 miles outside of the city. And turning my drive home from the mall from a 25 minute trip to a 65 minute trip. With two whiny daughters.

Awwww, now I’m all stabby again just thinking about it…

You know what else makes me stabby?

(Admit it; that segue was GENIUS.)

Charmin. Yes, the toilet paper.

First, Mr. Whipple told us to stop squeezing the Charmin. Which communicates… what?

That housewives in the the mid-20th century had no life? That they were so starved for affection from their workaholic husbands who commuted to the suburbs and left them alone every day to watch soaps and eat bonbons that they resorted to embracing rolls of paper? That every grocery clerk was as obsessed with guarding the TP as Mr. Whipple was? (Personally, if I encountered someone like him in my local Publix, I’d probably report him to the manager.)

Then after Mr. Whipple, we were subjected to TV ads with the double-ply and the triple-ply and the blue liquid and the soaking and the absorbing and the — WHAT THE H### DOES BLUE KOOLAID HAVE TO DO WITH TOILET PAPER???!!

(For that matter, why is blue the color of choice for all “liquid” absorbed by hygiene products? But that’s another post for another day: “Tampon ads make me choky.”)

Which brings us to the 21st century, the era of iPhones and Internet and international space stations.

In this advanced society, what images do we rely on to make informed decisions about butt-wiping products?

Well, Charmin believes that we need to see a cartoon baby bear.

Lately, with tiny  bits of paper stuck to his bare butt. Or his bear butt:

In other ads, Bare Bear is using too much toilet paper. Which his Mommy Bear solves by providing thicker, softer, cozier Charmin for his hiney hygiene.

Here are two reasons why I’m feeling stabby about Charmin:

1. They’re solving the wrong problem: shreddy paper.

I don’t know about you, but as a parent, the biggest issue I face with TP is NOT little bits of paper stuck to my kids’ butts.

Is there someone out there who does have this problem? Really, I want to know. Do some of you lose sleep at night over this?

Because I don’t really care. My kids’ posterior regions could be gaily festooned with TP confetti seven days a week… and I wouldn’t want to know.

2. They’re solving the right problem — kids using too much toilet paper — in a totally ludicrous way.

I agree that this IS the real problem.

But let me just say that anyone who thinks giving kids thicker TP will encourage them to use less has never been a parent.

When I purchased –one time– something other than our usual one-ply Scott tissue, do you know what happened?

My children did not notice any improvement in how it felt on their bums.

They did not decrease the number of TP squares twirled off of the roll. No, they used the exact same amount. (which would be 23 per wiping, according to my conservative estimate.)

And they clogged the toilet. Repeatedly.

They also applied about half a roll per potty visit per kid.

So Charmin, if you want me to buy your product, create a magical molecule-thin disappearing TP. You can make it soft and unshreddy if you want. I’ll even tolerate the bare-bottomed bear commercials.

But quit trying to sell me thick TP that comes in 45-square rolls and actually EXPANDS when wet.

Or I swear, I will do more than SQUEEZE the Charmin.

This Ranty Post was brought to you by Katdish, inventor of the katrant. And my hero in all things cranky.

This post is for Bridget Chumbley’s One Word Blog Carnival. Go visit to read more on this week’s word: Ego.

Two of my children are approaching their teen years. They’re tweens, in today’s language. And their tweenitude comes with a healthy dose of insecurity, embarrassment, and self-centeredness. Everyone else is looking at them, making fun of them, and trying to be better than them.

I remembered that phase of my life when looking at Facebook posts about my high school’s 25th reunion this month.

(Shut up. Yes, I’m THAT old.)

I couldn’t make it all the way back to California. But I didn’t need to be there to be affected by it. When I flipped through Facebook photos and my old yearbooks, all the old feelings came flooding back. Shyness. Insecurity. Fear. Intimidation.

That’s adolescence for all of us, right? Right? We were all insecure then, right?

Well, except for those cheerleaders. The ones in eighth grade who scowled when my friend accidentally launched a pushup popsicle across the lunch area toward their table. And my group dissolved in hysterics. Clearly, they really THOUGHT they were better than we were. THEY weren’t insecure. THEY were the enemy, out to get us.

And those volleyball players. And the drama geeks. And the band kids. And the FFA’ers. (I grew up in central California, okay? Future Farmers of America was BIG there.)

THEY weren’t insecure. THEIR egos were inflated. I could totally tell by how I felt when I was around them. CLEARLY they made it their goal to wound MY ego.

Clearly. I didn’t (don’t!) have an ego.

Right?

***

e·go [ee-goh, eg-oh]

egotism; conceit; self-importance: Her ego becomes more unbearable each day.

self-esteem or self-image; feelings: Your criticism wounded his ego.

***

How different are they, really? Does that cheerleader from 8th grade describe ME in the same way?

Something to think about.

HOW long has it been since my last post?

It feels like my summer has been kidnapped. Which is why I found this site so entertaining:

The Ransom Note Generator.

Simply type in the text of your ransom note, and it’s magically converted into your generic everyday disgruntled loner magazine letter script.

Take a look at what I made:

In case you don’t read disgruntled loner:

To Whom It May Concern:

We have your summer. It has not been harmed. Yet. Leave 504 hours in unmarked days at the corner of vacation and basement cleaning & your summer will be returned to you.

Technically, paying 504 hours won’t ransom my summer. It’ll ransom my school year, since we have only three weeks until the first day of school. GAAA.

I can make no promises, but I HOPE to be posting more than once a month by then.