The Venting Board (Tara Taylor Quinn)

Do you ever just get in one of *those* moods. You know, there's nothing specific prompting it, though, if asked, you could list a hundred things that piss you off. Because when you're in *that* mood pretty much everything pisses you off. You aren't mad at anybody, but you can think of reasons why you could be. And you do think about them.

Did you ever wish there was a place you could go to just vent? To actually say whatever it is that is running through your head during *the* mood?

You don't? Okay, now that *that's* done. Today's blog is about sunshine and blue skies and darling babies and cute puppies. Rose gardens and orange blossoms.

Blech.

You might not need a venting board, but I do. And I'm a great manifester. Wala! Here it is. A venting board. Thank goodness.

The bathroom tile is half laid. It's going to be perfect. I love the promise it shows and can't wait to get grouting in and rugs down. But in the meantime, it's squares of ceramic vastness with these pokey white spacer things all over it - leaving room for the grout while the glue dries - making it difficult to walk in the bathroom without pain. And every time I have to use the room has become a tense experience as I don't want to inadvertantly slip a carefully laid tile out of place. And to make matters worse, Jerry, my rescue demon who isn't well trained because I can't bear the look in his eyes when I yell at him (the same look that called out to me when I saw him in such bad shape at the place where we got him) has developed an immediate fondness for said white spacey things. Any chance he gets he darts into the bathroom and steals another one. Mostly he eats them, but leaves little white plastic residuals on the carpet. I have developed into a residual white plastic piece picker upper. Just what I always wanted to be when I grew up.

And furthermore, tile cutters don't cut tile. What a fricken' disappointment that whole thing was. They say tile cutter right on the box. They lied. Tile cutters SCORE tile. And then you have to break them along the score and sometimes they break well and sometimes they don't play well with others at all. Sometimes they chip or break outside the line. Maybe we should all sue.

And Taylor, she's here, being her loving, sweet, supportive, demanding self. For two days she refuses to take a breath unless it's on me. She's developed this need to lay her head on my arm as I type. Ever try typing with a poodle head hanging over your wrist? It's challenging. I move. She moves. I slip my arm out from under her neck, she puts it back. What's up with that? It sure as heck can't be comfortable.

And I can't not type. The current book is past due. Really past due as I had to put it aside to finish another one. It's got to be done within the next week or two. Which means typing. Alot. Every Day. Taylor doesn't seem to get that. And neither do these darn people who are with me in our own little world who are supposed to be my current best friends. These friends, otherwise known as Marybeth and Craig and James, are supposed to be my heroine and hero. I've got this schizophrenic hero. Sort of. He plays two parts in this one. A pen pal, and a visitor at a bed and breakfast. He's both. One and the same. And I have to keep him apart. To make matters worse, yesterday, he told me that the story I'd mostly written didn't make him very heroic. His motivations didn't fly. He insisted I change the ENTIRE thing. Yeah, like it's that easy. Has he ever been a writer? Other than the whole pen pal thing, which, excuse me, I actually wrote those letters!! I mean, has he ever tried to create an entire book? It's not easy. Do people GET that???

Writing books isn't easy. It's not a game or a hobby or a pasttime. You can't get up tired and just sit at your desk and push pencils around paper and call it a day's work. You can't ever go on automatic pilot and just do the work for the pay. No way. Writing is HARD. I dare any one of you naysayers who know who you are to shut up and try it. And then try to actually get paid for it. Yeah now there's a concept.

My editor, when I told her about the problem with Craig and James, said she trusts my instincts. Make the changes. GET TO WORK! Can someone please explain this to Taylor???

Did I mention my back hurts? It's been hurting on and off for almost ten days. I'm damned tired of it. It's fine when I sit here with a heating pad on it. But wait until I sit without one. I stiffen up and then if I dare try to actually use the thing, you know, bend over or twist, it shoots bullets from the inside out. What the hell! I've been good to it these many years we've been together. I exercise it. I don't put tons of extra weight on it. I allow it to lie on an expensive mattress every night. I clothe it and bathe it and lay it in the sun. I've taken it for massages, and then provided it with a live in massuese. I even take it on vacation with me and let it play at the slots machine. It turns its back on all of that and shoots me. What's up with that?

And don't even get me started on the posts and phone calls and e-mails and texts that I send that are unanswered. Yeah, you who are The Unanswerers, you know who you are. You're so lucky, the recipients of my undivided attention, of my time and completely valuable love, of my fabulous writing talent and you deign to ignore all that? Who the hell do you think you are???? I'm a person here, just like you, as worthy as you. (Whew, wiping the sweat from my brow. That felt great!)

Then lets talk about the IRS. No. I guess not. They were good to me and I'm on a rant. I'm sitting at a venting board. Letting it all out. Spitting nails. But...thank you, IRS for being kind and at least leaving me this board.

If I hear one more word about McCain or Obama or Clinton, I'm going to scream. It's politics, folks. They all say what they have to say to get elected and they change what they say if they think what they have to say to get elected changes. It doesn't mean anything. How many promises do they actually keep once they've met their goal of getting elected?

Come to think of it, I might scream anyway. I did it a few weeks ago. Just let out a horrible sounding scream. For no reason other than that I was being coached to do so. Just to let it out. Get it out. Force it out. It was supposed to make me feel better, but did it? Oh no. Not me. It just left me with a sore throat.

And feeling stupid. And not sure what to do next. I hate that feeling.

Flowers are good and all, but they die. I got some from my publisher to celebrate my RITA final. They were lovely. All different kinds and colors. A true spring collection. They smelled wonderful. And then they just sat here in the middle of my kitchen table and slowly, one by one, wilted and died! Right in front of me! The nerve of them!!! They were a gift! Didn't they get that?

There's this softball coach that is really ticking me off. I get that she has a job to do. Don't we all? And that her job is harder than it looks. And that she's probably doing her best. But her best isn't good enough. There. I said it. People act as though my best isn't good enough often enough so I just said it back. This woman makes mistake after mistake and I really just want to tell her so. My gosh, some of this stuff is so obvious. Mostly, what I can't stand isn't about the coaching, or the game, it's about the cruelty. Kids have to try out for the team. They have to be good enough to make it. Then they pay to play and game after game she makes the same kids sit on the bench. And the ones playing do NOT have a winning season. Now I hand it to these kids. They sit cheerfully, (literally they cheer so loud the sky can hear them) though they know damn well that it's wrong that they're being made to sit there. I can't speak about them too much because this is a venting place and completely improper to speak of admiration and love so back to the coach. I want to spit at her feet. (Can't quite get to the point of getting it on her. Venting board or not.)

I hate dust. It's the unending taunter of 'you'll never win.' You can get rid of it, but does it get the hint? Hell no. It just comes right back. Every single time. No matter what. I threaten. I cajole. I attack. I destroy. And there it is again, lying around on every available surface, laughing at me and this isn't a laughing with you laugh. There's no mistake about that. It's a laughing at you laugh. And does it stick to just one surface? Or a few of them? Nope. It's gotta take up space every single where. Even on the venting board. Reminding me. I'll never win.

I want my old vehicle back. It's a gas hog. Impractical. Too big. Too many miles on it. And I don't give a darn. I want it back. I don't like driving small vehicles. I need a truck. I need to be able to see. To feel big. The car is frumpy and I will not ever, no matter what, settle for being frumpy. Frumpy is fine for those who like it. It wears well on them. It's an admirable, valid, loving choice for some. Not for me. I just don't love the car.

And I want the carpet cleaned.

What's with those people who drive five or worse, ten, miles under the speed limit on a two lane country road laden with hills that make passing a suicide game? I mean, okay, it's fine if they have no place to be, but there are those of us who do have to get somewhere. What right do they have to slow me down? Speed limits are there for a reason. To ensure that I get where I need to be in the time allotted. So speed up, folks! I'm not asking you to break the law - just get up to speed. Or...because this is a venting board, I'll just say it. Get out of my way!

Speaking of laws, what's with these people who can't follow them??? They're written clearly, in black and white, in plain and not so plain English so you can take your pick, and some people just refuse to get it. They think they're above the law? That because they don't like them or don't agree with them or don't think they're fair that they don't have to follow them? I say, read the words!!! They're right there. And follow them. It's the law.

I have to go write about love and romance now. Regretfully I must leave my venting board to you all. I hope it helps you as much as it helped me. Really.