It's Been Too Long...

I know. I'm sorry.

What?

OHMYGODISAIDIWASSORRY!

Gah, stop yelling at me...

I've been really busy lately. I know in the past I may have used the word "busy" when I actually meant "lazy," but this time when I say "busy" I mean, I've had so little down time that my couch had to schedule an appointment with my ass in order for me to write this. If you don't believe me you can talk to my couch.

Or don't.
Whatever.
I don't care.

But I wanted to let you know that I've been busy because a lot of exciting changes (I've been abducted) and new developments (by alien zombies) have been happening in my life, which I plan to share with you (if they don't eat my brains first) as soon as I have a chance (send help).

So stay tuned for a juicy post coming to your computer soon.

In the meantime, because I know you miss me almost as much as my couch misses me, feel free to check out my Twitter feed and follow me; it's an uncensored version of Quinnterruption and a designated dumping zone for my brain. I post whatever pops into head throughout the day in 140 characters or less, but if you're easily offended by fart jokes, odd topical references and general nonsense you might not be into it, in fact, you might want to stop reading this blog altogether.

I'm Super Busy and Important...

This title is true if it is opposite day, which it is not.

I know that the 25 people following this blog, and the three people who actually read it, have been tossing and turning because I have been seemingly absent from my blog for quite awhile now.

It's been 20 days. That's almost three weeks.

Given these numbers, I understand why you might be mad at me, why you might decide to give up on this blog, and why you might want to send me hate mail (I've never received hate mail before, but it seems like something important people tend to get - so, naturally, I'm expecting some very soon.). But before you start fashioning grammatically incorrect protest signs about Quinnterruption, please know that I have every intention to turn this blog around. No, it will not be a 'glob', but it will be more regular, kind of like a bowel movement, only prettier, and less...er, um...smelly.

This new promise of regularity should be taken as seriously as all of my other promises, which I have upheld completely to not at all. So, if you gave up on me, please, come back. If you feel as though I no longer deserve your loyalty as a reader, then I urge you to reconsider your obviously stupid feeling. You can't quit me. You can try, but you won't be able to because that will just make you a quitter at quitting and nobody likes a quitting quitter.

In an effort to suck empathy from you via distraction, I'm sharing a few of the things that have been occupying my productive time over the last 20 days:

1. By browsing this site, I've become an expert in the field of child psychological by identifying why some people (read: serial killers) grow up to hate their parents:

2. I've been attempting to contact my long-lost group of BFFs after finding this picture of our last reunion:
Needless to say, we had a falling out over what constituted as "liquor." Of course, it might have also had something to do with the fact that I was always drunk - but, hey, hindsight is 20/20, am I right?

3. As usual, I'm always busy learning about how to call on magical unicorn powers:

4. This sentence: "My passion for you grows like mold: unavoidable due to exposure and neglect."

5. I've been rejoicing over the fact that someone has finally sought revenge on Subway's "Five. Five Dollar. Five Dollar Foot Long." campaign from hell. (Whether it was intentional or not hardly matters.)

6. I'm also very busy increasing my hair-esteem on daily basis:

7. I can't stop listening to people sing the dirty words I type. So neato! (Beware: You may lose hours of your life to this website.)

8. Also cutting into my productive time: Regularly giving into my very large Etsy obsession.

9. Okay, I'll admit it - my latest career kick has also contributed to my lack of posts. Here's the deal: I think I should get a second job as an official wedding guest. Oh come on, not an escort - get your mind out of the gutter! - I'm talking about something I could actually make money doing, like, entertainment in the form of unintentional comedic relief. I've attended nearly a dozen weddings this year and managed to embarrass myself in one way or another at all of them. This usually works in the favor of the bride and groom (I'm like the free side-show circus that came with the band). But last weekend a wedding in Santa Fe proved once again that yes, I can injure myself by tripping on flat surfaces and red wine does in fact stain white wedding dresses. But seriously, most of the time, I'm a big hit at weddings - invite me to yours and I promise I won't bring a gift, but I will embarrass myself for the sake of your entertainment.

10. My camera broke and it wasn't my fault. WIN!

11. I had to stop everything I was doing and read this beautiful insomniac rant.

12. If you want to know the real reason why I haven't blogged, see #13.

13. Made you look. See #14.

14. Ugh. I guess you really want to know. Fine. Let's just say someone built a damn in my writing brain and broke my funny bone. I'm still in the ICU, but the doctors have high hopes and expect me to fully recover in no time, which is really good news considering how I've had my head up my ass for three weeks.


There you have it. All 14 excuses, I mean, valid reasons, for my blogony. I should be a politician; or maybe I should just be David Letterman. Anyway, I hope you'll understand, and stay tuned for more Quinnterruptions.

Posting Status: Mostly Deleted

Maybe you've noticed that I haven't posted in the past seven days. Perhaps you've missed me. Or maybe you stopped reading this blog a long time ago and so it makes no difference to you if the posts are regular or not. Either way, I haven't been posting. It's not because I haven't been writing, or because I've been occupied with more important endeavors. It's because I've been really busy making sure that my 'Delete' button gets a good workout (at least one of us is getting exercise). So, yes, basically, I've been writing a lot of crap.

Here are 20 things I either wrote about or thought about writing about in the past week:

1. Deleted.
2. Sleep talking and walking.
3. Deleted.
4. Rules of Leaving: Part Deux.
5. Deleted.
6. Deleted.
7. Deleted.
8. This quote: “When aspiring writers ask for advice I tell them: ‘Exhaust all other possibilities.’ Then if all you can do is write, never give up.” (-Louise Erdrich)
9. Deleted.
10. Deleted.
11. Oma’s Dampferstamm.
12. The Kathy Griffin Ratio: Women & The Funny.
13. Deleted.
14. How to dissect the world one Golden Girls reference at a time.
15. Bathroom Politics.
16. Deleted.
17. Deleted.
18. Skin tags—can’t you just cut them off?
19. Goldfish and tang.
20. Deleted.

Okay, last week sucked. But I have unreasonably high hopes for the next seven days, so try to stay tuned for some worthwhile interruptions.

Sisterly Love

Some of you might remember my sister, Tori (Torruption), from one of my earlier posts. Tori has a lot of opinions, and occasionally, when I have that unsure, yet still mostly excited, feeling about something I’ve written, I will ask her to read it before I post it. Of course, the fact that I continually do this in hopes of getting a positive response, despite how it usually makes me feel, might indicate an unhealthy obsession with harsh criticism and, maybe, insanity. Nevertheless, today I decided to share a post with her in which I wrote about the concept of saving. Below is the conversation that ensued on g-chat after she read it.

Tori: Do me a favor, write about something you absolutely love that doesn't have anything to do with you specifically.
Sent at 9:46 AM on Wednesday

Me: Do me a favor, and don't shoot it down when I do.
Tori: You know it’s naive so leave it alone.
Sent at 9:47 AM on Wednesday

Me: Yes, naive, but not everyone reading it has tunnel vision.
Tori: Of all the things that you would be ok with your writing being described as would you ever let it be naive?
Sent at 9:52 AM on Wednesday

Me: Yeah. I'm not so naive as to think my writing would be anything else at this point.
Sent at 9:53 AM on Wednesday

Tori: Please. Stop. Why does everything have to suck?
Me: Um. Did I say it sucked? I don't think being naive is entirely sucky. I think it's truthful, endearing, and will likely be comical at some point in the future.
Sent at 9:55 AM on Wednesday

Tori: No dude, that's just how you are these days. Stop doing that- it's like you’re on auto-suck where your automatic reaction and reasoning to everything is that you and everything you do just sucks. STOP! IT’S SO OBNOXIOUS! Don't willingly post something that you know makes you seem amateur and ignorant- it's really just that simple. Naive is only endearing when you're 12, not when your 25 talking about finances. Please, please, please for the love of god just write about something you like for once, no more self deprecation for a week alright, Sylvia Plath? Give it a rest. I want to read something that will make me laugh, and not at your expense for once.
Sent at 9:58 AM on Wednesday

Me: Ah, there it is. That wonderfully encouraging and always constructive feedback I've come to know and love.
I hope you never have children because they will die trying to live up to your impossible standards.
Tori: Well I'm glad that you aren't blowing this out of proportion and making it out to be something that it's not.
Me: Right, because that would be unreasonable.
Tori: Bringing up the ruined lives of my hypothetical children is not only relevant but totally constructive- bravo.
I'm trying to be honest with you - open your eyes.
Me: I’m just trying to spread the love.
Tori: Your blog is sinking because of this. Remember the dandelion post? Remember the Bear post? Bring me something original and light hearted- I have at least three more melancholic female literary references I can throw at you if not...
Just kidding- I can't read.

Me: Alright, Tori - back to you being the only audience that matters.
Tori: That was the most hurtful thing you've said to me on g-chat.
Me: Tell me you're kidding.
Tori: The serious joking is what makes it funny, dumbass - try to keep up!
Sent at 10:07 AM on Wednesday

Me: Right, lessons on how to be funny from the biggest bitch I know...where can I sign up?
Tori: You already have – ZING!
Okay, but really, making this about me isn't going to make that post any better so come off it…
Sent at 10:08 AM on Wednesday

Me: I just so happen to disagree with you.
Sent at 10:10 AM on Wednesday

Tori: I think you like fighting with me when you know something you write isn't very good because you know that whatever criticism you have to say about me is true and you just like being right about something.
Sent at 10:12 AM on Wednesday

Me: No, I thought that piece was good. I still think it's good. It might need a different context, and maybe a freshening of the jokes, but it's still good writing and concepting…that is, in my ever-humble opinion. But I appreciate your opinion, and I do plan to write more posts that have less to do with me…just to make you laugh.
Sent at 10:15 AM on Wednesday

Tori: Alright, let me read it again in a little bit.
Me: Yeah, I mean, I think you missed the point of the piece. It wasn't about finances.
Tori: So don’t talk about them.
Me: Um. You're not as smart as you say you are.
Tori: Neither are you- clearly
Me: Yes, clearly.
Sent at 10:21 AM on Wednesday

Tori: I gotta go run an errand. Sometimes I pretend like I'm a really cool investigative news reporter when I throw the bag you gave me over my shoulder.
Me: Okay. Have fun, News Reporter Barbie.

So now that my blog is apparently sinking under the weight of my self-deprecating words, I am going to try some new stuff over the next few weeks. Don’t worry, I’m not going go all perky-positive style on you and talk about smiles, sunshine and sparkles, but maybe I’ll try something like magic tricks—everyone loves a rabbit when it’s pulled out of a hat, right? In any case, I’ve started a list to help guide me.

Thing That Don’t Have To Do With Me [Sucking]:
1. Scrabble
2. Coasters
3. The Today Show
4. Throw Pillows
5. Pleather

And that’s as far as I’ve gotten with the list, but I’m confident (dare I say positive) that there is more to add.

From the Other Side of Brevity

I’ve never been good at being brief. I talk too much, interrupting perhaps for the sake of hearing myself talk; I write too much, smashing words into a sentence the same way I smash potato chips into my mouth, stopping only when I feel full, which is almost never. My writing has a style, a tone, a voice, and an attempted depth, none of which would have developed if it weren’t for a blatant disregard for brevity. I don’t have beef with brevity; in fact, many of the writers I admire are those who are famously skilled in the art of brevity. For instance, when Hemingway was challenged to write a story in under ten words, this is what he came up with: “For sale: baby shoes, never used.” It’s only six words, but it’s a story with a beginning, middle and end. The same professor who told me this Hemingway tale also told me that I would be a much better writer if I cut every other word I wrote. But this professor didn’t understand that my lack of brevity was something I was born with, much like his lisp, which would require many years of therapy for me to correct.

You see, my gene pool is populated with verbose people; I come from a long line of talkers, the kind that start and don’t stop. Take my grandfather, Pop, for instance, who my dad and grandmother lovingly refer to as “ol’ windbags.” Sure, he’s talkative, but it’s more than that because he likes to hear himself talk, but it’s still more than that because he likes to tell animated stories which he draws out with dramatic pauses, characters and voices all because he just likes to entertain. One could age a decade while listening to him tell a story. Although, this is not to say that Pop’s stories aren’t great, sometimes the first few minutes, or hours, seem to drag on, but no one can deny that the man knows how to close—whether it’s a perfectly timed punch-line or a musical number with jazz hands, Pop knows how to end a story with a bang, so much so that you walk away hardly aware of the two hours it took him to tell the story.

While he isn’t quite ready to admit it, my dad has the same windbag gene as Pop. It’s something he’s been growing into for at least the last 25 years. Usually, it comes out when we get into a philosophical, “this is what life is all about” type of conversation, but other windbag triggers I’ve discovered over recent years include, but are not limited to: golf, Jayhawk basketball, his political beliefs, why he disagrees with my political beliefs, the corrupt government, business practices, the corrupt government affecting his business practices, pool maintenance, vacations he took as a child, a few instances in which I performed well at a sporting event, things Tori and I did or said when we were little, and wine* (*easily substituted with anything that he can feign a truly believable expertise in, such as boating or irrigation). Although he is sensitive about his windbagness, he is willing to admit to being a “talker.” But just like Pop, dad knows how to end a story, or an impossibly long joke, in a way that almost makes you want to hear another.

People who know me know that if you don’t keep me on track during a conversation I digress into a story about a story that leads to another story. I learned early on that I have the windbag gene, which is one of my many genetic gifts among bad knees and high blood pressure. While there are many forms of the windbag gene that do not harm one’s ability to be brief, I believe the windbag gene I have has actually mutated with other genetic “issues” (A.D.H.D.), thus making it the strongest brevity-preventing strand yet.

Nevertheless, I have decided to use this blog as my windbag therapy. Here I will practice, and eventually learn, the art of brevity. I will rise above the windbag gene that has been passed down through so many generations in order to perfect a briefer writing style. So, in true Hemingway fashion, here is my six-word story:

Wanted: Brevity, long posts unread.

(Okay, that’s five words…not that I’m trying to one-up Hemingway, I’m just saying…)

The Unnecessary Information Form

Please answer the questions below to the best of your knowledge, filling out each line using legible print and not that bulls%#t chicken-scratch you picked up sometime in college.

The Preliminary Questions:

I. What is your age in years, months and days? ___________

II. What is the number listed on the barcode under your refrigerator?__________

III. What is your full name as written on your Library Card? _____________________________________________________

The Questions That Come After The Preliminary Questions:

1. Please calculate your BMI (Booty Mass Indicator) using this formula: Weight / (Number of Twinkies You Can Eat) x (Number of Seconds Your Thighs and/or Arms Shake After You Stop Moving) =__________

2. Do you have a steady and reliable job? _________

• 2a. If you answered ‘No’ to the above question: Are you as worthless as that might imply?______

• 2b. If you answered ‘Yes’ to the above question, please tear up this form and throw it away, then go look in the mirror and repeat the following mantra to yourself no less than 25 times: “I am special. I am capable. I am [insert your name].” Once complete, please initial here: _______

3. Please select the description that best illustrates your outlook on life:

• a. The glass is half full most of the time.
• b. The glass is half full all of the time.
• c. The glass is half empty.
• d. The glass is bone dry and I am f$%&ing thirsty!
• e. Other (please write): ____________________________________________

5. Please complete the following sentence: “My opinion of miniature elephant figurines changed forever the day I... ___________________________________________.”

6. If you had one wish, what would it be? Please select from the below acceptable answers:

• a. The ability to fly
• b. The ability to be invisible
• c. The ability to read minds
• d. To be rich and famous
• e. Other (please write): ____________(note: the line is short because no one actually cares)

7. Please circle any of the awful things listed below that you or a close relative have experience with:

• Wearing “Muscle Shirts”
• Seasonal Body Odor
  
• Ass-Kissing/Kiss-Assing
• Nepotism in Bowling
• Stealing Bottles of Tabasco Sauce from Chipotle
  

8. How many consecutive cartwheels can you do without falling or injuring yourself? (Be honest, physical tests will be administered at a later date.) ______________

9. Your weekday lunch typically consists of: (please select from the options below)

• a. Peanut Butter & Jelly
• b. Canned Soup and Toast
• c. Raw Pasta & Styrofoam
  
• d. Fast-Food Value Meal
• e. Other (please write): ____________________

10. Please rate the following items as SA (Strongly Agree), A (Agree), DA (Disagree) and OHN (Oh Hell No):

• a. People should be judged based on their Scrabble skills. ______
• b. Little People are funny. What? They are! _________
• c. Living on Unemployment is acceptable as long as you appear productive. ______
• d. Christian Bale’s next role should be to play Rosie O’Donnell in a Lifetime biopic._______
• e. 20 percent of your life is spent filling out forms and that sucks. _______

Thank you for completing this Unnecessary Information Form. We trust that you answered all of the above questions honestly and to the best of your ability. Now you can hurry up and wait for a response, or try to busy yourself with something else in an attempt to forget that you just wasted valuable minutes of your life filling out a completely pointless form that will be used for nothing worthwhile. Please note that any of the information you provided will not be kept confidential, and will likely be mocked by anyone who has the ability to read. If this bothers you, or if you have any other questions, please direct them to the next person that hands you a form to fill out.

List-Making Therapy

I make to-do lists when I get overwhelmed or stressed out. But sometimes instead of a to-do list, I end up making a different kind of list; for instance, the Unemployment Pros and Cons list I referred to in yesterday’s post. Occasionally, the lists I make are humorous and just a way for me to articulate whatever frustration is plaguing me at the moment, such as: Things That Asshats Do to Become Asshats, Reasons My Sister and I Should Never Live Together Again, Why the Olson Twins Suck at Life, and 20 Endearing Ways to Embarrass Yourself (the last one could actually be 50 ways as I’m quite experienced in this realm). Anyway, below is one I wrote today and decided to share.


Things That Will Always Make Me Feel Stupid No Matter How Much Learnin’ I Do:

1. The Stock Market. Numbers, math, numbers, abbreviated words, tiny print, percentages, points, numbers, math, down, up…I’m already tired.

2. Insurance. This is what I know: I have a plastic card that has my name and a code on it and this is what lets me play $30 at the doctor’s instead of $3,000.

3. How to change my oil, or a tire—actually, I’m not even certain that I know how to replenish my washer fluid.

4. How to drive in the snow without causing an accident. Yeah, I have an SUV, but I’m from Virginia, so I don’t get it.

5. Mortgages. When I was little I thought a mortgage was something that had to do with funeral homes and cemeteries – oh, the irony! While I still don’t understand mortgages, I might one day, thanks to HGTV.

6. Taxes. Given one through five, I don’t think I need to elaborate on this one.

7. Plumbing. No, seriously, from the disposal to the washer to the toilet—where is it all going, and why the hell does it make the basement flood?

8. Directions. I am directionally-challenged, so giving me compass instructions is pointless. If people don’t say things like, “hang a Louie and then turn at the sub shop with the space ship sign,” then I’m lost. I never know what direction North, South, East or West is in relation to where I am because I’m too busy concentrating so that my directional dyslexia doesn’t cause me to turn right when you just told me to turn left.

9. How to make a good pot of coffee. I blame a lack of patience for measuring portions.

10. This blog. I don’t really understand it. But if you do, please fill me in.

If Bear Could Talk...

Morning

Bear: So, I've pretty much had to pee for ten hours now.

Me: ‘Ello, puppy! How’s my good little boy?

Bear: Fine. Let me outside before I piss on you.

Me: Want to go outside?

Bear: Yes, I’ve been trying to tell you this by whining incessantly and making as much noise as possible.

Me: Okay, come on, let’s go…

Bear: Finally.

Day

Me: Hi little guy! What are you doing?

Bear: I’m pretending not to hear you.

Me: Come here, Bear…

Bear: No.

Me: Bear. Come.

Bear: Still. No.

Me: Want a treat?

Bear: No! Wait...yes? Depends on the treat...get the treat and then we'll see.

Me: Come here, come get a treat!

Bear: Fine. But I’m getting up because I smell chicken, and not because you wanted me to...just so we are clear.


Evening

Bear: Are we going to go on a walk or what?

Me: Want to go on a walk?

Bear: Yes, but you’re taking forever to get ready.

Me: Okay, hold on while I put on my shoes.

Bear: So…now? How about now? Now can we go? Can we go now?

Me: Just a minute…

Bear: Okay, well I’m going to run around the dining room table over and over again as fast as I can until you’re ready…

Me: No, Bear! Stop!

Bear: Fine. I'm dizzy anyway. But now I’m going to tear apart this paper towel I pulled out of the trash when you weren't looking and leave the shreds all over the kitchen.

Me: What did you do? Bad boy!

Bear: You know, all you had to do was hurry up and take me on the damn walk and this wouldn’t have happened…this is really your fault.

Me: Ugh! Come on, we are going for a walk now before you can make another mess.

Bear: I win!


The Walk

Me: Bear, wait, stop, no, Bear—wait, slow down.

Bear: Wow, look at all these sticks! I need to find the biggest one I can and then try to carry it and refuse to let go of it.

Me: Bear! Sit! Stop! Drop it…drop—give me that!

Bear: Oh well, there will be more sticks…

Me: Good boy, good drop it. Okay, slow down, buddy…hey, Bear!

Bear: You know, a sit up or two might make walking me easier. To prove it, I’m just going to run around you until you’re all twisted up and look like an idiot.

Me: Damnit, Bear!

Bear: Ha!—Hey, what’s that?

Me: Leave it alone, Bear…

Bear: But what is this smell…I’ve never smelled anything like it, I need to know…

Me: Come on, Bear…

Bear: Another dog – hey! Hi! I’m Bear, what’s your name? Can I smell you? You smell weird…what’s that, an ear? Tastes like jerky, mind if I chew it?

Other Dog: I will cut you.

Bear: Whoa, man. Let’s be friends. I’m just curious, that’s all…

Me (to other dog owner): Sorry, he’s just a puppy, so he’s really curious…

Bear: Yeah, see? Curious. Now lift up your leg so I can smell under there…

Me: Come along, Bear. No...come on…BEAR! NO!

Bear: You're a real fun-killer, you know that?


Bedtime

Bear: I’m not tired; I’ve been sleeping for the last four hours.

Me: Time for bed!

Bear: But, but, but…I think I have to go outside…yes, I need to go outside now.

Me: Come on, let’s go potty once more.

Bear: Tricked you! Now I’m just going to run around out here while you stand by the door calling for me and waking up all the neighbors.

Me: Beeeeeaaaaaarrrrr! Come on, come inside…want a treat? Beeeeaaaaarrrrrrr!

Bear: Hahahaha! What a dumbass…

Me: (squeaky toy, squeaky toy)

Bear: Hey! That’s my toy! I want to squeak that toy! Give it to me!

Me: Ha—Gotcha! Time for bed now…

Bear: Fine, lady. You might have won this one, but tomorrow is another day!

Me: That’s my good boy…are you good boy?

Bear: Yeah, I’m a good boy. See my tail wagging? Now scratch behind my ears until I fall asleep.

Quinnterruption's Next Top Ninja Unicorn

In an effort to incorporate more visuals in this blog (apparently, like books without pictures, blogs without pictures aren't very fun either), I've asked some of my creatively inclined friends to think of, work on, draw up a ninja unicorn mascot and/or logo for me. The first to respond to this request was a dear friend, who will be known as Jobelle Holcombe. Her devotion to daily interruptions resulted in this gem:



Pretty spectacular, wouldn't you say?

I told Jobelle that my favorite part was a.) the fact that this Ninja Unicorn is drawn on a meeting agenda, and b.) the way this specific Ninja Unicorn seems to be saying, "What? You want some of this? You want a piece of me?!"

"I like how his hair is flowing in the pre-judgment day wind," Jobelle said of her design.
"His horn kind of looks like a carrot/penis," I said.

"Yeah, the horn started out a little shorter, but then I thought an uncomfortably long horn would make more of a statement. I was going to incorporate balls somewhere but the meeting ended," Jobelle said.

"No, the unicorn's anatomy gets confusing past the waist," I said.

"Yeah, kind of like a mermaids," Jobelle said.


So congratulations, Jobelle! Your design is now in the running towards becoming Quinnterruption's Next Top Ninja Unicorn.


If you or someone you know is interested in becoming Quinnterruption's Next Top Ninja Unicorn, please send your design, along with an explanation to quinnkatherman@gmail.com.

Exert from "Safe Travels"

Below is an exert from "Safe Travels," a collection of non-fiction essays I started awhile ago and have just recently started working on again (needless to say it's all I can think about at the moment). So, I hope you'll enjoy...

I hate flying.

The smell of people trying to cover up their smells melding with the stale air we are all fighting to breathe, the sound of children crying and the useless cooing of apologetic mothers; the crumbs of other people, the trash left behind. The flight attendants and their types: Boob Job Betty with the too small uniform, just bursting for attention; Lisping Larry with his “theatbelt thafety” instructions and constant gesticulating hands; Pissed off Patty with the “fuck you” smile who hates Boob Job Betty and probably spits in your drink when no one’s looking. And then there is that monotone voice that chirps in at all the expected elevations, the voice behind the controls, the voice you’re trusting your life with, the voice you’re glad you didn’t have to see the face of until after you got off the plane.

I wore a pair of trendy over-sized sunglasses that covered most of my face, even though it was dark outside, and a scarf draping my shoulders in artistic sweeps, even though it was unreasonably warm inside the cabin. Maybe someone would think I was famous if I looked exhausted and unimpressed, I thought. I didn’t bother to look when someone sat down in seat next to me; I was busy trying to appear unapproachable.

I wanted to sleep but an unnatural lunging motion had startled me and the jerking caused my sunglasses to dislodge and reveal my less than famous face. I grasped the silver armrest separating me from the stranger directly to my right. I watched as the cylindrical inside walls tilted from side to side and I thought of a funhouse—the type that isn’t really fun at all.

“Don’t like to fly?” The body next to me could speak. The flight was half over and we had expertly avoided engaging in any forced conversation so far. Why did he have to ruin it? I responded with an acceptable nod, rejecting his attempt at banter.

“You get used to it. After a while, you stop worrying about the plane crashing and more about just getting to wherever you're going,” the man said. He had black, spiral ringlets that sang past his shoulders. He was petit. I thought that if I stood up it would be embarrassing. That hair made me sick. It reminded me of the wads of fake hair that came in tight plastic packages at the craft store.

“So, have you ever been to San Juan?” he asked.

“Yes. Once. But I’m just making a connecting flight—” I stopped. There was something about him. I looked around, an entourage of bald spots with long black hair and black leather occupied the seats next to us and behind us. They drank champagne. The man next to me was drinking Tropicana Orange Juice from the can.

I could tell. He was famous.

It didn’t matter who he was; right now, he was just another body taking up space, breathing my air. But he started it, obligating me to inquire.

“Do—um, I mean, you look really familiar, are you, uh—” I had no idea who he was. Probably a has-been that I was too young to know but old enough to recognize from the way the present decade seemed to hang from his bones like the loose skin around his neck.

“Yeah. I was in a band,” he looked me up and down, “you’re probably too young to remember, though.” The defeat in his voice made me self-conscious. “Ever hear of Black Sabbath?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah, of course!” I said, thinking: I watched The Osbournes, I know about Black Sabbath. That’s the band Ozzy was in before he got the shakes and stutters; back when he bit the heads off animals to make a crowd go wild; the career he had before reality TV and loose skin, right?

“Well, I’m not in Black Sabbath now. I was, back in the 80s. This band is called Dio.” He pointed his index finger up in the air and twirled his arm like a cowboy without a lasso. “We’re doing a concert in San Juan. It’s part of our tour,” he said. I nodded and smiled, trying to figure out if reading the safety manual would be considered rude at this point.

“Do you want to go?” he asked.

“Go where?” Doesn’t he know we are trapped like sardines in this bucket of aluminum? There’s nowhere to go, no way out.

“To the show. Do you want a ticket?” Neat! Does that include a backstage pass to meet your hot sons and drink from an open bar? If so, I’ll let you sign my cleavage with a Sharpie!

“I wish I could go. But I sort of have plans. I’m on my way to Anguilla—my dad is getting remarried,” I said, trying to make it sound as uninteresting as it really was.

“Ah, wouldn’t want to miss that. You like her?”

“Who?”

I was distracted. The talk was antagonizing. I was trying to mentally prepare for a crash and he was causing static in my brain waves. I was holding my breath when I wasn’t talking, and the lack of oxygen was making me stupid. Or maybe it was the third Bloody Mary I was about to finish. As I drained the last drops from the plastic cup and rattled the ice to indicate the need for a refill, one of the flight attendants, Boob Job Betty, shook her head and pointed to the “Fasten Seat Belt” sign above. “No Drink Service Due To Turbulence” would make a better sign, I thought.

I looked out the window: a mess of clouds. But I knew there was a shark-filled ocean below that I couldn’t see. Panic trickled down my spine and I suddenly realized that I had no idea how to use my seat cushion as a floatation device.

“The lady your pops is marrying – you like her?”

“Oh, right, sure, she’s nice. This is lucky number three for him, though, so we’re all keeping our fingers crossed,” I said. I hoped my sarcasm would satisfy him to silence for the rest of the flight as I laughed in the way that makes people uncomfortable, finally reaching for the safety manual to cap it off.

“Marriage is tough. But Anguilla – whoowee, that’s a nice place,” he said.

I stared out the window again and watched the wings shake as we plunged from the clouded darkness into a parade of lights. We were about to land when my stranger and I finally exchanged names.

“Ronnie—Ronnie James Dio,” he said, shaking my hand before we parted ways.

He seemed disappointed that I didn’t write it down or ask for an autograph.

He said to look for them when they came to a nearby city.

I said I would and knew I wouldn’t.

The Torruption

Here is a g-chat transcript from a conversation I had with my sister, Tori, this morning about this blog:


Me: So, from whose perspective should I write from today and about what?
Sent at 11:01 AM on Thursday

Tori: Keep it from your own perspective - it's a baby blog.

Me: But I don't want to. I want to write characters!
Sent at 11:05 AM on Thursday

Tori: But no one will want to read about your characters if they don't first understand you.
I think you should work on building a strong identity for Quinn as the blog is called Quinnterruption.
Sent at 11:07 AM on Thursday

Me: But I want to write characters - which are all part of me.

Tori: Wtf? Who are you? Bob Dylan? Get over it - tell one of your favorite stories about yourself.

Me: Stupid! Overdone!
Sent at 11:09 AM on Thursday

Tori: Well don't make it stupid obviously - you call yourself a writer so tell it like one - Sedaris style.

Me: "you call yourself a writer" - bitchy? Yes, I think so.
You think coming up with characters and then creating a viewpoint on a subject is easy?
Sent at 11:11 AM on Thursday

Tori: No and I don't think writing a blog worth reading is easy either so start by creating a firm Quinn main character - it's most challenging, but the whole thing falls apart without it. You could do "Thoughts on Red Rockets:" and launch into story about your new dog and hilarious puppy school fiasco and then post photo of Bear.
Sent at 11:13 AM on Thursday

Tori: I know it feels generic and overdone to tell stories about yourself/ dog/ life but it's not like you are on a safari through Africa or have anything particularly crazy to post about - this is your life: you're unemployed, you live in KC and you have a dog. What is interesting about you is how you think about these things and what is entertaining is the way you write about it. The characters will develop as you work on this but forcing them will ultimately make them suck.
Sent at 11:17 AM on Thursday


So despite all plans to avoid myself, I am now trying to conjure up ways to develop this Quinn character more. Since this blog currently has one reader (Tori) I should probably follow her advice and reevaluate my delusions of grandeur and originality, which undoubtedly stem from the sadly unoriginal realities of my life—or as Torruption so aptly put: "this is your life: you're unemployed, you live in KC and you have a dog."

Blogony - From The Real Quinn

For months I've been agonizing over this blog: What will it be? What should I call it? What is the theme? Purpose? Direction?

I still can't really answer these questions. But I am okay with that. 'Quinnterruption' doesn't need to have an end goal, all it needs in order to exist are interruptions.

There will be a series of characters who will post on this blog. Of course, these characters are essentially me. These are the people who roam around in my head and interrupt my thoughts and scream at me to put them down on paper. (I realize this makes me sound schizophrenic, but I'm not. I'm just a writer. I think the two are commonly confused.)

Here are my momentary goals for Quinnterruption:

1.) Expect nothing (don't conform).
2.) Learn to see it for what it is (i.e., a place to write, freely).
3.) Write everyday (no excuses).
4.) Don't be serious (because, seriously, everyone else is).
5.) Enjoy it, you interrupting cow--Mooooooo!

Okay so there are five, well really four since number five was just filler, noncommittal, uncompromising goals that I can live with, at least until tomorrow.