The following is an excerpt from an extended text conversation between Cathy Benavides and myself. I needed help with an outfit for a family wedding. It should be noted that Cathy is a fashionista, and I am—well, clearly not.

And… scene.

My poor dog has to play fetch with himself.

On the eve of my 44th birthday, I find myself looking back on lessons learned over the years. Here are a few I thought I’d share…

1. On keeping up with technology: Try staying one step ahead of your mother.
2. On long hair: It’s lovely until you find it on your toes.
3. On foreplay: Between cleaning toilets and rubbing lotion on my dry elbows, sometimes “Hey, wanna sex break?” is all you’re going to get.
4. On lingerie: See number 3.
5. On owning a business with your spouse: Two words: Separate offices.
6. On marriage: See number 5 (and probably number 3).
7. On cleaning house, I present an analogy: Macular degeneration is to housework what Spanx are to excercise.
8. On gaining weight: See “Spanx.”
9. On parenthood: Better you than me.
10. On sentimentality: If you don’t have kids, there’s no need for fine china or scrapbooking classes.
11. On cooking: Ketchup can fix many culinary missteps but usually not in baked goods.
12. On not eating meat: You will miss bacon. Seriously. You will miss it a lot.
13. On dressing appropriately for one’s age: Shoot for somewhere between Angela Lansbury and a hooker.
14. On expectations: Sometimes you will be disappointed, and sometimes you won’t.
15. On meeting Prince Charming: Sometimes you will be disappointed, and sometimes you will be very disappointed.
16. On addictions: If you’re going to have one, try falling somewhere between heroin and Taco Bell.
17. On heartbreak: Skip the heroin and go directly to Taco Bell.
18. On retirement: There’s still time to save. There’s also still time to buy an RV and matching leisure suits.
19. On plastic surgery: I’d rather have the RV.
20. On aging gracefully: Considering my history, it’s very unlikely.

Let me start by making a simple request: As difficult as it might be, please try and resist the urge to picture me naked for the next five minutes. Normally I’d just refrain from telling my tale in such a public forum, but this is a story that begs to be told. Plus, let’s face it, I was lying about the normally refraining part. So rather than picturing me in my birthday suit, try imagining me in an entirely different kind of suit—maybe your grandmother’s swimsuit—the one with the ruffles and skirt. While you’re at it, go ahead and imagine copious amounts of cellulite on the backs of my thighs. That’s actually closer to reality and also serves as punishment for those of you who insist on picturing me without clothes. Okay, so it’s settled then: I am in the shower, wearing Granny’s swimsuit. And a shower cap.

It all started when my dog gave the universal signal for “Mom needs a shower” by moving to the other end of the couch. As far as showers go, this one wasn’t anything special. I was unimpressed with the water pressure, and overall it was shaping up to be just your average bathing experience; that is, until one little bubble of soap slipped off my forehead and directly into my eyeball.

Everyone knows that familiar sting—the level of pain falling somewhere between ice cream headache and bear mauling. Usually a spritz of water and a bit of dramatic whining does the trick. I only wish that’s where my story had ended. Of course, if it had ended there, y’all would’ve been all like, “You made me stop playing Words with Friends for this?” Fortunately (for the sake of this story, at least), that beastly bubble set off a series of events so spectacular, it can only be described as Rube-Goldberg-ian in proportion.

As the sting kicked in, I dropped the soap (insert appropriately juvenile joke here) and for some reason thought it necessary to pick it up before rinsing out my eye. Why I imagined I could do this while almost completely blind is a mystery and rather predictably led to me cracking my head on the soap holder. When I lurched back in shock, I slipped, and an errant elbow set off an avalanche of shampoo and conditioner bottles, two washcloths, a razor, some facial cleanser, a scrubby sponge, my dog’s toothpaste (don’t ask), and a rubber ducky with devil horns. This endless river of bathing detritus pummeled me about the ribcage and shoulders as my concerned poodle came running to see the sideshow.

While I began composing a witty tweet in my head, someone in the neighborhood flushed a toilet, and I was scalded back to reality. Blinded and burned, I shakily exited the shower while Dexter T. Poodle looked on curiously. As far as eventful bathing goes, this one was right up there with the time I decided to shower after taking an Ambien, but that’s another story for another time. Meanwhile, please excuse me while I go and return this suit to Grandma. You know how she gets about her swimwear.

My husband is out of town this weekend being manly and shit. Here are some of the things I miss when he’s gone:

1. His ability to fix things
2. Someone else to share dog doodie duty
3. Stellar vacuuming skills
4. Personal food delivery man
5. IT support

On the other hand, there are a few benefits to having the house to myself:

1. No-brainer: Getting all the covers
2. Can loudly sing Robot Chicken song at midnight without reproach
3. Showering optional
4. TV is mine (assuming he didn’t change a setting on the remote, making it utterly useless in my hands)
5. Can throw away some of his clothes without him noticing

In conclusion, sometimes all it takes to keep the Weenies intact are some extra blankets and a shower.

The End.

UPDATE: After pushing every possible combination of buttons on the new remote, I found one channel. In Spanish. With Spanish subtitles.

In trying to come up with content for my blog, I polled my friends on Facebook to see which topic they’d be interested in hearing about. According to the pile of responses I received (I believe there were six), most folks wanted to hear about why I was locked out of my bedroom. As it turns out, the title of this story is more interesting than the reality of the situation. I don’t know what possessed me to commit to a topic that could’ve been summed up in a tweet, when the only commitments I’ve managed to keep over the past dozen years or so are to stay married and floss regularly—both of which have been challenging at times.

While nobody really cares if I actually write on this topic, I’m determined to follow through. First, I present the perfectly tweetable summary in fewer than 140 characters: “Oh great, the door to my bedroom is screwed up, so I’m locked out. Fortunately, we have two bathrooms. Otherwise the neighbors would’ve gotten a frightening backyard show.”

And now for the Weenified version:

When I began writing this post, I was just glad to be locked out of the bedroom rather than in it. I should’ve known better than to jinx (or trust) myself, for not long afterward, I found myself staring blankly at the full-length mirror mounted to the inside of my bedroom door.

Let me pause here to note that Casa Weenie is more than 80 years old. You’d be hard pressed to find a right angle within a hundred yards of where I’m sitting. It’s no wonder then that shifting walls, floors, ceilings and doors might someday result in a situation where an extremely unlucky graphic designer finds herself running late for a meeting due to imprisonment in her own bedroom.

Desperate times call for desperate measures, so with few options left, I went all Law and Order on that door. **Note to self: Attempting to bust down a door by ramming against it à la Elliot Stabler when you’re built more like Lennie Briscoe is a mistake. Big mistake.

There are few acceptable excuses for tardiness to a meeting. A family emergency or traffic on Mopac will probably get you a pass, but sheer stupidity is another story. As I stood there rubbing my shoulder, I experienced the five phases that typically follow an event of this nature:

1. Denial: “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
2. Anger: “You dumbass.”
3. Bargaining: “I swear I will floss my teeth tonight.”
4. Depression: “Shit.”
5. Acceptance: “Shit.”

As an insecure poodle nervously sniffed at the other side of the door, various deceptive excuses for my tardiness flashed through my head (broken toe, food poisoning, flooded laundry room…). Then it dawned on me that I would be unable to call the person I was supposed to be meeting because there wasn’t a phone in the bedroom. (*See “denial” above.) After briefly considering a climb out the window,  I decided to give the door one last try. Bingo! I grabbed my bag and rushed to the front door, but there was one more problem. Where the hell did I put my keys??

Well, I skipped my writing challenge last night. Why? Because I was watching “Family Guy.” For those of you unfamiliar with this adults-only cartoon, it’s one that, on a scale of one to ten (with 1 being the lowest common denominator) rates somewhere in the neighborhood of zero. And yet it is one of the funniest shows on TV. Now, I wouldn’t recommend it to just anyone. For example, while my 11-year-old niece watches it (without her mom’s knowledge…until now), I won’t let my own mother see it to spare her the devastation of learning where all the college tuition went: right down the toilet (which is coincidentally one of the more common themes of the show, along with bestiality and pedophilia). Now before you judge me (as if), keep in mind that there is actually some reasonably well thought out humor here. I mean, what’s funnier than a talking dog who humps a babysitter voiced by Drew Barrymore? Right?? Classic stuff.

In unrelated news, I’ve come to find there’s been a series of break-ins and assaults in my neighborhood, which has triggered some existentialist conversation here at Casa Weenie. In case you’ve never met me, you should know that my political leanings are just this side of socialism (and it’s not the side you think). In a cruel twist of fate, I happened to fall in love with and marry a man who owns guns. This was a problem for a long time, but I made my hesitant peace with it by acknowledging that he’s a reasonably level-headed guy who hunts about once a year and gives the meat to his brother. (He knows better than to bring any of his murder victims home to me after the great Bambi decapitation of 2003, whereby the head of a formerly romping deer found its way into my garbage can, but that’s a story for another time.)

Anyway, back to the assaults. A long, long time ago my husband bought a safe for the guns and still hasn’t given me the code to unlock it. I’m grateful for this on many levels. First of all, our early marriage was a bit “challenging” (and I was a tad “bipolar”), so an unprotected, loaded weapon under the bed of an unmedicated, half-cocked woman wasn’t a stellar idea. Also, I really have no desire to use a gun, although I’m actually a pretty good shot and occasionally enjoy going to Red’s Gun Range for target practice. (I know, I know.) Idealist tendencies aside, this recent crime spree has me pondering the idea of having Mr. Weenie give me the combination to the gun safe. The fact that this has even crossed my mind is jarring enough, but the big (and currently unanswerable) question is: Would I use it if I had to, and if the answer is yes, would I end up shooting my eye out? While a decent shot at the range, where the only distraction is the guy next to me firing what appears to be a cannon on a stick, I don’t think I could be depended upon in a firefight.

Of course, as my husband so delicately puts it, “Well, would you rather be attacked in your own home?” Which brings me back to “Family Guy.” In yet another hilariously disturbing episode (which, by the way, was named “Worst TV Show of the Week” in 2005), our protagonist, Peter, discovers that his son Chris’s penis is larger than his own. To make up for his insecurity, Peter joins the NRA and buys a gun (and a red car). After a series of typically convoluted twists and turns involving a hunting trip and bear attack, Peter learns that having a gun doesn’t automatically make him safe. Meanwhile, for unrelated reasons back at home, Peter’s wife Lois has sent her neighbor out to molest the teenaged girls at her daughter’s slumber party. I just can’t help but wonder how that episode would’ve ended if the girls had owned a guns.

And there you have it—another 750 words from the far reaches of my disturbed brain. The part that really gets me is that the people who live inside my computer have declared this entry to be rated “PG-13,” which begs the question: In what world does bestiality, pedophilia and rape of teenaged girls get a PG-13 rating? And more importantly, when does Mr. Weenie get home from work so I can get the combination to that safe?

Welcome to Day 2 of Ilene writing about nothing. The fine folks at 750words.com have informed me that my most recent entry was rated PG-13—apparently for swearing, violence and/or sexual content. I guess some people get turned on while grocery shopping. Who am I to judge? The stats also tell me I’m feeling upset and concerned mostly about death, which seems a bit extreme. I only killed a couple of shrubs for god’s sake—it’s not like I’m growing hemlock in the backyard. Sheesh…

Okay, here is an excerpt from yesterday’s writing challenge:

I think I’ll try writing on an actual topic today, rather than just letting my subconscious spew strange combinations of words. Today’s topic: Clutter. I’m not just talking about the brain clutter that encourages me to write about nothing. I’m talking about the fourteen water bottles I just pulled out of an overstuffed kitchen cabinet…

The problem with clutter is that it’s everywhere. As soon as I finished one cabinet, I moved on to the light bulb/candles/dog treats area (because these things make sense together). Next will be my arch nemesis, the tupperware lair that almost caused a divorce back in 2006… Every time we need to get something, an avalanche of lids tumbles into the dark corners where nobody wants to reach a hand, for fear of retribution by the denizens of the kitchen underworld. I’m not saying we live in utter filth, but I once saw a toddler-sized cockroach leaning against a crock pot smoking a doobie. We nodded tentatively at each other, as I slooowly backed away. Respect.

So now I’m kind of obsessed with getting rid of shit. I’m reading an ebook about minimalist living, and it’s making me feel inferior and wasteful… So what if I own three pairs of slippers and watch TV when I should be communing with nature? Have you seen nature lately? It’s hot and itchy.

In other news, have you ever killed a cactus? I have. I’m not proud, but it’s kind of cool to be the only kid on the block to murder desert flora. I’m like the angel of death of south Austin. If you ever want to “accidentally” kill vegetation to make room for something better, like a rock garden, give me a ring.

Oh, I went grocery shopping with Mr. Weenie today… He eats the same thing every week, which seems fascist to me, but I keep my yapper shut. Meanwhile, he spends quite a bit of time waiting for me to feel up fruit and check labels. In the past this might have led to frustration and arguments, but then came the magical shopping accessory called “The iPhone” (cue heavenly rays of light and background chorus). What a marriage saver. Unfortunately, the iPhone was left at home today, so I found myself breaking out into a cold sweat as I rounded each end cap at light speed, trying like hell to finish shopping before Mr. Weenie self destructed.

The challenge is in reading Mr. W’s face. His look of “I’m totally chillin,’ babe. Take your time.” looks a lot like “I’m going to fucking stab somebody if I have to watch you compare prices of feminine hygiene products again.” Thus, a trip to H.E.B. is like a roller coaster ride with all the fear and none of the excitement—unless you count the  parking lot on Sundays when church lets out, which is awesomely terrifying…

That’s right, folks, I wrote 750 words about tidying house and grocery shopping. I’m sure you’d like to see where you can get the past 8 minutes of your life back. Try customer service.

Today I tried out a site called 750words.com. My friend, Sam, recommended I give it a try since I seem to complain a lot about not writing. So off I went to write, and the mess that came tumbling out when I didn’t have a topic or reason to be writing was an embarrassment. So of course I will share some of it with you, because I love spreading the joy:

Okay, here I go. I’m writing 750 words. I hate this type of exercise. It makes me feel foolish and tired, which probably means it’s good for me, like broccoli and regular tooth brushing. I’m not totally convinced though. I mean, I don’t mind occasional hygiene, but broccoli’s kind of gross. So is having to write when I don’t feel like it…

I wonder if I’m supposed to create new paragraphs. That’ll be hard since every sentence I write seems to be on a different topic. Speaking of different topics, I’m fucking sick of this drought we’re having here in Texas. I feel like a raisin. My insides feel dusty, and I have an urge to sprinkle myself. Actually, I feel like a HUGE raisin—a prune, perhaps. A giant, Jabba-esque, dried up plumb of a woman. I just drank a huge glass of water with psyllium fiber because I think that will make me healthy. Kind of like when people think that driving a BMW makes them fun to be around…

I like to read. Where the fuck did that come from? Don’t say it came from my inner depths, because all that’s in there now is a big puddle of psyllium goo and some crackers. Holy shit, I’m not even halfway done with this little exercise. And I’m supposed to do this everyday? Seriously? Not gonna happen…

I’m trying to be happier, nicer and less offensive. Showering helps. Okay, so back to the reading thing. Nonfiction is my usual choice these days, but it’s always about business or time management or something else that makes me feel like I’m behind. I need to find some good ol’ fiction. I need to laugh out loud for a reason. Otherwise, I just look weird and scare the dog…

I like to write too, but I get so nit-picky and perfectionistic. Or is it knit-picky? Gnit? Clearly not, says spellcheck. Spellcheck also says that spellcheck isn’t a word… Why can’t I just write without editing myself? Because when I do, I write crap like this…

So, that’s my big entry into the world of daily writing exercises. Ridiculous navel gazing aside, the coolest part of the site is where it gives you your “stats.” For example, my first post was rated “R” due to language. My mindset while writing was “affectionate and concerned with leisure,” and my frequently used words included “good” and “crap” (speaking of leisure). Now, if only I could unclog my brain…

There’s a nasty rumor going around that I am a tad on the neurotic side. I’m not exactly sure how this rumor started, but it’s likely that #BlogathonATX Part 3 had something to do with it. Now, that’s not to say the event itself was tense and Xanax-filled (present company excluded), and hopefully none of the attendees could tell, but I do have a tendency to worry a bit. Unfortunately, there’s a good chance some of the members of my planning team noticed a personality shift during the weeks leading up to the event.

Perhaps it was the the 27 emails I sent to Kay and Laurie about napkins or the panicked phone calls to Blair and Cathy about sentence structure and trash cans. Did the the worry tweets I regularly aimed at Amanda hint at a tad of insecurity, or was it my preoccupation with Julie and Jeremy’s choice of fonts that gave me away? It’s really hard to say exactly what may have tipped them off.

Since I am not an event planner by trade (nor, apparently, by nature), a considerable learning curve is to be expected. Blogathon started in August of 2010 as a random idea based on a tendency to procrastinate and my underachievement in the blogging arena. In other words, I needed accountability. What started as a shout out to my friends about a coworking session ended in a fully-sponsored event with dozens of attendees. In the end, I ate a lot and got approximately zero blogging done.

Fast forward 13 months to Blogathon #3, and the event has grown by 40%. The stakes are higher, and so is the anxiety. Fortunately, I have one magical skill that makes all of the work of planning this event possible, and that skill is called “delegating.” Now, that’s not to say I’m a perfect leader. My tendency to micro-manage is in direct proportion to the time left until the event takes place. In other words, I leave my team alone until everything is humming along smoothly, then dive in like a seagull to make things super-annoying and rather messy. It’s my superpower, and they love it.

I want to thank everyone who has withstood this squawking seabird of doom to make our most recent event such a success. I owe my sanity to: Jeremy Arntz, Cathy Benavides, Talmadge Boyd, Valeka Cruz, Jackie Dana, Julie Gomoll, Summer Huggins, Jacqueline Hughes, Laurie Leiker, Jenny Magic, Kay Marley-Dilworth, Lisa Maxwell, Michelle Myette, Dara Quackenbush, Amanda Quraishi, Pat Ramsey, Deb Robison, Claire Rodriguez, Blair Smith, David Weddell, Eric Weiss, Mama Weenie, and Mr. Weenie. You saved me a fortune in therapist’s bills.

I also want to recognize Austin Free-Net for their wonderful program. AFN provides technology training and access—particularly for underserved communities—to help foster skills that help people obtain jobs, improve their lives, and participate as active citizens. We are incredibly grateful for your support and look forward to partnering with you in the future.

To our wonderful sponsors who are the reason this event could take place at all: Againa Rain Water, Apothecary Cafe & Wine Bar, Austin Bakes for Bastrop, Austin Java, Beanitos, The Cake Plate, Dos Equis, GoodPop, Google Places, The Go To Gay Guy, GraphiTee’s, Healthy Housekeeping, Honest Beverages, Kohana Coffee, Link Coworking, Lonely Gourmet, Lucky Layla Farms, Mass Relevance, MXTOOLBOX.com, One Taco, PinqSheets, Pubcon, Rackspace, Red Bull, RegainYourTime.com, Tito’s Vodka, Turnstone, Waialua Soda Works and Whole Foods Market: Thank you for your extreme generosity and for believing in our event. Our success was possible because of your support.

And finally, to you, the attendees of #BlogathonATX: If it weren’t for your enthusiasm and willingness to spend a Saturday in nerd heaven, I would be sitting alone in a coffee shop with my iPad and a dream. Thanks for making that dream a reality.

I hope you enjoyed #BlogathonATX as much as I did. Be sure to mark your calendars for #BlogathonATX Part 4 on April 28th, 2012!

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IleenieWeenie
Anxious Seagull In Charge