Nellcro (never) saves the day!

Do you ever feel like a magnet for insane people?

As you know from my other posts, I often do. Maybe they see some of themselves in me. Frightening thought.

Anyway. Yesterday I was out running errands (searching high and low for cheap Halloween candy to feed the ravenous throngs that swarm my door each year) and just as I was pulling out of the plaza’s parking lot, a large figure came toddling towards me.

Reminded me of my 21-month-old son when he was just learning to walk. Except he might have been steadier on his feet than this object.

As she neared – well, first off I could see “it” was in fact a “she” – I could spot a stubby arm poking angrily out of a tattered Cosby sweater urgently waving a dirty meat claw at me in an effort to flag me down.

I thought for sure there might be some sort of emergency. Something big is going down. She may need my help. Call 911. Something.

I pulled up closer to her and rolled down the window asking if she was OK. Her hippopotamus jaws snapped open, her aggressively gaping teeth holes leered at me and she began to pump hot stank breath into my passenger side window.

Got iny spar shange?

Uhh, you’re kidding me right now, right? You just ran head-on at my moving car with your high-alert jazz hands in full shake and you want spare change? I thought this was a serious emergency. No one’s after you? No demented ex-boyfriend? No Freddie Krueger? No zombies?

Come ON. It’s Halloween, let’s have a good scare! (This is where I start to question whether or not I should be participating in what my husband and I call Shocktober, where we watch as many horror movies as we can in this month.)

Nope. Just begging.

Not to be insensitive (which means, spoiler alert, I’m about to be insensitive) but get a sign and pop a squat on the street corner like the rest of them, lady. Isn’t it part of The Homeless Street Code (a book handed out at orientation I believe) that you must never aggressively approach a car signaling you’re a damsel in distress when the only demon after you is your own hankering for some McDonald’s? Or crack?

I mean, I’m all for helping the homeless in other ways, like volunteering my time at the soup kitchen downtown (which, if I’m being honest, I haven’t done since Kellan was born. Tsk tsk, I know. In my defense, being a stay-at-home, work-at-home mom IS my philanthropy. Caring for this psycho of a child. Especially now that we’re nearing the twos. Good gawd, send in backup.)

So, needless to say I didn’t hand out any spare change as I had just forked it all over to the cashier in exchange for bags of “fun” rip-off size candy.

Maybe I should have offered her a piece of candy but I thought even a homeless person would be insulted by the size of it. Not enough nourishment, forget it. Barely even taste it before it’s gone. I’d rather scoop up a bite of seagull poop in the parking lot. OK, I doubt anyone would utter that last phrase, but maybe.

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Stumped you!

14 bloody stumps.

In the name of the best holiday ever (Halloween) and in an effort to reel in some new writing projects, I sent a plastic, bloody, severed foot to a bunch of local advertising agencies with whom I would love to work.

Am I nuts? Yes. Certifiable. But I swear there’s a method to my madness here.

Attached to each foot is a note explaining that I’m a freelance copywriter looking for work, plus a little background on me and the obligatory contact info, including my new mini-site, https://nell-killoran.squarespace.com. (HUGE props to the brilliant Jay Hickey for my site.)

The line that ties it all together, get ready for your ah-ha moment, is “Now that I’ve got my foot in the door…”

Get it?

Ahh. Ok. So THAT’s why she sent feet. Weirdo. 

Don’t judge. It’s creative.

I figured it will at least grab an ad exec’s attention and leave a lasting impression. Ideally some fantastic projects will come knocking on my inbox. We’ll see. Wish me luck.

If nothing else, it will serve as a splendidly creepy paperweight for the overflowing pile of drafts on the creative director’s desk. Or the beginning of a super fun prank on the new intern. The possibilities are endless, really.

Exhibit A.

Exhibit A.

The foot note.

The foot note. Or footnote.

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The meat and potatoes.

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Call me! Email me! Something!

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The beast all packaged up.

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Pinch me. I’m flopping.

I often dream that I’m superwoman.

Sounds awesome, right? Soaring high overhead like some majestic bird?

It’s not.

Instead of coasting in the clouds, this superwoman is skimming the ground with her belly, like a human skateboard. I inhale dirt chunks and choke down pebbles.

In every dream, I’m giving myself a ride somewhere, or riding myself, that’s not what I mean with this one, and I’m flying low to the pavement like a broken, awkward hovercraft, bumping and skinning my chin, elbows, knees and other dragging parts on the gravel. I’ve even been concerned mid-dream that my clothes would be ripped and stained by the various roadkill I pass. And I wonder if I’m going to reek like that dead skunk carcass I mushed over a few miles back once I reach my destination. (My subconscious knows how important keeping up appearances is, even if I’ve belly-flop-dragged myself all the way to the party.)

Funny thing is, I never actually reach a destination. The whole dream is my Aladdin’s-magic-carpet-ride body just floating steadily along.

So what the hell does this reoccurring dream mean?

Oh, you think I have an explanation?

No, I don’t.

I’m asking you.

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I scream.

A simple thought for today.

The only thing worse than the government shutdown is finding ice in my ice cream.

Huge letdown. HUGE.

Ice cream is my husband’s and my nearly-nightly treat of choice. When it comes to scooping out the perfect serving of ice cream (more like 5) from a carton, I pride myself on my supreme excavation skills. My spoon slaloms gently up, down and around delectable frozen mountains of sweet chunks (cookie dough, brownie and the like) and detects savory areas with more precision and accuracy than NASA’s state-of-the-art equipment.

So when my husband and I finally plop our bones down on the couch for a show and some ‘scream before bed, after all is quiet in the house and the baby is bathed, read to and tucked in, and I bite into what I expect to be a smooth hunk of rich, creamy peanut butter, and it’s actually jagged, flavorless ice cracking and crunching against my molars, you can imagine the devastation. The hurt and betrayal is unmatched by anything else. It stings. Deep.

Byrne Dairy, let me just say this: I’ll forgive, but I’ll never forget.

 

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A followup to Friday’s post. Be ascared. Be very ascared.

So, to follow up on Friday’s post, my almost-21-month-old Kellan did in fact wake up in the middle of the night that very night.

GASP.

Except it wasn’t Satie’s (short for Satan, we’re buds) raspy voice soaking into the monitor.

Instead, it was a high-pitched “Eee-yeah! Eeee-yeah!” on repeat. Kellan was swaying his head from side to side, laughing hysterically and exclaiming his abbreviated, mini-human version of “yes, that sounds amazing” over and over again.

Totally not scary, right?

Wrong.

Clearly my little dude was being egged on by the Big Bad Red Dude from Down Below. That’s not his normal sleeping behavior! The Evil One was probably whispering to Kellan from below his crib, telling him hilarious baby jokes about monkeys jumping off beds or promising him that he could have cookies for breakfast in the morning. All just to mess with me.

And I’m not going to lie. Obesely fat chills definitely ran down my spine when Kellan’s eery laughter jolted me awake in the middle of the night after having just dared Satan to contact me that way and “work harder” for my fear. Brilliant idea, self.

All I can say now is well done, Satie, old boy. You’ve still got it. I’d say “Encore!”, but no thank you. Move on to someone else now please. Call me with your 0 number if you need some suggestions of people to torment.

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Satan’s got my number.

Hi again, stranger.

Here we are again after a two-month hiatus. Tisk tisk.

Well, I’ve recently been told, nudged, NAGGED that I need to get back on the blogging wagon.

I won’t name any names but you know who you are, you menacing friends and family who clearly care about my writing career and me too much. *sentimental wink*

OK, I’ll oblige. After all, summer’s hectic-osity is over. I’ll no longer be held hostage in a sweaty 1980s RV every weekend.

(Not to sound ungrateful for the experience… If my father-in-law is reading this, I do honestly appreciate your lending it to us for the summer. I know my boys truly enjoyed it. I did too, the beach, the campfires, the family BBQs. I just didn’t sleep well, is all. And I’m a sleep snob. I know this. Sans my beauty sleep, I’m the beast. Rarrr. Sounds more like a lion. I’ll work on it.)

Anyway. No excuses. (Except paid writing jobs. Those take precedence.)

I’ll follow that little “I’m back” self pep talk of sorts with this tidbit, perfect for the Halloween season:

A number with all zeroes called me today. Literally all zeroes.

My iPhone was all abuzz with 000-000-0000.

Seriously?

Only one person could do this.

I’m convinced it was Satan.

Lucifer Q. Smith.

The antichrist.

The ole Angel of Darkness is at it again. Playing a typical prank on the unbaptised girl. Who else could pull it off? Who else would have access to such a ridiculously fake number?

Needless to say I didn’t answer and Benny Beelzebub didn’t leave a message.

If he wants to get my attention, he’s going to have to work harder than that. He’ll need to pull some Insidious shit and talk to Kellan over the intercom in demonic tongue.

Otherwise, you’re wasting your time big guy.

I was never besprinkled with God’s water as a wee child and I ain’t afraid of no ghosts.

Can you hear me now?

Can you hear me now?

 

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I need mental floss.

I’m a little OCD.

I was recently working on a writing project for a client where I had to perform some phone interviews. But before I could call any of my interviewees, I had to brush my teeth.

And floss.

No, I’m not kidding.

Was I showered? No. Hair combed? Nah. Wearing a bra? Probably not.

But my teeth? Sparkling clean. My breath? Mintier than a peppermint patty snatched out of the freezer. Could the people I was calling tell any of this at all whatsoever? No. Of course not.

But maybe they could sense it in my confidence. Yes, in my spot-on annunciation of every word. My I’ve-been-doing-this-forever tone. My self-assured interviewing question delivery. Pop! Pop! Pop! (That’s the sound of my question gun firing off.)

In my OCD defense, I guess I feared I might possibly mumble and back-throat gargle a few words if I thought my breath stunk. Even though, clearly, no one would be able to smell it.

You know how you do that face to face with someone? You mumble so as to not let your heinous, dead-rat-carcass inner scent escape? Or you talk with a stiff hand slanted over your mouth like a stereotypical imitation of a coy Japanese lady? In case you don’t use this technique, the rigid wall of fingers is meant to flirtingly block the stench of the foul odor released with every word. You should try it sometime. What, you think your breath don’t stink?! Yeah, I said “don’t” not “doesn’t”. This is how I talk street.

Anyway. My husband once asked me if I ate a cadaver. THAT’s the level of morning breath I’m capable of achieving on a regular basis with little effort.

Comments like that are what fuel my OCD (giving it wings to soar).

And this blog, for that matter.

This is me chewing on the leg of a cadaver. You can identify that it's me from the bangs. Sorry about the crinkled paper. Had to churn it out quickly before my kid wakes up from his nap.

This is me chewing on the leg of a cadaver. You can identify that it’s me from the bangs. Sorry about the crinkled paper. Had to churn it out quickly before my kid wakes up from his nap.

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