Romily Bernard's Blog, page 6

POW 2: Branding Yourself Online – What Not to Wear

Think of the act of branding like shopping. Yeah, got your attention didn’t I?! When shopping for clothes you have in mind what they are for. An outfit is a specific combination of pants, shoes, tops, and accessories that are suited for the occasion. Suit and tie = work, sweat pants and tee = work out, jeans and a polo = casual. Think of a brand as an outfit and the clothes are just a specific combination of logos, words, type fonts, and colors.

Much like dressing yourself, the act of branding is essentially creating an identity for yourself and your work online. It is often overlooked, most likely because most people don’t realize this is the first impression everyone on the internet will have of you. So what do you wear? In this article I’ve quickly outlined what it takes to be dressed for internet success.

1. Bottoms up

Whether it’s skirts, shorts, or jeans your pants establish the foundation for your entire outfit. It’s the one thing that everything else is built on and when building your brand it is the one thing you stand for. Think, what is at the core of your work, what do you stand for? You should be able to distill it to one thing, for example:

Volvo = Safety
Corona Beer = Relax
Stephen King = Thrillers

For writers this question might be as simple as “What genre do I write in?” or “Where and when do my books take place?” Will it have the torn designer jeans of a contemporary young adult suspense? Or the elaborate lace dress of a Victorian historical romance?

Need some ideas? Take a look at Elite Daily – The Voice of Generation Y’s article: “What do you stand for?”

2. “Give a girl the right shoes, and she can conquer the world” – Marilyn Monroe

On the internet everyone is trying to get attention, there are literally thousands of other people doing things similar to you. How will you stand out from the crowd? What are you going to do to get the attention of readers, agents, publishers? You gotta get yourself the right shoes:

Be the best Be different Be better Dorothy’s ruby slippers = Be the best: In a world where everyone wants to wear red pumps, the glittery magical ones always reign supreme! Be the best and become the expert in what you write. The journey is difficult, but if you can do the research, have the heart, and can find the courage you will rise to the top (or at least get you back to Kansas).Cinderella’s glass slipper = Be different: How did Prince Charming find the woman of his dreams amidst the sea of all the other eligible maidens in the kingdom? That glass slipper left him wanting more. Embrace being different, it will get you noticed and your audience will want more. Just make sure to be ready to graciously deal with all of the evil trolling stepsisters of the internet.Michael Jordan’s Air Jordans = Be better: Just as Michael Jordan strove to become a better basketball player, Nike strove to make a better basketball shoe. Every year since 1985 they have release a limited run of Jordans, each time they are a little better: lighter, stiffer, more technologically advanced then all other shoes on the market. In order to stand out in the crowded internet stadium you need to work harder and innovate to be slightly better than everyone else. (Movies with these shoes: Space Jam and Like Mike – so now this analogy fits the others )

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When you are trying on your shoes, make sure they are congruent with the rest of your outfit. You do not want to become the internet equivalent of a tourist who wears sandals with black socks.

Looking for ways to stand out online? Take a look at this small cartoon presentation with 5 rock-solid tips on making your brand & biz stand out online:

3. Tops that rock

If clothes make the man, then the shirt must say the most. So what is your shirt saying? Is it silk shirt halfway unbuttoned to show off your hairy chest and gold chains or is your message more of a crisp white dress shirt with skinny black tie? Just like any well-branded product or service or product, you know what you’re getting when you see it. So make sure to check your top choice against the following three rules of marketing:

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Clarity: Be clear in who you are and are not. Do not sugar-coat your message or qualifications. There is beauty in saying something simple and clearly.

Consistency: Make sure your message is the same across everything you do online. Remind your audience who you are and what you stand for. You walk the walk as well as talk the talk.

Constancy: If you do not regularly show up no one else will either. Schedule a regular time to post, comment, or tweet your message and stick to it. Stay fresh in their minds.

Peter Sterlacci’s expertly explains the above concepts with pictures of his website, business cards, and social media accounts in his blog post: “The 3 C’s of Personal Branding: Clear, Consistent & Constant”.

4. “My motto is to go wild on the accessories – the belts, the hair clips, the jewelry” – Heidi Klum

Your brand will be same outfit you where everywhere online. So how do you keep it fresh? You accessorize! Adding a watch, scarf, or jewelry can enhance any outfit. But what accessories do you choose? You need to find out what is interesting to your audience and give it to them. Knowing your audience is the key to the long term success of your brand. Again before you fully commit to that neon green fanny pack, make sure it goes with the rest of rest of your outfit – you and your audience might need to instead compromise on a nice leather messenger bag.

Knowing your target audience is sexy! Just remember you cannot be everything to everyone… The video below describes how to determine your target audience, find that niche, and bring passion to your message\brand:

5. What lies beneath – It’s not always in what you wear
Hygiene Hygiene = Wash regularly and keep your message clean. Don’t become a troll.
Internet Troll or Trolling: A person who hides behind the mask of the Internet and goes around disrupting communities, blogs, or any online discussion by posting negative, inflammatory, off-topic comments with the intention of provoking readers into an emotional response for their own amusement.
 

How not to become a troll online:

If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.
Do not comment just to get a reaction.
Do not sarcastically praise or flatter someone in order to bring them into your emotional games.
Be a real person online. Do not hide behind fake names or others identities.
When you share your opinion online, do it constructively. Do not tear other people down.

Are you being trolled? Here are some tips on how to deal with trolls.

Personality Personality = Your personality like your brand should fit well, hang right, and be kept clean.

It should not be armor you use to protect yourself from others. You need to and want to genuinely connect with your audience. How do you project your personality through your brand?

Brand Personality: A set of human characteristics associated with the name of a product, service or company. Or, quite literally, brand personalities are “brand adjectives.” For example, Marlboro is associated as a “masculine” brand, while Virginia Slims is seen as “feminine.” IBM is seen as “older,” while Apple is perceived as “younger.”
 

As a writer, hopefully, you already have a personality! If you don’t, I’m not sure I can help you. However, you may want to check out this video on determining your brand personality or review this link on questions to ask yourself to determine your brand personality.

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This post was written by Boy Genius: husband, webmaster, and amateur arsonist.

POW 1: How to Create an Email Signature Line with Links and Images

Welcome to the first installment of POW (Partners of Writers).  Today I want to share one of the easiest and cheapest ways to promote yourself by using your email’s signature line.

Think about it.  How many emails do you send out a day?  How many emails, pictures, or jokes do you forward? Why not use this to your advantage?

In the business world a signature line is common place, a lot of us often even skip the signature line at the end of the email since it is usually just boring lines of text with contact information.  However, by simply adding links and images, the end of each of your emails becomes one of your most powerful self promotion tools.  Here is how to do it with a Gmail email account:

How to create a Gmail signature with links and images:
Before we begin we need to prepare a few things:

Decide what you want to say in your signature line.

The first part is easy, your name, however you can also save yourself some time when you write emails if you insert a traditional salutation preceding you name. Such as:

Sincerely,
Truly,
Thanks, etc


After your name it should be your website address.  This should automatically turn into blue underlined text so the email receipt will know this is clickable.
Next add your tagline or thing you would like to promote. Since Romily’s book is not out yet, we decide to promote her publisher, the name of the book, and the expected publishing date. See her finished signature line below:




The next line is where the magic happens.  Almost all writers participate in one or more social media sites, but people do not want to memorize long web address.  Adding icons with links to your social media accounts is a great way to add more followers as all they have to do is click on the icon in your email.

You can download these social media icons from free sources online such as iconarchive.com.
Stick to one icon set, do not mix and match.  It will end up looking messy.

If possible, pick an icon set that matches your category of writing. (Contemporary writers – should use clean, shiny, modern looking icons,  Historical writers – should use retro or simple looking icons)
You will need to hyperlink each of the icons to your profile page.  I will discuss that later in this how-to.




Make sure the images you want to add to your signature line are hosted on a public server.

So you will need to upload the images to your website, blog, or your favorite free online photo sharing site (such as Photobucket, Picasa, or Flickr). You’ll need to copy and paste the URL address for the picture into a Word file for later use. I’ve uploaded the images to Romily’s WordPress blog site, see the URL address highlighted below:

 

Make sure your images are size appropriately for the bottom of an email.  Large images should be resized before you upload it.  You can do this in your photo sharing software or from your desktop (Windows Powertoy Resizer, Mac Drag-N-Scale, and others). I chose to have the icons at 48 x 48 pixels.

In your Gmail account:

Click the Settings gear on the right hand side of the screen.
Select Settings from the menu that appears.
Go to the General tab.
Scroll down to the Signature: entry area.
Compose the signature’s text and formatting as you wish.
Position the text cursor where you want the image to appear in your signature.
Click Insert Image icon in the signature’s formatting toolbar.
If you cannot see the Insert Image button in the toolbar, make sure Inserting Images is enabled.
Enter the picture’s URL address that you copied and pasted into the Word file earlier (the URL address is from the web page, blog or image hosting service) into the Image URL box.
Click OK.

Add links to your text:

Click and drag to highlight the text you want to link to a website.  In this example, it is the website address we want to link to the actual website.
Click Insert Link icon in the signature’s formatting toolbar.
Enter the URL address of the website you want to link to into the Web Addressbox.

The text should turn blue and be underlined (on my screen it showed up purple and underlined).


Click OK.

Add links to your pictures:

Click the picture you want to link.  In this example, we are linking the Facebook icon to Romily’s Facebook profile page URL address.
Click Insert Link icon in the signature’s formatting toolbar.
Enter the URL address of the website you want to link to into the Web Address box.
Click OK.  Repeat for the other icons.

Once back to the Signature area, review to make sure you are satisfied, then scroll to the bottom of the page and click Save Changes.  That’s it you are done!

Follow up information:

You do not have to keep the same signature forever. You can change your signature line as you need to in order to keep it fresh and alert others to anything new and exciting you may be doing. If you open a new social media account make sure to feature that link in your signature line so others can click and find out what you are up to.
I just outlined how to do this in Gmail, but other email clients (Outlook, Yahoo, AOL, Thunderbird, etc) are very similar once you find the setting for the signature line.
If the above is too difficult, there is software that will do it for you.  WiseStamp is an app that does the same thing as above but makes it more user friendly.  They have free and monthly subscription packages.

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Does anyone have a subject for the next POW?  Please let me know in the comments below.

Some Stuff About Summer Love

Summer love, huh? Am I the only person who hears summer love and thinks “Eeew…sticky.” It must be a Georgia thing. They keep telling me “it taint the heat, it’s tha humidity.” But I still don’t believe them. The posts have been great though! We’ve talked about getting it on (in meteor showers no less), getting over it (when your summer fling fizzles), but what about getting even?

Yeah, yeah, I hear you, but we’re going to do it anyway. I’m like a freaking PSA over here. This is stuff you need to know.

If only so you can encourage your friends to do it.

So. What do you do when that sweet boy with pretty eyes turns out to be a tool? You make him pay.

Now, you could go all Taylor Swift and write a song about it. Or Elin Nordegren and take a golf club to his car, but, let’s be honest, that’s not going to work for most of us.

There’s always the can of paint to his car move, but this is risky if you’re clumsy (like me) or if there are security cameras (which I would never notice). Same thing goes for keying and tire slashing. You have to think outside the box.

My personal favorite came from a friend who put her cheating boyfriend’s contact information up on Craigslist. Apparently, the calls from the girls were bad enough, but the calls from the, um, gentlemen were breathtaking. And not in a good way. He eventually had to change his number so she got extra points for inconveniencing him.

Really all of this is just a practice run for when graduate and your creepy boss decides to get handsy. I’m hoping all of you avoid the hell that is being a Personal Assistant, but, in the event that you do not, please consider the following approaches:

Does he make you pick up his dry-cleaning? This one’s for you, baby. Most dry-cleaners also do alterations. Use this to your benefit. Have his pockets sewn shut or his pants shortened by two inches. If you’re feeling particularly grumpy, see if they’ll monogram his shirts with SOB.

And, yes, this tactic takes a little planning so be sure to use that outlook calendar he’s always bitching you never fill out. Remember, it’s important to learn from constructive criticism.

Oh, and this move also works for cheating husbands/boyfriends. I’m just saying.

Moving on. Does Creepy Boss leave his office door unlocked? You live a charmed life, my friend. I’ve never been more proud than the day I hid sushi rolls in my boss’s bookshelves. By the time I popped back over the following week to pick up my check, the stench was truly horrific. Like, epically horrific. It was awesome.

So. Anyone else care to pass on some tips?

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This post was originally posted on the Honestly YA blog.

Some Stuff About the Horses

Tempi’s in a mood these days. Between the vet-mandated diet (she looked ready to drop twins) and the climbing temperature (Tempi’s all black, if you know anything at all about Georgia that should say enough), the poor pony’s quality of life has taken a nose dive. Tempi knows someone around here is to blame and she’s pretty sure it’s me. I’m fine with that. We had a similar conversation two years ago when she moved down from the mountains of Ohio to live with me. Until that point, Tempi had only seen people from a distance and was used to snow and ice. Then I moved her.

To Georgia.

In June. Pony thought she had died and gone to hell.

Fast forward six months and I was climbing onto Tempi’s back, getting tossed into the air, and eventually onto the ground where Tempi would stand over me, bug-eyed, like, “You scared me. Don’t do that anymore.” After the third dirt facial, I realized I needed to rethink my strategy. This involved a lot of swearing, sweating, and a particularly patient cowboy named Drew Olsen. He was awesome and, eventually, so was Tempi, but the whole thing really stuck with me.

Most people think horses go along with what their riders want because they have no choice, because they have given into the superior being and accepted their lot in life. After working with Tempi and two other rogue horses, I can now say this is not the case. They give in, carrying us, performing for us, giving us their selves not because they have to, but because they want to. The worst horses sense your fears and take advantage. The best sense your dreams and carry you to them.

I hate saying stuff like that. It makes me look like I never outgrew My Little Ponies and encourages people to think horses are just like unicorns, dogs, or literary characters. It’s vaguely happy clappy.

No, it is happy clappy, but that doesn’t make it any less true. I don’t think people realize the gift they’re being given when they throw a leg over their horse. I really don’t. I’ve seen too many riders swap mounts like they’re tennis rackets. It’s heartbreaking, but I figured I was in the minority. Then L called. For the past few years, she’s been riding a lovely, older gelding, transforming from a timid rider frightened to go into a paddock with other horses into a successful dressage rider.

Part of this is because she’s determined and has a good instructor. Most of it has to do with Chance giving her the gift of confidence. When she was with him, she felt like she could do anything. He gave her back her riding dreams. Now, old age is catching up with him and she’s being pressured to give him up. Her friends think he’s inconvenient. She thinks he’s wonderful.

The whole thing reminded me of how most writers struggle to publication with naysayers on almost every side. Well-meaning friends beg you to give it up after the fifth (or fiftieth) rejection. In-laws ask “So how many books have you written and you still aren’t published?”

But you don’t give it up. You slog along and there are moments where you final in a contest or get a perfect canter transition that make the whole ordeal shine—even if it’s only briefly. The moment is perfect and private and completely yours. You won’t be able to explain the gift to anyone, but you know it has incredible value. Because sometimes it isn’t what we get from writing or riding, but what writing and riding give to us.

So what’s your best-loved gift no one else understands?

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This blog was originally posted on It’s Only a Novel

An Uncomfortable Realization

I’m not sure if it’s a sign of arrival or imminent collision when a VP at your company swings through the cubicle ghetto to tell you how “great” it is that you’re getting published. I’m really not sure what to make of my reaction either. What should’ve been a pleasant, but forgettable exchange turned into a sweaty, stammery mess.

In other words, it was completely me and another example about why I should never be allowed out in public. How is it possible that I am smart enough to drive a car, read through a contract, and hold down a job…yet I never considered people were going to read my stuff? Even for me, that’s pretty asinine and, when I call something asinine, you can take it to the bank. I know about this stuff.

Now where was I?

Oh, yeah. I was melting down in my cubicle because not only did said VP want to congratulate me, but he also pulled the dreaded follow-up: “So what’s the book about?”

This is never a good topic for thriller writers, but I pulled out my elevator pitch and flung it at him anyway: “Teenage hacker trying to get out of the game gets blackmailed into finding a dead classmate’s rapist.”

VP’s mouth twisted like he’d just swallowed a thumbtack. “Wow. Um, and the next one?”

Crap. Crap. Crap. Accompanying my terror sweats, there was now a rushing in my ears—a sound I could only assume was my corporate career circling the toilet.

“It’s about a serial killer.”

VP blinked, stared at me, blinked again. “Wow, I would never have guessed you were…into that stuff.”

Into that stuff? At first, I was irritated and then I realized ‘oh, wait, yeah I kinda am.’ I have a (perhaps unnatural) attachment to any form of forensic file television show and I have been known to argue the merits of various body disposal sites and methods. He may have a point, but, by now, we’re just staring at each other.

“So where do you come up with your ideas?”

This one’s easy. I grin really wide. “Mostly in staff meetings.”

‘Cause as long as you’re going to be the weird girl no one wants to talk to, you might as well be the weird girl who gets out of that weekly torture.

As always, a big HUGE thank-you to the Rubies for having me and (so I don’t feel so alone) anyone else have a coming out of the writers’ closet story they’d like to share?

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This blog was originally posted on The Ruby Slippered Sisterhood

The One About The Scary Clown

For those of you who were lucky enough to avoid me last week, I have a new obsession. His name is Dominic, the Scary Birthday Clown, and parents are paying him to terrorize their children. No, seriously. I’m not making this up. Parents pay the guy to send their rug rats threatening texts and prank phone calls for a week before he nails the kid in the face with a pie.

I know, right? Therapists, start your billing. This should be good for at least a 5-series Beemer.

I thought the discovery was a seriously good score, like, make-yourself-feel-way-superior kind of score. I’ll be the first to admit I’d be a dreadful parent, but even I know this is not a good idea.

So, naturally, I showed everyone I could corner.

My coworkers were all, “Yeah, yeah, Rom, we get it. We’d also like to note that it’s interesting how you can’t pay attention in any staff meeting ever, but you’ve been focused on this for almost three hours.”

Clearly, my coworkers did not understand so I went to Boy Genius next. He squinted at the article. “You know,” he said after a moment. “It kind of looks like that mask your dad had.”

Well, crap. So much for feeling superior.

The mask in question was, actually, scarier than Dominic. I’m not sure where my parents found it, but they dragged it home to add to my Halloween collection. (Side note: Halloweens at our house were the best. We had dry ice for a cauldron, a Styrofoam coffin, and an entire chest full of yard-sale costumes that my sister and I never considered might be infested with lice. It was awesome.)

But back to my dad who came into the kitchen with the mask on and roared. My sister and I looked up and took off. Or, at least, I took off. Poor five-year-old Merrill had been sitting on the floor and, when she jumped up to flee, slammed her head into the bottom of an open drawer. She shrieked, jumped up again, slammed her head again, and hit the floor.

Now everyone was screaming. My dad pulled off the mask—probably expecting laughter to ensue—and the shrieking just got worse.

“You ass!” My sister screamed…or she would’ve screamed if she knew that word at the time. Even so, I still think he got the message loud and clear. My sister is an adorable, tiny, reincarnated Honey Badger—and before she leaves me a nasty comment (Hi, Little!!) let me explain that the temperament was grown entirely out of self-preservation.

Because this wasn’t the last time we, um, teased her.

There was the severed plastic arm rammed into my mother’s mini-van seat cushions, the plastic spiders on her towel…then there was the time she was watching television in the living room alone so I went outside in the dark, walked around to the living room window, and hurled myself against the glass. She almost had a heart attack.

“You ass!” Mer screamed because, by this time, she did know the word. But we were both laughing.

“I know,” I said, almost hyperventilating. “But it sure was funny.”

“Totally,” Mer agreed. And we laughed and laughed until she smacked me in the ear. “Totally,” she agreed.

 

Watch the video below from Stephen King’s “It”.  I assume this is how Dominic got the idea…

The One About Yoga and Writing

Click the picture for meditation tips for those of us who cannot keep still

You know you’re annoying when even your yoga instructor freaks out on you. Actually, “freak” might be the wrong word. Smack is more accurate. We were supposed to be meditating after practice and I was vibrating. This happens pretty regularly—the vibrating not the smacking…although, now that I think about it, that is kind of surprising.

Anyway, I was sitting next to Layla and rocking out to the voices in my head when she leaned over and pinned my knee to the floor.

“Quiet your mind,” she hissed.

I smiled like Good Idea, Lady!! But a Quiet Mind’s never going happen for me so I counted window panes until meditation was finished. In case any of you were wondering, there are thirty-four. I hate thirty-four. It’s a dirty number that makes my teeth itch.

Much like practicing meditation.

“I think you really need to work on your meditative state,” Layla announces, grabbing me with her crazy yoga-strong fingers before I can run for my car.

“Yeah, no, I don’t think so. Meditating makes me anxious and then I start sweating and then my skin starts to crawl and I want to scream. I’d rather drive carpet tacks into my gums.”

Layla blinks. This was not the response she was expecting. “Romily, if you’re struggling that much then you’re obviously working through some major issues. Keep at it. You can do extra meditation next session.”

“Oh, goody.”

So I quit.

Now this is kind of surprising because I will beat my head against anything if I’m obsessed with it. For other examples, look to Exhibit A: Writing and Exhibit B: Riding. I would’ve added yoga as my Exhibit C, but meditation is a deal-breaker. I hate it. Hate. It.

The closest I can get to a halfway-decent meditative state is after a ninety-minute session where the instructor works us so hard I’m about to vomit. Pretty much, peace is found through pain and exhaustion.

Except I didn’t realize it until I started doing revisions with Wonder Agent.

I didn’t hit my mark on the first set of rewrites so we were circling back around for another go. I was horrified I hadn’t accomplished what the book needed and I was working myself into a right state, prattling on about how I would map this and outline that. Then Wonder Agent knocked me for a loop when she said, “I think you need to stop writing and take the time to just think.”

Stop and…think?

My head tried to twist off. Did Wonder Agent not understand my process? I do not stop. I freak out. If it’s not 2am with me running half-dressed through the house with the dogs hot on my heels and my hair falling out in clumps then we are not doing revisions, people!

Just sitting and thinking? Screw that. Someone bring me some carpet tacks.

But here’s the amazing part…Wonder Agent was absolutely right. At first, sitting and thinking made me break into terror sweats. It was worse than Writer’s Block—and we all know how much fun that is. I had to wade through everything my mind wanted to think: you’re stupid…you’re never going to think of anything…if you do, it will probably involve aliens landing in the third act. You know how it goes.

The process was awful and incredibly, incredibly good for me. Instead of giving up and counting window panes, I pushed through. Nothing worth having comes easily and, turns out, FIND ME was no different.

Also turns out, Layla might have been onto something. Sometimes you struggle. Sometimes you struggle a lot and it’s those times where it’s especially tempting to flail and freak. That’s when you have to tuck in and push—even if it’s just pushing yourself to be still.

 

The One About Behaving Badly

I’d like to go on record to say I’m surprised how many people were surprised I would use sushi for fun and biological warfare. Now I can understand my coworkers’ newfound anxiety last month, but it was the other emails where I was counseled about properly verbalizing to my boss how I didn’t appreciate his sweaty, meaty hands all over me that gave me pause.

Properly verbalize? Are you kidding me?

Verbalizing is not a problem I have. In fact, it’s probably a genetic flaw. I understand that I am just over five feet, but I feel as big as anyone and I run my mouth accordingly. I’ve only backed down once. I was hit by a car in Spain and, as I slid across the hood, I loudly mentioned the dude’s mother and another rude verb…or two. He came out of that sedan like someone launched him from a cannon and, to my utter surprise, he had to be pushing 6’6”.

Part of my brain thought: “Gee, you really can fit a lot in a Fiat.”

The rest of me thought: “I don’t know the Spanish words I’m going to need to describe this to the paramedic.”

So I ran and Big Foot ran after me. I’d like to say I lost him via my plucky route through a native bazaar, pitching over fruit carts behind me, but there was no bazaar…no fruit carts either. Mostly, it was just a lot of swearing and sweating and, odds are, he got bored of chasing me way before I got bored of running.

We could go back even further. My dad tells a story usually titled “Romily’s Smart Mouth,” but it’s also known as “How We Knew She Was Going To Be A Pain In The Ass.” Apparently, I was six and my mother asked me when my birthday was.

“Shouldn’t you know?” I countered. “You were there.”

Three days later, I woke up on the floor asking, “What the hell just happened?”

“Your mother happened,” my dad said. “Now pick yourself up and watch your mouth.”

If only, Dad. If only.

The One About the Bio

So my long-suffering agent asked for a bio. This is probably to be expected and any normal person would just dash off a few lines about this and that and be done with it.

But when have I ever been normal?

What should have taken two minutes ended up taking two hours. Part of it is because I’m off my meds and flying so high you could smack my ass like a piñata. The rest is just general neuroses.

I had no idea what to write so I did what I always do when I’m feeling especially ignorant (read: all the time): I Googled it. And Google had lots of answers. I’m just not sure any of it was useful…much less applicable.

Some sites suggested using buzzwords like, “professional.” Except that won’t work. I’m the farthest thing from professional. I once hid a California Roll in a boss’s office in retaliation for being groped. The stench was EPIC. People vomited. To this day, I have no idea if he found it or figured out who did it.

But I really hope he did.

Others suggested I bring up BG and the Canine Contingency, but then I’d have to explain why my dogs make innocent bystanders cry and why I refer to my husband as a boy genius. Partly, I do this because he’s smart, but mostly I do this because every superhero needs a sidekick.

It’s true. There’s a quota. If you don’t have one you have to get one.

So the husband/dog angle won’t work. There’s Tempi, my horse, but Tempi is adorable and has better hair than I do so she’s out too.

As you can see, it’s this sort of thinking that burns two hours, a can of Red Bull, a bag of Doritos, and two Klonopin. In the end, I went with birthplace, college, and current residence. It was simple stuff and really kind of a shame because it left me with no place to work in how I may be part troll and laugh when little kids cuss.

Which, if you think about it, really says all you need to know about me.

The One About the New Dog

Poor Boy Genius. I dragged home another dog. For those of you who are unfamiliar with my pet situation, BG has barely survived it. There’s Turbo who disdains him, Tempi who regards him with naked suspicion, and, until recently, there was Jessica who treated him like a minion.

Although, to be honest, my grouchy mare treated everyone like minions. We considered it part of her charm.

Anyway, accusations were made when I showed up with Tag and, in BG’s defense, he’s right. I did agree we didn’t need any more animals. But, in my defense, he should have known I was lying when I said it.

It’s not like I intended to bring home another dog. It just kind of…happened. My mom was looking for a rescue to keep her two golden retrievers company and The Humane Society had recently picked up a litter of puppies and their mama from the county dump.

Pitiful, right? Yeah, hold that thought, I’m coming back to it in a minute.

The puppies were kind of feral, the volunteers explained, and all of them were pretty bald from a bad case of Mange, but my mom and I thought we’d take a look anyway. We cruised over to our local Petco and found the adoption site set up in the back.

Tag’s mama was running frantically back and forth as people handled her puppies so I sat down on a bench to wait. I was there for maybe five minutes before a skinny black-haired thing shot out of the crate in front of me and sat down in my lap.

Tag: “Hello.”

Me: “Um, hello. Get down, please.”

Tag: “No, these people are talking to me like they know me and I don’t like it. Take me to the car. We’re going home.”

Me: “Uh, no. I am going home. You are staying here.”

Tag: “Does ‘here’ mean your lap? Because that’s where I’m staying.”

Me: “You are awfully cute.”

Tag: “Yeah, I am. Now get your keys.”

What can I say? It was love. Tag took one whiff of me and decided I was The One and I can’t really blame him. It’s not because I have some winning personality. Believe me, it’s not. I think it’s because I smell like distraction and dogs that get on furniture. At that point in his life, he might not have known what Beggin’ Strips were, but he knew a sucker when he saw one.

Even with a bald ass, he’s still super adorable. Tag looks like a Scotty on steroids. He’s all black hair and ginormous ears. Seriously. They’re like could-receive-messages-from-Mars huge. You’d think he’d listen really well.

Haha. Yeah, you’d think. Our attempts at obedience training went something like this:

Me: “Sit.”

Tag: “Biscuits?”

Me: “No. Sit!”

Tag: “Biscuits!”

You’d think he was stupid the way he behaves, but the dog has learned to open my lower kitchen cabinets (to help himself to Beggin’ Strips), has climbed up a ladder to follow BG, and opens my underwear drawer by grabbing the handle with his teeth. To date, I have lost six sports bras, two pairs of flip flops, four pairs of shoes, and my sanity.

Luckily, I’m spreading the love around though. Turbo came down with a bladder infection so off we jetted to the vet and, because Tag must never, ever be left unsupervised, he came too.

Normal shenanigans ensued when the vet tech couldn’t get Turbo to pee in the cup. Apparently, my old girl was running around in circles, making the tech look like she was flying a particularly hairy black kite, so they asked me to come out and get the sample.

Me: “No problem, but you’ll have to watch Tag for me. You have lever-handled doors and he knows how to open those.”

Tech: “Ma’am, he’ll be fine. Please go help Allison. Your dog is making her re-think her future as a vet.”

I started to argue with the woman, but I was more worried about Turbo so I went out, did the deed, and came back to sheer chaos. In the, maybe, five minutes I was gone, Tag had opened the door (he jumps up, leans on the handle so it depresses, and then pushes himself to freedom) and was running through the operating theater.

It took ten minutes and a bag of chicken liver dog biscuits before we could lure him back to the patient room. Amazing how quickly they got me out after that. I’ve never had such speedy service.

“Wow,” I announced to the sobbing vet tech. “That went better than I thought it would. I think I’m getting really good at this. Imagine what it’ll be like if I have kids!”

I am disappointed to report that I only made her cry harder.