Remedial Blog School: How to Write an Excellent Blog Post

Photo courtesy of my wonderful friend Suzmanella. That's me, writing a blog post. At the lake. I don't know if it'll make it to the blog. Many blog posts are called, but few are chosen.

Welcome to Part 3 of Remedial Blog School--How to Write an Excellent Blog Post. Make sure to review Part 1--Welcome to Remedial Blog School and Part 2--So, You Started a Blog before proceeding. I cannot guarantee your safety unless you do.

Top Ten Ways To Make Sure That Your Blog Post is Excellent

Disclaimer: Most of these rules can be and should be, on occassion, broken. Just not a lot.

1. The hell if I know.

2. Do not start a post with "this is going to be long and boring and annoying." Because people heed those warnings.

3.Write about something that you are passionate and excited about, keeping in mind that "passionate and excited" does not mean "insane".

4. Short paragraphs.

5. Shortish post. If the CIA contacts you to see if they can borrow your post since waterboarding is now frowned upon, it's time to edit.

5 (a) Read your post out loud. Cut out at least two sentences and five words. Do it. Proofread, spellcheck.

6. Don't tell your best story. I'm holding my best stories in reserve for blog sweeps. And it helps me feel that I never get writer's block.

6 (a) For the love of everything that is holy, do not blog about your writer's block. Unless there's a celebrity cameo in there somewhere.

7. If you realize in the middle of a post that it's not working, do something to change direction.

7 (a) I have no idea how to change directions, but some people like to do memes.
7 (b) I don't like to do memes.
7 (c) Although I have nothing against people who do them.
7 (d) Except the boring ones.

8. Don't oversell a post. If a post starts with "The funniest, most hilarious thing ever happened!" chances are it will fall short. And yes, just about now I am sort of wishing that I took the "excellent" out of this blog post title now. But I won't. For teaching purposes.

9. Make sure people know who you're talking about. I had this problem recently when I assumed that everyone knew that John was beloved gay friend John and then someone in the comments assumed that he was my husband. Awkward.

10. Don't lie. Really. It's not worth it. It's like a sin or something. And also it's hard to keep your shit straight and not contradict yourself.

Next week in Remedial Blog School: I'll answer an email full of interesting and important questions. If you have any burning questions, see your gynecologist! (But if they're about blogging, let me know!)

Pick Your Poison

I woke up on Sunday morning and casually asked Husbandrinka how would he kill me if he were so inclined and he had a really unfortunate reaction that included saying things like "is this a trick question" and "there's no way that I'm answering THAT".

What's with all the secrecy?

Look--we get up every morning and go through our routine, go to work, come back, take care of the kids, do various household chores, attend to television watching responsibilities, and we're sort of living parallel lives and all that. I thought that the weekend would be the perfect time to reconnect.

He refused. Flat out refused.

Clearly it's not because he's never considered it. I'm not that big of a fool. Which led me to conclude that he didn't want to tell me because it would tip me off as to what to expect. Which is super unfriendly and not a nice way to treat the mother of most of your children.

And although I was going to let it go and just blog my pain, he had the nerve to bring it up as we drove out to the lake. (I know that you think that I'm using the foreshadowing device where he drowns me, but that didn't happen. I'm not literary-devicy like that. What's that clap of thunder?)

"Why would you ask such a thing?" he accused me, stabbing me optically.
"Because I was curious," I demurred.
"Who talks about murder first thing in the morning?" he poisoned my mood.
"It wasn't first thing. First thing, I had to get the cat out of our room because she was walking on my hair," I genuflected.
"Still, I think it's odd," he strangled my hopes of a peaceful drive.
"It's not a big deal. It's obviously hypothetical," I begged.
"It's not a normal thing to ask your husband," he shot.

I don't understand how I am supposed to live with that kind of hostility.

Are You There, Gynecologist? It's Me, Marinka!

Yesterday I had my annual gynecological check up and enjoyed a few profound thoughts, most of them in the crotch to the ceiling position, courtesy of the special examination chair that my doctor uses that flips me over so that my head is below my knees, much like it is in a beauty salon, except no one washes my hair while I'm at it.

Profound Thought Number One: My friend Wendi told me once that she thought the hardest job in the world was to be William Shatner's love interest, but I have to disagree. It's the woman who has to stay in the room while the doctor is doing the gynecological exam. You know the one I mean, the nurse. Who's there to make sure that the doctor doesn't fondle you and that you don't falsely accuse him of sexual improprieties.

I do not understand this at all.

First of all, why is this person not present every other time someone touches a part of my body? Because I'm pretty sure that my hair colorist is more turned on by my hair than my gynecologist is by my pap smear. And my hair guy is gay.

Second of all, are the doctors really protected by this? Because couldn't you say "of course she's going to back up the doctor, SHE WORKS FOR HIM!"

I mean, wouldn't it be better if instead of the woman witness there, they had something else, like a video recording of the exam? Because that way, it could be on You Tube and everyone could judge for themselves.

Profound Thought Number Two: I'm worried that my gynecologist isn't really a doctor. Ok, so he delivered my son 8 years ago. He's a solo practitioner, plus, he covered a huge midwife practice (until they closed), I've been to his office more than thirty times and he has never missed an appointment because he was delivering a baby. I mean, how is that possible? So I am super suspicious. Maybe I should report him.

Profound Thought Number Three: My blood pressure was slightly elevated because (1) I was sure that I was dying; (2) I was worried that my blood pressure would measure high; (3) living with Husbandrinka has really taken its toll on me. So, I've decided to lose weight. I'm thinking of using "The Secret" method of thinking thin thoughts and playing lots of Karen Carpenter music. But just in case that doesn't work, expect many cranky posts from me in the near future.

Because up until now, my posts have been life-affirming.

The One Where I Seek Your Advice And Offer Nothing In Return

Today I am breaking a longstanding tradition of giving and giving to you and ask for something in return. Advice.

Mama and papa are friends with a woman whose daughter is a modeling casting director which I guess is different from a modeling agent. The daughter is friends with papa and she told him that if he wanted my kids to model she'd have them placed in what I can only assume is a finger snap gesture.

I found out about this when mama was telling me how papa blamed all of Michael Jackson's problems on his parents forcing him into show business and then he relayed this modeling story and said "never in a million years".

So I started thinking about it and although before I always thought that people who pushed their kids into modeling and/or "acting" were sort of horrific, I wa$ $ort of recon$idering.

I mean, I haven't updated my wardrobe in months. No new purses, no new shoes, nothing.

I discussed it with Husbandrinka and he agrees with me, although he doesn't see the "no new purses, no new shoes" things in the same Greek Tragedy light that I do. Because he has no heart. Or soul. But that's another post.

So I broached the subject with papa and he was horrified. "It'll ruin their childhood," he said.

Apparently, ruining childhood is frowned upon.

"But they could do it part time," I cried. As in tears.

"You can also prostitute part time, still makes you a prostitute."

Yeah, but just a part-time prostitute. You could still do totally good works during the other times.

So, he's opposed.

I could approach this woman myself, but that seems wrong. She's papa's friend! (Although papa doesn't follow the fashion and entertainment press. As was evidenced last weekend when he asked me if I'd been a fan of "Sarah Fawcett".)

I would never do it just blind, going to those cattle calls. Because I get drained easily and that chardonnay isn't going to drink itself, you know.

Disclosures: I haven't asked my kids if they're interested in that, because what kind of a person is "interested" in modeling?

"It's great! You'll...stand there."

"Yay! Stand there!"

Also, because I know that everyone's thinking it, papa's friend's daughter did not suggest that I model as well, but I think she's just taking a hard bargaining stance.

What would you do?

What would Kathy Ireland do?

Michael Jackson's Death Is Tearing Our Family Apart

Michael Jackson's death is tearing our family apart.

My daughter took the news hard. "You know, Michael Jackson died," she told me a few minutes after she saw a breaking news bulletin.
"I know," I said. "Do you know who he is?" Because ten year olds are funny. Like my daughter had no idea who Madonna was. And until she was eight, Jesus.
"No," she said, " but it doesn't put me into the best mood to hear about people dying."
"Oh, honey," I tried to cheer her up, "people die every day."


Meanwhile, although Husbandrinka is one of the few people who truly doesn't give a shit about celebrities, dead or alive, he has been approached by a disproportionate number of people who wanted to share their grief with him. "He was so young," our doorman told Husbandrinka as he was getting the mail.

"I'm really heartbroken," our dry cleaner told him.

"I wanted you to know that I am devastated," a colleague emailed.

I am outraged.

No one said anything to me. Which is surprising because I'm so much more celebrity-friendly and sympathetic. So of course I have celebrity condolence envy because everyone seeks Husbandrinka out for celebrity postmortem talk and no one talks to me about it.

I even made a list of benefits of discussing Michael Jackson's death with me versus Husbandrinka.

Reasons Why It's Good to Discuss Michael Jackson's Death With Me

1. I have been dutifully following the media and can intelligently discuss various aspects of Michael Jackson's life, career and indictments.

2. I am super nice and sympathetic.

3, It's entirely possible that I will blog about your celebrity grief and you will experience blog fame.

4. I have a few theories that I am happy to share at no extra cost at all.

Reasons Why It's Good to Discuss Michael Jackson's Death with Husbandrinka


1. He doesn't care, so he will not interrupt you with his own two cents.


Obviously, I'm the clear choice. Or clearly, I'm the obvious choice. Whatever.

But our marriage is not the only one suffering. Because the other day, mama showed us Time Magazine and said, "this is the only picture of him that I love."

so although this image is obviously from Time Magazine, I got it from Washingtonpost.com. And then I couldn't get rid of that crap on the bottom.




And papa said, "that is not a picture. It is a photo." Papa, god love him, does this sometimes. Like the time that he insisted that "kids" were "goats" and that his grandchildren were "children" and not farm animals.
"You can say 'picture'," I reassured him.
"Picture is painted. Photo is a photograph," he put his foot down.

Lest you think that papa is not colloquial, I have fond memories of his trying to teach me a few idiomatic phrases when we first came to America.

"If someone tells you some nonsense, tell them 'Go tell it to the Marines'," he instructed me.

I was ten. And confused.

"Why?" I asked.
"Because that's what Americans do," he explained. "You say go tell it to the Marines and you fit in and have friends."

I nodded, but never followed his advice. Although admittedly, I've been low on friends for years.

One day he called me, alarmed.
"You know, I've been saying 'whole bowl of wax' and now I think it's 'whole bowl of wax'," he told me.
"Those two phrases are exactly the same," I reassured him, leaving out that no one knows what it means.
"No, one is bowl, like Life is a bowl of cherries and the other is bowl like men have two bowls."
Oh. balls.

Who hasn't made that mistake?