How I got off the pot and stated the obvious

I’m not normally at a loss for words…in life or when writing for this blog. So when I sat down today, fingers poised over the keyboard only to have this happen,

(insert — image of Meg Ryan in “You’ve Got Mail” when she does that hand swipe thing to show she’s drawing a blank when IMing Tom Hanks’ character. I’m sure I could find a screen shot online but, hello. Writer’s block and I’m depressed — here)

I was a little disconcerted. And then I remembered Plinky. Plinky is a prompt site that, get this…gives you little prompts to help you do your business so you can get off the pot and enjoy the rest of your day safe in the knowledge that you don’t need to call a plumber.

Plinky is a plumber for bloggers.

I’ve known about Plinky for a while now but the few times I checked him out (sorry, I think of plumbers as guys so go ahead, hate me) I didn’t get that special feeling reading any of the writing suggestions. I know you know what I’m talking about. Don’t lie to me.

When the ah-ha! pops fully formed into your head, you get a low down tingle and head to the Karaoke machine at the nearest and punch in “I Will Survive” and belt it out, off-key, scaring drunken patrons from the bar. But you don’t care.

Because you have the ah-ha!

I never got that feeling from Plinky. Until today. It could be that I was desperate, and willing to devote some of my precious time to a suggestion that didn’t thrill and entice me like…say…Karl Urban?. But, when I read this question, the answer was so obvious I just had to write about it.

Prompt: What would you send in a care package to a homesick friend spending six months aboard?

Obvious Answer: Me.

I mean…come on…so obvious! A friend is overseas…like over-the-sea, meaning in a foreign country and they are homesick? What’s going to make them feel better…my face or a care package full of moldy chocolate chip cookies that mice have gnawed with their little pointy teeth? Again. the answer is obvious. Me. Me. ME.

If this ever happened I know it would happen to one of my rich friends. The kind of rich friend that rents a six-room Italian villa with heated pool and two level wine cellar and who started to miss me when they were in the limo heading to the airport to catch their flight. 

The rich friend whose villa just happens to be up the road from George Clooney’s cosy home on Lake Como and who has been invited to a party with all the coolest celebrities but they are too depressed to RSVP because I’m not there to share the experience.

The rich friend who has VIP passes to all the runway shows in Milan and gets free sample clothing from all the top-name designers but who has put on weight because they are so depressed that I’m not there to tell them their ass DOES NOT look fat in that Versace backless wrapdress.

The rich friend who has their own private Lear jet on standby and it’s fully stocked with my favorite brand of vodka and the pilot is a dead ringer for Brad Pitt when he appeared in “Thelma & Louise” but they are too depressed to even notice because I’m not there to help them imagine the pilot with his shirt off.

Well…that just can’t happen. What kind of a friend would I be if I didn’t pack a bag and rush to their aid? Not someone I’d want as a friend, that’s for sure.

I’m getting righteously indignant on their behalf just thinking such a thing!

So, thank you, Plinky, for being a friend. Without you, I’d still be stuck at my desk, having a staring contest with writer’s block. Instead, I’m saying “Screw you, WB! Better luck next time, sucker!” and making myself a frothy cappuccino while I wait for my rich friend to pick up the phone.

The fact that this rich friend exists solely in my imagination does not mean I blinked, WB. Not. At. All. Let me introduce you to another close friend. Her name is Publish. *smirk*