Well, this is weird. (To me. Maybe not to you. I don't know your life!)

Today was massively uneventful, except for a handful of less than eventful events. Like...I went to the grocery store twice. Twice in one day! Who does that? I'll tell you: people who have terrible pipes (house pipes, not personal pipes, that plumbing works fine if you wanted to know) and yellow water (again, not a euphemism, I mean actual tap water) that gives them soap-mouth and, also, unquenchable thirst from, well, from some salty Cheetos. People who sit on their futon, eyeing the diminishing amount of water left in the last remaining bottle, and realize that if they're going to make it through the night with all its salty snacks, another trip to the grocery store for potable water must transpire.

[I reuse. I fill the same containers again and again.] [Yes, thank you, I feel very good about it.] [Reducing, reusing and recycling are part of my spider-killing, plant-killing, no-platform platform.]

And it's a good thing I went back to the store, because I wandered over to the Paperback Section of the Grocery Store. Warning: I'm about to get a little judgmental. But books are sort of my thing, and everyone should be an elitist snob about something in their life. I'm sorry if you read paperback novels that are sold by the greeting cards at the grocery store, but I think that aisle is where sentences go to DIE. It is like a word graveyard back there, next to the reduced-price greeting cards.

There were so many amazing covers, and so many brilliant titles, particularly with the Harlequin imprint (The Maiden and the Magnate; Too Hot to Handle; The Spaniard's Defiant Virgin). Then, I saw a section with covers that looked like this:

These are apparently part of a growing body of romance novels about pregnant heroines. I'm just surprised. I'm surprised that pregnancy would be so central a factor in bodice-ripping, bosom-heaving romance novels. It's sort of like the first time someone gave me a bacon flavored chocolate bar--never would've thought of it.

Slog-readers, is it a strange connection between the purple prose of Harlequin romance, and the hard physical labor and extreme joy of bringing people into the world? It's weird to me, but so are lots of things.

Ravished and aquiver,

Kendall

Morning.

Lately, I've been setting my alarm to get up early (by my standards), even though I don't absolutely have to. Then, I start accomplishing things. As it turns out, my apartment gets really lovely sunlight in the morning, and it feels good to tell myself I'm taking care of business while the rest of the world sleeps (mostly, I blog, and buzz around the house on espresso). But, in that spirit, I offer a Morning poem. I suggest reading it...in the morning.

Morning, by Billy Collins.

Why do we bother with the rest of the day,
the swale of the afternoon,
the sudden dip into evening,

then night, with his notorious perfumes,
his many-pointed stars?

This is the best--
throwing off the light covers,
feet on the cold floor,
and buzzing around the house on espresso--

maybe a splash of water on the face,
a palmful of vitamins--
but mostly buzzing around the house on espresso,

dictionary and atlas open on the rug,
the typewriter waiting for the key of the head,
a cello on the radio,

and, if necessary, the windows--
trees fifty, a hundred years old
out there,
heavy clouds on the way
and the lawn steaming like a horse
in the early morning.

I'm stumped.

First, I'm sorry. I'm sorry to all of you who couldn't focus on your work today, those of you who couldn't eat or drive well, because you were so overwhelmingly anxious to hear more about my whole soap-mouth scenario.

I've got double bad news. The taste hasn't gone away, and I haven't figured out why it's happening. Here's a list of potential explanations for this mildly (but increasingly) irritating affliction.

1. I've developed multiple personalities and, while Kendall is in a fugue state, a weird alternate personality (Clean Lizzy) takes over and gets to licking on bars of soap.

2. My body is protesting the amount of garbage it's been forced to deal with for oh, about a month: wine, potato chips, beer, chocolate, salty nuts, beer, wine, Mexican food, pretzels, pizza, chocolate, wine--and then it was lunchtime. I am being told, in no uncertain terms, to clean up my act.

3. God is protesting the swear words that I sprinkle throughout this blog, and absolutely abuse in actual conversations. He is telling me, in no uncertain terms, to clean up my act. (He's not going to win, though. Soap-mouth is easier to accept than a life devoid of profanity, and that's a platform I can stand on. Stand for. Stand with? Whatever.)

4. I'm being poisoned by sodium fluoride. What's weird is that this is actually the most reasonable explanation. Apparently, according to ehow.com, tap water can have unhealthy levels of sodium fluoride. Now, my water has always smelled like sulfur, and tasted like shit (sorry God), but it never made a soapy taste in my mouth. But, I also just came back from three weeks at home, so maybe my tolerance for sodium fluoride is low. Or the water--determined to kill me--has murderously upped the quantity of sodium fluoride. Regardless, we're off the tap water here at the spider house.

Addendum 1: If sodium fluoride sounds familiar to you, that's because it is in your toothpaste, and in water, and in fluoride (duh). And yes, it's a deadly poison, but only in high doses.

Addendum 2: Apparently, sodium fluoride poisoning causes not only soap-mouth, but also collapse, shock, numbness of mouth, dilated pupils, and pallor. So, friends, if I start presenting these symptoms, go ahead and get me to the ER, please. I'm talking to you, Moscovites, you're closest.

So, either I've got multiple personalities and one is a soap-eater; or I'm being punished by my body for being a garbage-gut; or by God for having a potty mouth; or tap water wants me dead.

On the bright side, I put flannel sheets on my bed today! So, if soap-mouth kills me in my sleep, I'll die very, very cozy.

Soapily, cozily yours,
Kendall

Platforms Can Kiss My Keester.

Like millions of Americans, I got an iPod for Christmas. Like millions of Americans, I got DVDs and a few gift cards. (I also got this, which I am pretty sure most Americans did NOT get--but most Americans don't have my mom for a mother.) (Aforementioned device has since been returned for cash money, so don't ask to borrow it).

The other gifts I received for Christmas? Self-doubt and confusion.
(Insert joke about how it is unfortunate that someone gave me a gift I already have. Ha.)

These gifts came packaged in two print magazines: Writer's Digest, and Writer's Digest WRITER'S YEARBOOK.

The Writer's Yearbook featured an article titled:

I have a feeling that I am not meant for "building platforms"--I have a hard time building a sandwich--but, I read on, because I am hoping, on some level, to make it as a writer. Plus, this blog is called "I can do lots of things," so it seems like I should at least try to make a platform. Maybe, building a platform is something I can do. Here's how the article starts:

"If you're wondering what the difference is between a completely unknown writer and a well-known writer, I can tell you. The well-known writer has influence. In order for you to build influence, you need to create and launch a platform that communicates your expertise, credibility and integrity..."

To me, this is...terrifying. But not to worry, the article has a numbered list of how to make your platform. It's so easy! Three easy steps!

1. Have a clearly identified body of expertise.

"The first thing you need to know and communicate is what defines you and your expertise. If you don't know who you are and what you uniquely offer, how will anyone else?"

So, just know who you are? I'm twenty-seven and I struggle with that question all day, every day, except when I'm watching TV. Which is why I watch so much TV.

Who I am: I'm Kendall. I'm tallish. I have bangs, three demanding plants, and a gift for finding myself in awkward situations.

Expertise: 1. Finding Hobo Spiders in Showers; 2. Memorizing Celebrity Baby Names; 3. Big-Talking (this term defines someone who staunchly refuses to put her money where her mouth is).

2. Have a Distinct Niche, so you can stand out.

"With your identity in hand, how are you different from all of the other writers out there?...Attention spans are getting shorter, so being able to summarize your strengths concisely is critical."

Hello, and welcome to my distinct niche! I'd like to shake your hand, but as you can see, I've already got my identity in hand. Pay attention! I'm distinct. There is not a single other twenty-seven year old woman, let alone a would-be writer trying to write a blog, anywhere out there. I am the ONLY ONE of my kind.

My distinct blog is called, "I Can Do Lots of Things," because I think, probably, I can do lots of things (although, last night under duress, I admitted that "I can do lots of things. I just don't"). Now, does that set me apart? What did you say? Did you ask what can I do, precisely? Hmm...well...Oh, I don't know. I just needed a title for a blog. Probably, it would be more accurately titled, www.BORINGSTUFFABOUTME.blogspot.com.

This is not going well.

3. An Ongoing Relationship with a Targeted Audience.

"Clarifying who your readers are will bring your platform into perspective...This applies to books, blogs, and everything else you write, no matter the form or genre. Once you identify your audience, and start speaking to it directly, the ongoing dialogue will spark all kinds of ideas, connections and opportunities..."

Audience, Hello. I am addressing you directly. You know, I have a very specific audience-type, and if you are reading this right now, guess what? You're in. You fit the bill. That's right: my targeted audience is anyone who will read what I write.

So, here is my platform: I have an identity (bangs; plants; awkwardness). I have expertise (spiders; celebrity babies; big-talking). I have a distinct niche (vaguely "doing things,"and then only in theory, not in practice). I'm targeting a specific audience (you, you big lug! it's you!).

Is this the sort of platform a person (or a blog) can stand on?

I think it is more like a platform a person (or a blog) falls off of, like a silly grandma-at-the-wedding-reception blooper from America's Funniest Home Videos.

I think my platform, maybe, is just that I'm not one for platforms? Ehhhh?

At least there are people out there trying to help us platform-less people get the notice we desire. (Thanks, CK, for the awesome link.)

Do you have a platform? Do you think you need one? Way more importantly, do I?

Abs. Crunches.

Kendall