Acts of God

I’m not an overly religious person, but I do believe in God. Here’s an example of why I think God is out there, looking out for us and that we’re not just left to the fickle finger of Fate.

Last week, my childhood best friend Pam who changed gyms some months ago emails me to say: “Hey, did you know Gold’s gym (which is the gym I belong to) has been bought out by Key Largo?” (which is her gym). “I can go to yoga again! Yippee!” This was the silver lining in a spiral of depression since Mattycakes no longer worked there (nor Jack), and by extension, Mattycakes’ girlfriend and my new best friend, Sin—no longer frequented Gold’s. That Wednesday, Pam comes to yoga. It is awesome.

This week Pam comes again to yoga. Afterwards, Holly, Pam, and I leave at the same time, making exciting plans to see the midnight showing of Harry Potter in July. We head to our cars. As I go to get into mine, which is parked across from Holly’s—Holly wigs and says, “Shit, I locked my keys in my car.” She threatens to hari-kari herself in shame (I only wish I was exaggerating this part), as I try to reassure her. I then get the bright idea to flag down Pam. Why?

Hellion: A History. In January when Holly locked her keys in her car, we had a hell of a time figuring out how to unlock the car again. (Fortunately that time a custodial guy was quite dexterous with a piece of coat hanger. God intervenes again.) Back then, I had called my friend Chris (Pam’s husband) to do some hypothetical questioning. “Say I lock my keys in my car and I don’t want to call the police to come break my window—do you know how I could get a slim jim or anything?” And he says, “Tyson has a kit. You can’t really get slim jims anymore.” Bloody thieves ruined it for all of us.

Tyson, for the sake of character development here, is Chris’s childhood best friend, and like Chris, he is a chivalrous, kind man who doesn’t make you feel stupid for doing idiotic things like locking keys in your car. He also makes this sexy little purr-growl sound if you ask, but that doesn’t have a lot to do with this story. (And he’s happily married, so no one get their hopes up, okay?)

Okay, so Holly wigs. I say, “Hang on” and I start flying across the parking lot after Pam. This is difficult in flip flops. It’s been raining a little, though the rain (and this is important to note) had momentarily stopped. “Pam!” I’m shouting like a maniac as she doesn’t see me, pulling away and going down the parking lot. “Pam!” I look like one of those frilled dragon lizards, waving my hands in the air and running after. Very attractive. She still doesn’t see me. Shit. Suddenly there is a piercing whistle, one of those redneck ones that I seriously need to learn—and lo and behold—Pam stops in the parking lot. I nearly kissed the stranger who did this—bless his beautiful hide. “I love you,” I shout at him as I trot up to Pam’s car and explain the predicament. I get in the car, and Pam is trying to figure out how to go over there—as Holly wanders up to the car too, clearly disoriented and still depressed. Holly gets in the car. Pam drives us over to our cars and we check to make sure Holly’s keys are indeed locked in her car.

They are.

Pam calls Chris, and Chris gives her Tyson’s number. I take Holly’s scissors away so she’ll stop threatening to commit hari-kari. Pam calls Tyson, who says, “No problem, be there in a minute.” And Pam gets off the phone. We all look depressed, so Pam, master organizer, says, “Let’s go to Shakey’s and get some ice cream. It’ll take him a while to get here.” We go. We get the brilliant idea to get some ice cream for Tyson (since he is doing this out of the goodness of his heart.) We stand in a hellaciously long line. We marvel that there are only two workers at this joint, but there are about a half dozen people in our line, and about 10 cars in the drive thru. Nice. We finally place our orders (except Pam was skipped—and never got her ice cream, poor woman) and wait for them to be filled. I think we all aged about a decade waiting for the ice cream. As we’re waiting, Holly and I suddenly notice Pam has disappeared. I mean, she’s short, but she’s slightly harder to misplace than this.

This time we both kinda wig, though rationally we know—she’s probably headed back to the cars to be there when Tyson shows up. But why’d she go by herself? After a few minutes, Holly agrees to venture off to check and I’ll wait for the orders. We both figure she’ll be back long before any of us get our ice cream. She disappears through the parking lot, and whaddayaknow? Our ice cream is ready. I collect it and I stand for a minute or two, then think, “Well, I’ll just head back.”

Now as I’m going, I notice this white SUV that recently parked. I do recall Pam saying something about Tyson driving a white SUV. I *think*, “I bet that’s Ty.”—but I’m not going to check unless I’m pretty sure. I glance over and it looks like an arguing deaf couple in the front seat. Lots of animated gestures and discussion. I think, Nah, can’t be Ty and go to hike off. Suddenly I hear, “Hellion! Over here!” and I turn, and it’s the arguing deaf couple, only it’s really Tyson and Pam. I happily skip over to the SUV and hand Tyson his ice cream, which he is quite delighted with.

Holly comes back with her car. After about 10 minutes. We all talk for a time, and we laugh and carry on and it’s good. Then we part ways; Pam and I head back to our cars—stopping over in the gym again for a quick potty break, then we all go home. I no sooner get into my car and turn onto the road to leave, and it starts downpouring, like literal sheets of wrathful rain. It downpours the entire 45 minute drive home. I could have floated home in an ark.

And to think I could have been out in the parking lot, trying to unlock Holly’s door with a coat hanger, standing in a downpour. Because as of a week before, Pam didn’t belong to our gym—and wouldn’t have been with us at yoga—and if she hadn’t been with us, we couldn’t have called in our friend-of-a-friend card to have her call Tyson. And hell, if she wasn’t married to Chris, who knew Tyson—we would have had the police coming to break one of Holly’s windows. That’s not luck, my friends, or serendipity—that’s God looking out for you.

Tin Cup

I admit it. I love Kevin Costner. I don’t necessarily love his movies, but I love that man. The first time I remember watching a Kevin Costner movie, I was 16 and it was Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves. He didn’t have an English accent—so why he was Robin Hood was anyone’s guess; he didn’t have a butt you could necessarily bounce a quarter off of since he does give rise to the theory that all white men have frog butts; and he had a mullet. Then again, pretty much everyone had a mullet then—so that could be overlooked.

None of these facts mattered to me. The man was hot—H-A-W-T, hot, and I couldn’t wait until it came out on VHS so I could own it. He instantly rocketed to the top of my list of men I’d love to marry (or whatever). He remained there for a good ten years; and he’s shifted up and down the listing over the years, but he’s definitely still in the top twenty of “Boy, would I—and where are my handcuffs” category.

Soon after listing him thusly, I got to do some catching up with other movies of his: Silverado (boy, is he adorable in this!) and Bull Durham (which in my opinion is the definitive Costner movie). Other movies came: Dances With Wolves (good); Waterworld (geez, Kev, what were you thinking?) and JFK (jury’s still out on that one). Then came Tin Cup.

Arguments can be made and defended this is really Bull Durham with golf clubs. You would be right—and you would be wrong. But it’s Kevin Costner at what he does best. Cocky, but insecure good old boy who has to overcome himself and then wins the girl in the end. I’m assuming it’s not a real acting stretch for darlin’ Kevin, but who cares?

The dialogue and actions in this movie are quite hysterical. Or maybe it’s only hysterical to me since I can identify with said hero who would willingly self-destruct just to make a point. “Give me another ball.” The last fifteen minutes of the movie are just painful to watch, but you can’t turn away. Fortunately, it all works out anyway. Sorta. He at least gets the girl. (And by the way, when he starts kissing her on the couch? *fans self*)

Since quotations and movie quotes are possibly my favorite thing in the world—you should see the number of Quotation Reference books I have on my shelves and the scores of quotes stored on my computer—I will list my favorite quotes from this movie.

Roy 'Tin Cup' McAvoy: Sex and golf are the two things you can enjoy even if you're not good at them.

Dr. Molly Griswold: There's no such thing as semi-platonic.
Roy 'Tin Cup' McAvoy: Well there ought to be.

Roy 'Tin Cup' McAvoy: Does my inner child need a spanking?

Do you have any favorite movie quotes? Any favorite Kevin quotes? Favorite Kevin Costner kisses? Because I have to say the sex scene from Bull Durham is definitive for me! Sign me up and lay me in the spilled milk, baby.

Tuesday Is Almost As Good As Monday

My computer died. My new laptop I bought in January and I'd already returned (a week after I bought it) to replace the CD drive. Yes, wouldn't come on.

SILVER LINING: Still under warranty, supposedly, so it will be fixed. Plus I have a real reason to procrastinate on my novel. Which I wasn't writing.

I took it to the store and they shipped it off. Geek Squad Guy (not the same one I was totally crushing on from last time, but not bad) looked moderately concerned. "You realize they might not be able to save your data." Translation: God, Lady, I hope you hadn't written your Great American Novel on this thing because it's GONE, GONE, GONE.

SILVER LINING: I have two flash drives, and strangely, earlier in the week, I had recopied everything to the flash drive. Thank you, God.

Monday I worked on folders, applications, emails, et al. I accomplished little.

SILVER LINING: Possible job security...but only if I get everyone completed by the start of summer semester like I need to.

Monday night I went to a dinner my boss invited me and other co-workers to, to thank us for helping with his grant. I ate too much; I'm even more of a cow.

SILVER LINING: The dessert had rum in it, so I didn't much care that my supposed diet was blown

Monday I also got another email from Coffee Date Guy #4 (or is he three?)--asking me if I want to go out this week. Hmmm, my subtle disappearing act and inability to return phone calls has not convinced him I'm not remotely interested.

SILVER LINING: I'll finally get to use "I'm looking for a love like the Titanic and you're just not it" like I've been dying to for years now. Maybe that will spell it out. Maybe I'll need to work on bursting into tears--it's worked remarkably for the men who've broken up with me.

Monday I finished The Leopard Prince and The Raven Prince, and nothing else I've tried reading has caught my interest as much as they did.

SILVER LINING: I plan to fly by the library tonight and drop off books. Maybe my gym partner will be cool with me doing a fly by the NEW BOOKS shelves for something to read. Because God, if I don't find something to read, I might actually have to do something like write on my own story, which I've still yet to complete chapter 14.

I have to go to the gym tonight to make up for being a cow yesterday.

SILVER LINING: Nothing really. But I should get home early enough to watch The Holiday again and see Jude Law do that little cute dialogue of "Look at you. You're already better than you think you are." *husky laugh* Oh, don't I want to be.

Only like 40 days until Summer School starts. *eyes mountain of folders*

SILVER LINING: It's only 30 days until POTC3 comes out. I'm going to need some Jack when I finally collapse into a heap of overwrought nerves for being the worst secretary on the planet.

Anyone got any problems--and silver linings?

Friday Music Blog, a Possible New Routine

I thought I would start a routine. Mondays are probably “Random Hellion Topics” and Wednesdays would be my movie blog; and Fridays, joyful, wonderful perfect Fridays would be music. *hops in the air like King David*

This week since I’ve been on such a Stranger Than Fiction kick, I thought I would focus on my favorite song from the movie, “Whole Wide World.” If you’ve known me more than five minutes, you know I obsess easily. POTC comes to mind. (5 weeks, guys! FIVE WEEKS! 35 DAYS!) And if I fall in love with a song, I will play it over and over and over again. Case in point, in college, while dying my hair (which is approximately a 45 minute process), I put George Strait’s Famous Last Words of a Fool on repeat as the girls were dying my hair. Around minute 43, my friend Nicki, who is unaware a ‘repeat’ button exists, asks, “When does this song end?” (*sounding faintly desperate, faintly depressed*) “Oh, I’m sorry, I have this on repeat. It’s been playing again and again.” Nick’s face was actually quite priceless in that moment. I’m still not allowed to play that song in her presence.

Such is the case with “Whole Wide World.” I wasn’t content with just getting the movie. I had to buy the song. Then I put the song on repeat one day, and had my door shut (so the co-workers wouldn’t catch on)—and listened to it in absolute bliss. The song is 2 minutes and 59 seconds long. There are 480 minutes in an 8 hour day; so I got to listen to approximately 160 times. Before anyone starts sending me Xanex for my OCD, I *did* put the song into a mix of songs the next day. So now I only get to hear it about 7 times a day.

Now that everyone is thanking God that they don’t actually have to hang out with me in real life, let me repeat that moment in the movie when Harold sings this song is so sweet…and sexy. He has his eyes closed, he’s not a great singer—but Ana watches and we see her start mouthing the words with him. “I’d go the whole wide world, I’d go the whole wide world, just to find her…I’d go the whole wide world, I’d go the whole wide world to find out where they hide her….” Then Ana sits by him, he sings another half-verse and she attacks him with a kiss. Which is good because I was getting ready to attack him with a big wet one if she wasn’t going to!

And if anyone watches How I Met Your Mother, there is an episode that features a song that plays over and over again—and it’s quite funny.

Is there any song you don’t get tired of? Why? What magic does it conjure for you?

Stranger Than Fiction: Movie Blog

I love movies. I love to rewatch movies; and I adore DVDs because I can immediately rewind bits of it and watch something again and again. When Stranger Than Fiction came to big screen, I, of course, went. A writer with writer's block who is inadvertently going to kill someone who actually exists? Front row, holding popcorn, don't talk to me.

The dialogue is hysterical at times; the characters are real and heartbreaking and wonderful. We all wish we could write characters that are as big as life as Harold Crick, who is admittedly the most boring, reviled man on the planet--and yet, you can't help wonder what will happen to him and love him for all his quirks.

The scene where he brings Anna the "flours" to apologize--I cried. I mean, flowers are a thoughtful gesture to begin with; but flours for a baker? That's the most romantic thing I've ever seen. And then she invites him up to her apartment, and he sees the guitar and she suggests he play a song. "I won't laugh." No, he says, maybe some other time. She doesn't press, but when she goes to the kitchen, you see him think about it. After all, this is a movie about the imminent death of Harold--and he realizes, he might not have another time to play her his song--and so, he plays it. It's shakey; it's a bit painful; and it's heartbreakingly sweet and romantic. And I definitely started crying again.

So this blog is for Harold, an inspiration to all us boring, reviled non-heroes who are just living our normal lives when it suddenly occurs to us that we don't have forever. "When I was young boy, my mother said to me there's only one girl in the world for you. She probably lives in Tahiti. I'd go the whole wide world, I'd go the whole world just to find her...."

And because Harold is in love with numbers:

POTC3 comes out in 36.46 days, or about 5 weeks, and 1 1/2 days.

Eloisa's new book comes out in 40.46 days.

The new Ranger book comes out in 61.46 days (2 months, 1 1/2 days)

JQ's Secret Diaries comes out in 68.46 days

Harry Potter vanquishes Voldie in 93.46 days. (3 months, 3 1/2 days)

Sherrilyn Kenyon's next Darkhunter book is out in 110.46 days.

Sean Patrick O’Brien ducked behind the counter of the nearly empty bar and glanced through the spare bottles for a new Bacardi. He knew he had one; he saw it only last night. Dusty perhaps, but available. His brother, Dylan, prided himself on having a variety beyond the longneck standbys. He spied the tall clear container behind a Jose Cuervo and snagged it, setting the potent brew blindly on the counter above him as he did a quick account of the stock. By the time he stood again, he realized he’d broken cardinal bartending rule number one.

Never let your guard down.

Of course, his grandmother would say that rule number one, bartending or no, is that you cannot escape your fate. Very Irish, his grandmother. Considering who had just entered the room, it was only fitting he could hear his grandmother chortling, for certainly his Fate had just entered the room.

He sensed it in the way the young woman squared her shoulders; the way she surveyed the bar with searching liquid eyes; and the way she fooled with the train on her poofy, white wedding gown.

She held a wedding bouquet in one gloved hand, and the other hand lifted to rearrange her veil which seemed to have caught itself momentarily in the door. Her bare shoulders were a creamy alabaster white, like she and the wedding gown had been carved from one piece of marble. She straightened her tiara without having to look in the mirror, no doubt a crown being a part of her everyday wardrobe. This town was only big enough for one princess: Julia Trinity Davenport. She even had a princess-like name.

The bar clatter quieted almost instantly, Pete and Tommy’s baseball debate pausing in mid-rant. The final tinny strains of Hank Junior on the jukebox tinkled to silence as Sean and the sporadically seated customers watched her every move with rapt stares. With the shutting whoosh of the bar door, the hush became as eerie as the eye of a hurricane, and they waited for the rest of the storm to follow.

Actually, he waited to see the storm to follow. Brides did not float into Dylan’s Wild Irish Rose in full wedding regalia everyday, and this was hardly the place for a wedding reception. Dylan had certainly said nothing about hosting one. The dark wood and smoke dirtied walls made a stark contrast against her pristine white gown. She looked as if she’d stepped from the pages of Today’s Bride, perhaps a depiction for ‘themes of the Middle-of-Nowhere’.

With a final nervous arrangement, Julia Trinity Davenport squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and glided to the bar as if nothing were out of the ordinary, her heels clicking invisibly beneath her satin gown and echoing throughout the room, her wedding veil sailing behind as if caught in the trade winds. And Sean Patrick O’Brien fell in love for the second time in his life, with the same girl no less. His heart thudded in his chest as the familiar waves of awareness swept over him, and he shook his head to clear the lustful fog that suddenly enveloped him. Whoa, old man, what are you thinking? You’re over her, remember? Especially since she’s obviously just married someone else.

Yeah, right, tell that to his subconscious. He’d been dreaming about her for months now, ever since he started working on the corporate merger. He had a better chance of forgetting his own mother. His dreams never even came close to the reality though. God, she was gorgeous. Middling height, dainty, and full of aching curves, she was his every high school fantasy. He remembered her bouncing blonde curls she wore in a ponytail, and her long slender legs in her private school uniform.
She wasn’t a young girl now, but wonderful ripe and ready woman. She stood nearly eyelevel now, obviously stepping up on the barstool step that ran the length of the counter floor, leaning against the bar top on her elbows. A hint of expensive perfume wafted up to tease him, a scent that was all too familiar. Coconuts and lime. Put the lime in the coconut and drink them both up.

Her wide thickly-lashed blue-eyed gaze held his with no hint of recognition in their Pacific depths, and she grinned and thumped her empty hand on the counter.

“I need a goddamned drink.”

It was like hearing an angel swear. He could almost see the white feathers fluttering to the ground. He hadn’t heard her right. He was sure. Though it had been twelve years since their night together, her words would not be about liquor and lack utter recognition of the man she lost her virginity to.

She looked utterly composed and unruffled, as if she thought this was an ordinary request, which it might have been if the customer weren’t garbed in a wedding dress. “Pardon?”

“A drink,” she enunciated slowly, continuing to smile her famous Davenport smile: white, perfect, and slightly fake. “A shot, a pint, a nip, a bit of mother’s milk, or the hair of the dog that bit me, whatever. Set ‘em, Joe. A bride walks into a bar, what do you think she’s looking for? Honeymoon tips?”

Julia’s brow wrinkled and another unangelic word fell from her lips. Sean blinked, and she sighed in explanation. “I seem to have forgotten my credit card. This dress didn’t exactly come with a credit card holder, I’m afraid, an oversight, I’m sure, but I seriously need a drink.” She turned her attention to the still watching customers, Ed, Pete, and Tommy, and widened her grin. “I can’t begin to tell you how badly I need a drink.” She reached for the Barcardi, eyeing it speculatively before setting it back. “Not this though. Not strong enough.”

Tommy lifted his half-empty longneck to point at Sean. “You heard her, Joe. Pour the girl a drink already.”

Julia beamed, turning her attention back to Sean. “Finally, a man after my own heart. A shot of Jose, please. Make it a double.”

“Tequila?”

She slapped her white rose and orange blossom bouquet on the counter, flower petals flying upwards from the abuse. “Seriously, if you’re going to repeat everything I say, I’m going to pour it myself.” She lifted her skirts and climbed onto the barstool before flinging her body across the countertop and hanging over the side, her veil flipping over her head and trailing onto the floor.

Before Sean could motion her away or even gape in wonder at her cleavage nearly popping its borders, she opened the cabinet, snagged the bottle of Jose from its location, and wiggled back onto the barstool, batting away yards of the veil’s gauzy opaque material. This time when he took in her appearance, one lock of champagne colored hair fell from its orderly topknot and curled against her forehead, over her eye. She blew at it twice before giving up.

“Seriously, I’m not above drinking straight from the bottle. If you want this done in an orderly manner, I suggest finding a shot glass.”

Sean reached above the bar where the glasses were kept and plopped a glass for her use. She poured a drink, then set the bottle aside. “Lime please.”

When Sean turned back with a saucer of limes, Julia was staring at her hands as if just realizing she wore gloves. “Here, tug this….” she demanded, as Sean scooted a shaker of salt near the limes. She held up her satin-gloved hand, and Sean obliged her. How could he not? She might ask for help removing the dress next and he didn’t want to be disqualified because he wasn’t willing to help with a mere glove.
Come to think of it, this is how several of the dreams had concluded. Though in his dreams, he never removed wedding gowns from her delicious sweetly-curved body.

He helped remove her glove, and she picked up the shaker of salt, licking her wrist. As she sprinkled, she slanted a look back at him. “Thanks for the assistance. You are?”

She licked her wrist again to get the salt. He didn’t think he’d ever seen anything more provocative than her pink, kitten-like tongue stroking her skin. Too bad he hadn’t offered his own wrist, or even a body shot. A body shot would have been good.

She snapped back her drink and popped the lime piece in her mouth. She was a curious blend of lady and bawd. Her shoulders shimmied as she swallowed the taste of tequila away, and she grinned again. “Better. Couple more of these, and I might forget just how much I paid for this gown.” She leaned on her folded arms, intense and candid in her demeanor. That, at least, had not changed a whit. She cocked an eyebrow at him to indicate she had not forgotten she had asked him a question and was waiting for a hint of verbal intelligence.

Sean poured her another shot instead. She didn’t recognize him. Sure, he’d been gone for almost twelve years, but hell, he’d been their gardener that entire summer before the night in the gazebo. Didn’t women remember their first time?
Oh, the ironies. He dreamed about her; and she couldn’t even remember his name.

“Joe, of course; you knew me right off. You must be psychic.” Sean narrowed a warning look at the others to keep silent. He didn’t know why he gave her a fake name. Only that if by chance she recalled Dylan had a brother named Sean, a boy she used to kiss and more, he didn’t want her suddenly going, “Oh, gosh, it’s so great to see you again! I almost didn’t recognize you.” Yeah, well, no almost to it. She didn’t recognize him at all.

“Joe,” she repeated, oblivious to his ill-humor. “Well, keep ‘em coming, Joe. This has been a hell of a day.” Lick, salt, lick, drink, shudder, suck, thunk. She wiggled on her perch, her dress rustling. “Oh, yeah, this is more like it.” She looked back at the regulars, her gaze seeming to narrow slightly on the tall, lanky regular in the Cardinals t-shirt. “Tommy, right? Tommy Powers. You played pitcher on the baseball team in high school, right?”

Oh, sure, she remembered him.

Tommy straightened on his barstool as if he had been acknowledged by the Queen. “Yes, Miss Davenport…er….” He stopped.

A pained looked flickered on her angelic features before she schooled herself back into poker-player composure. “Call me Julia, Tommy. We’re all on a first name basis here. Your name is still on the boards for most strikeouts, you know.”

Sean filled her shot glass a third time without prompting. Maybe there hadn’t been a wedding. She tossed it back like a frat boy, then smiled at Pete. “Peter Lansing.”

“Everyone just calls me Pete,” the shorter, slightly balding man corrected, then flustered to a halt.

“You bet. Your daughter, Emma, is in my kindergarten class. She is a sweetie. Got your wife, Katie’s, eyes. You’re a good man, Pete. You showed up for your wedding.”

Oh, hell.

Julia looked back at Sean, her blue eyes slightly watery from unshed tears, but she blinked them away, took the Jose from Sean and poured her own drink. She did the ritual again, more slowly this time as if every movement was an effort.

Then she shook her head, snapping her shoulders back defiantly. She looked over at Ed, smiling again, an empty shell of a smile. “Hi, Ed, I’ll probably be going to your place next.”

“Order anything you want, sweetheart, it’s on me,” he returned. “In fact,” he nodded at Sean, “put this on my tab too.”

“Thank you,” she whispered. She tapped her empty glass again. “Pour another, Joe. I don’t want to spill any.” She slurred it ever so slightly. “Joe, Joe. It doesn’t sound right. Can I just call you Irish? You look rather Irish, you know, must be the hair.” Her gaze focused on him intently, narrowed a bit as she studied him, a wrinkle forming in the middle of her forehead.

“Princess, you can call me anything you want,” Sean promised, reluctantly pouring her a fourth shot. She was going to need help getting home. No way was she fit to drive in this condition. Come to think of it, how did she get here?

“Thank you, Irish.” So polite. So much a Davenport. Polite to the core.

“You want to talk about it, Princess?”

Her fingers reached out and rubbed one of the loose rose petals between her bare pads. She didn’t say anything for a long moment, and it was as if he held his breath for her answer. Come to think of it, he didn’t think he could hear the others breathing either. “Not really. He just didn’t show up.”

She downed the fourth shot without preamble, pushing it forward for a refill. “He called this morning to say he had to go to a business meeting, and I told him if he didn’t show up at 2 p.m.” She glanced at the others. “That’s when the wedding was supposed to be, you know. Of course, you know. The entire town knows I was supposed to get married today, and now they’ll all know I didn’t.” She shook her head. “Anyway, if he didn’t show up by two, I was leaving.” She twisted the shot glass in her hand. “Two-o-clock came without him, and I left. Anne helped me out the window.” She nodded, in her own world. “Good friend, Anne. I didn’t snag the dress or anything.”

Sean poured a fifth shot. Perhaps not a great idea, but anyone who got left at the altar deserved as much liquor as they could hold. He did not know what else to do with a crying woman, a jilted bride no less, and he had a feeling none of the others did either. The responsibility would fall to him since he was the one in charge of the bar and tequila, and his instincts said pour.

Pete cleared his throat. “It’s a fetching dress. You look quite beautiful.” The others immediately followed suit with agreeing nods and grunts.

Julia sniffed before smiling at him. “Thank you, guys. I appreciate it.” She chewed thoughtfully on her bottom lip a moment. “I should be angry, shouldn’t I?” She nodded to answer her own question. “I mean, I’m angry, don’t get me wrong. I’m fucking pissed, excuse my French, but at the same time I want to sit in the middle of the floor and cry.”

Sean opened his mouth to try to convince her not to, but the others beat him to it. Actually Ed reached into his pocket for a clean white handkerchief and handed it over. “Go right ahead, darling. A good long cry never hurt anything.”

She tucked the handkerchief in her gloved hand, and Sean couldn’t help but ask. “Your groom didn’t show up to the wedding because he had a meeting?”

“Richard. Richard Harrison. I forget, you wouldn’t know who he is, Irish, not like Tommy, Ed, and Pete here.”

“Yeah, we know Richard,” Tommy said, sounding less than enthused by the acquaintance. “Good riddance, I say. Sweetheart, you deserved better than him. Be lucky you don’t know him, S…Joe.”

Sean was all too aware of who Richard Harrison was. He wouldn’t have wished him on anyone, let alone on Julia Trinity Davenport, even if she didn’t remember him.
Julia sighed. “Richard had a last minute meeting pop up at noon, an emergency meeting that would be the life and death of, well, everything, and he decided it took priority over our wedding. I would wait; New York would not.”

Ah, New York. The Brookering Brothers. They had been pacing in the sidelines, twisting their hands and wondering if they really wanted in. Apparently they did. Interesting.

“You mean to tell me no one else in his office could take care of it while he got married?” Of course not. Richard was the one with the connections with the Brookering Brothers, not Oliver Davenport. No time to waste once they agreed. Sean wasn’t sure if he wouldn’t have cancelled a wedding if they had been on the line.

Well, surely not. Who in their right mind would leave Julia at the end of the altar? Hell, he knew Richard was an idiot, but he didn’t think he was that big of an idiot.

Julia waved her salt hand. “Exactly my point; however, Richard said the CEO of the company was used to dealing with him and refused to work out the situation with anybody else.”

“And Richard chose the meeting?” He really needed to come to grips with this. Still, he had Harrison and Davenport panicked. This was good.

She nodded. “A million dollar deal? You bet he did. In financial loss, my wedding was nothing compared to what he would have lost with this company. He promised to pay for a new wedding if it came down to it.”

Sean nodded, sliding her new drink toward her. “And what did you say?”

“Oh, I couldn’t repeat it,” she said, her voice at once demure. She finished the fifth drink as peculiarly as the first, making the same grimace-smile. She sighed, relaxing on the barstool. “I think I feel a little fuzzy.” She stared up at the ceiling.

“Good.” He reached for a water glass and filled it with ice water. “Here. Before you fall under the counter.”

“Good idea.” She picked it up to take a sip. As she had it halfway to her mouth, a cell phone rang. He heard it, he knew. Only it seemed to be coming from her breasts.

“Are your breasts ringing?”

She gave him a look and put the glass back down, reaching into the top of her gown with one hand and pulling out a tiny cell phone. She waved it at him, and he couldn’t help himself. “Anything else you’re hiding in there?”

She ignored the comment, but not before she let an unladylike snort escape her lips. Yeah, she was definitely buzzed. A Davenport would never snort. She flipped open the phone and put it to her ear. “Hello?” She definitely didn’t sound friendly now. Peevish, he thought. Very peevish, and very clipped and clear for someone who had just downed five shots of tequila. She seemed to listen for about two seconds before she snapped the phone closed and disconnected the call.

It immediately rang again. Julia didn’t pause as she dropped the ringing phone into the glass of ice water. The trendy looking hardware gave a watery trill before gurgling, then dying outright. The sound was rather disturbing. Sean swallowed and looked back at her. He had a feeling it wasn’t the phone she wanted to dump in the icy deep.

“Who called?”

“Wrong number.”

“And the second time? The one you didn’t answer.”

She shrugged, one alabaster shoulder lifting. “Also a wrong number. If I had known you were so interested in being my personal secretary, I’d have let you screen the calls for me.” She clapped her palm against the counter. “So how about another drink? I think I’m getting my second-wind for this now.”

He nodded, grabbing another water glass and filling it with ice. She frowned when he slid the ice water to her. “That’s not what I had in mind.”

“Just what exactly do you have in mind, Princess?”

Her mouth opened to reply, most likely with something smart, but a sudden noise interrupted them. “Julia!”

“Oh, no,” she said instead, almost hunching on her perch. Sean looked over her head at the tall, stodgy looking man who strode into the bar as if he owned the place. Richard Harrison.

Well, it seemed the real storm had arrived.

Sean immediately glanced back at Julia who’d straightened, her expression clear of any intimidation her ex-fiancé might have caused. She was tugging her glove back on, her shoulders drawn back so far she looked like a candidate for the Marines.

“Richard,” she drawled. He watched her turn on her seat and meet his gaze coolly. Sean wanted to grin like a simpleton at her proud behavior. She certainly had style. “How did you find me? I was sure I removed the ankle tracking device….”
“The white limo outside with the ‘Just Married’ sign was a dead giveaway. Never mind this is the only bar in town, and you have a weakness for Cuervo.” Richard drawled superciliously, “Not unlike your mother really.”

Julia frowned. “Oh, let’s not discuss mothers, Richard, or we’d have to get into who you’re the son of. Aren’t you supposed to be at a meeting?”

“The meeting concluded a while ago. I came to the church, but you weren’t there.”

“Funny. I had the same experience about forty-five minutes ago. Maybe we could form a support group. People who get left at the altar.”

Richard frowned, and Sean decided Richard didn’t seem as amused by her wit as he was. “You’re blowing this out of proportion. I told you I was only going to be a little late. I would have explained, again, if you hadn’t hung up on me.”

“And I already told you what I thought. This conversation is over.” She paused for effect. “We are over.”

“Let’s not discuss this here. Come home with me. Let me explain.”

“There is nothing to explain. You explained it quite effectively this morning, and when I told you if you were not there for our wedding we were over, I thought I made myself crystal clear. You didn’t show; we are over.”

Richard tsked, closing the final bit of distance between them. His voice lowered, but the occupants of the bar were so quiet it didn’t matter. “You’re overwrought. Come home with me now; calm down and think this over. You’ll see this is not as bad as you’re making it.”

“Negotiation with me is not an option, Richard. Now if you don’t want a scene, I suggest you leave.”

“Julia,” his voice warned. Richard took a deep breath. “You have no where to go. Your apartment lease ran out last week, and you’ve been spending the last few days with your parents. It’s either them or me.”

Julia’s laugh sounded hollow. “And you think I’d pick you over them. Don’t flatter yourself. I don’t plan to spend the night with either of you.”

“Where will you go? The bed and breakfast? It’s full of wedding guests. Anne’s one-room basement apartment? Where’s she going to put you? In the kitchen pantry?”

She shook her head, pointing her thumb behind her. “Nope. I’m going home with Irish.”

Sean suddenly found himself the recipient of several stares, most of them intrigued, one of them angry, and one of them mischievous and daring. Two realizations occurred to him. Number one, he was in big trouble, and number two, it seemed Princess did indeed want help in removing her gown.

Predictability

I find men frequently like to argue with me (why? It’s not pleasant) and say that fantasy writing isn’t predictable like romance writing is. In fact, most suggest I try reading a fantasy novel to ratchet up my intelligence level…and to prove that it’s not predictable.

It’s predictable. It’s as predictable as a Friends’ episode. In fact, my friend Jackie and I took my list of “predictable fantasy writing quirks” to a fantasy movie once and checked them off as they happened. They all happened. In fact, we got to laughing so hard when the sidekick died that we couldn’t even mourn the poor fellow’s passing.

The List:

1) Rename everything some unpronounceable. Horses aren’t horses in this world, even if they look exactly like them. They’re called fogrips or something equally incomprehensible.

2) The hero is nobody. In fact, it’d be really cool if you find him in a gutter or something. The lower he lives, the greater it’s going to be when he’s crowned king at the end.

3) The hero doesn’t believe he’s the one who’s been tapped for this adventure; he denies it and tries to avoid going. It annoys everyone.

4) The hero has some goofy sidekick, usually not as a good-looking or skilled, but definitely has the better come-backs. The sidekick is the master of understatement.

5) The hero will encounter a mentor (sometimes the sidekick will be a partial mentor, but usually the mentor is either going to be some long-bearded white haired magician wise man type—or the ethereal sorceress type.) He’ll learn a lot and ask a lot of dumb questions.

6) The story is always a quest. We’re looking for a sword, a ring, a grail bearer, a princess, something. And of course, the FATE of the world hinges on the outcome of finding this person in a limited amount of time or someone more evil than Satan will take over and ruin everything

7) Villain has no redeeming qualities whatsoever. No backstory. Typically two-dimensional, so we will always support the hero.

8) The first to die is the mentor. Don’t worry though—he’ll usually show up as a ghost or a figment to counsel when you least expect it

9) The next to bite it is the sidekick. After all, the hero must face the Supreme Ordeal alone to prove he didn’t need any help. (The woman he acquires half-way during the quest doesn’t count because we all know women aren’t any good in a brawl.)

10) He marries the girl he acquires half-way through the story at the end…she gets to be queen to his king. And don’t worry about the whole Divine Destiny here. He could have been born of a peasant, but we find out that he was actually the bastard son of the previous king who was tragically killed by the villain.

11) Oh, almost forgot one. To keep this from being truly trite writing, make sure you put in your own liberal/political platform (i.e. deforestation, global warming, war, etc) within the novel so no one will notice the predictable mentor and sidekick hanging out with your hero, and so English professors can sermon on and on about what you were actually talking about when you made up that totally overdone predictable quest for a ring (sword, girl, grail) to save the world.

Anything I’m forgetting? Anything that always appears in a fantasy/sci-fi flick or book?

Hellion's Music Blog

So like a week ago I got Gary Allan's greatest hits. I have his other CDs. If you only own one country CD, it should be his Smoke Rings In The Dark. Hot, hot, hot. I think my favorite song on this album is "Cowboy Blues"--where it has the lines, "I strap on my guitar like a .45; I pray each night my aim is true; I'm shooting for the heart of looking in your eyes; singing the Cowboy Blues..."

I barely know what it means. It doesn't really matter because he could be singing out of the phone book, and his growly, moany, dark-sinful-wicked voice would make it sound like... *pauses to think of the perfect metaphor, gets distracted by his photo* Sex? The man sounds like sex in the summer rain. Really good sex in the summer rain.

Although what would I know about really good sex, let alone RGS that occurs in the summer rain? It was the best I could explain it, being anytime I hear him come on the radio--time just stops for me and I'm totally into the moment that is Gary Allan. Nothing else matters but this moment with him. (Now if I could only have some sex that was like that.)

Anyone else want to check out his tattoos? Anyone else ever heard of him? Favorite songs or tattoos?

Post Date Highlights

1.) Referred to romance novels as "soft core porn" (this after he brought the topic up)
2.) Not gay, nor did he show me videos of him shooting pigs
3.) Suckiest first date kiss ever. The gay guy I dated kissed better.
4.) We both fidget horribly, were beleagered by long silences, and obviously both self-conscience and geeky
5.) Paid for dinner. (Macaroni Grill, I had the Chicken Canneloni. Very good.)
6.) He likes cats. And Terry Prachett.
7.) No spark.
8.) We attended the same Super Bowl party 2 years ago--and we don't remember each other at all. He does remember Holly (my friend), who also likes cats.

Tiff & Terr think I should go on a second date--to make sure I wasn't imagining my boredom and irritation, because I shouldn't discount positive aspects like, "not gay" and "employed" and "a pulse" as dating material.

Obviously my soft core porn has ruined me. I prefer 'spark' and good kisses.

Good Old Monday

POTC3: comes out in 45 days
Ranger: Babes us in 70 days. (What's that? 9 weeks?)
Harry: Hopefully doesn't die in 102 days.

Coffee Date is tomorrow, after work.

Gary Allan, by the way, the best thing to happen to Country Music.

Weekend...er...WeekDAY Date Update with MsHellion

I have emailed the quarry.

The quarry has relayed the following facts and trivia of his person:

1) He's part Scottish (MacDonald, actually)
2) He reads
3) He likes to write--or used to, at any rate. Wishes to write again.
4) He likes a wide variety of movies--he even listed "Finding Neverland" and "Pride & Prejudice" which doesn't usually make guy lists. He does have some very guy movies listed too, before anyone gets suspicious.
5) He's a big LOTR fan--before the movies.
6) He's sarcastic...but seems to be so in a non-harmful sort of way
7) He wants to meet for coffee

What I have interpreted from these facts:

1) He's Scottish? I like him already.
2) He reads? That'll be for a nice change of pace.
3) He writes? Hmmm...we'll have to see. That trait sometimes backfires.
4) He watches movies? Finally. Really tired of meeting the short attention span guys who can't stand movies.
5) LOTR fan? Better than a Trekkie...and I have a better chance of keeping up with any obscure references.
6) He's sarcastic? Good, he can keep up.
7) Coffee? Eeek. The last four or so coffee dates have gone wonderously awry...but I suppose I'll chance it. He is partly Scottish. That should trump the anxiety, right?

So what do you all think? Yea or nay?

Application to Date Hellion

Name: _____________________________________ (if your name has ‘Michael’ or any of the nicknames thereof in it, please discard application—or I will)

DOB: / / Astrological Sign: ___________________________

Job: Yes No If yes, what is it? ________________________

Single: Yes No If yes, are you sure? _____________________

Psychotic?: Yes No If no, are you sure? ______________________

Rent/Own/Live with Mom (circle one)

Car (model): _________________ Year: ______
Speed? ________ Color: ________________
Check here if you don’t own a car []

List your three most positive traits:

1.
2.
3.

List your three most nega…never mind, I’ll figure that out on the first date….

List your three favorite movies:

1.
2.
3.

(Discard application is any of these movies have Arnold Schwarzenegger in it.)

List your three favorite leisure activities:

1.
2.
3.

List three places you’d take me on a date—and what we’d do there:

1.
2.
3.

True/False:

1. You are looking for a love like the Titanic
2. You love to take videos of yourself shooting a pig—and show them to friends (and dates)
3. Your father thinks every woman you’ve ever dated is a hideous cow, but you don’t care what he thinks—because you’re not shallow.
4. You think I’d make beautiful babies.
5. You drive like Bo Duke.
6. You believe parking is an acceptable first date activity
7. You know Elvis is alive
8. Napping is an acceptable leisure activity
9. Getting married on a pirate ship would be the bomb!
10. Getting married would be the 10th circle of Hell

Multiple Choice:

Hellion wants to go to a Ren Faire. What do you say?
A. You say, “What’s a Ren Faire?”
B. You don your nearest pirate gear and go with her
C. You give her your wallet and send her off with a group of her friends so she can flirt outrageously with people who will dress as pirate
D. b and c
E. c, but you also listen to her when she gets home and talks about it for the next week and a half

Hellion wants to go to a chick flick. What do you say?
A. “Let’s go. I love how Ryan Gosling fills out his jeans.”
B. “Are you sure you wouldn’t want to see the Will Ferrell movie?”
C. “Fine. But you owe me a blow job.”
D. “Sure. There’s bound to be some naked boobs in the movie somewhere, right?”
E. b, c, or d, but then you also buy popcorn and soda to make up for the fact you’re a schmuck

Hellion wants to have sex. What do you say?
A. “Do we have to?”
B. “Fuck yes.”
C. “I’ll get the whipped cream.”
D. “Have I told you lately how incredibly hot you are?”
E. b, c, or d, but with lots of grateful oral sex on your part

Did I leave off any questions? Any questions you know for sure should be on my application?