Lunch With Friends

I don't think women leave their desks at work often enough and meet their friends for lunch. I don't sit at my desk and eat; but I do spend an ungodly amount of time in the breakroom, nose in a book, unthinkingly eating, enjoying little.

Today I went to meet Pam for lunch. This week was her birthday, and we've all been busy and haven't found the normal weekend time to celebrate her birthday. And if we try too hard, it's been known to get all complicated and nasty and very unenjoyable. Instead I was, "I'm going to buy her a book, damnit"--being Thank God, she likes to read more romances now--"and we'll go to lunch."

We met at Taj Mahal, an Indian restaurant. We hoped the food would be better than it had been at the other Indian restuarant. It was. It was awesome. It was beyond awesome. We talked, we laughed, we shared. She delighted in the fact I'd actually bothered to wrap her gift; and she cooed over the card I made her, even though I had shown her the card a couple weeks ago.

Then we started girl talking. You know the kind I mean. The kind you do out of earshot of boys because you'd get into massive trouble, especially if you're married to one of them. The talking that involves bad sex, bad dates, men who don't talk, romance novels, and on and on.

"I love my husband, but he does not talk like the men in these books." Pause. "Well, no man does...and it is fiction."

"You know, Christina Dodd says she writes men's dialogue by thinking of woman and then dumbing it down." Pam laughs so hard she covers her mouth--because I know her guilty Virgo butt is feeling bad she laughed.

"I love my husband, but he doesn't talk."

"Well, of course not. The man watches TV all the time. He has Eric for a brother. He never got a word in edgewise. He's quiet. You married the Quiet Man. This is not unusual."

"True. And don't get me started about him interrupting me while I read. He's watching the Chiefs play, so it's not like I can talk to him, but then he wants me to talk to him."

"You know why, right?" I say, ever the expert on men. "It's so he can tune you out while he watches the game. He's so used to doing that he can't watch the game without it." Pam's eyes widen at this new conspitorial truth.

"You're right!"

"So the solution," I say, "is to tape yourself talking, play that while he watches the game and you can read in peace. Plus if he says he didn't hear the last thing you said, you can just hit the rewind button. It's really a win-win."

"I like this tape recording idea."

"Oh! Oh! And in the bedroom, you can just have him read a script--and then you can play the recording as he does his thing." We fall over into hysterics. We're freaking hilarious, aren't we?

Then there is a discussion of a Geoduck. (If you don't know what it is, you need to Google it.) She had recently learned of what they are, but the guys at work explaining what they were couldn't do it--because in their words (the ones they COULDN'T say), it looks like a penis with a clam/oyster shell clamped on one end. Men. Everything looks like a dick.

I Googled this creature when I got back to work. I couldn't resist. You know what it looks like? It looks like an elephant trunk with an oyster shell clamped on the fat end of the trunk, or as I described to Pam later: it looks like an oyster swallowed an elephant but couldn't manage the trunk.

*Beevis and Butthead laugh* Heh-heh, I said swallow.

Pam said, "Well, the picture they showed, the trunk end was wrapped around the shell, that's why they thought penis."

"When in the history of penises have we ever known them to do that? In fact, I'm sure if I ever asked a man if he would or could wrap his penis around an oyster shell that would clamp down on the end--he would have bolted out of the room and called Men Abuse Hotline."

So the point of this blog is: go out and eat with your girlfriends. It's good for your health.

Look!

Ha! It arrived!

My Captain Jack Sparrow talking action doll arrived! He's so awesome and sounds just like him! Now if he would only STAND properly. Obviously he's drunk even by statuette.

Favorite Romantic "Forbidden" Movie

I usually want what I can't have. The more forbidden something is, the more enticing it is. I don't like apples, but I guarantee you if I'd been Eve and that was the fruit, I would have had a batch of them whipped up for supper, served with a side of caramel sauce. (Because everything is better with a side of caramel sauce.)

I think my interest in the Forbidden carries well into my whole obsessive side of my nature too--so really I enjoy having compatible parts of myself. (By the way, I ordered a Captain Jack Sparrow doll that speaks. I'm sure I'll be blogging about it soon.)

So last night, I tapped into my obsessive/forbidden side by watching The Scarlet Letter. This pushed buttons on about every level. It has Gary Oldman (who plays Sirius Black in Harry Potter films), who looks extremely hot in this film. (Those eyes. *swoons*) It has that FORBIDDEN romance between the married woman and her minister. (Normally I would never think of jumping my minister, but understandably, he looks nothing like Gary from this movie.) And because they "freely adapted" from the original story, it has an ending where they finally get together at the end (though it's said he dies before their child gets to be a teenager, et al, blah, blah, blah.)

Doesn't matter. They ride off triumphantly out of town, their adulterous love a victory at last.

Yes, yes, only in fiction, right? (Though I do know an amazing amount of adulterous affairs turned marriages that are hanging around, looking rather victorious. Funnily enough, they morph into regular old marriages where everyone is fighting about who left the toothpaste cap off the toothpaste.)

I also watched Dracula, and I'm pretty sure I'm the only person (except maybe Dracula) who went, "Oh, that's so romantic! He cursed God because he lost his true love...and then...and then...she broke the curse. Their love broke the curse!" Now mind you, there is about another hour and fifty minutes of non-romantic stuff...and some bestiality, but I was distilling it to its purest elements for you guys. Dracula is a love story.

You'll also notice that Gary Oldman was in Dracula. Yes, I know. I'm having a Gary month.

So what is your favorite forbidden? What is your favorite movie with a forbidden element? (Or do you prefer your movies slightly less "forbidden" and more sweet?)

A Francelot Parody

Writing Muse! Writing Muse!
At boring work I heard your cry.
Writing Muse! Writing Muse!
Here I am, ready to shoot the sky.
I know in my heart the book I should write,
And I shall publish it with all my might.

A writer of the Vagabonds should be creative,
Succeed where a less ingenious gypsy would flunk.
Write a sentence without a single gerund,
Compose a sex scene to leave the readers stunned,
Pen a book that no reader would dare refund.
No matter the struggle, she ought to be unflaggable,
Impossible scenerios should be as natural as air.
But where in the world
Is there in the world
A writer so *extraordinaire*?

C'est moi! C'est moi, I'm forced to confess.
'Tis I, I meekly reply.
That mortal who
These wonders can do,
C'est moi, c'est moi, 'tis I.
I've never lost
In penned prose or wit;
I'm simply the best by far.
When characters are crossed
'Tis always the same:
One keystroke and au revoir!
C'est moi! C'est moi! I am so blessed!
An Amish Nora Roberts unbound.
And here I sit, with wit audacious,
Exeption'ly corny, steamin’ly salacious,
To serve at the Gypsy campfire round!

The soul of a writer should be quite outstanding,
Her heart and her mind as brave as Will Ferrell.
With a force and resolve
Round all ideas do revolve
She could easily work a Happy Ending in Hell.
To love and desire she ought to be demanding,
The ways of the flesh should offer every allure.
But where in the world
Is there in the world
A writer so sexually secure?
(C'est moi!)

C'est moi! C'est moi, I blush to disclose.
I'm far too noble to lie.
That writer in whom
These qualities bloom,
C'est moi, c'est moi, 'tis I.
I've never procrastinated
From the book I am writing;
I'm blessed with a one-tracked mind.
Had I published
Far before now,
I’d still be on tours with fan lines.
C'est moi! C'est moi! The angels have chose
To write their love scenes in prose,
And here I stand, as wicked as Sodom,
Incredibly boastful, with ego to spare,
The conceitedest writer I know!
C'est moi!

Books, Banes, and Bast....

I've been drinking a lot lately, I admit. And last Saturday was no different. I stopped by Pam's house and realized they were going out, and they invited me. They even invited me knowing that a certain guy would be in the group. Pam's brother-in-law, who is this guy I share on-again, off-again witty banter (and occasionally more), and who also happens to be married. For a second time. "Unhappily."

I'll let everyone pause for a second to remember the plot of my current WIP and go "Holy Shit."

It's really not quite the same. Pam is far nicer. Her husband would NEVER do the things he does in my WIP. This guy is not Ben. He IS the inspiration for Ben though--and I can say that here, because he has absolutely no idea about this blog...or my writing (well, not much anyway)...or well, let's just say, I figure it's good odds he'll not figure it out. Unless the book gets published...and he buys it. But again, it's not really him. Oh, well, I'm done arguing with myself about this....

Any way at some point during the evening, he says to me, "Hellion, you've always been the bane of my existence." This is possibly in direct irritation of him asking a question I didn't want to answer and I said I plead the fifth.

Nice. I concurred he'd always been MY bane as well. We smile. We make our reluctant goodbyes, and he leaves.

Then I looked up bane today, just to be sure it was what I was thinking. It was.

He could have meant any of the following:

1. A person who ruins or spoils. (I have not ruined anything. I think we can mark this off the list.)

2. A deadly poison. (Flattering, but unlikely.)

3. Death, destruction or ruin. (This one has possibilities. I think we really would be the death of each other.)

4. A source of persistent annoyance or exasperation. (Ooh, I think we might have a winner. I'm annoying. Now there's a surprise.)

5. Something that causes misery or death. (Also a possibility.)

So question of the day: Has anyone inspired you to make them a character in your book? Do you have anyone you'd classify as a bane (and nobody better say me--I'm just saying)? And which definition was he shooting for? Annoying or misery?

Dumbo

I was sitting in traffic, at the last light I turn with on my way to work, and I was doing my usual routine at 7:54 am. Then the news comes on and makes an announcement about a new baby elephant born at St. Louis zoo, and weighing in at 236 pounds.

I then realized after all those years of saying the toss-away exaggerated statement of "I'm as big as an elephant", that I was indeed as big as an elephant. A pre-maturely born baby elephant. Quite humbling.

But then I got to thinking about Dumbo, a very cute baby elephant—and his big ears. (I did get to thinking about my ears as well. They are awful pointy. Everyone tells me this; Dumbo and I have so much in common, weight and ears.) But he can fly.

So I thought some more. And then I thought, well, his ears, that he was born with obviously, are his talent and/or ability. Writing is my talent—my elephant ears. And like Dumbo, I didn't think I could fly and was scared too. Now, I didn't have this really cool mouse mentor who handed me a feather and said, "Now you can fly" but I do realize I have used many types of feather talismans over the years to get liftoff. In fact, I use my English Major label as a sort of feather. It's why I went to college, to polish up my writing, to better refine my writing techniques.

But did I really need to go to college to learn to write? No. There are plenty of great and well-published writers who never got college degrees. In fact, there are also plenty of well-decorated, many-degree-carrying people who still can't write, though they may indeed be published.

Another famous feather many writers clutch is "The Muse". "Well, I can't write anything until I'm inspired, until the Muse tells me. I don't want to just write trite fiction; I want to create something brilliant." But any trite fiction writer will tell you it's impossible to fix a blank page. Edits are what makes trite writing something worth reading.

Writing books and writing classes are easy to come by if you have the money; and you always feel safer at your desk while writing if you have the latest book to help you plot or get past writer's block—but they aren't actually what makes you write. In fact, 90% of the time, I get a book, read it, get bored or frustrated, and say "Screw it, I'm writing it however I want" and then start writing. That, in and of itself, was worth the $13.95 to me, and it will come in handy another dozen times when I consult the book, but really, it didn't exactly tell me anything I haven't already heard a dozen times before. For free.

So should I ever lose all my feathers—my books, my degree ("What? What do you mean I needed one more hour of PE?"), my Muse—I should take a page from Dumbo and remember I don't need a feather to fly with to really fly.

How about you? What abilities/talents do you have and what feathers do you clutch?

Joke of the Day

We’ve all heard about people having guts or balls. But do you really know the difference between them? In an effort to keep you informed, the definition for each is listed below…

GUTS - is arriving home late after a night out with the guys, being met by your wife with a broom, and having the guts to ask: “Are you still cleaning, or are you flying somewhere?”

BALLS - is coming home late after a night out with the guys, smelling of perfume and beer, lipstick on your collar, slapping your wife on the butt and having the balls to say: “You’re next.”

I hope this clears up any confusion on the definitions.

Medically speaking, there is no difference in the outcome since both ultimately result in death.

It's Official

Summer is not over yet, it's true; and we've got at least two more weeks until Labor Day (and the whole "Summer's Over" is truly though)--but I have to say: This has been the best summer ever.

Summer 2007 started out with a bang: Pirates of the Caribbean 3 came out May 25, and I went to a sneak peek the night before of it. It was possibly my favorite movie of the three (though it's a close call, since I do adore the first movie so much and have watched it a hundred times.) I've only been able to watch POTC3 twice so far.

My next summer obsession was Harry Potter, both the 5th movie and the last and final installment in the books. My Harry Potter partners-in-crime went with me to a Harry Potter feast in Kansas City (which was admittedly lame, but fun because of the company). The movie rocked--and we think it might be the best movie of the series so far. My friend Pam and I now have unhealthy obsessions with characters from the movies: Pam (Lucius Malfoy) and me (Sirius Black). Admittedly I had a bit of a crush on Sirius in the book at first (I've always liked handsome, arrogant black-haired men)--but Gary Oldman does a good job. And he has tattoos!

I was quite relieved, when a week later, I got my book of the last Harry Potter, and I read it cover to cover. I was not going to have to burn my books in a fit of rage. All ended well.

Then a week after that I was set to go on vacation (my first real vacation in 6 years)--and I flew out to Virginia to meet fellow writers and Bon-Bons, Terri & Tiff. It was the best vacation ever! (The IPod 9th-Circle-of-Hell Incident notwithstanding.) Now I'm having to come off a high of where men actually know I exist...and flirt with me...and go back to work. *pouts* Oh, well, there is still a chance to look for jobs in Virginia. I've always liked Virginia, since I went to Washington, D.C./Arlington/Alexandria; and I love it even more now. It's beautiful like Missouri...but with an ocean. Plus there are sailors, which I find far more fascinating than farmers.

Now...it's back to the old grindstone. Edits to make on my novel. A query letter to write; and agents to beg. Oh, and my 8-5 job too. (And by the way, has anyone watched the extras on The Notebook and wanted to slap Nicholas Sparks? I mean, he's the NICEST guy...but I still want to slap him. Is it just me? AND has anyone seen the deleted scenes on The Notebook? HOLY COW. The alternate sex scenes are...OMG! I don't understand how I can love that movie, but not like the book. Does anyone else feel this way? I mean, aren't you supposed to like the book more? Maybe it's Ryan Gosling...Yeah...I think it's Ryan Gosling NAKED in the movie...)

I'm shallow. What can I say? Oh, and that bit where he yells at her that she's a pain in the ass but he wants to be with her anyway. *sighs longingly*

Flight of the Innuendo

Admittedly I was a bit depressed to be leaving Virginia and all its fine, fine scenery--and it was a very sad, Paxil popping Hellion who checked onto her flight to Missouri. I had "C" boarding, and I talked to this charming fellow who talked incessantly about the last flight he took that got struck by lightening three times and nearly crashed the plane.

I chose not to sit next to him.

However, since it was Southwest, and it was "general seating", I looked for a place to sit. Around the mid-part of the plane, there were two cute guys sitting, with the seat between them--and being I love cute guys, I asked if I could sit there. The aisle seat one jumped up obligingly and I sat.

They were not chatty. Enter more depression. I was thinking fondly of my Y108 guy...and Mark the Merchant Marine...and I thumbed through my magazine as I was ignored. Finally while up in the air (after I ran out of magazine--damnit), I broke down and talked to the young one on my right. (The guy on my left was very unchatty. I thought, well, maybe he doesn't want to be bothered.) So the young one and I talk for about 15 minutes or so. We get our snack and drink; the guy on my left doesn't even get a drink. How can you not get a drink?

The guy on my left SO doesn't want to chat, he brings out a crossword puzzle to ignore me. So I keep bothering the youngun on my right. Then finally I notice Crossword Guy is struggling...and I see a clue I know. I lean over, run my hand down the section of the page, and say, "This one is 'Grisham'."

He looks at me. I know. I've broken the cardinal rule, right, but I figure, well, screw it. He'll change planes and never have to see me again. "No, really, it's Grisham. See." He does.

"Thank you." He scribbles it in. And then it was on. We worked the crossword puzzle together. I've never had more fun working a game in my life. At the end, we're stuck...and I say, "Well the answers are on 230."

He gives me a horrified look. "We can't CHEAT." You would have thought I asked him to kill somebody.

"Yes, you can."

But we didn't cheat. We finish; we revel in our brilliance...and then because there is another 20 minutes of flight, I say, "Hey, let's start the next one."

"No, that's too hard."

"Oh, come on, what are we going to do for the rest of this flight? We can at least try...and if it's as hard as you say, we'll cheat."

And boy, did we ever cheat! We cheated like four times in as many minutes within the start of the puzzle. I started giggling madly. "OMG, cheating's bad. Once you start cheating, you just can't quit doing it."

Crossword Guy gaped at me. "I can't believe you just said that out loud!"

I laughed again. "I don't care. It's not what it sounds like..."

"I know!..."

And so it was on. The Flight of the Innuendo. We tossed back and forth really bad puns for the rest of the flight...and he decided, once he realized I too was flying to St. Louis he would take the magazine and we'd finish it on the next flight. He followed me off the plane. "I'm keeping close to you. You're the other half of my brain."

I know. I laughed hysterically too at that.

I go to the bathroom; I return to call Jackie--and I promptly tell her about Jack, from Colonial Williamsburg. "He was the best thing about this trip!" I gush, because, well, he was. I get off the phone, and Crossword Guy says, "You didn't hear me, did you?" I shook my head. "I'm the best thing to happen to you on this trip." Oh, boy.

"You're the best thing to happen to me today. I was living in the past, you see...what are we going to do now to kill time?"

THEN our flight gets delayed. Yes, Fate says, "Hey flirt with this guy..." and I do...like mad. He buys me some food and a drink. I even spit on him--which I've really got to stop doing to guys. He calls his buddy--and says he'll be late...but he doesn't tell the truth. He doesn't say, "Because our flight has been delayed..." No. He says:

"I met this redhead on the plane." There is a pause as the friend asks a question, and I'm blatantly listening...and Crossword Guy's eyes flick over me in this rake-Once-Over, then he grins and goes, "Yeah." OMG, he just told that guy I was hot! I've never been hot in my life! "Gotta go, I'm busy," he says and hangs up. Then he shares a laugh with me. "That's going to tear him up."

More innuendos. We line up for our flight--because we obviously want to sit together. We're standing next to this cute little chicky-poo who suddenly says, "You guys are so friendly and cute! How long have you been married?"

I know. I laughed hysterically at that too.

Finally after exchanging a look with him, I say, "We're not married. I'm returning from vacation; and he's returning from business. We met on the last flight--I don't even know his name."

Chicky-poo gapes at us. "You're kidding! You guys acted totally married!"

Crossword Guy grins. "I told you my name was George Jetson." I roll my eyes with Chicky-poo.

Then Chicky-poo, Bless Her Heart, says, "Hey, you're Jeff!"--and points to his boarding pass. Yes! Finally!

"And you're Cathy," I say, because I noticed hers earlier...and then I had to reveal my name...which Jeff then made a Stripes reference, in regards to my name. Nice.

So Cathy, Jeff, and I sit in the last row of the plane and finish the crossword...and Jeff & I still flirt...and it's 10 pm (an hour and a half PAST when I was supposed to come in), and...Jeff helps me collect my luggage...well, he takes me to the luggage...and I'm on the phone with my ride...and he bids me farewell. *coughs*

Did I get his number? No. Did I give him my number? No.

I should be taken out and shot. Seriously.

P.S. Weekend Update

I am *so* drunk.

How many of my stories have started with these infamous four words? Not nearly enough. It's 2:45 am, and I've had at least 4 rum runners (none of which I paid for), and I have to say:

1. I love Merchant Marines. *rebel yell* Go, sailors!

2. I love 108 FM. I think there was a "point" something too, but devil if I remember what his shirt said. I wasn't faced that way when we danced. *cough* Yes, danced. Damn, he was pretty. Dark eyes with killer lashes; short dark hair; cute, cute, cute!

3. Yeah, for the Vin Diesel look alike. Hell, it might have been Vin...but if so, he wasn't nearly as persuasive as 108 Guy. (NOT that was 108 Guy was totally persuasive. You can take the girl out of the church, but you can't take the church out of the girl. *pause* Damnit. Because if you COULD....)

4. I could swear I had four offers this evening. *moue pout* Yes, there was a blonde. He said his name was Chris...not that I believe anyone, really, let's be real, who gives their real name? Okay, I did, but I'd had a BUNCH of rum runners and I'm from several states over. Like they'll Google me. Ha! Merchant Marine guy had to ask me my name for a second time. *tsk, tsk* (He was multi-tasking.)

This was the best bar ever! Bar Norfolk! The line was long; the rum runners were crap, but fuck, did I have a blast! Buy me another round!

Listen to 108. He rocked. I mean, cute little Jack guy from Williamburg was HOT, but this one definitely gave him a run for his money. *thinks hard* *continues thinking hard*

Yeah, they were both damned hot. They are going in novels as soon as I sober up.

Enjoy this incriminating evidence while it lasts. I'll delete it as soon as I sober up.

Love, Hellion

Vacation Update: With Hellion

Flight was perfect, slightly cramped--just further proof I need to lay off the freaking Doritos, but too late for the moment. I sauntered to the luggage claim, and upon whom do my twinkling eyes do see? Tiff & Terri, who if they had been any closer, they would have met me at the doorway of the plane. Hugs & giggling were exchanged, then we found my suitcase that weighs roughly the amount of a dead steer.

Wednesday night, we spent the better of the evening trying to get food. Terri tried to accommodate my "need" for batter-fried fish, but strangely a city located a stone's throw from the ocean doesn't serve mundane stuff like "fish & chips", so I went back to the house with a steak, because I really can't get a good steak where I live in Missouri. In cattle country.

The steak was delicious.

Then the boys came. With liquor, which honestly is how all men should show up--with gifts. (Only kidding. Partially.) So after about three shots of rum, I spent an inordinate amount of the evening showing my talent for balancing my ass on the tip end of a chair and sprawling with my feet above my head (not quite what you're probably thinking, but close) and draping off the other end of the chair, hanging on to either the table, the person next to me, my beer...whatever.

I didn't have a hangover. I don't know why either...I totally deserved one.

Thursday came...early. I didn't have curtains in my room, so the bright sun at 9:30 am tends to be distracting. We got up and ate (I had more steak; it was huge); then we ventured off to a bar. I don't remember because Tiff kept liquoring me up with beer. That's a friend. We arrived at the deadest bar ever, but yes, the boys noticed Tiff. (Let's be real.)

Summary: Drunk as a skunk. Predictable men. Pour ourselves in the car and drive to the nearest IHOP to sober up. Slept in till 11 am Friday.

Skip to today because that's my favorite: we were in Colonial Williamsburg. We're in Raleigh's Tavern, and I saw this man with the skinniest calves ever. I wanted a picture with him just to show everyone: Hey, there's this guy with incredibly skinny calves, but the guy goes, "So-and-so will take care of you" (as I'm going down the stairs)--and I say, "Who?"--and a new voice says, "Hello."

And I look down the stairs, and I kid you not: a cross between Will Turner and Jack Sparrow was standing at the bottom of the stairs, tall, handsome, and with a roguish, devilish grin. In my sedate feminine nature, I galloped down the stairs, "Oh! Yes, I must go!" and was at his side in a half-second.

His name was Jack. I got a couple pictures of him. If I could have brought him home as a souvenier, he'd be in my pocket for the rest of this trip.

We're going out now. More to report later. Meanwhile, I'm going to have some very delicious thoughts about "Jack" because he's going to make an excellent hero in one of my books. Oh, who am I kidding? All of my books.

Signing out.

Hellion