What with Twilight come and...gone (well, it'll be gone in about 8 weeks or so, I imagine), I can now turn my attention back to that Harry Potter & the Half-Blood Prince will be out in about 8 months. 7.81 months to be exact. I have a little tracker. No idea how it works--math, you know--but the movie I was so excited and wanting to see on November 21 will actually be out July 17, 2009. Barring that WB doesn't flake out a second time and move it to Christmas 2009 to be complete prats.
I had a half-second's inkling of "waiting" to see Harry Potter 6 after the hub died down. Then I saw the second trailer. Or the actual trailer, really, the one that follows the kick-ass teaser which had me foaming at the mouth months ago. Oh, this looks good. These looks like things from the actual book! Could a miracle really have happened?
Anyway, I'm doing my Harry Potter dance, focused in on the release date with all the single-minded obsessiveness of a native-born Missouri deerhunter, counting down days until the next time he can deer hunt. Which by the way, is in December. I know, I didn't care to know that trivia either, but if I'm going to be burdened with that useless bit of info, it's only fair you should be too.
Anyway, here are the current stats for when Harry Potter will be in theaters. Obess with me. You know you want to.
Months: 7.81
Weeks: 33
Days: 234.33
Hours: 5,640
Minutes: 337,458
Seconds: 20,246,658.17
Monday, November 24, 2008
Thursday, November 06, 2008
Friendship: Oh, What a Tangled Web...
My best (and longest standing) friend and I were talking about the complications of the man-woman dynamic. As in, women are sensitive, and men, while they typically mean well, are usually missing something important in the sensitivity area, like a brain. Men and women, duh, are wired differently and therefore think differently; and she was marveling that men and women ever hook up at all. I too wonder from time to time how men ever get laid.
I’m sure you all agree men can be amazingly obtuse and singularly dense about things that should be so obvious. You can even tell them and draw them diagrams about the importance of the topic you’re ranting about, and like Frasier, men are of this thought: “There's an incredible piece of scientific equipment known as the Tunneling Electron Microscope. Now, this microscope is so powerful that by firing electrons you can actually see images of the atom, the infinitesimally minute building block of our universe. If I were using that microscope right now, I still wouldn't be able to locate my interest in your problem.”
This makes men seem very insensitive—you know, not caring about our problems—and it’s not that they don’t care, or even that they don’t understand. I believe they’re more than capable of both. It’s just their priorities are not our priorities; and they are not going to devote that much energy into worrying about something that is not going to matter in five years (when it so clearly barely matters now), when they can be using that brain power for good and happy outcomes, like how to get sex…and possibly a beer.
I can’t say men are wrong in this. I like beer. But as a woman and a best friend, I have to agree that men are insensitive…and empathy deficient much of the time.
However, as complicated as the man-woman dynamic is, there is no way on God’s earth I will ever be convinced that it is more complicated than the woman-woman dynamic. My best relationships are with women, and they are the most frustrating, rewarding, irritating, happiest, worst, best, and most fulfilling relationships I have. One would think having a uterus would at least put me on a level playing field with my friendships. And God knows we talk about everything, so it’s not like we’re not communicating. It’s just that…I spend a lot of my time pandering to a lot of the irrational.
As women we hate this, right? I mean, that excuse holds us back from higher positions and holding office—it’s a lame excuse. We can be very rational, thank you. But oh, my God, I do think we hold the corner on being completely irrational as well. “You’re not even angry at me. Why am I the one being yelled at?” “Because I can’t tell my mother-in-law she’s a blazing shrew, that’s why!” Oh-kay. It’s also amazing to me how something can be only my problem, my desire or whatever, is suddenly encroaching on their happiness in some way. And if I pursue it, I’m not a good friend…and I’m not being sensitive to the situation. (Women can do the guilt manipulation like no one’s business, can’t they?) It’s even gotten that I almost have the same empathy disorder my best friend accuses men of having. Technically she knows I’m not, but I’m certainly giving a good imitation of it.
And it’s when I’m being my most unempathetic that I actually feel men might have a point: this barely matters now. What are we getting so worked up about? Can’t you just be happy right this second without trying to predict the next five years of potential happiness to follow? After 33 years of being a female, I’m going to say: Nope. We can’t. Sorry. We’re just weird.
But the woman-woman dynamic is so important. I think it was my second day of kindergarten when I came to the stunning conclusion: Life sucks. Followed by the second conclusion: I better find a friend because that’s the only way I’m going to cope with the first conclusion. So that’s where I found my best friend. For a long time, I thought you could only have one real best friend. This is probably because of school. There’s a lot of back-stabbing and turncoating in school, so it’s little wonder that I basically had one friend who never did that so therefore I thought, you should only have one best friend. I’m not sure. I didn’t have a therapist then, but I imagine that was a lot of it.
Only my best friend knew something then that I didn’t learn until much, much later. College actually, because by then, I had been replaced in my friend’s life by a boyfriend. Talk about a rude awakening and adjustment phase. This is what I learned: No one person can be every single thing to you, and what an incredible burden to assume one person can be. You can have lots of best friends. For God’s sake, you wouldn’t want just one pair of shoes, would you? Which pair would you choose? Surely you’d need to consider the occasion.
This is a lot easier on certain aspects of the woman-woman dynamic. That means you can stop pestering your BFF to go to movies with you that she has no interest in, or asking to do “girl only” things with you, when you know she feels guilty leaving her husband alone on the couch. Don’t force your friends to be more than they are or give more than they can freely give. And for God’s sake, stop trying to make them more like you. It’s not going to happen; and it shouldn’t. That’s what being a friend is about. These are supposed to be people in which you feel free to be yourself around and they love you anyway. It’s about accepting people as they are, and if you can’t, then let them go. There is no point in continuing a friendship in which everyone is unhappy. Life sucks—and the point of friends is that they’re supposed to make life a little shinier.
But having all these best friends, all of which only see a certain Hellion, is this lying? Does this mean no one friend has ever seen Hellion in the altogether then? Which Hellion is the real Hellion then? Or are all the bits of Hellion true, even if when you put them all together they contradict themselves? (Women are nothing if not contradictory.) Is it possible to have a friendship with any one person in which all aspects of yourself can be shown and not fracture the friendship?
I don’t know.
I’m sure you all agree men can be amazingly obtuse and singularly dense about things that should be so obvious. You can even tell them and draw them diagrams about the importance of the topic you’re ranting about, and like Frasier, men are of this thought: “There's an incredible piece of scientific equipment known as the Tunneling Electron Microscope. Now, this microscope is so powerful that by firing electrons you can actually see images of the atom, the infinitesimally minute building block of our universe. If I were using that microscope right now, I still wouldn't be able to locate my interest in your problem.”
This makes men seem very insensitive—you know, not caring about our problems—and it’s not that they don’t care, or even that they don’t understand. I believe they’re more than capable of both. It’s just their priorities are not our priorities; and they are not going to devote that much energy into worrying about something that is not going to matter in five years (when it so clearly barely matters now), when they can be using that brain power for good and happy outcomes, like how to get sex…and possibly a beer.
I can’t say men are wrong in this. I like beer. But as a woman and a best friend, I have to agree that men are insensitive…and empathy deficient much of the time.
However, as complicated as the man-woman dynamic is, there is no way on God’s earth I will ever be convinced that it is more complicated than the woman-woman dynamic. My best relationships are with women, and they are the most frustrating, rewarding, irritating, happiest, worst, best, and most fulfilling relationships I have. One would think having a uterus would at least put me on a level playing field with my friendships. And God knows we talk about everything, so it’s not like we’re not communicating. It’s just that…I spend a lot of my time pandering to a lot of the irrational.
As women we hate this, right? I mean, that excuse holds us back from higher positions and holding office—it’s a lame excuse. We can be very rational, thank you. But oh, my God, I do think we hold the corner on being completely irrational as well. “You’re not even angry at me. Why am I the one being yelled at?” “Because I can’t tell my mother-in-law she’s a blazing shrew, that’s why!” Oh-kay. It’s also amazing to me how something can be only my problem, my desire or whatever, is suddenly encroaching on their happiness in some way. And if I pursue it, I’m not a good friend…and I’m not being sensitive to the situation. (Women can do the guilt manipulation like no one’s business, can’t they?) It’s even gotten that I almost have the same empathy disorder my best friend accuses men of having. Technically she knows I’m not, but I’m certainly giving a good imitation of it.
And it’s when I’m being my most unempathetic that I actually feel men might have a point: this barely matters now. What are we getting so worked up about? Can’t you just be happy right this second without trying to predict the next five years of potential happiness to follow? After 33 years of being a female, I’m going to say: Nope. We can’t. Sorry. We’re just weird.
But the woman-woman dynamic is so important. I think it was my second day of kindergarten when I came to the stunning conclusion: Life sucks. Followed by the second conclusion: I better find a friend because that’s the only way I’m going to cope with the first conclusion. So that’s where I found my best friend. For a long time, I thought you could only have one real best friend. This is probably because of school. There’s a lot of back-stabbing and turncoating in school, so it’s little wonder that I basically had one friend who never did that so therefore I thought, you should only have one best friend. I’m not sure. I didn’t have a therapist then, but I imagine that was a lot of it.
Only my best friend knew something then that I didn’t learn until much, much later. College actually, because by then, I had been replaced in my friend’s life by a boyfriend. Talk about a rude awakening and adjustment phase. This is what I learned: No one person can be every single thing to you, and what an incredible burden to assume one person can be. You can have lots of best friends. For God’s sake, you wouldn’t want just one pair of shoes, would you? Which pair would you choose? Surely you’d need to consider the occasion.
This is a lot easier on certain aspects of the woman-woman dynamic. That means you can stop pestering your BFF to go to movies with you that she has no interest in, or asking to do “girl only” things with you, when you know she feels guilty leaving her husband alone on the couch. Don’t force your friends to be more than they are or give more than they can freely give. And for God’s sake, stop trying to make them more like you. It’s not going to happen; and it shouldn’t. That’s what being a friend is about. These are supposed to be people in which you feel free to be yourself around and they love you anyway. It’s about accepting people as they are, and if you can’t, then let them go. There is no point in continuing a friendship in which everyone is unhappy. Life sucks—and the point of friends is that they’re supposed to make life a little shinier.
But having all these best friends, all of which only see a certain Hellion, is this lying? Does this mean no one friend has ever seen Hellion in the altogether then? Which Hellion is the real Hellion then? Or are all the bits of Hellion true, even if when you put them all together they contradict themselves? (Women are nothing if not contradictory.) Is it possible to have a friendship with any one person in which all aspects of yourself can be shown and not fracture the friendship?
I don’t know.
Friday, October 03, 2008
Poem of the Day: Ballad of the Men I Have Vamped in Vain
I saw this once a LONG time ago, printed it, lost it, and couldn't find it again. Fortunately someone put it on the web again, so here it is, for the rest of you. Truly fitting. And I'm sure some (or all) of you can relate like me:
OF virtue in woman and honor in man
Has many a bard sung the praise;
And if I now mention the subject again
It's distinctly a negative phase,
For while virtue and honor are well in their ways
One wearies at length of their clutch,
Especially when it inspires the phrase
"Yes, dear, but I love you too much."
These modern young men who write books about sex
All say, "To be chaste is a sin!
Live life to the full without hindrance or checks!
None too young or too old to begin."
But for the deplorable plight that I'm in-
(And you'll surely admit it is such)-
They have no reply but an asinine grin
And a "Really, I like you too much."
There are brave men a plenty, the newspapers say,
Who rape and seduce all the time-
But none of them happen to come 'round my way.
My friends don't seem given to crime.
For bridge or theatres or parties they're prime
And they don't seem to shrink at my touch.
But their failing (which goaded me into this rhyme)
Is that all of them like me too much.
It's not that I go in for Passion myself-
I find it a terrible bore-
But a virgin can have no respect for herself
In this day of the glorified whore.
So I call at young hopefuls' apartments galore,
But, when safe in a masculine clutch,
I imply my intentions, they show me the door,
And assure me they like me too much.
Are they cowards, or heroes, these diffident males?
Do they brave every feminine shell?
Or is it my personal presence that fails
To intrigue them? I never can tell;
For experts have said I make love very well
Still I must lack the magical touch-
For they praise and admire and love me-but Hell!
They-all of them-like me too much.
ENVOI:
You, prince, who have hardily ventured to learn
Of the men I have vainly ensnared,
I've done as you bid me, and ask in return
Whether you, in their place, would have dared.
And this I implore you, don't ever get scared,
And when virgins entreat your fond touch-
Do whatever you feel that the Fates have prepared-
But don't tell them you like them too much.
Anonymous, US, C. 1920
OF virtue in woman and honor in man
Has many a bard sung the praise;
And if I now mention the subject again
It's distinctly a negative phase,
For while virtue and honor are well in their ways
One wearies at length of their clutch,
Especially when it inspires the phrase
"Yes, dear, but I love you too much."
These modern young men who write books about sex
All say, "To be chaste is a sin!
Live life to the full without hindrance or checks!
None too young or too old to begin."
But for the deplorable plight that I'm in-
(And you'll surely admit it is such)-
They have no reply but an asinine grin
And a "Really, I like you too much."
There are brave men a plenty, the newspapers say,
Who rape and seduce all the time-
But none of them happen to come 'round my way.
My friends don't seem given to crime.
For bridge or theatres or parties they're prime
And they don't seem to shrink at my touch.
But their failing (which goaded me into this rhyme)
Is that all of them like me too much.
It's not that I go in for Passion myself-
I find it a terrible bore-
But a virgin can have no respect for herself
In this day of the glorified whore.
So I call at young hopefuls' apartments galore,
But, when safe in a masculine clutch,
I imply my intentions, they show me the door,
And assure me they like me too much.
Are they cowards, or heroes, these diffident males?
Do they brave every feminine shell?
Or is it my personal presence that fails
To intrigue them? I never can tell;
For experts have said I make love very well
Still I must lack the magical touch-
For they praise and admire and love me-but Hell!
They-all of them-like me too much.
ENVOI:
You, prince, who have hardily ventured to learn
Of the men I have vainly ensnared,
I've done as you bid me, and ask in return
Whether you, in their place, would have dared.
And this I implore you, don't ever get scared,
And when virgins entreat your fond touch-
Do whatever you feel that the Fates have prepared-
But don't tell them you like them too much.
Anonymous, US, C. 1920
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Yoga & Hellion the Stress Addict
My doctor yelled at me again. Okay, she didn't actually raise her voice. She smiled kindly as she said, "Your blood pressure is a concern." You're telling me. Please don't tell me to stop eating salt, please don't tell me to stop eating salt.
So I need to work on not eating as much salt. And eating more fruits and veggies. And losing more weight. And walking more every day. And not stressing about every little thing every five seconds. Gah.
After leaving the doc's office, rather depressed that I'm about two more doctor's visits away from being taken out back and being shot for my crappy processed-foods lifestyle and genetics (both sides of the family) like some nag that's outlived her purpose, I went to the library and contemplated skipping the gym. But thought after having written on my form I went to the gym three times a week, that I shouldn't lie so soon after committing it to paper.
Holly was there after my BodyPump class. (I did both BodyPump and Yoga--does it matter? No, I still have a crappy HBP rating. Bastards.) I was laying on my mat, enjoying the fact I hadn't collapsed and died in the last class, and she grinned: "Corpse pose already?"
"Yep." Then I mentioned the doctor thing.
"You need to stop stressing out, man."
I just looked at her.
"You're right. Look who I'm talking too. Maybe you need some Xanex. And make sure they write you a big enough prescription that I get some too."
I've heard of worse ideas. Xanex is sounding mighty tempting at the moment.
But I did yoga instead. Maybe I'll ask the doc at the next checkup. Which is in a month. Yeah, me.
So I need to work on not eating as much salt. And eating more fruits and veggies. And losing more weight. And walking more every day. And not stressing about every little thing every five seconds. Gah.
After leaving the doc's office, rather depressed that I'm about two more doctor's visits away from being taken out back and being shot for my crappy processed-foods lifestyle and genetics (both sides of the family) like some nag that's outlived her purpose, I went to the library and contemplated skipping the gym. But thought after having written on my form I went to the gym three times a week, that I shouldn't lie so soon after committing it to paper.
Holly was there after my BodyPump class. (I did both BodyPump and Yoga--does it matter? No, I still have a crappy HBP rating. Bastards.) I was laying on my mat, enjoying the fact I hadn't collapsed and died in the last class, and she grinned: "Corpse pose already?"
"Yep." Then I mentioned the doctor thing.
"You need to stop stressing out, man."
I just looked at her.
"You're right. Look who I'm talking too. Maybe you need some Xanex. And make sure they write you a big enough prescription that I get some too."
I've heard of worse ideas. Xanex is sounding mighty tempting at the moment.
But I did yoga instead. Maybe I'll ask the doc at the next checkup. Which is in a month. Yeah, me.
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
Song Lyric Wednesday: Our Favorite Pet
As sung by The Limeybirds, who you should totally Google and go watch their act live if you get the chance. These girls are hysterical--and the interpretative dance is worth the price of admission alone. When I grow up, I want to be Charity.
Some folks have a pussy, a budgee or a tit,
Some folks have a puppy to fill the house with sh….
But me, I raise chickens, and I’ve a favorite one,
He’s Dick, my little cockerel, and I don’t know where he’s gone.
Has anybody seen my cock,
My big Rhode Island Red,
He’s mostly pink
With a little bit of blue
And purple round his head.
He’ll stand straight up in the morning
And gives me quite a shock *cock-a-doodle-doo*
[He’s a chicken.]
Has anybody seen,
Anybody seen,
Anybody, anybody seen my cock
He’s a plucky little fellow
And he’ll stand straight up to me!
He’ll raise his head,
Again and again,
And make me utter, “WHEEEEE”
Has anybody seen my cock,
My big Rhode Island Red,
He’s mostly pink
With a little bit of blue
And purple round his head.
He’ll stand straight up in the morning
And gives me quite a shock *cock-a-doodle-doo*
[He’s a chicken.]
Has anybody seen,
Anybody seen,
Anybody, anybody seen my cock
His two enormous waddles hang down
The best you’ll ever find,
Mister, you can stroke him if you like
If you feel that way inclined.
Has anybody seen my cock,
My big Rhode Island Red,
He’s mostly pink
With a little bit of blue
And purple round his head.
He’ll stand straight up in the morning
And gives me quite a shock *cock-a-doodle-doo*
[He’s a chicken.]
Has anybody seen,
Anybody seen,
Anybody, anybody seen my cock
But now he’s gone
And flown the coop
His life was such a strain
He was always up…
When I needed him.
Perhaps he’ll come again.
Has anybody seen my cock,
My big Rhode Island Red,
He’s mostly pink
With a little bit of blue
And purple round his head.
He’ll stand straight up in the morning
And gives me quite a shock *cock-a-doodle-doo*
[He’s a chicken.]
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Poem of the Day
Hey, I was in the mood for poetry. Even if it was my poetry. I wrote this about 10 years ago (Sept 1998).
Happiness is a state of being in which one feels
characterized by good fortune and marked by pleasure….
Soft kisses, wispy as moonlight,
Then rest quietly
Against my breast as the shimmering caress
The sweet-plump curve of my hip—once, twice,
And the game is up.
I stretch and groan, my belly stretching
Into me, his morning stubble raking in a teasing nuzzle
Down the slope of my neck…and
His teeth graze
Wantonly along the rise of my breast, nipping delicately.
And he pauses there until I open my
Eyes and smile, my hands reaching to cup his face
Between my palms, one leg creeping to curve over his hip.
His smile is voracious, carnivorous even…and he
Pounces, kitten-like, his silky hair tousled across his brow
And his muscles rippling…he smells of bedsheets and nights unbridled
And moments tender-rough…and I tug at his shoulders until he collapses
Mockingly into
A heap on top of me, laughing as he rolls me
Above him, my hair teasing as it spills around
Us. His hard warm hands
Rub up my back and curve firmly over my shoulders, tilting me as he
Drawing a slow wet kiss on my midriff.
The morning light dims and the bedrooms walls fuzz at their edges,
As we melt languidly into the bedsheets…and his fingers
Begin their roguish romp, sliding down and down, and I open my eyes
To see his impish salacious smile—and I laugh joyfully,
Thinking….
Happiness is a state of being in which one feels
Characterized by good fortune and marked by pleasure.
Ah, ‘tis true, ‘tis true.
P.S. Here's your quote of the day: "If you don't think sin is fun, you haven't been committing the right sins."--Billy Graham (attributed)
Happiness is a state of being in which one feels
characterized by good fortune and marked by pleasure….
Soft kisses, wispy as moonlight,
Then rest quietly
Against my breast as the shimmering caress
The sweet-plump curve of my hip—once, twice,
And the game is up.
I stretch and groan, my belly stretching
Into me, his morning stubble raking in a teasing nuzzle
Down the slope of my neck…and
His teeth graze
Wantonly along the rise of my breast, nipping delicately.
And he pauses there until I open my
Eyes and smile, my hands reaching to cup his face
Between my palms, one leg creeping to curve over his hip.
His smile is voracious, carnivorous even…and he
Pounces, kitten-like, his silky hair tousled across his brow
And his muscles rippling…he smells of bedsheets and nights unbridled
And moments tender-rough…and I tug at his shoulders until he collapses
Mockingly into
A heap on top of me, laughing as he rolls me
Above him, my hair teasing as it spills around
Us. His hard warm hands
Rub up my back and curve firmly over my shoulders, tilting me as he
Drawing a slow wet kiss on my midriff.
The morning light dims and the bedrooms walls fuzz at their edges,
As we melt languidly into the bedsheets…and his fingers
Begin their roguish romp, sliding down and down, and I open my eyes
To see his impish salacious smile—and I laugh joyfully,
Thinking….
Happiness is a state of being in which one feels
Characterized by good fortune and marked by pleasure.
Ah, ‘tis true, ‘tis true.
P.S. Here's your quote of the day: "If you don't think sin is fun, you haven't been committing the right sins."--Billy Graham (attributed)
Monday, June 23, 2008
Heaven, Ice Cream & Mark Twain
My sister and I were discussing church yesterday. She was trying to talk me into going to her church. I said, I'm too liberal for a church; and I look for fights. I believe what I believe. Not to get all political or religious, but if you did a checklist of the democratic party, I'd probably agree with most of it...though most of the little ticks on the democracy side is, well, considered immoral by 99% of churches. (You know, hate the sin but not the sinner, which sorta drives me crazy since I still think you're not really loving the sinner at all. You're kinda being...self-righteous and better-than-thou towards someone you think you're better than. I call it conditional love. They'd love you for real if you were sinning like a big fat sinner you are.)
Anyway, so was our discussion. And my sister says: "Well, it doesn't matter. There won't be any sex in Heaven."
This is not news to me. 18 years as a Deacon's daughter, I'm well aware of all the fun things Heaven is without. To which my sibling added: "Well, it's better to spend eternity in a pleasant climate than in a fiery hell." I asked her if she was sure, since we were going to be without sex and all. I mean, ETERNITY is a long time to go without something. That's like getting to Heaven and there's no ice cream. "But you won't be hungry," they explain patiently; and frankly I have to think: "That's really not the point of ice cream, is it?" How often do we eat ice cream because it's a health food to help along as we're hungry? Exactly.
You don't eat ice cream because you're hungry. You eat it because it tastes good.
So it's really not the point that in Heaven we won't need sex because we won't need to procreate; and we'll all be brothers and sisters (and therefore it's all sorta incestuous anyway)--and well, you think it was bad now when you're in the middle of sex and you realize, "Hey, Jesus is watching." (Hey, it's happened.) I mean, in Heaven, he's really watching. We all are.
Frankly I want to be wherever Mark Twain is. He has us nailed.
Still.
Clearly I can't hope for Heaven making up for the dearth of hanky-panky I have going on down here. So I guess I'll just have to catch up so when I'm in Heaven, I don't miss it so much. I should probably go ahead and eat all the ice cream I'm going to want as well.
I don't know about you but I'm going to my local Ben & Jerry's.
Anyway, so was our discussion. And my sister says: "Well, it doesn't matter. There won't be any sex in Heaven."
This is not news to me. 18 years as a Deacon's daughter, I'm well aware of all the fun things Heaven is without. To which my sibling added: "Well, it's better to spend eternity in a pleasant climate than in a fiery hell." I asked her if she was sure, since we were going to be without sex and all. I mean, ETERNITY is a long time to go without something. That's like getting to Heaven and there's no ice cream. "But you won't be hungry," they explain patiently; and frankly I have to think: "That's really not the point of ice cream, is it?" How often do we eat ice cream because it's a health food to help along as we're hungry? Exactly.
You don't eat ice cream because you're hungry. You eat it because it tastes good.
So it's really not the point that in Heaven we won't need sex because we won't need to procreate; and we'll all be brothers and sisters (and therefore it's all sorta incestuous anyway)--and well, you think it was bad now when you're in the middle of sex and you realize, "Hey, Jesus is watching." (Hey, it's happened.) I mean, in Heaven, he's really watching. We all are.
Frankly I want to be wherever Mark Twain is. He has us nailed.
...the human being, like the immortals, natually places sexual intercourse far and away above all other joys--yet he has left it out of his heaven! The very thought of it excites him; opportunity sets him wild; in this state he will risk life, reputation, everything--even his queer heaven itself--to make good that opportunity and ride it to the overwhelming climax. From youth to middle age all men and all women prize copulation above all other pleasures combined, yet it actually as I have said: it is not in their heaven; prayer takes its place.Prayer. I don't know about you, but that does not sound like a pleasant way to pass an eternity. What would we have to pray about? We're already in heaven; everyone else is in heaven--if they didn't make it, we've been told prayers won't help them at this point. So now we're left with praise prayer, which I'm not saying God's not deserving, but I think he has a bit more to do with his time than say 'Thank you' a billion times a day as we continue to praise him. I mean, that's gotta be boring after a while...and he's a humble guy, so he's only going to tolerate that so long, I would think.
- Letters from the Earth
Still.
Clearly I can't hope for Heaven making up for the dearth of hanky-panky I have going on down here. So I guess I'll just have to catch up so when I'm in Heaven, I don't miss it so much. I should probably go ahead and eat all the ice cream I'm going to want as well.
I don't know about you but I'm going to my local Ben & Jerry's.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
6 Words or Less
I think Marnee tagged me for this. Weeks ago, but I haven't thought of anything.
Obsessed...no. Passionate. Yes, passionate.
Passionate, rebellious, and freedom-seeking pirate
There we go.
Me in 6 words.
Obsessed...no. Passionate. Yes, passionate.
Passionate, rebellious, and freedom-seeking pirate
There we go.
Me in 6 words.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Taglines and Costumes
At the Bandits, we were asked to pick three words that describe your "voice." I picked irreverent, droll, and chick-littish. Then I said, well, not typical chick-lit, more like "small-town, Southern chick-lit." Terri now thinks that should be my tagline; and Cassondra (at the Bandits) also thinks that is the way I should pitch my work to agents/editors. What do you all think? And those of you who've read my stuff--do you think small-town, Southern chick-lit works?
And I think I'm going to be Maid Marian (dressed as a sassy Robin Hood outfit with bows and arrows) for Halloween. I have the costume picked out; lot less material than usual; and I get weapons. Now if I can just find the right shoes!
And I think I'm going to be Maid Marian (dressed as a sassy Robin Hood outfit with bows and arrows) for Halloween. I have the costume picked out; lot less material than usual; and I get weapons. Now if I can just find the right shoes!
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
An Ideal Man Is Like....
A good bra: supportive, uplifting, and makes us feel sexy
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Monday, May 19, 2008
Quote of the Day
The entire sum of existence is the magic of being needed by just one other person. --Vi Putnam
No idea who Vi Putnam is, or if in fact, this is a person...but damn, that's a great quotation.
No idea who Vi Putnam is, or if in fact, this is a person...but damn, that's a great quotation.
Tuesday, May 06, 2008
Movie Season Is Upon Us
I love this time of year: the morel mushrooms are all over the place (and God, they're good) and the hype for summer movies is at full throttle.My former boss isn't intrigued by the movie selection this year, but man, I'm hyped. (Okay, not the in same sort of hyped I was last year at this time, when I was literally counting the minutes until I got to see Sweet Jack again...but there can be only one Pirates of the Caribbean. Or three, maybe four if they work out the details. Whatever.)
Speaking of sequels I'll toss my money at, Indiana Jones is coming back to the big screen. Granted it's been almost 20 years and lately, Indy has been looking a bit worse for wear, but they're bringing back Marion, too. And there might be a "secret baby" (all grown up), being that Indy's sidekick in this movie is a 21 year old guy who has some "personal business" with Indy. That is one secret baby plot I can get behind. I've been dying for Marion and Indy to have some babies, and just the THOUGHT that might be what's going on has me excited! He's still got the hat and the whip...and that devilish look about him. AND he's an archaeologist! Hello, the older you get, the more interested he is in you.
This weekend I'll be seeing Made of Honor, which Patrick Dempsey has become my favorite movie leading man. Loved him in Enchanted, and I think he'll be just as enchanting here. This weekend, What Happens In Vegas also will be out--and though I'm sure it's not going to win any awards, it still looks amusing. Campy and funny...and the same plot device we've seen in about three other Ashton Kutcher movies, but whatever. Looks amusing. Anything to distract me from my dreary life.
In June, I've picked my "Get Out of Jail BAD Movie" Movie: The Love Guru. I've already raved about this at the ship, because it features, at some point, Justin Timberlake in a speedo and sporting a pornstache. I'm so there, baby. I don't care how bad it is, it looks funny.
Of course, Adam Sandler's summer movie comes out like a week before him (maybe two), and it looks like it has some merit as well. Politically incorrect, cheap laughs, and I'm sure an ending where he saves it from being a completely themeless movie.
So it's clear I'm going to be spending a lot of my time at the movie theater this summer--which is good because I don't have AC anyway. What movies will you be seeing and what are you excited about?
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Contest
No, I'm not featuring a contest. But Amazon is.
If you're a Harry Potter fan...or even an Amazon.com fan, this is the contest for you.
Go here, and play.
No fee. Just be willing to be one of a billion entries that's filtered out...and take the chance that you might be one of the ones. I've already entered. Wish me luck...and meanwhile, I wish you luck. One of us should get the chance to go!
And if you don't win the Grand Prize, there's always the second prize. :)
If you're a Harry Potter fan...or even an Amazon.com fan, this is the contest for you.
Go here, and play.
No fee. Just be willing to be one of a billion entries that's filtered out...and take the chance that you might be one of the ones. I've already entered. Wish me luck...and meanwhile, I wish you luck. One of us should get the chance to go!
And if you don't win the Grand Prize, there's always the second prize. :)
Monday, April 14, 2008
It was a necessary war, they said.
We must fight for truth.
For justice. For prosperity.
And for these things, they sent my son
To die for peace.
My prayers fell on deaf ears,
My fury at the senseless death ignored.
And so my son returned to me,
A broken toy soldier in a box,
And I buried him with my heart.
Thursday, April 03, 2008
The Deathman Cometh....
You know you sometimes read these little new bits in the newspaper and laugh because they can't be true. And yet they are.
This week, I read about a man who was on the way to the store to get some mushrooms for his pizza, who died when he swerved to miss hitting a deer. The clincher? He was riding a scooter.
You laugh because you think, No way, what kind of bad luck are you under to have that happen? I mean, he was wearing a helmet!
To top this, this guy was in my yoga class. A marathon runner. Tight hamstrings--only wanted to do that yoga pose where you can put your fingers under your heels and straighten your hips to the ceiling. He was a wonderful guy. For one, he never was resentful for the fact me and my two yoga-partners-in-arms were complete gigglers; and if any of us were missing, he'd ask after that person by name. He was smart, interesting, and the loving father of three sons and loving husband of a professor here at the university. He was a very valued colleague; he worked for the chief counsel of the county. He ate right, I believe; exercise faithfully; and even yoga'd to relax. What does all this get you?
Dead. From a rogue deer.
So last night I yoga'd to the best of my ability, as we lit candles for him and played his favorite CD in class; then after we went out for ice cream (though we hadn't had supper yet.) Because you never know. You might not get a chance for dessert if you do it the "right way."
So go get ice cream. Tell your friends you love them. Hug your children.
The Grim Deer stalks, baby. It stalks.
This week, I read about a man who was on the way to the store to get some mushrooms for his pizza, who died when he swerved to miss hitting a deer. The clincher? He was riding a scooter.
You laugh because you think, No way, what kind of bad luck are you under to have that happen? I mean, he was wearing a helmet!
To top this, this guy was in my yoga class. A marathon runner. Tight hamstrings--only wanted to do that yoga pose where you can put your fingers under your heels and straighten your hips to the ceiling. He was a wonderful guy. For one, he never was resentful for the fact me and my two yoga-partners-in-arms were complete gigglers; and if any of us were missing, he'd ask after that person by name. He was smart, interesting, and the loving father of three sons and loving husband of a professor here at the university. He was a very valued colleague; he worked for the chief counsel of the county. He ate right, I believe; exercise faithfully; and even yoga'd to relax. What does all this get you?
Dead. From a rogue deer.
So last night I yoga'd to the best of my ability, as we lit candles for him and played his favorite CD in class; then after we went out for ice cream (though we hadn't had supper yet.) Because you never know. You might not get a chance for dessert if you do it the "right way."
So go get ice cream. Tell your friends you love them. Hug your children.
The Grim Deer stalks, baby. It stalks.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Watercooler Talk Friday
The boss is out of town today, so there were several moments in the day where my ass actually wiggled out of the office and talked to the co-workers.
First topic of discussion was very important. I sent a co-worker to go look at the movie trailer for The Love Guru. Clearly an Oscar-nomination worthy flick coming out in June--and if anyone should get the Oscar nod, it should be Justin Timberlake, who is going to be the sole reason I'm watching this flick. Plus the site had the quite memorable quote of the day: "If you're happy and you know it: think again." That's my mantra, baby, right there.
The rest of it...well I was *going* to talk about but it got too long, too heavy, and displayed way too much of my ignorance about China-US relations. Clearly though I prefer to not worry about the direction the boat (America) is headed and will just play my fiddle to the best of my ability until the damned thing hits an iceberg and sinks itself.
The question of the day boiled down to this: when it comes to November and you head to the polls are you going to be voting FOR someone? Or are you going to do what most of us will be doing, "I'm not voting to FOR someone, it's more like I'm voting AGAINST someone." None of us knew who we wanted to voted for. All the options frightened us. And frankly I'm going to think it's a miracle if Bush doesn't get us in another war before he leaves office.
First topic of discussion was very important. I sent a co-worker to go look at the movie trailer for The Love Guru. Clearly an Oscar-nomination worthy flick coming out in June--and if anyone should get the Oscar nod, it should be Justin Timberlake, who is going to be the sole reason I'm watching this flick. Plus the site had the quite memorable quote of the day: "If you're happy and you know it: think again." That's my mantra, baby, right there.
The rest of it...well I was *going* to talk about but it got too long, too heavy, and displayed way too much of my ignorance about China-US relations. Clearly though I prefer to not worry about the direction the boat (America) is headed and will just play my fiddle to the best of my ability until the damned thing hits an iceberg and sinks itself.
The question of the day boiled down to this: when it comes to November and you head to the polls are you going to be voting FOR someone? Or are you going to do what most of us will be doing, "I'm not voting to FOR someone, it's more like I'm voting AGAINST someone." None of us knew who we wanted to voted for. All the options frightened us. And frankly I'm going to think it's a miracle if Bush doesn't get us in another war before he leaves office.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Revelation Monday
I found out I'm not a pessimist.
Look.
"Philosophical pessimism is the similar but not identical idea that life has a negative value, or that this world is as bad as it could possibly be."
I do not believe the world is as bad as it could possibly be. I have the utmost faith and belief that it can and will get worse.
Happy Monday!
Look.
"Philosophical pessimism is the similar but not identical idea that life has a negative value, or that this world is as bad as it could possibly be."
I do not believe the world is as bad as it could possibly be. I have the utmost faith and belief that it can and will get worse.
Happy Monday!
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Old Obession Thursday
Normally I don't write on my personal blog so often, but clearly I'm procrastinating on...well, everything.
And the Daylights Savings Time has totally #(%)*#()$#* up my week.
So I was up till 1 am finishing Harry Potter & the Deathly Hallows--there is a certain point of the book where you literally can't put the book down, you have to start doing stuff one-handed and hope you don't, oh, crash your car and stuff.
So I've finished up the annual "Christmas" read of all the books, which is basically what I've done since I've started the series. Harry Potter is very...well, Christmasy in the way. Christmas is a big deal to him--so I read them at Christmas.
I read The Goblet of Fire for what, the tenth time? I honestly don't know; and in book 3, Harry acquires a map. In Goblet of Fire, a professor BORROWS this map and doesn't return it. Seriously. I realized suddenly he doesn't have his map back by the end of this book; and in book 5, when Harry is clearly holding the map once again, there is no explanation HOW this occurred?
So I'm calling out to other fans, does anyone *know* how he got the map back? Did I misread my 10th reading of book 4 and my whatever reading of book 5 and he did get it back?? Please help me. It's been driving me mad, and MuggleNet Staff won't return my emails.
And the Daylights Savings Time has totally #(%)*#()$#* up my week.
So I was up till 1 am finishing Harry Potter & the Deathly Hallows--there is a certain point of the book where you literally can't put the book down, you have to start doing stuff one-handed and hope you don't, oh, crash your car and stuff.
So I've finished up the annual "Christmas" read of all the books, which is basically what I've done since I've started the series. Harry Potter is very...well, Christmasy in the way. Christmas is a big deal to him--so I read them at Christmas.
I read The Goblet of Fire for what, the tenth time? I honestly don't know; and in book 3, Harry acquires a map. In Goblet of Fire, a professor BORROWS this map and doesn't return it. Seriously. I realized suddenly he doesn't have his map back by the end of this book; and in book 5, when Harry is clearly holding the map once again, there is no explanation HOW this occurred?
So I'm calling out to other fans, does anyone *know* how he got the map back? Did I misread my 10th reading of book 4 and my whatever reading of book 5 and he did get it back?? Please help me. It's been driving me mad, and MuggleNet Staff won't return my emails.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
New Obsession Tuesday
Yippee! The Young Riders Season 1 came in the mail last night.This lovely show was on TV from 1989-1992. I went through a mourning period when it went off the air, being I was madly in love with The Kid (and frankly, Buck, Jimmy, and Cody.) Now granted, since nearly (dear God) 20 years have passed and my ability to suspend reality ("Are you kidding? How in the heck did they all just happen to end up there to rescue each other?") has dimmed since I've gotten so old; I find I'm not so old as not to enjoy watching them set fence posts shirtless, their tanned beautiful skin rippling under the Wyoming sun.
This was back in the days that Stephen Baldwin still looked hot; Josh Brolin was an unknown (but damn, what a cutie!); and Ty Miller was my future husband, though he didn't know it at the time.
It's still worth a watch if you get the opportunity. I realized my main attraction to The Kid (who'd I'd typically call The Beta) was because he had the best looking horse of the outfit. Obviously during my adolescence when horses mattered as much (if not more) than men.
If you don't mind your historical not very accurate (and hey if you watch any Hollywood historical, you do); your plots as holey as Swiss cheese; and your men young, ripped, and earnest--this is your TV series.
Anyone else used to watch this show? I could have been the only one.
Friday, March 07, 2008
Talladega Nights Friday
I was in the mood for some movies quotes...and Will was just speaking to me.
Ricky Bobby: Here's the deal I'm the best there is. Plain and simple. I wake up in the morning and I piss excellence.
Cal Naughton, Jr.: I like to think of Jesus as a mischievous badger.
Cal Naughton, Jr.: I like to picture Jesus as a figure skater. He wears like a white outfit, and He does interpretive ice dances of my life's journey.
Cal Naughton, Jr.: I like to think of Jesus like with giant eagles wings, and singin' lead vocals for Lynyrd Skynyrd with like an angel band and I'm in the front row and I'm hammered drunk!
Susan: It's because it's what you love, Ricky. It is who you were born to be. And here you sit, thinking. Well, Ricky Bobby is not a thinker. Ricky Bobby is a driver. He is a doer. And that's what you need to do. You don't need to think. You need to drive. You need speed. You need to go out there, and you need to rev your engine. You need to fire it up. You need to grab ahold of that line between speed and chaos, and you need to wrestle it to the ground like a demon cobra! And then, when the fear rises up in your belly, you use it. And you know that fear is powerful, because it has been there for billions of years. And it is good. And you use it. And you ride it; you ride it like a skeleton horse through the gates of hell, and then you win, Ricky. You WIN! And you don't win for anybody else. You win for you, you know why? Because a man takes what he wants. He takes it all. And you're a man, aren't you? Aren't you?
Ricky Bobby: [pauses] Susan, I've never heard you talk like that... Are we about to get it on? Because I'm as hard as a diamond in an ice storm right now.
Ricky Bobby: [television commercial] Hi, I'm Ricky Bobby. If you don't chew Big Red, then f-*bleep* you.
Chip: [to Ricky Bobby] Are you just going to let your sons talk to their grandfather like this?
Ricky Bobby: Hell yes I am! They are winners! That is how winners talk!
Carley Bobby: If we wanted two wussies, we would have named them Dr. Quinn and Medicine Woman!
Lucy Bobby: So how was your day driving with you father?
Ricky Bobby: Well let's see. I got mauled by a cougar, my Crystal Gayle shirt is ruined, and I didn't learn dick about driving. Other than that, it was great.
Ricky Bobby: [running around on the track in his underwear] Help me Jesus! Help me Jewish God! Help me Allah! AAAAAHHH! Help me Tom Cruise! Tom Cruise, use your witchcraft on me to get the fire off me!
Cal Naughton, Jr.: Please don't let the invisible fire burn my friend!
Ricky Bobby: Here's the deal I'm the best there is. Plain and simple. I wake up in the morning and I piss excellence.
Cal Naughton, Jr.: I like to think of Jesus as a mischievous badger.
Cal Naughton, Jr.: I like to picture Jesus as a figure skater. He wears like a white outfit, and He does interpretive ice dances of my life's journey.
Cal Naughton, Jr.: I like to think of Jesus like with giant eagles wings, and singin' lead vocals for Lynyrd Skynyrd with like an angel band and I'm in the front row and I'm hammered drunk!
Susan: It's because it's what you love, Ricky. It is who you were born to be. And here you sit, thinking. Well, Ricky Bobby is not a thinker. Ricky Bobby is a driver. He is a doer. And that's what you need to do. You don't need to think. You need to drive. You need speed. You need to go out there, and you need to rev your engine. You need to fire it up. You need to grab ahold of that line between speed and chaos, and you need to wrestle it to the ground like a demon cobra! And then, when the fear rises up in your belly, you use it. And you know that fear is powerful, because it has been there for billions of years. And it is good. And you use it. And you ride it; you ride it like a skeleton horse through the gates of hell, and then you win, Ricky. You WIN! And you don't win for anybody else. You win for you, you know why? Because a man takes what he wants. He takes it all. And you're a man, aren't you? Aren't you?
Ricky Bobby: [pauses] Susan, I've never heard you talk like that... Are we about to get it on? Because I'm as hard as a diamond in an ice storm right now.
Ricky Bobby: [television commercial] Hi, I'm Ricky Bobby. If you don't chew Big Red, then f-*bleep* you.
Chip: [to Ricky Bobby] Are you just going to let your sons talk to their grandfather like this?
Ricky Bobby: Hell yes I am! They are winners! That is how winners talk!
Carley Bobby: If we wanted two wussies, we would have named them Dr. Quinn and Medicine Woman!
Lucy Bobby: So how was your day driving with you father?
Ricky Bobby: Well let's see. I got mauled by a cougar, my Crystal Gayle shirt is ruined, and I didn't learn dick about driving. Other than that, it was great.
Ricky Bobby: [running around on the track in his underwear] Help me Jesus! Help me Jewish God! Help me Allah! AAAAAHHH! Help me Tom Cruise! Tom Cruise, use your witchcraft on me to get the fire off me!
Cal Naughton, Jr.: Please don't let the invisible fire burn my friend!
Monday, March 03, 2008
The Written Word
I'm not a very good journal-keeper. I like to collect them, mind. I have a stack of 70-sheet notebooks, a number of leather-and/or-cloth-bound journals, and post-its to myself everywhere in my room, in my purse, in my car. But I'm loathe to commit anything personal down, anything really personal.
Now mind you, I have a desire for immortality, and what is more immortal than the written word? Would we know a guy named Shakespeare if he hadn't written down those eternal words: To be or not to be, that is the question. Maybe, but maybe not.
The written word is viable. Imperative. We wouldn't have know the Golden Rule if someone hadn't taken the time to write it on papyrus. But I hate committing my little treasure-trove of Hellionisms to journal entries. Well, perhaps I don't mind the outrageous ones. But I do mind writing down the stuff that journals are actually made for. The vulnerabilities. The "I hate Jane Smith, that two-time, double-crossing snake that stole my boyfriend!" or "My boyfriend Tom kisses like an eel." Or my personal favorite Hellionism: if I had an opportunity to run over Chris Roberts, I would. Then I'd back up and hit him again. Rat bastard.
There are lots of things people remember about me that I don't remember at all. Seriously embarrassing little anecdotes that I would have been content never remembering at all until they showed up at Happy Hour and decided to share that tidbit with all my new friends. Perhaps it would be easier if I'd quit just doing embarrassing things, then nobody would bother to remember them at all. But that's not likely to happen.
Anyway--I have all these leather journals that no one would ever see and I won't even commit my own follies for my own eyes (I figure I'll have enough of Hellion This Is Your Life come Judgment Day, you know?)--and yet some people use their blogger to post their real vulnerabilities out there for all web-eternity. (I don't mean the pre-teen who's despairing about That's So Raven being canceled. I mean: My husband is a cheating scumbag and his new girlfriend, my former best friend Jessica, is a cheating whore type blogs. Or work woes blogged, using real names of bosses and co-workers.) Doesn't that seem dangerous to you all?
I don't know if it's stoic-father or what, but isn't there something dangerous about expressing every single emotion that filters through us before we've had a chance to digest it and figure it out? I don't know. It just makes me think of Tom Riddle's diary from Harry Potter. Little Ginny Weasley poured all her feelings into it, and it talked back to her, justified her feelings, soothed and petted her--and in the end, it turned out really badly.
What do you think? Yea or nay? Does it matter this is a wide-world forum? I mean, technically, now many people are likely to read your inner-most thoughts, right?
Now mind you, I have a desire for immortality, and what is more immortal than the written word? Would we know a guy named Shakespeare if he hadn't written down those eternal words: To be or not to be, that is the question. Maybe, but maybe not.
The written word is viable. Imperative. We wouldn't have know the Golden Rule if someone hadn't taken the time to write it on papyrus. But I hate committing my little treasure-trove of Hellionisms to journal entries. Well, perhaps I don't mind the outrageous ones. But I do mind writing down the stuff that journals are actually made for. The vulnerabilities. The "I hate Jane Smith, that two-time, double-crossing snake that stole my boyfriend!" or "My boyfriend Tom kisses like an eel." Or my personal favorite Hellionism: if I had an opportunity to run over Chris Roberts, I would. Then I'd back up and hit him again. Rat bastard.
There are lots of things people remember about me that I don't remember at all. Seriously embarrassing little anecdotes that I would have been content never remembering at all until they showed up at Happy Hour and decided to share that tidbit with all my new friends. Perhaps it would be easier if I'd quit just doing embarrassing things, then nobody would bother to remember them at all. But that's not likely to happen.
Anyway--I have all these leather journals that no one would ever see and I won't even commit my own follies for my own eyes (I figure I'll have enough of Hellion This Is Your Life come Judgment Day, you know?)--and yet some people use their blogger to post their real vulnerabilities out there for all web-eternity. (I don't mean the pre-teen who's despairing about That's So Raven being canceled. I mean: My husband is a cheating scumbag and his new girlfriend, my former best friend Jessica, is a cheating whore type blogs. Or work woes blogged, using real names of bosses and co-workers.) Doesn't that seem dangerous to you all?
I don't know if it's stoic-father or what, but isn't there something dangerous about expressing every single emotion that filters through us before we've had a chance to digest it and figure it out? I don't know. It just makes me think of Tom Riddle's diary from Harry Potter. Little Ginny Weasley poured all her feelings into it, and it talked back to her, justified her feelings, soothed and petted her--and in the end, it turned out really badly.
What do you think? Yea or nay? Does it matter this is a wide-world forum? I mean, technically, now many people are likely to read your inner-most thoughts, right?
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
For Irish: Blasphemous Wednesday
Since Irish reminded me of it, I'm going to post some of my favorite quotations from The Life of Brian. Don't worry. You won't go to hell for laughing. Unlike some of His creations, God has a sense of humor. You should see the dates He sends me out with. Seriously.
Coordinator: Crucifixion?
Prisoner: Yes.
Coordinator: Good. Out of the door, line on the left, one cross each.
[Next prisoner]
Coordinator: Crucifixion?
Mr. Cheeky: Er, no, freedom actually.
Coordinator: What?
Mr. Cheeky: Yeah, they said I hadn't done anything and I could go and live on an island somewhere.
Coordinator: Oh I say, that's very nice. Well, off you go then.
Mr. Cheeky: No, I'm just pulling your leg, it's crucifixion really.
Coordinator: [laughing] Oh yes, very good. Well...
Mr. Cheeky: Yes I know, out of the door, one cross each, line on the left.
Suicide Squad Leader: We are the Judean People's Front crack suicide squad! Suicide squad, attack!
[they all stab themselves]
Suicide Squad Leader: That showed 'em, huh?
Reg: [arriving at Brian's crucifixion] Hello, Sibling Brian.
Brian: Thank God you've come, Reg.
Reg: Well, I think I should point out first, Brian, in all fairness, we are not, in fact, the rescue committee. However, I have been asked to read the following prepare statement on behalf of the movement. "We the People's Front of Judea, brackets, officials, end brackets, do hereby convey our sincere fraternal and sisterly greetings to you, Brian, on this, the occasion of your martyrdom. "
Brian: What?
Reg: "Your death will stand as a landmark in the continuing struggle to liberate the parent land from the hands of the Roman imperialist aggressors, excluding those concerned with drainage, medicine, roads, housing, education, viniculture and any other Romans contributing to the welfare of Jews of both sexes and hermaphrodites. Signed, on behalf of the P. F. J. , etc. " And I'd just like to add, on a personal note, my own admiration, for what you're doing for us, Brian, on what must be, after all, for you a very difficult time.
(This is my *favorite* scene)
Matthias: Look, I don't think it should be a sin, just for saying "Jehovah".
[Everyone gasps]
Jewish Official: You're only making it worse for yourself!
Matthias: Making it worse? How can it be worse? Jehovah! Jehovah! Jehovah!
Jewish Official: I'm warning you! If you say "Jehovah" one more time (gets hit with rock) RIGHT! Who did that? Come on, who did it?
Stoners: She did! She did! (suddenly speaking as men) He! He did! He!
Jewish Official: Was it you?
Stoner: Yes.
Jewish Official: Right...
Stoner: Well you did say "Jehovah. "
[Crowd throws rocks at the stoner]
Jewish Official: STOP IT! STOP IT! STOP IT RIGHT NOW! STOP IT! All right, no one is to stone _anyone_ until I blow this whistle. Even... and I want to make this absolutely clear... even if they do say, "Jehovah. "
[Crowd stones the Jewish Official to death]
Judith: [on Stan's desire to be a mother] Here! I've got an idea: Suppose you agree that he can't actually have babies, not having a womb - which is nobody's fault, not even the Romans' - but that he can have the *right* to have babies.
Francis: Good idea, Judith. We shall fight the oppressors for your right to have babies, brother... sister, sorry.
Reg: What's the *point*?
Francis: What?
Reg: What's the point of fighting for his right to have babies, when he can't have babies?
Francis: It is symbolic of our struggle against oppression.
Reg: It's symbolic of his struggle against reality.
Stan: It's every man's right to have babies if he wants them.
Reg: But you can't have babies.
Stan: Don't you oppress me.
Reg: Where's the fetus going to gestate? You going to keep it in a box?
Spectator I: I think it was "Blessed are the cheesemakers".
Mrs. Gregory: Aha, what's so special about the cheesemakers?
Gregory: Well, obviously it's not meant to be taken literally; it refers to any manufacturers of dairy products.
Brian: What will they do to me?
Ben the Prisoner: Oh you'll probably get away with crucifixion.
Brian: CRUCIFIXION?
Ben the Prisoner: Yeah, first offense.
Lead Singer Crucifee: [Dying on the cross] Cheer up, Brian. You know what they say: some things in live are bad. They can really make you mad. Other things just make you swear and curse. When you're chewing on life's gristle, don't grumble; give a whistle, and this'll help things turn out for the best. And... always look on the bright side of life...
Coordinator: Crucifixion?
Prisoner: Yes.
Coordinator: Good. Out of the door, line on the left, one cross each.
[Next prisoner]
Coordinator: Crucifixion?
Mr. Cheeky: Er, no, freedom actually.
Coordinator: What?
Mr. Cheeky: Yeah, they said I hadn't done anything and I could go and live on an island somewhere.
Coordinator: Oh I say, that's very nice. Well, off you go then.
Mr. Cheeky: No, I'm just pulling your leg, it's crucifixion really.
Coordinator: [laughing] Oh yes, very good. Well...
Mr. Cheeky: Yes I know, out of the door, one cross each, line on the left.
Suicide Squad Leader: We are the Judean People's Front crack suicide squad! Suicide squad, attack!
[they all stab themselves]
Suicide Squad Leader: That showed 'em, huh?
Reg: [arriving at Brian's crucifixion] Hello, Sibling Brian.
Brian: Thank God you've come, Reg.
Reg: Well, I think I should point out first, Brian, in all fairness, we are not, in fact, the rescue committee. However, I have been asked to read the following prepare statement on behalf of the movement. "We the People's Front of Judea, brackets, officials, end brackets, do hereby convey our sincere fraternal and sisterly greetings to you, Brian, on this, the occasion of your martyrdom. "
Brian: What?
Reg: "Your death will stand as a landmark in the continuing struggle to liberate the parent land from the hands of the Roman imperialist aggressors, excluding those concerned with drainage, medicine, roads, housing, education, viniculture and any other Romans contributing to the welfare of Jews of both sexes and hermaphrodites. Signed, on behalf of the P. F. J. , etc. " And I'd just like to add, on a personal note, my own admiration, for what you're doing for us, Brian, on what must be, after all, for you a very difficult time.
(This is my *favorite* scene)
Matthias: Look, I don't think it should be a sin, just for saying "Jehovah".
[Everyone gasps]
Jewish Official: You're only making it worse for yourself!
Matthias: Making it worse? How can it be worse? Jehovah! Jehovah! Jehovah!
Jewish Official: I'm warning you! If you say "Jehovah" one more time (gets hit with rock) RIGHT! Who did that? Come on, who did it?
Stoners: She did! She did! (suddenly speaking as men) He! He did! He!
Jewish Official: Was it you?
Stoner: Yes.
Jewish Official: Right...
Stoner: Well you did say "Jehovah. "
[Crowd throws rocks at the stoner]
Jewish Official: STOP IT! STOP IT! STOP IT RIGHT NOW! STOP IT! All right, no one is to stone _anyone_ until I blow this whistle. Even... and I want to make this absolutely clear... even if they do say, "Jehovah. "
[Crowd stones the Jewish Official to death]
Judith: [on Stan's desire to be a mother] Here! I've got an idea: Suppose you agree that he can't actually have babies, not having a womb - which is nobody's fault, not even the Romans' - but that he can have the *right* to have babies.
Francis: Good idea, Judith. We shall fight the oppressors for your right to have babies, brother... sister, sorry.
Reg: What's the *point*?
Francis: What?
Reg: What's the point of fighting for his right to have babies, when he can't have babies?
Francis: It is symbolic of our struggle against oppression.
Reg: It's symbolic of his struggle against reality.
Stan: It's every man's right to have babies if he wants them.
Reg: But you can't have babies.
Stan: Don't you oppress me.
Reg: Where's the fetus going to gestate? You going to keep it in a box?
Spectator I: I think it was "Blessed are the cheesemakers".
Mrs. Gregory: Aha, what's so special about the cheesemakers?
Gregory: Well, obviously it's not meant to be taken literally; it refers to any manufacturers of dairy products.
Brian: What will they do to me?
Ben the Prisoner: Oh you'll probably get away with crucifixion.
Brian: CRUCIFIXION?
Ben the Prisoner: Yeah, first offense.
Lead Singer Crucifee: [Dying on the cross] Cheer up, Brian. You know what they say: some things in live are bad. They can really make you mad. Other things just make you swear and curse. When you're chewing on life's gristle, don't grumble; give a whistle, and this'll help things turn out for the best. And... always look on the bright side of life...
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Email Forwards Demystified
You’ve gotten this email, haven’t you? You probably have sent it to me. And yet every time I read it, I’m always slightly disturbed by it.
1. There are at least two people in this world that you would die for.
Easy: Jack Sparrow and…and…Shoot. I’ll come back to this one.
2. At least 15 people in this world love you in some way.
Awww, that’s nice. *starts counting on fingers* I can only think of 14, but whatever.
3. The only reason anyone would ever hate you is because they want to be just like you.
Unlikely, and since this should work in reverse, I don’t want to be damned bloody thing like Keith Schawo or Chris Roberts. I hope everyone is clear on that.
4. A smile from you can bring happiness to anyone, even if they don't like you.
I suppose this is reasonable. Smiles do make me feel better, even if they’re from the executioner.
5. Every night, SOMEONE thinks about you before they go to sleep.
This is the one that bothers me. Anyone else thinking about a guy on cell block 5, who as he goes to bed at night, thinks, “13 more months and I’ll get murder the little bitch.”?
6. You mean the world to someone.
Yes, apparently the guy on cell block 5.
7. You are special and unique.
Just like everyone else.
8. Someone that you don't even know exists loves you.
Again with the guy on cell block 5. (Just what did I do to him anyway?)
9. When you make the biggest mistake ever, something good comes from it.
Uh-huh.
10. When you think the world has turned its back on you take another look.
I do like to face the people I’m flipping off. Has more meaning.
11. Always remember the compliments you received. Forget about the rude remarks.
And it’s always this one that makes me laugh hysterically that I received the forward. Come on. It’s like you guys don’t know me at all.
Thursday, February 07, 2008
A Pirate's Life For Me: A Year Later
If you scroll back to Feb 2007 (Feb 9) to be exact, you'll find this post below. I have been feeling melancholy and pissy and weepy and all accounts depressed.
I'm also been feeling a need to dust off my resume and move somewhere far away.
Funnily enough, a year ago I felt the exact same way. Only, I don't want to work in retail...and I don't want to go back to school. I'm not exactly cut out for office work, where I'm currently miserable; and the more I try to write, the more I think maybe I'm not cut out for that either.
How do you figure out what you're good for?
As I sit at my desk, trying to get out of doing folders (story of my life), I look down at my little desk companion, Captain Jack Sparrow Bobblehead, and I think, God, what I wouldn’t give for a Miami Vice right about now. (Miami Vice being the name given to a Carnival Cruise drink that was a layered drink of half pina colada and half strawberry daiquiri. Rum is a beautiful thing.) *taps Jack’s braids and he agrees with a bobble nod*
If I had my druthers, I would be sitting on a beach in Grand Cayman with my Miami Vice and my bobblehead doll (the real Jack Sparrow is temporarily unavailable), and I soak in the warm delicious sunshine, blind fellow beach combers with my pasty white skin, and dream about being a pirate.
No, not the scurvy, short life expectancy parts. The interesting parts. Rum, wenching (can men be wenches? I mean I know they can be bas…oh, well, men-wenching), and freedom. I long for the dissolute life. Probably because I’m so damned Amish. The Other Side calls to me…Freedom calls to me. Bobblehead Jack agrees. Well, he should, he put the idea in my head, after all. He said it, tapping his rum bottle to Miss Swann’s, when they were toasting. “To Freedom!” Aye, to freedom.
And I admit there is a lure there. It cannot be denied as I sit at this desk, staring at folders, watching my single, all-I-need-now-is-a-damned-cat life unfurl before me as I continue to do folders and people please and defer. Not Jack. Not if you’re a pirate. You please yourself—and you make every moment count because you’re not going to live long enough to need a damned cat. (Though they do make good companions. Don’t get me wrong.) And you don’t even bemoan the fact you’re single and rootless, without family—because you have friends who are like family—and you have all the bed companionship you want once you hit port. Well, at least if you’re Jack. I imagine I could do all right if that’s what I sought. Show up naked and bring beer—I could have all the companionship a girl could want.
Plus I’d get to sail a ship and live on the ocean…and being a Pisces, that almost holds more lure than having all the rum we can handle, and I assure you, Pisces are horrible alcoholics. Where’s my rum?
If you could do anything else right now? Rock star, Vegas show girl, oh, hell, school teacher—what would it be—and why? How DO you figure out what career you should be in?
I'm also been feeling a need to dust off my resume and move somewhere far away.
Funnily enough, a year ago I felt the exact same way. Only, I don't want to work in retail...and I don't want to go back to school. I'm not exactly cut out for office work, where I'm currently miserable; and the more I try to write, the more I think maybe I'm not cut out for that either.
How do you figure out what you're good for?
As I sit at my desk, trying to get out of doing folders (story of my life), I look down at my little desk companion, Captain Jack Sparrow Bobblehead, and I think, God, what I wouldn’t give for a Miami Vice right about now. (Miami Vice being the name given to a Carnival Cruise drink that was a layered drink of half pina colada and half strawberry daiquiri. Rum is a beautiful thing.) *taps Jack’s braids and he agrees with a bobble nod*
If I had my druthers, I would be sitting on a beach in Grand Cayman with my Miami Vice and my bobblehead doll (the real Jack Sparrow is temporarily unavailable), and I soak in the warm delicious sunshine, blind fellow beach combers with my pasty white skin, and dream about being a pirate.
No, not the scurvy, short life expectancy parts. The interesting parts. Rum, wenching (can men be wenches? I mean I know they can be bas…oh, well, men-wenching), and freedom. I long for the dissolute life. Probably because I’m so damned Amish. The Other Side calls to me…Freedom calls to me. Bobblehead Jack agrees. Well, he should, he put the idea in my head, after all. He said it, tapping his rum bottle to Miss Swann’s, when they were toasting. “To Freedom!” Aye, to freedom.
And I admit there is a lure there. It cannot be denied as I sit at this desk, staring at folders, watching my single, all-I-need-now-is-a-damned-cat life unfurl before me as I continue to do folders and people please and defer. Not Jack. Not if you’re a pirate. You please yourself—and you make every moment count because you’re not going to live long enough to need a damned cat. (Though they do make good companions. Don’t get me wrong.) And you don’t even bemoan the fact you’re single and rootless, without family—because you have friends who are like family—and you have all the bed companionship you want once you hit port. Well, at least if you’re Jack. I imagine I could do all right if that’s what I sought. Show up naked and bring beer—I could have all the companionship a girl could want.
Plus I’d get to sail a ship and live on the ocean…and being a Pisces, that almost holds more lure than having all the rum we can handle, and I assure you, Pisces are horrible alcoholics. Where’s my rum?
If you could do anything else right now? Rock star, Vegas show girl, oh, hell, school teacher—what would it be—and why? How DO you figure out what career you should be in?
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
I Ain't Superstitious...
Okay, so maybe I am. Sue me. But I'm not the only one with this superstition, and if you had my childhood of adults over the age of 50 who kept dropping off like flies, you'd start believing it too, even if you and your entire family were healthy as oxen.
Death happens in threes.
I guess we figure if He's going to show up for one person, he should make it his while and come for #2 and #3, and if you have any sense, you find them quick before he makes you a designated hitter. By no means, do you want to be who Death comes for to round out his numbers.
So in mid-December, a co-worker, Pat, died. She was 77--and a spunky, wonderful lady--and gracious. She would always listen to what you said, and if she didn't agree with you, she's smile in a bit of sweet gentility and say, "That's nice, but this is how we're going to do it." And you did. You were glad to do it her way. She never said an unkind word--well, maybe she did--but it was nothing that the rest of us weren't already complaining about. She'd smile, exasperated, say something gracious and Southern, and then go about her business. She was a corker.
The first one is never really a pattern.
But then my great-aunt Lena died. She was 102 (almost 103) and granted, while she is older, she still was pretty hale for her age. And had all her mental capacity. And capacity for about a dozen or so of her relatives, not to make too fine a point on it. Opinionated, proud, productive, and a sweet-tart (no, not sweetheart--sweet-tart. If you'd been on the business end of some of her remarks, you'd understand)--she was a CORKER.
Okay, *now* we have a pattern. So we look for #3.
And now Heath Ledger is dead. Now I'll grant you I didn't know Heath personally. We're not what I'd call bosom pals or anything, but as with celebrity, you feel like you know them. You spend more time watching their films than looking at family photos--and you feel like they are your bosom pals, so it's a big deal when one of them dies. It's a huge deal when one of them dies and they're younger than you! Okay, younger than you *and* not of any disease other than possible stupidity and tragedy.
I know, I know. *throws salt over shoulder* Don't speak ill of the dead, but if it is a drug overdose, you rather have to question what was going on in his head at the time--and possibly the ones who are supposed to be keeping tabs on young, talented actors? (Britney, anyone?) You'd think they would have started monitoring the sleeping pill situation a bit when Marilyn died--but no....
Is anyone else superstitious about death? Anyone else floored by Heath's death? Anyone else suffer from the same problem as I do about celebrities--you think you know them better than most family members?
Death happens in threes.
I guess we figure if He's going to show up for one person, he should make it his while and come for #2 and #3, and if you have any sense, you find them quick before he makes you a designated hitter. By no means, do you want to be who Death comes for to round out his numbers.
So in mid-December, a co-worker, Pat, died. She was 77--and a spunky, wonderful lady--and gracious. She would always listen to what you said, and if she didn't agree with you, she's smile in a bit of sweet gentility and say, "That's nice, but this is how we're going to do it." And you did. You were glad to do it her way. She never said an unkind word--well, maybe she did--but it was nothing that the rest of us weren't already complaining about. She'd smile, exasperated, say something gracious and Southern, and then go about her business. She was a corker.
The first one is never really a pattern.
But then my great-aunt Lena died. She was 102 (almost 103) and granted, while she is older, she still was pretty hale for her age. And had all her mental capacity. And capacity for about a dozen or so of her relatives, not to make too fine a point on it. Opinionated, proud, productive, and a sweet-tart (no, not sweetheart--sweet-tart. If you'd been on the business end of some of her remarks, you'd understand)--she was a CORKER.
Okay, *now* we have a pattern. So we look for #3.
And now Heath Ledger is dead. Now I'll grant you I didn't know Heath personally. We're not what I'd call bosom pals or anything, but as with celebrity, you feel like you know them. You spend more time watching their films than looking at family photos--and you feel like they are your bosom pals, so it's a big deal when one of them dies. It's a huge deal when one of them dies and they're younger than you! Okay, younger than you *and* not of any disease other than possible stupidity and tragedy.
I know, I know. *throws salt over shoulder* Don't speak ill of the dead, but if it is a drug overdose, you rather have to question what was going on in his head at the time--and possibly the ones who are supposed to be keeping tabs on young, talented actors? (Britney, anyone?) You'd think they would have started monitoring the sleeping pill situation a bit when Marilyn died--but no....
Is anyone else superstitious about death? Anyone else floored by Heath's death? Anyone else suffer from the same problem as I do about celebrities--you think you know them better than most family members?
Saturday, January 05, 2008
Critique Groups Revisited
I have blogged about belonging to this fantabulous group called "The Sassy Scribes" which comprised me and two other engaging, funny, intelligent women who would drive to the middle of nowhere, where some excellent pie was served--and we'd discuss writing.
This was, by and by, the best critique group I've ever belonged to. Anything that has eating as a central subplot definitely helps with the feedback I get back on my chapters.
In September 2007, The Sassy Scribes disbanded, because one of our central members (the PUBLISHED critiquer--full of brilliant Mary Poppins ideas and a kind word) had to move to Chicago. We tried to talk her out of it. We tried to convince her to take us with her. We cried.
By September, I had brought a fourth member to The Sassy Scribes, a new hot writer who I knew as Sin and who knew me as Hellion. After the disbandment, we decided to press on. We met in our main home town (so about an hour closer) and held our important meetings at the local El Maguey's. Over the excellent cheese sauce, we'd discuss important issues like: the cheese dip stain I'd immediately get on my shirt, whether anyone noticed I'd tried to lick it off, and if the waiter looked like Ranger from the Stephanie Plum books. About two hours later, we'd eventually discuss our chapters, the fact our Muses were on vacation with no forwarding address, and how we wouldn't have this problem if Kris--the missing member--would come down her and flick the whip a few times.
Today though, I think we did a little better than usual. Sin bought dipping cheese from Walmart; we discussed her erotica; we discussed her series (both sets); and we discussed GMC. We ate more cheese. We plotted goals for 2008. We discussed the online critique group and what we needed to arrange as the rules so we'd be moderately successful at it. We discussed how to get cheese dip stains out of my shirt--and luckily no one cared that I licked it off.
Dynamics change. Sometimes you're forced to be more leaderish than you're used to. Sometimes you have to find more like-minded folks--they're out there--and start over again. You just keep plugging...and eating cheese dip. Eventually you'll win.
This was, by and by, the best critique group I've ever belonged to. Anything that has eating as a central subplot definitely helps with the feedback I get back on my chapters.
In September 2007, The Sassy Scribes disbanded, because one of our central members (the PUBLISHED critiquer--full of brilliant Mary Poppins ideas and a kind word) had to move to Chicago. We tried to talk her out of it. We tried to convince her to take us with her. We cried.
By September, I had brought a fourth member to The Sassy Scribes, a new hot writer who I knew as Sin and who knew me as Hellion. After the disbandment, we decided to press on. We met in our main home town (so about an hour closer) and held our important meetings at the local El Maguey's. Over the excellent cheese sauce, we'd discuss important issues like: the cheese dip stain I'd immediately get on my shirt, whether anyone noticed I'd tried to lick it off, and if the waiter looked like Ranger from the Stephanie Plum books. About two hours later, we'd eventually discuss our chapters, the fact our Muses were on vacation with no forwarding address, and how we wouldn't have this problem if Kris--the missing member--would come down her and flick the whip a few times.
Today though, I think we did a little better than usual. Sin bought dipping cheese from Walmart; we discussed her erotica; we discussed her series (both sets); and we discussed GMC. We ate more cheese. We plotted goals for 2008. We discussed the online critique group and what we needed to arrange as the rules so we'd be moderately successful at it. We discussed how to get cheese dip stains out of my shirt--and luckily no one cared that I licked it off.
Dynamics change. Sometimes you're forced to be more leaderish than you're used to. Sometimes you have to find more like-minded folks--they're out there--and start over again. You just keep plugging...and eating cheese dip. Eventually you'll win.
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