I spent my Saturday with my Critique Group, the Sassy Scribblers. (Sometimes we’re The Sassy Scribes; we’re never quite sure which one we are, but to be fair, we only just decided on our name last month. I mean, there’s three of us, for crying out loud. It’s just easier to call each other by our names.) I love my critique group. Both of these ladies are the most generous, upbeat, fun, witty, hilarious…well, you’ve got the picture.
We meet the first Saturday of every month, usually at this place just off I-70 called “Maggie’s Café”, a lovely trucker’s stop off with awesome food for cheap prices, and the waitresses are characters—and unbelievably accommodating. We even have an agenda (to keep on task), and the last thing on the list every month is the same: PIE. You see where most of our priorities lie.
I have been a part of critique groups in the past. Once upon a time when I got “very serious” about writing (the Lucy book, if anyone is interested), I joined an online critique group. That was an interesting experience, to put it politely. I think it meant well initially, but as with anything online—and with any group over a number of two—it got to be a hotbed of potential Middle East activity. Flamers, Righteous-Critiquers, the whole nine yards. In fact, at one point when the group seemed to have turned on one lone member, I jumped in to say “I don’t think she meant anything by it”—and got flamed myself. Of course, I did win a brand new friend—and we merrily exited said group and made our own. *LOL* She was an awesome critiquer—up until she quit writing altogether.
So we remained friends and I went in search of another critique group. I joined the Missouri chapter of RWA—which had another group of lovely fun thoughtful ladies; however, their critique group met on Tuesdays in St. Louis. I live 2 ½ hours away. I’m a dedicated writer—okay mostly dedicated—but I couldn’t see myself driving 5 hours round-trip to meet with these guys, so I had to settle for the once a month meetings. They’re good, but weren’t the same as having a critique group. Then I met Kris, also a part of the MORWA, and also not a fan of the Tuesday meetings—and thus Sassy Scribblers was born.
I cannot recommend enough the importance of critique groups. Critiquing other people’s work improves your writing; and them critiquing you also improves your writing. The support keeps you writing—it is a lonely business and there is no replacing having your butt in the chair and writing every day, but I have to say, having people who go, “This is so good. What if you did this?” helps you out of writer’s block and keeps you focused on the big prize of finishing.
Meeting once a month with my small group is enough for me to write and help others. There are some groups that critique and submit once a week, and I don’t think these people sleep…or email or anything. But there is a critique group out there that can meet your needs. I know. I found one. You can too.
Are you for or against critique groups? Have you learned anything from being in a critique group? Would you like to be in a critique group? Or are you a reader and are very thrilled you don’t have to bother with things like critique groups?
Monday, May 07, 2007
Friday, May 04, 2007
Please Excuse Us, Your Program...
Is being interrupted for this special announcement.
I'm blogging at the Romance Vagabonds! (Can you believe they invited me to blog? Neither can I. I must have read the invite like three times before writing "HELL YES" in 36 pt font and whinging it back.)
Anyway today is my virginal debut. Sara has graciously given up her regular blogging day to let me babble about The Hero's Journey. I know, I know. I don't know why I didn't choose to babble about rum and Brad Pitt's butt either...but it's what I picked. It's okay. We'll save Brad Pitt's ass for another day.
www.romancevagabonds.com
Your regularly scheduled Friday Music Blog will occur at a later time. Possibly around 3:30 or so when I'm supposed to be doing folders and I'm screwing off again. Or possibly Monday or Tuesday instead. *eyeing folders*
Have a great Friday, guys, and I hope to see you over at Romance Vagabonds!
I'm blogging at the Romance Vagabonds! (Can you believe they invited me to blog? Neither can I. I must have read the invite like three times before writing "HELL YES" in 36 pt font and whinging it back.)
Anyway today is my virginal debut. Sara has graciously given up her regular blogging day to let me babble about The Hero's Journey. I know, I know. I don't know why I didn't choose to babble about rum and Brad Pitt's butt either...but it's what I picked. It's okay. We'll save Brad Pitt's ass for another day.
www.romancevagabonds.com
Your regularly scheduled Friday Music Blog will occur at a later time. Possibly around 3:30 or so when I'm supposed to be doing folders and I'm screwing off again. Or possibly Monday or Tuesday instead. *eyeing folders*
Have a great Friday, guys, and I hope to see you over at Romance Vagabonds!
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Acts of God
I’m not an overly religious person, but I do believe in God. Here’s an example of why I think God is out there, looking out for us and that we’re not just left to the fickle finger of Fate.
Last week, my childhood best friend Pam who changed gyms some months ago emails me to say: “Hey, did you know Gold’s gym (which is the gym I belong to) has been bought out by Key Largo?” (which is her gym). “I can go to yoga again! Yippee!” This was the silver lining in a spiral of depression since Mattycakes no longer worked there (nor Jack), and by extension, Mattycakes’ girlfriend and my new best friend, Sin—no longer frequented Gold’s. That Wednesday, Pam comes to yoga. It is awesome.
This week Pam comes again to yoga. Afterwards, Holly, Pam, and I leave at the same time, making exciting plans to see the midnight showing of Harry Potter in July. We head to our cars. As I go to get into mine, which is parked across from Holly’s—Holly wigs and says, “Shit, I locked my keys in my car.” She threatens to hari-kari herself in shame (I only wish I was exaggerating this part), as I try to reassure her. I then get the bright idea to flag down Pam. Why?
Hellion: A History. In January when Holly locked her keys in her car, we had a hell of a time figuring out how to unlock the car again. (Fortunately that time a custodial guy was quite dexterous with a piece of coat hanger. God intervenes again.) Back then, I had called my friend Chris (Pam’s husband) to do some hypothetical questioning. “Say I lock my keys in my car and I don’t want to call the police to come break my window—do you know how I could get a slim jim or anything?” And he says, “Tyson has a kit. You can’t really get slim jims anymore.” Bloody thieves ruined it for all of us.
Tyson, for the sake of character development here, is Chris’s childhood best friend, and like Chris, he is a chivalrous, kind man who doesn’t make you feel stupid for doing idiotic things like locking keys in your car. He also makes this sexy little purr-growl sound if you ask, but that doesn’t have a lot to do with this story. (And he’s happily married, so no one get their hopes up, okay?)
Okay, so Holly wigs. I say, “Hang on” and I start flying across the parking lot after Pam. This is difficult in flip flops. It’s been raining a little, though the rain (and this is important to note) had momentarily stopped. “Pam!” I’m shouting like a maniac as she doesn’t see me, pulling away and going down the parking lot. “Pam!” I look like one of those frilled dragon lizards, waving my hands in the air and running after. Very attractive. She still doesn’t see me. Shit. Suddenly there is a piercing whistle, one of those redneck ones that I seriously need to learn—and lo and behold—Pam stops in the parking lot. I nearly kissed the stranger who did this—bless his beautiful hide. “I love you,” I shout at him as I trot up to Pam’s car and explain the predicament. I get in the car, and Pam is trying to figure out how to go over there—as Holly wanders up to the car too, clearly disoriented and still depressed. Holly gets in the car. Pam drives us over to our cars and we check to make sure Holly’s keys are indeed locked in her car.
They are.
Pam calls Chris, and Chris gives her Tyson’s number. I take Holly’s scissors away so she’ll stop threatening to commit hari-kari. Pam calls Tyson, who says, “No problem, be there in a minute.” And Pam gets off the phone. We all look depressed, so Pam, master organizer, says, “Let’s go to Shakey’s and get some ice cream. It’ll take him a while to get here.” We go. We get the brilliant idea to get some ice cream for Tyson (since he is doing this out of the goodness of his heart.) We stand in a hellaciously long line. We marvel that there are only two workers at this joint, but there are about a half dozen people in our line, and about 10 cars in the drive thru. Nice. We finally place our orders (except Pam was skipped—and never got her ice cream, poor woman) and wait for them to be filled. I think we all aged about a decade waiting for the ice cream. As we’re waiting, Holly and I suddenly notice Pam has disappeared. I mean, she’s short, but she’s slightly harder to misplace than this.
This time we both kinda wig, though rationally we know—she’s probably headed back to the cars to be there when Tyson shows up. But why’d she go by herself? After a few minutes, Holly agrees to venture off to check and I’ll wait for the orders. We both figure she’ll be back long before any of us get our ice cream. She disappears through the parking lot, and whaddayaknow? Our ice cream is ready. I collect it and I stand for a minute or two, then think, “Well, I’ll just head back.”
Now as I’m going, I notice this white SUV that recently parked. I do recall Pam saying something about Tyson driving a white SUV. I *think*, “I bet that’s Ty.”—but I’m not going to check unless I’m pretty sure. I glance over and it looks like an arguing deaf couple in the front seat. Lots of animated gestures and discussion. I think, Nah, can’t be Ty and go to hike off. Suddenly I hear, “Hellion! Over here!” and I turn, and it’s the arguing deaf couple, only it’s really Tyson and Pam. I happily skip over to the SUV and hand Tyson his ice cream, which he is quite delighted with.
Holly comes back with her car. After about 10 minutes. We all talk for a time, and we laugh and carry on and it’s good. Then we part ways; Pam and I head back to our cars—stopping over in the gym again for a quick potty break, then we all go home. I no sooner get into my car and turn onto the road to leave, and it starts downpouring, like literal sheets of wrathful rain. It downpours the entire 45 minute drive home. I could have floated home in an ark.
And to think I could have been out in the parking lot, trying to unlock Holly’s door with a coat hanger, standing in a downpour. Because as of a week before, Pam didn’t belong to our gym—and wouldn’t have been with us at yoga—and if she hadn’t been with us, we couldn’t have called in our friend-of-a-friend card to have her call Tyson. And hell, if she wasn’t married to Chris, who knew Tyson—we would have had the police coming to break one of Holly’s windows. That’s not luck, my friends, or serendipity—that’s God looking out for you.
Last week, my childhood best friend Pam who changed gyms some months ago emails me to say: “Hey, did you know Gold’s gym (which is the gym I belong to) has been bought out by Key Largo?” (which is her gym). “I can go to yoga again! Yippee!” This was the silver lining in a spiral of depression since Mattycakes no longer worked there (nor Jack), and by extension, Mattycakes’ girlfriend and my new best friend, Sin—no longer frequented Gold’s. That Wednesday, Pam comes to yoga. It is awesome.
This week Pam comes again to yoga. Afterwards, Holly, Pam, and I leave at the same time, making exciting plans to see the midnight showing of Harry Potter in July. We head to our cars. As I go to get into mine, which is parked across from Holly’s—Holly wigs and says, “Shit, I locked my keys in my car.” She threatens to hari-kari herself in shame (I only wish I was exaggerating this part), as I try to reassure her. I then get the bright idea to flag down Pam. Why?
Hellion: A History. In January when Holly locked her keys in her car, we had a hell of a time figuring out how to unlock the car again. (Fortunately that time a custodial guy was quite dexterous with a piece of coat hanger. God intervenes again.) Back then, I had called my friend Chris (Pam’s husband) to do some hypothetical questioning. “Say I lock my keys in my car and I don’t want to call the police to come break my window—do you know how I could get a slim jim or anything?” And he says, “Tyson has a kit. You can’t really get slim jims anymore.” Bloody thieves ruined it for all of us.
Tyson, for the sake of character development here, is Chris’s childhood best friend, and like Chris, he is a chivalrous, kind man who doesn’t make you feel stupid for doing idiotic things like locking keys in your car. He also makes this sexy little purr-growl sound if you ask, but that doesn’t have a lot to do with this story. (And he’s happily married, so no one get their hopes up, okay?)
Okay, so Holly wigs. I say, “Hang on” and I start flying across the parking lot after Pam. This is difficult in flip flops. It’s been raining a little, though the rain (and this is important to note) had momentarily stopped. “Pam!” I’m shouting like a maniac as she doesn’t see me, pulling away and going down the parking lot. “Pam!” I look like one of those frilled dragon lizards, waving my hands in the air and running after. Very attractive. She still doesn’t see me. Shit. Suddenly there is a piercing whistle, one of those redneck ones that I seriously need to learn—and lo and behold—Pam stops in the parking lot. I nearly kissed the stranger who did this—bless his beautiful hide. “I love you,” I shout at him as I trot up to Pam’s car and explain the predicament. I get in the car, and Pam is trying to figure out how to go over there—as Holly wanders up to the car too, clearly disoriented and still depressed. Holly gets in the car. Pam drives us over to our cars and we check to make sure Holly’s keys are indeed locked in her car.
They are.
Pam calls Chris, and Chris gives her Tyson’s number. I take Holly’s scissors away so she’ll stop threatening to commit hari-kari. Pam calls Tyson, who says, “No problem, be there in a minute.” And Pam gets off the phone. We all look depressed, so Pam, master organizer, says, “Let’s go to Shakey’s and get some ice cream. It’ll take him a while to get here.” We go. We get the brilliant idea to get some ice cream for Tyson (since he is doing this out of the goodness of his heart.) We stand in a hellaciously long line. We marvel that there are only two workers at this joint, but there are about a half dozen people in our line, and about 10 cars in the drive thru. Nice. We finally place our orders (except Pam was skipped—and never got her ice cream, poor woman) and wait for them to be filled. I think we all aged about a decade waiting for the ice cream. As we’re waiting, Holly and I suddenly notice Pam has disappeared. I mean, she’s short, but she’s slightly harder to misplace than this.
This time we both kinda wig, though rationally we know—she’s probably headed back to the cars to be there when Tyson shows up. But why’d she go by herself? After a few minutes, Holly agrees to venture off to check and I’ll wait for the orders. We both figure she’ll be back long before any of us get our ice cream. She disappears through the parking lot, and whaddayaknow? Our ice cream is ready. I collect it and I stand for a minute or two, then think, “Well, I’ll just head back.”
Now as I’m going, I notice this white SUV that recently parked. I do recall Pam saying something about Tyson driving a white SUV. I *think*, “I bet that’s Ty.”—but I’m not going to check unless I’m pretty sure. I glance over and it looks like an arguing deaf couple in the front seat. Lots of animated gestures and discussion. I think, Nah, can’t be Ty and go to hike off. Suddenly I hear, “Hellion! Over here!” and I turn, and it’s the arguing deaf couple, only it’s really Tyson and Pam. I happily skip over to the SUV and hand Tyson his ice cream, which he is quite delighted with.
Holly comes back with her car. After about 10 minutes. We all talk for a time, and we laugh and carry on and it’s good. Then we part ways; Pam and I head back to our cars—stopping over in the gym again for a quick potty break, then we all go home. I no sooner get into my car and turn onto the road to leave, and it starts downpouring, like literal sheets of wrathful rain. It downpours the entire 45 minute drive home. I could have floated home in an ark.
And to think I could have been out in the parking lot, trying to unlock Holly’s door with a coat hanger, standing in a downpour. Because as of a week before, Pam didn’t belong to our gym—and wouldn’t have been with us at yoga—and if she hadn’t been with us, we couldn’t have called in our friend-of-a-friend card to have her call Tyson. And hell, if she wasn’t married to Chris, who knew Tyson—we would have had the police coming to break one of Holly’s windows. That’s not luck, my friends, or serendipity—that’s God looking out for you.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Tin Cup
I admit it. I love Kevin Costner. I don’t necessarily love his movies, but I love that man. The first time I remember watching a Kevin Costner movie, I was 16 and it was Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves. He didn’t have an English accent—so why he was Robin Hood was anyone’s guess; he didn’t have a butt you could necessarily bounce a quarter off of since he does give rise to the theory that all white men have frog butts; and he had a mullet. Then again, pretty much everyone had a mullet then—so that could be overlooked.
None of these facts mattered to me. The man was hot—H-A-W-T, hot, and I couldn’t wait until it came out on VHS so I could own it. He instantly rocketed to the top of my list of men I’d love to marry (or whatever). He remained there for a good ten years; and he’s shifted up and down the listing over the years, but he’s definitely still in the top twenty of “Boy, would I—and where are my handcuffs” category.
Soon after listing him thusly, I got to do some catching up with other movies of his: Silverado (boy, is he adorable in this!) and Bull Durham (which in my opinion is the definitive Costner movie). Other movies came: Dances With Wolves (good); Waterworld (geez, Kev, what were you thinking?) and JFK (jury’s still out on that one). Then came Tin Cup.
Arguments can be made and defended this is really Bull Durham with golf clubs. You would be right—and you would be wrong. But it’s Kevin Costner at what he does best. Cocky, but insecure good old boy who has to overcome himself and then wins the girl in the end. I’m assuming it’s not a real acting stretch for darlin’ Kevin, but who cares?
The dialogue and actions in this movie are quite hysterical. Or maybe it’s only hysterical to me since I can identify with said hero who would willingly self-destruct just to make a point. “Give me another ball.” The last fifteen minutes of the movie are just painful to watch, but you can’t turn away. Fortunately, it all works out anyway. Sorta. He at least gets the girl. (And by the way, when he starts kissing her on the couch? *fans self*)
Since quotations and movie quotes are possibly my favorite thing in the world—you should see the number of Quotation Reference books I have on my shelves and the scores of quotes stored on my computer—I will list my favorite quotes from this movie.
Roy 'Tin Cup' McAvoy: Sex and golf are the two things you can enjoy even if you're not good at them.
Dr. Molly Griswold: There's no such thing as semi-platonic.
Roy 'Tin Cup' McAvoy: Well there ought to be.
Roy 'Tin Cup' McAvoy: Does my inner child need a spanking?
Do you have any favorite movie quotes? Any favorite Kevin quotes? Favorite Kevin Costner kisses? Because I have to say the sex scene from Bull Durham is definitive for me! Sign me up and lay me in the spilled milk, baby.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Tuesday Is Almost As Good As Monday
My computer died. My new laptop I bought in January and I'd already returned (a week after I bought it) to replace the CD drive. Yes, wouldn't come on.
SILVER LINING: Still under warranty, supposedly, so it will be fixed. Plus I have a real reason to procrastinate on my novel. Which I wasn't writing.
I took it to the store and they shipped it off. Geek Squad Guy (not the same one I was totally crushing on from last time, but not bad) looked moderately concerned. "You realize they might not be able to save your data." Translation: God, Lady, I hope you hadn't written your Great American Novel on this thing because it's GONE, GONE, GONE.
SILVER LINING: I have two flash drives, and strangely, earlier in the week, I had recopied everything to the flash drive. Thank you, God.
Monday I worked on folders, applications, emails, et al. I accomplished little.
SILVER LINING: Possible job security...but only if I get everyone completed by the start of summer semester like I need to.
Monday night I went to a dinner my boss invited me and other co-workers to, to thank us for helping with his grant. I ate too much; I'm even more of a cow.
SILVER LINING: The dessert had rum in it, so I didn't much care that my supposed diet was blown
Monday I also got another email from Coffee Date Guy #4 (or is he three?)--asking me if I want to go out this week. Hmmm, my subtle disappearing act and inability to return phone calls has not convinced him I'm not remotely interested.
SILVER LINING: I'll finally get to use "I'm looking for a love like the Titanic and you're just not it" like I've been dying to for years now. Maybe that will spell it out. Maybe I'll need to work on bursting into tears--it's worked remarkably for the men who've broken up with me.
Monday I finished The Leopard Prince and The Raven Prince, and nothing else I've tried reading has caught my interest as much as they did.
SILVER LINING: I plan to fly by the library tonight and drop off books. Maybe my gym partner will be cool with me doing a fly by the NEW BOOKS shelves for something to read. Because God, if I don't find something to read, I might actually have to do something like write on my own story, which I've still yet to complete chapter 14.
I have to go to the gym tonight to make up for being a cow yesterday.
SILVER LINING: Nothing really. But I should get home early enough to watch The Holiday again and see Jude Law do that little cute dialogue of "Look at you. You're already better than you think you are." *husky laugh* Oh, don't I want to be.
Only like 40 days until Summer School starts. *eyes mountain of folders*
SILVER LINING: It's only 30 days until POTC3 comes out. I'm going to need some Jack when I finally collapse into a heap of overwrought nerves for being the worst secretary on the planet.
Anyone got any problems--and silver linings?
SILVER LINING: Still under warranty, supposedly, so it will be fixed. Plus I have a real reason to procrastinate on my novel. Which I wasn't writing.
I took it to the store and they shipped it off. Geek Squad Guy (not the same one I was totally crushing on from last time, but not bad) looked moderately concerned. "You realize they might not be able to save your data." Translation: God, Lady, I hope you hadn't written your Great American Novel on this thing because it's GONE, GONE, GONE.
SILVER LINING: I have two flash drives, and strangely, earlier in the week, I had recopied everything to the flash drive. Thank you, God.
Monday I worked on folders, applications, emails, et al. I accomplished little.
SILVER LINING: Possible job security...but only if I get everyone completed by the start of summer semester like I need to.
Monday night I went to a dinner my boss invited me and other co-workers to, to thank us for helping with his grant. I ate too much; I'm even more of a cow.
SILVER LINING: The dessert had rum in it, so I didn't much care that my supposed diet was blown
Monday I also got another email from Coffee Date Guy #4 (or is he three?)--asking me if I want to go out this week. Hmmm, my subtle disappearing act and inability to return phone calls has not convinced him I'm not remotely interested.
SILVER LINING: I'll finally get to use "I'm looking for a love like the Titanic and you're just not it" like I've been dying to for years now. Maybe that will spell it out. Maybe I'll need to work on bursting into tears--it's worked remarkably for the men who've broken up with me.
Monday I finished The Leopard Prince and The Raven Prince, and nothing else I've tried reading has caught my interest as much as they did.
SILVER LINING: I plan to fly by the library tonight and drop off books. Maybe my gym partner will be cool with me doing a fly by the NEW BOOKS shelves for something to read. Because God, if I don't find something to read, I might actually have to do something like write on my own story, which I've still yet to complete chapter 14.
I have to go to the gym tonight to make up for being a cow yesterday.
SILVER LINING: Nothing really. But I should get home early enough to watch The Holiday again and see Jude Law do that little cute dialogue of "Look at you. You're already better than you think you are." *husky laugh* Oh, don't I want to be.
Only like 40 days until Summer School starts. *eyes mountain of folders*
SILVER LINING: It's only 30 days until POTC3 comes out. I'm going to need some Jack when I finally collapse into a heap of overwrought nerves for being the worst secretary on the planet.
Anyone got any problems--and silver linings?
Friday, April 20, 2007
Friday Music Blog, a Possible New Routine
I thought I would start a routine. Mondays are probably “Random Hellion Topics” and Wednesdays would be my movie blog; and Fridays, joyful, wonderful perfect Fridays would be music. *hops in the air like King David*
This week since I’ve been on such a Stranger Than Fiction kick, I thought I would focus on my favorite song from the movie, “Whole Wide World.” If you’ve known me more than five minutes, you know I obsess easily. POTC comes to mind. (5 weeks, guys! FIVE WEEKS! 35 DAYS!) And if I fall in love with a song, I will play it over and over and over again. Case in point, in college, while dying my hair (which is approximately a 45 minute process), I put George Strait’s Famous Last Words of a Fool on repeat as the girls were dying my hair. Around minute 43, my friend Nicki, who is unaware a ‘repeat’ button exists, asks, “When does this song end?” (*sounding faintly desperate, faintly depressed*) “Oh, I’m sorry, I have this on repeat. It’s been playing again and again.” Nick’s face was actually quite priceless in that moment. I’m still not allowed to play that song in her presence.
Such is the case with “Whole Wide World.” I wasn’t content with just getting the movie. I had to buy the song. Then I put the song on repeat one day, and had my door shut (so the co-workers wouldn’t catch on)—and listened to it in absolute bliss. The song is 2 minutes and 59 seconds long. There are 480 minutes in an 8 hour day; so I got to listen to approximately 160 times. Before anyone starts sending me Xanex for my OCD, I *did* put the song into a mix of songs the next day. So now I only get to hear it about 7 times a day.
Now that everyone is thanking God that they don’t actually have to hang out with me in real life, let me repeat that moment in the movie when Harold sings this song is so sweet…and sexy. He has his eyes closed, he’s not a great singer—but Ana watches and we see her start mouthing the words with him. “I’d go the whole wide world, I’d go the whole wide world, just to find her…I’d go the whole wide world, I’d go the whole wide world to find out where they hide her….” Then Ana sits by him, he sings another half-verse and she attacks him with a kiss. Which is good because I was getting ready to attack him with a big wet one if she wasn’t going to!
And if anyone watches How I Met Your Mother, there is an episode that features a song that plays over and over again—and it’s quite funny.
Is there any song you don’t get tired of? Why? What magic does it conjure for you?
This week since I’ve been on such a Stranger Than Fiction kick, I thought I would focus on my favorite song from the movie, “Whole Wide World.” If you’ve known me more than five minutes, you know I obsess easily. POTC comes to mind. (5 weeks, guys! FIVE WEEKS! 35 DAYS!) And if I fall in love with a song, I will play it over and over and over again. Case in point, in college, while dying my hair (which is approximately a 45 minute process), I put George Strait’s Famous Last Words of a Fool on repeat as the girls were dying my hair. Around minute 43, my friend Nicki, who is unaware a ‘repeat’ button exists, asks, “When does this song end?” (*sounding faintly desperate, faintly depressed*) “Oh, I’m sorry, I have this on repeat. It’s been playing again and again.” Nick’s face was actually quite priceless in that moment. I’m still not allowed to play that song in her presence.
Such is the case with “Whole Wide World.” I wasn’t content with just getting the movie. I had to buy the song. Then I put the song on repeat one day, and had my door shut (so the co-workers wouldn’t catch on)—and listened to it in absolute bliss. The song is 2 minutes and 59 seconds long. There are 480 minutes in an 8 hour day; so I got to listen to approximately 160 times. Before anyone starts sending me Xanex for my OCD, I *did* put the song into a mix of songs the next day. So now I only get to hear it about 7 times a day.
Now that everyone is thanking God that they don’t actually have to hang out with me in real life, let me repeat that moment in the movie when Harold sings this song is so sweet…and sexy. He has his eyes closed, he’s not a great singer—but Ana watches and we see her start mouthing the words with him. “I’d go the whole wide world, I’d go the whole wide world, just to find her…I’d go the whole wide world, I’d go the whole wide world to find out where they hide her….” Then Ana sits by him, he sings another half-verse and she attacks him with a kiss. Which is good because I was getting ready to attack him with a big wet one if she wasn’t going to!
And if anyone watches How I Met Your Mother, there is an episode that features a song that plays over and over again—and it’s quite funny.
Is there any song you don’t get tired of? Why? What magic does it conjure for you?
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Stranger Than Fiction: Movie Blog
I love movies. I love to rewatch movies; and I adore DVDs because I can immediately rewind bits of it and watch something again and again. When Stranger Than Fiction came to big screen, I, of course, went. A writer with writer's block who is inadvertently going to kill someone who actually exists? Front row, holding popcorn, don't talk to me.
The dialogue is hysterical at times; the characters are real and heartbreaking and wonderful. We all wish we could write characters that are as big as life as Harold Crick, who is admittedly the most boring, reviled man on the planet--and yet, you can't help wonder what will happen to him and love him for all his quirks.
The scene where he brings Anna the "flours" to apologize--I cried. I mean, flowers are a thoughtful gesture to begin with; but flours for a baker? That's the most romantic thing I've ever seen. And then she invites him up to her apartment, and he sees the guitar and she suggests he play a song. "I won't laugh." No, he says, maybe some other time. She doesn't press, but when she goes to the kitchen, you see him think about it. After all, this is a movie about the imminent death of Harold--and he realizes, he might not have another time to play her his song--and so, he plays it. It's shakey; it's a bit painful; and it's heartbreakingly sweet and romantic. And I definitely started crying again.
So this blog is for Harold, an inspiration to all us boring, reviled non-heroes who are just living our normal lives when it suddenly occurs to us that we don't have forever. "When I was young boy, my mother said to me there's only one girl in the world for you. She probably lives in Tahiti. I'd go the whole wide world, I'd go the whole world just to find her...."
And because Harold is in love with numbers:
POTC3 comes out in 36.46 days, or about 5 weeks, and 1 1/2 days.
Eloisa's new book comes out in 40.46 days.
The new Ranger book comes out in 61.46 days (2 months, 1 1/2 days)
JQ's Secret Diaries comes out in 68.46 days
Harry Potter vanquishes Voldie in 93.46 days. (3 months, 3 1/2 days)
Sherrilyn Kenyon's next Darkhunter book is out in 110.46 days.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Sean Patrick O’Brien ducked behind the counter of the nearly empty bar and glanced through the spare bottles for a new Bacardi. He knew he had one; he saw it only last night. Dusty perhaps, but available. His brother, Dylan, prided himself on having a variety beyond the longneck standbys. He spied the tall clear container behind a Jose Cuervo and snagged it, setting the potent brew blindly on the counter above him as he did a quick account of the stock. By the time he stood again, he realized he’d broken cardinal bartending rule number one.
Never let your guard down.
Of course, his grandmother would say that rule number one, bartending or no, is that you cannot escape your fate. Very Irish, his grandmother. Considering who had just entered the room, it was only fitting he could hear his grandmother chortling, for certainly his Fate had just entered the room.
He sensed it in the way the young woman squared her shoulders; the way she surveyed the bar with searching liquid eyes; and the way she fooled with the train on her poofy, white wedding gown.
She held a wedding bouquet in one gloved hand, and the other hand lifted to rearrange her veil which seemed to have caught itself momentarily in the door. Her bare shoulders were a creamy alabaster white, like she and the wedding gown had been carved from one piece of marble. She straightened her tiara without having to look in the mirror, no doubt a crown being a part of her everyday wardrobe. This town was only big enough for one princess: Julia Trinity Davenport. She even had a princess-like name.
The bar clatter quieted almost instantly, Pete and Tommy’s baseball debate pausing in mid-rant. The final tinny strains of Hank Junior on the jukebox tinkled to silence as Sean and the sporadically seated customers watched her every move with rapt stares. With the shutting whoosh of the bar door, the hush became as eerie as the eye of a hurricane, and they waited for the rest of the storm to follow.
Actually, he waited to see the storm to follow. Brides did not float into Dylan’s Wild Irish Rose in full wedding regalia everyday, and this was hardly the place for a wedding reception. Dylan had certainly said nothing about hosting one. The dark wood and smoke dirtied walls made a stark contrast against her pristine white gown. She looked as if she’d stepped from the pages of Today’s Bride, perhaps a depiction for ‘themes of the Middle-of-Nowhere’.
With a final nervous arrangement, Julia Trinity Davenport squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and glided to the bar as if nothing were out of the ordinary, her heels clicking invisibly beneath her satin gown and echoing throughout the room, her wedding veil sailing behind as if caught in the trade winds. And Sean Patrick O’Brien fell in love for the second time in his life, with the same girl no less. His heart thudded in his chest as the familiar waves of awareness swept over him, and he shook his head to clear the lustful fog that suddenly enveloped him. Whoa, old man, what are you thinking? You’re over her, remember? Especially since she’s obviously just married someone else.
Yeah, right, tell that to his subconscious. He’d been dreaming about her for months now, ever since he started working on the corporate merger. He had a better chance of forgetting his own mother. His dreams never even came close to the reality though. God, she was gorgeous. Middling height, dainty, and full of aching curves, she was his every high school fantasy. He remembered her bouncing blonde curls she wore in a ponytail, and her long slender legs in her private school uniform.
She wasn’t a young girl now, but wonderful ripe and ready woman. She stood nearly eyelevel now, obviously stepping up on the barstool step that ran the length of the counter floor, leaning against the bar top on her elbows. A hint of expensive perfume wafted up to tease him, a scent that was all too familiar. Coconuts and lime. Put the lime in the coconut and drink them both up.
Her wide thickly-lashed blue-eyed gaze held his with no hint of recognition in their Pacific depths, and she grinned and thumped her empty hand on the counter.
“I need a goddamned drink.”
It was like hearing an angel swear. He could almost see the white feathers fluttering to the ground. He hadn’t heard her right. He was sure. Though it had been twelve years since their night together, her words would not be about liquor and lack utter recognition of the man she lost her virginity to.
She looked utterly composed and unruffled, as if she thought this was an ordinary request, which it might have been if the customer weren’t garbed in a wedding dress. “Pardon?”
“A drink,” she enunciated slowly, continuing to smile her famous Davenport smile: white, perfect, and slightly fake. “A shot, a pint, a nip, a bit of mother’s milk, or the hair of the dog that bit me, whatever. Set ‘em, Joe. A bride walks into a bar, what do you think she’s looking for? Honeymoon tips?”
Julia’s brow wrinkled and another unangelic word fell from her lips. Sean blinked, and she sighed in explanation. “I seem to have forgotten my credit card. This dress didn’t exactly come with a credit card holder, I’m afraid, an oversight, I’m sure, but I seriously need a drink.” She turned her attention to the still watching customers, Ed, Pete, and Tommy, and widened her grin. “I can’t begin to tell you how badly I need a drink.” She reached for the Barcardi, eyeing it speculatively before setting it back. “Not this though. Not strong enough.”
Tommy lifted his half-empty longneck to point at Sean. “You heard her, Joe. Pour the girl a drink already.”
Julia beamed, turning her attention back to Sean. “Finally, a man after my own heart. A shot of Jose, please. Make it a double.”
“Tequila?”
She slapped her white rose and orange blossom bouquet on the counter, flower petals flying upwards from the abuse. “Seriously, if you’re going to repeat everything I say, I’m going to pour it myself.” She lifted her skirts and climbed onto the barstool before flinging her body across the countertop and hanging over the side, her veil flipping over her head and trailing onto the floor.
Before Sean could motion her away or even gape in wonder at her cleavage nearly popping its borders, she opened the cabinet, snagged the bottle of Jose from its location, and wiggled back onto the barstool, batting away yards of the veil’s gauzy opaque material. This time when he took in her appearance, one lock of champagne colored hair fell from its orderly topknot and curled against her forehead, over her eye. She blew at it twice before giving up.
“Seriously, I’m not above drinking straight from the bottle. If you want this done in an orderly manner, I suggest finding a shot glass.”
Sean reached above the bar where the glasses were kept and plopped a glass for her use. She poured a drink, then set the bottle aside. “Lime please.”
When Sean turned back with a saucer of limes, Julia was staring at her hands as if just realizing she wore gloves. “Here, tug this….” she demanded, as Sean scooted a shaker of salt near the limes. She held up her satin-gloved hand, and Sean obliged her. How could he not? She might ask for help removing the dress next and he didn’t want to be disqualified because he wasn’t willing to help with a mere glove.
Come to think of it, this is how several of the dreams had concluded. Though in his dreams, he never removed wedding gowns from her delicious sweetly-curved body.
He helped remove her glove, and she picked up the shaker of salt, licking her wrist. As she sprinkled, she slanted a look back at him. “Thanks for the assistance. You are?”
She licked her wrist again to get the salt. He didn’t think he’d ever seen anything more provocative than her pink, kitten-like tongue stroking her skin. Too bad he hadn’t offered his own wrist, or even a body shot. A body shot would have been good.
She snapped back her drink and popped the lime piece in her mouth. She was a curious blend of lady and bawd. Her shoulders shimmied as she swallowed the taste of tequila away, and she grinned again. “Better. Couple more of these, and I might forget just how much I paid for this gown.” She leaned on her folded arms, intense and candid in her demeanor. That, at least, had not changed a whit. She cocked an eyebrow at him to indicate she had not forgotten she had asked him a question and was waiting for a hint of verbal intelligence.
Sean poured her another shot instead. She didn’t recognize him. Sure, he’d been gone for almost twelve years, but hell, he’d been their gardener that entire summer before the night in the gazebo. Didn’t women remember their first time?
Oh, the ironies. He dreamed about her; and she couldn’t even remember his name.
“Joe, of course; you knew me right off. You must be psychic.” Sean narrowed a warning look at the others to keep silent. He didn’t know why he gave her a fake name. Only that if by chance she recalled Dylan had a brother named Sean, a boy she used to kiss and more, he didn’t want her suddenly going, “Oh, gosh, it’s so great to see you again! I almost didn’t recognize you.” Yeah, well, no almost to it. She didn’t recognize him at all.
“Joe,” she repeated, oblivious to his ill-humor. “Well, keep ‘em coming, Joe. This has been a hell of a day.” Lick, salt, lick, drink, shudder, suck, thunk. She wiggled on her perch, her dress rustling. “Oh, yeah, this is more like it.” She looked back at the regulars, her gaze seeming to narrow slightly on the tall, lanky regular in the Cardinals t-shirt. “Tommy, right? Tommy Powers. You played pitcher on the baseball team in high school, right?”
Oh, sure, she remembered him.
Tommy straightened on his barstool as if he had been acknowledged by the Queen. “Yes, Miss Davenport…er….” He stopped.
A pained looked flickered on her angelic features before she schooled herself back into poker-player composure. “Call me Julia, Tommy. We’re all on a first name basis here. Your name is still on the boards for most strikeouts, you know.”
Sean filled her shot glass a third time without prompting. Maybe there hadn’t been a wedding. She tossed it back like a frat boy, then smiled at Pete. “Peter Lansing.”
“Everyone just calls me Pete,” the shorter, slightly balding man corrected, then flustered to a halt.
“You bet. Your daughter, Emma, is in my kindergarten class. She is a sweetie. Got your wife, Katie’s, eyes. You’re a good man, Pete. You showed up for your wedding.”
Oh, hell.
Julia looked back at Sean, her blue eyes slightly watery from unshed tears, but she blinked them away, took the Jose from Sean and poured her own drink. She did the ritual again, more slowly this time as if every movement was an effort.
Then she shook her head, snapping her shoulders back defiantly. She looked over at Ed, smiling again, an empty shell of a smile. “Hi, Ed, I’ll probably be going to your place next.”
“Order anything you want, sweetheart, it’s on me,” he returned. “In fact,” he nodded at Sean, “put this on my tab too.”
“Thank you,” she whispered. She tapped her empty glass again. “Pour another, Joe. I don’t want to spill any.” She slurred it ever so slightly. “Joe, Joe. It doesn’t sound right. Can I just call you Irish? You look rather Irish, you know, must be the hair.” Her gaze focused on him intently, narrowed a bit as she studied him, a wrinkle forming in the middle of her forehead.
“Princess, you can call me anything you want,” Sean promised, reluctantly pouring her a fourth shot. She was going to need help getting home. No way was she fit to drive in this condition. Come to think of it, how did she get here?
“Thank you, Irish.” So polite. So much a Davenport. Polite to the core.
“You want to talk about it, Princess?”
Her fingers reached out and rubbed one of the loose rose petals between her bare pads. She didn’t say anything for a long moment, and it was as if he held his breath for her answer. Come to think of it, he didn’t think he could hear the others breathing either. “Not really. He just didn’t show up.”
She downed the fourth shot without preamble, pushing it forward for a refill. “He called this morning to say he had to go to a business meeting, and I told him if he didn’t show up at 2 p.m.” She glanced at the others. “That’s when the wedding was supposed to be, you know. Of course, you know. The entire town knows I was supposed to get married today, and now they’ll all know I didn’t.” She shook her head. “Anyway, if he didn’t show up by two, I was leaving.” She twisted the shot glass in her hand. “Two-o-clock came without him, and I left. Anne helped me out the window.” She nodded, in her own world. “Good friend, Anne. I didn’t snag the dress or anything.”
Sean poured a fifth shot. Perhaps not a great idea, but anyone who got left at the altar deserved as much liquor as they could hold. He did not know what else to do with a crying woman, a jilted bride no less, and he had a feeling none of the others did either. The responsibility would fall to him since he was the one in charge of the bar and tequila, and his instincts said pour.
Pete cleared his throat. “It’s a fetching dress. You look quite beautiful.” The others immediately followed suit with agreeing nods and grunts.
Julia sniffed before smiling at him. “Thank you, guys. I appreciate it.” She chewed thoughtfully on her bottom lip a moment. “I should be angry, shouldn’t I?” She nodded to answer her own question. “I mean, I’m angry, don’t get me wrong. I’m fucking pissed, excuse my French, but at the same time I want to sit in the middle of the floor and cry.”
Sean opened his mouth to try to convince her not to, but the others beat him to it. Actually Ed reached into his pocket for a clean white handkerchief and handed it over. “Go right ahead, darling. A good long cry never hurt anything.”
She tucked the handkerchief in her gloved hand, and Sean couldn’t help but ask. “Your groom didn’t show up to the wedding because he had a meeting?”
“Richard. Richard Harrison. I forget, you wouldn’t know who he is, Irish, not like Tommy, Ed, and Pete here.”
“Yeah, we know Richard,” Tommy said, sounding less than enthused by the acquaintance. “Good riddance, I say. Sweetheart, you deserved better than him. Be lucky you don’t know him, S…Joe.”
Sean was all too aware of who Richard Harrison was. He wouldn’t have wished him on anyone, let alone on Julia Trinity Davenport, even if she didn’t remember him.
Julia sighed. “Richard had a last minute meeting pop up at noon, an emergency meeting that would be the life and death of, well, everything, and he decided it took priority over our wedding. I would wait; New York would not.”
Ah, New York. The Brookering Brothers. They had been pacing in the sidelines, twisting their hands and wondering if they really wanted in. Apparently they did. Interesting.
“You mean to tell me no one else in his office could take care of it while he got married?” Of course not. Richard was the one with the connections with the Brookering Brothers, not Oliver Davenport. No time to waste once they agreed. Sean wasn’t sure if he wouldn’t have cancelled a wedding if they had been on the line.
Well, surely not. Who in their right mind would leave Julia at the end of the altar? Hell, he knew Richard was an idiot, but he didn’t think he was that big of an idiot.
Julia waved her salt hand. “Exactly my point; however, Richard said the CEO of the company was used to dealing with him and refused to work out the situation with anybody else.”
“And Richard chose the meeting?” He really needed to come to grips with this. Still, he had Harrison and Davenport panicked. This was good.
She nodded. “A million dollar deal? You bet he did. In financial loss, my wedding was nothing compared to what he would have lost with this company. He promised to pay for a new wedding if it came down to it.”
Sean nodded, sliding her new drink toward her. “And what did you say?”
“Oh, I couldn’t repeat it,” she said, her voice at once demure. She finished the fifth drink as peculiarly as the first, making the same grimace-smile. She sighed, relaxing on the barstool. “I think I feel a little fuzzy.” She stared up at the ceiling.
“Good.” He reached for a water glass and filled it with ice water. “Here. Before you fall under the counter.”
“Good idea.” She picked it up to take a sip. As she had it halfway to her mouth, a cell phone rang. He heard it, he knew. Only it seemed to be coming from her breasts.
“Are your breasts ringing?”
She gave him a look and put the glass back down, reaching into the top of her gown with one hand and pulling out a tiny cell phone. She waved it at him, and he couldn’t help himself. “Anything else you’re hiding in there?”
She ignored the comment, but not before she let an unladylike snort escape her lips. Yeah, she was definitely buzzed. A Davenport would never snort. She flipped open the phone and put it to her ear. “Hello?” She definitely didn’t sound friendly now. Peevish, he thought. Very peevish, and very clipped and clear for someone who had just downed five shots of tequila. She seemed to listen for about two seconds before she snapped the phone closed and disconnected the call.
It immediately rang again. Julia didn’t pause as she dropped the ringing phone into the glass of ice water. The trendy looking hardware gave a watery trill before gurgling, then dying outright. The sound was rather disturbing. Sean swallowed and looked back at her. He had a feeling it wasn’t the phone she wanted to dump in the icy deep.
“Who called?”
“Wrong number.”
“And the second time? The one you didn’t answer.”
She shrugged, one alabaster shoulder lifting. “Also a wrong number. If I had known you were so interested in being my personal secretary, I’d have let you screen the calls for me.” She clapped her palm against the counter. “So how about another drink? I think I’m getting my second-wind for this now.”
He nodded, grabbing another water glass and filling it with ice. She frowned when he slid the ice water to her. “That’s not what I had in mind.”
“Just what exactly do you have in mind, Princess?”
Her mouth opened to reply, most likely with something smart, but a sudden noise interrupted them. “Julia!”
“Oh, no,” she said instead, almost hunching on her perch. Sean looked over her head at the tall, stodgy looking man who strode into the bar as if he owned the place. Richard Harrison.
Well, it seemed the real storm had arrived.
Sean immediately glanced back at Julia who’d straightened, her expression clear of any intimidation her ex-fiancé might have caused. She was tugging her glove back on, her shoulders drawn back so far she looked like a candidate for the Marines.
“Richard,” she drawled. He watched her turn on her seat and meet his gaze coolly. Sean wanted to grin like a simpleton at her proud behavior. She certainly had style. “How did you find me? I was sure I removed the ankle tracking device….”
“The white limo outside with the ‘Just Married’ sign was a dead giveaway. Never mind this is the only bar in town, and you have a weakness for Cuervo.” Richard drawled superciliously, “Not unlike your mother really.”
Julia frowned. “Oh, let’s not discuss mothers, Richard, or we’d have to get into who you’re the son of. Aren’t you supposed to be at a meeting?”
“The meeting concluded a while ago. I came to the church, but you weren’t there.”
“Funny. I had the same experience about forty-five minutes ago. Maybe we could form a support group. People who get left at the altar.”
Richard frowned, and Sean decided Richard didn’t seem as amused by her wit as he was. “You’re blowing this out of proportion. I told you I was only going to be a little late. I would have explained, again, if you hadn’t hung up on me.”
“And I already told you what I thought. This conversation is over.” She paused for effect. “We are over.”
“Let’s not discuss this here. Come home with me. Let me explain.”
“There is nothing to explain. You explained it quite effectively this morning, and when I told you if you were not there for our wedding we were over, I thought I made myself crystal clear. You didn’t show; we are over.”
Richard tsked, closing the final bit of distance between them. His voice lowered, but the occupants of the bar were so quiet it didn’t matter. “You’re overwrought. Come home with me now; calm down and think this over. You’ll see this is not as bad as you’re making it.”
“Negotiation with me is not an option, Richard. Now if you don’t want a scene, I suggest you leave.”
“Julia,” his voice warned. Richard took a deep breath. “You have no where to go. Your apartment lease ran out last week, and you’ve been spending the last few days with your parents. It’s either them or me.”
Julia’s laugh sounded hollow. “And you think I’d pick you over them. Don’t flatter yourself. I don’t plan to spend the night with either of you.”
“Where will you go? The bed and breakfast? It’s full of wedding guests. Anne’s one-room basement apartment? Where’s she going to put you? In the kitchen pantry?”
She shook her head, pointing her thumb behind her. “Nope. I’m going home with Irish.”
Sean suddenly found himself the recipient of several stares, most of them intrigued, one of them angry, and one of them mischievous and daring. Two realizations occurred to him. Number one, he was in big trouble, and number two, it seemed Princess did indeed want help in removing her gown.
Never let your guard down.
Of course, his grandmother would say that rule number one, bartending or no, is that you cannot escape your fate. Very Irish, his grandmother. Considering who had just entered the room, it was only fitting he could hear his grandmother chortling, for certainly his Fate had just entered the room.
He sensed it in the way the young woman squared her shoulders; the way she surveyed the bar with searching liquid eyes; and the way she fooled with the train on her poofy, white wedding gown.
She held a wedding bouquet in one gloved hand, and the other hand lifted to rearrange her veil which seemed to have caught itself momentarily in the door. Her bare shoulders were a creamy alabaster white, like she and the wedding gown had been carved from one piece of marble. She straightened her tiara without having to look in the mirror, no doubt a crown being a part of her everyday wardrobe. This town was only big enough for one princess: Julia Trinity Davenport. She even had a princess-like name.
The bar clatter quieted almost instantly, Pete and Tommy’s baseball debate pausing in mid-rant. The final tinny strains of Hank Junior on the jukebox tinkled to silence as Sean and the sporadically seated customers watched her every move with rapt stares. With the shutting whoosh of the bar door, the hush became as eerie as the eye of a hurricane, and they waited for the rest of the storm to follow.
Actually, he waited to see the storm to follow. Brides did not float into Dylan’s Wild Irish Rose in full wedding regalia everyday, and this was hardly the place for a wedding reception. Dylan had certainly said nothing about hosting one. The dark wood and smoke dirtied walls made a stark contrast against her pristine white gown. She looked as if she’d stepped from the pages of Today’s Bride, perhaps a depiction for ‘themes of the Middle-of-Nowhere’.
With a final nervous arrangement, Julia Trinity Davenport squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and glided to the bar as if nothing were out of the ordinary, her heels clicking invisibly beneath her satin gown and echoing throughout the room, her wedding veil sailing behind as if caught in the trade winds. And Sean Patrick O’Brien fell in love for the second time in his life, with the same girl no less. His heart thudded in his chest as the familiar waves of awareness swept over him, and he shook his head to clear the lustful fog that suddenly enveloped him. Whoa, old man, what are you thinking? You’re over her, remember? Especially since she’s obviously just married someone else.
Yeah, right, tell that to his subconscious. He’d been dreaming about her for months now, ever since he started working on the corporate merger. He had a better chance of forgetting his own mother. His dreams never even came close to the reality though. God, she was gorgeous. Middling height, dainty, and full of aching curves, she was his every high school fantasy. He remembered her bouncing blonde curls she wore in a ponytail, and her long slender legs in her private school uniform.
She wasn’t a young girl now, but wonderful ripe and ready woman. She stood nearly eyelevel now, obviously stepping up on the barstool step that ran the length of the counter floor, leaning against the bar top on her elbows. A hint of expensive perfume wafted up to tease him, a scent that was all too familiar. Coconuts and lime. Put the lime in the coconut and drink them both up.
Her wide thickly-lashed blue-eyed gaze held his with no hint of recognition in their Pacific depths, and she grinned and thumped her empty hand on the counter.
“I need a goddamned drink.”
It was like hearing an angel swear. He could almost see the white feathers fluttering to the ground. He hadn’t heard her right. He was sure. Though it had been twelve years since their night together, her words would not be about liquor and lack utter recognition of the man she lost her virginity to.
She looked utterly composed and unruffled, as if she thought this was an ordinary request, which it might have been if the customer weren’t garbed in a wedding dress. “Pardon?”
“A drink,” she enunciated slowly, continuing to smile her famous Davenport smile: white, perfect, and slightly fake. “A shot, a pint, a nip, a bit of mother’s milk, or the hair of the dog that bit me, whatever. Set ‘em, Joe. A bride walks into a bar, what do you think she’s looking for? Honeymoon tips?”
Julia’s brow wrinkled and another unangelic word fell from her lips. Sean blinked, and she sighed in explanation. “I seem to have forgotten my credit card. This dress didn’t exactly come with a credit card holder, I’m afraid, an oversight, I’m sure, but I seriously need a drink.” She turned her attention to the still watching customers, Ed, Pete, and Tommy, and widened her grin. “I can’t begin to tell you how badly I need a drink.” She reached for the Barcardi, eyeing it speculatively before setting it back. “Not this though. Not strong enough.”
Tommy lifted his half-empty longneck to point at Sean. “You heard her, Joe. Pour the girl a drink already.”
Julia beamed, turning her attention back to Sean. “Finally, a man after my own heart. A shot of Jose, please. Make it a double.”
“Tequila?”
She slapped her white rose and orange blossom bouquet on the counter, flower petals flying upwards from the abuse. “Seriously, if you’re going to repeat everything I say, I’m going to pour it myself.” She lifted her skirts and climbed onto the barstool before flinging her body across the countertop and hanging over the side, her veil flipping over her head and trailing onto the floor.
Before Sean could motion her away or even gape in wonder at her cleavage nearly popping its borders, she opened the cabinet, snagged the bottle of Jose from its location, and wiggled back onto the barstool, batting away yards of the veil’s gauzy opaque material. This time when he took in her appearance, one lock of champagne colored hair fell from its orderly topknot and curled against her forehead, over her eye. She blew at it twice before giving up.
“Seriously, I’m not above drinking straight from the bottle. If you want this done in an orderly manner, I suggest finding a shot glass.”
Sean reached above the bar where the glasses were kept and plopped a glass for her use. She poured a drink, then set the bottle aside. “Lime please.”
When Sean turned back with a saucer of limes, Julia was staring at her hands as if just realizing she wore gloves. “Here, tug this….” she demanded, as Sean scooted a shaker of salt near the limes. She held up her satin-gloved hand, and Sean obliged her. How could he not? She might ask for help removing the dress next and he didn’t want to be disqualified because he wasn’t willing to help with a mere glove.
Come to think of it, this is how several of the dreams had concluded. Though in his dreams, he never removed wedding gowns from her delicious sweetly-curved body.
He helped remove her glove, and she picked up the shaker of salt, licking her wrist. As she sprinkled, she slanted a look back at him. “Thanks for the assistance. You are?”
She licked her wrist again to get the salt. He didn’t think he’d ever seen anything more provocative than her pink, kitten-like tongue stroking her skin. Too bad he hadn’t offered his own wrist, or even a body shot. A body shot would have been good.
She snapped back her drink and popped the lime piece in her mouth. She was a curious blend of lady and bawd. Her shoulders shimmied as she swallowed the taste of tequila away, and she grinned again. “Better. Couple more of these, and I might forget just how much I paid for this gown.” She leaned on her folded arms, intense and candid in her demeanor. That, at least, had not changed a whit. She cocked an eyebrow at him to indicate she had not forgotten she had asked him a question and was waiting for a hint of verbal intelligence.
Sean poured her another shot instead. She didn’t recognize him. Sure, he’d been gone for almost twelve years, but hell, he’d been their gardener that entire summer before the night in the gazebo. Didn’t women remember their first time?
Oh, the ironies. He dreamed about her; and she couldn’t even remember his name.
“Joe, of course; you knew me right off. You must be psychic.” Sean narrowed a warning look at the others to keep silent. He didn’t know why he gave her a fake name. Only that if by chance she recalled Dylan had a brother named Sean, a boy she used to kiss and more, he didn’t want her suddenly going, “Oh, gosh, it’s so great to see you again! I almost didn’t recognize you.” Yeah, well, no almost to it. She didn’t recognize him at all.
“Joe,” she repeated, oblivious to his ill-humor. “Well, keep ‘em coming, Joe. This has been a hell of a day.” Lick, salt, lick, drink, shudder, suck, thunk. She wiggled on her perch, her dress rustling. “Oh, yeah, this is more like it.” She looked back at the regulars, her gaze seeming to narrow slightly on the tall, lanky regular in the Cardinals t-shirt. “Tommy, right? Tommy Powers. You played pitcher on the baseball team in high school, right?”
Oh, sure, she remembered him.
Tommy straightened on his barstool as if he had been acknowledged by the Queen. “Yes, Miss Davenport…er….” He stopped.
A pained looked flickered on her angelic features before she schooled herself back into poker-player composure. “Call me Julia, Tommy. We’re all on a first name basis here. Your name is still on the boards for most strikeouts, you know.”
Sean filled her shot glass a third time without prompting. Maybe there hadn’t been a wedding. She tossed it back like a frat boy, then smiled at Pete. “Peter Lansing.”
“Everyone just calls me Pete,” the shorter, slightly balding man corrected, then flustered to a halt.
“You bet. Your daughter, Emma, is in my kindergarten class. She is a sweetie. Got your wife, Katie’s, eyes. You’re a good man, Pete. You showed up for your wedding.”
Oh, hell.
Julia looked back at Sean, her blue eyes slightly watery from unshed tears, but she blinked them away, took the Jose from Sean and poured her own drink. She did the ritual again, more slowly this time as if every movement was an effort.
Then she shook her head, snapping her shoulders back defiantly. She looked over at Ed, smiling again, an empty shell of a smile. “Hi, Ed, I’ll probably be going to your place next.”
“Order anything you want, sweetheart, it’s on me,” he returned. “In fact,” he nodded at Sean, “put this on my tab too.”
“Thank you,” she whispered. She tapped her empty glass again. “Pour another, Joe. I don’t want to spill any.” She slurred it ever so slightly. “Joe, Joe. It doesn’t sound right. Can I just call you Irish? You look rather Irish, you know, must be the hair.” Her gaze focused on him intently, narrowed a bit as she studied him, a wrinkle forming in the middle of her forehead.
“Princess, you can call me anything you want,” Sean promised, reluctantly pouring her a fourth shot. She was going to need help getting home. No way was she fit to drive in this condition. Come to think of it, how did she get here?
“Thank you, Irish.” So polite. So much a Davenport. Polite to the core.
“You want to talk about it, Princess?”
Her fingers reached out and rubbed one of the loose rose petals between her bare pads. She didn’t say anything for a long moment, and it was as if he held his breath for her answer. Come to think of it, he didn’t think he could hear the others breathing either. “Not really. He just didn’t show up.”
She downed the fourth shot without preamble, pushing it forward for a refill. “He called this morning to say he had to go to a business meeting, and I told him if he didn’t show up at 2 p.m.” She glanced at the others. “That’s when the wedding was supposed to be, you know. Of course, you know. The entire town knows I was supposed to get married today, and now they’ll all know I didn’t.” She shook her head. “Anyway, if he didn’t show up by two, I was leaving.” She twisted the shot glass in her hand. “Two-o-clock came without him, and I left. Anne helped me out the window.” She nodded, in her own world. “Good friend, Anne. I didn’t snag the dress or anything.”
Sean poured a fifth shot. Perhaps not a great idea, but anyone who got left at the altar deserved as much liquor as they could hold. He did not know what else to do with a crying woman, a jilted bride no less, and he had a feeling none of the others did either. The responsibility would fall to him since he was the one in charge of the bar and tequila, and his instincts said pour.
Pete cleared his throat. “It’s a fetching dress. You look quite beautiful.” The others immediately followed suit with agreeing nods and grunts.
Julia sniffed before smiling at him. “Thank you, guys. I appreciate it.” She chewed thoughtfully on her bottom lip a moment. “I should be angry, shouldn’t I?” She nodded to answer her own question. “I mean, I’m angry, don’t get me wrong. I’m fucking pissed, excuse my French, but at the same time I want to sit in the middle of the floor and cry.”
Sean opened his mouth to try to convince her not to, but the others beat him to it. Actually Ed reached into his pocket for a clean white handkerchief and handed it over. “Go right ahead, darling. A good long cry never hurt anything.”
She tucked the handkerchief in her gloved hand, and Sean couldn’t help but ask. “Your groom didn’t show up to the wedding because he had a meeting?”
“Richard. Richard Harrison. I forget, you wouldn’t know who he is, Irish, not like Tommy, Ed, and Pete here.”
“Yeah, we know Richard,” Tommy said, sounding less than enthused by the acquaintance. “Good riddance, I say. Sweetheart, you deserved better than him. Be lucky you don’t know him, S…Joe.”
Sean was all too aware of who Richard Harrison was. He wouldn’t have wished him on anyone, let alone on Julia Trinity Davenport, even if she didn’t remember him.
Julia sighed. “Richard had a last minute meeting pop up at noon, an emergency meeting that would be the life and death of, well, everything, and he decided it took priority over our wedding. I would wait; New York would not.”
Ah, New York. The Brookering Brothers. They had been pacing in the sidelines, twisting their hands and wondering if they really wanted in. Apparently they did. Interesting.
“You mean to tell me no one else in his office could take care of it while he got married?” Of course not. Richard was the one with the connections with the Brookering Brothers, not Oliver Davenport. No time to waste once they agreed. Sean wasn’t sure if he wouldn’t have cancelled a wedding if they had been on the line.
Well, surely not. Who in their right mind would leave Julia at the end of the altar? Hell, he knew Richard was an idiot, but he didn’t think he was that big of an idiot.
Julia waved her salt hand. “Exactly my point; however, Richard said the CEO of the company was used to dealing with him and refused to work out the situation with anybody else.”
“And Richard chose the meeting?” He really needed to come to grips with this. Still, he had Harrison and Davenport panicked. This was good.
She nodded. “A million dollar deal? You bet he did. In financial loss, my wedding was nothing compared to what he would have lost with this company. He promised to pay for a new wedding if it came down to it.”
Sean nodded, sliding her new drink toward her. “And what did you say?”
“Oh, I couldn’t repeat it,” she said, her voice at once demure. She finished the fifth drink as peculiarly as the first, making the same grimace-smile. She sighed, relaxing on the barstool. “I think I feel a little fuzzy.” She stared up at the ceiling.
“Good.” He reached for a water glass and filled it with ice water. “Here. Before you fall under the counter.”
“Good idea.” She picked it up to take a sip. As she had it halfway to her mouth, a cell phone rang. He heard it, he knew. Only it seemed to be coming from her breasts.
“Are your breasts ringing?”
She gave him a look and put the glass back down, reaching into the top of her gown with one hand and pulling out a tiny cell phone. She waved it at him, and he couldn’t help himself. “Anything else you’re hiding in there?”
She ignored the comment, but not before she let an unladylike snort escape her lips. Yeah, she was definitely buzzed. A Davenport would never snort. She flipped open the phone and put it to her ear. “Hello?” She definitely didn’t sound friendly now. Peevish, he thought. Very peevish, and very clipped and clear for someone who had just downed five shots of tequila. She seemed to listen for about two seconds before she snapped the phone closed and disconnected the call.
It immediately rang again. Julia didn’t pause as she dropped the ringing phone into the glass of ice water. The trendy looking hardware gave a watery trill before gurgling, then dying outright. The sound was rather disturbing. Sean swallowed and looked back at her. He had a feeling it wasn’t the phone she wanted to dump in the icy deep.
“Who called?”
“Wrong number.”
“And the second time? The one you didn’t answer.”
She shrugged, one alabaster shoulder lifting. “Also a wrong number. If I had known you were so interested in being my personal secretary, I’d have let you screen the calls for me.” She clapped her palm against the counter. “So how about another drink? I think I’m getting my second-wind for this now.”
He nodded, grabbing another water glass and filling it with ice. She frowned when he slid the ice water to her. “That’s not what I had in mind.”
“Just what exactly do you have in mind, Princess?”
Her mouth opened to reply, most likely with something smart, but a sudden noise interrupted them. “Julia!”
“Oh, no,” she said instead, almost hunching on her perch. Sean looked over her head at the tall, stodgy looking man who strode into the bar as if he owned the place. Richard Harrison.
Well, it seemed the real storm had arrived.
Sean immediately glanced back at Julia who’d straightened, her expression clear of any intimidation her ex-fiancé might have caused. She was tugging her glove back on, her shoulders drawn back so far she looked like a candidate for the Marines.
“Richard,” she drawled. He watched her turn on her seat and meet his gaze coolly. Sean wanted to grin like a simpleton at her proud behavior. She certainly had style. “How did you find me? I was sure I removed the ankle tracking device….”
“The white limo outside with the ‘Just Married’ sign was a dead giveaway. Never mind this is the only bar in town, and you have a weakness for Cuervo.” Richard drawled superciliously, “Not unlike your mother really.”
Julia frowned. “Oh, let’s not discuss mothers, Richard, or we’d have to get into who you’re the son of. Aren’t you supposed to be at a meeting?”
“The meeting concluded a while ago. I came to the church, but you weren’t there.”
“Funny. I had the same experience about forty-five minutes ago. Maybe we could form a support group. People who get left at the altar.”
Richard frowned, and Sean decided Richard didn’t seem as amused by her wit as he was. “You’re blowing this out of proportion. I told you I was only going to be a little late. I would have explained, again, if you hadn’t hung up on me.”
“And I already told you what I thought. This conversation is over.” She paused for effect. “We are over.”
“Let’s not discuss this here. Come home with me. Let me explain.”
“There is nothing to explain. You explained it quite effectively this morning, and when I told you if you were not there for our wedding we were over, I thought I made myself crystal clear. You didn’t show; we are over.”
Richard tsked, closing the final bit of distance between them. His voice lowered, but the occupants of the bar were so quiet it didn’t matter. “You’re overwrought. Come home with me now; calm down and think this over. You’ll see this is not as bad as you’re making it.”
“Negotiation with me is not an option, Richard. Now if you don’t want a scene, I suggest you leave.”
“Julia,” his voice warned. Richard took a deep breath. “You have no where to go. Your apartment lease ran out last week, and you’ve been spending the last few days with your parents. It’s either them or me.”
Julia’s laugh sounded hollow. “And you think I’d pick you over them. Don’t flatter yourself. I don’t plan to spend the night with either of you.”
“Where will you go? The bed and breakfast? It’s full of wedding guests. Anne’s one-room basement apartment? Where’s she going to put you? In the kitchen pantry?”
She shook her head, pointing her thumb behind her. “Nope. I’m going home with Irish.”
Sean suddenly found himself the recipient of several stares, most of them intrigued, one of them angry, and one of them mischievous and daring. Two realizations occurred to him. Number one, he was in big trouble, and number two, it seemed Princess did indeed want help in removing her gown.
Monday, April 16, 2007
Predictability
I find men frequently like to argue with me (why? It’s not pleasant) and say that fantasy writing isn’t predictable like romance writing is. In fact, most suggest I try reading a fantasy novel to ratchet up my intelligence level…and to prove that it’s not predictable.
It’s predictable. It’s as predictable as a Friends’ episode. In fact, my friend Jackie and I took my list of “predictable fantasy writing quirks” to a fantasy movie once and checked them off as they happened. They all happened. In fact, we got to laughing so hard when the sidekick died that we couldn’t even mourn the poor fellow’s passing.
The List:
1) Rename everything some unpronounceable. Horses aren’t horses in this world, even if they look exactly like them. They’re called fogrips or something equally incomprehensible.
2) The hero is nobody. In fact, it’d be really cool if you find him in a gutter or something. The lower he lives, the greater it’s going to be when he’s crowned king at the end.
3) The hero doesn’t believe he’s the one who’s been tapped for this adventure; he denies it and tries to avoid going. It annoys everyone.
4) The hero has some goofy sidekick, usually not as a good-looking or skilled, but definitely has the better come-backs. The sidekick is the master of understatement.
5) The hero will encounter a mentor (sometimes the sidekick will be a partial mentor, but usually the mentor is either going to be some long-bearded white haired magician wise man type—or the ethereal sorceress type.) He’ll learn a lot and ask a lot of dumb questions.
6) The story is always a quest. We’re looking for a sword, a ring, a grail bearer, a princess, something. And of course, the FATE of the world hinges on the outcome of finding this person in a limited amount of time or someone more evil than Satan will take over and ruin everything
7) Villain has no redeeming qualities whatsoever. No backstory. Typically two-dimensional, so we will always support the hero.
8) The first to die is the mentor. Don’t worry though—he’ll usually show up as a ghost or a figment to counsel when you least expect it
9) The next to bite it is the sidekick. After all, the hero must face the Supreme Ordeal alone to prove he didn’t need any help. (The woman he acquires half-way during the quest doesn’t count because we all know women aren’t any good in a brawl.)
10) He marries the girl he acquires half-way through the story at the end…she gets to be queen to his king. And don’t worry about the whole Divine Destiny here. He could have been born of a peasant, but we find out that he was actually the bastard son of the previous king who was tragically killed by the villain.
11) Oh, almost forgot one. To keep this from being truly trite writing, make sure you put in your own liberal/political platform (i.e. deforestation, global warming, war, etc) within the novel so no one will notice the predictable mentor and sidekick hanging out with your hero, and so English professors can sermon on and on about what you were actually talking about when you made up that totally overdone predictable quest for a ring (sword, girl, grail) to save the world.
Anything I’m forgetting? Anything that always appears in a fantasy/sci-fi flick or book?
It’s predictable. It’s as predictable as a Friends’ episode. In fact, my friend Jackie and I took my list of “predictable fantasy writing quirks” to a fantasy movie once and checked them off as they happened. They all happened. In fact, we got to laughing so hard when the sidekick died that we couldn’t even mourn the poor fellow’s passing.
The List:
1) Rename everything some unpronounceable. Horses aren’t horses in this world, even if they look exactly like them. They’re called fogrips or something equally incomprehensible.
2) The hero is nobody. In fact, it’d be really cool if you find him in a gutter or something. The lower he lives, the greater it’s going to be when he’s crowned king at the end.
3) The hero doesn’t believe he’s the one who’s been tapped for this adventure; he denies it and tries to avoid going. It annoys everyone.
4) The hero has some goofy sidekick, usually not as a good-looking or skilled, but definitely has the better come-backs. The sidekick is the master of understatement.
5) The hero will encounter a mentor (sometimes the sidekick will be a partial mentor, but usually the mentor is either going to be some long-bearded white haired magician wise man type—or the ethereal sorceress type.) He’ll learn a lot and ask a lot of dumb questions.
6) The story is always a quest. We’re looking for a sword, a ring, a grail bearer, a princess, something. And of course, the FATE of the world hinges on the outcome of finding this person in a limited amount of time or someone more evil than Satan will take over and ruin everything
7) Villain has no redeeming qualities whatsoever. No backstory. Typically two-dimensional, so we will always support the hero.
8) The first to die is the mentor. Don’t worry though—he’ll usually show up as a ghost or a figment to counsel when you least expect it
9) The next to bite it is the sidekick. After all, the hero must face the Supreme Ordeal alone to prove he didn’t need any help. (The woman he acquires half-way during the quest doesn’t count because we all know women aren’t any good in a brawl.)
10) He marries the girl he acquires half-way through the story at the end…she gets to be queen to his king. And don’t worry about the whole Divine Destiny here. He could have been born of a peasant, but we find out that he was actually the bastard son of the previous king who was tragically killed by the villain.
11) Oh, almost forgot one. To keep this from being truly trite writing, make sure you put in your own liberal/political platform (i.e. deforestation, global warming, war, etc) within the novel so no one will notice the predictable mentor and sidekick hanging out with your hero, and so English professors can sermon on and on about what you were actually talking about when you made up that totally overdone predictable quest for a ring (sword, girl, grail) to save the world.
Anything I’m forgetting? Anything that always appears in a fantasy/sci-fi flick or book?
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Hellion's Music Blog
So like a week ago I got Gary Allan's greatest hits. I have his other CDs. If you only own one country CD, it should be his Smoke Rings In The Dark. Hot, hot, hot. I think my favorite song on this album is "Cowboy Blues"--where it has the lines, "I strap on my guitar like a .45; I pray each night my aim is true; I'm shooting for the heart of looking in your eyes; singing the Cowboy Blues..."
I barely know what it means. It doesn't really matter because he could be singing out of the phone book, and his growly, moany, dark-sinful-wicked voice would make it sound like... *pauses to think of the perfect metaphor, gets distracted by his photo* Sex? The man sounds like sex in the summer rain. Really good sex in the summer rain.
Although what would I know about really good sex, let alone RGS that occurs in the summer rain? It was the best I could explain it, being anytime I hear him come on the radio--time just stops for me and I'm totally into the moment that is Gary Allan. Nothing else matters but this moment with him. (Now if I could only have some sex that was like that.)
Anyone else want to check out his tattoos? Anyone else ever heard of him? Favorite songs or tattoos?
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Post Date Highlights
1.) Referred to romance novels as "soft core porn" (this after he brought the topic up)
2.) Not gay, nor did he show me videos of him shooting pigs
3.) Suckiest first date kiss ever. The gay guy I dated kissed better.
4.) We both fidget horribly, were beleagered by long silences, and obviously both self-conscience and geeky
5.) Paid for dinner. (Macaroni Grill, I had the Chicken Canneloni. Very good.)
6.) He likes cats. And Terry Prachett.
7.) No spark.
8.) We attended the same Super Bowl party 2 years ago--and we don't remember each other at all. He does remember Holly (my friend), who also likes cats.
Tiff & Terr think I should go on a second date--to make sure I wasn't imagining my boredom and irritation, because I shouldn't discount positive aspects like, "not gay" and "employed" and "a pulse" as dating material.
Obviously my soft core porn has ruined me. I prefer 'spark' and good kisses.
2.) Not gay, nor did he show me videos of him shooting pigs
3.) Suckiest first date kiss ever. The gay guy I dated kissed better.
4.) We both fidget horribly, were beleagered by long silences, and obviously both self-conscience and geeky
5.) Paid for dinner. (Macaroni Grill, I had the Chicken Canneloni. Very good.)
6.) He likes cats. And Terry Prachett.
7.) No spark.
8.) We attended the same Super Bowl party 2 years ago--and we don't remember each other at all. He does remember Holly (my friend), who also likes cats.
Tiff & Terr think I should go on a second date--to make sure I wasn't imagining my boredom and irritation, because I shouldn't discount positive aspects like, "not gay" and "employed" and "a pulse" as dating material.
Obviously my soft core porn has ruined me. I prefer 'spark' and good kisses.
Monday, April 09, 2007
Good Old Monday
POTC3: comes out in 45 days
Ranger: Babes us in 70 days. (What's that? 9 weeks?)
Harry: Hopefully doesn't die in 102 days.
Coffee Date is tomorrow, after work.
Gary Allan, by the way, the best thing to happen to Country Music.
Ranger: Babes us in 70 days. (What's that? 9 weeks?)
Harry: Hopefully doesn't die in 102 days.
Coffee Date is tomorrow, after work.
Gary Allan, by the way, the best thing to happen to Country Music.
Thursday, April 05, 2007
Weekend...er...WeekDAY Date Update with MsHellion
I have emailed the quarry.
The quarry has relayed the following facts and trivia of his person:
1) He's part Scottish (MacDonald, actually)
2) He reads
3) He likes to write--or used to, at any rate. Wishes to write again.
4) He likes a wide variety of movies--he even listed "Finding Neverland" and "Pride & Prejudice" which doesn't usually make guy lists. He does have some very guy movies listed too, before anyone gets suspicious.
5) He's a big LOTR fan--before the movies.
6) He's sarcastic...but seems to be so in a non-harmful sort of way
7) He wants to meet for coffee
What I have interpreted from these facts:
1) He's Scottish? I like him already.
2) He reads? That'll be for a nice change of pace.
3) He writes? Hmmm...we'll have to see. That trait sometimes backfires.
4) He watches movies? Finally. Really tired of meeting the short attention span guys who can't stand movies.
5) LOTR fan? Better than a Trekkie...and I have a better chance of keeping up with any obscure references.
6) He's sarcastic? Good, he can keep up.
7) Coffee? Eeek. The last four or so coffee dates have gone wonderously awry...but I suppose I'll chance it. He is partly Scottish. That should trump the anxiety, right?
So what do you all think? Yea or nay?
The quarry has relayed the following facts and trivia of his person:
1) He's part Scottish (MacDonald, actually)
2) He reads
3) He likes to write--or used to, at any rate. Wishes to write again.
4) He likes a wide variety of movies--he even listed "Finding Neverland" and "Pride & Prejudice" which doesn't usually make guy lists. He does have some very guy movies listed too, before anyone gets suspicious.
5) He's a big LOTR fan--before the movies.
6) He's sarcastic...but seems to be so in a non-harmful sort of way
7) He wants to meet for coffee
What I have interpreted from these facts:
1) He's Scottish? I like him already.
2) He reads? That'll be for a nice change of pace.
3) He writes? Hmmm...we'll have to see. That trait sometimes backfires.
4) He watches movies? Finally. Really tired of meeting the short attention span guys who can't stand movies.
5) LOTR fan? Better than a Trekkie...and I have a better chance of keeping up with any obscure references.
6) He's sarcastic? Good, he can keep up.
7) Coffee? Eeek. The last four or so coffee dates have gone wonderously awry...but I suppose I'll chance it. He is partly Scottish. That should trump the anxiety, right?
So what do you all think? Yea or nay?
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
Application to Date Hellion
Name: _____________________________________ (if your name has ‘Michael’ or any of the nicknames thereof in it, please discard application—or I will)
DOB: / / Astrological Sign: ___________________________
Job: Yes No If yes, what is it? ________________________
Single: Yes No If yes, are you sure? _____________________
Psychotic?: Yes No If no, are you sure? ______________________
Rent/Own/Live with Mom (circle one)
Car (model): _________________ Year: ______
Speed? ________ Color: ________________
Check here if you don’t own a car []
List your three most positive traits:
1.
2.
3.
List your three most nega…never mind, I’ll figure that out on the first date….
List your three favorite movies:
1.
2.
3.
(Discard application is any of these movies have Arnold Schwarzenegger in it.)
List your three favorite leisure activities:
1.
2.
3.
List three places you’d take me on a date—and what we’d do there:
1.
2.
3.
True/False:
1. You are looking for a love like the Titanic
2. You love to take videos of yourself shooting a pig—and show them to friends (and dates)
3. Your father thinks every woman you’ve ever dated is a hideous cow, but you don’t care what he thinks—because you’re not shallow.
4. You think I’d make beautiful babies.
5. You drive like Bo Duke.
6. You believe parking is an acceptable first date activity
7. You know Elvis is alive
8. Napping is an acceptable leisure activity
9. Getting married on a pirate ship would be the bomb!
10. Getting married would be the 10th circle of Hell
Multiple Choice:
Hellion wants to go to a Ren Faire. What do you say?
A. You say, “What’s a Ren Faire?”
B. You don your nearest pirate gear and go with her
C. You give her your wallet and send her off with a group of her friends so she can flirt outrageously with people who will dress as pirate
D. b and c
E. c, but you also listen to her when she gets home and talks about it for the next week and a half
Hellion wants to go to a chick flick. What do you say?
A. “Let’s go. I love how Ryan Gosling fills out his jeans.”
B. “Are you sure you wouldn’t want to see the Will Ferrell movie?”
C. “Fine. But you owe me a blow job.”
D. “Sure. There’s bound to be some naked boobs in the movie somewhere, right?”
E. b, c, or d, but then you also buy popcorn and soda to make up for the fact you’re a schmuck
Hellion wants to have sex. What do you say?
A. “Do we have to?”
B. “Fuck yes.”
C. “I’ll get the whipped cream.”
D. “Have I told you lately how incredibly hot you are?”
E. b, c, or d, but with lots of grateful oral sex on your part
Did I leave off any questions? Any questions you know for sure should be on my application?
DOB: / / Astrological Sign: ___________________________
Job: Yes No If yes, what is it? ________________________
Single: Yes No If yes, are you sure? _____________________
Psychotic?: Yes No If no, are you sure? ______________________
Rent/Own/Live with Mom (circle one)
Car (model): _________________ Year: ______
Speed? ________ Color: ________________
Check here if you don’t own a car []
List your three most positive traits:
1.
2.
3.
List your three most nega…never mind, I’ll figure that out on the first date….
List your three favorite movies:
1.
2.
3.
(Discard application is any of these movies have Arnold Schwarzenegger in it.)
List your three favorite leisure activities:
1.
2.
3.
List three places you’d take me on a date—and what we’d do there:
1.
2.
3.
True/False:
1. You are looking for a love like the Titanic
2. You love to take videos of yourself shooting a pig—and show them to friends (and dates)
3. Your father thinks every woman you’ve ever dated is a hideous cow, but you don’t care what he thinks—because you’re not shallow.
4. You think I’d make beautiful babies.
5. You drive like Bo Duke.
6. You believe parking is an acceptable first date activity
7. You know Elvis is alive
8. Napping is an acceptable leisure activity
9. Getting married on a pirate ship would be the bomb!
10. Getting married would be the 10th circle of Hell
Multiple Choice:
Hellion wants to go to a Ren Faire. What do you say?
A. You say, “What’s a Ren Faire?”
B. You don your nearest pirate gear and go with her
C. You give her your wallet and send her off with a group of her friends so she can flirt outrageously with people who will dress as pirate
D. b and c
E. c, but you also listen to her when she gets home and talks about it for the next week and a half
Hellion wants to go to a chick flick. What do you say?
A. “Let’s go. I love how Ryan Gosling fills out his jeans.”
B. “Are you sure you wouldn’t want to see the Will Ferrell movie?”
C. “Fine. But you owe me a blow job.”
D. “Sure. There’s bound to be some naked boobs in the movie somewhere, right?”
E. b, c, or d, but then you also buy popcorn and soda to make up for the fact you’re a schmuck
Hellion wants to have sex. What do you say?
A. “Do we have to?”
B. “Fuck yes.”
C. “I’ll get the whipped cream.”
D. “Have I told you lately how incredibly hot you are?”
E. b, c, or d, but with lots of grateful oral sex on your part
Did I leave off any questions? Any questions you know for sure should be on my application?
Friday, March 30, 2007
Blades of Glory
It's almost 2 pm central time, and I'm currently hyped up on leaded Pepsi. (Leaded Pepsi would be a term to indicated it's not diet; and that I'm feeling the hyper-burn of both sugar and caffeine. Oh, yeah, baby.) The only thing holding me to my desk, other than that absurb Puritanical Work Ethic (which isn't very ethical if I'm typing this, right?), is that in about 3 hours I'll get to take off like a prom dress and drive like Ricky Bobby to the nearest theater and watch that sure to be nominated for an oscar, Blades of Glory.
I am psyched out of my mind.
I am in need of a Will Ferrell pick me up. I'm even willing to put up that dorky Napoleon jackass to watch the film, and a few months ago, I wasn't sure I would be. I am mentally prepared. The trailers look hysterical. Hell, even the critics gave it a rating of B! They never give movie ratings anything particularly high! Hell, Braveheart is one of my favorite movies of all time, and the critics only gave it a B+, which coincidentally is the same grade they gave to Amazing Grace, which I thought deserved an A as well.
Yeah, a B is paramount to getting summa cum laude on the critic circuit. This movie should have me giggling for days. And that would rock, because I need a laugh. I also need my Taco Bell--when is my co-worker going to return with my lunch?
What's your favorite pick-me-up laugh-for-days movie? Do you have a favorite Will Ferrell movie?
I am psyched out of my mind.
I am in need of a Will Ferrell pick me up. I'm even willing to put up that dorky Napoleon jackass to watch the film, and a few months ago, I wasn't sure I would be. I am mentally prepared. The trailers look hysterical. Hell, even the critics gave it a rating of B! They never give movie ratings anything particularly high! Hell, Braveheart is one of my favorite movies of all time, and the critics only gave it a B+, which coincidentally is the same grade they gave to Amazing Grace, which I thought deserved an A as well.
Yeah, a B is paramount to getting summa cum laude on the critic circuit. This movie should have me giggling for days. And that would rock, because I need a laugh. I also need my Taco Bell--when is my co-worker going to return with my lunch?
What's your favorite pick-me-up laugh-for-days movie? Do you have a favorite Will Ferrell movie?
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Random Email of the Day
I was actually working. (Imagine. I know, it was hard for me to picture it too.) In the midst of typing in some boring info, my email envelope icon popped up and I had to check. It was from a married couple I’m friends with.
His wife immediately writes:
Then she emails:
Jeremy has a friend we think you might like. I don’t think you’ve ever met before. Would you be opposed to being set up? We could also schedule a get together some time and invite both of you to introduce you.After a moment of near panic, because the idea of dating sends me into fits of hyperventilation, I calmly responded with: Well, is he cute? Because these are the important questions you need to ask. This was the response.
Let me know your thoughts.
Jennifer
P.S. Jeremy can tell you more about him.
I have to agree. He surely couldn’t pick any worse dates than I’ve already done. But of course, I’m fixated on the boobs comment. Actually I’m fixated by the fact that “big boobs” made me think of you comment. That’s really funny because they’re not. So I email:
His name is Tom. He's a good guy that I go out drinking with from time to time. You might have actually met him at the Super Bowl Party we threw 2 years ago. He's a nurse and came in scrubs I think. Anyways, he doesn't have any fetishes of killing pigs and then showing people the video. He's not a creep or anything so that's cool. He's in his lower 30s. His build is similar to mine. He's been active in several CEC shows, just not lately. I mentioned the other night that I had a friend I should hook him up with and he said "hey, I'm not seeing anyone hook me up." (There's no sexual connotation in that). A few years ago I asked him what he looked for in a girl and he said "Big boobs" so that made me think of you (wait, that sounds bad! LOL). He was semi-joking and semi-buzzed at the time too.
After hearing and seeing some of your past boyfriends, I realized he probably wouldn't be that bad of a hook-up. I mean heck, I'm not sure I could find guys like you've dated if I tried. He's got a good job (nurse at the university) and a good place (Broadway Apartments by wal-mart) and is a solid guy. He's into movies, sci-fi, and some books (not as much as you). He's about as much into sports as I am (a little bit but not as bad as he could be). He's also a semi-tech guy so that's good.
As for a double date, I don't think you/us need that. Hellion/You've been on blind dates before and can hold your own.
Jeremy.
First, let me just say how immensely flattered I am that I can fall into the category of "single girl with big boobs". Esp since you've seen them. *LOL*And the response I get is:
The fact that he's not into killing pigs and showing videos of such kills does rocket him to the top of my list. That was going to my next question. Also behind, "Does he have any weird obsessions with the movie, Titanic?"--though I didn't want to come off as too picky.
Hmmm. He sounds good. Does he email? (And I like the whole "hold your own" comment. Makes me feel I go on my dates armed or something...rather funny really.)
Dude, I forgot all about seeing your boobs (well not all about, just in context of talking with him recently about a possible person to connect with him). I mean your breasts were spectacular. I mean heck, even Jenny has to agree with me there. Wait, what are we talking about? Or yeah, your boobs...no wait that's not it.
I don't have his email. Let me see if I can find it and I'll get back to you.
-Jeremy.
His wife immediately writes:
I am a little scared how this conversation has progressed. He’s a good guy Hellion and I don’t think he has any particular thoughts on Titanic one way or the other. If Jeremy gets his email maybe you can start your meeting there and then meet him when ready.Well, who can blame her concern about this conversation? So I email back with:
Jen
P.S. I don’t feel like working anymore today.
Don't worry, Jen, I totally bring out this quality in emails. And really, it's my fault--I did start it. Don't feel you have to agree with his previous statement. But thank you, Jeremy, nonetheless. *LOL*You should always thank those who compliment you, you know. Good manners.
Then she emails:
No, your boobs were great. I do agree with Jeremy. I was just laughing at how we went from ‘here’s a nice guy to set up Hellion with’ to ‘her boobs on Mardi Gras’.Oh, good, I have great boobs. I’m very excited. This is a red-letter day.
These are the emails you remember…
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Jack, Ranger & Harry: My Men
Fictional men are the bomb. They're never moody; they're always sexy; and they're not nearly the pain in the rump that the real things are. So here are Odes to all my favorite fictional men. (I probably should get one made up for Darcy--God, I love that man. Though he was a bit moody.)
Ode to Jack
Ode to the pirate called Jack
The rogue with a tongue so clever—
Norrington’s fine; and Orlie’s sublime,
But Jack’s my true love forever!
57 days (May 25 release date) until witty Jack is saved. Approximately 8 weeks. And yes, Jack, I would have come to save you just because I missed you! (Of course, I wouldn’t have handcuffed you to the ship and let you die—you really need to stop kissing the wrong women. Seriously.)
Ode to Ranger
Ode to the hunter called Ranger,
The man with the gun and the bod—
To sleep with him ruins you forever,
But that happens when you sleep with a god.
82 days (June 19 release date) until a Ranger fix—and being he’s ruined me, he needs to fix it. (I don’t know where Sin got 73 days left, but if she’s getting a copier EARLIER, she needs to hook me up with her supplier…)
Ode to Harry
Ode to the wizard boy called Harry
Who faces dastardly Voldemort!
If he dies, I’ll do nothing but cry and cry—
Sobbing tears by the bushel and quart.
114 days (July 21st release date) until Harry kills Voldie. (We know he’s gonna kill Voldie—but let’s hope he doesn’t have to die along with him.) They have the book covers out now for our rabid (okay MY rabid) fascination. I’m once again excited. (That two week moping ‘Eh, who cares about Harry?’ period has obviously passed.)
Who is your favorite fictional man? And what would his ode be if you had to write one?
Ode to Jack
Ode to the pirate called Jack
The rogue with a tongue so clever—
Norrington’s fine; and Orlie’s sublime,
But Jack’s my true love forever!
57 days (May 25 release date) until witty Jack is saved. Approximately 8 weeks. And yes, Jack, I would have come to save you just because I missed you! (Of course, I wouldn’t have handcuffed you to the ship and let you die—you really need to stop kissing the wrong women. Seriously.)
Ode to Ranger
Ode to the hunter called Ranger,
The man with the gun and the bod—
To sleep with him ruins you forever,
But that happens when you sleep with a god.
82 days (June 19 release date) until a Ranger fix—and being he’s ruined me, he needs to fix it. (I don’t know where Sin got 73 days left, but if she’s getting a copier EARLIER, she needs to hook me up with her supplier…)
Ode to Harry
Ode to the wizard boy called Harry
Who faces dastardly Voldemort!
If he dies, I’ll do nothing but cry and cry—
Sobbing tears by the bushel and quart.
114 days (July 21st release date) until Harry kills Voldie. (We know he’s gonna kill Voldie—but let’s hope he doesn’t have to die along with him.) They have the book covers out now for our rabid (okay MY rabid) fascination. I’m once again excited. (That two week moping ‘Eh, who cares about Harry?’ period has obviously passed.)
Who is your favorite fictional man? And what would his ode be if you had to write one?
Monday, March 26, 2007
Harry Update
I didn't want Harry to feel neglected that I'm still babbling about Captain Jack (but really, why wouldn't I be babbling about Jack? We have much more in common than Harry and me--and plus Jack always brings rum. He's also not as shy in the bath as Harry can get when approached by a strange girl fanatic. Plus Jack has a higher sense of self-preservation than Harry, who seems to court trouble on purpose. Say what you will of cowards, but he who fights and runs away can run away another day.)
116 days until the last book release.
32 more days until the HALF WAY mark of waiting. Woohoo!
116 days until the last book release.
32 more days until the HALF WAY mark of waiting. Woohoo!
More Bad Poetry
I find sestinas fascinating. A total pain in the ass to write, and it's hard to make them good. So I tell you now, this one isn't good...but it doesn't talk about any of my typical neurosis, so it makes for a lovely change of pace. Damn, I didn't even mention rum! Shit.
There was a handsome bold pirate named Jack
Whose eyes and bonny long locks were black.
He loved a girl with hair like loose flames of red,
Whom he affectionately called His Hellion.
Together they fought against all attack
And lived on his pirate ship of Love.
But all men, even Jack, are stupid when it comes to Love.
“She doesn’t make a good pirate,” contemplated Jack.
“What if she were injured or worse during an attack?
Why all my blue days would turn to black!
I must do all I can to protect my fragile Hellion,
My darling with hair like loose flames of red.”
When he kicked her to an island, his darling saw red!
How dare he do such a thing and then say it was for Love?
“I’ll show him who’s not a pirate,” fumed a furious Hellion
“I have some tricks I’ve yet to show Jack.”
Her mood went from scarlet embers to limitless black—
Her pirate should beware from whence of his next attack.
At sunset, the Captain soon sound himself under attack
By an enemy with locks like the sun’s flames of red
“Oh, shit,” he said, when he realized his love’s mood was black
“But I only hid her on the island out my full sense of Love!
Women! You can’t live with them or shoot them,” said Jack.
Then he began to plan what he would do about his Hellion.
With a look though her spyglass, there spied Ms. Hellion
“Yes, run, you dog, you know you’re under my attack!
But no matter where you run, you’ll find me, dear Jack”
She flew down from the crow’s nest, her hair flying red,
“Oh, the things I have to put up with for the sake of Love.
Oh, to be near my bonny with his teasing eyes so black.”
“Son of a bitch!” yelled the man with eyes so black
He couldn’t help but admire his persistent wench Hellion
Perhaps he hid out of fear, and not out of Love
Perhaps she had every right to levy attack.
Or perhaps he just missed tupping his Lady Red.
“Yes, that’s what it is,” wryly thought Jack.
Did you ever hear such a tale as Jack and his firebrand Hellion?
How a black garbed pirate could levy such a bed-melting attack?
All for a woman of red—who would give anything for Love.
There was a handsome bold pirate named Jack
Whose eyes and bonny long locks were black.
He loved a girl with hair like loose flames of red,
Whom he affectionately called His Hellion.
Together they fought against all attack
And lived on his pirate ship of Love.
But all men, even Jack, are stupid when it comes to Love.
“She doesn’t make a good pirate,” contemplated Jack.
“What if she were injured or worse during an attack?
Why all my blue days would turn to black!
I must do all I can to protect my fragile Hellion,
My darling with hair like loose flames of red.”
When he kicked her to an island, his darling saw red!
How dare he do such a thing and then say it was for Love?
“I’ll show him who’s not a pirate,” fumed a furious Hellion
“I have some tricks I’ve yet to show Jack.”
Her mood went from scarlet embers to limitless black—
Her pirate should beware from whence of his next attack.
At sunset, the Captain soon sound himself under attack
By an enemy with locks like the sun’s flames of red
“Oh, shit,” he said, when he realized his love’s mood was black
“But I only hid her on the island out my full sense of Love!
Women! You can’t live with them or shoot them,” said Jack.
Then he began to plan what he would do about his Hellion.
With a look though her spyglass, there spied Ms. Hellion
“Yes, run, you dog, you know you’re under my attack!
But no matter where you run, you’ll find me, dear Jack”
She flew down from the crow’s nest, her hair flying red,
“Oh, the things I have to put up with for the sake of Love.
Oh, to be near my bonny with his teasing eyes so black.”
“Son of a bitch!” yelled the man with eyes so black
He couldn’t help but admire his persistent wench Hellion
Perhaps he hid out of fear, and not out of Love
Perhaps she had every right to levy attack.
Or perhaps he just missed tupping his Lady Red.
“Yes, that’s what it is,” wryly thought Jack.
Did you ever hear such a tale as Jack and his firebrand Hellion?
How a black garbed pirate could levy such a bed-melting attack?
All for a woman of red—who would give anything for Love.
Friday, March 23, 2007
Arlington
I admit I don’t know a lot about Texas. It never really bothered me before. I mean, I know they fought for the Southern Cause; I know the Texas Rangers (obviously) originated there (from Waco); and I know “Remember the Alamo!” where Davy Crockett, Colonel Travis, and Jim Bowie died. I know George Strait is from Texas, long live the King. Johnny Horton died on his way back from playing at the Skyline (in Texas)—killed by a drunk driver. Waylon Jennings has a couple kick-ass songs about Texas, “Let’s go to Luckenbach, Texas, with Waylon, Willie, and the boys…” And I still get teary-eyed when I hear “San Antonio Rose” on the radio.
That’s what I know about Texas.
Apparently there’s an Arlington there. And if you google it, they talk about football and six flags, neither of which I’m all that obsessive about. Apparently I’m a moron. I’m sure if a Harry Potter convention had ever been held there, I would know all about it, but alas, I don’t think Harry is all that popular there. Something about Bible Belt states and witchcraft doesn’t lend itself to Harry Potter conventions.
When someone mentions Arlington to me, I think: Virginia. (As Sin says, where the CIA is, baby!) But I’m thinking, it’s near all the other monuments and stuff—you know, big stuff, like Arlington Cemetery and George Washington monument and a thousand other museums. You know, it’s the spot where Robert E. Lee had his home, and Quartermaster General Montgomery Meigs thought it’d be a great place to bury all the dead. (I don’t think he thought much of Lee.) Of course, it probably jogs my memory since I've been to Arlington, VA.
But let’s not limit our scope. There are other Arlingtons I also haven't been to.
There’s an Arlington in each of the following states, none of which I've visited either: Alabama, California, Georgia, Illinois, Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Massachusetts, Minnesota, Nebraska, New York, North Carolina, Ohio, Oregon, South Dakota, Tennessee, Vermont, Washington and Wisconsin. (There are some in Canada too…but I thought I’d try to focus our search to our lower 48.)
Arlington, MA, is particularly enticing since it’s like 6 miles from Boston, and Paul Revere’s famous ride went through it. Interesting. Loving that. Hell, I might have driven through it and not realized it during my Boston trip. (I can wax orgasmic about Boston.)
The Arlington in Oregon seems to pay their female workers just as shitty as they do here. *marks off her list as an Arlington to visit*
Arlington, SD, couldn’t make up its blipping mind when it was being named, first starting with Nordland (we can see why they picked a different name), then Denver (though the postal people never acknowledged this change), then finally deciding to name themselves after Arlington, MA. Must be a city of Libras. *crosses off her list*
Arlington, VT, apparently was hometown to a bunch of the Green Mountain Boys in the Revolutionary War. Also hometown of Norman Rockwell. Nice, maybe could do.
Arlington, WI, is a sprawling metropolis of 484 at last count. The women get paid more here than in Oregon. Hell, they get paid more than I do here. Maybe I should move to Wisconsin.
I won’t even bother to look at Kansas. No one lives in or visits Kansas on purpose. Kansas is the Hotel California of states.
Of course, I’m not really interested in relocating to an Arlington. If I was going to relocate or take a trip, I thought Hell, Michigan looked pretty entertaining. And from there, it’s only a couple hours to get to Climax. (Irony comes free in Michigan, apparently. Comes free, get it. God, I kill myself.) But I’m not interested in Michigan’s normal weather. If I’m going to Hell, I’m going to Grand Cayman to get there. At least there, they also have Tortuga Rum.
That’s what I know about Texas.
Apparently there’s an Arlington there. And if you google it, they talk about football and six flags, neither of which I’m all that obsessive about. Apparently I’m a moron. I’m sure if a Harry Potter convention had ever been held there, I would know all about it, but alas, I don’t think Harry is all that popular there. Something about Bible Belt states and witchcraft doesn’t lend itself to Harry Potter conventions.
When someone mentions Arlington to me, I think: Virginia. (As Sin says, where the CIA is, baby!) But I’m thinking, it’s near all the other monuments and stuff—you know, big stuff, like Arlington Cemetery and George Washington monument and a thousand other museums. You know, it’s the spot where Robert E. Lee had his home, and Quartermaster General Montgomery Meigs thought it’d be a great place to bury all the dead. (I don’t think he thought much of Lee.) Of course, it probably jogs my memory since I've been to Arlington, VA.
But let’s not limit our scope. There are other Arlingtons I also haven't been to.
There’s an Arlington in each of the following states, none of which I've visited either: Alabama, California, Georgia, Illinois, Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Massachusetts, Minnesota, Nebraska, New York, North Carolina, Ohio, Oregon, South Dakota, Tennessee, Vermont, Washington and Wisconsin. (There are some in Canada too…but I thought I’d try to focus our search to our lower 48.)
Arlington, MA, is particularly enticing since it’s like 6 miles from Boston, and Paul Revere’s famous ride went through it. Interesting. Loving that. Hell, I might have driven through it and not realized it during my Boston trip. (I can wax orgasmic about Boston.)
The Arlington in Oregon seems to pay their female workers just as shitty as they do here. *marks off her list as an Arlington to visit*
Arlington, SD, couldn’t make up its blipping mind when it was being named, first starting with Nordland (we can see why they picked a different name), then Denver (though the postal people never acknowledged this change), then finally deciding to name themselves after Arlington, MA. Must be a city of Libras. *crosses off her list*
Arlington, VT, apparently was hometown to a bunch of the Green Mountain Boys in the Revolutionary War. Also hometown of Norman Rockwell. Nice, maybe could do.
Arlington, WI, is a sprawling metropolis of 484 at last count. The women get paid more here than in Oregon. Hell, they get paid more than I do here. Maybe I should move to Wisconsin.
I won’t even bother to look at Kansas. No one lives in or visits Kansas on purpose. Kansas is the Hotel California of states.
Of course, I’m not really interested in relocating to an Arlington. If I was going to relocate or take a trip, I thought Hell, Michigan looked pretty entertaining. And from there, it’s only a couple hours to get to Climax. (Irony comes free in Michigan, apparently. Comes free, get it. God, I kill myself.) But I’m not interested in Michigan’s normal weather. If I’m going to Hell, I’m going to Grand Cayman to get there. At least there, they also have Tortuga Rum.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Devil's In The Details
To quote Jack, “A wedding? I love weddings!”
Well, with the following amendment, so long as I’m not in them. I was a bridesmaid once, and that was plenty. I didn’t understand. I was young, naïve, and yes, self-absorbed at the time of my bridesmaidal occupation; but I sincerely think I missed out on the girl gene of caring about certain details in regards to a wedding. Like, some people really care how many people are allowed at the wedding (and whose feelings will be hurt if they’re not invited), if there should be three bridesmaids or seven (and how are we going to fit all my friends and siblings into the wedding party without pissing off my friends or my mother), and should I have Alstroemeria or Liatris at the front of the church? Church? Speaking of which, where should I have my wedding? At the chapel with the red carpet or the one with the stained glass windows?
I wish I were kidding, but these are the things brides actually worry about. And it doesn’t end there. There are articles and media and mothers constantly going on and on about how each detail must be carefully thought out, or the wedding will suck and you’ll never be able to hold up your head in town again. Or worse, your mother will not be able to. And I, as the bridesmaid, was obviously unhelpful when I pointed out the obvious: It’s your wedding. Do it however you want.
This was apparently bad advice. And unwanted. I don’t understand it. It’s sound advice. (Except perhaps she didn’t know what she wanted. Maybe bridal planning is a lot like dieting—it doesn’t go well if you have too many options to pick from.) Well, I’m here to help you limit your options. There are only two things you need to worry about for a wedding, three if you count the cake. (And you should, cake is important.)
Number 1: The Groom. One would assume at the time of your wedding planning you have already acquired one of these. One-third of your planning is already solved. Congratulations!
Number 2: The Dress. You have to look good. You’re the bride. This is The Moment to look smoking hot and make every other dumbass man who ever broke your heart absolutely ripped with jealousy and regret.
Number 3: The Cake. (This one was semi-negotiable.) Wedding cake is like crack and none of us get to eat it near enough. Plus, you feed cake to people, and no one will remember anything else about that wedding. Other than you looked gorgeous, obviously.
Everything else is up for negotiation, and frankly if you don’t care about it, don’t have it at your wedding.
But my mother (grandmother/MIL/sister/friends/insert female here) thinks I should [insert needless drama item here] or my wedding will be awful! They lie. It’s not their wedding. When it’s their wedding they can insert all the needless drama items they want. In the meantime, it’s your wedding and you should be looking for a dress.
If I get married in Vegas, everyone will think I’m pregnant/cheating them out of a real wedding/not serious about marriage. Uh-huh. Who’s footing the bill for this gig anyway? You, my dear bride? Yes, people will say anything to get cake. When you return from your lovely Vegas wedding, undetailed by the burdens of massive federal debt or stress of a celebrity-style wedding, you can buy a cake for the little naysayers and be done with it.
The moral of the story is that you can’t please everybody, but you can please yourself—and if you’re happy, then the groom’s happy. And if he’s not happy and cares more for the details than you—he’s running for office or he’s gay—and in either case, you need to get out now. The End
Oh, and my wedding (provided that I’m not hit by a bus first, which is apparently more likely): Vegas. On the pirate ship. In a bitchin’ bridal pirate gown. Or…maybe a different theme. Who knows? But I assure you I’ll have the two things that matter: The Groom and The Gown. Everything else is just details, baby.
Well, with the following amendment, so long as I’m not in them. I was a bridesmaid once, and that was plenty. I didn’t understand. I was young, naïve, and yes, self-absorbed at the time of my bridesmaidal occupation; but I sincerely think I missed out on the girl gene of caring about certain details in regards to a wedding. Like, some people really care how many people are allowed at the wedding (and whose feelings will be hurt if they’re not invited), if there should be three bridesmaids or seven (and how are we going to fit all my friends and siblings into the wedding party without pissing off my friends or my mother), and should I have Alstroemeria or Liatris at the front of the church? Church? Speaking of which, where should I have my wedding? At the chapel with the red carpet or the one with the stained glass windows?
I wish I were kidding, but these are the things brides actually worry about. And it doesn’t end there. There are articles and media and mothers constantly going on and on about how each detail must be carefully thought out, or the wedding will suck and you’ll never be able to hold up your head in town again. Or worse, your mother will not be able to. And I, as the bridesmaid, was obviously unhelpful when I pointed out the obvious: It’s your wedding. Do it however you want.
This was apparently bad advice. And unwanted. I don’t understand it. It’s sound advice. (Except perhaps she didn’t know what she wanted. Maybe bridal planning is a lot like dieting—it doesn’t go well if you have too many options to pick from.) Well, I’m here to help you limit your options. There are only two things you need to worry about for a wedding, three if you count the cake. (And you should, cake is important.)
Number 1: The Groom. One would assume at the time of your wedding planning you have already acquired one of these. One-third of your planning is already solved. Congratulations!
Number 2: The Dress. You have to look good. You’re the bride. This is The Moment to look smoking hot and make every other dumbass man who ever broke your heart absolutely ripped with jealousy and regret.
Number 3: The Cake. (This one was semi-negotiable.) Wedding cake is like crack and none of us get to eat it near enough. Plus, you feed cake to people, and no one will remember anything else about that wedding. Other than you looked gorgeous, obviously.
Everything else is up for negotiation, and frankly if you don’t care about it, don’t have it at your wedding.
But my mother (grandmother/MIL/sister/friends/insert female here) thinks I should [insert needless drama item here] or my wedding will be awful! They lie. It’s not their wedding. When it’s their wedding they can insert all the needless drama items they want. In the meantime, it’s your wedding and you should be looking for a dress.
If I get married in Vegas, everyone will think I’m pregnant/cheating them out of a real wedding/not serious about marriage. Uh-huh. Who’s footing the bill for this gig anyway? You, my dear bride? Yes, people will say anything to get cake. When you return from your lovely Vegas wedding, undetailed by the burdens of massive federal debt or stress of a celebrity-style wedding, you can buy a cake for the little naysayers and be done with it.
The moral of the story is that you can’t please everybody, but you can please yourself—and if you’re happy, then the groom’s happy. And if he’s not happy and cares more for the details than you—he’s running for office or he’s gay—and in either case, you need to get out now. The End
Oh, and my wedding (provided that I’m not hit by a bus first, which is apparently more likely): Vegas. On the pirate ship. In a bitchin’ bridal pirate gown. Or…maybe a different theme. Who knows? But I assure you I’ll have the two things that matter: The Groom and The Gown. Everything else is just details, baby.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Bridget Jones in Mid-Missouri
I have a soft spot for the Bridget Jones heroine. Critics have maintained that she’s a dumbass; that no woman in her right mind would want to be mistaken for her, be classified as her, but deep down, we all have a bit of Bridget Jones in us.
Some of us more than others.
Myself really. Especially now that I’ve turned 32—and isn’t that where Bridget Jones’ saga starts? In her 32nd year? She’s at the New Year’s Turkey Curry buffet, and there is Mark Darcy—and boom, her life changes forever. She doesn’t want to be the laughing stock. She needs to crack down, get serious, and get a boyfriend.
So last Friday, I went out with Sin, who was having a crap week. We agreed to go drinking. Any way I can support a friend with beer, I’m there. Of course the problem with this is that I drank more than she did, so she had to put up with me. (So much for capping off her crap week nicely, right?) After a pitcher and a half of Miller Lite (that’s just my consumption, and I was massively upset we were leaving behind half a pitcher of beer), we leave and Sin drives us to the Mall. We wander around for a while—and I buy a Sinatra CD—and then we wander back to the movie theater. We go inside, we buy tickets and soda, and then we go into the theater.
Sin wants to sit in the back, but not in the back row. (The lights get in the way.) There is a row where long-legged people can sit and not feel cramped. She picks this row, and I plop down beside her in the midst of a beer-buzz. No one in front of me. Perfect. We chat and giggle a bit. No idea what we are talking about. I’m wondering if I should pee again—I’ve only already gone about a dozen times—but to be sure, I don’t want to go during the movie. I kick off my shoes. This is my M.O. I start undoing buttons, taking off items of clothing…I’m surprised I’m not naked by the end of films.
A couple comes in and sits in the row in front of us. Her hair is jacked to Jesus—she, of course, sits in front of me. I can’t see. Stadium seating, my ass. Sin says, “You want to move?” I’m trying not to be a total pain in the ass, so I say, “I’ll move. I’ll sit on your other side.” I kick my stuff to her other side, sit, and put my feet up. Ninety seconds later, a new couple comes in and sits in front of me. More hair jacked to Jesus.
By now Sin is laughing so hard, she struggling to muffle it in her coat. I give her a look and she says, “Let’s move a row back.” Awesome. I get up, start throwing my purse and shoes to the row behind us, and watch Sin cleverly negotiate a straddle across a row of stadium seats. She hops and boom, she’s seated again. Well, hell, I think, I can do that. (Beer, you recall.) I hitch my pants, fling a leg over the seating, and go to hurdle—just as I hear “Hi Hellion” from above. I look up, and there’s my Mark Darcy in the row where I normally sit, presumably with his girlfriend who is also smiling at all this activity. “That’s Hellion," he points, then waves.
Hell. Seriously what are the odds? I mean, my Finite Mathematics teacher couldn’t have come up with a formula to predict this.
However, unlike Bridget who would have fallen backwards, sent her skirt flying over her waist and shown off her sunflower panties (that was a different episode)—I managed to finish hurdling the seats, sit down, and proceeded to concentrate in not moving for the next two hours. Which was hard considering I’d had a bunch of beer, and I could have probably peed twice more.
No idea what the movie was about.
Anyone else have any Bridget Jones’ moments? Any romantic comedy heroines you totally relate to?
Some of us more than others.
Myself really. Especially now that I’ve turned 32—and isn’t that where Bridget Jones’ saga starts? In her 32nd year? She’s at the New Year’s Turkey Curry buffet, and there is Mark Darcy—and boom, her life changes forever. She doesn’t want to be the laughing stock. She needs to crack down, get serious, and get a boyfriend.
So last Friday, I went out with Sin, who was having a crap week. We agreed to go drinking. Any way I can support a friend with beer, I’m there. Of course the problem with this is that I drank more than she did, so she had to put up with me. (So much for capping off her crap week nicely, right?) After a pitcher and a half of Miller Lite (that’s just my consumption, and I was massively upset we were leaving behind half a pitcher of beer), we leave and Sin drives us to the Mall. We wander around for a while—and I buy a Sinatra CD—and then we wander back to the movie theater. We go inside, we buy tickets and soda, and then we go into the theater.
Sin wants to sit in the back, but not in the back row. (The lights get in the way.) There is a row where long-legged people can sit and not feel cramped. She picks this row, and I plop down beside her in the midst of a beer-buzz. No one in front of me. Perfect. We chat and giggle a bit. No idea what we are talking about. I’m wondering if I should pee again—I’ve only already gone about a dozen times—but to be sure, I don’t want to go during the movie. I kick off my shoes. This is my M.O. I start undoing buttons, taking off items of clothing…I’m surprised I’m not naked by the end of films.
A couple comes in and sits in the row in front of us. Her hair is jacked to Jesus—she, of course, sits in front of me. I can’t see. Stadium seating, my ass. Sin says, “You want to move?” I’m trying not to be a total pain in the ass, so I say, “I’ll move. I’ll sit on your other side.” I kick my stuff to her other side, sit, and put my feet up. Ninety seconds later, a new couple comes in and sits in front of me. More hair jacked to Jesus.
By now Sin is laughing so hard, she struggling to muffle it in her coat. I give her a look and she says, “Let’s move a row back.” Awesome. I get up, start throwing my purse and shoes to the row behind us, and watch Sin cleverly negotiate a straddle across a row of stadium seats. She hops and boom, she’s seated again. Well, hell, I think, I can do that. (Beer, you recall.) I hitch my pants, fling a leg over the seating, and go to hurdle—just as I hear “Hi Hellion” from above. I look up, and there’s my Mark Darcy in the row where I normally sit, presumably with his girlfriend who is also smiling at all this activity. “That’s Hellion," he points, then waves.
Hell. Seriously what are the odds? I mean, my Finite Mathematics teacher couldn’t have come up with a formula to predict this.
However, unlike Bridget who would have fallen backwards, sent her skirt flying over her waist and shown off her sunflower panties (that was a different episode)—I managed to finish hurdling the seats, sit down, and proceeded to concentrate in not moving for the next two hours. Which was hard considering I’d had a bunch of beer, and I could have probably peed twice more.
No idea what the movie was about.
Anyone else have any Bridget Jones’ moments? Any romantic comedy heroines you totally relate to?
Friday, March 16, 2007
TGIF
Terri won. Of course, she’s the only one who submitted formal answers—and she got 6 out of 10 right. I mean, that’s good. Usually I refer to these men as “The Weeper” or “The Coffee Guy”. I will have to think of something appropriate to send Terri. I did greatly appreciate Christie’s response of: “These all sound like something Jack would say.” *coughing fits of laughter* That should at least get an honorable mention—being once I read the statements again and thought about Jack; yeah, they do all pretty sound like stuff Jack would say.
Took a quiz earlier this week. http://www.tomorrowland.us/tlm/ It was: Are you a Talent, Lifer, or Mandarin? I was a Talent. I’m pretty sure this had to do with the fact it asked me, “If you got to do your dream job, would you do it for a pay cut?” Sure, I said, if it was really a DREAM job. I mean, if I got to give sponge baths to Ranger all day—if that was my job—hell yeah, I’d take a pay cut.
That’s probably not what they meant, but I don’t really give a crap.
And really that’s the point of Today’s Rambling, brought to you by “I don’t give a Crap” toilets. It’s Friday, my favorite day of the week, and this particular Friday is next to a big drinking holiday. Find me a beer and someone to bullshit with, and I’m going to pretend all the other somewhat-crappy stuff that went on this week did not happen. Because you know what? It doesn’t matter—it’s over now—and I can go about with deleting those unnecessary memory cells with pitchers of Miller Lite. Then to finish off the evening, I’ll trot across the parking lot and watch that new Gerry Butler movie—you know the one where he’s half-clothed and all passionate and gung-ho? Yeah, I don’t remember the title either—it doesn’t matter. My drunk ass will ask the ticket guy: “I want to see the naked Gerry Butler film. No, I’m not kidding…it’s playing here.”
Well, that’s the intent anyway. I might just be content with the beer and bullshitting.
Happy Friday, Everyone!
Took a quiz earlier this week. http://www.tomorrowland.us/tlm/ It was: Are you a Talent, Lifer, or Mandarin? I was a Talent. I’m pretty sure this had to do with the fact it asked me, “If you got to do your dream job, would you do it for a pay cut?” Sure, I said, if it was really a DREAM job. I mean, if I got to give sponge baths to Ranger all day—if that was my job—hell yeah, I’d take a pay cut.
That’s probably not what they meant, but I don’t really give a crap.
And really that’s the point of Today’s Rambling, brought to you by “I don’t give a Crap” toilets. It’s Friday, my favorite day of the week, and this particular Friday is next to a big drinking holiday. Find me a beer and someone to bullshit with, and I’m going to pretend all the other somewhat-crappy stuff that went on this week did not happen. Because you know what? It doesn’t matter—it’s over now—and I can go about with deleting those unnecessary memory cells with pitchers of Miller Lite. Then to finish off the evening, I’ll trot across the parking lot and watch that new Gerry Butler movie—you know the one where he’s half-clothed and all passionate and gung-ho? Yeah, I don’t remember the title either—it doesn’t matter. My drunk ass will ask the ticket guy: “I want to see the naked Gerry Butler film. No, I’m not kidding…it’s playing here.”
Well, that’s the intent anyway. I might just be content with the beer and bullshitting.
Happy Friday, Everyone!
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Ramblings & a Pop Quiz
129 days until the new Harry Potter book comes out. That's 18 weeks. I'm not keeping tabs on it or anything. Holly mentioned the book again today when she said one of our faculty members will be out of town when it's released so she could read the faculty's copy of the book. She also made me promise to bring my hardbacks in before the Big Day so I could not set fire to them like I promised if Harry does die in the 7th book. She has also made a note to buy duct tape, but right now I'm not feeling the excitement. (I mean not like I am for POTC3). I think I'm gearing up for the worst to happen (as is my nature), so I'll probably be, "Eh" when the day actually arrives. And even if he does die, I probably won't so much as throw a paperwad in irritation. I'll just talk about what a crap book it is...then give all my books to Holly.
The next Ranger book (okay, it's the next Plum book, but I call them the Ranger books) comes out at the end of June. That will also be something to look forward to.
And then there is POTC3. I mean someone has to save Jack...and it can be me, if that's what everyone thinks. I would *love* to save Jack. That's the end of May. May 25th. (Interesting, that was the same day Braveheart was released to theaters in 1995, I think...*looks* No, Braveheart was released May 24th. My mistake.) I'm actually looking more forward to that. (Going to be broke that month too. That 70s Show Season 6 comes out May 8th. God forbid I don't add it to the collection.)
Hellion Quiz: Match the Men Who Said This
1.) Man: "What if we'd gotten married?" Me: "We'd be divorced." Man: (sinful smile) "No, no I don't think we would be."
2) "You're not the kind of woman a man has sex with. You have that vibe...that girl vibe like you'd get pregnant right away."
3) "He's right. You do have a glow about you...it's very sexy."
4) "If you skip class with me, I'll buy you ice cream...you know you want to...any kind you want, so long as you lick it from a cone."
5) Man: "Did you miss me?" Me: "Like a dose of the clap." Man: "Cool! Because we would have had to have sex in order to get that right?"
6) "No offense, but I think your boobs are dead."
7) "You're right. I was using you for sex." (*starts weeping*)
8) "You'd make beautiful babies."
9) "Did you really flash your boobs at this party? Man, I don't go to the right parties."
10) "You're really pretty. My father thinks all the women I date are dog ugly, but really, you're very beautiful."
A. Larry
B. Justin
C. Jack
D. Mike
E. Bryan
F. Mustafa
G. Eric
H. Dennis
I. Billy
J. Mac
Anyone who can get all 10 right--I'll send you one of my books off my bookshelf--I'll surely have something you'll want to read. (If there is more than one winner, the first one who got it right will get the prize.)
The next Ranger book (okay, it's the next Plum book, but I call them the Ranger books) comes out at the end of June. That will also be something to look forward to.
And then there is POTC3. I mean someone has to save Jack...and it can be me, if that's what everyone thinks. I would *love* to save Jack. That's the end of May. May 25th. (Interesting, that was the same day Braveheart was released to theaters in 1995, I think...*looks* No, Braveheart was released May 24th. My mistake.) I'm actually looking more forward to that. (Going to be broke that month too. That 70s Show Season 6 comes out May 8th. God forbid I don't add it to the collection.)
Hellion Quiz: Match the Men Who Said This
1.) Man: "What if we'd gotten married?" Me: "We'd be divorced." Man: (sinful smile) "No, no I don't think we would be."
2) "You're not the kind of woman a man has sex with. You have that vibe...that girl vibe like you'd get pregnant right away."
3) "He's right. You do have a glow about you...it's very sexy."
4) "If you skip class with me, I'll buy you ice cream...you know you want to...any kind you want, so long as you lick it from a cone."
5) Man: "Did you miss me?" Me: "Like a dose of the clap." Man: "Cool! Because we would have had to have sex in order to get that right?"
6) "No offense, but I think your boobs are dead."
7) "You're right. I was using you for sex." (*starts weeping*)
8) "You'd make beautiful babies."
9) "Did you really flash your boobs at this party? Man, I don't go to the right parties."
10) "You're really pretty. My father thinks all the women I date are dog ugly, but really, you're very beautiful."
A. Larry
B. Justin
C. Jack
D. Mike
E. Bryan
F. Mustafa
G. Eric
H. Dennis
I. Billy
J. Mac
Anyone who can get all 10 right--I'll send you one of my books off my bookshelf--I'll surely have something you'll want to read. (If there is more than one winner, the first one who got it right will get the prize.)
Monday, March 12, 2007
The Period Piece
I’m a movie junkie. It’s a flaw, yet at the same time helpful whenever I’m playing a game of Scene It. (Not that anyone wants to play with me.) Over the weekend, when I should have been working on a quilt block (which I made and it totally sucked), I went to see Amazing Grace.
This movie has all the elements of a Hellion movie.
1) It was a period piece. I love period pieces. I have quite a collection of PP movies. Dangerous Beauty; Braveheart; Rob Roy; Elizabeth; Pride & Prejudice (the long and the short versions); Sense & Sensibility (with Alan Rickman and his Voice, “Hello”—which subliminally says “take off your clothes and lie on the couch”); Pearl Harbor; The Notebook; The Patriot (Braveheart in America); Titanic (yes, I own Titanic—the ironies abound); Shakespeare in Love; and undoubtedly eons more.
2) It rips your heart out. I love to start crying at Hollywood manufactured, totally manipulative emotional scenes. I sniffle like I have a bad allergic reaction and my eyes get all teary, and if someone dies I was real partial to (see: Braveheart), I start crying like mad. Not shaking sobs though, but the real painful, silent, devastated crying where you want to curl up in your seat with your blanket and cry, cry, cry.
3) It’s inspirational. After Braveheart, I was little Miss Freedom. And I was almost Anti-England. “No, no, I love Scotland, not…” hiss “England.” Right, whatever. After The Patriot, I was all “England sucks” again—and America rules. And after this one, I sat in my seat going, “I really need a passionate cause because I’m not doing anything great with my life.” Mind you, I have as much desire to become a missionary and assume a missionary position as I do to scrub a toilet. Actually I’d rather scrub the toilet—it wouldn’t last as long and it wouldn’t require me going to a questionable third world country where I might die of dysentery. (Yeah, I know Amazing Grace isn’t about missionaries, but being that there aren’t any more slaves in America or England—I was speaking of a passionate cause that would be available to me.)
4) The lead-guy is so totally hot. (I’m really amazed at myself that I didn’t put this as my first element. I feel like I’m growing as a person.) Ioan Gruffudd (YO-an GRIFF-ith) was a hottie as Horatio Hornblower, and he’s a hottie as a bible-thumping near-preacher-now-politician. Those curls, that romantic brow, those melting dark eyes—hello fellow Welshman!
So what are you favorite kinds of movies, why, and what is possibly your most favorite movie of that genre?
This movie has all the elements of a Hellion movie.
1) It was a period piece. I love period pieces. I have quite a collection of PP movies. Dangerous Beauty; Braveheart; Rob Roy; Elizabeth; Pride & Prejudice (the long and the short versions); Sense & Sensibility (with Alan Rickman and his Voice, “Hello”—which subliminally says “take off your clothes and lie on the couch”); Pearl Harbor; The Notebook; The Patriot (Braveheart in America); Titanic (yes, I own Titanic—the ironies abound); Shakespeare in Love; and undoubtedly eons more.
2) It rips your heart out. I love to start crying at Hollywood manufactured, totally manipulative emotional scenes. I sniffle like I have a bad allergic reaction and my eyes get all teary, and if someone dies I was real partial to (see: Braveheart), I start crying like mad. Not shaking sobs though, but the real painful, silent, devastated crying where you want to curl up in your seat with your blanket and cry, cry, cry.
3) It’s inspirational. After Braveheart, I was little Miss Freedom. And I was almost Anti-England. “No, no, I love Scotland, not…” hiss “England.” Right, whatever. After The Patriot, I was all “England sucks” again—and America rules. And after this one, I sat in my seat going, “I really need a passionate cause because I’m not doing anything great with my life.” Mind you, I have as much desire to become a missionary and assume a missionary position as I do to scrub a toilet. Actually I’d rather scrub the toilet—it wouldn’t last as long and it wouldn’t require me going to a questionable third world country where I might die of dysentery. (Yeah, I know Amazing Grace isn’t about missionaries, but being that there aren’t any more slaves in America or England—I was speaking of a passionate cause that would be available to me.)
4) The lead-guy is so totally hot. (I’m really amazed at myself that I didn’t put this as my first element. I feel like I’m growing as a person.) Ioan Gruffudd (YO-an GRIFF-ith) was a hottie as Horatio Hornblower, and he’s a hottie as a bible-thumping near-preacher-now-politician. Those curls, that romantic brow, those melting dark eyes—hello fellow Welshman!
So what are you favorite kinds of movies, why, and what is possibly your most favorite movie of that genre?
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Hell
I've been thinking about Hell lately. I have this book, you see, I'm writing, have written, am rewriting when I should be working on other manuscripts--but I can't help myself. What can I say? Lucy is a tempting guy.
Elizabeth and Luc get into a philosophic debate about what hell is really like. I'd really like to use this scene, as goofy as it is. (And it is. It's very soap opera-like and angsty, but I still like it. Probably because she has the last word. I love it when my heroines have the last word.)
“Oh, are you going to save me now? Are we getting philosophic?” Lucifer asked, swirling his Miller light as Elizabeth watched him with her knowing eyes. What was it about those eyes? “How’s this for philosophy, Lizzie: 'To fear love is to fear life, and those who fear life are already three parts dead.'” He took another swig of beer. “You shouldn’t fear to live or love.”
“Oh,” Elizabeth said with a smile. “Is that your problem?”
“Problem? I don’t have a problem. You’re the one who won’t step out of her big brown box and give me a chance.”
She gave another slow smile. “I wasn’t here drinking to fix the problems of my love life. You were. I’m just here to drink beer. You’re the one who wanted to be ‘saved.’ Get philosophic,” she mocked out the last work with each syllable. She leaned across the table and looked him squarely in the eyes. “If you want to be saved, you’re going to have to ask. Just like everyone else.”
She stood, picking up her beer and finishing it off, then clunking the bottle on the table. “It’s been nice, Luc. Call me again any time you want to be broody and discuss philosophy.”
“Sounded like a sermon to me.”
“That wasn’t even the beginning of a sermon, Luc. Sermons make me think of brimstone and fire preachers who are more interested in making you more scared than happy. We should fear hell because the devil is there; because it is evil, everyone will be evil; and you’ll burn forever. But you don’t go to heaven because you’re scared of fire.”
She looked at him intently, her eyes like blue fire. “But I know exactly what hell would be like. It isn’t hot, or cold, or miserable in the human ways. It’s miserable in the soul ways. It’s where everyday you wake up and realize you are separated forever from the one person who loved you most—and you will never see him again. You will never feel his breath on your cheek when he tells you he loves you; you will never know the warmth of his embrace as he wraps you in love.
And the worst thing of all, is that every day you’ll remember it a little less, what it was like to be loved, until you think you just imagined it all. It never existed but in the dreams that wake you to the emptiness. You won’t even be able to recall his face—and that’s when you’ll be the most frightened. Because if you can’t even remember him, what if he can’t remember you either? You exist for no one, until you don’t even remember yourself who you were. Hell is not fire; hell is without love, an eternity without meaning.”
She turned a half-smile at him. “How is that for maudlin drunken philosophy? Or you still thinking I’m here to save you? I have news for you—I’m not. I have no interest in a missionary position.”
What do you think Hell is like? Do you think you'll be there? And if you are, what do you plan on doing when you get there?
Elizabeth and Luc get into a philosophic debate about what hell is really like. I'd really like to use this scene, as goofy as it is. (And it is. It's very soap opera-like and angsty, but I still like it. Probably because she has the last word. I love it when my heroines have the last word.)
“Oh, are you going to save me now? Are we getting philosophic?” Lucifer asked, swirling his Miller light as Elizabeth watched him with her knowing eyes. What was it about those eyes? “How’s this for philosophy, Lizzie: 'To fear love is to fear life, and those who fear life are already three parts dead.'” He took another swig of beer. “You shouldn’t fear to live or love.”
“Oh,” Elizabeth said with a smile. “Is that your problem?”
“Problem? I don’t have a problem. You’re the one who won’t step out of her big brown box and give me a chance.”
She gave another slow smile. “I wasn’t here drinking to fix the problems of my love life. You were. I’m just here to drink beer. You’re the one who wanted to be ‘saved.’ Get philosophic,” she mocked out the last work with each syllable. She leaned across the table and looked him squarely in the eyes. “If you want to be saved, you’re going to have to ask. Just like everyone else.”
She stood, picking up her beer and finishing it off, then clunking the bottle on the table. “It’s been nice, Luc. Call me again any time you want to be broody and discuss philosophy.”
“Sounded like a sermon to me.”
“That wasn’t even the beginning of a sermon, Luc. Sermons make me think of brimstone and fire preachers who are more interested in making you more scared than happy. We should fear hell because the devil is there; because it is evil, everyone will be evil; and you’ll burn forever. But you don’t go to heaven because you’re scared of fire.”
She looked at him intently, her eyes like blue fire. “But I know exactly what hell would be like. It isn’t hot, or cold, or miserable in the human ways. It’s miserable in the soul ways. It’s where everyday you wake up and realize you are separated forever from the one person who loved you most—and you will never see him again. You will never feel his breath on your cheek when he tells you he loves you; you will never know the warmth of his embrace as he wraps you in love.
And the worst thing of all, is that every day you’ll remember it a little less, what it was like to be loved, until you think you just imagined it all. It never existed but in the dreams that wake you to the emptiness. You won’t even be able to recall his face—and that’s when you’ll be the most frightened. Because if you can’t even remember him, what if he can’t remember you either? You exist for no one, until you don’t even remember yourself who you were. Hell is not fire; hell is without love, an eternity without meaning.”
She turned a half-smile at him. “How is that for maudlin drunken philosophy? Or you still thinking I’m here to save you? I have news for you—I’m not. I have no interest in a missionary position.”
What do you think Hell is like? Do you think you'll be there? And if you are, what do you plan on doing when you get there?
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Fantasy Men
I’m pretty sure I was a couple geek points away from being a D&D girl in high school and college. I have geek points in other areas—total book geek, attend ren faires, and totally freaking lose my mind when I see a man in a kilt (or nearly any costume—Star Trek might be stretching it, but I might play).
My friend Tiff is constantly on some sort of banter about Taboo topics and what gets you hot and yadda, yadda, yadda. And where I’m definitely more run of the mill vanilla with perhaps a strawberry stripe (you know, sweet, but tart) rippling throughout my kink-factor love life (I’m speaking very optimistically by calling it a “life” here), Tiff’s runs along the variety of Ben & Jerry’s New York Super Fudge Chunk—it’s dark and it has everything you can imagine and perhaps even more—and definitely goes down better in small doses. The closest thing I come to anything remotely kinky is if we’re playing dress up. I do a lot better at just about anything if I think I’m playing a part. (See: Pisces.) I’m not someone you’d hire, but if I dress the part, I can generally interview my way into at least getting offered the job.
When we go out to bars, I put on my badass Hellion outfits (or at least I used to—now I’m more the comfort seeking variety) and strut in with my heels on and my eyeliner in place. Totally playing a part. It’s one of my many versions of myself. (I sound totally skitzo, don’t I?) What was this topic again? Oh, yes, fantasy men.
Duh. I was discussing with Sin about what would probably happen if I met a guy in a kilt. “He doesn’t even have to have a good accent. He’s got a kilt on—just say hello—and I’m spider-monkeying up him, planting kisses all over him.” *sucking on a piece of chocolate* “Men should be very afraid.” They are, they are. So it got me to thinking, big philosopher that I am, exactly what kind of fantasy men I go for. I thought I’d make a list, as a word of warning to all men, that if you meet one of the following, be prepared to be molested and left with a smile on your face.
1) The Highlander: typically a guy in a kilt, but occasionally, my friend Mac had a death wish and would roll his r’s in my ear and affect this lovely, horribly fake Scottish accent purely for my benefit, because he seemed to enjoy my big grin and suddenly petting nature. So kilt or accent or both—if both, just watch where my lipstick goes….
2) The Pirate/Highwayman: something about a guy with a sword telling me I have to take off my clothes. I do prefer pirates with all their teeth—but it IS my fantasy.
3) The Ranger: he’s a new acquisition to the list. He wears all black, drives the best cars, smells like Heaven, and ruins you for all other men in bed. Hell, yeah.
4) The Rake: smooth-talker, witty banter, and moves every conversation to the bedroom. Lead the way, Mayne, and I will follow.
5) The Cop: Handcuffs. (Hey, Tiff, maybe I do have an untapped kink factor.) “I’m sorry, officer, was I speeding again?”
Hmmm. I need at least two more days so I can rotate this through out the week. I’ll think of something and post later.
Any fantasy men who you’d spider monkey for? Firemen? Professors? Architects? Cowboys?
My friend Tiff is constantly on some sort of banter about Taboo topics and what gets you hot and yadda, yadda, yadda. And where I’m definitely more run of the mill vanilla with perhaps a strawberry stripe (you know, sweet, but tart) rippling throughout my kink-factor love life (I’m speaking very optimistically by calling it a “life” here), Tiff’s runs along the variety of Ben & Jerry’s New York Super Fudge Chunk—it’s dark and it has everything you can imagine and perhaps even more—and definitely goes down better in small doses. The closest thing I come to anything remotely kinky is if we’re playing dress up. I do a lot better at just about anything if I think I’m playing a part. (See: Pisces.) I’m not someone you’d hire, but if I dress the part, I can generally interview my way into at least getting offered the job.
When we go out to bars, I put on my badass Hellion outfits (or at least I used to—now I’m more the comfort seeking variety) and strut in with my heels on and my eyeliner in place. Totally playing a part. It’s one of my many versions of myself. (I sound totally skitzo, don’t I?) What was this topic again? Oh, yes, fantasy men.
Duh. I was discussing with Sin about what would probably happen if I met a guy in a kilt. “He doesn’t even have to have a good accent. He’s got a kilt on—just say hello—and I’m spider-monkeying up him, planting kisses all over him.” *sucking on a piece of chocolate* “Men should be very afraid.” They are, they are. So it got me to thinking, big philosopher that I am, exactly what kind of fantasy men I go for. I thought I’d make a list, as a word of warning to all men, that if you meet one of the following, be prepared to be molested and left with a smile on your face.
1) The Highlander: typically a guy in a kilt, but occasionally, my friend Mac had a death wish and would roll his r’s in my ear and affect this lovely, horribly fake Scottish accent purely for my benefit, because he seemed to enjoy my big grin and suddenly petting nature. So kilt or accent or both—if both, just watch where my lipstick goes….
2) The Pirate/Highwayman: something about a guy with a sword telling me I have to take off my clothes. I do prefer pirates with all their teeth—but it IS my fantasy.
3) The Ranger: he’s a new acquisition to the list. He wears all black, drives the best cars, smells like Heaven, and ruins you for all other men in bed. Hell, yeah.
4) The Rake: smooth-talker, witty banter, and moves every conversation to the bedroom. Lead the way, Mayne, and I will follow.
5) The Cop: Handcuffs. (Hey, Tiff, maybe I do have an untapped kink factor.) “I’m sorry, officer, was I speeding again?”
Hmmm. I need at least two more days so I can rotate this through out the week. I’ll think of something and post later.
Any fantasy men who you’d spider monkey for? Firemen? Professors? Architects? Cowboys?
Shoes
I like shoes. I’m an all or nothing shoe gal. I have tennis shoes, flip flops and sandals—and then I have kitten heels and CFM pumps. I have one pair of flats but they look like Catholic Girl shoes—so even then, they serve a purpose. I’m always on the lookout for new shoes.
Yesterday I was playing catch up from my Friday Freeday, and this gentleman comes in. We’ll call him Joe. He wants in the program to finish his masters, which by the way he already thinks he was in. In fact, we’ve already had a couple discussions by phone and he’s come to my office to fill out paperwork. I hand him a packet, he proceeds to fill it out at my desk. I start a folder.
“Okay, Joe,” I say. “Now let me explain what your chances are for getting your program finished this semester.”
“They’re good, right?” He’s got a big shit-eating grin on his face.
“Right. Okay, hurdle number one. You have completed 24 hours. You can only bring in 12 hours of non-degree graduate credit….”
“But I didn’t realize I was non-degree. See, it says Grad over here on my transcripts…”
“That’s nice, Joe, but you’re still non-degree. See, next to the grad, it says NON-DEGREE. Okay. Now, this is bad because although all those hours are graduate level, right now, 12 hours are going to be classified as personal enrichment.”
“Yeah, that’s not what I was shooting for.”
“It never is, Joe. So we have to get you backdated.”
“So it can be done?”
“That’s only hurdle one, Joe. Stay with me. You also have to fill out a program of study….”
“Give it to me. I’ll do it now.”
“Yes, but you can’t really fill out the form until you’re in the program. Do you see my catch 22, here? Great.” Gets program form and hands it to him anyway. Might as well. “Fill it out anyway and we’ll proceed. Now the drop-dead date…”
“Drop dead date?”
“Yes, the last date you can turn in a program or you can drop dead—that’s in like two days. And you haven’t taken the graduate exam yet—so right now I have to talk with Dr. Sparrow to see if he’ll let you be conditionally admitted. If so, if all this goes right, you’re looking at a ½ of 1% likelihood of graduating this semester.”
“So there’s a chance? Awesome.” Mr. Optimism smiles. I just start laughing. I like this guy. What can I say?
I shake my head. “You are the one Dr. Sparrow warned me about. He said you’d be a problem. Well, you know what, you’re buying me shoes.” Don’t you like my leaps of logic?
“I’ll buy you whatever you want if you get me in this program. It’ll be worth it.”
“Good, because you’re buying me shoes. You might even be buying me some dinner because shopping is so exhausting.”
“I’ll buy you dinner. Everett’s okay?” Everett’s is one of the most expensive places in town. How nice.
“Of course, Everett’s is.”
“Longhorn has better steak,” he says.
“Yes, yes, it does, and it’s a bit cheaper…no…wait…”
He grins. “Longhorn can get pricey.”
“It can. Actually if we’re doing steak, I vote for G&D, no frills, great steak, and it’s right next to Shoe Carnival. Let me talk with the Grad School, and I’ll emphasize how important it is I get my shoes.” I do, and the Hellion over there laughs at me and says, we can probably do it, if you have the program turned in, etc. Hmmm. He must have worked some magic on her too. Actually I also promised her that he was willing to buy her shoes as well. She said she wore an 8 ½ or a 9, and she preferred a nice heel. I said, “I love heels myself. I think that will be the way to go.” I get off the phone. “Okay, Joe, we’re willing to work for shoes. Where’s my statement.”
“What statement?”
“This one.” I point to a question on the form. “You were supposed to write me a statement. I don’t even care what it says. It’s not going to matter. You have a 4.0 in everything anyway; we know you can write, which is why they make you write the statement to begin with…just write something down so I can mark it off my list.”
He laughs again. “You’re so funny.”
“Of course, I am. I’m in a good mood because I’m getting new shoes.” So he fills out his statement, his program, and around 5 pm, he trots back in my office because he can’t get the online website I sent him to to work. I sit him at my desk, pull up the site, and have him fill out the other form he needs. I sit at my desk, prop up my feet, and read my Ranger book. Joe finds this the height of amusing.
Dr. Sparrow came in this morning and laughs at me. “Joe is the ultimate procrastinator.”
“Yes, but he’s buying me shoes.” Four inch FMPs if I have anything to say about it. And I have a good idea who I’d first strut them off for too…and it won’t be Joe. Or Booty Call in Ohio. Or even Southern Boy.
So are you a shoe slut too? What are your favorite pair of shoes and why? My faves are a pair of 4 ½ inch red strappy heels. Total badass, total hellion shoes. (I need to find a skirt to wear with them. That’s my other mission in life is to find a skirt that will go with these shoes. And boy, when I do….)
Yesterday I was playing catch up from my Friday Freeday, and this gentleman comes in. We’ll call him Joe. He wants in the program to finish his masters, which by the way he already thinks he was in. In fact, we’ve already had a couple discussions by phone and he’s come to my office to fill out paperwork. I hand him a packet, he proceeds to fill it out at my desk. I start a folder.
“Okay, Joe,” I say. “Now let me explain what your chances are for getting your program finished this semester.”
“They’re good, right?” He’s got a big shit-eating grin on his face.
“Right. Okay, hurdle number one. You have completed 24 hours. You can only bring in 12 hours of non-degree graduate credit….”
“But I didn’t realize I was non-degree. See, it says Grad over here on my transcripts…”
“That’s nice, Joe, but you’re still non-degree. See, next to the grad, it says NON-DEGREE. Okay. Now, this is bad because although all those hours are graduate level, right now, 12 hours are going to be classified as personal enrichment.”
“Yeah, that’s not what I was shooting for.”
“It never is, Joe. So we have to get you backdated.”
“So it can be done?”
“That’s only hurdle one, Joe. Stay with me. You also have to fill out a program of study….”
“Give it to me. I’ll do it now.”
“Yes, but you can’t really fill out the form until you’re in the program. Do you see my catch 22, here? Great.” Gets program form and hands it to him anyway. Might as well. “Fill it out anyway and we’ll proceed. Now the drop-dead date…”
“Drop dead date?”
“Yes, the last date you can turn in a program or you can drop dead—that’s in like two days. And you haven’t taken the graduate exam yet—so right now I have to talk with Dr. Sparrow to see if he’ll let you be conditionally admitted. If so, if all this goes right, you’re looking at a ½ of 1% likelihood of graduating this semester.”
“So there’s a chance? Awesome.” Mr. Optimism smiles. I just start laughing. I like this guy. What can I say?
I shake my head. “You are the one Dr. Sparrow warned me about. He said you’d be a problem. Well, you know what, you’re buying me shoes.” Don’t you like my leaps of logic?
“I’ll buy you whatever you want if you get me in this program. It’ll be worth it.”
“Good, because you’re buying me shoes. You might even be buying me some dinner because shopping is so exhausting.”
“I’ll buy you dinner. Everett’s okay?” Everett’s is one of the most expensive places in town. How nice.
“Of course, Everett’s is.”
“Longhorn has better steak,” he says.
“Yes, yes, it does, and it’s a bit cheaper…no…wait…”
He grins. “Longhorn can get pricey.”
“It can. Actually if we’re doing steak, I vote for G&D, no frills, great steak, and it’s right next to Shoe Carnival. Let me talk with the Grad School, and I’ll emphasize how important it is I get my shoes.” I do, and the Hellion over there laughs at me and says, we can probably do it, if you have the program turned in, etc. Hmmm. He must have worked some magic on her too. Actually I also promised her that he was willing to buy her shoes as well. She said she wore an 8 ½ or a 9, and she preferred a nice heel. I said, “I love heels myself. I think that will be the way to go.” I get off the phone. “Okay, Joe, we’re willing to work for shoes. Where’s my statement.”
“What statement?”
“This one.” I point to a question on the form. “You were supposed to write me a statement. I don’t even care what it says. It’s not going to matter. You have a 4.0 in everything anyway; we know you can write, which is why they make you write the statement to begin with…just write something down so I can mark it off my list.”
He laughs again. “You’re so funny.”
“Of course, I am. I’m in a good mood because I’m getting new shoes.” So he fills out his statement, his program, and around 5 pm, he trots back in my office because he can’t get the online website I sent him to to work. I sit him at my desk, pull up the site, and have him fill out the other form he needs. I sit at my desk, prop up my feet, and read my Ranger book. Joe finds this the height of amusing.
Dr. Sparrow came in this morning and laughs at me. “Joe is the ultimate procrastinator.”
“Yes, but he’s buying me shoes.” Four inch FMPs if I have anything to say about it. And I have a good idea who I’d first strut them off for too…and it won’t be Joe. Or Booty Call in Ohio. Or even Southern Boy.
So are you a shoe slut too? What are your favorite pair of shoes and why? My faves are a pair of 4 ½ inch red strappy heels. Total badass, total hellion shoes. (I need to find a skirt to wear with them. That’s my other mission in life is to find a skirt that will go with these shoes. And boy, when I do….)
Monday, March 05, 2007
Nicknames
I’m not wild about nicknames myself. This may be an odd statement to reveal about myself, since most people only know me as “Hellion” or “Wench”, but there you go. Mainly because my real name is so horrendous that childhood nicknames should have been labeled as child abuse. (Seriously, children are the worst bullies. Some sort of evolutionary “you are the weakest link, goodbye” thing going on in their little lizard brains.)
My real name can be shortened to have an “ie” tacked on; however, being that many people in high school tried this stunt, and then rhymed it with “wannie” or “mannie” or whatever their rhyming dictionary offered them—I abhorred that name. To this day, there are times I can hear one of the female jocks screeching my “ie” nickname in this obnoxious way (which she considered affectionate) and I just shudder. I rarely allow anyone to call me by my “ie” nickname—and one of the two qualifiers have to be in place for you to be allowed to do so.
First qualifier: we can’t have gone to grade or high school together. Period. Even though I graduated a thousand years ago, it does not matter. If we went to school together, you’re never allowed to call me by that name. Of course, I doubt I’ll allow you to address me at all…because I pretty much can’t stand anyone I graduated with. But don’t worry, it’s a fair prejudice. I loathe them all equally. There is no reason for us to ever speak to each other again. Ever.
Second qualifier: I have to feel you like me. If I think it’s being used as a term of affection, I’ll let you call me pretty much anything you like. “Aww, my little rum-runner, how are you this morning….” My little skunk-kitten…whatever. So I let a few women use the “ie” name first, mainly because they didn’t do that obnoxious pronunciation of it. I’ve admittedly let some men call me my “ie” nickname. Mainly they met the first qualifier, but usually when they say it, they usually give me their reckless, I-know-you-love-me grins, and I probably do, so I let it go. I’m a sucker for men and their flirty ways. Men are my kryptonite. Bastards.
I got to college and I shortened my name to exclude the “ie” portion. And after a time of being mouthy, sarcastic, and a wee bit cheeky, I decided Wench was a good description…and then Hellion. [---] the Hellion was my nickname. It was my email too…but after a while, being we all knew I hated my first name, I just became Hellion. It makes a good anonymous persona, and I was able to adapt this totally badass personality to go with it. Instead of being a witty introvert with a keyboard, I could give off the vibe of being a tall red-headed, black-leather-wearing hell-cat a-la Lara Croft, but in reality, I’m more of a frumpier version of either Meg Ryan or Drew Barrymore, neither of which you’d send out back to beat up so much as chipmunk. (I do have a deadly glare though.)
What’s your favorite nickname for yourself and why? What’s the nickname you won’t allow anyone to call you?
My real name can be shortened to have an “ie” tacked on; however, being that many people in high school tried this stunt, and then rhymed it with “wannie” or “mannie” or whatever their rhyming dictionary offered them—I abhorred that name. To this day, there are times I can hear one of the female jocks screeching my “ie” nickname in this obnoxious way (which she considered affectionate) and I just shudder. I rarely allow anyone to call me by my “ie” nickname—and one of the two qualifiers have to be in place for you to be allowed to do so.
First qualifier: we can’t have gone to grade or high school together. Period. Even though I graduated a thousand years ago, it does not matter. If we went to school together, you’re never allowed to call me by that name. Of course, I doubt I’ll allow you to address me at all…because I pretty much can’t stand anyone I graduated with. But don’t worry, it’s a fair prejudice. I loathe them all equally. There is no reason for us to ever speak to each other again. Ever.
Second qualifier: I have to feel you like me. If I think it’s being used as a term of affection, I’ll let you call me pretty much anything you like. “Aww, my little rum-runner, how are you this morning….” My little skunk-kitten…whatever. So I let a few women use the “ie” name first, mainly because they didn’t do that obnoxious pronunciation of it. I’ve admittedly let some men call me my “ie” nickname. Mainly they met the first qualifier, but usually when they say it, they usually give me their reckless, I-know-you-love-me grins, and I probably do, so I let it go. I’m a sucker for men and their flirty ways. Men are my kryptonite. Bastards.
I got to college and I shortened my name to exclude the “ie” portion. And after a time of being mouthy, sarcastic, and a wee bit cheeky, I decided Wench was a good description…and then Hellion. [---] the Hellion was my nickname. It was my email too…but after a while, being we all knew I hated my first name, I just became Hellion. It makes a good anonymous persona, and I was able to adapt this totally badass personality to go with it. Instead of being a witty introvert with a keyboard, I could give off the vibe of being a tall red-headed, black-leather-wearing hell-cat a-la Lara Croft, but in reality, I’m more of a frumpier version of either Meg Ryan or Drew Barrymore, neither of which you’d send out back to beat up so much as chipmunk. (I do have a deadly glare though.)
What’s your favorite nickname for yourself and why? What’s the nickname you won’t allow anyone to call you?
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