Writer’s Block: When you imaginary friends won’t talk to you.

That doesn’t exactly define my problem.  It’s just that right now, I’m not really liking what they have to say.  Or, maybe it’s that they’re speaking a foreign language and it’s too hard to try to figure out what they’re saying.  It’s hard to concentrate when there are so many good distractions.  And what I’m working on now is very hard.

One of my favorite distractions texted me this evening so I spent quite a bit of time screwing around with him.  I miss him terribly and I’m sorry that he’s so far away.  He’s one of the few people who truly appreciates my snarky side.  In fact, that may be his favorite thing about me.  We’ve made efforts lately to be in touch more.  There’s really no excuse anymore.  Technology has made it so easy to goof around from far away. 

I needed to know when barbed wire came into existance so I spent a lot of time the other day researching that.  We can add that to the list that includes the history of  muffins and sugar cubes if the Sister’s ever get on a tag team version of Jeopardy.  You all better watch out.  The three of us could take it all.

That’s one of the challenges about writing historical fiction.  You constantly find yourself trying to decide if a word is too modern, if food is accurate, a saying too recent.  I know that Isabella wrote a brilliant blog about this very topic.  It’s so easy to get sent off on a tangent of research.  It’s the very same principle as a dictionary.  Every time I haul out my ginormous dictionary to look something up, I spend twenty minutes in there.  “Ooooh what’s that word mean?  And that one?  What’s that illustration?  There’s a map! I can never resist a map.”  The minute I get onto Wikipedia I’m lost for at least an hour.

It’s not hard to lose your way when you really don’t want to get back.  Those people have been  in the parlor fighting for at least a week and quite frankly I’m sick of it.

The other day I was driving down the street and I passed a smoking jogger.  Not a jogger that was smoldering, but rather a person, jogging, wearing running clothes and what appeared to be very expensive running shoes who was actively smoking a cigarette.  I don’t even know what to say to that, but I do see the irony.  I don’t know whether to applaud that person or condemn them for the inability to just say “Bleep it” and hitchhike home.

Speaking of irony.  I was driving around town yesterday in an older neighborhood I’d never been in before.  When I say “older” that is not meant to imply that it was one of the historical neighborhoods by any means.  In this neighborhood, there was a trailer park named Noblesse Oblige.  For those of you unfamiliar with the term, “Noblesse oblige” is generally used to imply that with wealth, power and prestige come responsibilities.  In a trailer park.  Although with a name like that I’m sure they would rather be called A Manufactured Home Neighborhood, but don’t be mistaken.  It was a trailer park.  As they say, you can polish a turd all you want, but in the end all you have is a shiny turd.

The Bandit has a new “thing”.  It is a weird behavior that started out very amusing, then spiraled into extremely annoying, and is now emerging on the other side as funny again.  His father and I have started to imitate it to each other and the other day I even tried it out at work.  Anytime you ask him to do anything, absolutely anything, his response is to say, “Never!”  It’s not the word that’s so funny, it’s the way he says it.  “Nnnnnev-AAAAAAAAH” with all the accent on the second syllable.  Sometimes there is a hand gesture that is very reminiscent of the court room scene in And Justice for All with Al Pacino.  The kid is odd.

Yesterday I was trying to get him dressed.  It was taking forever and I was sweating and exhausted by the end of it.  But I was also laughing.  I managed to get him into his Transformer underwear but the pants were another thing entirely.  At one point he put up his dukes, and said (God strike me down if I’m lying – the god that created action movies) he said, “You wanna piece of me?”  All thirty-five pounds of him terrifies me.

I remember as a child my mother owned a pair of scissors that we were not allowed to touch under penalty of death.  They were her sewing scissors and she didn’t want them tainted by paper.  I always thought it was annoying, but now that I’m a mom, too, I finally get it.  I can’t find scissors in this house to save my life.   If, say a giant, mutant squid were to come out of the bathroom drain, wrap its slimy tentacles around my arm and start to pull me into the drain with it, I’d have to go because there would be no scissors to free myself.  I guess we’d have bigger problems if that was to actually happen, but you understand my use of the metaphor, don’t you?

Pre-children, there were several pairs in the kitchen: the good Henkels ones and the utility ones for cutting flower stems, etc.  There was another pair in the wrapping paper box.  A set was in each desk and another in a drawer by the front door.  There was a small pair in my needle work box, some in the bathroom, and I seem to recall another pair in the drawer next to my bed.  Anytime I needed scissors, there they were.  Now there are no scissors.  As sort of a joke, Santa put some in My Honey’s Christmas stocking.  They barely emerged from the stocking when they vanished into thin air.  There is a dimension somewhere out there in space where all the scissors are floating around.  They have good company with the missing socks, the stuff you buy at the grocery store that never makes it in the bags home with you, and the postage stamps that you know you had last week.

I’ve also decided that besides being a Ninja when I grow up, I’m also going to be a curmudgeon.  I like the way it sounds.  Try it for yourself.  Say it outloud.  Let it roll around on your tongue.  Besides, it’s a way of life I think I could really  be enthusiastic about.  Some definitions say the it is usually an old man, but I think I can trail blaze the way for women.  I plan to bust through the glass ceiling where Nag leaves off and fill the void that has been sorely lacking in female curmudgeonness.  Who’s with me?

What did you all do for New Year’s Eve?  Ava hasn’t checked in yet, and it appears that Isabella was plotting bodily harm.  The lack of patience and general good will that the Sisters often exhibit makes me think that we should put bail money in escrow.  Fortunately, the Sisters also married well balanced and friendly individuals that keep us in check. 

I had a wedding to go to and then, after it was determined that The Bandit was no longer going to throw up,  we went to see Sherlock Holmes.  I enjoyed it by the way.  I’m so happy to see Robert Downey Jr back with us.  I’ve always loved him.  I couldn’t get My Honey to sneak into see Avatar.  What a wuss.  I can never get him to do that.  My mom, on the other hand, is my favorite movie-sneaker-inner.  We never go to see just one movie.  I remember one specific incident when we went to see Philadelphia with Tom Hanks and then snuck into Schindler’s List.  I swear we were dehydrated by the end of that day.  We have since taken more care in choosing our double features.  

Anyway, I’ve taken a couple of days to put this post together because I wasn’t feeling snarky enough.  There has been a resurgence.

After the movie, My Honey mentioned a house party that his friend’s band was playing.  Now like Isabella I also don’t want to be old, in fact I rebel against it in tiny little ways.  I could tell that My Honey really wanted to go support his friend, so I relented and agreed to be the designated driver.

Besides, the party was at the house of a guy named Phlegm.  As in mucus or snot.  How could I resist that?

I was warned about the house as we drove over.  I learned that Phlegm was a punk rocker.  Also, that he was married and had kids and they also were punk rockers.  I came to expect that his house was covered in spray paint – on the inside. 

His mother must be so proud.

Once we arrived, I thought the house looked alright – from the outside.  I followed the guys into the house and holy shit the entire inside of the house was spray painted with graffiti.  And it smelled.  I mean it SMELLED.  It smelled so bad my nose hair caught on fire and my lungs imploded.  I couldn’t even determine the cause of the stench it was so atrocious.  It wasn’t until we all fled back outside that I came to understand that it was cat pee.  In the 12.7 seconds that I lasted in that house, I noticed no discernable furniture and yet there were three broken refrigerators.

We stood around in the carport slowly freezing our tushies off.  My Honey kept asking if I was alright.  And for a while I was.  It was sort of like I was a member of National Geographic and I was there studying a native tribe or something. I even took notes on my cell phone.  If I thought I could get away with taking video I certainly would have.  I  watched   the girls with Mohawks and the many facial piercings.  I blended right in with my Tinkerbell sweatshirt and pony tail.

There was one particular guy there I recognized as the “Impressive Guy”.  There is always one at every party.  He’s the guy that says things like: “I don’t believe in belief systems.  They’re segregating and dividing”.  Well, I believe that you’re an idiot.  He felt the need to say to me as I fidgeted in the cold, “Oh, this isn’t really cold.”  My response was, “I’m not going to stand here, in the cold, and discuss the merits of ‘cold’ with you.  Go talk to someone else.”  Maybe I used up all my snark that night which is what took me so long to write this.

Well, by 10:45 I’d had enough.  My Honey arranged for alternative transportation home.  I kissed him good night and retreated to the warmth of the car heater.  My 11:07 I was home and  fairly desperate for some culture.  When midnight came, I was watching Emma from the Romance Collection.  Oh my dear Mr. Knightly – so much better than Phlegm.

As I promised, I shall tell you the tale of The Police and the Streaker.  I was going to name it The Naked Streaker, but that’s really rather redundant.  This story began long ago.  Back when I was relatively sane because my children were only 2 and 4 years old.  They hadn’t started mouthing off yet and the whining hadn’t broken down my central nervous system to the degree it is now.  I’m going to need a telethon before long.

We used to have a next door neighbor that we genuinely liked.  He was a good sort: the appropriate amount of friendly.  That means that he didn’t stalk us like some of our neighbors do now.  I know that they lie in wait and the minute they see us come home they sprint across the yard or dart across the street.  This is another reason that I want to be a ninja when I grow up.  Or maybe Mr. Wilson from Dennis the Menace.

After our good neighbor sold his house and moved with his new wife to Alaska (??? Why would anyone do that?  Kurt – can you tell me?  Are there more Sarah Palin’s up there?  I think Alaska might be sneaky like that.)  The house was then purchased by a foundation.  This foundation provides group homes for mentally challenged people.  This is a fine goal and I completely respect people who dedicate themselves to bettering other people’s lives.  I just would rather they didn’t do it next door to my house.  I generally abhor the “not in my neighborhood” mentality, but I do have my limits.

There is one young man, K, that has lived in the house next door (hereby referred to as THND) for several years.  He has the mental capacity of a about a 10 year old, so he’s functioning and such.  My Honey made the mistake of being nice to him and now my husband is his best friend.  He will literally knock on our door and want to know if My Honey can come out.  Serves him right for being so nice to people all the time.  I keep telling him that bitchy is the new black, but he doesn’t listen and now look what it got him.

ANYWAY, many of the residents of THND aren’t as functioning as K.  There have been many times when I will look out the window and literally see them chasing other residents down the street.  When I called to complain about someone removing my mail from the box, the lady at the foundation said that they weren’t allowed out of the house.  After I stopped laughing, I informed her that as I was looking outside the window at that precise moment, a resident was banging his head on the telephone pole.  I wish I was kidding.  The foundation in charge has been remiss in monitoring the residence and the staff.

Fortunately, all the visits from the police, including twice when I’ve called, not withstanding, there have been some funny moments.  Like the time two years ago. 

We woke up relatively early on New Year’s Day and made breakfast.  For some reason I no longer recall, My Honey had gone out to the front yard – it was probably to get the newspaper or something.  He then hustled back into the house rather quickly and shut the curtains. 

“Where is the phone?” he asked.  He had a strange look about him.

“In the kitchen.  Why?” So I’m a little nosey, but he looked strange.

“Hi, 911?” he said into the receiver, “I need to report a streaker.”

“What?!” I bellowed, racing to the window.  “Who’s streaking?”  I couldn’t see anything but a brief flash of white that slid out of my sight.  Stupid window.  I went to the family room to see if I could see any better.

My Honey gave the 911 operator our address.  Coincidentally, the man on the other line lived in our neighborhood, too.  He seemed appropriately appalled at the prospect of a streaker.  The operator began asking more specific questions while the police were in route.

Operator: Can you describe the gentleman.

My Honey: Uh, yeah.

Operator: Height?

My Honey: About 6′ or 6′ 1″. 

Operator: Weight?

My Honey: Maybe 350 pounds.  Yeah, it’s not pretty.

Me: Oh ew.  (I closed the blinds again.  Nobody needs to see that.)

Operator: Hair?

My Honey: ALL OVER!

By now I’m laughing pretty hard and so is My Honey and the operator.  I see a flash of clothes as the orderlies from THND chase after the streaker.

Operator: What’s he doing now?

My Honey: Running down the street, waving his arms in the air, and yelling ‘Wheeeeee’.

The police did arrive and the streaker was captured and clothed, which was mildly disappointing.  It certainly made for an entertaining morning.

I don’t have much to say this evening, but I feel that I must post something.  Some of the readers actually become a little abusive if they find nothing new on here in the morning.  You know who you are and you should be ashamed.  Do you want sarcasm and harsh reality here, or do you want me trying to straighten out the mess that Thomas and Francesca have made of their lives? 

We had a puke-a-palooza here tonight.  The Bandit had a VERY upset tummy.  It’s all that crap coming out of his nose.  I know – very icky, but I shouldn’t have to deal with this alone.  His daddy was on clean jammies detail while I just tried to keep the bathroom floor relatively clean.  Delightful.

This is my toothless wonder…

She seems to think we live in the frozen tundra the way she’s bundled up.  It was probably 60 degrees when we took this picture.  She is still no better at controlling her saliva.  I hope she gets a better handle on that before she goes back to school. 

My Honey gave me a fantastic collection of movies for Christmas.  I handily pointed it out at the Costco and waved it up and down and said loudly, “I want this.”  He’s good at taking a hint.  I try to leave little to the imagination.  Anyway, it’s an AMC/BBC collection of outstanding English versions of classic romances: Jane Eyre, Pride & Prejudice, Victoria & Albert, Emma, Lorna Doone, and a few others.

I’ve only had time to watch Pride & Prejudice (which was a miniseries so it took like 75 hours to watch) and Jane Eyre.  They are excellent productions as you can imagine considering who produced them.  After watching the stories again, I am reminded of several things:  I’m still in love with Mr. Darcy and Edward Rochester seriously needed therapy.

As for this weekend, I hope to have lots of hilarity and high jinx to tell you about.  I do have a very special post in mind for New Years Day.  I’ll give you a teaser if you like.  It involves the police and a streaker. 

Tune in Friday for further details.

My dog is…..well, my dog is….let me put it this way…..I lack an appropriate adjective.  He’s very handsome for a dog whose face is slowly melting off.  He also only has one eyebrow – on the left.  Don’t misunderstand – he does not have a unibrow.  There is one perfect, arched eyebrow over his left eye.  I have no idea what could have happened to the other one.  His muzzle is wonderfully velvety and his ears are as soft as satin.  He loves to cuddle.  He doesn’t smell too bad.  His nose works very well.  He is good natured.  He’s also terrified of the Bandit’s Star Wars Light Saber.  And still,  one of my favorite things is pestering him when he’s trying to hide his treats in the couch.  It makes him crazy when he hides bones in the cushions and I “find” them for him.

That’s a pretty good resume.  HOWEVER, I am concerned about his lack of intelligence and his ridiculous exuberance.  He’s a hound dog for God’s sake.  Doesn’t he know he’s supposed to be sleeping on the front porch, not racing around the house howling, molesting the cat, and using my children and their possessions as chew toys?  I’ve always believed that big dogs don’t even grow a brain until they are at least 2 years old.  They just stay puppies for a lot longer.  Roscoe is 2 in February and I’m not holding out any hope that anything is germinating in there.

The neighborhood in our town where my husband and I both grew up, and live in still, is like heaven for supporters of the Second Amendment (the right to keep and bear arms).  I’ve never considered it much, it’s just always been that way, and regardless of my personal opinion on gun control, it probably always will.  There are currently three gun shops within a block of my house.  The largest gun shop in the Southwest is 1/2 block from my front door.  Rumor has it that the original owners of that shop were busted for selling weapons to the guerrillas in South America.  My Honey remembers this event taking place, but I can’t find any evidence of it.  It’s still a really big store, although I have not been inside for over twenty years.

About two weeks ago, our neighbor intercepted my husband in the front yard.  She’s THAT neighbor.  Everyone has one – nosy, crazy, a “friend” of all the local police, and frequently drunk.  If you don’t have one, I recommend getting one – they are nothing if not entertaining.   Apparently the previous night there had been a lot of activity in our neighborhood and we missed all of it.  We usually do.  Someone had tried to break into that particular gun shop in the middle of the night by cutting a hole in the roof.  I’m sure they stupidly had visions of a great heist, but that stuff doesn’t usually work out in real life.  I’d imagine, gun shops as a rule have pretty damn good security.  Anyway, the criminals fled into the neighborhood in an attempt to escape.  I understand that there were multiple cop cars on my street and even in my front yard.  They had the police dogs out and I understand they were in my yard as well. 

We remained blissfully ignorant because my dog is useless.  He never made a peep.

Thanks, Roscoe.  I feel much safer knowing your on it.

An update because I know you all care.

There are hazards with having no front teeth.  As you remember from the events of this weekend, Sassy has now lost both of her front teeth.  The troubles as far as she is concerned is the inability to eat barbecue ribs, corn on the cob and whistle.  However, as her parent and someone who talks to her a lot, the real problem, at least for the innocent bystanders, is the spitting.  If she can’t learn to control her saliva, I’m going to start wearing one of those dentist spit guards.

Another byproduct of Sassy’s teeth coming out, was the early demise of my brand new Blackberry.  There was much moaning and gnashing of teeth and whining after I pulled it from the bathtub.  I immediately took it apart and applied the hair dryer to it on a low heat setting.  I put it back together several times and tried to turn it on, but nothing happened.  My Honey blew it out with a can of compressed air, getting out quite a bit more water, and still nothing.  I got on the Internet to see what kind of advice I could get and the first thing I see:  Do not use the hair dryer on it.  Great.  The second bit of advice: DO NOT turn it back on for 48 – 72 hours.  Freaking great. 

So I’ve committed the two cardinal sins of resuscitating a phone after a drowning.  My uncle and the Internet suggested that I take it apart and put it in a bowl of dried rice.  Apparently the rice helps soak up the water.  I walked by the little grave site several times an hour and paid my respects.  I sang southern bible hymns such as Swing Low Sweet Chariot and No Body Knows the Trouble I’ve Seen.  I whispered into the bowl of rice, “Don’t go into the light!”  As much as I wanted to, I did not try to turn it back on again. 

This morning I’m proud to say that when I walked by the little bowl of Uncle Ben’s I saw it’s little red head poking out and realized that I could try turning it on again.  This was an excellent sign.  It meant that I had successfully navigated through several stages of grief.

1. Denial.  The phone is fine.  It’ll be fine.  Mommy’s not mad.

2. Anger.  Dammit! Why didn’t I buy phone insurance. $&^*&#!&%^$&

3. Bargaining.  Take me. I promise I won’t play anymore Brick Breaker if you’ll just let me have one more day. 

4. Depression: Why is it always me? WAAAAAAAAAAAAA. 

5. Acceptance.  Oh yeah.  I wonder if it’ll turn on.

So I put it back together and hit the button and walked away so it could power on or not.  I knew that it was working because I could hear a choir of angels singing all the way from the back of the house. 

Obviously, I am very excited.  And the added bonus, whenever I take the back cover off and remove the battery, rice falls out.