NEW RELEASES
Film at 11
Sassy was late for school today. It wasn’t because she was dawdling for once. She was late because my son is trying to kill me. I was searching frantically for my wedding rings and the heirloom rings from my grandmothers. They were mysteriously missing. At one point, The Bandit gave some cryptic information, that when followed up on, the rings were located in a junky old book bag – the kind you get for free at events. Inside the bag were about 15 pennies, a couple of broken crayons, some comic books, and around $20,000 in jewelery. The boy will be the death of me.
Also today, I was talking with Ava via text. I discovered that she was driving a co-worker around – while texting. This horrified me to my very marrow. I would like to make one thing very clear: if Ava and I are going anywhere, I INSIST on driving. Not that she puts up much of a complaint, mind you. There are several problems with Ava driving. #1) She never has any idea where she is going. I thought about getting her a GPS but, strike me down if I’m lying, she just learned to use the voice mail feature on her cell phone last year. A GPS is WAAAY too electronic for Ava. #2) She flat out refuses to do U-Turns and she’s a little iffy on lefts. It takes her twenty minutes to negotiate all the right hand turns to get her going in the reverse direction. #3) She’s easily distracted. She is forever texting me about what others are doing while driving. Last week, it was the lady teasing her hair – with both hands while driving. She fails to see the irony that she is also texting me at the same time. Anyway, never fear – I alerted the authorities that she was out and about. It’s my civic duty. And, 100 bucks says her co-worker will never ask her to drive him anywhere, ever again.
The Oven Saga, cont.
So as a result of my oven fire last week (see my Superhero post if you are wondering what I’m talking about), I had a repairman scheduled for today. And it is a good thing that I’m currently jobless, because he was to appear anytime between 9 and 5. What is with that? Is time management rocket science? I digress. Back to the point.
Bear was home this morning on his “day off”. The reason there are “air quotes ” around that phrase on paper, or in my head, or as I talk to friends is because he can’t manage to actually take a day off. He spent hours on and off the phone, pacing about the house, in the driveway, down the block, talking to past customers, new customers, would-be passers-by, co-workers, the neighbors, etc. And because one of those conversations was compelling enough, he announced that he would be, of course, going in to work. Which, although I am jobless, puts yet another kink in my plans for the repairman’s 8 hour window because I take and pick up my daughter from school. And because they couldn’t manage to narrow the anticipated repairman’s time of unholy arrival, I had to call and cancel for today. One more day without the oven and stove shouldn’t be that big of a problem. Right? After all, I have eaten every microwave meal ever made over the last 9 days, 18 hours and 14 minutes.
At some point, Bear had hopped in the shower and set down the phone. I had put in the mandatory 6 applications via computer for the day, so I settled in on the couch with a fantastic book by Julia Quinn. I was very involved in the story, so artfully woven with a tapestry of words that pulled me in, that I barely noticed Bear was now pacing around the house somewhere, back on the phone. And then the doorbell rang.
I hopped off the couch, thinking it was UPS bringing me of crate of cash just for being me. But it was the repairman. Impressive! Four hours before deadline and he showed up even though I cancelled! I made a mental note to play the lottery. He said this first visit would just take a few seconds, so of course, I let him in.
I walked him into the kitchen while I looked for Bear, to let him know the guy was here. But Bear was nowhere. Hmm. Weird. He was here, talking away and pacing about. Oh well.
Back to the kitchen to talk to the repair man. I stood against the kitchen sink, with the window behind me, bantering with Oven Man. The at-first-seemingly-normal repair guy suddenly started to look away from me while he was talking. First down to his feet. Then over his shoulder back at the pantry. Then out towards the tv. What the hell?? I mean, I knew I was looking a little rough, but was I that hideous? Or maybe he was scoping out the house. Looking about in an akward manner for valuables, just to come back and rob us blind.
But then I heard Bear’s voice talkity-talking on the phone. I guess he was pacing the back porch, which is fully visible through afore-mentioned window . Not too big of a shock. And as Oven Man dropped to his knees to stick his head in the oven in a final attempt to avoid my wrinkled, churning brow, I turned around to knock on the window to tell Bear Oven Man had made it.
I turned around to see my husband standing outside on the porch, having an in-depth, business-like conversation, with hand-gestures and all, in full view of the window, sporting only his fruit of the looms. Briefs, that is.
And suddenly I panicked. The repairman was done in the oven, but he wouldn’t come out. My poodle, demon-boy, was coming unglued at the guy half-in the oven. He must have figured people weren’t supposed to do that, so in his infinite dog- wisdom, he started barking like a exorcism bound hound of hell. And this sprint to the laundry room wasn’t quite as exciting as the sprint to the fire extinguisher, but it did result in shorts for the near naked Bear pacing my back-porch in his bright, just-bleached lulu’s. As I opened the sliding glass door and whipped the shorts at a stunned Bear, I managed a “Stove guy here!” in full audio radius of said Stove guy.
“Uh…sorry about that. I guess we weren’t expecting you.” I said, trying my best attempt at humor with the 6’5 man who had all but crawled completely into my burnt-out oven. “And, no, he usually doesn’t pace on the porch like that, well, in that. Nevermind. So how’s the oven?”
In mere minutes, Oven Man had left, claiming that he needed to order the parts. He may have run to his truck. At least he would fit inside that.
Traitorous Shoes and an Errant Ice Cube
Today is Isabella’s birthday. Yea! I love birthdays – even when they’re not mine. So, the Sister’s and their respective spouses all met at Isabella’s favorite restaurant for dinner and laughter. I wore a really cute purple dress. Unfortunately, my adorable black strappy sandals finally broke. A moment of silence, please. The Family Bright went to the mall to get birthday presents for various people, and I conned My Honey out of a really cute pair of silver patent leather wedges with a sling back and open toes. Adorable and 70% off! Ava agreed when I texted her a picture of them from the mall parking lot.
Dinner was great and dessert was even better. After dinner, I headed off to the restroom. This particular restaurant requires that you actually have to traverse the pass through in order to reach the ladies room. For those of you who’ve never had the glory of working in a restaurant, the pass through is that really busy area where the wait staff congregates to punch in orders, pick up food and drinks, etc. If it seems like a stupid floor plan, it is, but when a person has to pee, well you know.
Just as I reached the rubber mats that lined the pass though, I could feel my feet starting to slip. My arms started the pinwheeling motion you do to regain your balance. Time slowed to a breathlessly agonizing pace where you have the time to see the expressions on everyone’s face and can sense with foreboding exactly what is going to happen. Of the seven employees in the pass, everyone of them was staring at me, their eyes wide, their mouths forming a little “o” of surprise. There was a split second when I thought everything was going to be OK, but then no. Both feet shot out from under me, ice cubes went flying, and I landed hard, square on my butt in a puddle of ice cubes and water.
Everyone who knows me will attest that I fall down. A lot. I should be used to the embarrassment. I have life long friends that would love to regail you with story after story of me falling down or hurting myself in some way. The wait staff swarmed me, the manager offered dry cleaning, free dinner (don’t you know we already paid), medical care, anything. I just wanted to disappear, of course. I stood up and looked over at my table. I could see Ed looking right at me – I gave a jaunty wave.
I refused the help and the fussing of the staff, assured them that I was fine. And then I walked with a limp right into the men’s room.
A little driving on a Friday night
Anyone who knows me knows I shouldn’t be allowed to drive. I’m not good at it and my mind wanders. To make matters worse, I don’t deal especially well with stupid people. I’ll bet you can see where this is going and it’s no where good.
Tonight, I got behind a car with a bumper sticker that said “I Love Puppies”. Really?! I have to drive behind someone who feels it necessary to let the world know this information about them. Isn’t that the sort of stuff you’re supposed to put on Facebook or Twitter? Now, I understand that not everyone likes puppies, but I’ll go out on a limb here and say that MOST people like puppies. There are people who don’t like dogs but will admit they like puppies. So, if you are in agreement with the vast majority of others on any subject – IT’S NOT A BUMPER STICKER. Unless you’re stupid, that is . . .
Next, on my path to the sanctuary of my home, I came across a panhandler on one of the traffic light medians. His card board sign said: Can’t get work Anything helps (I corrected the spelling). My problem? He’s holding a Starbuck’s cup! Here’s the thing, he may have gotten that cup out of the garbage and used it for water or maybe someone pulled up and graciously gave him a latte BUT use your head man! No one is going to give you money if you can afford Starbuck’s. Not even the people who can still afford Starbuck’s. People were flipping him off. Sadly, this is not the first time I’ve seen this.
My final issue is personalized license plates. I don’t really care about them one way or the other except when some stupid person puts their automobile’s make or model on them. Frequently, on my ride home, I drive behind – BMMMMMW. Yup, you guessed it! It’s on a BMW. I know this will come as quite the shock to Ms. BMMMMMW but – we know you drive a BMW. The license plate is on your car, it’s ON YOUR CAR!!! It’s a car license plate, on your car, right there in the back under the BMW logo that came on the car. What frightens me more is that there are four other people out there as dumb as she is – BMW, BMMW, BMMMW & BMMMMW. I will never allow my children to marry yours . . .
My personalized plate says – HOSTILE666. You should probably not drive behind me because I make sudden stops for puppies. I feel better now, thanks.
You Were Always On My Mind……
My fingers are itching. My keyboard is calling to me. I can even hear it faintly in my sleep. I have a couple of story ideas and I can’t seem to shake them. I’ve taken Isabella’s advice and opened up a OneNote notebook and made notes about them, hoping that just getting them down would help clear them from my consciousness. No dice. I keep seeing Valkyries everywhere I look. They’re imaginary, of course. Valkyries don’t exist – not in the twenty-first century at any rate. But what if they did exist a thousand years ago? My mind is a whirl with scenarios.
And if Valkyries are hanging around, there must be a few Vikings wandering about nearby. My mother and the Sisters might suggest that I have a thing for a certain Viking right now, and that’s why giant blond men are in my thoughts, but whatever. I have neither the capacity nor the desire to shoo them away.
And then unbidden, a knight in armor strolls through. What is he doing here? It seems a little incongruous, nevertheless, once he takes off his helmet and I can see his battle scarred face, his long, black hair dirty and sweaty from the fight, I know why he’s here. Have a seat over there, love. I’ll be with you in a moment. There are seats available since that Pirate and the Angel have been dealt with.
And every so often, I hear the strains of a fire engine in the back ground, and sometimes the soft nicker of a horse. Listen up, Mr. Fireman and Mr. Cowboy, I don’t have time for you right now. I have a Marquess and an Earl to marry off, first.
But don’t go far. I miss you when you’re gone.
The Curse
I don’t know about you other parents out there, but I’ll tell you what, I’m sick and tired of being “the meanest mom in the entire world”. Of course, my position is that if anyone ever did anything I ever asked the first 19 times I asked, I wouldn’t have to yell. How do mother’s all over the world put up with this abuse without going crazy?
I will happily admit, that while verbally sparring with my daughter, I am not at my finest hour. She’s always been very sassy (hence the nickname) and verbally able to express her annoyance at me. It began at about three years old. We were sitting at the dinner table, and I was tired of watching her make a mess with her applesauce.
“If you don’t stop screwing around with your dinner…” I made the opened ended threat.
“You’ll what.” This was not a question. She was clearly not afraid. I could see my husband close his eyes. He was probably sending up a silent prayer. Obviously, he knew this wouldn’t end well.
“Well first, I’ll take away your applesauce.”
“And second?” she demanded with a defiant little flip of her head.
I am not cowed. “And second, I’ll send you to your room.”
The Bandit was only about a year old, and he knew better than to interrupt, even at this young age. He just sat in his highchair watching our exchange like he was seeing a tennis match. My Honey now held his head in his hands. He was probably reeling from a vision of his future in this family.
My darling daughter, that I wanted so desperately, that I struggled so hard to carry to term, but was ultimately unsuccessful. That tiny little 3lb 9oz infant that I spent every waking hour with in the NICU. That beautiful baby looked me in the eye and said, “Psehaw” with a derisive snort.
Things have not improved. The drama has only increased. This child is unbelievably dramatic and can summon crocodile tears in an instant. This morning I asked 97 times for her to brush her teeth, comb her hair, eat her breakfast and get into the car. My voice escalated in volume and my blood pressure rose. Finally the two of us were out the door and marching to the car, some of us more blubbery and pathetic than others.
“Why do you have to be so mean all the time?”
“Listen. It’s not my job to be nice to you. It’s my job to turn you into a nice, respectful adult. Besides, you’re mean to me all the time. You say hateful things to me everyday. You don’t think that hurts my feelings? Now get in the damn car.”
See, not my finest hour. And then to make matters worse, I’ll spend the whole day at work, upset because we had harsh words in the car. What if I get hit by a bus and the thing she gets to remember of me is, “Get in the damn car”? I’ll be feeling all warm and fuzzy by the time I get home, and the first thing out of the little darling’s mouth is, “You forgot to ….!” Whatever. It doesn’t even matter what finishes that sentence. I remember a time when she was twoish and there was a period of time when I was too stupid to make juice.
I know she loves me. I most definitely love her. I tell her this at every opportunity. I also know that our main problem is that my daughter’s temperament and personality is the spitting image of my own. I have received the Mother’s Curse with interest. Unfortunately, I think it may do me in.
Superhero
All I can say is thank God (not in the religious sense of an almighty, all-powerful God in the heavens God, but the expression God that emerges from ones lips in an utterance of relief, God) that Amylynn’s 400 page manuscript was not in my kitchen near the stove last night.
I had some blatant confirmation last night that my ultra-paranoid, over-planning compulsive disorder might have some redeeming benefits after all.
I was doing my best couch-potato impersonation, wrapped warmly in my Slanket (it’s a blanket with sleeves…pure genius!) with a heating pad on my aching shoulder, a frosty glass of mildly fragrant chardonnay and a scary show to complete my little circle of life. My hubby, who I will hereafter call Bear, was pre-heating the oven for a late night snack of leftover pizza.
And then a disturbing, half-panicked objection emerged from his lips.
“What is it?” I asked while I stretched my blanketed arm towards the frost-laden wine (which is only possible with a Slanket).
He snapped back, more panicked now, “Something’s on fire!”
I vaulted out my slanket (after gently setting down my wine, of course) and ran into the kitchen, where indeed, flames were filling the inside of the oven! They were coming out of the heating element at the bottom of the oven.
Without a second thought, I sprinted to the laundry room where I had mounted a fire extinguisher 6 years ago in a ridiculous fit of self-preservation. I yanked it from the wall and sprinted back to the kitchen. As my mild-mannered, Clark Kent-like exterior shattered, the super-hero emerged and I vaulted selflessly into the smoke. I effortlessly and instinctively pulled the red pin out of the nozzle and aimed at the mutinous flames. With two high powered blasts, the fire was out.
“Damn!” Bear exclaimed.
Sure that he was exalting my quick response in saving our kitchen from the flames, my super-hero, adrenaline-laced ego replied “I know…wow, I was awesome!”
He looked at me with misplaced bewilderment. “No! I mean damn, my pizza is ruined!”
“Oh.” My shoulders dropped and the gluttonous confidence fell away.
I am still cleaning up white powder from the extinguisher. I have found it in every corner of the house. Even in the phone booth where I removed my exciting, red cape in favor of my boring, Clark Kent clothes.
My Assistant
This is My Assistant. If he senses that work is taking place, he will happy help by flinging himself on top of stacks of papers, stretch himself atop the key board, or spread his girth over my books. Here he is today.
Isn’t he handsome? And look how accommodating he is. He’s just happy that Roscoe is outside and he can help me unmolested.
Poor Bandit
The Bandit is breaking my heart. Sassy started 1st grade last week. There was a lot of energy spent the week before getting her ready. The typical stuff: uniforms, school supplies, new lunch box and back pack, etc. The Bandit expressed the usual amount of frustration that he didn’t get to purchase these things, too.
One thing on the list of items she needed was 2 shoe boxes. Well, I’m here to tell you, I’m not giving up any of my shoe boxes. My shoes are currently living in them. And besides, the Manolo Blahnik shoe box is every bit as important to me as the shoes nestled inside. So I purchased a pack of 5 clear plastic ones at Target. The Bandit has confiscated one of the left over boxes and has been putting together his Kindergarten Box. He has it full of crayons and sharpened pencils, coloring books and note pads; all the things he thinks he will need for kindergarten. He takes it apart, and inspects it, and reassembles it often. He approached me with the box and announced, “I’m ready for kindergarten. Can I go now?”
I’ve tried to explain that he has to be five years old. But he is so frustrated. Being four is really hard. Especially when his sister gets to do some many of the cool things that six year olds get to do.
This morning we were eating breakfast and the kids were picking at each other as usual. When commanded to stop, Sassy, of course, told her father that The Bandit started it. My Honey informed her that usually the older kid gets in more trouble than the younger one. She was outraged as one would expect.
“Why?” she demanded.
“Because the bigger kid should know better.”
The Bandit threw his fork on the table and ran to his room wailing, “Now I can’t even get into trouble!”
Poor little boy. Don’t worry, Sweet Babbaloo, I’m quite certain that won’t be a problem.
TRUE Agony
As Amylynn has shared, we are revising It’s Clearly Love, again. It’s excruciatingly painful for all of us. We made Ed print all 450+ pages at my house and then we took it to Kinkos so that “evil mean copy girl” could give us a hard time about asking her to do her job – copy something. After we ate lunch, we went back to pick up the two copies and she looked fine, I don’t believe she’ll suffer any lasting ill effects from copying 900 pages but, we will, she charged us $75.00 dollars!!!
After I got my copy home, I started reading/editing. I haven’t read ICL for months. The three of us really thought it was done and we thought the first three chapters were so good that they would cause an agent or editor to want to buy the book. Well, not so much. I’ve mentioned before my true admiration for Amylynn for finishing not just this one book but several more short stories and the continued work on yet another novel size manuscript. I re-mention this because Amylynn is right, I’ve ruthlessly attacked it. We were true novices all around when she wrote it, she writes one thousand times better now and we edit one thousand times better as well. It needs to be done and we are going to do it. In fact, it is the only writing project I will be working on until it is complete.
Here’s where the TRUE agony comes in, I started a new job last week. For various reasons, I have had to drive about one and half hours away for training. Oviously, I don’t know any of the people who work in this office. Amylynn is not joking about her feelings towards this rewrite. So, I’m sitting in a conference room, on my cell phone, trying to talk Amylynn off the ledge and back into her cube when I notice that several people are avidly listening to my conversation. They all listened to me discuss some woman’s sprained ankle, her damaged engagement ring and her losing her virginity to her childhood crush. I decided to step outside. If you’re reading this anywhere but where we live, you won’t really understand why that is significant – I went outside in the midday sun, the temperature was 113. My new co-workers decided it was time for a cigarette break and most of them don’t smoke . . .
Amylynn is worried that this revision won’t be her work alone. As writers, you all know how important it is that our work reflects us, our voice, our style. Some editors are too intrusive, they don’t just fix bad sentence structure and punctuation, they change the “you” in the writing. The three of us are always super careful to never do this. But, talking through the plot, the hook, the conflicts, that is sometimes a group effort and, in my opinion, doesn’t take the “you” out of the story at all.
So hang in there Amylynn – I’m with you ’til the end, even if it means my new co-workers think I hang around with loose, clumsy women and my make-up melts off from the sun at high noon in a parking lot hours from my home.