Debbie Does Drivel

Since I'm getting nowhere lately with penning my fantasy book, I thought I could devote my energies to whipping out a book quickly and just for profit.
(Like, Kevin Williamson, who wrote "Scream" in a weekend because he had to pay his rent.)
There are certain topics I can write about ad nauseum. I'd write what I know, which as every unpublished author knows, is what they teach you in school.
So, I have seriously thought this through and I think I'll bounce between two in-progress books this weekend, finishing them by Monday, so when at work, people who've asked me how my Fourth of July weekend was, will be greeted by a shrug and a "I ate bar-be-qued hamburgers and wrote two books."

The books shall hence be known as:
"101 Days and Nights of PMS"
and
"I Think I Have That:
A Hypochondriac's Handbook."

I have so much fodder for these books that there may be sequels. I'm a real money mill.

This looks like lots of fun.

Boredom abounds.
Nothing excites.

I am the type of person who fixates on projects or diets or hobbies or activities for brief interludes, then grows tired of the thing and abandons it like a cheap harlot.
I was a hiker for a while there. Bought a pack, boots, and maps of the region. Researched routes, threw impromptu hiking groups together, and fantasized of muscular calves.
Never used the pack, and have hiked one -- maybe two -- of the mapped trips. I've since moved on.

Then, I was a runner. Had my feet measured, determined if I pronated or supinated, and timed a few warm-up walk/runs. Truth be told, I never ran continuously for more than 5 minutes. The odometer watch and jog-proof CD player sit in an over-stuffed coffee table drawer.

E-Bay obsessed me. Day in, day out, I surfed the auction listings like Patrick Swayze in "Point Break." Now, it's just a bunch of con artists trying to make a quick buck off defective merchandise.

I've transversed the fad diet landscape -- moving from high-protein to potatoes-only to all-natural to no-wheat to just-juice. Currently, I am Somersizing. But if one more homemade tortilla or hash brown stares me down like Gary Cooper in High Noon, I'll move on to the Carbohydrate Addicts eating plan.

Of course, I'm also very into similizing at the moment. A good simile is like a website without pop-up ads: smooth and unfettered like a baby's brow or like ice cream made with full-fat milk and eight cups of sugar or Debbie without neurotic obsessions...

Like I said, boring.

There's a lot of confusion for me re: the philosophy (Celestine Prophecy) that proposes life introduces you to a series of people or events intended to lead you to your higher purpose, and that you will recognize the person/event as they come into your life.
I believe the book called it "synchronicity," but I was never clear on how you are supposed to know for sure that the person, thing, etc. was meant to be the catalyst for the life-changing event, or if it was just another person, thing, etc.

Personally, I can't recall a recent sychronous event, but it happens to Kevin all the time. He actually calls it "grouping," and it usually involves inocuous enough events, but he's convinced someone is trying to tell him something. He just can't retrieve the message.

Much of his grouping experiences involve places: he'll have a conversation with someone about a particular area of San Diego, then he'll see something on TV about the same area, and subsequently he'll get a call from someone in that region, asking for a work estimate. Kev will then spend a week or two working in this place, wondering what message about the place he's supposed to take away with him.

It'd be so much simpler if he had a dream telling him to buy a lottery ticket in the city's 7-11, or follow the white dove which will lead him to riches beyond his wildest dreams. Or, maybe it's more sublime than that: he'll happen upon a church, wander in, and encounter a kindly priest who helps him suss out his life's higher purpose.

On many levels, I'm unsure about the whole grouping/synchronicity theorum. Are we not to find our own path? Make our own destiny? Is it not our decisions which constitute our life? There's much comfort in believing there are hidden messages out there, exciting even, but how long do we wait for them? Again, how do we recognize them as they come?

I believe in God, and that God will lead us to to the right path, if we are willing. Maybe God sets little Easter eggs along our road of existence, but then life would be like a game. When maybe it's not about what's out there to discover, but what's within.

(Darn those melanspective Wednesdays.)

I'm reading a book on how to unleash your creativity. I completely forgot the title, as my brain has been temporarily re-trained to be "wild," and not focus on details like book titles, names, and dates, but rather, aka backa naco schwa.
I like many of the points this author makes (hey Mark -- he used to teach at Santa Clara Univ.), which range from debunking myths like "to be creative, you need to be good at what you are creating," and...um...yeah, I forgot the others...
noona noona bitaghee.
(Just let your mind wander free in the outback of nonsense!)

For me, it's the first "myth" that jacks me up everytime. Too often, I'd rather not write if I'm not guaranteed it's going to be a great piece of work. I cannot bear the thought that I may not be a great writer. Then, there's the issue that well, I'm not a great writer, but to be one, I need to screw up a lot. However, I don't want to produce anything crappy (my blog excluded), and when I do, I hide for a long long time and anti-create (in the form of computer programming, for instance).

I've been paralyzed for a long while writing-wise because I don't want to go through the period of crap prose to get to the pearl prose. But, this book teaches that just the act of creating is enough. It doesn't have to be good, it doesn't have to be readable even, it just has to be you. As long as you are authentic to your voice and trust your mind to go bananas over the nonsense outback and come back with something to say, you're creating. And that should be enough.

Ooooooo. I love it when my house has been cleaned.
The first whiff of Pine-Sol as I enter through the front door.
The gleam of the dust-free coffee table, the shine of de-scuffed glass.
Bitty hardened cheese globules completely removed from refridgerator bottom.
Rusty boil-over water un-crusted from oven burners.
Lint embedded no more betwixt carpet fibers.
Beds made with precision and fortitude.

The house sings with shiny renewal! I am moved.

That is, until Kev comes home and throws his sweaty basketball jersey on my sister, who squeals and whips the infernal thing on the coffee table, where it then slithers to the carpet to rest between four pairs of socks, an ankle brace, and knapsack, whose contents (medical tape, bandannas, basketball) have long since spilled into abandon on my pristine floor.
Now, he is hungry and shrimp with pasta giblets congregate on the counter, as the smell of pesto, salty skin, and shellfish comingle, smothering the fresh lemon scent I so long to sniff, once again, if only for a moment.

I have a very refined Blog palate.
Some things I like (musings, vents, obsessions), and some things I don't (political bents, news-only). I realize this is completely opposite from what other blog readers would say, but there you have it.
I wandered onto a few blogs recently I've enjoyed for one reason or another (high hilarity, writing with style) and so will pass them on.
(By the way, as a rule, I think the blogs at www.sfninja.com are simply brilliant.)

Here are two blogs you might like, too:
www.jasonshead.blogspot.com
www.queserasera.blogspot.com

My computer's anti-glare screen reflects.
Since I spend so much time in front of it, I'm being constantly mirrored.
It's interesting to shift my field of focus and see my own face blinking back.
I'll read a funny piece, a news article, missives from clients, and suddenly become aware of my own expression reacting to the words.
A strange image: a fairly well-defined transparent Debbie clone superimposed over my work. It's like the incarnation of the Ego (Oh. I wouldn't write that!
What would people think?)
Then, it reminds me of that H.R. Puffenstuff T.V. show where a big face lived in the sky, making itself visible for advice-giving and elements-rearranging (I think it was the personification of wind?).
My face's intensity surprises me: much of the time I catch myself pensive.

I mean, don't I seem the happy-go-lucky type to you?

My hair's been cut short.

No. I mean SHORT.

I now have short hair.

Will the tears never end?

With hundreds of (un-approved) snips by a new stylist, I am taken back 11 years to a time of askew layers, boyish lengths, and freaked-out ends which I tried in vain to grow out for YEARS.

That time is associated with low feelings of self-worth and voluminous quantities of mousse.

Did I mention my hair is curly, in addition to being short?

In one two-hour season in hell, I went from medium-length, straight, fine hair to a Gorgonesque explosion of SHORT ringlets and pincurls.

I gave a new stylist a try. She was an artist. She wore a raw silk sari skirt, and blue-lensed glasses. She worked out of a loft. She had Courvesoir in decanters next to the coffee.
And yes, I did say, "I'll trust your judgment with the cut, but please keep the length."

So, I'm understandably confused when I emerge from the salon in a bowl cut-type SHORT haircut with diffused curls, randomly sheared areas, and the entire top layer of my hair razored off, which may have resulted from my hairsylist's apparent Salvador-Dali-infused fugue state.

So, I leave the salon, trying to muster a smile at my new FBI-approved Witness Protection Program makeover, and call Kevin to prepare him emotionally for the loss of his wife.

I describe the cut, best I can, noting that most portions elude description, and soon after approach my front door. Taped to the screen is a photo from last Halloween, with Kevin dressed as an alcoholic housewife, with the topper being a bad, frizzy, curly old lady wig. Under the snapshot is a post-it with the words, "If you look like this, don't come home."

So I sat on the front stoop, crying my eyes out, until Kevin opened the door and gently led me in.

Did I Really Think This was Good At One Time?
No. No, I Didn't.
or
Help! I Need an Editor and a Real Storyline
or
What's With the Fireflies?

DARK RISING

Susannah heard the sound after it was gone. What it was, she couldn't say. But her subconscious had registered it and woke her up.

Her eyelashes snapped against her lids as she lay, prone, listening. Her heart beat that deep, ragged, thumping way it does when you think your plane is going to crash.

But she wasn't in the air, she was in some guy's bed, wondering where the hell he was, as her peripheral vision caught the emptiness beside her.

Some guy...uh…Ron, that was it. Out with friends for happy hour, Susannah ended up with Ron after a heartfelt discussion of life, love, and all that other stuff you talk about three martinis later.

She knew she shouldn't have followed him to his place. She was, after all, in the middle of a three-year relationship. But she allowed herself this irrational act, why she had no idea.

Thinking this, she kept her eyes on the ceiling. A sound loud enough to wake her up, stranger beside her gone, a complete eerie silence, this wasn’t good. The air felt heavy, and pawed at her. In her deepest self, she knew something was very wrong (the plane was losing altitude...).

But no more noises...just a movement. A swath of shadow cut across a small corner of the ceiling dimly lit by the glow of a nightlight. Susannah followed the circle of light down to a dresser on the right side of the bed.

Ron sat crouched on top of the dresser.

His face was expressionless as he threw a book at the nightlight, knocking it out of the wall, plunging the room in darkness.

She lay there, feeling like she would hit bottom any minute, and wanting to, because anything was better then waiting in the dark for something to find you. She strained to hear anything, some sound that would give away his next movement, but Susannah couldn’t hear a thing but the rumbling echo of her own heartbeat.

Should she roll over the side of the bed and get on the floor? Maybe under the bed? What then?

Any movement would creak the mattress or rustle the sheets. She couldn’t change her position without her pursuer knowing about it. But, dammit, she couldn’t stay there.

She had to do something now. Her mind clung to option after option, but nothing stuck and Susannah ended up immobilized. Suddenly, a dot of light flickered. Then, another, and another, randomly. It was like, it was…fireflies? In here? She hadn’t seen the bugs since her midwestern childhood. She lived in the city now, and nearly forgot the things existed. With each flash, and resulting glow, she caught all-too-brief glimpses of the room. And with a lurch, she saw the top of the dresser now bare.

Why couldn’t she hear him? Her precious fleeting light afforded no comfort, especially when it disappeared altogether. She lay there, blood rushing, as a pile of crushed fireflies fell upon her face.

Still Feel Like Taking the Easy Way Out and Just Posting Old Stuff I've Written

To You

And this is the way you tell me you've grown tired
and I say you've been tired all along

I tell you I won't light your stone encrusted avenues,
point at landmarks unseen, or the map still folded

I rise against your close-eyed sickness, not by closing my own,
just not stopping to look. Not anymore

This is how I yell when I pass, say I won't be like you and
leave you to trip on your stones

And this is the way we're made fierce
by knowing things unspeakable

WE’RE THE ONLY ONES WHO REALLY KNOW WHAT’S GOING ON...

“You know what she needs to do?” I said. “Get rid of him. Just once and for all. I mean, it’s not like he makes her happy or anything.”

“I know,” Lisa returned. “And can he be stupider? He’s like a bag of charcoal. And not even a full bag. He’s a few briquets.”

I agreed. “He’s definitely not anything harder than charcoal, though. Like rock or anything. He’s exactly like charcoal. It’s a weird analogy, but I get what you’re saying. He’s soft, crumbly, porous. Charcoal.”

Lisa nodded. “Yeah and it’s not like the adjectives you just used typically describe a person. But I completely see what you mean.”

I was right there with her. “And, hello?” Could she be stupider? It’s like she’s the chef and she really doesn’t know how to use the barbeque and she takes out this pretty much empty bag of charcoal and has no clue what to do with it.”

“Uh-huh,” Lisa concurred. “I mean, does she even cook?”

“Obviously not,” I said. “Those two are so stupid.”

There's a married couple I work with (who I like a lot), who feel compelled to offer me advice on everything domestic.
Not a week goes by where the man doesn't say, "You and Kevin need a buy a house." As if buying a home in San Diego on our income is as easy as just deciding to do it. In fact, he says this with almost a "Well, why AREN'T you buying?" tone and has actually suggested he talk to Kevin to talk him out of his stubborn decision to not buy a home right now.

I don't get it.

Then, they bring up the fact that we need to have a baby NOW.
This, despite the glaring fact that we are renting a two-bedroom home with little room for a child, and want to spend the next year getting on our feet financially so we can have a child we can actually feed and clothe.
To this, they say, "There's never a good time to have a baby."
Which, to an extent I get. But if you are paying the debts on past sins (living on a credit card in Brentwood, CA, driving a Lexus and going to bars every night), you need to be responsible and pay off the charged wine and car (you don't actually have anymore but are still paying $450 a month for...) before you produce children. Plus, I'm still detoxing.

These people have a four-bedroom home in Rancho Penasquitos. They drive a Lexus and a BMW. They can afford to have children right now. They bought their house pre-1998, before the housing market went kablooey. And the guy is always telling me, "Well, we we're going to wait too, but just decided to have the children or we never would..." with a glaring, accusatory look at me like my decision to have children or not NOW will affect his sense of decency in the world forever.

It's bothersome.Their insistence that we do things their way, at their suggested pace, while completely ignoring our living/financial situation which has been detailed for them time and again, is irritating.

Oh! Then there's the wife's questions: "You and Kevin DON'T have a joint checking account?" or "You DON'T do Kevin's laundry?" like these things are so supremely foreign to her and surely indicate the end of marriage as an institution. I wouldn't be surprised to hear her surreptiously on the phone with Dr. Joyce Brothers outlining the demise of our marriage and what can she do to help?

Just because she and her husband combined their finances the MONTH they started dating and have had them that way ever since, does not mean that everyone needs to be so co-dependent.

Oh! Oh -- and THEN she looks at me like the Church Lady if I tell her I'm going out with the girls on a weekend night. She actually gasps, I swear, as she says, "What about Kevin?" Like to leave him alone to pursue other activities is akin to ripping his heart out.

By the way, these people are in their 30s, so it's not like they got married in the 1950s when that kinda thing was rampant (wasn't it?).

Thanks, I needed to vent.

There appears to be something wrong with Blogger.
Fudge.

I love children's books.
More specifically, supernatural, mystery, thriller children's books.
I have such fond memories of them and loved the authors who wrote them..
Now, at my age, I'm a little jealous of the authors, since this is what I want to do, but don't do, while they are doing it, and I wonder what they know that I don't or why they're not lazy while I am, or why they have talent, but not me, but anyway, I love children's books.

The latest crop thrills me. They sound so engrossing, right up my alley.
Of course, I've read all the Harry Potters (which embody everything I adore about this genre -- spooky villains, magic, witches and other supernatural creatures, and a lovable hero); but I here there's more out there to get my hands on.
Like, the Lemony Snicket series, or the Dark Materials volumes (I've read the first one -- Golden Compass -- which was truly excellent.
I've heard about Artemis Fowl and others that sound so fab, and I wonder if I'll always just read the books or actually get around to writing one of my own one day. For goodness sakes, the Lemony Snicket author is one year younger than me and has written, I think, 9 of the books already.
Plus, I seriously wonder if I would ever be so clever as to come up with a name like Lemony Snicket. Though, I might manage Harry Potter (name only).

Oy.
The other day, I attended a friend's barbeque and hung out in her daughter's room (5 years old) eyeing her bookcase.
The little girl came in, trying to recruit me to be her magical apprentice for a show she was organizing, then got really frustrated when all I did was talk about her books.
"Oooo, did you love the Chronicles of Narnia?"
She sighed, "Yeah, they're pretty good."
My eyes widened, "Which was your favorite?"
"They're all good."
I waited expectantly.
"I guess the first one was best," she conceded.

"How about Wrinkle in Time, did you read that?" I gurgled in anticipation.

But she and her magician's cape has long ago twirled out of the room.

I stayed until I heard Kevin asked (slightly panicky) where his wife had gone.

How could I explain that I'd again been lost in the world of John Bellairs, Ruth Chew, Phyllis Reynolds Naylor. Of course, you cannot pass by the Dark is Rising series.

Well, I'm going to go now and daydream.
Not write one of my own, because that would be madness. It'd make too much sense.
And, hey! That's just not me.

I thought I could be smart.
But after seeing Donnie Darko, I will admit that I am not.
No, not even a little bit.
David Lynch? You started this.

Last night, after playing two hours of paddleball, Kevin told me he couldn't do the dishes because his back hurt.
I'm like: "so strenuous sports OK, mild dish-washing not so much?"
Boy, I was irritated.
But then he couldn't walk today, so I feel better.

It Goes Back, Way Back

Have I ever spoke of the Thanksgiving of '75? For that's when it was that I remember it starting.
I am talking about, of course, the moment I went nuts. And I mean this kinda literally.

I developed an inability to swallow foodstuffs. In fact, I don't think I could consume liquids at this time either, but that might be fabricated.
At any rate, I had an unnatural fear of choking, which arose, as these Debbie things do, quite out of the blue.

My dad couldn't handle it. Normally, he would just shove some food down my throat, but then I might, for real, choke, so he refrained and just yelled a lot.
It lasted for days. At that time (and never again, my friends) I was on the skinny side, so a few 24-hour periods of refusing food thinned me out in a scary way.

It was right before Thanksgiving and we were on our way to Minneapolis to visit my Aunt Marion and Uncle Jim and their kids. Minnesota was a good 8 hours from Chicago, and the whole way I rebuffed the road food I used to look so forward to.

When we arrived at my aunt's house, my dad was just beside himself. I'd gone nearly four days without eating, and no one -- including myself -- knew why I'd grown to believe I'd choke and die a gasping death if I ate food.

Finally, my father couldn't take it anymore. It was Thanksgiving, for God's sake! So, he broke his "no shoving food down the kid's throat" rule and stuck a shelled peanut in my mouth. No matter that as a grown-up, he may have surmised that a peanut may not be the best "starter" food to stick into your crazy child's mouth, when she feels she will choke on water.

So, I stood there in shock and just let the peanut dissolve in my mouth. Some of it may have dribbled down the sides of my mouth, thus cementing my "she's gone loony" status in the family, but that may be fabricated.

Anyhow, the peanut juice eventually made its way down my throat with the added bonus of not choking me. I was cured!

The Thanksgiving of '75 was saved! My dad was a hero!

So yeah, that must've been when it all started***.

Crazy waters run deep.

*July 9, 2001 post.

Take Your Tommy Bahama and Shove It

Secret Message to the guy and his brethren at that bar in Del Mar:

No, I don't have fake boobs, french nails, and a Mystic Tan. I wasn't wearing a hat.
But I have a brain. And a personality.
And next time you ask me a question, listen to the answer, instead of staring at my best friend hoping she's listening so you can tell her how you're a golf pro.

Boy, I sounded bitter down there.
I AM!
It frustrates me (besides the obvious jealousy) that some men just do not respond to anything but the wrapping of a person.
I'm lucky in that I found someone who values what goes on inside (uh, most of the time) over the exterior package, but it still irritates me no end when a person (I'll have to admit this goes for women too), acts as though ALL that matters is appearance.
It is so vacuous.

Of course I can be an elitist snob (my brother Dane's endearing nickname for me -- when he's drunk) in requiring intelligence and wit from everyone I come in contact with -- but that's better, right? RIGHT?

Impressions from my Evening Out with the Girls

I don't get out as much as I used to. So, when I get the chance to live the nightlife, I experience it all anew. Ergo, I now notice things I'd hadn't in my previous life as a single person.

Some of these newly-noticed notables:

--There are WAY too many golf pros out there.
--If you drink Australian red wines, you are extra super-cool.
--The only things on the menu at neato trendy restaurants are seared ahi tuna and caesar salad (chicken extra).
--In every township north of Clairemont, all men over 50 MUST be accompanied by a near-adult female.
--If out after 8PM, all women MUST wear a stringy tank top and strappy sandals.
--It's OK if you don't know the woman next to you in the bathroom: go ahead and ask her what shade of MAC lipstick she's wearing.
--These days, every man-in-a-large-male-group you meet is on a 5-day-long bachelor party.
--No brains? No problem!
--Prodigious use of hair gel really does make the man.

There was one guy I happened to sit next to at the bar who was entertaining.
He reminded me of Eric Burdon's long-haired leaping gnome. He had a devilish glint in his eye and a slow smile. He told me he was a scientist. He gave me, unbidden, his business card and when I left it there on the bar, he chided me, "It'd be best if other people didn't see that card," like he was a super-agent scientist spy.
He was different.
I liked him.***

(***with the full consent and knowledge of my husband, Kevin.)

The other day, I was just thinking about how my friend told me she spent $300 on thong underwear. I naively thought this was a once-a-year spending binge deal, so I said, "Oh, went a little crazy, huh?" And she then told me this was a regular thing. That the $300 was nothing, and that pretty underwear was a priority to her.

Then, in a fit of synchronicity, I happened upon this witty post which further addressed the underwear issue. (FYI: The post is titled: "Captain and Madame Underpants")

The point is well-taken: the right underwear can make the woman. Yet the resulting lack of material in seductive underwear can feel decidedly un-sexy. I guess I don't sacrifice enough for proper underwear-wearing anyway. I'd really rather buy the $6 hamburger from Carl's Jr. than spend that much on a pair of panties.

But I'm thinking I'm in the minority on that one.

Most peculiar, mama.

Two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions,
on a sesame seed bun, with a side of super-size fries, hold the calories and oh! most especially the saturated fat
or,
CA Woman Sues, Claiming Morons Like This are Ruining the World

I'm Not a Baby!

My sister is staying with us. I possess strong love feelings for her. Oh yes I do. No, I do!
BUT, I'm feeling a little over-coddled.

She's great. She's really great. She says stuff like, "What are you doing, punk rocker?"
and "You smell like poo."
When I ask her what she wants for dinner, she replies, "A big black dog."
You know, sensible answers that really give me a line on what she's feeling.

Anyway, my sis is sweet as pie. She's a nanny, so she likes to nurture things, like babies.
And she brings her job home.
So that means good things like there's always fruit in the basket, and color-coded water glasses.

It also means things like if you're really tired and laying in bed at 10:30AM on a Saturday and haven't eaten yet and don't want to just now and your hair is wet from the shower and plastered against your forehead and you have no intention of drying it at the moment and you just want to be a troll, she will bust into your room and insist on making you a bowl of bananas and raspberries and yes! yes! you have to eat now! and you'll get sick and come on! come on! let me fix you something and why are you wearing a towel and are you OK? are you sure I can't make you something? I can sprinkle a little Prozac on the berries and ok then, how about on the bananas? what's wrong? what's wrong? and can I help you roll over? here, have some fruit.

Sometimes it gets to be overmuch, especially because I felt like pancakes.

Be an individual! he says.
You don't have to be like THEM, he reminds.
Buy the funky Skechers, don't get the pair everyone else has, he chides.
[ed. note: no matter that the Skechers brand is mass-owned by the city of San Diego.]
I like that you're different, he states.

So why, oh my geez why, were you embarrassed when I wore a sweater on our boardwalk stroll?
"No one else is," he answers, hypocritically, in a double-standard-type tone.

I am rarely political.
Not because I don't care; but rather I respond emotionally, not objectively, to issues.
Yes, I know.
A lot of politics is subjective.
Yet, you still need to have all the facts.
Have supporting points to buttress your position.
Know the opposition.

I just know how I feel about an issue, and the facts hold little sway with me.
It's so ignorant.
There, is such a thing, however, as emotional intelligence, you know.
It counts for something.
Right?
Not in politics, my husband will rage, shaking in righteous disbelief at my view that the death penalty should be abolished.
Then, he quotes statistics. Certain congressmen's opinions, death penalty history, and moral parables designed to get me to see I'm crazy.
("Oh! So, oh, oh oh oh oh, I've got it! So, right, your little baby daughter is kidnapped and killed brutally. You wouldn't want the death penalty for the scumbag who did it?," he hypothesizes, very objective-like.)
"That's a hard one," I reply. "But God will deal his own justice. It is not for us to say."
"But," I will add, switching gears, "we should take care of Iraq."
"What!" he'll quake, "you don't want the death penalty but it's OK to attack Iraq and quite possibly, kill thousands?"
"Yes," I'll answer. "Because they've shown little regard for truth and world betterment, and are very obviously hiding weapons of mass-destruction, which could kill millions, upset the world balance and cause general mayhem."
"Plus," I add, "They PROMISED us our weapons inspections and they went back on that. We're well within our rights to enforce that agreement. For the general protection of the world."
"You're completely illogical," he'll say, turning his attention back to the newspaper.
"Maybe, but I know what I feel," I say, thumbing through my Chicken Soup for the Soul.
Like I said, ignorant.

WHY DID SHE PERSECUTE ME SO?

OK. Now my short hair is supah dupah ugly. To the major max.
As stated a few weeks ago, I got it cut short (completely against my will, I might add), and now as if to add fuel to the ugly fire, it's even worse than when I initially had it chopped.
First of all, this stylist ignored by plea to keep the length. Apparently, she also thought it'd be funny to cut my hair in such a manner that defies all normal laws of gravity.
And, asymetrical is not in anymore. I don't think I'm wrong on this.
SO, why hack the right side of my hair in complete opposition to the left?
I swear this is true: I am sporting a puffy "wing" on the right portion of my head.
As you might guess: the left side is flat as a board.
Now, I look like a soccer mom who shrooms.

This will take me a long time to get over. I did mention how the whole backside of my head is a jigsaw of fucked-up layers with the entire top layer of my hair missing?
Oh, didn't I?
WELL ALLOW ME TO TELL YOU HOW THE BACK OF MY HEAD IS A JUMBLE OF CRAP THAT IS MATCHED ONLY BY THE REST OF MY POGOHEADED HAIR CUT.
Earth to hairstylist: Us humans don't wear our hair this way. Don't they have ears and AN OPERABLE PAIR OF HANDS PROGRAMMED TO CUT HAIR where you come from?
And, in closing, I hate you, too.

A woman called into the Dr. Laura show yesterday, telling of her son and his new wife, who are making up a new surname because the wife didn't want her new husband's name imposed on her (and vice versa).
So, rather than agreeing to hyphenate or decide on one last name over the other, they are making up a new last name.
I think this is stupid.
If you are a feminist and don't want to take your husband's name, that's fine. I understand this.
But why don't you then concentrate on ACTING like a feminist, instead of getting wrapped around the axle and spending your important feminist time making up nonsense names?
I'm so put out by people who pour all this time into proving a point by inane gestures like this, rather than making a point by behavior and action.
You know, do something that really moves you forward: Rally. Lobby. Open a business.
But sit around with your new husband and brainstorm a made-up last name? Where does this lead?
A bitch slap by Dr. Laura, that's all.

Note to Debbie:

"I merely took the energy it takes to pout and wrote some blues."
Duke Ellington

Dear Debbie:

You don't have to sit around feeling sorry for yourself all the time. Kvetching over this, venting over that. Making your husband pay because he didn't want to eat at The Mission (you know he despises granola).
Funnel that energy. Focus. Start concentrating on that half-written book of yours. I know for a fact that you wallow in your self-imposed misery far too often. Take all that time and effort it requires to sustain your state of homeo-neurosis and write! write! write! about it. In private, of course.

Best regards,
Anonymous
(OK, it's your higher consciousness, did I fool you?)

Saturday night at the movies, Kev and I saw "Road to Perdition."
This was after a gnat-encircled plate of Greek food and watery Vanilla créme at Starbucks, but it's not always about food, Debbie!
Anyways, I enjoyed the movie.
It was predictable, yes, but the plotting had a proven predictableness, and was like movie comfort food (there we go again).
Meaning: the characters were well-drawn, if not a bit cartoonish (Jude Law played a brilliant walking cadaver-sort obsessed with cadavers), but like characters we've all seen before.
The plot was well-paced, with properly timed climax and dénouement.
Good suspense, setting, and admirable, though very obvious theme.
Yeah you know, it hit all the right chords. Just felt a little overly orchestrated.
Didn't mean I didn't like, enjoy, or recommend it: it's only that I feel a little manipulated.
Don't need it all served on a platter, either (even my analogies contain food).

Yeah! New Word!

Back when I was in high school, the "cool" guys had a term for certain girls.
That word was schmimis

It was pronounced like this: "shh-mim-ees."

As stated, the word didn't pertain to every girl: just the silly, petty, giggly, supposed brain-dead ones.

But you had to be careful! Say one thing construed as one of the adjectives above, and you were auto-labeled a schmimi.

In those days, nearly every single one of us gals succumbed to the label at one time or another.

I hated it then. "Schmimi" was said with such disdain and condescension.

Now? I like it, I like it a lot. I'm pulling the word out of its dusty corner, pale with disuse, and sprinkling it liberally in everyday conversation.
I have lots of opportunities to use it.

Brush With Fame, Pt. I

As part of a quasi-continuing and erratic series of essays, I plan to set forth my brief, non-intimate, somewhat pathetic encounters with semi-famous people during my L.A. internment.
And we begin.

I was at a bar restaurant mid-week. Alicia Silverstone came in with two other people. One was Benicio del Torro, though I didn't know it at the time. Alicia seemed out of it: very droopy-eyed and sloppy. After a brief stint at the front bar where I sat, she loped out to her SUV parked directly out front. A dog barked within. She retrieved something from the front seat, it turned out to be a pack of cigarettes.
I wanted a few cigarettes, so told my bartender friend that I would bum some from Alicia Silverstone. (Since it'd make a good story someday. Boy, was I wrong.)
My pal DID NOT want me to ask Alicia for some smoky treats, since it'd be a poor reflection on him (twisted bartender logic).
I did it anyway. She slid her pack toward me, and I extracted two cigarettes, much to my friend's embarrassment, since I'd only asked to borrow one.
But Alicia didn't notice. Her eyes were barely open, and she took nearly no notice of my indiscretion.
She wore faded Levis and was prettier in person.
End scene.

An Homage to My Brother
My brother Mark smells, my brother Mark smells, my brother Mark smells.
And in conclusion, call me back.

Brush With Fame, Pt. II

I was at a bar. This 40-something bespeckled guy with long curly hair and his buddy approached my friend and I.
We sat and talked for long periods of time. He told me he was, at one time, a Hollywood scenester and proceeded to tell me insider stories.
(One was about Sharon Stone, but I will not defame her, here.)
At any rate, since I did not recognize this man, I asked who he was.
He tells me his name is Bob Zmuda.
I still do not who in tarnation this person could be, but when he tells me he wrote DC Cab my ears perked.
(See, I have fond memories of this movie.)
He also tells me he founded Comic Relief.
Adjunct to this revelation, Bob says he was Andy Kaufman's best friend.
For hours, literally, he told me stories about Andy.
He tells me that he and Andy were good friends before Andy made it big, and that Andy told him that if he ever reached success, he'd have Bob write for him.
Well, they lose touch, and Bob moves to Ocean Beach, CA to become a short-order cook.
He's living on the streets, see.
Then, one day, the manager of the restaurant where Bob worked, told him a telegram had arrived for him.
It was from Andy, and it instructed Bob to quit his job and move to L.A., where he would become Andy's comedy writer.
So, Bob goes from making $100/week to $5,000/week in the course of a day.
He makes it big as Andy's writer and best friend, and tells grand tales about this ride.

Then, Bob asks me out on a date. We're to see "Sleepless in Seattle." I'm to pick him up in North Hollywood because he doesn't have a car. I feel this is weird. I mean, North Hollywood? No vehicular assets? I blow it off.
I research.
He didn't write DC Cab.

Because I'm Supposed to Be a Writer...

Days like dominos
Click, collapse

Shapes grow
from wreckage

Diagrams redrawn
if derailed

Because
when all's said and done

Pieces fall where they may

I'm Feeling Sappy
or, Untitled

Did you know my shoulders
are stardusted with love?

Come blueheart sky and raindrops
tell him my words are cloud-caught

in flax-spun, golden-spoked fogs
with sunshine glitter flecks

These shoulders are stardusted with love
that hint at galaxies