The Sun Deck: Part Two

Hi! Please be sure to read Part One (below) before you read this one, so they make sense!

LOVE- Beth

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Someone was holding her, Velvet acknowledged numbly, but she didn’t know who. Someone was murmuring comfort, but she couldn’t place the voice. All she could focus on was the blood pounding in her ears, the snake-like whispers of gossips hissing all around her, and him. His snide, contemptuous voice flooded her consciousness like a noxious cloud.

She listened to their concerned party guests asking him if he was alright, should they get him some ice, would he like someone to call the police. He was like a god to them and she was the cast-off, the fool, the spectacle.

“No, no, no. That won’t be necessary.” He replied in his oh-so-brave and oh-so-suave baritone. “She’s just—emotional.” He made it sound like a mental illness. He painted her with his words as pitiable, irrational, ridiculous.

Emotional. This was their fucking wedding celebration, fro Christ’s sake. Velvet had thought eloping had been wonderfully romantic and deliciously exhillerating but always regretted missing out on having a reception. Today was supposed to be that social event in celebration of their marriage. And It was the social event of the season.

Velvet Calder, daughter of Mrs. Sebastian Calder and the late Sebastian Calder Esquire and sole heiress to the Calder Appliance fortune had been the most eligible bachelorette in the community. She had been pursued by nearly every available man and a fair few who were considerably less than available. With shining brunette hair swept over her flawless forehead and down to mid-back, and large heavy-lidded ethereal green eyes, men, women, young and old were naturally drawn to her.

All her life being beautiful, elegant, and generally soft-spoken had served as effective padding, shielding her from arduous tasks, unpleasant realities and mundane labors. She was a princess-like figure: wealthy, delicate, poised, and kind. Never did she venture into a boutique, a salon, or a park without kind words from acquaintances, without freely offered favors from folks she knew only by sight, and without doors held open by strangers who maybe let their eyes linger over-long upon her radiant visage.

Nothing had, nothing could have prepared her for a moment, for a day such as this one. Pampered, precious, preserved and petted, she had no mechanism with which she could cope, none of the weapons and armor most women had ready to deal with a situation of this sort.

“Pull yourself together, for Christ’s sake-“ He snarled, leaning in low so the guests wouldn’t hear, “the whole town is watching.” Then straightening back up he murmured something to the concerned crowd about pregnancy hormones and what her doctor had said about “over-reactions” and “insecurities”. Then he left. He sauntered into the cool of the townhouse and most of the party followed him.

There on the elevated stage, her own personal greek tragedy just having played out in front of a captive and cannibalistic audience of her peers, Velvet found the harsh glare of the spotlight unforgiving. But everyone, it seemed, was less interested in her personal drama than in the celebrity status of their dashing host. They trickled off the deck; Velvet could feel their retreating footsteps vibrating the hot boards under her thighs. The spot-light sun was bearing down on her, scolding, blinding.

The steady stream of softly lilting words of comfort in her ear and the gently insistant stroking of her hair and back started to come into focus. She could hear the sounds of the party picking up again below, the distant tinkling of glasses coming together in a toast somewhere inside and the dull murmur of group laughter joined in revelry but she couldn’t muster any feelings about it. She wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to feel anything but exhausted ever again.

Licking her parched lips she found them salty and hot. Every time she closed her eyes she saw only her husband. Her husband fucking that woman. His wet naked back, her jungle red fingernails digging into the tanned, taut flesh. His bare ass rising out of the water to thrust again, deeper. Her long, smooth legs spread apart and wrapped around him. Her husband. Her husband’s expression of inconvenienced annoyance when she’d discovered the two of them. Not shock, not embarrassment, and certainly not remorse, but rather a look that said he was clearly put-out that he hadn’t gotten to finish.

“C’mon, let’s get you out of here.”

These were the first words her addled brain managed to process from the steady stream of kindnesses being murmured to her in low tones. Finally she looked, feebly turning her head to see who was holding her.

She saw his eyes first—so brilliant. Where her husband’s eyes were closed off, mysterious and dark, these eyes were open, honest and bright with emotion. And they were exactly her favorite shade of violet. This thought made her smile wanly. What a strange color for eyes, and stranger still for a man, surely. She’d worn that color to her junior prom, in a lovely taffeta off-the-shoulder number. She realized he was smiling back. He looked relieved.

She swallowed hard. She swallowed again. Then she vomited all over his front.

His body jerked away instinctively but in his unwillingness to let her go he remained directly in the line of fire and waited resignedly for the ordeal to cease. He brushed her hair back and held it away from her face. When she was through and thoroughly mortified, she tried to apologize but had only a whisper of a voice left and felt nearly too weak to keep her head up.

He smiled an ironic sort of smile then and said to her: “Hello. I’m Jonah—I’m not sure we’ve met.”

She fell in love with him immediately.

The Sun Deck: Part One

“God damn you!” she screamed. She’d never screamed like this in her entire life—she was sure of it. Her insides felt molten, boiling and she felt her throat scratch and tear as she railed “You fucking bastard! You son of a bitch!” she could almost taste blood.

“Nice language, very dulcet.” His tone was cool and mocking. Steely and unforgiving.

How could he be so fucking calm? She felt the walls of her perfect life coming down around her, crushing her. The humiliation. Her heart was shattered, her world spinning faster and faster out of control. It was all she could do to keep from throwing herself of the three-story sundeck.

Non-chalant, he stepped up and out of the swirling bubbles of the hot tub, not bothering to conceal his lingering erection. Not in any rush, he casually reached for a towel. “They teach you that at charm school?”

Her throat, sore from screaming, felt tight and constricted. Her French-manicured fingernails were digging sharply into her palms. “Shut the fuck up!”

“Oh, very nice-“

“No. No!” She cut him off, her expression murderous. “No. Don’t you say another fucking word, you Goddamned son-of-a-bitch!”

The hum and bubble of the electric hot tub was driving her out of her skull. She felt a thousand pinpricks, hot and cold, on the back of her neck and realized, vaguely, that the entire party three stories below had stopped dead. Everyone was watching. All their friends, all those people. She was making a spectacle.

She could hear her mother’s voice somewhere in her memory, it came rushing up now, unbidden and unwanted, to the surface of her consciousness: “Mark my words young lady, that man will bring you nothing but pain and heart-ache. He is a lothario. He’s a bastard. If your poor father were alive…” She pushed it back down, buried it forcefully. Swallowing hard again and again, she thought she might vomit.

“Anything else you’d like to announce to our guests—or are you quite through?” He smiled, a cold, twisted sort of self-satisfied smirk, and waited with eyebrows raised expectantly. When at length she made no reply he extended his hand lazily toward the hot tub. “Come—I’m terribly sorry about all the fuss.” He purred.

As the other woman’s hand reached to take his offered hand Velvet made a sound like an angry cat and lunged at the bastard. She was 18 and he was 40. She was a wisp of a thing and he was a professional athlete. She was furious and frenzied and he was dripping wet.

Velvet clawed and scratched, she even spat and bit and she screamed until she had no voice left. She was infuriated that he was implacable; he brushed off her assault like he might a stray animal. She wanted him to hit her back. She wanted to kill him or for him to kill her.

By this time some shocked guests had mobilized and people were pulling her off him, pulling her wildly flailing limbs to a distance where they could no longer make contact with his person.

During the scuffle the other woman made a scramble to get out of the hot-tub, but didn’t betray any embarrassment at her nudity. Instead she looked disdainful at the interruption, and when at last a spent and sobbing Velvet collapsed on the wet deck floor, tears streaming, breaths coming in painful heaving gasps, the woman looked down in mild disgust. Her upper lip curled in the same way it might be at the sight of a squalling child or a mangy animal, and when she spoke it was in a voice as cool and dry as the vodka stingers she was well-known for favoring.

“Someone had better calm the wretched thing down before she has a miscarriage out here on the sundeck.” And with that she placed her sunglasses atop her head and strode—perfectly arrogant and completely nude—into the townhouse and out of view.

Saturday

We had a family game night last night for the first time in probably close to a ear (if not longer), and I had a really great time.

For real.

As is always the case when my family gets together, there was the big, sad, gaaping void where my Brother and Sister-in-law should be. They always make an event ten times more fun and interesting, and especially so for game nights because they are game people.

But we had a really fun time, those of us still residing in south shore MA.

What was fun was having two nephews and a niece participate as real players, not just periphery, not simply as "honorary" team members who get bored and go to bed halfway through cranium. They played both games with us, and played competitively, participated in and added to conversation, and they were fun to have around. And did not get tired or fight amongst themselves or ask for too much special lee-way.

I can't tell you how different this is from only a year and a half ago when I swore up-and-down that I wouldn't play with nieces and nephews again until they were 17.
What a difference a year can make I suppose.

I won, incidentally, both games we played. I won "Are you smarter than a fifth grader?", though I admit I used my peek, copy, and save 'lifelines' to get me past MATH and SCIENCE! And my nephew Matt & I made a fabulous team and were victorious in Cranium! I have only once ever had a partner other than Aaron in cranium, and aaron was in that savant-like stage of drunken-ness that made him unstoppable, and I swore I'd never partner with another person again, but hey, switching things up is healthy! So I partnered with Matt and Aaron partnered with Katie (I had a feeling this partnership was the only way she'd really want to play and stay through the whole game, she loves Uncle Awyn). Shell and Pip were partnered and we threw in Jimmy because Pip was getting quite drunk and Shell needed at least one sober partner!

Anywho, it made me want to play more games more often. We used to play games with friends alot but that practice has sort of died out. not sure why.

And I ask aaron all the time to play with me but he very rarely consents. Its like alchemy, the conditions have to be just-so for him to agree to playing a game with me. Is the apartment clean enough for him? Is there a convenient gap in tv shows, leaving us time free of hulu? Is it early enough so that he won't get tired and cranky? Is he sufficiently bored of his one-player computer game to switch it up by playing with me? Are the planets aligned and the hemlock in bloom and the moon in the seventh house? Ok, then I guess we can play a game... wait, is there cheese and crackers??

But he really LOVES playing games once I can get him to play. He loves two-player video games as well as card games and board games! Why does he resist the experience so damn much?

shit. Now I want to play a game.

Bouncing Around In My Head...

“She said my name and I looked in her eyes and I knew –“ He looked wistful and far-away.

“And what did you say then?” I kept my tone as gentle as I could, not wanting to break the spell, not wanting to bring him back to the present just yet.

His lips curled into a ghost of a smile and his eyes seemed to focus on something in the distance for a moment before he spoke. “I didn’t say anything-“ he admitted, almost sheepishly.

“What do you mean you didn’t say anything?” I had a chuckle in my throat but held the amusement in check.

He looked at me then, a sweet and honest smile spreading across his face, his eyes like wet glass, but focused now, present. “I kissed her”. He was grinning now, the pride and joy and romance of that moment so long ago alive again as he told me the tale.

“You said nothing, just walked up and kissed her?” Damn, but he was so earnest, so open and sweet.

“I kissed her.” He repeated, nodding in the affirmative, “And it- it felt so perfect, so right” he closed his eyes and let his brows come together, he was trying to articulate something that was clearly beyond explanation- “It felt like… like I was home-“ his blue-green eyes opened then and met mine, held my attention completely, “at last, after all those years of pain and sorrow and grief and doubt, finally in that moment I was home.”

The way he caressed that final word, “home”, the way he colored it with such love and longing and reverence, it made my gut twist. I didn’t really want to think about how much he loved her, how perfect their reunion had been. But I did want him to feel that beauty again, to remember his heart, so I pressed on.

“And then?” I prompted, “After the kiss?” My breath was a little more shallow than it should have been and I had to make an effort to regulate it.

“I had so many things I wanted to say, so many questions I needed to ask, needed answered!”

“I can imagine.” I smiled and he returned my smile with a slight chuckle.

“What finally came out of my mouth was: ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’” I let that hang in the air between us for a moment. Studying his face I could tell he was far away again and it gave me a moment to collet myself before pursuing him further.

“You mean- why hadn’t she told you, what?” I knew what he’d meant but I needed him to say it aloud.

“Why hadn’t she told me—“ he took a ragged breath and expelled it forcefully before rushing to finish. “--About the child, about our child. Why hadn’t she told me anything, everything!”

Lies. That was the root of all the pain he was living now, and it was important he realize that they had started well before this latest inident.

“Do you remember how she responded?” I asked, so soft it was nearly a whisper.

His brow contracted and then eased, lines melting, and he looked almost placid. When he spoke he was in near monotone, he was numb.

“She brought me inside, out of the storm, and she- she told the little girl to go to her room and she sat me down and started to tell me everything.” He swallowed hard. “How she thought it was safer for herself and the child to remain hidden, better that I believed she had been killed…”

There's been a lot of talk lately about changing one's attitude, shifting one's outlook, being more 'positive', and such like.

This is a theory I've been struggling with since puberty. To bitch or not to bitch, that is the question.

Make yourself a better person simply by changing your outlook-- instead of jumping first to the negative, make an effort to see the positive. Make yourself a better person by thinking proactively, instead of as a victim.

While I think it never hurts to see things in a positive light, I think I've come to the conclusion that my first reaction is always valuable. Perhaps it isn't always right, and usually it isn't a positive hearts-and-sunshine response to a givent event or circumstance, but you know what? It's usually pretty fucking funny.

I realized that my sense of humor is tied inextricably with my gut reactions to things, and when I immediately try to sweep that instinct under the rug I become a nicer person, perhaps, but a far duller one too. And instead of finding some magical perspective that cures all my ills and makes my life one happy success-fest, instead I tend to feel like a slow-witted moron and quite a dull party guest.

Now this is not saying that ALL my reactions to everything are negative, bitchy, mean-spirited or cruel! Certainly not! Some sure are. I'm a theatre person and a fag-hag, I have some sharp claws, folks. No, the real troubly was that fundamental step wherein I was mistrusting my own voice and shutting down my central=processing-unit and re-routing all synapses to fucking The-Power-Of-Positive-Thinking central, where everything is a bit more cookie-cutter, a bit more bland, and a lot more lame.

So now I let myself have those reactions that make me ME, and then I analyze deeper and look at more sides. But viscera is where I live. Sure it makes a fool out of me, sure I'm wrong alot, yes I fly off the handle and absolutely I am fucking hilarious when I do it.

The trouble is, of course, that sometimes I do fall victim to too much negativity, to much cynnicism, too much bile. Its a mood shift thing. And in those cases sure, one has to stop and say "Why the fuck am I always so goddomn crabby?" That's no fun. For you or anyone around you. Because that was a re-routing to grumpy-town, which is just as boring and lame as the happy-town place.

So just try to know you and what you think about things. But don't throw away your unique, your singular point-of-view for anything. That's fake, and any happiness it brings will likely be hollow and superficial.

The Curmudgeon on the Porch

"Why you're Irish, Katie Scarlett O'Hara, and to anyone with a drop of Irish blood in them, why, the land they live on is like their mother..."

That's from the lovable mick character actor who played Scarlett's father in Gone With The Wind. This too:

"Why, land is the only thing worth fighting for, worth dyin' for- because it's the only thing that lasts!"

These overly precious lines echo in my head sometimes, the way they echo in Scarlett's at the close of the film, but instead of getting all misty eyed and declaring: "Tara!", I generally get more pissed off and growl out "Mother-FUCKERS!"

Meaning, of course, that I'm and Irish American who has neighbors.

"for anyone with a drop of Irish blood in them", you'll know that neighbors are the bane of an Irish American's existence. Why do you think the Kennedys built a fucking compound? with a big fucking wall!

That expression "fences make good neighbors"? Totally came from an Irish guy. Fences make great neighbors, until the neighbor's basterd offspring walk by it with stick and slap-slap-slap-slap-slap the thing all the way down on their way past, or until those hooligans can't control their lousy ball and it ends up in my backyard.

Neighbors are trials sent by the devil himself, to test us and to tempt us. Like God almighty tested Job, so are the Irish subjected to living in too-close proximity to other people. There are times, jesusmaryandjoseph, that I would sign whatever scroll Beelzebub pushed in front of me if it meant I never had to have another neighbor, ever.

We Irish, we're the ones who peer suspiciously out the window at every car-door, every passing voice on the street, every feral cat in heat. We stand intimidating and implacable in our doorways, framed by the light within, just to let you KNOW that you are being watched, until you pass out of sight and well away from our property line. If you've ever literally heard an individual shout: "get off my lawn!" in real life, at actual passersby, and not in an ironic way? That person was Irish, and they were as serious as a heart attack. Use the G-D sidewalk and get off their lawn.

So what's worse than living in a small house in suburbia where your Irish property abuts one or more other properties? Where you can't control what kind of riff-raff decides to move in and let their errant animals dump on your lawn without picking it up, and let their children play hide-n-seek in YOUR BUSHES (play in your own goddamn yards, sonsabithes dont-they-teach-you-anything-for-chrissakes?) and their teenagers have too many friends over too late at night with music that is way too loud with far too much bass?

What's worse than that?

I'll tell you what:

Being Irish and living in an apartment.

Take a moment. Let that sink in.

It is like living WITH your neighbors. Sharing walls. Sharing a common roof. They get to park in YOUR driveway. Their dog GETS to shit in your yard. They get to have loud music and parties and arguments and you must endure this infuriating condition.

It is just too much, too much I tell you!

I am not a good neighbor. I am an excellent tennent, but I am not a good neighbor at all. You do not want this Irish American for a neighbor.

I listen with a glass at the wall to hear the details of your ridiculous argument. I stand in the doorway to let you know I am watching and I do NOT hesitate to call the police on your domestic abuse.

Oh yeah. I've done it.

And guess what else? Because I'm an excellent tennant guess who the landlord likes better? Guess who has his ear?

So let your baby cry for two+ hours? The landlord hears about it. Argue at full volume about the drugs you are taking? Oh he knows. Bring suspicious folks here at insane hours and now you're locked out when you're late on the rent fuckers- because that's how Irish plays it.

Hit your girlfriend outside my window because she flipped out and kicked your hot-rod? Oh, that's you in handcuffs mofo.

Call our dog a nuisance and we call you a crazy fucking cunt, to your craggy old face, cuz that's how Irish do.

Irish keeps a baseball bat by the front door, in the event we should need to bust out the house like a bat outta hell and whoop some ass.

Irish is insane enough to tell a group of very confident young hoodlums to keep moving. Even though you can almost guarantee that will provoke something later on. We don't care, we're ready for it, hell, we WANT you to bring it just so we can brandish that fucking baseball bat.

So when you revv your hot-rod engine and peel out of the parking lot because you're pissed at your drugged up bitch, you better believe we might be holding our tongues, but somewhere we have a wall full of tally marks and one of these days you'll hit that magic number and I swear to god that hot-rod will find sugar in the gas tank, or a big ugly key mark from headlight to back bumper, because you are a douche and Irish likes to bring douches down a peg.

And you better believe we'll lend you sugar, help you scrape off your car in the winter, shovel a path from the door to the mailbox, jump your car when it's dead, help you out when the cable is on the fritz or give you a candle when the electricity goes out-- because we're awesome like that- but any kindness we show you has nothing to do with you. Not at all. We do that shit out of Irish pride. Because its what you do. We aren't douchebags. Irish is always in the right, even when we're on the phone to 911 or screaming at you because our tempers are outrageous and fiery.

So, may those who love us love us, and those who don't? Better not move in next door or down the hall or especially not above us because so-help-us-god-by-everything-that-is-holy-and-sacred, you will come to regret ever being anything less than a perfectly curteous, concientous, considerate and quiet neighbor who has no suspicious habits or hooligan-looking friends.

***Please note that IRISH does not care how loud your sex is, or how kinky. Sex is not among the things IRISH cares about. We also do not mind your drinking, so long as it doesn't result in shenanigans that fall outside the bounds of acceptable Irish-sanctioned shenanigans. Irish likes sex and drinking, so we might eavesdrop, well, we will definately eavesdrop (especially on the kinky sex- go get that!), but we will not take umbage nor make a fuss.

... And get off my lawn.

The Adventures of Captain Hackney and the Cliche Kid!

The Adventures of Captain Hackney
and the Cliche Kid

Episode IV: The Mexican Standoff

Meanwhile...

"Did you get the codes?"

"Are you kidding me right now?"

"Did. You. Get. The. Codes?"

"Don't ever start anything with 'Did you get the codes', nothing good ever starts with 'did you get the codes'."

"We're running out of time-"

"UGH! Cliche on top of cliche! What next, are you going to tell me you found the microfilm?"

"Give me the codes and I'll give you the microfilm- that was the deal."

"Alright, alright- lemme just 'hack into the internets first and download those secret codes and-- oh damn!"

"What?! What is it?"

"Password protected. Dammit. Foiled again."

"We need those codes-"

"Oh, I know, it's urgent business we're about. Well, let me attempt to 'bypass the mainframe and reroute the servers'."

"You'd better hope this works--"

"Oh, I know, right, definitely. *furious clicking an furtive glances* Almooooost therrre, almosst there-- right?"

"You would make jokes at a time like this, just get it done wise-ass, or you won't be laughing for long."

"Oh my god- you are in top form Captain Hackney!"

"Do you want that microfilm or not?"

"I'd rather not be playing this at all, to be honest-"

"Shut the fuck up and get me those codes!"

"Alright alright. Fine. Two can play at that game! (Aha! I'm pulling out my own gun so suck it.) Drop the gun and nobody gets hurt!"

"Is this some kind of joke?"

"Is that the best you can do?"

"This isn't what it looks like."

"Are you thinkin' what I'm thinkin?"

"I have a bad feeling about this-"

"You can say that again!"

"You know how to whistle don't you?"

"Are you trying to seduce me?"

"Don't look now! Quick, Kiss me!! (Stake-out Make-out!)"

"(Oh, ok,gotcha!) *mmmmmmm, ooooonmmmmmmm.* Ok, they're gone. The coast is clear. Do you think they bought it?"

"I'm sorry it had to end like this...I'll see you in hell! (bang bang- I shot you now)"

"That wasn't part of the plan...uggggghhhhhh (I'm dying.)"

"Give me your hand---"

"I though you'd never ask, *ghasp* I see the light--- I'm so cold..."

"Don't you die on me!"

"I see dead people... Aaaaaaaaand------------ I'm dead.
The end. Game over. You lose. You didn't get the codes. Tough luck."

"Well, shit."

"Yup. I out cliched the master."

"Well played."

"Well, thank you. It was a pleasure."

"But you forgot one thing-"

"Oh no-"

"The other raptor-"

"UGH"

"-That you didn't even know was there-"

"Fuck me!"

"And she slashes at you with this! *imagine my finger is the raptor claw*"

"Obviously."

"The point is: You are alive when she starts to eat you. So, try to show a little respect, ok?"

"Clever girl."

"*drops mic and exits* Owned."

Fin.
-Or-
To be continued...

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Rotten Tomatoes Screenplay Cliches!

Formulaic.

I've been daydreaming alot lately. Today on a quick jaunt to market basket for delicious cheese and asparagus I nearly caved into my desires and purchased a romance novel, spending money I DO NOT HAVE on silliness.

But its that time of year. I have this craving about twice a year to read a romance novel or two-- indulge in the utterly predictable yet delectably delicious story structure that pits maiden against rake and culminates with a love that will last for all time... and some really steamy sex.

Its spring and my head is filled with images of chiseled Dukes in period clothing smiling roguishly at ladies from across a crowded ballroom, setting her virgin cheeks aflame with embarrassment at the shocking power of her deep-down desire.

He'll have sworn a vow never to love, she'll have promised herself never to marry without love-- there will be a hidden danger winding its way insidiously into the fabric of their achingly-slowly budding relationship and in the third act that hidden danger will reveal itself to be someone they trusted all along! Egads and damnation!

He will rescue her -or- in a fun twisty twist she will be the one to rescue him from the clutches of doom and they will realize, in the face of death or permanent separation, that they have been being ridiculous and of course they are madly in love with one another and would move heaven and earth for that sweet sweet lovemaking that they do so well.

Naturally they marry, finally consigned to the fate they had resisted so vehemently before, and live happily ever after... An epilogue throwing us a bone and letting us know how fertile they were with a passel of little beautiful children running around the estate grounds and their love more vibrant than ever before.

And I will smile and then hate myself for smiling at such sub-par reading.

Because I could have written it myself, so foreseeable were the plot developments, so predictable were the 'twists', so familiar were the cast of characters.

They are all the same.

Don't bother arguing. They are all. the same. Some variation of the same exact formula.

If it doesn't follow the above guidelines then you know what? It isn't a romance novel. What you're holding might just be fiction, maybe even some stray piece of literature, but it is not, I repeat not, a romance novel.

I mean, I even read this epic one where she (the heroine) ended up getting kidnapped by pirates right at the point where a normal romance novel would have wrapped up neatly and given me a 'happily ever after'. We'd already overcome obstacles and what- not and the rake realized he loved the virgin and he was actually thrilled to be married and YOINK! Pirates got her, sold her to a Sultan way down in the middle east somewhere and now she's in a Harem!

Interesting right? I thought so. She was prized by the Sultan because she was a ginger, very exotic down there, and he did all kinds of kinky stuff to her, since she was essentially his slave, and then, I think because she was too troublesome or something, too difficult to tame or whatever, he gave her as a gift to this other, neighboring sultan!

WHAAAA? "What" I asked myself, "the hell is going on here?"

So this neighboring sultan fellow is not kinky and depraved like the first one, he actually once had a wife (only the one, despite it being culturally acceptable to have bunches of them), and she died in childbirth and he's been mourning her since.

"Oh" says I, "Ok, this is an archetype I recognize!" You see, you can dress him up in a turban & hammah pants and give him an exotic accent but this is nothing more than the sad, haunted hero who romance novel authors sometimes use in substitution for the womanizer leading man, should the need arise. It all amounts to the same hill o'beans. He's either sad or he's jaded and the cure is: he needs to fall in love to be reborn (and live happily ever... you get the jist!)

So ok. Her guy back in England was the first type of leading man- having threesomes with twins, trysts with married ladies, the cassonova caged by a marriage of convenience who discovers, to his delight and chagrin, that he actually has a heart and it belongs to our heroine.

The First Sultan is the classic villain- he's lascivious, he wants to rape her and possess her- only in regular romance novels he generally doesn't get the chance to do so before she is rescued-- I'll admit this one threw me for a loop! I mean- he put it in her ass folks- yikes (awesome sauce!). I actually think the Author just really wanted to get anal in there somehow and didn't think a proper Elizabethan lady would get that from a man who "loved" her and "cared" about her, so she had the sex-aholic sultan do the dirty deed. If you read romance novels, you know how taboo the ass usually is.

Then we get bonus third guy- The Sad Sultan! Neither of them really want to be in this arrangement (classic), but forced to live together they come to a grudging respect and an unbidden romance springs up between them. She finally resigns herself to the fate of being lost in a foreign land with no hope of rescue and starts to be happy with sad sultan, and he begins to let go of his grief for his dead wife and unborn son and begins to let his heart love again.

When AHA! The first sultan double-crosses the sad sultan, rapes our heroin again, and has his goons KILL sad sultan dead!

W.T.F???!!!!

This is when I check the book cover just to make sure I'm really reading a romance novel and not accidentally reading fiction with sexy bits thrown in.

He's dead? This sad, deep-souled sultan with the heart of gold and the skills in the bedroom? I mean this guy went DOWN TOWN- her English guy thought only whores likes it downtown, but Sad Sultan was like:" I want to worship you", and he went to the delta, and it was good!

Anyways, Down-town-sultan-brown is dead. Not almost dead, not near-death, not miraculously recoverable- he's dead, like his head has been severed from body and I'm thinking "What the hell is going to happen? how can this possibly end??"

Well English husband has been searching for his ginger bride this whole time and in the NICK OF TIME he somehow (i forget the deets) shows up, buys her back from the Sadistic Anal-loving sultan and brings her home to england.

Here's the best part. She's practically catatonic at this point from the shock of seeing her love (the sad sultan) viciously murdered in front of her and also getting raped again by the first sultan, so on the boatride back she's like a sleepwalker- not saying anything, just meekly going with the motions.

So her husband, because he's missed her so much and what not, MAKES LOVE to her even though she's just laying there. He can't help himself it says. Yikes, right? It's pretty much date rape, but oh wells.

Anyway, she slowly starts to recover over the next several weeks, tells her husband all about sad sultan and their love (he is understanding- after all she had no reasonable hope of getting rescued), tells him about the rape-y sultan, and also drops a hint that maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea to go downtown once in a while.

And guess what? She's totally pregnant! Only, guess! Whose baby is it? Which one of the three knocked her up?

OH MAN!

Delicious.

Since Sad Sultan, Anal Sultan, and Just-can't-wait-till-we're-home-and-you-aren't-so-catatonic-guy all "spilled their seed within her" in the same like 24 hour period, it could be any of the three!

Man. Doesn't get better than that. It was like three romance novels in one. But it was, make no mistake, a romance novel whan all was said and done.

The epilogue, there's always a little epilogue, hinted that the child had dark features and sad, almost violet colored eyes, which basically meant it was sad sultan's daughter, which was nice because then even though he's dead, a part of him gets to live on. Heroine and English husband also had a passel of little english ginger kids too, and I guess Anal Sultan drew the short straw (whew, right- that'd be TOO twisted for a ROMANCE NOVEL, this isn't literature folks, where things get impossibly complex and nuanced), and his dozens of brats back at the harem will have to suffice.

So I just blogged about romance novels for an hour.

The long and the short of it is this: I've seen it all. Mail order brides? read it. Indians in the wild west? yawn. I've seen every possible knight, lord, duke, earl, prince, king story set up imaginable. Widowers, Confirmed Bachelors, Young, old, mischievous and surly- nothing's new.

But dammit, sometimes you just wanna lose yourself in the world of 1800's London with silks and satins and gloves and fans, where men went to their gentlemen clubs and ladies wore ridiculous hats and everyone apparently had dynamite sex.

And doesn't it just feel wrong to be seen reading a book with that crazy cover art??

If I Can Make It There!

Some people fall in love with New York. I never did.

But some people can't leave their small towns fast enough, can't wait for the hustle and bustle and glamour and lights.

I never went looking for that.

In thinking about it, why I never made that deep and lasting bond with the city that never sleeps, I've come to look at it through the lens of relationships.

I was already in a committed relationship with Massachusetts. MA has always had my heart, from her brick and cobblestone to her ridiculous accents, from her hometown sports mania to her commitment to superior education. She's liberal, yet she's old-fashioned. She's old blue laws and new progressive laws. Salt water taffy and cranberry juice, Newbury street and chowder and plimoth plantation and I just love her to bits.

Even when it isn't practical. Even when she breaks my heart. Even when sometimes all I want to do is pack up and move somewhere new.

I love MA. I love the turning leaves and the frost and the wet, miserable springs. I love the summers that are far too unreasonable and humid and sticky. I'd miss the potholes and police detail and pedestrians who believe whole heartedly that it is ALWAYS their right of way.

So while I was staying in New York, it felt like I was merely a guest. I never felt truly that I LIVED in Manhattan, that Manhattan was my home, but rather that I was visiting for an extended period of time.

And just as a woman in a committed relationship might respond to an attractive, seductive casanova, a known rake and philanderer, I eyed New York suspiciously, never quite trusting it, never really letting my guard down.

Sure there were lovely days, days that almost made it seem liveable, but I was in a long distance relationship with Massachusetts, so New York and I had to remain JUST FRIENDS.

And sometimes I miss my friend. We lived together for two years and I did alot of growing and changing while I was there. NY will always be important to me, will always have a corner of its own in my heart, but I'm glad I never got drunk one night and did anything I'd regret!

I miss my human friends who still live there, faithful in their romance with the Big Apple (no one really calls it that when you're there, incidentally). I miss how convenient and easy NY could be- the variety of food, the availability of food at all hours, I really miss the ever-ready opportunity to find SOMETHING to do when you wanted to do something.

But while I visited "the park" I never lingered long enough to find favorite nooks or locales. While I browsed the museums they never really felt like 'mine'. I rode the subway but not frequently enough to have a 'my stop'. I don't have a favorite little coffee shop, nor a saturday morning routine. I never let myself fall in love. I kept a chaste and amicable sort of distance from the allure and 'magic' that is NYC.

And sure, sometimes when I'm watching TV or a movie and I spy something very familiar I experience nostalgia, but it's sort of like the nostalgia that urges you to call up that old pal from high school sometime and see how they're doing... or maybe search them out on Facebook... but you never actually act on that impulse. It's a sweet, far-away sort of warmth that makes you smile wistfully, maybe chuckle or sigh, but it certainly isn't "the one that got away".

New York doesn't haunt me or call to me like a siren, the way it does so many of my friends.

But, like an ex, or like an old roomate you sort of had sexual tension with (though never quite acted on it), I haven't really been looking forward to seeing New York again. I'm afraid it might be awkward.

What. Ever.

Glee Auditions

Double post today because I've been slacking, and because I am pretty bored.

I'm all caught up on the TV shows I like to watch, Have already wasted several good hours playing my video game today, and am now just sitting in proximity to Aaron while he plays his video game obsessively. This is what a well-wasted saturday feels like. "Forget your troubles, C'mon get happy..."

No dishes have been done. No Laundry either. Just a lazy, lethargic, lascivious saturday of nothingness.

So I started watching the GLEE audition videos. I know a few folks who've done it.

And for the most part they made me sad and embarrassed and just feel awkward.

They made me want to go into anything other than my field of choice.

If I hear\see one more super-clean, super-privileged ginger girl singing "rehab" I might vomit.

If I endure one more off-key, low-energy, stiff-souled rendition of " lean on me" from boys so far in the closet they're finding christmas presents, I might shank a kitten.

For every 15 awful videos you might find one "gem". But is this gem, when held to the light of brutal scrutiny, really a winner? Is this person really worthy of being on GLEE?

And the thing is this: I know there have got to be more talented folks out there dying for a chance at this! I know alot of them personally! My passion is for this feild and this type of thing- let the little guy have a chance at their dreams, but C'mon! I kept asking the people in the videos: "Have you ever SEEN Glee????!!!!"

Cuz if You HAVE seen glee you should be upbeat, energetic, dynamite, able to belt, able to sing on key, charismatic, able to keep a beat, able to move, attractive (at least somehwat), ENERGETIC<>

Please make a video that is not looking up your nostrils at uber close range. As Aaron pointed out: "When has that camera angle ever, in the history of anything, worked for anyone-- except Blair Witch?"

And don't mess up. Don't mess up. Re-record the video. You have one shot at this, but it isn't fucking LIVE, it is a digital recording, so don't be lazy or cavalier about it, re-record it, get it right. nail it.

In general here are some audition tips for all y'all.

Put on some makeup. Not alot of make-up, and definitely not too much make-up, but put on a little something to show you at your best. Have you seen web-cam chic? That lighting in your bedroom and from your laptop is not doing you any favors.

Stand the Fuck up. Don't sing sitting on your bed or at your desk. Get the hell of your ass and give an audition. * But please make sure you have positioned the camera in such a way that we are not looking up at your double chin, or worse- don't cut your whole head out of the shot. We need to see you.

Attack that song. Don't start off wishy-washy, unsure, ore wavery. People will click that "X" so quick your head will spin. YOU HAVE TO GRAB US RIGHT AWAY.

* Now, attacking a song does not necessarily mean BELT FROM TOP TO BOTTOM, please consider some musicality, some phrasing, some SOMETHING other than YELLING at us the whole time. YOU WILL PROLLY GO OFF KEY IF YOU PUSH YOUR BELT THE WHOLE TIME

Which brings me to the next helpful hint: Sing on key. Do it. I know it isn't easy for all of us, but you really really really have to sing on key for your AUDITION FOR GLEE.

SMILE. Honestly. I don't know if you think it is cooler not to smile, or that smiling is cheese, but SMILE. Have you seen glee? Do yourself and US a favor, throw us some charm. SMILE.

Those are my basic hints and tips. Oh, and wear something that looks good on you. Not something that makes you look slutty. Not something that covers you all up like a bigh black emo sack. And do your hair in such a way that it is flattering and will not get in your way or need constant attention.

Ugh.

And if you are super white, have no natural rythym or soul, then please choose an appropriate song for you. We do not need to see you trying but failing to look soulful or urban singing Rehab, Lean on Me, and definitely, absolutely, positively and no exceptions: do not sing "And I am telling you". Don't do it. Unless you are some heaven-created exception to the rule (like that little tubby red-head 10 year old from America's got Talent), then you MUST NOT SING that song, whitey, don't don't don't, don't. Hey Charlotte from Sex & The City, you might have a pretty good voice, a good look, and some talent, but you chose the worst possible song to showcase it all, because instead of saying: wow, this girl is talented, all I'm saying is : "Wow, this girl is WHITE." (Aaron made me watch the whole thing. It really HEATS UP at the end. It's good if your voice breaks during the 'riff' right?")

That little girl was amazing though wasn't she?

Oh, Final rule: Don't Sing "Don't rain on my parade". I know you want to do it. You've loved Babs since you were two, you've been a musical theatre geek since pre-school and that song just SUMS YOU UP! Yeah, well you and every other girl who watches glee, you idiot. I know its one of the suggestions, but it will not do you any favors to choose that unless you are SMOKIN, and you know what? I've determined that even if you are above average, that isn't good enough to make a web-cam acapella version of Don't rain on my parade sound as good as it need to be to erase comparisons to Barbra or even the LEAD GIRL ON GLEE who rocked it fairly efficiently already. DON"T Set your moderately-talented amateur self up for unfavorable comparisons. It isn't smart.

**And if you can't handle\tackle\own the line: "If someone takes a spill its me and not you!", then I shut the video off right there. you failed. Don't tackle that song if you can't handle that line with some skill, charisma, humor, or style.**

DO: Be confident (not cocky), ENERGETIC (Have you seen glee? it isn't REALISM folks, it isn't underwhelming, mumble-core TWILIGHT-style acting) Positive (not fake), Warm (but not sexy), Charismatic (not crazy please watch the 'monologue' portion of this submission for details.), and BE YOURSELF, only THE BEST VERSION OF YOURSELF POSSIBLE (who also sings on key, looks good on camera and smiles beautifully!)

And... Break a leg! Believe it or not, I'm actually ROOTING FOR YOU TO DO WELL!

You're Welcome Gleeks.

"A Vacation From My PROBLEMS!"

It is officially April Vacation, which is a vacation for Aaron and less of one for me. To celebrate this occasion we attended my very first Wine Tasting and then we had some good eats and good times at The Pigeon Coop.

As far as the wine tasting goes: I've got a long road to travel. All the reds tasted the same to me: like the blood of christ- communion wine. The white was ok, but nothing I'd want to drink even a full glass of, and the pink one? the rose? It smelled lovely, tasted boozey.

Gimme a mixed drink any day. But I'm learning. I'm willing to learn. The taste buds will have to catch up with the will I suppose.

D & A's was fun. I learned some simple new recipes, had some good laughs and was pooped before 11! It felt like a LOOOONG week. Plus I always feel a little like we overstay our welcome places!

Then we got a superb present, a gift from our cats, when we arrived home. Somehow they (more likely Ellit, since grey is not the adventurer) managed to knock our mouse cage down from the place we thought to be impregnable. SECURITY BREACH! Yup. Disaster. Messy, gross, sawdust and feces scattered disarray.

"Hey, enjoy your fist night of vacation, fuckers!"- Elliot the cat.

Thanks Elliot, we sure will. Enjoy your night imprisoned in the bathroom you lousy hooligan.

And Wally? MIA, as expected. The cage is almost a total loss, craked, shattered, broken. We'll clean out the useable accessories, the tubes and such, and build our hamster a bigger pad (like he even cares, he probably won't even notice his additional wing of living space).

But no sign of Wally. We don't believe the cats ate him, or even caught him. Now we just have to wonder where he might be and IF he's still in the apartment. We've set two humane traps, but no luck so far. He's a fat little fucker as I always indulged him in peanutbutter, choclate, and other dilectible goodies and he didn't get nearly enough exercise. This guy won't be hungry for days, maybe even weeks.

So we spent the evening dealing with the detritus of Wally's obliterated home, sweeping, vacuuming, lysol-ing, and a very grateful evening in our loft where we felt very confident he could not manage to get up there ans run all over us in our sleep.

I honestly hope the little guy made it to freedom. I had planned on releasing him later this spring when the weather was good- he deserved open fields and adventure, not our little enclosure with three squares and few worries, no matter how groovy the ovohamster habitat may have been.

Neither of the cats have been acting as though he's still anywhere around, which is good news, I think. Now begins operation "keep your eyes and ears peeled" for anything mouse-y. Ugh. We were slated to do spring cleaning this week anyhow, now it just has a more urgent feeling.

Message on a Magnet

Its slow right now. Not a single customer in almost two hours.

I had breakfast with my mom. This is going to sound weird, but I have this suspicion that one of my siblings has advised her not to give me any more money. Perhaps I'm paranoid, but I really think she's trying to do the 'push the bird out of the nest' thing.

Not that I had any intention of ASKING for more. Even though I need it. It makes me feel awful borrowing from her when I know I should be giving HER money.

Whatever.

I really like it here. Makes me want to have a shop. But when no custies frequent for hours at a time I think: nah, opening a biz is not for me.

I'm doing my best not to panic. Not to let difficult circumstances ruin my life. But I don';t really have a "productive" mode when it comes to this shit. I either stress out till I'm sick and miserable OR I ignore it utterly and live my life as though nothing were wrong. Where's that middle ground- that determined get-shit-done attitude?

The teacher I was subbing for yesterday had a little magnet with a message (don't all teachers have little magnets with messages?), and it read: "Sometimes you just have to leap, and build your wings on the way down."

Whoa, right? A great sentiment. But terrifying. I must have read it and re-read it a dozen or more times throughout the day.

where should I leap, or have I already leapt? This certainly feels like a free-fall alright.

And what, praytell, am I supposed to build my wings out of? Maybe if I am clever and crafty I can string together all my unpaid bills and overdue notices ;) There certainly seem to be enough to make a decent pair of wings.

All I am certain of at this point is that I love my husband, my family (even if they ARE advising Tough Love from my mum... we'll see), my close friends, and most of who I am as a person. Sure I need work, and maybe my sister is right and this is a real character building time for me. Maybe I will really learn to take charge of all the aspects of my life- no matter how difficult and painful and pain-in-the-ass-ish, and unfair, suck it up, and become an adult.

Maybe I'll build those wings. Or at least a make-shift parachute so the landing isn't fatal.

This week I'll be applying to a job I really want (but know the competition will be beyond stiff), and I have decided to also apply in general for B-rock.

C'mon wings...

The Trail is long, the Journey Arduous...

Tuesday.

From Shit Creek to Independence Crossing it is 1,000,000 Miles.

Shit Creek Crossing
50 miles wide
50 miles deep

You may:
1) Attempt to ford the river
2) Caulk wagon and float it across
3) Take a ferry across
4) Wait to see if conditions improve
5) Get more information


Weather: Cool
Health: Fair
Food: Low
Next Landmark: ?? Miles
Miles Traveled: So Damn Many.


An axle has broken.

All your oxen are dead.

The river is too deep to ford.
You lose:
74 Bullets
2 Wagon Wheels
24 Pounds of food
4 sets of clothes
Elliot (drowned)
Grey (drowned)

Aaron has died of Snakebite.

Beth has died of dysentery.

Game Over.

**********************************************

Death and Taxes.

This is the third attempt at my blog today. I made a promise to myself to keep up with it, and so here I am, but I don't think "third time's a charm" will apply here today.

The first attempt was aborted because it was too depressing. Very honest, very nitty gritty, not at all something I ought to be putting out there.

The second was fine in theory- but after being in a sour mood from the first attempt I abandoned the second attempt because it felt fake, artificial and empty. I just don't have the heart today.

So now this. The confession. Things are hard. Some things are great. I hope it gets better, and I hope it happens soon.

See? Not in the least bit charming.

I am off to rehearsal.

Tomorrow will really be my first time subbing in weebee, so wish me luck for that!

Then the blessed PALACE on wednesday and thursday! sweetness.

Oh, and I gots to file my damn taxes! like, yesterday!

Drunk as a Skunk!

wasted wasted day.

I got drunker than I've ever been last night and I had a ball. Aaron was great too- thanks to the open bar my husband danced, joked, and was generally the life of the party. Open bars are the way to GO!

I had a blasty blast.

I did, however, end up vomiting around 5 AM. Oh wellz. Small price to pay. For real- I'm 26 years old, it is about time I got around to being drunk! It was nice not to be the designated driver and just let loose.

Luckily I am a giggly drunk and not a mean one.

The wedding was nice. The open bar was the best. lol.

Now about those bills... nothing can be done. no one to borrow from. I don't really know what that will mean, but I suppose we'll find out!

Raining Babies?

'Member that song "Its Rainin' Men?" A particular campy favorite of large women and gay men everywhere. Well the chief lyric in that song goes: "Halleluia!" it's rainin men...

Well as I start to swing into hi-gear for danielle's baby shower I've started researching shower ideas, themes, and invites. It seems to be a popular idea to include images of umbrellas on the invites and in the decor.

There was one very cutesy invite that went something like this: "Forecast: Baby Expected, but first there will be a SHOWER!".

I'm not joking.

And Aaron is designing the invites and being an artist he wants to maybe make them in a shape other than standard. "Like, I saw one that was a bootie, and one that was a diaper, and one that was a stroller" he told me "But I obviously want to do something NOT lame..."

So I started thinking of possible shapes. Danielle's theme is Owls, because they are wicked adorable and a little off-the-beaten-path as far as baby themes go. sO I wondered maybe shape the invite like an owl.

Maybe I'll have the owl holding an umbrella?

Then I got back to thinking about the umbrellas.

Maybe shape the invite like an umbrella. Because it's a shower.

Shower... because it's raining... babies? Raining babies sounds horrific! Like some kind of twisted psychotropic nightmare. Aaron was tickled by the idea and had some creative, albeit GORY ideas about raining babies.

Don't the ones without umbrellas look alarmed?

After he was done talking about red smears of color and whatnot, he finally got down to business:

"I think the idea is that it's supposed to rain gifts for the baby" he finally informed me.

"Oh." I felt a little silly. "Well that's not how the expression goes" I argued.

"Well it DOESN'T mean babies are falling all over the place." he insisted, amused at my embarrassment.

"Well that's how the expression goes!" I insisted. "It's raining cat's and dogs!; It's raining money!; It's raining Men"

"Yeah, you're right" he conceded "Rain shower, Snow Storm, Golden Shower, Baby Shower"

"Exactly" I felt triumphant "What is the precipitation? What kind of shower will there be? Oh, Baby. Babies will rain."

So I've canned the umbrella idea because I am uncomfortable with baby sprinkles, wet falling infants, and a storm of children raining from the skies. Should anything so apocalyptic ever go down, I sincerely doubt the response would be "Haleluia". I imagine the reaction would be more akin to screams and obscenities and Baby Showers should feel less like panic in the streets and more like afternoon tea, right?

However I would like to note that since the raining babies imagery popped into my head I believe it is becoming a more apt expression than not. Perhaps not literally, like someone's chuckin' 'em out of helicopters or anything, but right now it seems like SO MANY friggin people around me are expecting!

This always makes me a little manic. Even though it would not be prudent to get myself knocked up right now, I've wanted to have children with the love of my life since I was 14 years old. We have been together for 13 years. Married for 3. I want some kids.

So as delighted as I am for those who are expecting (I really love pregnancies and babies and fertility and all that jazz!), sometimes I go a little batty and can almost feel my ovaries crumbling into dust and my window of opportunity closing like an unrelenting booby-trapped stone wall in indiana jones and I just need to reach back in at the last minute for my damned fedora (which of course symbolizes my unborn potential baby!).

So anyway. Is it raining babies, or is it just my imagination?

Here's a current list, in no particualr order:

Danielle
Rachel
Amanda
Cheryl
Michelle B
Erin
Harmony (just had one)
Georgia
Emily P.
Kerry S.

It seems like every day I open facebook there's a new announcement. Aaron is threatening to divorce me if I turn into "one of those crazy women who is obsessed with having a baby". I think I'll divorce myself if I become too obsessed as well, but damn it feels pretty yucky to know that it honestly may never happen- this thing you've wanted and waited so long for...

Ah well.



Aaron made a mock invite, which is pretty hilarious, and which I adore. I think I'll close with that today.

Oh Hai! We can haz baybeez?

Big Week

Yesterday was my second day of work at the Palace, and except for getting off to a super start by setting of the burglar alarm the day went really well. I enjoy it there alot. More on that some time soon.

It was also the second day of Musical rehearsals which also went well-- Act One, Scene One of the show involves only two principal actors (and a whole lotta chorus folk, but they don't come to these rehearsals- they'll be poked and prodded and yelled at during hell week and that will pass for 'directing' the chorus members where to go and what to do...). It was fun, breezy, and we got out early. I mean, how much can you do with two actors (who are still on-book) on the second day of rehearsal. We blocked it, we played with characterization (planting ideas, not refining), experimented with interpretation (but really? Its a musical, it ain't shakespeare...), and had a few laughs and then DONE. Next time I see the scene we will get serious. You can't expect miracles while they're still shackled to the book.

Yesterday was also a big anniversary for A and I. The King and I as I sometimes say, since my family has dubbed aaron "the King". I had written like 3 blogs worth of entries at work yesterday and hoped to type them up, but one can't do silly things like that on one's anniversary. No. Instead I cooked dinner and we watched this freaky alien movie called THE FOURTH KIND, which got a terrible tomato meter rating but was actually wicked cool to watch- once you got into it.

So maybe I'll get those entries posted soon- they need to be posted- just you wait. But for now I have to get ready for another big change- what a week it has been- today is my first gig subbing in WeeBee. 2nd grade. Aaron's old elementary alma mater. I'm nervous and hoping I don't make an ass out of myself. I hope I wow them with awesomeness.

Bridge over troubled water

My mom's always cautioned me about burning bridges. But I've always been Irish. Its kind of my thing. I burn bridges. When I'm done, I am done.

I may be about to singe a bridge or two or three this evening when I screw up enough courage to ask about my anticipated stipend for the musical.

In my new favorite show Spartacus they have a habit of saying this expression which tickles me: "Grab hold of your cock and be a man!" Makes me wish I had something to hold onto this evening, but then, I'd probably be arrested for indecent exposure or lewd & lascivious behavior.

In other news I am starting a new endeavor today, which I'm actually pretty jazzed about! I'm a new employee at a wine establishment! It is a great place, the people are great, and now I have ALOT to learn about wine!

So building new bridges and singeing some old rickety bridges. Quite an agenda for an innocent wednesday.

Rum & Gingerale with Lime

Hey.

So I passed up a bazillion jobbies yesterday because I had to attend a 2pm meeting at the highschool for the musical, which turned out to be largely pointless and totally possible to do via the phone or internet. People need to get with this century!

Then this morning- nothing. No jobs. For real. Life likes to do funny little things like that. But I plan on being super productive to make up for the lack of income. I have a list of Apps I need to get out there, plus I'm going to see about a part time job too.

After the pointless meeting yesterday I met up with some friends\colleagues at a bar and stayed for alot longer than I wanted to\should have. But I had a pretty good time. Also caught a glimpse of what normal American's lives are like. I don't mean that in a condescending way- I just mean hanging out at the local pub has never been my habit, so I always feel a bit like an outsider. Pippi used to bring me to her favorite places but I just never got the hang of it. I am always surprised at how nice folks are too eachother, how fun it is to be social and such.

I ALMOST had a bite of barbeque chicken & bacon pizza, but I resisted!

Anyways. My rum & gingerales with lime ruined my grand plans to make dinner al fresco last night so I'm shooting for the same plan tonight. Dinner on the porch with my wonderful husband, who was thoroughly bemused by my liquid 'meeting' with the set designers yesterday afternoon.

I have no way of paying my bills this month but somehow, at this moment, feel like things will be ok. Who knows, really?

Keep your fingers crossed for jobs!

Yellow is...

I know its really spring when the forsythia are in bloom. Aaron keeps telling me, as we drive by bush after bush of bright yellow triumph: "I don't like forsythia as much as you do...", with a small hint of a grimace.

He's decided they are entirely too yellow by far. "vulgar" was his word. "Garish" I admitted.

"Yellow is a sundress" he explained "Not a ball gown," his clarification on the idea that forsythia took their hue just too far to be tolerated, "Yellow is flats, not high heels. That's what yellow is."

He was so matter-of-fact. So sure and decided.

In only a few weeks their splendid yellow will have faded, the bouyant little blooms will have surrendered their proud switch-like stalks and I'll be forced to begin to endure the vomitous magentas and purples of rhododendron, but for now I will enjoy the vivacity of the forsythia, harbingers of spring and sun and something a little more vibrant than the cold new england gray.

Just a Walk in the Park?

Yeah yeah yeah.

The weather is GORGEOUS out today in sunny WeeBee. I kinda want to take a trip to the soggy park, but who the hell doesn't? War Memorial park will be a hoppin' place to be this day, and I hate crowds.

The more people gather in one place the stronger the odds are that I'll hate and despise some of them. Maybe I'll know someone, maybe they'll just be obnoxious or ignorant, or the trifecta: all three. You know the feeling-- you're out, looking to enjoy yourself, have a nice time and WHAM a blast from the past shows up, maybe someone from junior high or some clown you used to work with and there's this quick-flip in your gut and you try to quickly turn away but

IT IS TOO LATE!!!

They've seen you, and for whatever fucking reason, they want to say HELLO! Really? I haven't seen you in years, LITERALLY YEARS, and you feel the pressing need to invade my sunny day at the park with your presumtions and reminiscences? Did you not just see me try to make a beeline in the other direction while obviously averting my eyes from the very sight of you?

And then they might have this sense of humor that just DOESN'T jive with yours anymore (or maybe it NEVER did but they always thought it did?). Maybe they're racist or homophobic or super-dee-duper christian or worst: right wing. And it is just so painful to endure those torturous minutes of polite conversation and catch up, while you indulge them long wnough to hear that they're doing really well, or they're up shit creek without a paddle right now, that they've been married and have fucking kids already, or that they're getting divorced and have a kid with some other person and all you can imagine is shoving a revolver in your mouth -or theirs- and pulling the trigger, right there in the bird-chirpy, sunshiney town park.

Today the brown frothy water will run red with blooooooood!

Then you ever-so-politely, but insistently persist that it was soo nice to see them, you should see more of each other, facebook me! and walk away- eager for that safe-distance buffer-zone to stretch between you before you burst out in laughter or vitriolic epithets or just the classic: What the fuck?!

So I don't think I'll chance it by going to War Memorial park today.

But, as my friend Danielle so aptly put it: the weather is AWESOMEFACE today!