Proof that the Author is indeed alive.

I owe more visits to my online oasis that I can count. It has been a rough few weeks--but let's not go into that.

I would rather--in an obvious attempt to avoid actually writing a real post--share a few sources of inspiration that others have pointed me to. Enjoy! (Credit to the sources I stole them from...I put in links...you know, so no one will sue me this year.)

The type of invention only pseudo writer would love. 

Bookshelves to transform your life: 18 Insanely Cool Bookshelves

Croquet at St. John's College in Annapolis. Courtesy to Photojournal.

Middle Aged Love is Just More Interesting

Or at least it is in the movies.

 

Before someone goes all "well, all love stories are better in the movies! The producers are pandering to our lovesick hearts! yada yada yada", let me qualify my assertion.

In the traditional 20-something romantic comedy, the grab is the classic star crossed lovers scenario, and just like a Greek chorus, we are sitting in the audience fully aware that the only way life will improve for our characters is if they finally hook up. So, queue the music, bring down the lights, maybe add a horse chase or some great self-deprecating speech, and our characters finally realize they can make it together! Curtain up. Story over.

I should be clear: I do embrace the estrogen in my system, and I do identify with that occasional "yay! they can stop dating the wrong people and live happily together" attitude. At the end of the day, I am a romantic. I want to see the lovers end up together, or a resolution achieved, or--as in 500 Days of Summer--the broken hearted finally heal. Are these films realistic? Probably never. But they fulfill a need to see a happy ending for people in that same stage of life as we are in.

But the middle aged love story is just so much more layered; characters are richer, lives more interesting, the dynamics of desire so much more obvious. In a way, the stakes are higher for the main characters in a middle aged-love story--after all, this is likely the second chance at life and love. And yet, because of that very truth, the games are strangely absent (or at least way less complicated). In that cinematic middle aged love affair, the characters aren't delusional enough to believe that every new man or woman is the ONE. The hunting mentality just isn't there.  We get to watch people spar and love in spades. With intelligent dialogue. All that breeds authenticity. YES.

I could die very happy knowing that I had produced a screenplay like Something's Gotta Give. Will I ever? Very doubtful. But why do I feel that way? The character's love affair is damn funny. This is a story for romantics who appreciate things that are well-written, and have a splash of the ludicrous.  Both characters are stubborn, the actors themselves quite iconic, and the story feels authentic. And, armed with rapier wit, they develop a humorous, slightly combative, and complete honest affection for one another. The causal approach of their romance allows for a bit of frivolity, but the intricacies of their individual lives gloss the whole affair in the unforgettable. Jack Nicholson and Diane Keaton strike gold. Comedic and romantic gold.

Another sterling example is It's Complicated, with Meryl Streep, Alec Baldwin, and Steve Martin.
Let's look at what makes this love triangle very memorable:

1. Every character is grown up, and successful; I don't envy Meryl's shoes, I envy her kitchen. Her choices are a successful businessman or genius architect. Hmm.
2. I never see her drunkenly sleeping with some cute guy she met over spring break, but I do see her getting her party on with STEVE MARTIN. You know, the guy from The Jerk? A step up? I think so.
   
3. Situational comedy is the bread-and-butter of a film about blended families and multi-lovers. I mean, I buy the idea that hiding your knickers from your grown up kids shoulders more urgency then hiding them from your 20-something chick roommate.

So the moral of this whole post is really a bit vague. But I think I want to be Meryl Streep but date a guy with Jack Nicholson's humor?Yeah, I may have to get back to you on that one. Just put them in your Netflix queue.

Oh, and I should note: I quite like dating without the "benefits" of age, and am in no hurry to advance the timeline. ;)

Scratch Scratch

It seems that I have sublet part of my palatial bedroom.

I know—it seems like the sort of thing one would remember doing, no?
Also, I say palatial because I love the look of the word, and because my bedroom has ridiculous turret-like walls at 65 degree angles so-it-kind-of-resembles-a-fortress, and because it takes a really long time to vacuum. There are 14 walls...only three of them reach 8 feet in height.  It is fanciful and fabulous. And I am irrationally possessive of the huge space; I do not want to share.

Now, now. No judgements. If this were a post-apocalyptic world, I would gladly lug a bunch of twin beds up the steps and make a mini refugee camp. I am not heartless after all.

But I do NOT share with scurrying, four legged creatures. Especially when they wake me from a dead sleep with their creepy, echoing, scurrying behaviors. At pre-dawn hours.

I met my new "roommates" after they—as all entitled neighbors do—insisted upon moving around in the rafters directly above my dresser/bathroom, loudly and with no consideration of my REM cycle. The effect was an alternating hollow and high-pitched "scratch scratch" noise, coupled with the occasional sounds of cascading bullets. In hindsight, I recognize that creatures were not having a gang turf war in my ceiling: they were stockpiling acorns, a.k.a. ammo, for future turf wars with me. Or they have set up a bowling alley using acorns in my rafters. Either way, not good. For approximately 10 minutes, while I stared at the red digital alarm clock, I listened intently. I was trying to gauge the exact source of the noise. I was also trying to rationalize that a bat wasn't in my room. Yes, that thought crossed my mind. I mean, fortress like room? Dark? Sleepy delirium? It made sense.

Eventually, as fear turned to irritation that I was loosing precious minutes of sleep before the alarm clock sounded, I got mad. And then went mad. With no other recourse than scare tactics available to me, I grabbed an emptied wrapping paper dowel (tis the season for wrapping gifts) and started WHACKING the ceiling in short furious bursts of energy. I went so far as to adopt a strategy for noisy disruption: "X" and "W" formations with the dowel. Also note, I was freezing, in PJs, still in the dark, and totally channeling a bad martial arts film with cries of, "Hi-yight!" I parried, I sliced, I made dramatic jumping movements designed to stun! Because, they have x-ray vision and could see my intimidation tactics through the ceiling plaster, of course.

It didn't work. Breathless and nervy, and a complete mess, I listened as they ignored me. And my shoulders slumped in disappointment, and I did the only rational thing: I decided to force Sisterita awake to share in my plight. She did not, I believe, appreciate my efforts to include her in my turf war.

The nemesis I imagine.

I feel like Zoe Deschanel's character in Failure to Launch; the pacifist is driven completely mad by a mockingbird and nearly robs a gun counter to find relief. I will not, I assure you, take this tactic. But I have no idea if a) I am dealing with mice, squirrels, mischievous gnomes, or hobgoblins, or b) how to GET RID OF THEM.

Help?

Also, remember me describing the room like a fortress? Well, fortresses with weird noises are creepy. And it was pre-dawn, so I woke up to weird noises in the dark. The whole situation kind of made me whimper a little bit. My samurai bravado was a complete farce--but if enough sleepless nights persist, I will pass by terror in favor of rage. I don't like the scurrying. At all. ::GULP::

Window Dressing?

This week, I am not fit to mingle with normal people.

Perhaps, in another month, during another week, this would be a false statement. I like people. I enjoy conversation. I accept that any stranger could become a friend—you know, assuming he or she has good hygiene. 

On the whole, I frolic through life with a smile, seemingly competent and at ease with my surroundings.

But this week, I am just off balance enough to be dangerous.

Morning Rituals

Without getting into the weeds, accept my claim that this week has been very busy with work. Early, early (did I mention early?) mornings have met with very late nights; afternoons have been rushed, leaving no time for cooked meals, the gym, or a much-needed oil change. My car and my body continue to make their disapproval known.

It takes an extra 5 seconds to process Sisterita’s question about buying more coffee, and I often find myself approaching the microwave with fresh produce in my hands (which would have ended quite badly). One morning, I put on two different heels...of differing heights. If I was the daring sartorial sort, that could have been forgiven as avant garde. Alas, it was simply sleep deprived delirium. There are several to-do lists floating around in my brain, and they are distracting me.

And, Good Reader, a preoccupied me is a very dangerous me. 

I locked myself, quite consciously, out of my house and car. I actually locked the door and pulled it shut as I was mentally going through the steps, “Grab lunchbox, have my coat, oh yeah, the keys…” Door closes. 

Aftermath: Perspective in the Present

 I stand there—disbelief and astonishment staring back at me from the glass reflection of the door.

Surely to be late to an important data meeting, this requires me to execute a series of humiliating exercises:

1. Alert my boss and her boss (Chair of the board, anyone?) to my folly. “Yes. No. I knew it was locked. No, I don’t have a spare in my mailbox. Yes, I may have to do a B&E.”
2. Curse loudly as I try to wiggle the doorknob open. Futile effort if there ever was one.
3. Walk around aimlessly in the yard in search of an open window.
4. Locate an unlatched window to realize that it is FAR too high to climb into. Use the TRASH CAN to climb high enough to open the window…fail to shimmy into the open space.
5. Visit every neighbor on the block in search of a step ladder.
6.  Finally, wake the next door neighbor, who plays Marvin Gaye at all hours of the day, and request assistance.

The 4 inch heels

Well, Marvin-Gaye-the-Neighbor rescued me. He judged me the entire time. I mean, who wouldn’t? I showed up on his doorstep, with lots of unnecessary hand gestures and apologies—while describing my trash can climbing attempts—in a silk dress and 4 inch heels.

Not only did he come over to assess the situation, but he CLIMBED my trash can when his stool was too short, and climbed into the bathroom window. 

…his shorts may have gotten stuck on the brick. 

He may (or may not) have lost his shorts, revealing his preference for “Commando” dress style in the process. 

I may (or may not) have stood below wondering why the hell my parents gave all the common sense to Sisterita.

After the fastest house-crossing trip in history, Marvin-Gaye-the-Neighbor let me into my own door AND wheeled the trash can around front for me.

I am too embarrassed to take him “thank you” cookies, but I feel it is absolutely required.

Resolution ~ I had a spare key made this week.

Conquering the Toolbox

There are a number of times when it is very useful to have two dads.

1. Moving day. You get four hands instead of two.
2. Christmas. You get an extra stocking stuffer.
3. Bedtime (as a child). You get a full cast of parents to read you stories at night.  Not two parents, but three. Multiple vocal impressions. The only other kids on the planet who get that has Robin Williams for a father.
4. Car problems. Rationale: one of them is bound to answer the phone in times of distress.

And my favorite...Tool Usage Dilemmas. Both of my fabulous dads understand tools. Between them, they own the entire Sears Hardware Department dating back to 1980.

They can fix cars, computers, and every broken household fixture imaginable. Plus, they can build houses, install plumbing, craft furniture, weld most metals, and run electrical wiring. Am I spoiled? Well, yes. But for the most part, I was shown as least a few things growing up, so as to be semi self-sufficient as a young woman living alone. Because they obviously knew that I was the "determined" sort of child focused on moving far far away from my helpers...silly, silly woman. Now, if I need help, I must Skype one or ask for the other's presence weeks in advance. Poorly executed plan for independence on my part.

Among my basic lessons, were simple explanations of how to do things like change a tire, install a doorknob, use a level and hammer properly, and even how to use a soldering iron (though, we pronounce it "sauderin'"). All useful. And all of which introduced me to the most common sets of tools, i.e. level, socket wrench, car jack. Which is why I was MORTIFIED to have to call one of my well-versed fathers this past weekend.

I actually had to think about which father figure would be less ashamed of me for forgetting how to use one a basic element of the household toolbox. I opted to call the one who could judge me from the farthest distance away. Cue iPhone: place call to Florida.

Thrilled Step Dad: Why hey there! How are you?!

B-Verbose: Um, so I need help.

Amused Step Dad: Ha! Oh really. Well, that figures. What is up?

B-Verbose: Well, I am trying to swap out the electrical cord for the dryer we just bought. I need to convert it from a 30 AMP to a 50 AMP and...

Horrified Step Dad: WAIT! WAIT! What are you doing? Stop right now! Amps?! Don't you mean watts? Put everything on the ground! NOW B----. GET YOUR SISTER!

::derailed for 15 minutes during which time I calmly explained the situation, and pacified Step Dad that photos were taken to the Lowe's Help Center, that professionals picked out the necessary cords, and that I was completely capable of doing minor electrical work. And that I could do it without the help of my sister half::

Flustered Step Dad: Well then, what is it you need?

B-Verbose: Um, well, you see...and you can't laugh! I know I am ditsy but this is really a problem, and I need to you just tell me how to do it. Don't make any comments, just...

Step Dad (interrupting): B---, just tell me what it is!

B-Verbose: ...I can't get the socket wrench to change directions. So, I can't get the back panel off ::defeated sigh::

Shame accurately describes what I was feeling in that moment. Foiled by a socket wrench?

A long pause was followed by a very slow, drawn out description of how to locate the "switch" that comes on every socket wrench. The tone was a little surprised. I would venture to say disappointed that I had forgotten my lessons. But there was TRICKERY! There WAS no switch! I knew right then that the universe (or in this case, Advance Auto Parts and its travel kits) was playing games with my head! Every tool I have ever used belongs in the late 1980s or early 90s (some older than that). I had to finally send a picture via iPhone to him, and we figured out together that the attachment push pin could double as a rotation element. That. Was. Not. In. My. Lessons. And the pin was cantankerous. It was weird. So, obviously, I prefer antique tools.::wink wink::

Still, that was the only part of the project that I needed help with. I swapped things out all by my lonesome, tested the dryer, and it has yet to catch on fire.

Go girl, go!

... part of me dreads the day that I have to use something really fancy. Like the "Total Gym" equivalent of drills or something. Then Chuck Norris or Bob Vila will show up to give me a stern talkin' to....depending on who has the day off, of course. ::insert cheesy grin over bad joke here::

Things You Write That I Will Not Read

"It is more worthy in the eyes of God and better for us as a people if a writer makes three pages sharp and funny about the lives of geese than to make three hundred flat and flabby about God or the American people."

(Garrison Keillor.  Intro to "Happy to Be Here")

 

On that rather enlightened note, I will briefly add my distaste for any of the following:

1. Anything to do with the basic debauchery of your evening. If your grandmama would look askance at you, chances are I am mentally castigating you with MUCH worse. Fair warning. 
2. The goings ons of your girl friend's boyfriend's cheating regime. I feel badly for her. But frankly, I am of the opinion that she should let him go. Correction: thrust him from her doorstep with a furious, fabulous kick of her stiletto boot.
3. Any fan fiction about Star Trek, Battlestar Galactica, or  Firefly. I love me some Joss Whedon, but the show is gone. I lament the loss; your attempts to finally unite Mal and the lovely Irina, however, are not going to get it back on the air. Or satisfy the hole in any of our hearts. 
4. The daily escapades of your pet. Funny enough, entries about a rather nasty roommate tend to be both entertaining and educational. So, keep those coming.
5. Your health journal. Caloric intake values are too much information for this gal.

With all that said, I am not heartless. I fully support the journalistic endeavors of all - not only will the writer find better understanding of his or her own internal struggle, but the very practice will enable the development of a fuller, more globally aware perspective. AKA a semi-considerate observer of the world.

I just want to see the journey's find their way to enlightenment - sorry Maslow, I apologize for stealing your pyramid for my own purposes. And all too often these sorts of entries into the online consciousness do nothing more than irritate, exacerbate and inflame the feelings and fires of the already embittered writing parties. Now, someone tell me: is that supposed to help?

So, maybe just call your girlfriends and have a cinema night?

Hump Day

Earlier in this 24 hour period of madness...

I’m running around multi-tasking bank deposits, conducting 90 MPH grocery/present shopping, managing an ever ringing cell phone, and fighting an ever falling gas gauge on my car, all while struggling to not spill the coffee that is somewhat keeping me going through it all…and I find myself jealous. And not because everyone in the world seems to have remembered their umbrella except me. No, this is more shallow.

Not only does Gorgeous Wife #1 look beautiful and put together as she carts around her toddler in Marshalls, but I can tell that she actually managed to get to the gym (by her toned arms) AND managed a full blow out to her hair. With a toddler.

Excuse me, but do you get super powers when you give birth?! Are you suddenly a better multi tasker, shopper and all around doer? Because I don’t look very graceful. My hair is beginning to take over my face and in need of a cut, oh, and I ripped my hose. Again. Because I do that.  And I don’t have a small seemingly perfect little angel to watch over, get ready, and provide for. So, what precisely am I doing wrong? 

Oh, yeah. It is a Wednesday. Thank you hump day.

Meanwhile, Coach carrying Wife #2 (I presume...she could be a black widow type) is chatting in lingering Spanglish. Emphasizing the fact that my southern accent has taken over, and if I were to even try and recapture a bit of glamour with the use of my rusty French skills today...I would fail. Miserably. And the Frenchies would hear about it and bar me from the country. At which point I would have to pull a bad "immigrant" routine, and get into the country to simply disappear into the southern ccountryside....if they can't find me, they can't expel me. Oh hump day!

At least I have my red heels and red lips on. ;)

Business in the front, and party in the back… and I’m not talking about a mullet...

 Today's installment is brought to you by guest blogger, the incomparable, incredibly funny—and yes, she is poised to humiliate me—Sisterita! I, B-Verbose, do take credit for the formatting and hyperlinks...but, well that isn't really all that impressive, and seriously, if you don't laugh out loud at her writing style, you are a slimy snivel-y snail.

Formula:

Preface + Easily relatable protagonist + Amazing vindictive antagonist + Climax + 

Pertinent moral and/or life lesson + Conclusion = GREAT story

(all parts mentioned above) +segue for a sequel = AMAZING story

Confession -  formulas make me weak at the knees…

Preface:

B-Verbose has been asking, begging, PLEADING for a guest “blogger”. Although much in tune with verbosity and grammatical excellence, I have been overcome with hesitance. Typically a sound reason rears its welcomed head. Example(s):

I’m too tired.

Tonight, well, I’m just not feeling it.

Nothing I have to say is complimentary.

In all honesty, this enchanted day has been quite surreal. Work was more of an adult-sized playground than socially acceptable. The local antique store advertised a majestic mirror for $39.99 (and needless to say I took full advantage of their blindness and misjudgment). A traffic jam halted traffic  (in an otherwise quiet town). Thus, upon unlocking the red door that marks the entrance to my home, and carrying in the daily “steals” purchased for decorative purchases, I poured a small tasting of wine and prepared for dullness.

Protagonist:

B-Verbose is a goddess among women. This terminology (which is not used often enough) is perfectly applicable to my “big little sister”. As a 5’ 4” bombshell with red lipstick and killer high heels, B-Verbose stops traffic in the best of ways. Married women are envious, single woman stand hopeless, and I… as the loyal little sister… remain her biggest cheer leader and P.R. gal.

Antagonist:

I couldn't find Jim Carey in the Mask...

Every woman NEEDS a little black dress- every woman DESERVES a killer black skirt. There is nothing like a 1940’s silhouette to:

1. Accentuate the backside 
2. Empower the inner dominatrix
3. Make middle aged men stop in their tracks and shout the cartoon-wolf like “AAAH-OOOOOO- GAAAAAAA”

But remember, Gentle Reader, with great power comes great responsibility!

Climax: A personal favorite of mine, for obvious reasons

Confession... unlike B-Verbose (who has the Cadillac of filters albeit no common sense), I am a “say what I think” sort of lady. The big red “Stop” or “Abort” button of life has been broken since ’93. Accordingly, after traffic jams and spontaneous purchases, I unlocked the door of our humble abode with one thing on the mind:

Finish decorating the bathroom quickly as to make way for wine and wisdom by 8:30 pm.

Keep in mind, Gentle Reader, yours truly is the oldest 22 year old (in a figurative sense) to ever grace the planet earth.

SOOOOOOOO…..

As the amazingly priced mirror from 1961 is being prepped for exhibition in the dining room, in walks B-Verbose. The door opens, the clouds part, and the birds chirp as always in moments of “fairy tale” entrances. 

Me: “Blah blah blah, blah blah.”

Her: “Blah blah blah, blah blah blah, blah blah.”

Me: “You are going to HATE me. Turn around, shut up, and let me take a picture.”

Her: “What’s wrong? Is there something wrong with my outfit?”

Me: “If by wrong you mean your seam has busted and your ASS is EXPOSED, then yes, maybe there is something wrong…..”

The slit skirt...that WAS in the back!

Dear Lord, as always, thank you for the sh*ts and the giggles!

Very few pictures were captured. Hysterics ensued, tears formulated in green eyes, a full on “pity-party” commenced on the kitchen floor. As a result of the “wardrobe malfunction” texts were sent, calls were made and threats were exclaimed.

If anybody, ANYBODY, noticed but DIDN’T say something, I’ll NEVER forgive them. My ASS was exposed at a non-profit kickoff event. I could die, I WILL die, ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

:: insert yours truly pouring wine into  a glass, passing it to the victimized party, and making rap song references to lighten the mood::

Little in the middle, but you got much back.

My Anaconda don’t want none unless you’ve got buns hon.

Big bottom girls you make the rocking world go round.

BEND OVER THAT ASS TOO FAT (personal favorite, dur)!

Lesson:

Ladies should invest, focus on, and fully inspect themselves in full length mirrors before leaving home… and Sir Mix A Lot should make a song about the ritual of it all.

Conclusion:

Some say Delta Burke. Some say Ginnifer Goodwin. The world, however, is dead wrong. B-Verbose is the Elizabeth Taylor of our time. Instead of violet eyes, hers are green. Instead of multiple husbands, she’s holding out for the one worthy of her attentions. Non-profits, married men, and lesbians alike, WATCH OUT. If she can stop traffic in a black skirt, just imagine…..

Lord have mercy, baby’s got her blue jeans on!

Tune in next week for:

You Say Summer Dress, I Say Indecent Exposure!