Here's my disclaimer before I even take a ride down this street: This blog relates to the guys I know, so the behaviors/actions/whatever I describe may not be typical.
Last night, I got to spend time with some great folks. Granted, it was a bit heavy with guys at first, but I was there with my girl so it was all good. How do I know these people, you may ask. Well, mostly through the former job and school. These guys are so awesome. For one, they kept an immaculate apartment. You see what I mean about being atypical? Once we got around to conversing, I learned things I didn't expect about the other sex. Men feel more than I gave them credit for. They want to be in committed relationships and are in favor of the old stick 'n move as much they enjoy root canals. Okay, so sometimes stick 'n move works but they really do want to have one special person who will care for them forever. They idolize their moms, and call them repeatedly just because they love them. And you know what? They know they've been dumb at times (with their parental units) and they actually admit it to their parents. Even though their friendships differ from ours, they are dead loyal and care for each other as much as women care for their friends. And have I mentioned they like the ladies with intellect? Stupid and hot will only take a girl so far with these fellas.
Who'd have thunk it? Now, as I approach my writing, I have to consider these things. It would be more than unfair for me to fill my stories with callous jerks. Not that those don't exist. I've met more of them than I care to recall. My buds give me hope that happily-ever-after isn't a myth. I know these guys will make fantastic spouses one day, and I can't wait to see them find bliss with people who are equally fantastic.
28 October 2007
19 October 2007
Good times, rough reads
One of my nearest and dearest friends had exciting news this week. Kay, you know who you are!!! Her screenplay, one that I was dead lucky to read, was optioned! Yea!!! For those of you, who like me have minimal knowledge of the screenwriter's path, think of optioning as selling to an editor. This is big time, and I am so proud of her accomplishments and glad to skim the circle of greatness that surrounds her. Let me tell you though, this has been no easy road for her, nor is this the endpoint. She's worked diligently. Always writing, always producing, editing and doing the things someone who claims to be a writer must do. Have I mentioned how proud I am of her yet? I am looking forward to seeing great things for this lady, and you know I'll keep you posted on her success.
In Elayne's world, I'm still waiting to hear from the agent on my manuscript. I still have a week or so left before I should hear back, so I'm chilling for the moment. Tonight, I opened the suspense manuscript that was requested at the September conference. It needed more clean up and still does, but I made it through about 80 pages. Something that hit me in the midst of edits was how much I genuinely love this story. The characters are solid, and with touching up, I've made my heroine more transparent and relateable. My hero is still a hottie, and I heartily admit to being a little in lust with the guy. Isn't that the point, though? I've written dribbles on the current project -- don't know what else to say on that score.
All I know is I'm exhausted and sapped of creative juices. Tomorrow is supposed to be a fun day -- fall party with the old workmates. I adore them, so I know I will have a blast. But I'm so tired now I feel like an old lady. For the celebration, I made one of my infamous cheesecakes. Going with the fall theme, it's pumpkin gingerbread. It smells amazing, and I'm not too humble to admit it's one of the best looking cheesecakes I've made in a little while. Hopefully, everyone enjoys it. Okay, I'm pushing against stone here. I'm going to take my butt to bed, but not before sharing about my recent reading experiences.
I just finished a book by a local author that I'm hedging about. The premise was interesting. Sorry, I won't share the concept or title here, but you can ask me in person if you're that curious. What bugs me about the book is the bland writing. In fiction, I expect more interesting prose and imagery. I want to read something that sticks to me like the drippy caramel from a freshly dipped caramel apple. That's not the case here, and I am so disappointed. On one hand, I celebrate the author's ability to garner the attention of an agent and editor -- to get her work on the shelves. On the other hand, I wonder what it is that the experts saw in the book. A title does not a book make, and after all, the publishing house probably changed the title anyway. But I can say this in all certainty, I've never seen the subject matter therein presented in contemporary material as it was in this work.
Maybe I'm jaded because I'm looking through romance eyes. That happens more often than I care to admit, my being biased because I've been steeped in one genre before leaping to another. I will have to re-read and re-evaluate. I am currently reading a paranormal romance. Again, a local author, and again a bit disappointing. The words/world/concept seem too closely related to so many others I've read before. In this author's defense, I really like the characters. So much so that if I LOVE the ending, I will read the rest of the series. All this weighs on my mind. How can I like one book so much that I'm willing to invest more of my time when the other made me wonder who I could pawn it off on?
I guess it all boils down to characterization. The characters in the first book I mentioned were AWFUL. I hated all of them and had the most terrible time trying to figure out who to cheer for or align my support with. They were all pretty wicked except for the one who ended up dead, and she wasn't stellar but I could at least understand her behavior. I don't think a re-read will change my perception of that, but I'll give it a few months and give it another go. Have you ever read or watched something that left you feeling empty at the end? How did you handle the disappointment?
In Elayne's world, I'm still waiting to hear from the agent on my manuscript. I still have a week or so left before I should hear back, so I'm chilling for the moment. Tonight, I opened the suspense manuscript that was requested at the September conference. It needed more clean up and still does, but I made it through about 80 pages. Something that hit me in the midst of edits was how much I genuinely love this story. The characters are solid, and with touching up, I've made my heroine more transparent and relateable. My hero is still a hottie, and I heartily admit to being a little in lust with the guy. Isn't that the point, though? I've written dribbles on the current project -- don't know what else to say on that score.
All I know is I'm exhausted and sapped of creative juices. Tomorrow is supposed to be a fun day -- fall party with the old workmates. I adore them, so I know I will have a blast. But I'm so tired now I feel like an old lady. For the celebration, I made one of my infamous cheesecakes. Going with the fall theme, it's pumpkin gingerbread. It smells amazing, and I'm not too humble to admit it's one of the best looking cheesecakes I've made in a little while. Hopefully, everyone enjoys it. Okay, I'm pushing against stone here. I'm going to take my butt to bed, but not before sharing about my recent reading experiences.
I just finished a book by a local author that I'm hedging about. The premise was interesting. Sorry, I won't share the concept or title here, but you can ask me in person if you're that curious. What bugs me about the book is the bland writing. In fiction, I expect more interesting prose and imagery. I want to read something that sticks to me like the drippy caramel from a freshly dipped caramel apple. That's not the case here, and I am so disappointed. On one hand, I celebrate the author's ability to garner the attention of an agent and editor -- to get her work on the shelves. On the other hand, I wonder what it is that the experts saw in the book. A title does not a book make, and after all, the publishing house probably changed the title anyway. But I can say this in all certainty, I've never seen the subject matter therein presented in contemporary material as it was in this work.
Maybe I'm jaded because I'm looking through romance eyes. That happens more often than I care to admit, my being biased because I've been steeped in one genre before leaping to another. I will have to re-read and re-evaluate. I am currently reading a paranormal romance. Again, a local author, and again a bit disappointing. The words/world/concept seem too closely related to so many others I've read before. In this author's defense, I really like the characters. So much so that if I LOVE the ending, I will read the rest of the series. All this weighs on my mind. How can I like one book so much that I'm willing to invest more of my time when the other made me wonder who I could pawn it off on?
I guess it all boils down to characterization. The characters in the first book I mentioned were AWFUL. I hated all of them and had the most terrible time trying to figure out who to cheer for or align my support with. They were all pretty wicked except for the one who ended up dead, and she wasn't stellar but I could at least understand her behavior. I don't think a re-read will change my perception of that, but I'll give it a few months and give it another go. Have you ever read or watched something that left you feeling empty at the end? How did you handle the disappointment?
15 October 2007
Things a mom doesn't want to know
So by now you all know I have a pre-teen male child. I still remember changing this boy's diapers, for God sake. Well, dear friends, he ain't in diapers anymore. DH came down to my dungeon to tell me he'd just found my Vickie's Secrets catalogue safely ensconced in said male child's bed. It's no secret that my husband and I have different ideas about all sorts of things, human sexuality included. He was having fits about our son "using" my catalogue. I laughed. It's all about the cycle of life, isn't it? And as long as I don't end up a way-too-young grandma, I'm content to let him do what needs doing.
We talk about sex in my house. I can't say I enjoy broaching the subject with my boys, but the thought of babies making babies is so much less appealing. Looks like I get to have a talk with him about self-pleasure. Goody, goody gumdrops. Hints and/or suggestions from the crowd? I don't want to leave him scarred for life like I was.
As to the writing ... things have been too good to be true. The KIA Marathon over at RWAOL is in full swing, and because I can't let my team down I've been a writing fool. My characters are so grateful. But here's the thing. I've come to a place where the person I thought would be dead is looking like he might stay alive. These people have taken on a life of their own. Isn't that always the way? So now I'm here trying to figure out what in the world is going on. My goal at the end of the month is to have 20K words complete on this manuscript. That means I have 12,000 to go. 48 pages. I can do it. I'll keep you posted.
On other fronts, I just finished Susan Elizabeth Phillips' Ain't She Sweet. If you haven't read her, what in the world are you waiting for? This was such a beautiful story; I was heartbroken to see it end. Perhaps it was the Mississippi setting that got to me since I lived in Biloxi for a year. Certainly, her way of crafting multi-dimensional characters pulls you through the story. I felt as though I knew those people, and in some cases felt as though SEP had stolen my angsty teen diary. No wonder she's on the NYT Bestsellers list. Now, all I have to do is figure out why I loved that book so much and get my writing up to par. Small task that. Ri-i-ight!!!
What have you read lately that's made you take notice?
We talk about sex in my house. I can't say I enjoy broaching the subject with my boys, but the thought of babies making babies is so much less appealing. Looks like I get to have a talk with him about self-pleasure. Goody, goody gumdrops. Hints and/or suggestions from the crowd? I don't want to leave him scarred for life like I was.
As to the writing ... things have been too good to be true. The KIA Marathon over at RWAOL is in full swing, and because I can't let my team down I've been a writing fool. My characters are so grateful. But here's the thing. I've come to a place where the person I thought would be dead is looking like he might stay alive. These people have taken on a life of their own. Isn't that always the way? So now I'm here trying to figure out what in the world is going on. My goal at the end of the month is to have 20K words complete on this manuscript. That means I have 12,000 to go. 48 pages. I can do it. I'll keep you posted.
On other fronts, I just finished Susan Elizabeth Phillips' Ain't She Sweet. If you haven't read her, what in the world are you waiting for? This was such a beautiful story; I was heartbroken to see it end. Perhaps it was the Mississippi setting that got to me since I lived in Biloxi for a year. Certainly, her way of crafting multi-dimensional characters pulls you through the story. I felt as though I knew those people, and in some cases felt as though SEP had stolen my angsty teen diary. No wonder she's on the NYT Bestsellers list. Now, all I have to do is figure out why I loved that book so much and get my writing up to par. Small task that. Ri-i-ight!!!
What have you read lately that's made you take notice?
11 October 2007
All night long...
Don't get excited. I'm not channeling our good buddy Lionel Ritchie. Just lamenting my Thursday night obligation. With these four hours I will spend tonight, I could be writing all the pages that need done to meet this week's goal. Holy hell! Ten frikken pages. I've written a total of two paragraphs. Instead of writing my blog I should be thinking about my characters, but here I sit.
My mind spirals with all the stuff I don't do or am really and truly too chickenshit to attempt. Why is rejection so hard to deal with? Why is it so much easier to pretend that everything is grand than to jump? It's the question of the unknown. I need to know what's going to happen. I'm not one of those folks who's into surprises -- good or otherwise. Surprises make me nervous. The crazy thing is that I will do almost anything on a whim or a dare. I LOVE spontaneity. I LOVE doing what feels right in an instant, and I'm never surprised by what I decide to do. But I can't cope with not knowing the outcomes of other people's impact on my life.
You know you've been there. Remember the guy you were crushing on in high school? You liked him so much it actually hurt your heart. It thumped so hard in your chest when he passed within three feet of you. No matter how intelligent you were, all grasp of reason, thought -- hell, LANGUAGE, left you because he was just in the vicinity. But never would you talk to him. Never would you approach him with the idea of pursuing a relationship beyond that longing glance across the hallway. And why? Because at this point, you have something. Even if it's unrequited love, lust or passion, it's enough to sustain you. There's hope in embracing that bit of chickendom because at least, you can fantasize that he could one day be yours. When you see him with another girls, you'll even tell yourself that he's only involved with said chickadee because he can't muster the courage to talk to you. And THAT feels good.
One day, you decide to grow a set of balls. Maybe you borrowed them from a friend or took them down from the jar on the shelf. It doesn't matter. You wait until he's alone, shuffling your books because you must have something to do with your hands. And finally after much throat-clearing, you take the plunge. You ask him to do something -- maybe going out for a burger or something -- and he makes an excuse. He doesn't want to go out with you. He has friends, sports, whatever that's more important than you are in that instant. The bell rings, and there you are still holding your books. Now, you want to cry in that hall. You want to curl into a ball and die, or if God truly was merciful, He'd allow the floor to swallow you to spare you from the hurt and mortification.
There's no mercy. You have to pick up the shards of your heart and move on. It hurts, and the pain doesn't stop. Yeah, it dulls or else how would anyone be able to survive? We do. The hurt makes us strong; the pain lets us know we're alive. And we plod along. If you're like me, you take that sliced up part of your heart and vow to NEVER let anyone do that to you again. The problem with my philosophy is that eventually, you run out of heart. You cover yourself in callouses and bullshit so no hurt can enter. But you know what? No love enters either. Trust me on this, it's a shitty way to live.
Tell me, dear friends, what do you do with hurt? And is there any way to remove the crust from your heart without employing one of those scraper things? Help a girl out!
My mind spirals with all the stuff I don't do or am really and truly too chickenshit to attempt. Why is rejection so hard to deal with? Why is it so much easier to pretend that everything is grand than to jump? It's the question of the unknown. I need to know what's going to happen. I'm not one of those folks who's into surprises -- good or otherwise. Surprises make me nervous. The crazy thing is that I will do almost anything on a whim or a dare. I LOVE spontaneity. I LOVE doing what feels right in an instant, and I'm never surprised by what I decide to do. But I can't cope with not knowing the outcomes of other people's impact on my life.
You know you've been there. Remember the guy you were crushing on in high school? You liked him so much it actually hurt your heart. It thumped so hard in your chest when he passed within three feet of you. No matter how intelligent you were, all grasp of reason, thought -- hell, LANGUAGE, left you because he was just in the vicinity. But never would you talk to him. Never would you approach him with the idea of pursuing a relationship beyond that longing glance across the hallway. And why? Because at this point, you have something. Even if it's unrequited love, lust or passion, it's enough to sustain you. There's hope in embracing that bit of chickendom because at least, you can fantasize that he could one day be yours. When you see him with another girls, you'll even tell yourself that he's only involved with said chickadee because he can't muster the courage to talk to you. And THAT feels good.
One day, you decide to grow a set of balls. Maybe you borrowed them from a friend or took them down from the jar on the shelf. It doesn't matter. You wait until he's alone, shuffling your books because you must have something to do with your hands. And finally after much throat-clearing, you take the plunge. You ask him to do something -- maybe going out for a burger or something -- and he makes an excuse. He doesn't want to go out with you. He has friends, sports, whatever that's more important than you are in that instant. The bell rings, and there you are still holding your books. Now, you want to cry in that hall. You want to curl into a ball and die, or if God truly was merciful, He'd allow the floor to swallow you to spare you from the hurt and mortification.
There's no mercy. You have to pick up the shards of your heart and move on. It hurts, and the pain doesn't stop. Yeah, it dulls or else how would anyone be able to survive? We do. The hurt makes us strong; the pain lets us know we're alive. And we plod along. If you're like me, you take that sliced up part of your heart and vow to NEVER let anyone do that to you again. The problem with my philosophy is that eventually, you run out of heart. You cover yourself in callouses and bullshit so no hurt can enter. But you know what? No love enters either. Trust me on this, it's a shitty way to live.
Tell me, dear friends, what do you do with hurt? And is there any way to remove the crust from your heart without employing one of those scraper things? Help a girl out!
10 October 2007
TSTL
Think about it for a moment. What do those letters mean? Is it another stupid acronym that will mean nothing to you tomorrow? Gosh, I hope not.
For those outside the romance writing world, TSTL means Too Stupid to Live. Lest anyone take offense, I'm not talking about anyone in particular -- or at least not you in particular -- unless, of course, you fit the criteria. One of the things writers rage against as they put pencil to paper is creating a heroine that makes the reader want to thrust the book at a wall and stomp on it madly. I sure as heck don't want my readers to get their sole pleasure in reading my work to come from a not-so-random act of violence committed against the paper and binding. Sometimes, though, don't you meet those people, the stupid ones I mean, and wonder how in God's name they survive from one day to the next? I know I do. And I would love to gloat and count myself amongst the intelligent ones. Those famed few who never fall prey to making the wrong decisions or hurting people because they are not grown up enough to do the right thing in the first place.
But I have to confess here and now. Today, and I am sure there are more days in my future, I joined the ranks of idiocy. You know what's terrible about the "dumb club" is that they're always looking for new members. Their list is never too full. Wouldn't it be great if there was a cap? Sorry, Elayne, we're too full this time around, so you're going to have to make the right choice, do the right thing. Unfortunately for me, no one says this aloud. And I've gotten so good in my old age at stomping down the still, quiet voice that I can numb myself to right and warmly embrace wrong. An old friend of mine would call this a case of loud and wrong. What's interesting about loud and wrong is that it's not an all or nothing deal. For example, I could be 90% right in my anger, frustration and motivation, but that leftover 10% can and WILL screw me every time. What's a girl to do?
We rage against these people when they show up in books. And God help us if they pop up on-screen. Been to a movie lately and screamed at the hussy who decided to run from the monster deep in the woods armed with nothing but her good looks, skimpy lingerie and some damned high-heeled shoes? Who does that? We get upset because it is so clear what they ought to do. Take off the flippin' heels, put on some damned clothes and don't trip over the tree roots. See, that was easy! But how hard is it when you're confronted with Mr. Right Enough and Mr. Right On? How much more difficult is it when it's about keeping your temper or flipping out because someone dared show fallibility?
For you aspiring authors, this is the tip of the iceberg. I promise. Your characters will do something so stupid you will want to give them a boot to the head. Guaranteed! The people you love will fail and hurt you so badly you will want to abdicate from the human race. The question is what are you gonna do about it. Will you be smart enough to trust that the people in your life, be they tangible or fictional, will do what is right? Or will you be like me, lining up in the ranks of the TSTL? As Captain Planet would say, "The power is yours!"
For those outside the romance writing world, TSTL means Too Stupid to Live. Lest anyone take offense, I'm not talking about anyone in particular -- or at least not you in particular -- unless, of course, you fit the criteria. One of the things writers rage against as they put pencil to paper is creating a heroine that makes the reader want to thrust the book at a wall and stomp on it madly. I sure as heck don't want my readers to get their sole pleasure in reading my work to come from a not-so-random act of violence committed against the paper and binding. Sometimes, though, don't you meet those people, the stupid ones I mean, and wonder how in God's name they survive from one day to the next? I know I do. And I would love to gloat and count myself amongst the intelligent ones. Those famed few who never fall prey to making the wrong decisions or hurting people because they are not grown up enough to do the right thing in the first place.
But I have to confess here and now. Today, and I am sure there are more days in my future, I joined the ranks of idiocy. You know what's terrible about the "dumb club" is that they're always looking for new members. Their list is never too full. Wouldn't it be great if there was a cap? Sorry, Elayne, we're too full this time around, so you're going to have to make the right choice, do the right thing. Unfortunately for me, no one says this aloud. And I've gotten so good in my old age at stomping down the still, quiet voice that I can numb myself to right and warmly embrace wrong. An old friend of mine would call this a case of loud and wrong. What's interesting about loud and wrong is that it's not an all or nothing deal. For example, I could be 90% right in my anger, frustration and motivation, but that leftover 10% can and WILL screw me every time. What's a girl to do?
We rage against these people when they show up in books. And God help us if they pop up on-screen. Been to a movie lately and screamed at the hussy who decided to run from the monster deep in the woods armed with nothing but her good looks, skimpy lingerie and some damned high-heeled shoes? Who does that? We get upset because it is so clear what they ought to do. Take off the flippin' heels, put on some damned clothes and don't trip over the tree roots. See, that was easy! But how hard is it when you're confronted with Mr. Right Enough and Mr. Right On? How much more difficult is it when it's about keeping your temper or flipping out because someone dared show fallibility?
For you aspiring authors, this is the tip of the iceberg. I promise. Your characters will do something so stupid you will want to give them a boot to the head. Guaranteed! The people you love will fail and hurt you so badly you will want to abdicate from the human race. The question is what are you gonna do about it. Will you be smart enough to trust that the people in your life, be they tangible or fictional, will do what is right? Or will you be like me, lining up in the ranks of the TSTL? As Captain Planet would say, "The power is yours!"
07 October 2007
Homecoming revealed
I went on so much about Homecoming yesterday, and totally forgot to share what happened. My college buddy and I went to the game a little late because I had some minor drama at home. Drama in my house takes only a few forms and centers around either my husband or the boys. I guess on more fun occasions, all of them gang up on me to drive me to crazy town. With as much time as I spend there, I've got frequent visitor rights. But I digress. No, I'll share the drama because it's all a part of the story.
My eldest has decided to skirt his chores. Nothing major or abnormal for an almost teenager. By the way, I got told today that I am hip for being a mom. Dude! How cool is that? Anyway, I was having folks over Friday, and while the house wasn't a mess, there was definite work that needed done if I was going to have company. I arrived home at six to find that my kitchen was wrecked -- dishes piled, the floors a rubbish heap, and the trash overflowing. My eldest tried to run the "I love you, Mom" scam on me. Complete with hug. Unfortunately for him, I wasn't wearing my BooBoo the Fool sticker. So while I appreciated his love, he was going to do the cleaning he'd skipped out on.
I had him start on the dishes while I changed into my cleaning clothes. You know the ones that are only good for working with bleach and NEVER for being worn in public. Oh yeah, I was a real hottie Friday night. I had just slipped into my gear when I heard my husband shout that grandpa was at the door so my son had to leave. I ran out of my room screaming that he shouldn't be rewarded for sneakiness by getting to leave for the Homecoming game early. My husband told me not to worry. Our son would come home and do all his chores. Right. After I was done doing all the work. Not a huge surprise that I was pretty pissed.
I started working and then my youngest came out of his room sans glasses. Of course, I asked where they were and he told me he'd lost them at recess. I just bought those glasses. When I asked my husband why he hadn't told me about the missing glasses, he said he hadn't noticed. I've got one word for you. RAGE! His concession was to send the little one out to the school to find them. Somewhere in the midst of all this chaos, my friend arrived. I'm so sorry, Patricia!
Fast forward to the game. Yes, more family drama ensued, but I'm going to leave it in the past where it belongs. My friend found us seats, and I was stoked about being able to watch the game and one of the hottest football coaches I've ever seen. Hey, before anyone gets their knickers in a twist, I'm married, not dead! And until my eyes stop working, I will appreciate beauty in all its many forms -- especially if it involves said coach. I need to freeze frame here to make sure the rest of this little tirade makes sense. Sorry, folks.
My friend and I went to a high school football game a while ago with another good buddy. After that game, I developed a reputation for being rowdy. I honestly have no clue how that all got started. Jeez, you get a little participative at a game and next thing you know, you're castigated for getting into the game. No fights broke out, and we all had a good time so nothing else matters.
So, back to this past Homecoming. My friend and I had great seats -- until we got kicked out of them. Lest you get too excited or think I am exciting, we didn't do anything outrageous to lose our seats. All the empty spots we found had been reserved for the band. Shucks. It was a blow-out for our school at any rate, so we retreated to my place for chili and the first season of Coupling. After all the day's drama, chilling out was just what I needed.
Now that it's nearly at an end, what did you do this weekend?
My eldest has decided to skirt his chores. Nothing major or abnormal for an almost teenager. By the way, I got told today that I am hip for being a mom. Dude! How cool is that? Anyway, I was having folks over Friday, and while the house wasn't a mess, there was definite work that needed done if I was going to have company. I arrived home at six to find that my kitchen was wrecked -- dishes piled, the floors a rubbish heap, and the trash overflowing. My eldest tried to run the "I love you, Mom" scam on me. Complete with hug. Unfortunately for him, I wasn't wearing my BooBoo the Fool sticker. So while I appreciated his love, he was going to do the cleaning he'd skipped out on.
I had him start on the dishes while I changed into my cleaning clothes. You know the ones that are only good for working with bleach and NEVER for being worn in public. Oh yeah, I was a real hottie Friday night. I had just slipped into my gear when I heard my husband shout that grandpa was at the door so my son had to leave. I ran out of my room screaming that he shouldn't be rewarded for sneakiness by getting to leave for the Homecoming game early. My husband told me not to worry. Our son would come home and do all his chores. Right. After I was done doing all the work. Not a huge surprise that I was pretty pissed.
I started working and then my youngest came out of his room sans glasses. Of course, I asked where they were and he told me he'd lost them at recess. I just bought those glasses. When I asked my husband why he hadn't told me about the missing glasses, he said he hadn't noticed. I've got one word for you. RAGE! His concession was to send the little one out to the school to find them. Somewhere in the midst of all this chaos, my friend arrived. I'm so sorry, Patricia!
Fast forward to the game. Yes, more family drama ensued, but I'm going to leave it in the past where it belongs. My friend found us seats, and I was stoked about being able to watch the game and one of the hottest football coaches I've ever seen. Hey, before anyone gets their knickers in a twist, I'm married, not dead! And until my eyes stop working, I will appreciate beauty in all its many forms -- especially if it involves said coach. I need to freeze frame here to make sure the rest of this little tirade makes sense. Sorry, folks.
My friend and I went to a high school football game a while ago with another good buddy. After that game, I developed a reputation for being rowdy. I honestly have no clue how that all got started. Jeez, you get a little participative at a game and next thing you know, you're castigated for getting into the game. No fights broke out, and we all had a good time so nothing else matters.
So, back to this past Homecoming. My friend and I had great seats -- until we got kicked out of them. Lest you get too excited or think I am exciting, we didn't do anything outrageous to lose our seats. All the empty spots we found had been reserved for the band. Shucks. It was a blow-out for our school at any rate, so we retreated to my place for chili and the first season of Coupling. After all the day's drama, chilling out was just what I needed.
Now that it's nearly at an end, what did you do this weekend?
Good times
It's official. Yes, I know I gave my notice a while ago, and Friday was my last day at the job but it didn't feel real until last night. An amazing send off with some of the best people in the world. And hey, there was karaoke involved. Can you tell me what would have been better? Actually, there are some things that could have been pleasant additions, but I'll keep those to myself -- fodder for the fiction. So after a great night out, why the hell did I wake at 7:30? The weekend is for sleeping and being lazy, yet I sprung from bed like I had somewhere to be. The real shame of it is that 7:30 is sleeping in for me.
Usually, I'm moving too fast to see my morning as anything more than a blur. Today, I remember my first thought. It's over. Are any of you performers? You know that feeling you get when you're waiting in the wings. Trapped between wanting to chicken out and being so excited that if you were a puppy, there would be a big ole wet spot in your seat. That's how I feel right now. Why? I have a manuscript in the hands of an agent. I am no longer a full-time employee for anyone or anywhere. And in 2008, I will be a licensed teacher. Parents will put their children in my trust and expect me to give them something. I keep wondering what will happen when I get my class. Will I stand in front of a room of freshmen and totally forget why I'm there?
When I subbed last year, except for when I was in the elementary schools, I didn't actually teach. And I never worked in my content area. When I finish this degree, students and their parents will have the right to expect me to know what I'm talking about. One thing I am immensely grateful for is the amazing set of colleagues I've met in class. All of us aspire to be in the classroom working with secondary level students. Most of us will do really well, too. I just wonder how many of my mates are sitting around with their stomachs churning. Waiting in the wings, as it were.
But it's definitely good times. My friends can hear the lightness in my voice when I talk. My best friend told me I sound the best I have in months. So much for me trying to ride undercover. I tried so hard to keep my shit storm from raining on those around me. Guess I'll buy everyone bigger umbrellas next time. Yeah, there will be a next time because there will always be people in the world who will work to screw you over even as you're trying to keep your head above water. It's all good though because I needed the reminder to take care of me. I was being everything for everyone but Elayne. My martyrdom ceased at 5:00 last Friday afternoon.
Okay, I'm off to write and finish off my breakfast of onion dip and potato chips. I'll be back, and I'll try to sound as elated as I feel. Tell me, folks, what do you do to take care of yourself?
Usually, I'm moving too fast to see my morning as anything more than a blur. Today, I remember my first thought. It's over. Are any of you performers? You know that feeling you get when you're waiting in the wings. Trapped between wanting to chicken out and being so excited that if you were a puppy, there would be a big ole wet spot in your seat. That's how I feel right now. Why? I have a manuscript in the hands of an agent. I am no longer a full-time employee for anyone or anywhere. And in 2008, I will be a licensed teacher. Parents will put their children in my trust and expect me to give them something. I keep wondering what will happen when I get my class. Will I stand in front of a room of freshmen and totally forget why I'm there?
When I subbed last year, except for when I was in the elementary schools, I didn't actually teach. And I never worked in my content area. When I finish this degree, students and their parents will have the right to expect me to know what I'm talking about. One thing I am immensely grateful for is the amazing set of colleagues I've met in class. All of us aspire to be in the classroom working with secondary level students. Most of us will do really well, too. I just wonder how many of my mates are sitting around with their stomachs churning. Waiting in the wings, as it were.
But it's definitely good times. My friends can hear the lightness in my voice when I talk. My best friend told me I sound the best I have in months. So much for me trying to ride undercover. I tried so hard to keep my shit storm from raining on those around me. Guess I'll buy everyone bigger umbrellas next time. Yeah, there will be a next time because there will always be people in the world who will work to screw you over even as you're trying to keep your head above water. It's all good though because I needed the reminder to take care of me. I was being everything for everyone but Elayne. My martyrdom ceased at 5:00 last Friday afternoon.
Okay, I'm off to write and finish off my breakfast of onion dip and potato chips. I'll be back, and I'll try to sound as elated as I feel. Tell me, folks, what do you do to take care of yourself?
06 October 2007
Zoned out
You can say I'm wrong, but some people -- maybe it's just the sound of their voices -- make my ears want to take leave from my head. I know I say this often. Actually, every time I start a new class. Good grief! Isn't there a way to absorb necessary materials via diffusion or osmosis? Forget calling me wrong. Call me tired, impatient, frustrated and excited about the weekend. Can you say Homecoming? Not mine, but that of my DH. Funny thing is he's not nearly as excited as I am about the game. In fact, he's almost dismal. I listened to a rant about how Homecoming is not what it used to be. It's about the alumni returning -- not about dances and parties and God knows what. Three minutes into his rant, my brain glazed. I could feel that nasty-looking red jelly stuff people insist on pouring over ham, oozing over every brain cell.
Have you ever felt like that? It seems to happen on a weekly basis nowadays. Every Thursday to be exact. And in no time flat, I'm back to bitching. Husbands always wonder how wives do it. I'm telling you here and now, it's a gift.
Got another question for you. What is the world's record for one person monopolizing four hours of class time? Bet Guinness doesn't have the stats.
Have you ever felt like that? It seems to happen on a weekly basis nowadays. Every Thursday to be exact. And in no time flat, I'm back to bitching. Husbands always wonder how wives do it. I'm telling you here and now, it's a gift.
Got another question for you. What is the world's record for one person monopolizing four hours of class time? Bet Guinness doesn't have the stats.
02 October 2007
Counting down
Not much time left at the present job, and I am so happy. The pressure to finish all my tasks in time so as not to leave my esteemed colleagues holding the bag is immense. Something I've learned from blogging is how public it is. Yes, I know I put myself out here. I have no intention of going back to my little box, but I feel like I've left my butt flapping in the wind. Kind of reminds me of the time one of my friends paraded through church with the back of her skirt tucked into her pantyhose. I had no idea of her plight because she and I were walking side by side, but her embarrassment when someone righted the situation still haunts me. So much so that I never leave the lavatory without making sure that all my business is covered. But once the world has seen your behind, it's too late to cover it. So I will plunge ahead -- glad that I have no shame about that aspect of self. I guess it's good that everything I've spewed here is true.
On the writing front, I'm feeling pressured to produce. I'm a committed participant of the KIA Marathon over at RWA Online. What I do or fail to do impacts my team's success. It's not a competition against the others, but more of a challenge against my will, my laziness and a chance to demonstrate to myself the level of commitment I have to my craft. Tonight I wrote, and in all honesty, I could write more but am afraid. Bet you knew that was coming. I don't want to write crap. I want to be happy when I open the doc tomorrow, so I will stop while I'm ahead. Told you I'm a chicken.
The day's been long. Filled with baking, observing and working, so I am off to bed with a GREAT book, The Alchemist. It's been a while since I've felt able or even worthy to read the book. Please, if you haven't read it, do. It makes me want to revert to childhood. In a good way! Children know what their dreams are. They don't allow themselves to be constrained by the slavery of shoulds or can'ts. Children dream unabashedly, unashamedly, without fear. That is how we are supposed to be! Living without fear, not merely existing because existence is the easiest course of action. So I will revisit childhood dreams, weep for denying them a fair chance and working to create sense from the senseless.
What did you want to be as a child? Who did you want to be? And what's stopped you from doing it?
On the writing front, I'm feeling pressured to produce. I'm a committed participant of the KIA Marathon over at RWA Online. What I do or fail to do impacts my team's success. It's not a competition against the others, but more of a challenge against my will, my laziness and a chance to demonstrate to myself the level of commitment I have to my craft. Tonight I wrote, and in all honesty, I could write more but am afraid. Bet you knew that was coming. I don't want to write crap. I want to be happy when I open the doc tomorrow, so I will stop while I'm ahead. Told you I'm a chicken.
The day's been long. Filled with baking, observing and working, so I am off to bed with a GREAT book, The Alchemist. It's been a while since I've felt able or even worthy to read the book. Please, if you haven't read it, do. It makes me want to revert to childhood. In a good way! Children know what their dreams are. They don't allow themselves to be constrained by the slavery of shoulds or can'ts. Children dream unabashedly, unashamedly, without fear. That is how we are supposed to be! Living without fear, not merely existing because existence is the easiest course of action. So I will revisit childhood dreams, weep for denying them a fair chance and working to create sense from the senseless.
What did you want to be as a child? Who did you want to be? And what's stopped you from doing it?
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