Archive for February, 2007
Battle of the Blogs – Vote for Kat and Quilly by visiting Leesa’s blog and then scrolling way down to the Northern Division. If you’ve already voted, Thanks! If you haven’t…hey, throw a girl a bone. Its free, and you might find some interesting reads while you’re over there. If you’ve already voted and are willing to send YOUR blog roll over there to help the cause, it would be greatly appreciated.
And now…on to our regular programming….
I knew it was going to end up badly, but I just couldn’t get myself to intervene. They were so cute, the two little girls on the edge of the couch, talking animatedly about which of the Cheetah Girls could actually do a hurky in their spiked boots. Jazzmin, the one who talks with her hands, paying no attention to the mangled slinky she was slinging around with her conversation. Briauna so fiercely determined to out talk her sister that she didn’t notice the big cat crouched on the back of the sofa behind her. Neither of them were paying any attention at all to the small cat avidly tracking that bouncing slinky from the chair beside the couch.
Perfectly shameful of me to just sit passively by, especially when I noticed that the small cat had definitely caught on to the rythm of that bouncing slinky and the big cat was doing her prepounce shuffle. The girls got a little louder, the slinky waved a little more wildly and both cats pounced.
Ophelia, the big cat, took the painting behind the couch down with her. Isobelle, the little one, used Jazzmin’s leg to stop her springing flight as they met in the middle. Lots of screaming, blood, the dog barking and then Briauna threw up from the excitement.
Same old, same old around this joint.
The Battle of the Blogs is on…. scoot on over there and VOTE for Kat , Quilly and Dutchy. We all ended up lumped in the same division, but as of now, not against each other. You’ll have to scroll down to the Northern Division to find us, and while you’re there, you could check out some other fine bloggers to add to your daily reading pleasure, or you could just vote for Kat’s Random Thoughts and scurry away on your very important business. Go vote. I might even have an entertaining post written by the time you get back. Or not.
Just hearing the phrase writer’s block makes my hands shake and sweat roll down my forehead. I lead a large writers group, and while we frequently pass around tools for dealing with this malady, we never call it that. We call them inpiration tools, right before we knock on wood and throw salt over our shoulders.
Never the less, with fewer than 3,000 words left to complete THE BOOK, I am blocked. And have been for several days. It isn’t that I don’t know where the story is going. I do, but everything I write is shit. The words are landing on the page like lumps of vomit…ugly, smelly and full of little unrecognizable bits. I’ve tried walking away, switching to handwriting, writing something else, reading something, housework, aimless driving, inspiring music and just continuing to write shit. I even actually, in total desperation, took Mr. Fab’s advice and attempted to add a monkey.
The Doctor, who originally asked me to ghost write this book is desperate. He calls every day, he’s always called every day, but now I can hear the desperation in his voice. I think he thinks this is some passive-aggressive attempt to extort more money out of him. If I stay blocked long enough, I may end up with a house out of this deal.
Leesa is holding a Battle of The Blogs over at her place. Loosely based on that old show Battle of the Network Stars… surf over there and read about it, then nominate yourself and me. Then I’ll nominate you, and myself. Hurry, the deadline is February 23rd. I know you’re really busy, but read her post today, hysterical.
The deadline for Cindra’s Weekly Word Game has passed, and the entries are posted and ready for you to vote. If you haven’t checked this out yet, please do! Worthy reads every week, submitted anonymously – so you’re voting on the quality of the writing instead of popularity. I would be totally remiss if I didn’t mention that Mr. Fabulous co-hosts the weekly word game and this week’s winner is getting a gift certificate to igourmet. I, alas, mired in day job, children’s book and editing work did not finish my entry in a timely manner. So you can rest assured that I’m pimping for my friends and not myself. I’ll be submitting my invoices for friendship dues shortly.
Where would we all be without friends? It will be through the strength of my Doctor’s friends that we get our children’s book noticed. My dog would be more maniacal than he already is if not for his friendship with the dogs in the neighborhood that help him escape his cat sisters. Friends have stepped up over the years to help with kids, make me laugh, share a book, and remind me that I really need a haircut. They were there lending support when my natural parents died, my husband was hospitalized and my leg was in a cast. There are no friends better than the one’s here in my blog neighborhood for lending moral support, encouragement and laughter.
Back in our poverty days, a friend once gave us a car. It provided the means to get us back out of the spiral to homelessness we’d fallen into. What’s the best thing a friend ever did for you?
Nearly two years after Hurricane Katrina, the city of New Orleans continues its struggle to regain its feet. They aren’t just fighting the wind and water damage to their homes and businessess, but their insurance companies that won’t pay up, the federal government who won’t pay up and the criminals who manage to survive anything like roaches. But with all that, the Mardi Gras parades hit the streets like they have for years. I loved this comment from an organizer: When asked why the parades recovered so quickly when everything else in the city is limping along, an organizer said “the parades are managed by people instead of government”.
Manfred Mann’s Earth Band – Blinded By The Light
I’ve never had much luck with found money, but I’ve been indecently lucky in love. I don’t use that word loosely. I was practical even as a teenager and knew that real love was more than racing hormones or a shared affinity for music and funny movies. I dated as a teenager but I didn’t fall in love for the first time until I was a Junior in High School.
Wilmington, North Carolina. Minutes from Wrightsville Beach. We lived in a suburb right on the sound. My family spent a little over nine months in North Carolina and I had only two unhappy moments the entire time. The first was when they forced me to go to Wilmington Christian Academy. The second was when they made me leave that same school.
It was the fall of 1975. I saw him on the first day in my new school, leaning on a locker in a crush of students waiting for morning chapel. A full head taller than the boys gathered around talking to him he had magnificent hair the color of a foxes coat – a rich mix of russet, brown and gold. The girl assigned as my “guide” caught me looking at him, and him looking at me. By lunch we were an item. R and I were as inseperable as two kids can be with strict parents, sports and a demanding school schedule. We got to know each other during soccer season, a sport he didn’t play but I cheered for. By basketball season even our teachers had decided that heaven couldn’t have made a better match.
It wasn’t his mellifluous voice, his nice car or his fine manners that made me love him. It was how he made me feel…petite, beautiful, smart, perfect. He looked at me like I was a rare piece of glass he wanted to wrap in silk. We went to any extreme to be together. Stopped back talking our parents, did our chores, kept our grades high…there was no sacrifice too great. Our devotion to each other was so mature it scared my parents, and his, to death.
We spent most of our time together heavily supervised at my house, or at school functions. But every once in awhile we’d get a chance to slip away. Sometimes it was to the sound, a tiny skiff just big enough for the two of us. We’d float toward the beach, our way lit by moonlight peeking through the moss on the trees and sparkling on the water. He leaned on the ice chest in the back of the skiff, I leaned on him and we planned our future with the background music of lapping water, crickets and the occasional owls hoot. College, work, marriage, children…right through to who would die first and how closely the other would follow.
Public display of affection was grounds for expulsion at our very rigid school. This didn’t stop the couples from finding places and times for stolen kisses of course, but all of us lived in mortal terror of getting caught. A few weeks after we’d returned from Christmas vacation in 1976 I was called to the Principal’s office. The secretary was very short with me when I arrived at the office. She left me sitting in the hall, my mind racing with thoughts of what I could have done wrong to be in such a position. Mr. B walked out of his office and I saw R sitting in one of two chairs across from the Principal’s desk. Head hanging, hands clasped between his knees. My stomach flipped and I just knew we’d been caught kissing. Mr. B explained that while we were normally two of his best students, he had a note from Mrs. B (my homeroom teacher) that had grievously disappointed him. He shuffled around on his desk searching for it then explained that he must have left it in the outer office. The Principal left and shut the door behind him.
By the time the door shut I was hyperventilating and ready to cry. Getting expelled wasn’t the kind of thing my parents were going to be happy about. Getting expelled for PDA would get me killed or sent to a monastery. R turned to me and opened his hands. He held a tiny velvet box that housed a flawless opal ring. He asked me to marry him, not right then, but after college. He explained this was a promise ring, I’d get the diamond after he had earned the money. I looked at him like he was crazy. We were about to be expelled and he was proposing? R was still explaining that Mr. B was in on the surprise when the Principal walked back in the office all smiles and congratulations. The secretary and several teachers on break cheered when we left the office. My parents went into panic mode.
A few weeks later I found out we’d be moving to Ohio. We wouldn’t even be finishing the school year. Teachers stepped forward offering a place for me to stay so I could finish my high school career there, where I was doing so well. Friends parents offered…but my parents weren’t having it. R and I were inconsolable. Winter turned into spring, the move rapidly approached and we were getting more frantic with every day. In March we had a “scholar day”, a half day off school for good grades. Because we were in High School we had the option of going on an outing with the rest of the “scholar’s” or just signing out. We signed out. My parents were out of town for the day. My sibs hadn’t qualified for “scholar day”.
My room caught the afternoon sun. My sister-mom had decorated it in blue and white, and when the sun came through the curtains over the window seat it turned the whole room the pale milky blue you see when you float under water and look at the sky. I will forever associate that pale color and Manfred Mann singing Blinded by the Light with bliss.
We moved in April. R and his cousin chasing us down on the country road we used to get to the highway. My sister-mom yelling “This is not helping!” while I cried in the car and he cried from his knees in the dust.
We conducted our long distance romance as well as we could in those days. Snail mail. But we were young, and nobody wants to spend their senior year alone. With every day that passed it just got harder and harder to figure out how to get back in the same state. I finally returned the ring. I haven’t heard from him since.