Twisted Reality

Frustrated with all the pictures of Isobelle that I've been posting, Ophelia, the Dowager Queen of Winter Street, demanded some cover time. Fat, lazy...ugh, royal... thing wouldn't even sit up to have her picture taken. She knows she rocks.

Weigh-in day went okay for me - 3 more pounds down this week. Poor Princess lost nothing... gee, too bad! I'm really not gloating - that's a lie, yes I am. Unfortunately, she's a type A personality with an extremely competitive edge, next week she'll kill herself to beat me.




Guilty pleasures - for some people those are alcohol, chocolate, Harlequin romance books. My guilty pleasure is reality shows. I say this with a bag over my head, because, jeesh, even I know they're ridiculous, but I can't help myself! I started thinking about what I'd do for money when I was a kid because of a song, the title of which I can't remember. The conversation came up again when that movie with Demi Moore came out - the one in which Robert Redford offers her a million dollars to sleep with him once and just talking about it breaks up her marriage. Pap was horrified when I said I'd definitely sleep with Robert Redford (in his prime, that's how old that movie is) for a million dollars. Quite frankly, I'd do it for free. Morals or no morals - Robert Redford! I've thought he was amazingly cute since Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid came out. But I digress....

In examining all the outrageous things I'd do for a million dollars, I definitely have to include sleeping with Robert Redford. I wouldn't eat anything weird, I wouldn't hurt, mame or kill any person or animal for any amount of money, I wouldn't denounce God or my family, or get naked in public. About anything else is fair game. Thus, my fascination with reality shows. It started with Survivor, then Big Brother came along, quickly followed by American Idol, America's Next Top Model, The Biggest Loser, Hell's Kitchen, Treasure Hunt ... even old Ted Nugent has got in on the action. I've watched people competing to be Donald Trump's apprentice, trying to win jobs as designers, decorators and the next Martha Stuart. It's absolutely embarrassing how much interest I have in watching people compete with each other for money.

The intelligent woman inside me groaned vociferously when I tuned in to any of these shows. To quiet her down, I had no choice but to rationalize my way to an acceptable answer for the old girl. It goes something like this:

I'm a writer living in a very small town. Where else, in just one short hour, can I gather the necessary information I need for constructing a variety of interesting and diverse characters for my books? These shows are a study of human interaction, man's inhumanity to man, the frailty or strength of the human character. Okay, it's lame, but it's my story and.... you know the rest. Gotta go, Project Runway is on....

If you see this girl, run! Yes, there she is, the slave driving, matricidal Princess of Pain. Lucky for me she went out tonight, saving me (and poor Ruger) from miles of dog walking or more exercise videos.

I'm thoroughly and completely sick of my own company today. It isn't that I don't have plenty to do: second edits, consumer review, synopsis of Willow, rewrites...housework, sewing for Bean... the list is endless but none of it is what I WANT to do.

It's a beautiful summer night, clear and warm. Perfect for pulling up a stool on the edge of the dock at Woody's, listening to a great band with a view of the boats hovering just off shore. A good night for a visit from a mysterious stranger, someone who's actually seen more of the world than our small corner. Someone who would be just as interested in talking about the best play they've ever seen on a small stage as the relative benefits of a flat tax. I feel too young to inhabit this body, too old to make the party scene.

So, what do other people do when they're bored? When burn out threatens to make you spontaneously combust?

Death of the Disco Diva

I'm thinking of 1978, Air Force boot camp barely behind me, motherhood a distant dream in front of me. By day, I was the buttoned up, Airman of the Month, secretary to a very junior Captain. By night... I was the disco queen. (***note to Mert - stop laughing! Remember YOU came of age in the very ugly 80's!***) Dancing came easy to me, show me the steps and I could do them, with practice, I did them well. Hustle's of every kind: New York, Jersey, Swing, Latin, I could do them all, stone sober or drunk. I played a little tennis in those days, strictly hacker, but I had a backhand, forehand and when my brain said "run left", my body cooperated. What has brought back all these moldy old memories you ask? A little disc of torture Princess has contributed to our exercise routine.

It's called Cardio Dance Blast (you can thank me later for warning you). Looks inocuous enough, pink cover, I like pink, with a picture of an average looking brunette, smiling, leaning comfortably to the side, lots of bright white teeth. Princess swears I'll love this workout ... "You like to dance, Mom, this will be easy for you!" Another cute little girl with lots of white teeth. Eventually I'll learn to avoid these people.

I watched it first. From my comfortable position in my favorite chair, nursing my tenth bottle of water for the day, it didn't look too bad! A little cha cha, a couple of old disco moves, a little stripper dance (minus the stripping) tossed in. Hah! Piece of cake for an old exdancer like me. And since I'm honest, it isn't all that bad, unless you're closer to 50 than 40 and you've spent the last few years in closer proximity to a computer than a treadmill. I feel like a marionette operated by a four year old. My legs and arms do not want to move in the direction the perky little leader is shouting out. My mind says "grapevine, grapevine, together, cha cha cha", my body is still grapevining while my mind is cha cha chaing. Let's not even discuss where my arms have gone to in the middle of all this. Princess finds it immensely funny, I'm sure she laughed off 2 or 300 calories in my inaugeral attempt.

Now I'm mad. I may have to color my hair to cover the gray, wax off a better mustache than my son can grow and live with the stretch marks of five kids... but time will not steal my ability to DANCE! Princess is away at work and the DVD payer beckons... thank goodness for pause, repeat and skip.

Fantasy Friday

Last January, my writer's group discussed the difference between "goals" and "dreams". As writers, the "goal" is to finish writing the book, submit fifty short stories to magazines or any combination of other tasks necessary to get one's writing noticed. A publishing contract is a dream. Goals have to be things you can achieve from your own blood, sweat and tears. Dreams require a hand from someone else.

On our way home from Columbus today, Princess and Bean were discussing their dream romantic moment. Studly guy would pull up to their work place in a helicopter, limo or excellent sports car and carry them away. Shades of Richard Gere storming into the factory to carry Debra Winger to her new life from An Officer and A Gentleman, a movie these girls have never seen.

What do these two disparate paragraphs have to do with each other? I believe a life devoid of dreams and fantasies is a wasted life. A life mired in the practical and ordered leaves no room for personal growth. I also believe that everyone has the ability to dream and should exercise that skill at every opportunity. From owning a yacht to turning your business into a fortune 500 company - dream big, so big that you can't possibly achieve it without help from someone else. That will keep you noticing the people around you, and enable you to extend the hand someone else needs to achieve their dream.

In addition to dreaming BIG, people need to fantasize outrageously. From winning the lottery to seeing a unicorn, fantasize to remind yourself that the world is so much bigger than what we can see, there are still mysteries to unravel and things to learn. A fantasy can also be an interesting way to examine you core beliefs. Do you believe the things you do because someone told you to or because you really believe them?

Fridays on this blog are going to belong to fantasy - mine and hopefully some others (**anybody out there????**). Because its been a hard week, my Friday Fantasy is my own personal tropical island, ecologically balanced and lush but without me having to see all the bugs and creepy crawlies that come with such an environment. In the center of this island, I'll have my house made of stone, ten self-cleaning bedrooms with bathrooms and walk in closets. A self stocking kitchen and self decorating great room for instant parties. Visitors arrive simply by calling them on the phone. Transportation around my island is courtesy of Julio, who finds me the most stunning, interesting person he's ever had the pleasure to meet. I, of course, find his advances inane and keep him on staff for the comic relief. Talk to y'all later, I have a date with a mint julep and a white sandy beach....

Thursday Updates

Ruger has joined forces with the Princess of Pain to whip me in shape. Do you see that drill sergeant-like look in his eye? The foreward thrust jaw, he means business. He's ruthless. We went out last night for a leisurely little walk around the neighborhood. He made me run, Princess made me run far. Pocks to both of them. Weigh-in day is Sunday, there's not enough exercise in the world to work off what I've been eating this week. What kind of sadistic, maniacal person invented cheesecake and chocolate chip cookies?

Pap still languishes in the hospital, there are a number of aggravations regarding this state of affairs. Number one being: why would you let a blister get so infected that it actually kept you in the hospital for a week? Even with insurance, his negligence is going to cost a fortune, and he's still not dealing with our problems. Sounds cold and mean, doesn't it? But after twenty five years of marriage, this is not an isolated incident but a repetitive behavior. Suicide by diabetes. I can think of quicker ways.

Rewrites on Pitch continue slowly. Some days I think this one should take a place in the drawer and be forgotten. But I so love brave little Tia. Outlines for Ambassador are coming together thanks to Clay Guys hard work. This weekend I'll start the synopsis, query and cover letter for Willow. Mud City still lives in rough form and is alive and well in my head. I've made a mess of my web site which means it's time for a date with Dark Daddy. Thank goodness he doesn't get cranky about my lack of aptitude when it comes to anything technological. Personally, I credit his computer brilliance to my ineptitude. He had to learn quickly how to fix my mistakes! Still reviewing Flacks, second edits on Suspicious Circumstances and I've heard nothing about the freelance job with Our Town. The day job continues to be a bottomless pit of work I have no chance of ever catching up with.

Tomorrow I must take insurace cards to the hospital and pick up Pap's paycheck. Not looking forward to the drive.