Well, it’s official.  I am finished with my second children’s book.  The last edit (approximately the 4th edit) is complete and has been turned over to the talented Barbara for layout and eventually (thank you, Jesus) printing.  Come early next semester, Journey to Gunk Junction will join its sister book (Journey to Pansophigus) in 5th grade classrooms across the region.  Bless their poor little 10 to 11-year-old souls.

As fate would have it, this long-awaited moment can not immediately be celebrated with a cold, frosty beverage.  Why?  Because we live in a world of irony.  And I am oft showered with its head-shaking gifts.  Its latest sweet offering?  The beautifully swollen and incredibly painful lovliness that is strep throat.  So tonight, instead of basking in a festive celebration with friends and family, I will gargle hot salt water and pop my 3rd dose of Z-Pack (a pill that, although magical in its healing ability, can wreak havoc on an already fragile system…I’ll spare you the horror of elaboration).

I will, however, likely be feeling close to 90% by the weekend.  I’m encouraged by that timing.  And I will celebrate right up to the edge of relapse.  I’m dangerous like that.

Without another major writing project on the horizon (or at least not one with a deadline), I will have plenty of time to reevaluate my current career, social life, and other general major life happenings.  This is not good.  Too much thinking about such subjects can lead to the “what ifs”:  What if I hadn’t left New York?”; “I hear Seattle’s a great place to dig in your heels”; “Maybe I should have been a dog groomer (allergic), a chef (can’t really cook), or a rock star (can’t play an instrument)”.  What AM I doing with my life????

But let me “turn that frown upside down” for a moment.  I can go to New York if I so choose…momma’s got some contacts.  And I love dogs, but I don’t want to swim in their hair all day long.  I just signed up for Kraft’s email list…I can try out some fabulous fatty meals.  And GET THIS…I finally picked up my guitar from my parent’s house…the one I never learned to play.  I also found someone who has agreed to teach me.  How long he will be able to handle my complete lack of musical knowledge, I don’t know.  But I will give it my all, folks.  And one day I will play in front of an audience (of two to three family members).  It’s all about the dream…fanciful goals…and complete insanity.

Look for me in the neon lights…of New York…or Vegas…or possibly Cali…maybe even Houston.  Who knows.  The world may soon be ready for a pie-makin’, dog bathin’, guitar strummin’ diva.  And when they are…I’ll be there waiting…with a Z-Pack in my gullet and a smile on my face.  Cheers, my friends!

Do you know how to tell if you’re crafty?  Ask yourself one question.  Do I decide upon and intricately plan my Halloween costume weeks - or even months in advance?  If you answered ”yes”…you’re one hot, crafty momma (or poppa…everyone is welcome in the slick aisles of Hobby Lobby).

Although I’ve made a semi-legitimate profession out of writing, and may be considered by some to be a “creative” individual…I am as craft-challenged as they come.  Believe me when I tell you this.  Because I know it in my soul to be true…creativity does not always translate to crafty.  I am living proof of that.  But I don’t want to knock myself about too much.  I do come by this affliction honestly.  My mother is even less comfortable than I traversing the knick-knack laden, scrapbook-filled halls of Michaels.  In fact, years ago, in a sad moment of complete denial, we decided to attempt the seemingly simple and straightforward art of silk flower arrangements.  After several glasses of wine and no clear plan, we broke into gut-busting fits of laughter.  Because the atrocity before us can only be described as the devil’s garden.  Random cattails jutting at odd angles, pockets of nothingness next to packed flowers…and overall, no apparent rhyme or reason.  It was so awful that we decided to keep it as a reminder that we should never, under any circumstance, attempt such a project again.

The point is, I did not spend weeks or even days planning my Halloween costume.  In fact, it could more accurately be measured in hours.  Most of which were spent combing stores alongside other procrastinating, slightly testy, non-crafties. 

For my costume, I’d decided on the late 50’s / early 60’s era gal…based mainly on my obsession with the “Mad Men” TV series (if you haven’t seen it, check it out).  And, to be honest, it was a decision based also on my (inaccurate) assumption that a pencil skirt and sweater would be an easy find.  Twenty stores and two very sore feet later, I had what I felt would be a passable imitation of the outwardly sexy (yet inwardly downtrodden) ad-industry secretary.

Because the hype around Halloween is often on par with New Year’s Eve or Valentine’s Day (and therefore built-up expectations are often squashed by a squabbling couple or botched fireworks), our crew decided to play it safe and guarantee at least amazing people-watching.  In other words, we went to a locally famous gay bar where crafty costumes would be an understatement.  And it didn’t disappoint, people.  The costumes?  Unbelievable.  And to be honest, some were a little, well…let’s not go there.  Just use your imagination, and then double the “What the…” factor.  It was beautiful.  And highly entertaining.  Susan and I eventually moved on to other locations, to enjoy the company of men a bit more interested in slightly enhanced bosoms (courtesy of the old standby Charmin toilet paper).  But one of our earlier companions, Susan’s good friend and coworker, Lealon, later won a costume competition for his incredible Boy George get-up. If we can’t be crafty, at least we can hang with others who are.

Here are a few photos for your viewing pleasure (or for a good midday laugh).  And don’t forget to vote tomorrow.  It’s not just a right, it’s a privilege! (And you can legitimately attend that rockin’ “Results Viewing” party)

P.S. It appears the feature to upload pictures into blog posts is on the fritz.  In the meantime, I’ve posted some of the Halloween pics in my ‘Paparazzi’ (Flickr) section to the right.  Enjoy!

Well, it’s official.  I’m a girl who craves a happy ending.  Not that I ever really doubted it.  But, Sunday afternoon, as I was lounging on my red couch (that severely needs to be replaced), I switched over to the AMC channel.  A list of upcoming movies flashed on the screen.  It was a day of Paul Newman movies…a tribute to the recently lost - and incredibly handsome actor.  The next showing?  Hud.  One of my father’s favorite movies.  I’d never seen the classic, and in an attempt to dive into my father’s early adult head, I decided to continue my couch-lazing and take it all in.

The movie began.  Hud’s teenage nephew, Lonnie, disembarked from an ancient bus onto the streets of the small Texas town in which he lived.  He was on a quest to find his uncle, who had apparently left a path of destruction behind him after a night of partying in the tiny town outside his father’s ranch.  It was clear that Hud was a force to be reckoned with.  His well-deserved reputation seemed both revered and hated by the townspeople, and as his nephew tracked him down in the light of early morning - pulling on his boots as he exited the home of a local married woman - my stomach turned a flip, then a flop.  Because even in the poor lighting of an old black and white film, this man was breathtakingly beautiful.  With a cocky smile and crystal clear eyes, he expertly sidestepped the wrath of the just-arrived-home husband, blamed his presence on his unsuspecting nephew, and screeched off with the confused boy in tow.

Without the luxury of a commercial to take it all in (something meant to be a “plus” on this channel), I lay there wondering, what was it about this man, this character, that so captivated my father?  I suspect my father was, as a young man, much like he is today. Unrelentingly moral, balanced with just the right mix of bone dry humor and a hint of mischievousness.  Nothing like Hud really, who was anything but moral…but maybe that was the appeal.  There’s something about a man, any person really, who doesn’t give a damn how his actions affect the people and the world around him.  We witness their outlandish antics with judgment and sometimes disgust…but we watch, don’t we?  We give them power.  Because there’s something incredibly interesting about the train wreck.  We wonder how they got there…to this place where empathy and foresight are nonexistent.  Was it a tough childhood? In Hud’s case, he lost his mother at a young age.  He killed his brother in a car accident.  We have empathy, even though they may not.  Through our outward mask of disgust, we root for them to climb into the cacoon a slimy worm, and reemerge a beautiful butterfly.

“What is it about Hud that you liked so much?” I finally asked my father, tired of formulating my own baseless opinion.

“It was the setting.”

“Really?” I asked.  “What do you mean?”

“It was so much like where I grew up.  A small, sometimes lifeless town.  Not much going on.  The landscape not horrible, but somewhat barren and sad.  And the people…Hud’s father…a quiet moral man.  A farmer…rancher.  I knew a hundred men like that.  I still remember where I was when I saw that movie,” he said.

“Where?”

“In Lubbock, Texas, at a drive-in movie theatre.  It was 1963.”

“Who were you there with?” I asked, always digging for dirt.

“No one,” he said.  “I was by myself.  I wanted to see it…so I went.  I thought it was the most amazing movie I’d ever seen.  Still do.”

“Why?”

“It was so expertly cast.  You hated Hud, but Newman played him so perfectly…you wanted him to succeed…you wanted him to finally ‘get it’.”

“But he didn’t,” I said.  “I hated that ending.  I wanted him to get it.”

“But that’s life, kiddo.  Some folks never do.”

“I think you’re like Lonnie,” I said.  “He looked up to Hud in a way…he, like everyone else, was drawn to his ‘bad boy’ ways. He wanted to hang with him, thought he wanted to live that exciting life.  But in the end, he was more like his grandfather…a moral man, and he finally realized that Hud was just pathetic…not someone to be revered or to emulate.  Someone to pity.”

I thought of my dad watching that movie - alone at that Lubbock drive-in.  He must have been months, or possibly weeks away from marrying my mother.  He must’ve seen that movie as his past, and wondered what would happen as he looked toward the future - much like Lonnie did as he walked away from his old life, and Hud.  Just a young man, hoping to do better, scared that he may not be able to.  But with that youthful confidence we all wish we could regain.  The confidence which stems from inexperience…naivete.

If I think about where Lonnie’s life may have taken him…I see success.  Because he would likely take with him the best of all those from his past…even Hud.  Just a little bit of arrogance and that certain twinkle, but balanced by his grandfather’s goodness and hope and a responsibility to do right.  I think that’s why, in the end, I liked Lonnie so much.  He reminded me of my father.  And if I followed Lonnie’s life in my mind…one that may have taken a very similar path to my dad’s, I see a happy ending.  I get my happy ending.

So I was watching Dancing With the Stars tonight, and because of a minor personality affliction of mine, I spent more time changing the channel than actually watching the full dances.  What is this affliction?  Well, the thing is, I hate to be embarrassed. I can’t even handle watching someone else’s embarrassing moment.  Case in point:  Rocco DiSpirito’s awkward movements and goofy grin (channel changed); Cloris Leachman freakishly spinning around on a cape on the floor (couldn’t handle it or the possibility that one wrong turn would snap one of her 83-year-old brittle bones - channel changed); and Lance Bass making out with his (female) partner at the end of their Paso Doble (now that’s acting…but still embarrassing - channel changed).

I can’t quite put my finger on the reason for my extreme discomfort when witnessing such moments.  Maybe it’s an overcharged empathy chip (I did grow up with a Psychotherapist mother), or some sort of weird transferrence thing (wait, I think that’s empathy, too)…or maybe it’s just that there are enough real-life uncomfortable moments, that I don’t need to be subjected to more when I sit down to lose myself in mindless entertainment.

With the explosion of reality TV, it’s near impossible to escape those channel changing moments (or at least a bury-your-head-in-the-couch-pillow moment). I’m surprised I don’t have calluses on the pads of my fingers…really.  Think about it. The girl singing opera to The Bachelor on the initial meet-and-greet night (it makes my stomach hurt - channel changed); the early episodes of American Idol…the William Hung moments (kill me before I die of embarrassment - or hand over the remote); and let’s get away from reality for a moment.  I saw a snippet tonight (because I quickly changed the channel) based on the premise of Meet the Fockers. To me, this is like the perfect storm. One hideously embarrassing moment after another. I lasted 45 seconds.

The odd thing is, I’m no wilting flower…don’t think I’ve ever been accused of that. I’m not afraid of public speaking, or defending a position I feel strongly about, learning a new skill, or dreaming up new ways to keep life from becoming stale or boring.  But if you force me to watch some horrible Fear Factor moment, or witness a star stumbling on the dancefloor, or watch someone get his “goods” stuck in a zipper…do that, and you’ll see a woman writhing in emotional agony. It’s on par with tossing a roach in my path, or putting a deadly virus on my computer (ok…maybe not that bad, but you get the point).

For those of you wondering - “How does this girl ever find anything to watch?” The truth is, I do change the channel…but I don’t stay away.  I allow a sufficient amount of time to pass (usually about 30 seconds - during which - in the specific case of Dancing With the Stars - the cringe-worthy dance has completed and the bad comments from judges have been doled out) and then I switch back - hoping the next dance will be inspiring and tear-worthy. But, oh no! Oh, God, it’s Cloris Leachman…where’s that damn remote!

This odd trait must be linked in some way to my inability to see anyone, or anything in pain. Historically, I’ve taken in the wounded birds (literally - and figuratively). Momma: remember the crippled blue jay that shit all over the chair in my bedroom? But I healed that mean little bastard and he flew away…that’s gotta count for something. Or the countless stray puppies and kittens.  A few “wounded” boyfriends as well.  The woman of steel with the mushy heart.

I fear I may soon be the butt of one of life’s ironic little jokes. Like I’ll meet Johnny Knoxville, we’ll fall in love, and I’ll be forced to witness his antics for years to come. A life full of stomach-churning, nail-biting moments. Or I’ll become a well-known author…well-known enough to be asked to be a contestant on DWTS. And then I’ll be personally living the weekly embarrassments.  Oh, well…at least the rigorous dance schedule will help me sculpt a great ass.

Sometimes - no matter how much our gut tells us otherwise - we’re disappointed by folks. I talk alot about going with your gut. And in most instances, it serves us well. But sometimes it’s just off. It may be clouded by what we want to see, what we hope to find, or it may just be that someone has perfected the art of snowing others. We are fallible. It happens. But when we are steered in a direction that at first seems legit, and ends up as shit, let’s be honest - it stings.

I’ve always lived by the mantra: treat others as you would like to be treated. It really makes you think twice before doing something insensitive or foolish. And for someone who approaches life in this manner, when others do the opposite, it’s tough. It’s a bitter pill to swallow. And the best way to handle it is also the hardest thing to do. You just have to let it go. Take it as a lesson. And listen just a little bit closer to that inner voice the next time around. Mistakes will still be made. People will still disappoint. But attempting to control such behavior is fruitless…and will only find you swimming at a level where drowning is closer than surviving.

It’s a Monday night. After a really long weekend. A really long week and weekend, actually. I wore myself out. I had fun. I had experiences I’d never had before, met people I’d never met before, and reveled in the newness of it all. Some of those experiences were memory-making…stuff to tell the possible grandkids in my later years. Stuff that will make them think “this is one cool old chick who had a really interesting life”. And I’m sure the not-so-great stuff will have left my memory by then. Time has a way of taking care of that. If your life is about living for the happy moments, the icky ones are few and far between, and the good far outweighs the bad.

So on this night of mixed emotions, I work to take the good and toss away the other. I smile at how expertly Susan and I wormed our way into the VIP room at the Meridian and hung out with amazingly cool and interesting people. I tuck back in my brain the performances of new and not-so-new bands at “Rock the Bayou”, and I work to forget the intense heat of the day and the wet rags around my neck necessary to decrease the chance of falling over from prolonged sun exposure. I mean, I got a good tan out of it. And that’s gotta be worth something. Great 80s hair bands and bronze skin. Who can ask for more than that?  Not I.