Lost Pictures

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Somewhere in a box there are pictures of me as a young girl, when my hair was still more gold than brown, and my mother made most of my clothes. I’ve never really cared for pictures of me, but suddenly I want the one of me and a childhood friend in school girl costumes – you know, like when you put the hood of your sweatshirt over your head, and tie the strings under your chin, but slip your arms from the sleeves so that it’s a cape, and your ruler is a ray gun, and the cheap mask leftover from Halloween turns you into Supergirl or Wonder Woman or whatever.

Somewhere in a box there’s a picture of me and a boy my age dressed up like superheroes, with blankets and towels tucked into the collars of our t-shirts.

We were superheros who fought against JAWS because it was the ’70s, when the movie was new enough, scary enough, to keep our young toes on the sand when we went to the beach, and instead of pretending to fight with plastic light sabers (because they didn’t yet exist) we argued about who’s house the radio guy meant when he said, “Coming soon to a theater near YOU!”

Somewhere in a box there are pictures, but in my heads are the movies and the memories and the taste of innocence that lingers at the back of my mouth and the scent of childhood that wafts across my dreams.

Conversations with Fuzzy

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“Lovey!” Fuzzy called in his panicked tone, as he entered the house last night. (It should be noted, however that Fuzzy, aka Stoic!Boy, is a midwesterner, and therefore his panicked tone is only fractionally different from his normal voice.) “Lovey, we need to talk about the car.”

This is not the way to begin a conversation, especially when your wife is a self-identifying Californian with strident Italian relatives, and a history of summering with them at the Jersey shore. (Translation: there is no way in hell I could ever be called Stoic!Gal.)

“What’s wrong?” I asked, my mind rapidly flipping through options. Did we need to find a truck accident lawyer because my generally mild husband finally lost it and attacked the driver of one of the ubiquitous monster-SUVs that block the sun from half our neighborhood. Or worse, had he hit an animal?

“We need to get the tires done, like now. I noticed one has visible steel.”

I refrained from pointing out that car maintenance falls into his purvey. I pay the bills, I do the cooking, and I deal with most home repairs, but the car is his job.

“Okay,” I said. “I thought you’d asked for a quote on new tires a few weeks ago.”

“Well, they never called me back.”

I gave him the sort of death glare that is so often used between committed partners. The one that clearly means, “And you aren’t capable of picking up the phone to follow up???” (The multiple question marks are obligatory.)

“I guess I should call them tomorrow morning,” he said after an excruciatingly long pause in which I practiced the technique I learned when still in mortgages of not talking first once a deal has been offered because the person who speaks first loses.

“Yes,” I said, “I think that would be a good idea, Sweety.”

Approximately seventeen hours later, the car was sporting new tires.

Smallville isn’t the only fictional town in Kansas

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Over the last two and a half weeks, Fuzzy and I have worked our way through the entire too-brief run of Jericho, thanks to the superpass at Blockbuster that allows you to take out a movie, and keep swapping it for other movies and/or games for one monthly fee.

Those who know me will understand why I resisted watching it when it was on: Other than the fact that it conflicted with Project Runway at least some of the time, I have issues with movies and shows that involve people being tired, cold, scared, hungry, dirty, or lacking toilet paper. It is for this reason that I stopped watching Battlestar Galactica, and it is for this reason why the Underworld movies, which premise I like, did not appeal.

I have no problem with dark subjects, blood and guts, or violent scenes as long as they move the plot forward, and as long as they also involve the main characters getting to go home to a warm dinner, a hot bath, and bunny slippers after they’re done saving the world or fighting for injustice.

Nevertheless, once we were fifteen minutes into Jericho, I was wishing we had a living room with surround sound and home theater seating, because I was hooked. It helped, I think, that some of the writers had worked on one of my favorite shows, The West Wing, and that the producer, John Turtletaub was also involved with the National Treasure movies, which I think are lovely escapist entertainment.

So, this post sees me standing corrected. Jericho rocks, and I’m sorry I didn’t watch it when it was actually, you know, on.

Pink Ink.

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I should be blogging about the sexy pink fountain pen that I bought from RichardINK, but I’m so tired, and have written so many words today for work and in my novel, and such, that I’m going to just crash.

However, I will note that among the ink cartridges he sent with the pen was a pink one that I cannot wait to try, and the weight of the pen is really satisfyingly solid without being uncomfortably heavy.

And on that note, I’m going to bed. Yay, bed.

Media Monday: Mamma Mia

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It opened here on Friday, and we saw it on Sunday, and loved it. It’s fluff, but it’s joyful fluff, and reminded me of being seven years old and knowing the lyrics to all of ABBA’s music. I had to be restrained to keep from singing along. (Note: there needs to be a sing-along Mamma Mia in the same vein as the sing-along Sound of Music.)

As we were leaving, Fuzzy said, “So we’re buying this on DVD as soon as it comes out, right?”

As if there’s any question.

P.S. The calendar may say “Tuesday,” but as I haven’t been to bed yet, it’s still “Monday” to me.

Catching Up

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I’ve been negligent about blogging here. I could list any number of things that were keeping me away, but the reality is, I’ve either been writing fiction, writing for work, prepping for my conference, or reading, and I feel like I’m gathering my energy. Also, I just don’t have a lot to say.

The weekend before last, we went to one of those seminars where they try to sell you a timeshare and give you prizes. We had no intention of buying anything, even when they offered to throw in everything from Callaway golf clubs to the kitchen sink, but we left with a gift certificate for 2 free tickets anywhere in the US (sadly, too late to use for San Francisco) and a seven-day car rental to use with them.

Not too shabby.

We also saw Hancock which was disappointing, largely because it was a black comedy for the first half than morphed into some weird romantic epic/action flick. The performances were fine. The script sucked.

We spent this last weekend at the movies as well, seeing The Dark Knight on Saturday afternoon, and both Journey to the Center of the Earth and Mamma Mia on Sunday. Gotta love matinees.

I also had my nails done, in preparation for my trip. I had a discount for services at a place Deb said was good, and we met there, and had some girly fun. I’m now sporting solar acrylics – I’ve never had fake nails before – but the cost is about the same, and it’s been two and a half days and they still look amazing. With normal nails, I can’t go two and a half hours without chipping or breaking something. They’re longer than I’m used to, however, and I can’t decide if I like the French Manicure look. Still, they look really good.

Two weeks to go.
Watch now as I panic.

Sticky Notes

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I used to call my bullet posts “sticky notes” because they reminded me of all the little things I scribble on, well, sticky notes (Post-It being a specific BRAND of same) to write about later, except that I rarely, actually do.

This post is actually about the sticky notes themselves. You see, when I was purging my desk of the remnants of my life in loans, I also threw out big stacks of sticky notes. Why? Because these were the free ones, given as marketing toys by various title companies and mortgage lenders, and with the current state of the mortgage industry, keeping them around was too depressing.

I look at the company names and think, “I wonder if Amy/Rachel/Tina/Nicole/Joe/Mike is still employed. I wonder if they’re still in the industry.”

The thing about the real estate industry, whether it’s the part where you sell houses, or the part where you finance them, is that, like a sticky note stuck to the bottom of your shoe, it stays with you. You may think you’ve left, but then three years later, you’ll find yourself telling a friend, “Let me look at your Good Faith Estimate before you sign it, and just make sure you’re not being overcharged, or underquoted,” and someone overhears you, and, and, and…

Or two years later, in the midst of a mortgage industry crisis a recruiter calls you, and asks if you want to give up your self-employment as a writer and come back to work, and it’s all you can do not to rudely laugh in their face, when you ask. “Are there actually companies still running?”

The thing is, a lot of what’s happening is NOT the fault of individual lenders, or a problem that originated in the industry. It’s cascade failure. It’s a last-straw scenario. It’s, “fuel is getting more expensive, but we need fuel to deliver goods, so to offset it we’re cutting jobs,” followed by “honey, I’m looking but no one in my field is hiring,” followed by having to choose between paying for your house or buying food, and, while it’s true that there ARE predatory lenders, and always have been, most of these companies are completely above-board, and if their customers didn’t read the part of the contract where it says in really big, black letters, “THIS IS AN ADJUSTABLE. IT WILL GO UP IN 2 YEARS, AND WILL FLUCTUATE THEREAFTER,” it really isn’t their fault.

For that matter, not all adjustables are bad. There’s a reason they exist, and there are times when they’re extremely advantageous.

But it’s more than I can explain on a sticky note.

Moonlight and Guava Puree

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If there were a diet pill that would change my blood chemistry so that mosquitoes would stop treating me like prime snacking material, I’d totally take it.

As I write this, I’m pleasantly cool, despite the fact that the temperature was 104 at 5 PM, and still reads around 88. About an hour ago, I left the air conditioned house and went outside where there was a warm breeze blowing. The light from the half moon was shining on the pool, and the wind was creating soft ripples. I was hot and cranky, and wanted not to be hot and cranky. We’d been out all day, came home overtired, and while we’d both napped from six to nine, Fuzzy was still (and is still) sound asleep.

Obviously, I’m awake.

The pool was beckoning, so I dashed back inside for a big fluffy beach towel, stripped off the cotton tank and pajama bottoms I was wearing, and stepped into the water, scaring a gecko that was sitting on the ledge of the planter along the back wall of the pool. (It did not fall in, thankfully.)

I didn’t swim laps, but I did grab a foam kickboard, and float around a little – I was trying not to get my hair wet because I hadn’t bothered with a swim bap – while Miss Cleo nosed around in the ivy for more small lizards to chase.

I didn’t stay in long, only 20 minutes, but it was enough to cool my skin, soothe my mood, and refresh my brain.

As I got out, and wrapped my towel around me, I felt the warmth of the pebble-textured deck beneath my bare feet, and realized there were no bugs buzzing close to me. It may be horribly hot here, but the lack of significant rain and relatively light humidity – especially for Texas in summer – means a dearth of mosquitoes.

I am not complaining, though I believe this may be why we don’t have any visible writing spiders in the back yard this year, and while I generally hate being able to see spiders, I miss those pretty, talented arachnids.

* * * * *

I am hungry, which makes sense since we ate ‘breakfast’ at 4 PM, and otherwise I’ve just had coffee drinks and bottled water.

Fuzzy took me to Zaguan for that meal, and I fell in love with the place. The food is fresh and real – I could taste the distinct flavor of every vegetable in my scrambled eggs, and the grilled plaintains were just the right level of sweetness. The mango-papaya smoothie I had (it came with my meal) was literally mango, papaya, and chilled water – no sorbet or fruit juice or sweetener. It was delightfully orange and really refreshing.

Since Zaguan is also a bakery, and I cannot resist a good pastry, I brought home two chocolate croissants for tomorrow’s breakfast (one for each of us), and a pair of guava-filled alfajores which are traditional Latin American cookies, though the use of guava is NOT traditional.

These have holes in the center a la Linzer tarts, and the guava puree poking up was healthy and flushed pink and somehow sexy to the point of being obscene, and right now I can’t think of anything better than to go brew a mug of tea and eat the cookies.

Bibliotica Lives!

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It’s been roughly two months since I’ve updated my bookblog at Bibliotica, but I have been reading a lot. Most recently, I finished Water for Elephants and I’m currently reading The Man of My Dreams by the same person who wrote Prep.

While I haven’t yet re-vamped the skin (need to do that soon), I have added one of those astore pages, you know, the kinds that sell Amazon books and give you a kickback? I have NOT linked to it in this article because it’s not quite live yet. Look for it on Sunday or Monday.

I have two more novellas to read before Algonkian. I’m in this zone where I’m both terrified and excited. Expect that to be the case until August 4th, when I leave.

And keep thinking good thoughts, please?