Wednesday, April 24, 2013

Random: Without Method or Conscious Decision. I Give You ... Wednesday

Ready for random?

Good. Let's get to it.

It comes around to my attention that I am due for a blog post. Thank you, gods of guilt, for reminding me that I am witless of word, the dawdler of diatribe, the procrastinator of peroration. Honestly, though ... what is there to say.

I get up.
I get the kids up.
Chocolate Cheerios in my bowl. I eat them, before the kitten does.
Sometimes I shower. Pull on the jeans that don't grab at my girl parts.
And then I don my devil horns and begin anew with bathing other people's manuscripts in red ink.

In the kitten's defense, this DOES look like cat food.

Although the sun has graced us these few odd days with its presence, which MEANS ... I walked. As in ... WAIT FOR IT ... EXERCISE. (I finished the latest draft of my book three weeks ago; as a treat, I bought myself new walking shoes. Reeboks. Pink and gray ones. Because my ass is too big, and  my DNA structure has mutated to where I am now part hippo, part sloth. No bueno.) I take my body OUT of doors, to a track, wherein I proceed to sweat alongside a wordsmithy friend while we discuss the Very Important Aspects of Life, including whether Britney Spears should be pitied because she is bipolar and her skanky family just wants her money, and whether Reese Witherspoon will recover from her recent disorderly conduct arrest by going on Saturday Night Live, where she will make fun of herself (UPDATE: she canceled appearances on Fallon and GMA post-arrest -- me thinks SNL might be a little much), or whether Justin Timberlake really is that charismatic in person (my friend votes no, but that boy can do some comedy -- I do love the influence of Andy Samberg on little JT), or if it really is helpful for one's circulation to flagellate the body post-workout like all the old Asian men at the track do (seriously, they walk, and then they go into the stands and beat the hell out of themselves. My friend, married to a Canadian-Chinese man who's actually Italian, says that it is supposed to open chakras or whatever the Chinese equivalent is. I'm NOT being racist -- I'm just not Chinese, and I don't know the right word. Oh, WAIT! The word is meridian! Right? I remember! Okay, so, someone look into this and get back to me).

What else do we talk about? Omigod, not being able to sleep, why people overuse the word "gaze" in their writing, how you should NEVER overuse the word "gaze" in your writing, how _______________ the government is being this week, whether we should move to Nova Scotia because we could buy a 3000-sq. ft. house with a real yard for the cost of a bachelor condo in Vancouver. I mean, what do YOU talk about when you're exercising?

We talk about our kids. Now's the part where I tell you something clever and witty about them. As my kids are a bit older, I don't have any unfortunate barfing baby or saggy diaper stories; my blouse hasn't lately become soaked in the middle of the deli lineup from exuberant lactation when someone else's baby started crying; I didn't get into a brawl over the last parking spot at Gymboree**. There are plenty of blogs that cover this stage of life. I'm done with it. THANK PICKLES. We've moved on, to the part where my 11-year-old has decided on a career as a comedian, which means he took a "personal day" Monday to study a comedy-writing book and then walked around the house all day practicing his "material" on us while we tried to work. *pats top of blond child's head* "Funny joke, Bren. Keep working on it." YES, we let him listen to Patton Oswalt because Patton is The Master. STOP JUDGING ME. (You, in the corner ... YOU ... your kid has the sense of humor of a pond stone, so ssshhhhh and go back to coloring in the lines.) But our lad recently made the select-A soccer team again, third year running, so he's allowed to be awesome and work on his comedy. If only until we stop laughing.

And the Comedy Kid? He hates bees and balloons. And we saw both in the same place, celebrating the grand opening of a new local drugstore. THIS IS FOR YOU, BRENNAN:

Bee + balloon = Brennan bad dream.

((** I did, however, have a near smackdown with a stupid woman in a BMW SUV a few years ago. She was honking at me to go, but there were children in front of me, so go I could not or else -- vehicular homicide. I got out of my car and gave her WHAT FOR. In front of pretty much the entire high school crowd. They were laughing. So much for being badass.))

Speaking of comedy, Pretty Princess just finished her first year of college, so I've been Queen Nag: "Don't you have to work today? You know, you're not going to sit on your ass for the next four months, in jammies until 2 p.m. GO DO SOME WORK AND MAKE SOMETHING OF YOURSELF." Subtext: "Or else you will end up like your mother, fresh out of therapy, totally out of clean underwear, and still in her jammies at 2 p.m." Nah, she's all right. She didn't flunk out this first year (at least I don't think she did), her entertainment blog is almost a year old and still going strong (TrulyLuminary for you newbs), and she's been chosen for leadership training at her job. If you're ever in the area and you want to stuff a bear and buy it a matching tutu, Yaunna is the elf in the denim shirt. No, really. She's an elf. She's 19 and 4'8". ELF. And sometimes, she's an angry elf. For real. Like when she reads this blog post and realizes I'm totally making fun of her. IN THE NAME OF COMEDY.

The Angry Elf (Miles Davis, aka Peter Dinklage), before he became the Master of Coin, Tyrion Lannister.

My oldest boy is a year out from his tour in Afghanistan and finally out of the U.S. Army, now in college. I. So. Proud. Except he drinks too much (crappy) beer and worries too much about women. SON, STOP. Listen to all of us old people. There's plenty of time for carnal knowledge AFTER you have a decent-paying job, after your brain grows in, which should be at around, ohhhh, say, 28, 29? If you're lonely, get a magazine. Look, but no touch. What have I been telling you all these years? "Girls are evil." Trust Mommy. Mommy's a girl. She knows these things.

Aaaaaaand the baby ... what can be said? He started gymnastics. His hair is curlier than a freshly permed circus clown. He is too skinny but won't eat and yet still has the energy of a nuclear reactor. Poor lad is getting braces next month. He's recently learned both pages of the Legend of Zelda theme song in piano class. And he's smarter than I am.

So, for all of you wondering what writers talk about when they are not writing, YOU HAVE BEEN EDUCATED. Stunning, I know. But I received an email recently where the gal asked if I would be answering the email, or if my assistant would be. I might have choked a little on my coffee. Assistant? If you mean an overcaffeinated four-month-old kitten named Nuit, then YES, my assistant will likely answer you back. But if she's busy chasing her tail or attacking her crabby 11-year-old Maine Coon brother or the morbidly obese beagle, chances are I will be answering your email.

My assistant, beating down an unruly roll of paper towels. THANK YOU, NUIT.

SPEAKING OF: I heard from a college kid named DANIELLE the other day who was interested in Sleight's sequel because she and a few other folks are reading the original (read: self-published 2011 version) book for their college class. How ADORABLES is that?!?!? Danielle, you made my day, pretty girl. Thanks for emailing. And like I told you via email, Sleight will be all shiny and pretty. Eventually. One day. I promise. And YES, there will be a second book. Only it will be an answer to this latest version of the story, which I finished three weeks ago. Did I mention that I finished this draft three weeks ago? Just wanna make sure you heard me. (THREE WEEKS.) And no, I haven't looked at it since.

WHAT I AM READING (and have now decided that Libba Bray is a goddess):

BOOKS BOUGHT THESE LAST FEW WEEKS, for myself and the kids:

And Kendi & I are reading this one right now:

Gaiman's name starts with a G, just like GENIUS.

Any Game of Thrones fans here? DID YOU WATCH THIS WEEK'S EPISODE? Holy Mother of Dragons! God, I am so in love with Khaleesi. #girlcrush

And THIS is the best SomeEcard I've seen in MONTHS:

No, seriously. SO happy.

And what Jenn post would be finished without a dedication to The Man of My Fanciful NSFW Dreams, Mr. MarkStrong, WHO, BTW, has a new series coming out on AMC this summer (after Breaking Bad) called Low Winter Sun. And because I really have nothing better to do (cough cough), Yaunna showed me the magic of Tumblr, how, if you put your search terms into the magic magnifying glass box, you can find All the Pictures of MarkStrong. I might need an intervention. But not yet. Give me a few more minutes. (P.S. When you guys read the newest version of Sleight, this obsession will become crystal clear.)

Thank you, House Elf, for making this pretty banner for Mommy. Ssshhh, don't tell Daddy.

Be safety, and have a grand week. Or month. Please do comment and let me know what you're reading. I AM SO LONELY HERE ALL BY MYSELF WITH ONLY PICTURES OF CHEERIOS AND MARK STRONG.

Xs and Os ...

P.S. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SHAKESPEARE! He turned 449 yesterday. I ate ice cream. Don't worry -- I ate enough for you too.