It Hit Me: Welcome to the Punch

Anyone who knows me, or this collection of mildly unstable humans known as my household members, knows that WE LOVE MOVIES.

Like, it's an obsession. My daughter writes an entertainment blog when she's not corralling teddy bears and the wonderful, friendly, patient, not at all pushy or entitled or spoiled customers who come into that store (one of these days ... I WILL HAVE STORIES ... but not now because we need her to remain gainfully employed). Husband works in the industry and has for the last 25 years, although folks who say "wow that is so glamorous" don't live with the silicone and foam and fiberglass that walks in on his clothes every night. MOVIE MAGIC, folks.

It's also why when stupid Facebook starts asking me questions in the margin about HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MOVIE, I, like a drone, click-click-click my way through tons of movies, wasting ridiculous amounts of time, giving away my secrets to All the NSA Trolls watching me because of COURSE I am that interesting and important and of COURSE my OCD won't let me not click when someone asks me such questions, even if it's a ZuckerRobot. (I'm sure this shit taps into our inner child who needs to feel validated and loved by proving to our ego that we are worthy and smart and not a failure at all even if we have mommy/daddy issues and even though we're on FB in the middle of the day when we should be working.)

SEE?????

WHY YES FACEBOOK I HAVE SEEN THAT IT WAS FIVE STARS ... and that one. Three stars. Oh, no, that one was terrible WHY DOES DISNEY KEEP MAKING PUPPY MOVIES? *ahem* For the record, I only watched Santa Buddies and Santa Pups because Yaunna was in them. SHE WAS. An elf. My sweetie height-challenged lass ... 

That's her. Cute, eh?

We talk about books and movies around here. A lot. If you're not into books or movies, you will be bored stiff by our conversations, and chances are, we're not friends anyway, so you don't have to worry about us boring the hell out of you with our book-and-movie chitchat. We talk about story, characters and their arcs (or lack thereof), why certain stories work when others fall flat, goals, motivations, conflicts, who has the best hair, why Jennifer Lawrence wins at life, what the HELL is going on with Johnny Depp and if poor Taylor Kitsch will ever make another movie ... SUPER IMPORTANT STUFF.

So, in this vein, I bring you a movie review of sorts. About my latest obsession. Stop what you're doing, go to your local DVD/Blu-Ray retailer (online or in person), and GET THIS FILM:

But, JENN, you're only telling us to watch this because Mark Strong is in it. OH MY DEAR GOD he is so in this, and he's absolutely enthralling, as per usual. My obsession with him, while mildly unhealthy and borderline creepy, is not the only driving force behind me instructing you to view this film post haste.

It's a bloody good movie.

The script is tight -- like, your-pants-on-Thanksgiving/[insert international holiday that allows you to pig out]-after-you've-made-the-third round-of-the-table tight. The good guys aren't wholly good, and the bad guys, well, they have heart and soul AND I LOVE THAT because we rarely see that with bad guys. Thing is, bad guys are BAD because they believe in what they're doing. Rarely are characters bad simply for the sake of being bad (except in stupid cartoons, which we addressed ad nauseam in a prior post). Bad guys THINK they're doing the right thing. They believe that what they are doing, whether robbing a bank or cutting someone's throat, is for a higher cause, a power or belief system bigger than themselves, for a lust or power or desire they have no choice but to fulfill. In essence, a bad guy is nothing but a good guy with motives otherwise deemed unseemly by society at large. (Except Voldemort. SOMEONE please explain to me why Voldemort was bad. Why did he want to kill Harry Potter? Hogwarts was so lovely -- why destroy it? Disclaimer: I haven't read the books. Despite my writerly girl crush on J. K. Rowling. I am so ashamed. Please don't tell her. *hangs head*)

Just ask Wreck-It Ralph: "I am bad, and that's good. I will never be good, and that's not bad. There is no one I'd rather be than me." 

But when it comes to the quintessential bad guy, filmmakers are onto Mark Strong. He brings to the screen a depth not often seen in villainous portrayal. Even Frank D'Amico in Kick-Ass is a bad guy who loves his kid. Bad guys have families -- lovers, wives, babies, friends. A well-crafted, expertly drawn bad guy is NOT a bad guy.

Jacob Sternwood is exactly this man. But what brings him to his knees will make your heart melt in your chest. Never underestimate the love one parent has for his child.

Daddy Sternwood in his Very Bad Day. (Mark Strong is CRYING. *melts* God, I love it when they cry.)

Great visual themes/motifs in this film. Director Eran Creevy is a writing/directing phenom who gave us modern-day London without Big Ben or the London Eye. Classy, sleek, elegant, dangerous. Delicious.

Uh-oh.

James McAvoy -- there aren't enough measure-centric words for me to express the depth of this lad's talent. (Clearly, because now I'm making shit up. Measure-centric? WTH does that mean? You know -- measuring words. Inches, feet, miles, centimetres and kilometres and Celsius for you anti-Imperialists out there.) A FB friend of mine keeps me in the loop with McAvoy (and her other very justifiable crush, Michael Fassbender), so I'm never far away from knowing what this hunk of Scottish Delight is doing. He plays police officer Max Lewinsky, a copper whose heart is absolutely in his job. The first four minutes of the film will lay the scene for the conflict that will define him for the subsequent calamity that is his career, and in each nuanced movement, line, and thrust of the gun hand, McAvoy delivers. I feel Max Lewinsky's pain. Every. Single. Ounce. And when I say ounce, think about that when he's decanting his knee. Just wait. You'll see what I mean.

The climax of this scene was shot in 500 frames per second. Which means IT IS GLORIOUS.

Andrea Riseborough ... girl, you got it goin' on. This is one of the things I LOVE about British films. First, everyone can act. Like, they got some wacky acting vitamin in the water there because they are all so effing awesome. This is the first thing I've seen Miss Andrea in -- I am so embarrassed to admit that out loud (although I do have the Oblivion soundtrack so does that count?) -- but it certainly won't be the last. She's amazing. Her character, Sarah Hawks -- I don't know if I can talk about this without crying. So I won't.

Somebody get this girl a Moleskine.

Welcome to the Punch has it all: conspiracy, criminal intent, flawed good guys and soulful bad guys, a couple of bad guys who are real bastards (and YET, they are again working toward that "selfless commitment"). Sure, lots of guns and shoot-'em-ups happen for the action junkies, but the STORY. I think I might take to the street corner with my sandwich board reading SEE THIS FILM OR THE END IS NIGH if I think about this too much. It gave me all the feels. And it takes a lot to do that. At my last medical checkup, they had a hard time drawing blood because I am made of cold, hard granite.

So yeah. There you have it. My version of a movie review. I could keep going ... the super-bad-ass performances by Peter Mullan, whose Roy is a friend to Sternwood like Horatio is to Hamlet (read: true blue through and through) and Johnny Harris (omigod, I haven't hated a bad guy in a film this much in forever, which tells me ex-soldier/hired mercenary Dean Warns is exactly what cinema is missing) and the sinister calm of David Morrisey's go as police captain Thomas Geiger ... gahhhhhh. I told you I wouldn't shut up. THIS IS YOUR FAULT.

My sole complaint? This is aimed at the folks responsible for the movie's score: it is only available in the UK via Amazon UK. I needs it, Precious. I'm in Canader, and we can't get it here. This makes us sad. You don't underSTAND my love for haunting, layered movie scores. Some people use meth; I use movie scores. I tweeted composer Harry Escott, but alas, I'm just another creepy stalker fan person. So, hey, Worldview Entertainment and IFC Films? Could you please see about getting this score into the North American market? Kthanksbye. 

Get thee to a film shop. Buy. Watch. Adore. Comment.

One last shot before we go:

Love you, honey. Even if you're shooting someone. #badguysrule

Xs and Os, lovelies ...

Crazy from the Heat: Next Time, I'll Take Two-Ply

While vacuuming, naturally I begin to think about three-ply toilet paper. Why three plies? Why do we need three layers to wipe off ... you know. That. And have you seen the Charmin commercials where Momma Bear is doing laundry and she discovers the skidmarks inside the undies and that is how she knows her baby bears need three-ply toilet paper? But then in the next frame, none of the bear children are WEARING any underwear, so what is the point of washing Baby Bear's skivvies if he doesn't really wear them? Are those underwear stolen? Are we witnessing a crime in progress? Or is Momma Bear doing her part to help with the mortgage and she's actually washing the underwear that belong to Goldilocks and her neglectful 9-to-5 parents and those undergarments really belong to the people for whom Momma Bear works, likely for a shit wage and no benes and no paid holidays? 

But -- wait -- if those ARE Baby Bear's underpants, if he doesn't really wear them and he's not good at cleaning his undercarriage, does that mean all the furniture in the house has been soiled and stained accordingly?

DO BEARS HAVE FURNITURE OR HIGH-EFFICIENCY WASHING MACHINES?

Tell me -- do you guys get this commercial in the US? Elsewhere? I can post the link to the French one if you want. Poop sounds so much cooler en Français.

As often happens when I'm vacuuming -- a mind-numbing chore I try very hard to avoid until the memory in my feet screams at me CLEAN THESE FLOORS BEFORE I REVOLT AND TAKE LEAVE OF YOUR ANKLES -- my brain, well, it short circuits a little. All that monotonous back and forth, the drawing of lines in the carpet, the watching while the other members of the household destroy those beautiful lines with their stinky, sticky feet ... Mommy likes the lines ... I vacuum the wee hallway connecting the tiny bathroom off the "master" bedroom (more like the bedroom that really wanted to be the master but had to settle for second mate or even the guy who has to mop the decks) and I see the package of Charmin that I bought because they were all out of the less expensive store brand, and I never buy three-ply because we have the worst plumbing in the world and my children still do not believe me when I say they don't need to use half a roll of toilet paper every time something other than liquid exits their bodies. (I am certified with a plunger. Like, journeyman-level certification here. The universal plumbers' alliance should just knight me, I'm that good.) 

ANYWAY, hummmmmmmm -- that's the vacuum -- it's still going, and I'm now drenched and I've got boob sweat, which is totally gross but would've been so much hotter 20 years ago when my ass was still hard enough to bounce nickels off and I didn't have all these weird hairs sprouting from -- never mind -- and I'm glad I didn't put on makeup because I'd be drinking it at this point, and it is SO EFFING HOT I want to die but not really because dying would suck, especially while vacuuming -- and it dawns on me that Charmin three-ply toilet paper is sold to us by bears who have washing machines and vacuums of their own ... and THAT is why I hate cartoons.

You're following along, aren't you. Aren't you?

I really do hate cartoons. Like, Looney Toons and Baby Looney Toons and Merrie Melodies and Hanna-Barbera and The Flintstones and Elmer Fudd (someone SHOOT him already) and that Tazmanian Devil and that obNOXious Yosemite Sam and that confounded Wile E. Coyote who never, ever gets the bird and the skin-peeling, eye-yanking, thumb-smashing terror of Scooby Doo.

Be very careful Googling this image. A picture of a poorly drawn Wile E. Coyote tattoo on some guy's very hairy ass pops up in Google Images. I cannot unsee that. The bleach just stings us, Precious.

But Jenn, you say. Cartoons were a part of our childhoods, you say. NOT MINE. They stressed me the hell out. How could Fred Flintstone possibly survive getting hit in the head that many times? And dinosaurs and people didn't LIVE in even remotely the same historical period! Duh! How could the Coyote survive the anvil on his skull and not have permanent neurological damage? He should have multiple metal plates and slurp his pureed protein-enriched dinner through a straw by now! How could Daffy Duck turn his beak around after it had been shot off by that mentally challenged man with a speech impediment and a loaded weapon? And who thought it was a good idea to give George Jetson's housekeeper artificial intelligence? I saw I, Robot. That shit scared the hell out of me. No robots in THIS house, even if they do vacuum.

Sunny says HI. (CREEPY!!!!)

Which -- of course -- leads me back to the conversation about the bears and their dirty butts. Bears probably have very dirty butts. In fact, I guarantee it. They also have very large paws, as evidenced by a blog post months ago wherein I provide photographic evidence of bear prints IN MY SNOWY YARD. Because I live in the Great White North and of course we have bears and beavers and moose and cougars and Santa SO STOP ASKING. (Okay, that is a partial falsehood. I have never seen a moose. They live farther north. Near Santa.)

I would not ordinarily buy Charmin toilet paper because their commercials stress me out, just like all those nasty little cartoons did when I was between the ages of three and eleven, after which time we got an Apple IIe on which I could write angsty poetry and cable television when MTV still played music videos about how video killed the radio star and how Madonna was still a virgin. Or wait. She wanted us to like a virgin. Or maybe she just wanted us to like her hair, which I totally did, and I totally dressed like her for Halloween one year. Nailed it.

What were we talking about?

Vacuuming. Poop. Cartoons. Stress. All of the above. My conclusion: Stop making commercials that use woodland creatures who not only don't care where they shit but who don't wear underwear EVER in their lives (although I'd pay to watch someone try to put a pair of boxer briefs on a full-grown American brown bear). Bears don't wear glasses. They don't read newspapers. They don't own HE washers or houses nicer than mine. (Way to make me feel like a winner, Charmin. Your stupid bears have nicer furniture than I do AND THEY'RE CARTOONS.) The way to this consumer mom's heart is not through an allegory of fuzzy bears with common sense and a knack for folding laundry. No. You're stressing me out. I can't buy your toilet paper anymore because BEARS DON'T DO LAUNDRY.

Honestly, if these advertisers were smart, they'd put Henry Cavill on every single package of toilet paper. End of story. Because even Superman has to wipe his butt. Right? If he needs help with that, I've been a mom and an editor for a looooooong time. I'm good with wiping butts.

Doesn't look like Superman wears undies, ladies ...

Saturday chores are only four days away. I'll let you know if any stunning revelations occur while I'm again drawing those fated lines in the few patches of carpet left in the house.

Xs and Os ...

Did You Giggle This Week? You Will Now.

My favorite posts from this week ...

Convos with My Two-Year-Old:

If you're not following these guys (links below), you are MISSING OUT. This team of crazy-talented film folks has started these webisodes and they've gone viral after just a few months! This is Episode 6, posted this week, but spend your coffee break and go back through to Episode 1. You won't be sorry.

"I'm the boss."

YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/user/ConvosWith2YrOld?feature=watch
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/ConvosWithMy2YearOld?fref=ts


And THIS:

 
Or perhaps THIS:

And FINALLY ...

THIS photo of the ravenously beautiful Richard Armitage, aka, Thorin Oakenshield (The Hobbit) and Mr. Thornton (North & South), and a bazillion other swoonworthy projects. He is the biggest challenger to my undying love for Mark Strong. What is it with British men that weaken thy knees?

Mmm, mmm, Armitage.

Have a great weekend, lovelies. More cat pictures next week.

Xs and Os ...

Nuit the Naughty: Photo Comic of a Bad Kitten

We'll reacquaint ourselves with one another via today's photographic comic strip. Forgive me if you are one of the 349 Facebook friends who has already enjoyed this moment of Nuit.

THE MAGICAL BOX OF DOOM

THIS IS MY BOX.

Try to take it from me.

I DARE YOU.

Mmm, this is some premium quality cardboard right here, I'm telling you. Nom nom nom.

 

INTRUDER!

I am not an intruder. This is my house, you little imp. Get out of that box. It's probably mine.

My box. Forever.

~~~

 
So ... how's summer? What are you guys doing? Anyone going anywhere interesting? And by interesting, I mean farther than the grocery store, the dry cleaners, or to the dermatologist to have those pesky skin tags removed. (Demand anesthetic. Trust me.)

Short post. I have a summer cold. Which means I'm crabby and I spent my 12 oz. of energy on taking the youngest offspring to the orthodontist this morning. Smile pretty, brace face! Awww, mean mommy. Nah, he looks cute. But my sweet, juicy baby just turned NINE. Holy shit, NINE. How does that happen? My baby is nine. Which means I'm getting old. And yet I have friends, same age or close to my age, who are just popping out their first squirts now and I'm like, dude, sucks to be you, 40+ years old with cracked nipples and no energy and yeah the baby's crying again and you can't remember the last time you slept and forget about grabbing a nap because the garbage truck just went by and the baby's awake again and screaming bloody murder and your boobs are leaking and sex what's that and no you shouldn't take your baby to that poetry reading because when he/she/it starts to cry you're gonna piss people off because not everyone looks at your baby with the same adoring eyes you do oh isn't she cute she's crying over the writer's obvious angst in the face of overwhelming adversity ...

I got your angst. It's called PARENTHOOD.

I'm rambling, aren't I ...

I've been a mom for twenty-three frigging years. I've learned a thing or two. I've also learned that I know nothing (sort of like Jon Snow ... except for that thing he does with his mouth).

Tell me what you're reading. I've got, like, 14 books on the go right now. And I will post shortly with a Beautiful Stack of Beauty to cover the purchases over the last few months. SO MANY BOOKS SO LITTLE TIME WHY CAN'T WE LIVE FOREVERRRRRR ...

I'm going to hunt down the person who gave me this ridiculous cold and COUGH on them. But first, I'm going to reengineer this virus so that it makes the person sprout strange, thorny hairs from the surface of his/her nose and fart uncontrollably whenever the smell of coffee wafts by.

Maybe I need a hug.

Xs and Os ...

P.S. This week's offering from Jenn's Bad Jokes Recycled from Facebook: 

Baggage claim: That area of the airport where you walk up to the counter and say, "It's a blue duffel of mommy issues" or "It's a red valise of daddy-didn't-love-me" or "Looking for my garment bag of bad taste in boyfriends."

You're welcome.

Pitchforks Down, or Don't Sack Me Because We're Friends

Everything we need to know about getting along in life, we can learn from eight-year-old boys.

Last week, I waited outside the classroom in the unseasonably pleasant sunshine, waiting, waiting, parents bustling by, kids rambling to tired caregivers about the day and what the popsicle sticks and macaroni mean in their Dadaist masterpieces haphazardly glued onto faded, years-old construction paper. Breeze: light. Birds: chirping. Air: sweet.

And then my youngest child, the curly-haired lad, emerges from his classroom, eyes swollen and red, freckles blazing against cheeks tearstained and blotchy. Uh-oh.

On the subsequent walk home, I get the story: Kendon and his buddy, who we'll call Huck (because I just realized I should read Huck Finn to the kids this summer), well, they had a little scrap that started something like this. I shall paraphrase:

First, I smacked his tummy. But not hard. We were just waiting in line, and I smacked him like this. [Kendon pats my belly to show me how "gentle" he was.] Then he got mad and he sacked me. In the testicles. Like this. [Demonstrates on himself, only not really.] Then I smacked him back on the belly because it hurt my penis when he hit me, and then he punched me, like, five times in the gut and in the wiener. I got really mad and pushed him back, but the teacher saw us and pulled us aside.

My sweet boy got into his first schoolyard scuffle. In the middle of drama class (talk about timing!). And he handled it like a gentleman. By the sounds of it, both he and Huck showed that they're good men-in-training, through and through, despite the physical violence. Upon questioning their teacher the following day, she relates a conversation -- heard secondhand from the drama teacher present at the time of the smackdown -- that went something like this (I shall take creative license in the hope of maintaining your attention):

Teacher: Boys, what happened here?
Kendon: We got into a fight.
Teacher: Who hit first?
Kendon: I did. [Kendon starts crying.]
Teacher: Are you both okay?
Kendon / Huck: Yes. / Mm-hmm. / My penis hurts. / We're okay.
Teacher: [More uninteresting questions. Kendon cries harder.]

(Here comes the best part:)

Huck: Excuse me, but you're making my friend sad. Could you stop asking him questions because I don't like it when my friends are sad.

Even though these two little buggers were knocking the shit out of each other's parts, they stopped long enough to be sensitive to the fact that under it all, they're still friends.

If only the grown-ups would remember that just because you sack someone in the testes, it doesn't mean you can't share your Jell-O cup five minutes later. Because who doesn't like Jell-O????

Stop bitching at each other. Stop fighting. None of this matters in the bigger picture. THIS MEANS YOU. Yeah! I said it! You don't matter! None of us really do, unless we're curing cancer or digging wells for dying villages or figuring out a way to stop the sea levels from wiping out our cities. You do realize in the cosmic stuff that is us, our human lives account for an invisible fraction of the world's story?

Be authentic.
Don't be a douche.
Behave yourself.
Stop pointing fingers.
Put your pitchfork away. Pitchforks are best used for stabbing hay (and zombies), so if you don't have a farm (or zombies), you don't need the pitchfork.

Or just watch this:

(If this video won't play, it's at YouTube here and Vimeo here.)

As these eight-year-old boys have demonstrated so aptly, we don't sweat the petty stuff, we pet the sweaty stuff.

Xs and Os, my lovelies ...

Emma Coats and Her Pixar Story Laws

Emma Coats is a former story artist at Pixar. Yes, that Pixar who brings us fantastically written, universally relatable stories like Up, Toy Story 1, 2, and 3, WALL-E, The Incredibles, Finding Nemo, Ratatouille, et cetera. Awesome stories. Great characters. Total Kleenex soakers (as in tears, guys. MINDS OUT OF GUTTER).

WALL-E. At its core, it is a love story. And my favorite ever.

In 2011 Coats tweeted a series of basics that every story needs to appeal to its audience.  (This has made its rounds, but I feel it's appropriate to bring it back into circulation.) The foundation of a film is, of course, its screenplay, a collection of words far sparser than what is found in a novel but packed with a punch just as powerful. The vehicle may be different, but the goal is the same: compel the reader/viewer to read/view the next scene and on and on until the credits roll/last page is turned. Engage them. Suck them in like you have tenterhooks embedded in their eyeballs. Never let go. Take them to the end and then drop them in a pillow of awesome they will never forget. Make them want a cigarette after watching/reading your story. Breathless, pacing the room to try to understand the greatness he/she has just witnessed.

Here's a head start. Thanks to Emma Coats for sharing her brain cells with the Interwebz. (The Lego images included are by Alex Eylar of ICanLegoThat.)

******

#1: You admire a character for trying more than for their successes.

#2: You gotta keep in mind what’s interesting to you as an audience, not what’s fun to do as a writer. They can be very different.

#3: Trying for theme is important, but you won’t see what the story is actually about till you’re at the end of it. Now rewrite.

#4: Once upon a time there was ___. Every day, ___. One day ___. Because of that, ___. Because of that, ___. Until finally ___.

#5: Simplify. Focus. Combine characters. Hop over detours. You’ll feel like you’re losing valuable stuff but it sets you free.

#6: What is your character good at, comfortable with? Throw the polar opposite at them. Challenge them. How do they deal?

#7: Come up with your ending before you figure out your middle. Seriously. Endings are hard; get yours working up front.

#8:

Image by Alex Eylar

#9: When you’re stuck, make a list of what WOULDN’T happen next. Lots of times the material to get you unstuck will show up.

#10: Pull apart the stories you like. What you like in them is a part of you; you’ve got to recognize it before you can use it.

#11: Putting it on paper lets you start fixing it. If it stays in your head, a perfect idea, you’ll never share it with anyone.

#12: Discount the 1st thing that comes to mind. And the 2nd, 3rd, 4th, 5th – get the obvious out of the way. Surprise yourself.

#13: 

Give your characters opinions. Passive/malleable might seem likable to you as you write, but it’s poison to the audience.

#14: Why must you tell THIS story? What’s the belief burning within you that your story feeds off of? That’s the heart of it.

#15: If you were your character, in this situation, how would you feel? Honesty lends credibility to unbelievable situations.

#16: What are the stakes? Give us reason to root for the character. What happens if they don’t succeed? Stack the odds against.

#17: 

No work is ever wasted. If it’s not working, let go and move on - it’ll come back around to be useful later.

#18: You have to know yourself: the difference between doing your best & fussing. Story is testing, not refining.

#19: 

Image by Alex Eylar

#20: Exercise: take the building blocks of a movie [book] you dislike. How do you rearrange them into what you DO like?

#21: You gotta identify with your situation/characters. Can’t just write "cool." What would make YOU act that way?

#22: 

What’s the essence of your story? Most economical telling of it? If you know that, you can build out from there.

******

Use these as a checklist when you're writing. When you think you're done with a story, go through these questions one at a time and ask yourself -- answering honestly and candidly -- if your story hits these beats. Ask the tough questions. Stop sending half-baked work into the world and then whining about your rejection rate on Twitter. YES, I can say this because I am one of those people. After 23 rejections, I rewrote the whole book. And then I rewrote it again. And again. Finally, I think our relationship is solid enough that we can start tasting wedding cakes, but only because we did the work. An assload of work. It ain't enough to shit 'n shine, folks. 

Best of luck. Remember, make 'em feel something. Go to it.

Find Emma: 

Twitter

Website

Xs and Os, my lovelies ...

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.

SO. MUCH. EXCITEMENT.

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.

This Mick Is Sadly Sober Today. Oh, and Nuit and Mark Strong.

Happy St. Patrick's Day! I'm Scotch Irish, so I should be a'celebratin'. Alas, I am not. I am working. On a book. That you will get to read. Eventually. I PROMISE.

In the meantime, here's Nuit. ISN'T SHE GORGEOUS?!?!? Yes, I've become one of those people who posts pictures of her animals. But only because she's so ridiculously awesome.

In other news, this week, my good friend Heather Hildenbrand released a terrific new book about clones. It's a keeper. Called Imitation: Book 1 of the Clone Chronicles, you can find it here (Amazon):

I am an avid fan of Laini Taylor (Daughter of Smoke and Bone, Days of Blood and Starlight, among others), and recently on her blog, she wrote about a 33-year-old writer and librarian who tragically succumbed to colon cancer before her book was released. SO SAD. Bridget Zinn's debut novel, Poison, looks fantastic. It released this week, without its mommy here to welcome it. Go show some love. 

Available at Powell's Books, Barnes & Noble, Amazon, and Indie Bound. Available in Canada on March 19 via Chapters Indigo. Go forth. Get some poison in your life.

If you've followed me for any length of time, you know I might be a wee bit in love with a certain British thespian (*cough* MARK STRONG *cough*), which is why I will spend a dreary Saturday night watching and re-watching every film that holds his name in its credits (Body of Lies, Stardust, Robin Hood, Kick-Ass ... you name it, I slobber over it. Yes, I even suffered through John Carter, The Green Lantern, and The Eagle, just to show my allegiance). Buying Zero Dark Thirty when it releases this Tuesday. Here. In case you don't know:

I learned this week that my darling Mr. Strong is starring alongside another delightful, delicious hunk of cinematic man meat, James McAvoy, in Welcome to the Punch. OMIGOD IT LOOKS SO GOOD. Check out the trailer on YouTube HERE. And now I give you screen shots from the trailer, just because me likey so me has to share.

Thing is, if you've read the earlier version of Sleight -- or if you're eagerly anticipating (lie to me and say you are) the impending new version ... Mark Strong is Lucian Dmitri. He's perfect. I've written every line with him plastered all over my brain. I've not been successful in dream-casting other characters -- but this one has become an obsession.

O.B.S.E.S.S.I.O.N.

He is perfect. I can't wait to show you why. Neither can my husband. Then maybe I'll stop talking about Mark Strong as if he were coming for dinner tonight. (Omigod, I would DIE. I have to go do 10,000 sit-ups and get my roots dyed, JUST IN CASE.)

NOW, time to behave. My kids are home for seventeen days on spring break because our school district has the budgetary management skills of a pubescent girl with Daddy's credit card in a new H&M store, so yeah ... kids get lots of days off because the school board can't handle their pennies. Which means, the children, they are home. Which means there will be a lot of me raving about why am I the only person who knows how to use the washing machine and why can't you guys get your own lunch what am I a short-order cook and you people just don't understand the creative genius within. Which also means my post after the break will likely be pretty manic. You've been warned.

COMMENT BELOW AND TELL ME WHAT YOU'RE READING. I've chewed through about 60 percent of The Madman's Daughter. Enjoying it. Lots of tension. Splendid.

Oh, and I need good pictures of crows. Any artists out there? Maybe I'll do a contest one of these days for the coolest crow drawing. To wrap around my wrist. Like a bracelet. Momma needs a new tattoo.

Xs and Os, lovelies ...