It's Conowingo, not Cunnilingus!

We took a road trip from Dover, DE to Lancaster, PA to see Bob Dylan in concert on Sunday. Some geographical highlights of the trip include Cooch’s Bridge, Blue Ball Bank and my personal favorite: Spread Eagle Village.

I can't think of good titles either.

I think I might be one of those authors who shouldn't blog. I can never think of anything remotely interesting to write about, but I am compelled to blog.

My consolation is this: 1) I'm not really an author (yet?) and 2) No one reads this anyway. So I can write whatever I want!

Mwahaha. *Cough* Yeah.

Pillow talk

Last night as we were about to go to sleep, Wayne readjusted one of his pillows, of which he has approximately seven thousand in various stages of caselessness. In the process of readjusting, he whacked me with it on the arm.

"Did you just attempt to initiate a pillow fight with me?" I asked.

"What? Did I hit you?"

He then hit me with the pillow again. In the face. With the zipper.

"Did you just attempt to initiate a zipper fight with me?"

"They call that The Stinger."

And he worked so hard...

Friday as I was driving home from work, Wayne called saying he wouldn't be home until after seven. I figured I'd just go down to the mall and pick up some clothes and a new book. We have a discount bookstore here in Dover called Atlantic Books, but I think I've nearly exhausted their science fiction/fantasy supply. I headed to Waldenbooks intent on buying PBW's If Angels Burn. As I approached the store, there sat a man at a rickety folding table with a marker in his hand and a stack of books beside him. No one was in line to have a copy of his book signed. I don't think anyone even noticed he was there. I wondered if Waldenbooks even knew or if he brought the table from home and set it up there. He just tapped the marker on the table and looked a little embarrased. I felt bad for him. I thought about going over and asking what his book was about, but I knew I probably wouldn't buy it, so I just walked on by. Yeah, I suck.

Golden Poet

When I was about 10 years old, my dad talked me into writing a poem and entering it into a contest. I think I sent them the only copy of the poem I had, which is unfortunate; I'm sure it would be good for a chuckle. Maybe even a guffaw. All I remember of it is the title, "Children of Glass", and one line about a boy with a guitar, but (sadly) no one would dance a jig. Or something like that - I know there was a jig involved. Apparently when I was a child, it was the 1800’s and people danced jigs.

You may be asking yourself where the inspiration for such a piece of literary genius came from. I'd like to say it was about the fragility of youth or perhaps the tragedy of child abuse. But in reality, I looked around the living room and saw the shelves of little Hummelesque figurines my mom collected. Shevles of adorable porcelain children doing adorable things like holding adorable guitars or petting adorable puppies. Seemed as good a subject as any at the time.

A few weeks later I got an envelope from the contest people and inside was… a Golden Poet award! Oh my god! Can you believe it? I won something! Yeah. At the time it was a huge deal (remember, 10 years old) and my dad even framed it for me. Of course, also in the envelope was a letter asking me to buy a huge volume of poetry in which my masterpiece Children of Glass was published. Sadly, I didn’t have the $49.99, or however much it was, but I read and re-read that letter about a jillion times, wishing I was rich so I could buy a book with my poem in it.

On a side note, 18 years later my dad is still very supportive of my writing. And my mom still has the figurines.

Thing 1 and Thing 2

I was just thinking about how to make objects in fiction seem real. Two theories I have, whether they are true or not, seem to work for me. They are:

1. Own it. Create something, name it, use it like it exists in your world. For example, "When she felt the baby kicking especially painfully, she’d climb onto the grav-lounge, hit the switch and float for hours." I bet you know what a grav-lounge is now, don't you?

2. Similar to "Objects in motion stay in motion," there is, "Fictional objects in the vacinity of real objects in real places gain credibility."

Those are my two breakthroughs for the week. I'm not sure if I am reinventing the wheel or just spewing bullshit. Maybe I'm reinventing bullshit.

Gotta Have Faith

Not only did this story make me cringe (then sigh, then roll my eyes), but it got George Michael stuck in my head for the rest of the day.

WIP it!

I posted a WIP bar for the novel I am working on. Title is a work in progress. Maybe this will motivate me more to get it finished within a reasonable amount of time. We shall see!

Lucky

We were at a rest stop somewhere in Virginia when we heard a weird knocking coming from one of the cats’ carriers. Wayne said he’d check on them after we ate. Boy, was that a smart move. The fat one had pissed all over himself and his carrier somewhere along the way. The fur on his belly and tail were soaked. We need not even discuss the smell. Wayne, though, was a trooper. He got Cazic out of his box and handed him off to me in the backseat. I was NOT touching the pee-cat. Then he got Fatty out of his carrier and wrapped him in a towel. He used Dunkin’ Donuts napkins and my bottle of water to try to clean off most of the pee. He then took the carrier outside and cleaned out all bodily fluids.

After he’d cleaned up the cat as best he could with the tools at hand then put them both back in the carriers, we drove on. I said “Man, I am so glad I married you.” And I meant it.

This weekend made me realize a few more reasons I’m glad I married him (some of which do not involve urine):

When we got to the hotel, he took Fatty directly to the bathroom and gave him a bath, then washed out both cat carriers.

He lovingly dealt with my inability to be a silent passenger.

He made a trip to the car in the rain to get my suitcase.

When he did my laundry (he does my laundry!) he made sure the cuffs on the jeans were not folded up.

It could happen to you...

Long ago, I was a chat room junkie. I have since recovered, but during my junkie-dom, I noticed one phenomenon over and over: Newbie Infatuation. I even fell prey to it myself.

It usually begins when an otherwise normal person gains internet access for the first time. They think, “Well, I better go find out what this chat business is all about” and login to a Yahoo or, more likely, AOL chat room. Though this phenomenon is most prevalent in chat rooms, it is also rampant in online games and message boards.

After a day or a week, the Newbie will run into someone who is the most charming, attractive person they’ve ever met. Of course they haven’t actually met them. Therein lies the hook. This person portrays themselves, intentionally or not, to be the best possible version of who they are. An hour spent chatting quickly turns to eight. Hours on the internet turn to hours on the phone (long distance, of course). All of this generally happens within the first month of the initial online meeting. Most Newbie Infatuations don’t make it to The “RL” Meeting stage. Mine didn’t. The ones that do usually end in tragedy.

I know of a few Newbie Infatuations that did make it to The “RL” Meeting. Here is a particularly horrifying one, which happened to an acquaintance of mine recently. In this case, he didn’t actually make it to the meeting, but not for lack of trying. Had I known the details beforehand, I would have begged him not to go.

Witness:

He lives in Delaware, she in Georgia. She says she’s a model (Victoria’s Secret model no less) and he believes her. She sends him a picture of herself in a red bikini. The picture, I notice when he shows it to me, is obviously from a brand new wallet. (I don’t learn the Victoria’s Secret part until it is too late.) I say to him “Are you sure this is her?” He is sure, even though she doesn’t send anymore pictures to him. She wouldn’t lie to him! It’s not her fault! The modeling agency, apparently, only allows her to show that ONE picture to people. This makes no sense to me, but somehow it makes sense to him. They spend hours online and on the phone, saying “I love you.” He takes the money he was saving to buy a car and instead buys a bus ticket to see her.

Hours spent on a bus: 8
Nights spent in the bus station: 1
Nights spent in a hotel: 3
Actual meetings with red-bikini-wearing Victoria’s Secret model: 0

When he finally gave up, accepted the fact that she stood him up, he was heartbroken and humiliated. He did not come back home. He, instead, moved to Texas. Yes, Texas. I am not making this up. I can’t help but wonder if she even lived in Georgia. She had the gall to actually try to speak to him afterwards. She tried to say she got called away to work. What a bitch.

Issues

I've never had a panic attack... before about 24 minutes ago. And the trigger? The phone. I had to leave a message on someone's answering machine and when I hung up my heart was pounding and my hands were shaking. What's that all about? I do believe I've developed a phone phobia. I hate it. I picked up the phone the other day to dial my best friend of over 10 years and thought "What am I going to say? What if there's a long uncomfortable silence?" etc, etc. And I put the phone down. I haven't spoken to her in six months, but I put the phone down. Logically, there's nothing for me to freak out about. But, when it comes down to it, I feel like I'm standing in front of a room full of people (naked) and they're all judging me. Issues? I got em.