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Random Musings
The Repetition That Soothes The Savage Writer-Beast Periodically I do a quick check and see what songs iTunes lists as the most I’ve played. Periodically I remain surprised at what ends up on the list. As everyone knows, music is vital to my so-called “process”. And while I can tell you exactly what I was writing when I racked up a song into the solid triple digits over the course of a few weeks or which playlist these songs are on, the mere fact that “Love in an Elevator” by Aerosmith is nowhere on this list should forewarn readers that what’s coming is going to blow some minds. So, as of the middle of the first month of 2012, here’s what iTunes says I’ve listened to the most over the past few years.
We now enter what I call the “Smash Mouth Zone”. Despite never getting a shout out in, I think, any book in the Alien series so far, Smash Mouth in general and “Get the Picture?” in particular could be entitled The Album and Band That Wrote Touched by an Alien. So, while other songs have managed to snake into the top 15, it’s going to be hard to beat the Top 3, simply because, well…when you get there, you’ll understand…
You didn’t read this wrong, and no, I didn’t make a mistake. This song is actually on the list twice. How is this song on my Top 25 twice, you ask? I still have no idea. As far as songs go, it’s fine, but not my favorite by any means. I had to search for the second entry (aka, #19 on the list) and delete it from iTunes completely, since I felt this song was seriously messing up my hip song cred (not that the rest of this list is helping said cred…but I digress…). And yet, because it’s on “Get the Picture” I will apparently never be rid of it. Ah well, something to strive for -- listen to at least 17 other songs a LOT more. I can probably do it…
And, last but not least, still going strong and likely to remain #1 forever because it’s on my Alien series playlist several times, I give you:
There you have it. Next time I check, will we still have two versions of a song I don’t really like here? Will Just Can’t Get Enough manage to beat out Whole Lotta Love or Looking for a Wall? Does any song even have a chance against 105? One never knows…do one? Back to Index Bad Dog Mommy! I was perusing my spam emails the other day, when I came upon one I just had to take a look at. Apparently in this down economy, the hot item, the item I have at least ten emails touting, is not a get-rich-quick scheme, nor a personal enhancement non-legal and non-working drug, but is instead a Dog Orthopedic Bed -- a dog bed that’s better for your pooch’s back. Really. It’s a slab of memory foam -- cut into small, medium, or large chunks -- covered with a suede doggie bed cover. And, you know, it’s only $40 or, rather, excuse me, two easy payments of $19.99 each plus exorbitant shipping and handling charges. Unless you have a big dog, and then tack on another $19.99 or so. Oh, but they include a waterproof liner. And a ‘no slip’ bottom. So that’s surely worth the money, right there. Of course, when you have dogs, there really is no such thing as ‘waterproof’ or ‘no slip’, but maybe the dog orthopedic doctors who designed these little slabs of health have found a way that really works. Anything’s possible. My dogs, of course, think I should order three of them, pronto, and pay for rush shipping. I’m not so sure. In the first place, the hubs and I aren’t convinced we like our memory foam bed, the one that was made for people. And we’ve had it for several years. It keeps its shape the same way we all do -- not all that much in reality but you can still see the general outline that indicates, sure enough, that the original shape was much smaller and more compact. It does live up to its name, though -- it’s original shape is a memory. Secondly, our dogs already have cushy beds with foam, albeit not memory foam, and suede and faux-sheepskin lining. They seem to love them. At least, they fight over who gets ‘the better one’ every night. When I explain that they’re all the same, I get the same look from them that I do from my daughter when I explain that cheap shoes are just like designer shoes only less costly -- that, ‘oh, old, non-cool person, you do not now nor have you ever understood’ look. I hate that look, but I’m immune to it by now. Last, but in no way least, I just don’t feel right spending money on a ‘dog sleep system’ when, from all I’ve ever been able to tell, our dogs have a working sleep system in place. They eat, bark for a bit, chase the toy, get some pets, lie down from this exhausting workout, and go to sleep. Usually in their doggie beds, but they don’t limit themselves. They’ll sleep anywhere. Barking is hard work and so is sleeping, at least if I use my dogs’ daily activities as a judge. They make the cats look active. Speaking of which, the cats are appalled, appalled, that there is this fancy dog sleep system out there and yet there is no cat equivalent immediately available for at least twice the price. Of course the cats, being smaller than the dogs, at least somewhat, are allowed to sleep on the human sleep system bed with the humans. The cats think this is just fine, but do feel that if new sleep systems are to arrive en maison then they should be feline in nature. When I point out that the cats sleep in even more places than the dogs do, including on my desk, in my box of office supplies, and in my shower, I get ‘that look’ from them. Apparently everyone in my household is able to remind me that I have no clue. So, despite the barks and whines of ‘bad Mommy dog!’, I’m going to pass on this opportunity to save my dogs years of joint and back pain, years of comfort and joy, years of waterproof non-slip sleeping, and instead invest that money into a new pair of expensive shoes for my daughter and me. ‘Cause when it comes to being cool, the one who can tweet about my lack of cool or my total awesomeness has the upper paw. So to speak. Back to Index Incompetability One of our dogs is a morning person. I think I’m going to have to put her down for it, too, because it’s becoming her or me. We currently manage to possess two cats and three dogs. All five of them are loudmouths, but the cats at least know how to pick their moments. Admittedly, said moments are somewhere around 5am, which is when they’ve trained me to give them their wet food. But, as a fifteenth generation night owl, I can handle it. They mew loudly, I get up, stagger into the kitchen, plop out the food, pet a couple of purring furry backs, faint back into bed and go right back to sleep. I try to look at it as a bonding moment. Besides, if push comes to shove, the cats know that somewhere back there I clearly have Ancient Egyptian blood because, yeah, they sleep on little pedestals and all. Of the three dogs, our most recent addition, the pit bull, is a night owl like me. She’s also living proof that pit bulls are not the holy terrors one might think. The only time she’s had a ‘vicious moment’ was when the vet’s tech tried to shove a thermometer up her rear end. I cannot blame her for her reaction. I am no more pleasant when I visit the OB/GYN. The pit bull merely threatened to remove body parts should said tech go for the gusto again; unlike me, she didn’t actually follow through. I can relate to the pit bull a lot, including how she gets up in the morning, which is slowly, unwillingly, and with a whole lot of groggy going on. She’s not good for much until she’s had a drink, a piddle and a couple of quick lie downs again. The big dog is a man for all hours and seasons. But he’s decent when he gets up, keeping it mostly quiet and usually to himself. And if he’s not quiet, then he’s outside barking, and that doesn’t last all that long and, honestly, outside barking I can ignore. But the Dalmatian, she’s in a league of her own. Now, every single person who’s ever owned or known a Dalmatian is chuckling to themselves right now, going, “Well, of course. It’s a DAL. Naturally it’s a talker.” My question is -- where were these people when we were looking to adopt one? I did a lot of research on the breed, and nowhere in those zillion and one SpotsALot and Spots4Me websites did it ever mention that the word Dalmatian translates as ‘longwinded loudmouth’. It also never said these dogs were morning people. My Dalmatian is not only a morning person, but she is a chipper morning person. She gets up and it’s a brand new day! And she’s excited about it. And she has to share that with the world. She barks. She yodels. She howls. Her tail is wagging so fast and hard that she’s sending coded messages out via my walls, greeting the beautiful dawn in Morse code. And that’s all because my husband managed to roll out of bed to go to the bathroom. Yes, our dog yodels for bathroom breaks. And for getting up from your chair. And for sitting down. You should hear what she does if you walk down the hall from the bedrooms and into the kitchen. And she does it in each and every part of the house where you can get an echo going. Her noise reverberates through your whole body. For non-animal owners, or those who have just lucked into having time-compatible pets, let me draw a comparison for you. I work from home because I work for a wonderful corporation that allows many of its employees to telecommute. There is no greater perk in the world, people, so the company gets away with a lot because, well, they’re not making me leave my home to do it. You can say what you want about Corporate America, but any corporation that allows me to work in pajamas and bunny slippers earns my lifelong love and adoration. Being that I work from home, I am on a lot of conference calls. And also, since I’m taking said calls in my PJs, it means that I cannot really say that any time is ‘unreasonable’, because I don’t have to leave my bed to be on a call. So, there are plenty of times when I’m on a call at 5 or 6 in the morning. Frankly, I can be on a call at 7 or 8 and it’s still too early. There are days when noon is too early. I’ve spent a lot of time trying to figure out how I can work with the team in Russia. Not as their U.S. liaison, but as a real member of the team, albeit one they never, ever see. I’d be wide awake and full of good ideas if I could only work with a time zone that’s 12 hours different from my own. I’m good with languages, I think it could be done. I’m still waiting to hear back from headquarters about the idea. But, until they see the light, I’m stuck on calls that center out of the East Coast. And that means I’m faced routinely with chipper morning people. You know the kind. They come on the phone all perky and happy, thrilled with another brand new day. They are the ones who, when told that some of us are on the West Coast and for us it’s three hours earlier, will say things like, “Oh, how lucky for you! You’ll get to see the sun rise!” Or, “What a great way to start your day, with this exciting call topic!” People like this should be shot on sight. Also, I must make the point that unless I’ve been up all night having an extremely good time -- and by this I mean that a variety of hottie Hollywood hunks have decided that I’m their kind of girl and have spent the night wining and dining me, dancing ’til dawn, begging me to leave my husband and become theirs -- there is no way that I want to see the sun rise. Ever. I don’t like watching sunrise. I find it depressing. It’s depressing because when the sun rises, what I want to be is asleep. The other day, I’m on a call at 6am, bleary-eyed, unable to even make, let alone drink, coffee at this hour. I’ve been greeted by the required Perky Morning Person attendee on the line who has already been on several calls, started her day willingly at 5am, and who states that she cannot understand those of us who sound so down and depressing on morning calls, meaning me, as I’m the only one snoring. I am vainly trying to stay awake and stay with the program, while plotting how to send a mail bomb in this day and age, when someone asks me a question. Right before this question, the Dalmatian has requested, via her early morning yodeling system, to be released from the bedroom so that she can go ensure that I’m wide awake. So I have the Dalmatian sitting there, shoving her head at me so that I will pet her, while someone is asking me what I think about something that we’d ostensibly just spent the last twenty minutes talking about. As I took my phone off of mute, and therefore turned my attention away from my Perky Morning Dog, said dog decided to remind me that it was a bright new day, and proceeded to howl and yodel and create a general ruckus. I managed to get her quieted down without too much violence, and then had to apologize to the phone crowd, explaining that my dog was easily excited by things like air and consciousness. Then Perky Morning Person made an apology for me. “You’ll have to forgive her. She’s not used to pleasantness in the mornings. That’s why she needs that doggie to keep her going.” She’s a peach, really. But I’ll get even. One can’t ship a bomb any more. But it’s still legal to ship a dog. I’m sending her the pit bull. And a thermometer. Back to Index Demented Kitties I’m a cat lover. I love dogs and horses, too. Ferrets and bunnies are okay as well. Beyond that, well, if the animal is a close relative of these animals or also cute, furry, cuddly-looking, and four-footed, I’m going to at least like it. Sometimes rare, sometimes fried, sometimes named…just depends on the beast. However, cats are my #1. They’re now the #1 pet in the U.S., too. Which means, more and more households are going to be subjected to -- Alzheimer’s Cat. Seriously. In a recent study done in the U.K. -- where, for whatever reason, they study this sort of thing -- it was found that a goodly percentage of the nation’s elderly cats are exhibiting the same behaviors as humans with Alzheimer’s. (http://www.zootoo.com/petnews/studymoreagingcatssufferfromhu) Apparently, the old cats’ brainwaves are like the old peoples’ brainwaves -- no longer firing on all the cylinders they could be. The researchers have gotten some cures that seem to help the cats, which is great news for humans, because once they get the old cats back to normal function, they can hopefully use the same methods on the older humans. And, for those caring cat owners willing to shell out the extra cash, you can try out the cure on your feline companion. What really hooked me on this, though, was that they listed the signs of cat dementia. One of my cats is fifteen years old. Going strong, as far as we can tell, but still, really darned old in cat years. She’s also fitting all the signs. Wakes up shrieking in the middle of the night? Check. I thought it was because she was lonely or just wanted attention. According to the study, she’s wide awake and has no freaking idea where she is. Suddenly aloof or affectionate, in contrast to former life behavior? Check. She’s been all kinds of needy and cuddly. I just thought it was because I like my other cat more. But apparently, it’s because she’s clinging to the one she remembers. The one who dishes out the wet food, before we get all sentimental. If there is one thing this cat loves, and you can be sure that there is, it’s her food. So, my cat is no longer merely fat, grumpy and annoying, particularly in the middle of the night. No! She’s…Dementia Kitty! It almost sounds cool, doesn’t it? Like I could put a little cape on her and she could fly out to save the day, get halfway, forget where she was going or why, and head for the nearest Purina factory to wait until they found me and I came to get her. Like I said…almost cool. Oh, there was one other sign of cat dementia. The forgetfulness of how to use the litter box. And, sadly, she does seem to so forget. Frequently. I’d say that was a definitive, three out of three, only… Well, from the time she was a cute little kitten -- so very long ago -- until now, whenever Dementia Kitty’s not happy about something, she makes a conscious choice to ‘share’ her displeasure in a particularly wet and smelly way. So, either she’s had Alzheimer’s since birth -- and knowing this cat, it’s a possibility -- or I’m just lucky and soon, she’ll exhibit Sign Three even when she’s happy. The joys of pet ownership are without number. Back to Index Stupidity in Manufacturing Announcement to Handheld Electronics Manufacturers -- You’re Idiots I just discovered that the iPhone has a distinct problem. Because the iPhone was created to use skin-against-screen technology, a good portion of the population cannot use it. Why is this? Well, a lot of women have these things called ‘fingernails’ at the end of their fingers…and the nails don’t work on the iPhone. So unless they want to dial with their toes, noses, or significant others, they can’t use this flashy, expensive item. Which prompts me to ask -- what the hell is wrong with the people, who must all be men, who make these things? Are men really that stupid? (A brief bit of research forces us to admit -- yes.) At least 50% of the population is female. And it’s a well-known fact that we drive the majority of all household purchases. And yet, in this day and age, there are people creating things -- luxury items -- that half the population can’t use. Ladies, ever wondered why those ear buds for phones and MP3 players hurt your ears? It’s because they were made for men, and men have, on average, larger ear-hole-openings (um, yeah, that’s the technical term, I’m sure) than women do. Hard as that may be to believe, considering how little they seem to hear through the things…but that’s not the point of this rant. Again, at least half the population are women and the cliché is that women talk on the phone all the time. And yet these manufacturers haven’t bothered to find out if they’re making products that women can use. Of course, there’s a company that’s created a special stylus to make the iPhone work -- but the need shouldn’t have been there to be filled in the first place. I mean, how hard IS it for someone at these companies to look at their mother, wife, sister, girlfriend, co-worker and say, “Hey, does this work for you, too?” Are there no female test subjects on these things? Or are the only females allowed to test already forced to act so much ‘like the boys’ that they’re bigger than average and have no fingernails ‘cause that’s too girly? Where are we importing these women from, the Former Soviet Bloc? I have many friends who could be called ‘big girls’ but they’re still girls and they have fingernails and smaller, female ears and such. Toilet manufacturers managed to come up with something that works for both sexes. Are the people in charge of cell phones and MP3s -- supposedly some of the Smartest Guys in the Room -- really stupider than whoever created the lowly toilet? Well, the operative word is ‘guys’, but I think a guy made the toilet, too. So maybe he was just enlightened. Or he asked his wife to test it before he went to final. So, really, all you brilliant idea-mongers who are busy creating the next ‘must have’ item -- let’s make sure the girls can use it, too, okay? Or one of us will create a toilet that looks like you can use it, but can’t. “New from Whamm-ouch, the Jaws of Life Urinal, specially designed to make it easy to pee standing up. (But only if you don’t have dangly bits.)” Back to Index Predictions for the Future In the future… Mimes will be considered the height of humorous interpretation. There will be an entire religion built around Elvis Presley, and we will be awaiting his second, or possibly third, coming. During ‘Hips’ -- the Elvish equivalent of Lent -- all foods will be fried and bananas will be required to be a part of every meal. Hollywood will blame the newest media and entertainment advances for “the worst box office in the last decade” instead of accepting the fact that no one really wanted to see “Shrek 16: It’s Just Not Funny Anymore” or “Spiderman 27: Spidey Bores His Great-Grandkids Yapping About Doc Ock” in the first place. Politicians will be caught doing the very naughty things they condemned in everyone else. Somehow, half of them will be reelected. An incredibly attractive actor/actress will win an Oscar for playing ugly and/or crippled, even if an actually ugly and/or crippled actor/actress gave a better performance that year. A boy band seeming without much talent but covering a wide variety of ‘cute’ will conquer the pop charts. Tom Cruise will father his fifteenth biological child by his sixth gorgeous and young wife, and will still be ‘accused’ of being gay by people who supposedly embrace tolerance. Politicians will make campaign promises and break them within weeks of taking office. This will cover any elected official, including the dog catcher. Imbeciles will be elected to Congress. No matter how liberal the rest of the country becomes, San Francisco will still be considered outrageous and over-the-edge by the rest of the United States. President Chelsea Clinton-Obama will outlaw marriage between a man and a woman as being too much of a threat to traditional morals for our country’s good. San Francisco will stand up to this decree and open its arms to all heterosexual couples. The ‘death of print’ will be foretold by all print and electronic media because of implanted hyperchips in the brain. Somehow, some way, people will still, however, purchase printed matter and continue to cruise the ‘net, mystifying all but those same millions of people who like to actually LOOK at what they’re reading. Somehow, a hit movie critics despised during its theatrical release will suddenly have more merit when the critics do the DVD release reviews. Al Gore will star in “A Stone Cold Shame” -- a hard-hitting documentary about how Global Freezing is destroying our planet and bringing on the next ice age. A handsome actor will be deemed “too successful” by the media who once loved and adored him, and will be systematically ripped to shreds until he “humbles” himself and is then forgiven and allowed to crawl back up the success ladder. No matter how popular a presidential candidate is with the media during election coverage, the moment he or she is elected, the media will turn on them and claim they are the worst president ever in the history of the United States. Rupert Grint IS James Bond, 007 in “MoneyRaker”! Fans go mad furious, claiming that Bond “cannot be a redhead!” Grint laughs all the way to the Bond bank as the 35th Bond movie and 3rd franchise restart breaks box office records. Rival studios plan “Shrek 17” and “Spiderman 28”. Paris Hilton will be given the Nobel Peace Prize for having gone into seclusion for twenty years, with the caveat that she remain in seclusion, even while receiving the award. Everyone, everywhere, will complain about how kids just aren’t as respectful and decent as they were “in my day”. Back to Index Gini, You Used to be Cool There’s an old ‘Simpson’s’ show where Lisa grows up to be President and she’s having trouble, and Bart, as the prerequisite President’s Loser Brother shows up and negotiates forestalling payment of huge international debt, in part by saying, “China, you used to be cool.” To which the Chinese Premiere says, “China still cool!” and agrees to hold off demanding the U.S. pay up. Dave Barry wrote about “The Snake”, where he could feel the Snake of Middle Age eating him because he got some surprise money and wanted to buy a couch with it. Instead, he bought an electric guitar, so the Snake was held off from engulfing him, at least for a little while. I thought the couch versus electric guitar thing was funny (still do), but not overwhelmingly relatable. I also thought the whole, “China, you used to be cool” thing was a great insult. Until today. Why so? Because, I recently landed an awesome 2-book deal. And I’m getting an advance. And, now that the euphoria has died down to a somewhat-controllable level, it dawned on me what I really and TRULY want to spend that advance on. I want to buy a new refrigerator. Gini, you used to be cool. But girl, you are BEGGING the Snake to freaking EAT YOU and not in the good way! But, it’s true. I want a new fridge. I’ve wanted one for YEARS. But, my husband is, ah, well, how to put it…thrifty. Yeah, he’s thrifty. Sounds SO much better than ‘cheap’ or ‘the new Scrooge McDuck’ or something. There’s nothing WRONG with our fridge, which is why my husband’s against getting a new one. This one works, well and like a trooper. But…it’s not cool. For starters, it’s not black. I love black. Black is THE color, as far as I’m concerned. Or gray. Black and white, gray, black on black -- I left blue as my favorite color years ago unless it’s midnight blue/almost black. Same with purple, unless it’s that so-close-to-black-it-IS-black purple. So, as I slowly (oh, so slowly) replace my major appliances, I get black ones. Now, only the fridge stands out in that ugh-white color they come in. But it’s more than the color. I want the extra deep doors. I want more cool and crisp in my crispers. I want an ice machine IN THE DOOR. I want depth and more freezer space and double doors and all the bells and whistles and doodads and…well, I want it ALL. Of course, the reality is that we have a very limited space FOR our fridge, so I probably can’t get all I want. But I could get faster, newer, better, BLACKER, and all shinier. However, the husband has said no, over and over again, under the ridiculous impression that replacing a perfectly good major appliance while the existing one still functions well is both a waste of money and a waste of effort. He’s right. I know he’s right. I also know Dave Barry’s freaking Snake is wrapping itself around me as I type this. And I can hear Bart saying it, over and over again, “Gini, you used to be cool.” But, I WANT a new shiny black fridge. And I shall have it. To make up for it, I can console myself with this. This summer, I’m going to, at last count, 10 concerts, and the number can go up any week some band or stand-up comedian I like releases their touring schedule. So, I’m gonna rock out all the way from Iron Maiden down to Steely Dan and all points in between. And I can do it without guilt because, again, I’m getting that advance and so I earned it and can cover my concert addiction AND my new fridge yearnings and still have money left over. After all, isn’t the essence of cool doing and getting what you want, when you want, without worrying what someone else thinks about it? Isn’t the definition of cool marching to your own drum and doing it your way and having it all and thumbing your nose at convention while having a Coke and a smile? Isn’t being cool about rocking and rolling all night and partying every day with your snazzy major appliances? Yeah…yeah, it is. And more. Gini…you’re still cool. Now, somebody, get this snake off me. Back to Index The Myth of Support As a writer, you're constantly warned not to listen to your family and friends' opinions of your output. After all, the reasoning goes, these folks love you and will only give you glowing reviews, even if what you've written wouldn't pass muster for the Dick and Jane set. My question is -- how does one get families and friends like these? Because mine are nothing like these mythical 'all supportive, all the time' folks I hear tell about. My family and friends are all born critics. Either they think that I am not living up to my potential, or they don't like the style, or they don't like the subject matter. If they don't barf all over my third draft, I usually throw myself a party. I might add that it's not that any of them think I'm talentless. Rather, they all seem to hold me to higher standards. Someone else, some stranger, can cough out a book that isn't all that great, who cares? I have to be creating deathless prose that will last through the ages or they don't want to know from it. My mother-in-law, for example, longs for the day she can trumpet to all the relatives that her daughter-in-law is a published author. She'd just like me to write something that she enjoys. But I happen to dislike most of the authors she adores. Mom has gone so far as to point out where, in my manuscripts, I could change whole sentences and scenes to sound more like her preferred authors. "Look," she said over an expensive dinner I was paying for. "Right here. You go into a sex scene." "Yeah. It's a sexy vampire story." "I don't like sex scenes." "Okay, Mom. But a lot of people do." "Well, I think you should take it out. And this description...when I read this other author's books, why, he describes how rain hits a puddle and the circles...what do you call those?" "Concentric." "Right. The concentric circles radiate out...he can spend a whole page describing the rain falling. I think that's wonderful." "Super. I happen to hate reading stuff like that, so I don't write it. The best my readers are ever going to get from me about rain is drizzle, light shower, downpour, or animals falling from the sky." "Well, I really think you're not going to get published this way." "Thanks, Mom. Enjoy the lobster, it's here." My husband, her son, is worse. And he tries so hard to be the epitome of the supportive spouse. Only...the man cannot lie. I recently landed an agent, a great agent. As I staggered into the kitchen, still drunk on the phone call, he turned to me, beaming. "Oh, honey, I'm so pleased for you." Pleased. This is how he expresses his excitement. If we ever win the lottery, he'll probably be very pleased. He went on. "I didn't want to jinx things, but this last book of yours I just knew was the one. It wasn't dull and stilted like your other writing." These are the compliments, folks. Our daughter can cover this ground, too. When discussing which of a wide variety of projects to tackle next, we went over my list. "Oh, not that one," she said about a personal favorite of mine. "Why not?" "It's so boring. I mean, really boring. So boring I almost fell asleep reading it boring." "It's about daredevils." "They're boring." "How are daredevils boring?" "Well, how you're writing about them is boring." And so it goes. My friends are the same, born critics all. They even criticize when a piece is published. "I read your piece!" "Oh, great, what did you think?" "Well, it didn't make me laugh, but I guess you've got a friend in that editor, hey?" I'm thinking of offering up an exchange program. I'll let another writer deal with my friends' and family's brutal honesty while I get to soak up their people's ability to say, "This is the best thing I've ever read! If you don't become the next best-selling author out there, well, then there's just something wrong with the world, that's all!" Any takers? Anyone? Didn't think so. Back to Index We've 'Arrived' I don’t really know how it happened, but I can finally say that we’ve made it. We’ve moved on up to the East Side and a de-luxe apartment in the sky. We’ve arrived, baby! Not that we’re livin’ large. We make a decent family income, live in a modest house, have nice cars, get to do things, but no one would look at us and say we were rich, let alone wealthy. Let alone a part of the Wealthy Elite. And yet, apparently, we are. Why do I say this? Well, I don’t. Exclusive Resorts says so. I have it in writing. Really expensive, four-color brochure on the good paper stock and the odd-sized, extra-postage envelopes writing. These mailings are addressed to my husband, I suppose under the Rich Person viewpoint that no wife could out-earn her husband. Either that, or his salary alone is enough to get us ‘in’. Which, seeing as I look at what comes home from it each week, I cannot believe can be the case. The letter starts out innocuously enough. “Over the years, you have probably experienced the common frustrations of personally arranging vacations for you and your family.” Oh, you know it. Well, not my husband. He arranges nothing. I do it. And yeah, it’s frustrating. Priceline’s so ‘make your decision now’ and the airlines never seem to have the cheap flights when I want them, and Disneyland’s specials are never at a time of year we can go…all that jazz. So, do go on. They did. “You may have also dealt with the time, trouble and expense associated with ownership of a second home.” Um, no. Not personally. Not yet, anyway. Some of our friends have. Most of their complaints center around the fact they can’t get up to their ‘second homes’, aka, their summer cabins, as often as they’d like, but okay. Carry on. They blather on for a bit, and then explain who they are, and why they’re talking to us. “Exclusive Resorts was founded to give people like you a unique kind of luxury vacation experience: unparalleled access to the world’s largest collection of private multi-million dollar vacation residences in the most desirable vacation destinations. So, rather than staying at another hotel, you can enjoy the size and privacy of a luxury home with the services, amenities and convenience of a resort…” I know what you’re thinking, because it was what we were thinking -- are they kidding? They’re suggesting we should vacation in the Saudi King’s Summer Palace? Hang at Tom and Katie’s ski lodge? Really see Europe from Clooney’s villa in person instead of in “Oceans’ Twelve”? Yes, yes, this is exactly what they’re suggesting. “And the best part is, this is all now available to you for far less than the down payment on a single second home.” Come again? This is the Super-Wealthy Timeshare? Are they serious? They are. And there’s more, much more. All boiling down to the fact that, for a limited time, there is a special deal on this offer. If we act fast, we can get an Affiliate Membership. Sure it limits our number of days to 15 “perfect vacation days”, but really, who gets more time than that a year anyway? And the cost for this? Well, first, there is the ONE-TIME Membership Fee of…wait for it…$185,000. Yes, you’re reading that right. Six figures for the reduced fee. And, according to these people, that’s less than the cost of a second home! Good lord, we spent less on our first and only home! But, wait! 80% of that’s refundable upon resignation. So, you know, it’s all good. They get to have your money earning interest in their banks, but, when you quit, you get $148,000 of it back. Without interest, I’m sure. In our case, I guess we’d have to give them our home, our cars, and our pets to cover it. Hey, our dogs are purebreds, so the Resort people might be willing. But wait, there’s more. Annul dues are $9,500. And, don’t forget, that $185,000 membership fee is the cheap one. And, you know, the homes are indeed lovely, and you get your own paid staff or something. And they plan your itinerary and a separate itinerary for your kids. I mean, why take a family vacation and do things as a family? That’s so middle-class. And one of the homes is some super yacht. And they add new homes all the time. So, it’s probably really quite the deal. For Bill Gates and Oprah. For us? Um, not so much. Though their letters and brochures do give us hours of free entertainment. As does the handsome DVD with fine production values. I mean, you should see some of these places. But, not up close, because, God help you if you broke something. There’s nothing in these homes -- no doodad, no small appliance, no linen, no light bulb -- that’s worth less than $1,000, used. They keep on sending these “invitations” to us. And I keep on saving them. Not only for the free hilarity they provide us, but as proof. Proof that we’re, somehow, some way, on ‘The List’. That’s right. We’re on the list of people too stupid or strapped for time to be able to plan a dream vacation or simple getaway on their own for $9,500 or less per year. The list of those who apparently have so much excess wealth that dropping $185,000 for a limited membership fee is nothing. Those who need someone else to plan and entertain their children and themselves while they’re at an exotic locale in a house that makes Buckingham Palace look small. Oh. My. God. It just dawned on me -- we’re on the same list as Paris Hilton. Stop the mailings, I want to get off! Back to Index True Lines I was a wild party girl and I dated a LOT before I got married. My husband is nice, intelligent, witty, handsome and supportive. He’s also not a jerk off, moron, loser, weirdo. So, you know, he stood out from a lot of the guys I dated. What finally convinced me to choose my husband over all the other qualified applicants? (WARNING: All lines and incidents are true. The names have been changed because I’ve blocked them out.) Kevin gazed at me lovingly. “What?” I asked. “Oh,” he replied, “I’m just picturing you barefoot and pregnant.” I pictured the door and how fast I could get through it. Moses took me home to meet his mother on the second date. He’d proposed on the first date. Why I said yes to the second date I don’t recall. Oh, wait, yes I do. He drove a new Mercedes. Anyway, I met Momma Moses, she looked me straight in the eye, and said, “It’s your duty and responsibility to marry my son and save him from himself.” I shared that it wasn’t my problem she’d raised a drug-snorting, kinky, alcoholic with massive paranoid delusions. Somehow, that response didn’t do the trick, and Moses and Momma kept ON telling me I needed to save him. I called a guy with an old GTO and had HIM save ME. I told Brian I was going out of town and that I’d call him when I got back. Two years later, out of the blue, he called me. “Hey, you never called. What’s been going on?” I dumped you, didn’t you get the cosmic memo? “You gonna finish that? I mean, you don’t NEED dessert.” This from Jeff who was a good 100 pounds overweight and already balding at 22. Decided I didn’t need him. Called the guy with the GTO and met him for ice cream. “Go ahead, buy both outfits!” Chris said grandly. When the salesgirls made much of my date’s suggestion that I splurge, I had to point out that HE wasn’t buying -- he was spending MY money for me. They went to unimpressed fast. I was already there. While out with Greg at the mall, he looked up at one of the store signs with a beatific expression and, in tones of true reverence, said, “When I have a child, I’m going to dress him ONLY from ‘Baby Gap’!” I explained we were incompatible -- Target was good enough for me. The look of horror on his face was priceless. “I can fix your car,” Mike said. “ I know EVERYTHING about cars, any car, every car. Pop the hood.” I popped. “There’s nothing here!” “Right,” I said. “Because it’s a Volkswagen and the engine’s in the rear.” Called the guy with the GTO, he came, got me, and helped tow my car to the shop. Jack was big on the jealousy -- I should only be going out with him, even though my rule at the time was that I wasn’t dating exclusively and he knew it when he signed on to the program. He was normally a lot of fun, but we always went out on very cheap dates. One week he took me out something like five times. I mentioned that if he’d added up all the money, we could have gone out once to a nicer place. His response was, “Oh, I could take you out somewhere nice every time. But, you eat out at nice places with all your other boyfriends. I’m the guy you get to hang out and have fun with. That’s why you’ll realize you should be only dating me.” Words almost failed me. Met an ‘older man’ -- like a LOT older. He grandly announced he worked in the movie business. I picked him up from work for our date. Turned out he was a ticket-taker at a movie theater. Not in management, mind you. At age 40 he was doing the job normally reserved for high school students. Still gave him a shot after this revelation. He spent our entire date berating me for making more money than he did, tried to force me to pay for dinner, and then hit me up for a loan. Fortunately, I’d driven, so I didn’t have to call the guy with the GTO this time. I did stop by his house and hang out, though. Tom, who looked a lot like Robert Redford, decided to throw a jealousy fit while we were out at dinner. Because I’d laughed at his best friend’s joke. The best friend that Tom had INSISTED on bringing WITH us on our date. I hope they’re still very happy together. After Bill droned on and on and on and ON about his business and career goals during dinner, he finally paused, and I swear to God, looked me straight in the eyes and said, “But enough about me. What do YOU think of everything I’ve just told you?” I said I thought I had to go to the bathroom. I came back to the table, said I was sick and my friend was picking me up. Went to a more pleasant dinner with the guy with the GTO. “You want to go out again?” John asked. I shared I didn’t. “Oh. Well, do you think your cousin might want to go out with me, then?” I hung up. “I can’t see you any more,” Dan said grandly. “I like you too much.” I dunno, maybe I was supposed to beg him to reconsider not say, “Okey dokey,” and hang up. “I think living in a commune would be a wonderful experience,” Richard shared. I shared the 1960’s were WELL past and so was our relationship. “Why don’t you want to go out with me any more?” Craig asked. “Because I can’t stand you.” “Well, that’s not a good reason.” The guy with the GTO said, “I was just thinking.” “About what?” “Oh, about how much I love you. Want to get married?” I said yes. I’m a slow learner but I CAN be taught. Back to Index Things that REALLY Matter I’m not much of a girl for topical events. They bore me just a little. But there are still things I’m quite passionate about. Aerosmith was, is, and will always be better than the Rolling Stones. Vanilla is fine, but chocolate is better. Nothing, not even chocolate, however, is better than sex. Sleep is awesome. But, nope, still not quite better than sex. I care a lot more about Brad and Angelina than I do about spotted owls. Is that wrong? The best movie in the world can be improved by the judicious addition of hot looking men. Same for the worst movie in the world. However, the best movie in the world cannot be the best UNLESS it has at least one good looking male in at least a major supporting role. By my definition of it, ‘Interview with the Vampire’ is one of the greatest movies ever made, and ‘Ghandi’ is merely so-so. ‘The Right Stuff’ starred Dennis Quaid and Ed Harris as well as Sam Shepard, Fred Ward and a bunch of other guys who were hot then and most of whom are still hot today. It’s almost as good as ‘Interview with the Vampire’ and far better than ‘Ghandi’. No matter how weird or crazy a guy is, I can find him attractive if a) he’s hot, b) he has a great body, c) he has hair on his chest, d) he has great hair or he’s bald with a great head, e) he’s funny, f) he’s brilliant, g) he’s rich, or h) some combination of the above. Needless to say, before I was married, I never lacked for dates, any night of the week. Has Tom found true love forever with Katie? And if not, can I be next in line? (Tom, I’m open religiously, ‘cause I just don’t care. Call me.) If really given the opportunity to meet any person, living or dead, while I know most people say Abraham Lincoln or Albert Einstein, for me it would be a toss up between Bill Gates and Casanova. The real Richie Rich/smartest guy in the room or the best lover in history. Then again, maybe the wiser choice would be to meet Oprah and become her TRUE BFF. Guess it would depend on how much time I got for the meeting. Then again, nothing makes a man attractive and sexy like money and power does. (Bill Gates, call me.) All French comedies are funnier than American ones, but all French dramas are the same, whereas all American dramas are not. A comedy, French, American, or otherwise, still trumps a drama in the entertainment books. On his worst day, Vincent Cassel is sexier than George Clooney on his best day. (Vincent, dump Monica and call me.) ‘Stripes’ is still the funniest movie ever made. ‘Animal House’, ‘Dogma’, ‘Dirty, Rotten Scoundrels’, and ‘Galaxy Quest’ are all close seconds to being the funniest movies ever made. I try to watch ‘Friends’ re-runs and not laugh, and so far, I have never been able to do it. I try to watch ‘South Park’ and laugh, and so far, I have never been able to do it. Chris Rock = Genius. Dave Chappell = Um, yeah, right, is Carlos Mencia on? How about Eddie Izzard? How about a re-run of ‘Friends’? I’ve met a lot of celebrities and I’m always cool. I geek out when I meet even the most under-the-radar author or screenwriter. If I ever meet Kevin Smith, I think I may more than embarrass myself. Same with P.J. O’Rourke. Or Dave Barry. Or Steven Tyler and Joe Perry. Oh, sorry, different point. I can’t imagine what I’d actually do if I ever actually met the guys from Aerosmith in person. Well, actually, I can. ‘Embarrass myself’ doesn’t begin to cover it. Same with Elton John. Or, well, just about any musician I like. I geek over musicians like I geek over writers. Actors really only exist for me in a visual status. After that, unless they’re also writers, rock stars, or members of my extended family, I don’t get excited. Unless they’re hot, male, and mostly naked. (Chris Evans, call me.) This just in -- still nothing better than sex. (Upon careful consideration, yes, Chris Evans, really, call me.) I have never understood how the British can be both the funniest people and the stuffiest people at the same time. This includes John Cleese and Eddie Izzard. I can, and will, argue any and all of these points, and more besides, with much more passion and vigor than I give to any political candidate or cause. Politicians and causes come and go, but chocolate, sex, and Aerosmith are forever. Back to Index |
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