Generation Exhausted

You go girl!

Popping in to say CONGRATULATIONS to the lovely and talented Lani Diane Rich, whose Time Off For Good Behavior just won Best First Book at the Rita Awards.

To all those who've continued to find NANOWRIMO too daunting for them - keep in mind that the first draft of Time Off was written during the month of November 2002. One. Month.

You're an inspiration, Lani dear. Keep up the good work, and congratulations. You deserve it.

Chick Flick

Continuing in the vein of "my brain went on vacation and hasn't returned yet", I took the Older and her friend to the movies tonight, spur-of-the-moment. Literally - it was 10 p.m. and I looked up the movie time, and said "Let's go to the show, my treat."

Minor digression: The kids look at me weird when I call it "the show." They look down their noses with the type of disdain that only a teenager can muster, and say, "You mean the movies, right?"  Apparently, it's terribly old-fashioned to call it the "show". However, the words "my treat" seem perfectly acceptable.

We went to see Must Love Dogs, because, well, John Cusack. And Diane Lane. And because that's what Gen X-ers do - we go to see movies that have Gen X-ers in them.

The movie was good - oh, nothing particularly stellar, no Oscar-worthy performances or anything, but still - a good diversion from all the other diversions. John Cusack played what he's often played - sweet, but not perfect, mildly awkward, hopeless romantic.  Think Sure Thing, or One Crazy Summer, Serendipity. A nice guy.

Lane has matured as an actor, and remembering that she was also Cherry in The Outsiders did nothing for my midlife crisis.

It's always mildly unsettling to see these actors from my teen years playing middle-aged characters. Because if they're old - then I am too.

It's all got to do with my birthday approaching. Once upon a time, I knew how old I was. I could say, with absolute certainty, I am six and three-quarters. (or seven, or ten, or fifteen, or twenty-three) I know what things happened when - when I was eight, I got a Barbie Motor Home for Christmas, when I was thirteen we went to Disney World, when I was eighteen, my daughter was born.  The World Trade Center collapsed the day before I turned thirty. On any given day of any given year, someone could say "how old are you?" and I would answer without hesitation.

Today, for the third time in a week, someone asked me how old I am, and I had to think about what year I was born, and then do the math.

I don't know if that means my age does matter to me, or it doesn't matter. All I know is that some time after thirty the years started to blur together, and it didn't seem as necessary to put numbers on them.

But good movie - and I guess going to see it spur-of-the-moment on a Saturday night is one of the perks of being thirty-three.

Immersed

Thanks to all who stepped up and kicked. I know, I know - it all starts with butt-in-chair and fingers-on-keyboard.

I've had the butt-in-chair, but I find myself more and more spending time reading over at the DISboards, the forum for those hoping to travel, planning to travel, or actually travelling to Disney World. I love Disney World, and all the work that goes into navigating its terrain. I've been toying with the idea of starting another blog, one that chronicles our past, present and future adventures with the House of Mouse.

But I long ago learned not to confuse action with motion, and starting such a blog would do nothing in the way of creating progress in my own writing. Or would it? Thoughts?

The other thing I've been preoccupied with is my traditional summer read-through of the Outlander series by Diana Gabaldon.  I swear, the woman's books are like crack for readers - I cannot start one without plowing my way through it IMMEDIATELY, and the first leads to the second, and so on. And they are LONG books. Which is why I save them for summer - they consume all of my attention, and I get nothing done until the last chapter has been read.

I got a late start this summer, and so started with the third book in the series -I'm halfway through the fourth now.  It's still amazing to me that a series I've read FOUR times can still captivate me this way. And I see that the long-awaited sixth book is finally due to be published this fall - it's about damn time, but how am I going to find the time to read it in September, my busiest time of year?

There's a charity coming this week to pick stuff up, so that's got me moving on the basement. Or at least thinking of moving on the basement. Who wants to bet that Sunday evening finds me frantically throwing things into boxes?

Drums of Autumn beckons - but I swear, to you the Internet, that I will accomplish something before the weekend is out.

Or else you may kick me again.

Summer's peak

The August holiday weekend approaches, and with it, the implied "middle of summer." It seems like only yesterday, the school break stretched out before us, rife with possibility. Our sentences in early July began most often with "We have all summer to...." or "This summer we will do this this and that...."

That ends with the passing of the Civic Holiday next Monday. From there on, it's all "There are only X days left to..." or "Before the end of...." We will have moved from looking ahead to looking behind.

And I ain't accomplished a darn thing.

There has been no organizing of the books, no cleaning of the basement, no getting the winter's detritus cleared from my desk. There's been a lot of sitting around, and doing nothing, and reading on the patio, and splashing in the pool.

Most significantly, there's been no writing.

Zip. Zilch. Zero.

Nada.

This is not good. To get cheques in the Fall requires verbage in the summer, and I'm falling way short. And I can't seem to make my brain get into gear and get moving with the prose.

Anyone want to give me a swift kick?

The apple doesn't fall far from the tree

Older daughter now being gainfully employed by one of the world's largest fast food chains, she came to me yesterday with a grave concern.

"There is a spelling error in the tagline on our cash register receipts," she tells me, pointing out the use of an apostrophe where there should be none. "Do you think I should write a letter to head office?"

Maybe I can just tell everyone it was my evil twin

I have this tank top, it's nothing spectacular. It used to be my mom's, until I claimed it about six years ago. It's beige, with tiny black polka dots, and it's a little loose, but it's comfy. I wear it in public, but it's getting a little worn looking, I'm sure. It's not awful, but it doesn't accurately reflect the fact that I have half a dozen nice summer suits, and jackets and skirts in my closet and dresser.

Last week, I got a call from the gal over at the local CBC station, inviting me to be part of a parenting panel. Taping was this afternoon, and of course, I said yes. I've been on the radio over there a few times, and I'm perfectly comfortable with that now. The gal clarified that I knew where to find the studio, and as I said, I've been down there before, so, no prob.

So, I told a bunch of people I was going to be on CBC Radio again, and I woke up this morning, and brushed up on my topic, and left the house feeling all jazzed, because I've really grown to love being on the radio.

It's about a jillion degrees here, and today was an Extreme Heat Day (seriously, it was official and everything), so of course I wore my baggy tank top with the tiny black polka dots, and my comfy capris and my Boulder shoes. Didn't bother with makeup, thinking, how nice that I'm doing radio and can be comfortable. I was cool, but casual.

Smoothed on my anti-aging moisturizer as I was having a bit of an itchy day (I'm very sunburnt and windblown these days, although thankfully, I'm no longer fire-engine red). Ran a comb through my hair one more time, brushed my teeth, and drank a bottle of water so I wouldn't be gravelly. Snagged a hoodie on my way out, in case the studio's air conditioning made it chilly. Thought to myself, "Thank heaven it's radio. If it were TV, I'd have to dress nicer, and be hot, and I think I look tired."

Not that I've ever been on TV, I just like to imagine that someday, someone will ask me to, I don't know, appear. And I still dream of the day that Kelly Ripa will call. There I'll be, all fabulous on Live! and sitting up on one of those jazzy stools, being all witty. 'Course, I'd need a lot of preparation for that. For one thing, I'm badly in need of a haircut. And my knees are kind of knobby, and I have ugly shins, so I'd never wear a skirt, or anything that showed my knees or shins.

You know, like capris.

Plus, I would need about a week of therapy and hours of meditation to stop jumping up and down and going "I'm going to be on TV! And I'm scared to death!"

So there I am, arriving at the CBC building, all ready to go on the radio. Cool. Relaxed. Casual.

And someone meets me at the door, as they usually do, and leads me into the rabbit warren that is the CBC building. Only, she's not leading me back towards the studio where they do the radio taping.

She's not leading me into the radio part of the building. Oh no she is not.

We round a corner, and I'm invited to take a seat.

IN THE TV STUDIO.

I'll pause for a minute while you all gasp and cringe empathetically at my horror. Or fall down laughing, whichever works best for you.

TV.

I'm going to be on TV.

IN FIVE MINUTES.

IN MY TANK TOP AND CAPRIS.

WITH NO MAKEUP.

WITH THE SCRATCHES ON MY ARMS FROM CUTTING DOWN THE ROSES LAST WEEK STILL SHOWING.

It was at that point that I screamed aloud, ripped my hair out in handfuls, and then fled the building.

Ok, not really, but I considered it.

Remember that episode of Friends where Monica and Chandler are celebrating Valentine's Day, and Monica forgets they were supposed to make their presents, and she's going "MAKE the presents, MAKE the presents" as she realizes her mistake?

That was what my inner dialogue was like. "CBC TV, not radio, CBC TV, not radio!"

The part about being nervous about being on TV for the first time? Never got to experience it. Was far too preoccupied with making sure the strap of my hot pink bra wasn't sliding down my arm.

I was trying very hard to be all zen about it, but then I caught sight of the studio monitor out of the corner of my eye, and I was all like, "Hey! That's me! On television! In my OLDEST TANK TOP WITH NO MAKEUP ON."

I wasn't nearly as dynamic as I was prepared to be. Oh, I didn't stammer, or anything like that, and I think I spoke clearly and intelligently, but really - there I was, between two women in pretty blazers who wore lipstick, and I, billed as the editor of the local parenting magazine, looked like I'd just stopped by on my way in from the beach.

Good things: the host was great, and the other panelist was someone I've had a lot of interaction with over the last couple years, so I was comfortable that way. And maybe it's better that I didn't have the weekend to freak out about being on TV. And I think I'd like the chance to do it again, albeit properly attired.

That is, if I ever leave the basement again.

607 pages later

After sitting in line with a few hundred people last night, waiting for the big moment to arrive - and I was pleased to see how many local teens chose to spend their Friday evening in a bookstore - I became the proud owner of TWO copies of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince.

Spent a few hours last night, and many more today, reading.

And reading.

And reading.

And...wow.

Just...wow.

The hardest part is not discussing it, but I know that many of my readers will not have had the chance to immerse themselves in JK's latest yet, so I won't.

But...wow.

Go! Hurry up! READ THE DARN BOOK ALREADY.

What are you waiting for?

Some like it hot

The lack of blogging here can be attributed to the fact that the heat wave has brought temps so high that I melted into a little puddle on the sidewalk, and couldn't reach my keyboard from there.

But here I am, slowly reforming into some kind of shape.

They don't call them the lazy, hazy days of summer for nothing - I've been having a hard time concentrating on anything for very long, and haven't gotten much more than the "absolutely has to be done" done.  Other than that, I'm trying to stay cool, and hope to be back to my old self soon.

In 24 hours I'll be reading Harry Potter! Will you?

A Possible Secret to Success?

I found myself, this morning, considering names for the gnomes. It was my mother's idea, but like all interesting ideas, I took it, and ran amok with it. As I pondered over which gnome best suited the name "Max", I realized something significant:

I was perilously close to dying from boredom.

So off to Chapters I went, mother in tow, since she clearly needed an outing too. (naming the gnomes was her idea in the first place, remember?) I declined the opportunity to take the youngest daughter. With only my mother along, I could easily take as much time as I wanted to browse for books. All I do is drift away from her, and hide when it looks like she's about to find me and ask how much longer I plan to be. I think there are laws against doing that with your kids.

It was there, skulking in Fiction, that I discovered a much overlooked key element in successfully marketing your book.

All you have to do is figure out where your book will be located on the shelves, and then arrange to have a Book Club meet one aisle over. At some point, someone like me will come along, and spend AGES staring at the shelf where YOUR BOOK is located.

Clear as mud, right? Allow me to explain.

As I rounded the end of a row, I stumbled - literally TRIPPED - over a Book Club meeting. There they were, smack in the middle of the Fiction section at Chapters, about eight women sitting on chairs in a circle, discussing their current read.

I love Book Clubs. Or at least, I love the IDEA of a Book Club. I want to be in a Book Club. A real-life Book Club, where I can sit on a chair in a circle, and be all EARNEST about what I've read. I want to start a Book Club. I really do.

I'm just a little leery of trying, because when I was little I was always starting clubs, and signing up my friends, and then I'd get to bossy and they'd all quit, and I'd be left as the President of a club that only my little brother belonged to, and he'd only stuck around because my mom made him.

So I came upon this Book Club, and I was jealous. And CURIOUS. I stopped and stared for a moment, and then realized that they were staring back at me, and that I was obvioudly being very rude, and making it difficult for them to concentrate on whatever it was they were trying to concentrate on. So I drifted away, and then drifted back around again, and finally I just hid in the next aisle over.

And then I eavesdropped. I stared intensely at the shelves in front of me, as though I were filled with purpose, desperately trying to find one particular book. People kept passing me, and employees kept offering to help me find whatever I was so intensely searching for, and I wondered if the Book Club might catch on to the fact that there was clearly some sort of lunatic Book Club Stalker hanging around.

And then I realized that my picture appears in 25,000 copies of a local magazine every month, and that someone might recognize me, and out me as a Lunatic Book Club Stalker, so I stared at the shelves even harder. And continued to lurk.

As a result, I can now rattle off the title of every Danielle Steele novel in stock at the local Chapters. I can describe, in detail, the covers of the Number One Ladies Detective Agency, as well as the later books by that author. I can tell you that the jacket copy of The Red Hat Club did not intrigue me. I can tell you that there is one copy of Time Off For Good Behaviour on the shelf, and that Miriam Toews seems to be prolific.

I was glued to "R", "S", and "T". I can't tell you anything about any author that starts with "P" because every time I drifted that far, I couldn't hear what the Book Club Ladies were saying.

I still don't know what book they were discussing, but I can tell you that some of the readers were all hung up on symbolism, and others couldn't care less. And that they all agreed, later, that yes, Tuesdays With Morrie had been better.

Eventually, I realized that I'd sent my mother to get me a tall cafe mocha, and that she was probably wandering around with a paper cup in her hand getting all ANNOYED. So I left the Book Club behind, and hoped that they wouldn't notice me skulking away. And my mother wasn't annoyed, just a little bit exasperated. And I was still thinking about the Book Club when we left the store, and so I couldn't remember where I'd parked, and she laughed at me.

So yeah - if your book is on the shelf and your name starts with "R", "S" or "T", it probably got noticed by me tonight. Even if I didn't buy it, it will ring a bell later, and I will go back and look again.

Location is everything - believe me, you want your book to be in the lurkers' section.

You never know where they'll turn up next

Earlier this evening, while relaxing on the patio, I looked up to see a gnome on the roof of my garage. And last time I looked, there was one sitting on the pool deck, wearing a pair of swim goggles.

And one gnome is missing completely. I expect a ransom note soon.

Apparently, we are the sort of people known as "easily amused."