Wednesday, September 29, 2010

Wee Wednesday Wishes

Everybody has wishes, right? I know I do. Some of them are big and selfish, straight from my pleasure-seeking id. Win the lottery, sell my book for beaucoup bucks, have access to an unending supply of gourmet chocolate, become the country's first Limerick Laureate...the usual stuff.

Some of my wishes are huge and noble. I mean, of course I wish for world peace, and health and happiness for all, yadda-yadda-yadda.  Who doesn't? 

But most of my wishes are tiny, fleeting things, here only for a moment, transitory--yet fervent--desires. Embers that burn brightly, then fade as the next wish flares.

In just the past few days, I've wished...

~  college students still looked as grown-up to me as they did when I was in college.

~  I could remember everything I ever learned, instead of having so much of it leak out when I'm not paying attention.

~  I could still run the 50-yard dash in 6.7 seconds.

~  low-calorie food tasted good, or conversely, food that tastes good had fewer calories. 

~  my dad could have known the adult me, and the adult me could have known him.

~  people could truly "live and let live."

~  I could get past the fricking scene in my WIP that's giving me fits.

~  when you put clothes in the washing machine, they would come out magically dried and folded.

~  somebody would invent the self-cleaning bathroom.

~  it was already sweater weather.

~  I hadn't broken that nail on my middle finger.

~  the first joint on my right index finger would stop aching after I type too much.

~  more people on TV did not have blinding white teeth.

~  cell phones had never been invented.

~  people who park in handicapped parking places who aren't really handicapped would earn the "honor," at least temporarily. 

~  I had wings like Icarus, only melt-proof.

~  the tips of my eyelashes weren't blond.

Wow. A lot of those are kind of shallow, aren't they?

Oops! Thought of another one--

~  I wish I didn't sound so shallow.

Well. You see how it goes. I suspect--okay, I hope--I'm not the only one who has wishes floating around in her head like dandelion seeds.

Do you have any Wee Wednesday Wishes? Tell me. Especially the shallow ones, so I don't feel alone in my Shallowness Shame.

Monday, September 27, 2010

Mo(o)nday Silliness

WARNING: Today's blog post contains "poetry" of questionable taste; i.e., limericks. Some of them might be accurately classified as "naughty." If such things offend your delicate sensibilities, feel free to gaze upon this lovely photo of the nighttime sky instead of reading further.

Hello, Monday! 

Do not
Have a good
Idea for a post
today, so I am playing

(That's supposed to be a tree, but TG thinks it looks more like an upside-down amphora. Oh, well. I tried.)

I know! How about a limerick to cheer things up? 

There once was a day full of EEK!
So dismal, so dreary, so BLEAK!
Instead of a fun day,
'Twas so very Monday,
It ruined the start of the week. 

Oops. That didn't work out so well, did it? Let's try again:

There once was a man named McDuff
Who liked to play golf in the buff.
With one mighty swing
He knocked off his thing,
And lost both of his balls in the rough.  

Okay, that was a leetle bit naughty, wasn't it? But, hey, it's Monday. Monday need something to perk it up. Dirty limericks work for me. 

Back in the days when TG and I were first married, and struggling to make the mortgage payment every month, we didn't have much of an entertainment budget. Or any kind of a budget, really, aside from food and shelter. (And sometimes food was iffy. There were plenty of months we rounded out our diet with popcorn and beer from the theater. Never missed a mortgage payment, though.)

Anyway, when our cheap TV broke, we couldn't rush right out to replace it. While we waited for the next paycheck to roll in, we kept ourselves entertained by writing each other (usually naughty, but not always) limericks. "McDuff" was our very first joint effort, so it has great sentimental value for us. I'm considering embroidering it on a sampler, and hanging it over the fireplace.

Here's another early effort:

There once was a couple named Grimes
Who came upon very hard times.
For their Art they did suffer,
With nary a buffer,
'Cept writing each other dumb rhymes.

Ah, good times. :)

There *cough* may have been an  adult libation consumed before this one erupted:

 In London a fishmonger, Alice,
Used an electrical eel as a phallus.
When it started to glow
Her smile sure did grow--
Bigger than Buckingham Palace.

[Aside: Always marry someone with a similar sense of humor, because if you can't laugh at the same things, what's the point?]

Since I'm nice, I'll spare you the limericks we composed about "Chuck" and "Mrs. Hunt" and "Rick." ;)

So, have you ever had to come up with cheap entertainment? If so, what was it? 

Friday, September 24, 2010

Don't send your ms out with hairy legs

 Let's talk about personal grooming.

(What? It's an important issue.)

I like to think of myself as a clean person. I shower. I brush my teeth. I depilate* on a regular basis. I wear clean clothes most of the time, and always remember to change my underwear, in case I get hit by a truck, because lord knows I wouldn't want to mortify my mother if the docs in the ER were to speculate I might be wearing less-than-fresh panties**.

On any given day, if, say, a surprise guest showed up on my doorstep, I would not present an absolutely appalling picture. (Unless examined very closely or in harsh sunlight, of course. Then all bets are off.) But I certainly don't take the time to go through every single grooming ritual on a daily basis. I mean, I do have a life. Things to do, don'tcha know.

You're reading one of those things right now. But, in case you're wondering, I will be shaving my legs this morning. And my pits. And I'll even buff my heels with one of these:

Because tonight I'm playing Cinderella and going to The Ball with TG--a job-related, highly formal event, wherein the foundation he works for seduces money out of rich people who happen to be patrons of the arts (and we love each and every one of their generous hearts, yes we do!). It's a special occasion, so I'm trying harder than usual.

[BTW, those aren't my feet. I thought you should know, in case you're a closet foot fetishist, and might be tempted to develop a crush on me based upon an unrealistic image.

Not that my own feet are awful. I mean, I use the dry-skin-grater-offer thingamajig and a special lotion and everything. I even have peachy-pink toenails. I just don't have a picture of me using the thingamajig, because, frankly, TG thinks it's pretty gross, and wouldn't play photographer for me. Not that he doesn't appreciate the fruits of my labors, even if he isn't a foot fetishist. Who doesn't enjoy a smooth foot? He just doesn't want to watch me do it. You might even say it grates on him. (Uh, sorry.)]

You are by now probably thinking, what in the HELL is Linda getting at with all this nonsense? (Isn't it amazing how psychic I am? Honestly, it's a gift.) Well, I'll tell ya.

*Ahem* Personal grooming is not unlike what we do with our writing when we revise. When we edit and tweak, plump it up and pare it down, it's kind of like washing and shampooing and plucking and shaving. All that stuff we do to put the finishing touches on a manuscript before we send it out into the world?

It's hygiene for our writing.

A lot of writing is akin to the everyday grooming basics--don't sweat it, it's fine as long as it doesn't stink. Just get the words down, relax, and call it done.

But some writing is like going to The Ball--you want it to be as polished as possible before unveiling it to the world. Like before you send it out to an agent or editor. Now, nobody--and no manuscript--is ever perfect. Some probably have an inborn radiance, sure, but hell's bells, even Angelina Jolie looks better with a little make-up, right? And she probably smells as bad as anyone else if she doesn't take a shower. The thing is, you work with what you've got, and you try set it off to its best advantage.

All I'm saying is, some occasions call for a little more effort***, whether you're dressing up you or your manuscript. Just something to think about...while I go grate my heels, tweak my brows, and figure out which uncomfortable pair of shoes I'm going to dance in tonight.

*depilate: to remove hair from the body.

**Though if I get hit by a bus, the state of my underwear would probably undergo a sudden and drastic change. If you get my drift. So what does it really matter?

***Sadly, I'm afraid I didn't shave this post's legs. Sorry, but I was pressed for time. You understand, don't you?

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

Wednesday's Child -- say what?

I was born on a Wednesday. According to a certain nursery rhyme, this makes me full of woe:

Monday's child is fair of face,
Tuesday's child is full of grace,
Wednesday's child is full of woe,
Thursday's child has far to go.
Friday's child works hard for a living,
Saturday's child is loving and giving,
But a child born on the Sabbath day
Is fair and wise and good and gay.

Frankly, this poem has bugged the shit out of me ever since I was little girl and looked up "woe" in the dictionary. I mean, WTF? Just because I was born on a Wednesday, I'm doomed to "deep distress," "grief," and "misery"? Or even "misfortune," "calamity," and "grievous affliction"?

Thanks a lot, Mother Goose. Way to make somebody feel lousy. BTW, those feathers? They make your tail look fat. How's that for some woe? Huh? How do you like it?

It didn't help matters any that I was displaced as the baby of the family when my little brother was born...on the Sabbath day. Not only the Sabbath day, but Easter Sunday! Sheesh. How Sabbath-y can you get?

Okay, so maybe I was a little full of woe that day. I already had two brothers, and I wanted a sister. Sue me.

(Yes, I got over it. I love my little brother dearly. He's a gem. In fact, you might even say he's good and wise and fair. Pretty sure he's not gay, though.)

The point is, I don't want to be full of woe! I reject woe-ness! No woe-ity for me, please. I prefer to live a woe-free life, thank you very much.

So, to this effect, I propose a slight edit to the poem, one I will substitute in my head whenever I happen to hear or read it. I've narrowed it down to two choices:

"Wednesday's child is full of flow." (As in, serenely flowing through life.)


"Wednesday's child is full of glow." (As in happy. Not radioactive.)

Which do you like? Or maybe you have another suggestion? Please share in the comments.

WARNING: Rude suggestions will be deleted. Unless, of course, I find them particularly hilarious.

Also, which day of the week are you? Does it suit you? Are you happy with it? Inquiring minds want to know.

*Don't worry. It's out of copyright.

Sunday, September 19, 2010

Monday randomness: what genre are you?

I had a busy weekend, full of birthday parties, walks in the sunshine with TG, watching my beloved Redskins lose *bites knuckle and stifles sob*, and mostly reading a certain very engrossing book. Paranormalcy was a true delight. So if today's blog post sucks more than usual, blame Kiersten White.

So, what to blog about? *taps index finger thoughtfully against cheek*

Hmm. *digs into bag of Grab Bag of Random Blog Ideas for Desperate Days*

Uh-oh. Sorry about this...

*clears throat* If you were a piece of fiction, what genre would you be?

Remember, this isn't "What genre do you write?" or even "What genre do you like to read?" I mean, I love to read Urban Fantasy and Paranormal Mysteries, but that doesn't mean I'd like to live them. Vamps and ghouls, werewolves and faeries? Fun to read about other people's run-ins (ha! I typed "fun-ins" at first) with them, but I scare easily in real life. No thank you.

I don't like to shop, nor am I obsessed with shoes, so I don't think I could live out Chick Lit with any authenticity. And I'm not nearly serious and "deep" enough for Literary Fiction.

Historical of some sort, maybe? I am fascinated by the eighteenth century., I don't think I'd want to live it. I like indoor plumbing too much, so I suppose I'd have to go with something contemporary.

Since we're talking real life, I have to have a Happily Ever After. So some sort of Romance. And (of course) I love to laugh, so I have to have the funny.

So, I guess I'm a Contemporary Romantic Comedy.

How about you?

Thursday, September 16, 2010

Jumping Into a Good Book

When I was a kid, I used to pretend I could jump into books. Literally.

(Yes, as a matter of fact, I was profoundly affected by watching Mary Poppins jump into the chalk sidewalk drawings with the kids & Bert, the chimney sweep. I thought if it worked with drawings, why not with with books?)

I would put a book I loved on the floor, hop up, and land...well, not on it--I was too anal about keeping my prized possessions in pristine condition to do that--but with feet on either side of it. Then, eyes closed, I would insert myself into world of Trixie Belden, or The Black Stallion, or Black Beauty, or any of the multitude of other book worlds I visited.

Once I even got my friend across the street to attempt it with me, though she thought it was nutso. Eh, what did she know? She wasn't much of a reader.

The thing of it was, my books were as real to me as my everyday life. I didn't just read them--I lived them. I knew those characters, and I wanted them to know me too.

Back then, my literary BFF was (of course) Trixie Belden. I didn't want to be her, I just wanted to be one of the Bobwhites of the Glen, to hang out with them and solve mysteries. To visit all the cool places they got to go, and to have my every problem neatly wrapped up within a reasonable time frame.

My literary boyfriend was Trixie's brother Brian--the brainy one. He was handsome, too, which didn't hurt.

Now for the embarrassing part of this post:

(Shhh. Don't tell anyone.)

*ahem* I still do this.

No, I don't physically put books on the floor and try to jump into them. I'm way too dignified (stop laughing) to do that now. But I have been known to daydream scenarios in which I play role in a literary figure's life. As me.

Kinda dumb, huh? But fun. Plus, it's a great way to pass the time if you're mired in the odd bout of insomnia, and don't want to turn on the light to read. Really. You should try it sometime.

My current BFFs are Stephanie Plum (you can't tell me it wouldn't be all kinds of fun to hang out with her for a day) and Sookie Stackhouse (the mind-reading thing might be a little uncomfortable at first, but I think I'd adjust, and then we could sunbathe together while we dished dirt on the vamps, and maybe catch a beer at Merlotte's).

Don't tell TG, but I also have a couple of literary boyfriends: Myron Bolitar and Harry Dresden, both of whom have "smartass" down to a science. I do appreciate a nice (smart)ass. ;)

I even have a literary Grandmother: Grandma Mazur. Geez, I'd love to have Sunday dinner with her! And then maybe hit the casinos.

So, do you ever fantasize this way, or am I the only one crazy enough to do this? Who's your literary BFF? Boyfriend or girlfriend? Illicit lover? *waggles eyebrows* How about extended family members?

Which book would you jump into?

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

Hump Day Happies

I'm a lucky person. There are a lot of big things for me to be grateful for in life -- my health, my family, the fact that I have a roof over my head and plenty to eat. (Yeah, yeah...and drink, too.) Can't complain about any of the major barometers of happiness, and believe me, they count for a lot.

But you know what? I think the little things are just as important. Being aware of, and grateful for, the everyday stuff can fill in the chinks, cementing the overall happiness with a mortar of contentment.

So, to celebrate Hump Day this week, I thought I'd list (in no particular order) some the little things that make up my mortar:

1. Rain when it's been too dry.

2. Sunshine after too much rain.

3. Licorice jelly beans.

4. Whenever anyone says "I love you."

5. Dirty jokes. (I have a juvenile sense of humor. Sue me.)

6. When TG scratches my back.

7. When I scratch TG's back, and he makes sounds that would make you think I was giving him...uh, never mind. Carry on.

8. Getting a call from my daughter, just to chat.

9. When my son says "thank you," sincerely, after I make him breakfast.

10. Non-spam email in my inbox.

11. When our part-time cat stops by for her treats, but sticks around just to cuddle.

12. Stray memories of good times.

13. The smell of bacon cooking.

14. When there are more reds and purples in the Skittles bag than yellows and greens. (Not that I don't like the yellows and greens, too. Just not as much.)

15. When somebody comments really fast after after I put up a new blog post. (Does that sound needy? Hey, I'm just trying to be honest here.)

16. Snail mail. (The real kind, not bills.)

17. Crisp, clear, chilly fall days, the kind with azure skies and puffy white clouds.

18. The ducks at Great Falls National Park.

19. Chocolate malts with a dollop of whipped cream and a cherry on top.


21. Jasmine tea.

22. Fires in the fireplace on cold days.

23. Playing Relaxed Scrabble (dirty words allowed).

24. An extra cherry in my Manhattan.

...just to name a few (dozen) of them.

How about you? What makes up your mortar?

Monday, September 13, 2010

Monday Musings on Mirrors and Moods

Over the course of a typical day I see myself a lot of different ways, and I'm not even being introspective here. I'm being literal. I'm talking mirrors. Those suckers are everywhere.

I even have a favorite mirror. (Yeah, I do realize that's weird. Bear with me. It's Monday.)

Knowing me as you do by now, you might naturally assume my fave is a fun house mirror. Those do make me laugh, and I love to laugh. Here is a simulation of what I might look like in a fun house mirror:

But, no, it's not my favorite.

It's not a magnifying mirror, either--those send me running the other way, screaming in horror. Here is a simulation of what I quite possibly really do look like in a magnifying mirror, though I can't be sure, since magnifying mirrors scare me so much I have to shut my eyes:

It's not even the huge mirror in the master bathroom, the one that's directly opposite the bathtub, so I can't help but see myself naked as I emerge after a shower. (Which isn't as horrible as it might be, because that one fogs up easily, plus I'm terribly nearsighted, so everything is fuzzy until I put my glasses on or my contacts in, anyway.)

Here is a simulation of what I look like in my fogged up bathroom mirror:

My favorite mirror is the one in my downstairs powder room. See, that mirror is kind. Thoughtful. Friendly, even. Maybe it's just a trick of the light, but I swear it erases the lines around my eyes, turns my hair totally blond again, makes my lips and cheeks rosier and my teeth whiter. I'm pretty sure, if I adjusted the angle of it downward, it would also shave five pounds off my ass.

Here is a simulation of me in my favorite mirror (notice how it captures my bad-girl sauciness even as it displays my *cough* innate inner sweetness and light):

*sighs* I love that mirror.

But does it show the real me? Any more than the hideous, horrible, very bad magnifying mirror does? Nope. It shows a version of me I happen to like, but it's no more "real" than any other mirror.

Something similar happens when I reread stuff I've written, only it's my mood that alters what is reflected back to me. The same way different mirrors distort my image of the physical me, my mood on any given day can warp the words on the screen.

Mood #1: Everything is Rainbows and Puppies

This is pure euphoria, akin to how you feel when the dentist gives you a whiff of laughing gas. I read, and am in awe of my own brilliance. I know better than to trust this perception, but I try to enjoy it when it happens, since it's rare.

Mood #2:
The Black Acid-Rain Cloud of Doom

Other days I'm astounded by the enormity of the dreck I have produced, and wonder how I could have ever thought I had an aptitude for the written word. Huh. More like craptitude. I suck, you suck, the whole world sucks. Let's all have a great big suckfest, and suck eggs together. No, wait. That idea sucks. (Fortunately, this one is rare, too. Sadly, not as rare as the elusive Rainbows and Puppies, but still.)

Mood #3: Life Ain't Half Bad probably the most reliable. This is the one where I can read, noticing things that could use some improvement, but still remain, for the most part, satisfied with what I've produced.

What's interesting, when I really cogitate on the matter, is that all of these moods are useful to my writing. Lord knows I need those rainbows and puppies to keep me afloat sometimes. The black acid-rain cloud of doom serves to keep my writing from getting insipid--you really have to experience all kinds of awful moods and emotions to write them with any authenticity. I mean, too much sugar gives you the written equivalent of cavities and diabetes, and who wants that?

As for my normal "life ain't half bad" mood? Well, that one just keeps me (and the people I live with) sane. ;)

Now, pardon me while go rearrange the words in my WIP. But first I think I may gaze at the powder room mirror for for a while...

Friday, September 10, 2010

Knives and wives and girlfriends, oh my!

I'm so excited!!!

Why, you ask? What could possibly have Linda jumping up and down to the extent she wishes she'd invested in a heavy duty sports bra?

Well, I'll tell you. I just found out The Flying Karamazov Brothers are coming back to The Barns (the theater where TG is the reigning deity) next month, with their show entitled "4-Play."*

These guys are fan-effing-tastic! A comedy troupe that juggles. Yes, a juggling comedy troupe! Sooo funny, sooo talented, AND they sometimes wear KILTS!

Didja hear that, ladies? I said KILTS! And they all have really nice legs, which would be enough to make me watch them, but did I mention they also juggle while wearing kilts? What's not to love about that?

Aah, memories... *loses self in reverie*

You see, this is not the first time the troupe of kilted jugglers has been here. Many, many moons ago (as in, the '90s -- you know, the Dark Ages), The Flying Karamazov Brothers came to play at The Barns. The troupe has morphed since then--only one of the original members is left--but the spirit of F-U-N is the same.

On that memorable occasion, I actually got to be up close and personal with the guys. They were doing two shows--a matinee and an evening performance--so naturally TG, being the hospitable guy he is, invited the whole troupe and crew to our house for a meal in between. Even though we had two little kids at home, I don't really cook, and my elderly aunt from Sweden was visiting. Not that I'm holding a grudge or anything. I mean, I agreed and all. Still, I think he owes me for pulling it off.

Yeah, I know. Me, cooking. It is to laugh. But it's amazing what you can do with two frozen lasagnas (one with meat and one without, because there's always a vegetarian in an artsy crowd), bags o' salad, and baguettes from the bakery. If there's anyone who can throw together a passable meal without actually cooking, it's me.

The first thing you should know about jugglers is, duh, they juggle. All the time, apparently. Whatever they can get their hands on will go flying through the air. Yes, they're always honing those mad skillz.

Honing is what makes them professionals. *looks meaningfully at all writers reading this* Take from that what you will.

Part of The Karamazov Brothers' schtick is a trick called "The Gamble," in which one of them (designated "The Champ") juggles any three items provided by the audience (as long as the items weigh more than an ounce, less than 10 lbs, are no bigger than a breadbox, and are not live animals**). Said items are voted on by the audience members, so the guys don't know in advance what they will have to juggle.

TG says the most memorable thing an audience member brought to The Barns for this trick was a pig stomach stuffed with green jello. Eeew.

(I believe animal parts have since been added to the list of no-nos, at least at The Barns. So if you're planning to come to the show, don't bring any. Frankly, TG doesn't want to deal with it.)

They have another bit, called "The Terror Trick," wherein they juggle a salt shaker, a cleaver, a flaming torch, an egg, a block of dry ice, a fish, a ukelele, a bottle of champagne (with the safety wire removed), and a skillet. By the end of the trick, they're frying the fish and egg in the skillet, and drinking the champagne.

(Huh. Maybe I should've let them cook...)

At my house, they limited themselves to juggling a peanut, a bottle from the bar, a banana from the fruit basket, and a knife. Oh, and one of them was also juggling his girlfriend and his wife (who showed up *cough* unexpectedly to visit him on the tour). That was rather awkward.

What could a good hostess do? Other than seat them all at separate tables, smile brightly, and engage the wife in a halting Swedish-English conversation, with the help of a handy visiting aunt, while TG enlisted everyone else's aid in keeping the girlfriend from drinking too much wine and spilling the beans to the clueless wife over dessert.

Gotta love showbiz.

(No, I won't tell you which Karamazov brother it was. Contrary to the impression I may have left on loyal readers of this blog, I do have some discretion. Doesn't matter anyway--he's no longer with the troupe. I suspect the on-the-road "juggling" became too much of a challenge for his personal life to sustain.)

Anyway, I cannot wait to see their new show. TG hasn't said yet if he's invited them over for an encore meal. I suspect he's waiting to see if any of them have additional *cough-cough* baggage to deal with before making the commitment.

*Admit it. You were expecting me to make a crass foreplay joke here, weren't you? Well, some set-ups are just too easy. No challenge. Besides, you were already thinking it, so what's the point?

**TG tells me the items also cannot present a danger to the audience or the juggler, should a mishap occur. So you wouldn't be allowed to give them, say, a balloon full of sulfuric acid or a piece of dynamite. In case you were considering it.

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

I Wah-Wah-Wah-Wonderrrr...

As I was mulling over today's blog post, I got to wondering about life and its vicissitudes. So, in the spirit of my previous "Freak Me Out Friday" offering, today I give you:


(Gratuitous exclamation points added to up the excitement, because, face it, "wonder" isn't a very exciting word.)

Things I catch myself wondering about over the course of a typical day:

  • what's for breakfast
  • if my jeans still fit (corollary: if I wear a baggy shirt, will anyone notice if I leave the button undone at the waist)
  • how many hours of my life have been devoted to proper dental hygiene, and whether it's worth it (I suspect it is.)
  • if the assho--er, distracted driver in the car in front of me will finish texting before the light turns green
  • if my toenail polish clashes with my lipstick
  • if I delete this scene in my WIP, will I have to rewrite every frickin' thing that comes after it
  • if there are parallel universes, and if there are, am I in the best one
  • if it's wrong to eat ice cream for lunch, or if it falls under the "what the hell, I already have my jeans unbuttoned anyway" Why-Not Clause
  • which neighbor's mail I will get today, and which one will get mine (I think my mailman is dyslexic.)
  • if there really is such a thing as "luck"
  • if I should wash the sheets, or if I can get away with putting it off until tomorrow
  • why I haven't banked more blog posts for days like this
  • why I have become strangely obsessed with bullet lists

How about you guys? Are you wah-wah-wah-wah-wondering anything in particular today?

(Like, perhaps, if Linda will get her shizzle together before Friday and come up with a real blog topic?)

Monday, September 6, 2010


So, what are you doing here? Shouldn't you be outside eating a hot dog ...

...and having a cold beer?
Maybe some potato salad.

A piece of apple pie. A la mode...

...or with a slice of cheddar.

(Or, if you're a vegetarian teetotaler, a tofu dog and glass of ice tea. But the potato salad and apple pie should work you.)

Shoo. Go on. Get out of here. Relax. Be lazy*. Isn't that what Labor Day is all about?

*Exemplified by this lazy-ass post, using a big font to take up space. Because I won't ask people to do what I'm not willing to do myself.

Friday, September 3, 2010

Last Breath Memories, subtitled "Don't Worry, This Isn't as Sweet or Depressing as it Sounds"

Okay, back on our M-W-F track! And "F" it is. As in the TGI kind. Hooray, F!

*pauses for a "Hell, yeah!*

Anyhoo, Jessica Lemmon wrote a great post recently about the things she would be remembering as she takes her last breath on Earth. Good idea, huh? So, naturally I stole it--er, I mean, am paying homage to it here.

Of course, depending on how I go, I might only have time for an "Oh, CRAAAAP!"

But in case I do have time for quieter contemplation, I gave some thought to what I'd like to be focused on.

  • My mother's face when she blew out her cheeks so I could squish them together with my little 2-year-old hands, and the resulting "raspberry" that brought forth a multitude of giggles from both of us.
  • My father calling me his long-stemmed American Beauty, even though I was really just plain ol' tall and skinny.
  • The first time I saw TG. He was dragging a straggly Christmas tree onto the stage at Melodrama Theater. Charlie Brown had nothing on him.
  • TG and I, at the altar when we were getting married, trying desperately not to crack up when the Episcopal priest burst into a surprise rendition of the Lord's song. (Not that it was funny--he had a beautiful voice--but it was unexpected. Plus, the priest was a local amateur actor, and we suspected he was using our wedding to audition for a role in an upcoming production.)
  • DD's face, at three months old, as she was trying to figure out how smile up at me and stay latched onto my nipple at the same time.
  • DS at 11 months old, when he got his first pair of "real" shoes and took off out of the store, wobbling down the mall as fast as his legs could take him, intent on escape, laughing all the way. The little bugger was fast, too. TG chased him down while I paid for the shoes.
  • The looks of utter confusion on the kiddos' faces as they played laser tag out front with their buddies. Unbeknownst to them, I had figured out the TV remote would set off the vests, and was sitting on the bench "watching them play." Oh, the indignation when they found out what I was doing! But it ended with everyone laughing.
  • Walking our daughter down the aisle with TG, when she married the love of her life, and thinking back on our own wedding, wondering what insane temporal trickery had occurred to project us to this point in our lives.
  • Standing in front of my son's college when he graduated (at twenty--he always was precocious), looking at his beard and mustache--so nicely trimmed--and for once not thinking "would it have killed him to shave?"

And, because I can never resist taking things a step farther--


  • Holding a grandchild, looking down into a tiny, gorgeous face (because of course my grandchild will be gorgeous), and knowing, when the inevitable poopy diaper happens, I'll be able to pass changing duty off to either my daughter or my son. Revenge is sweet.
  • Holding my very own, written-by-me, published book in my hands at a brick and mortar bookstore.
  • Having Mark Harmon, Daniel Craig, Hugh Jackman, George Clooney, and Patrick Stewart all get into a knock-down, drag-out brawl over moi, and then saying, "Sorry, guys. I already have my TG."

How about y'all? Any current or future memories you'd like to share?