Summer Cold Again

A little winter for the month of June . . .

Forty Forty

When I was a child, I had a lazy eye. I did eye exercises that made me look possessed and some people speculated that I might be mentally challenged. My eye eventually righted itself, but my self-esteem wasn't as resilient. Like my brilliant friend Laura blogged about a few weeks ago, everyone has that horrible inner critic who tells you all the ways in which you look bad and are screwing up everything all the time. Where does this voice come from? And what can one do to silence this bitch? If only rolling around your eyes for a year would do it, we'd all be in luck.

I just read a memoir where a woman named her inner critic. I haven't done this but I'm aware that she's getting a lot smaller. My inner critic would add, Unlike your ass. Yep, she's there but now she doesn't have near as much power. I'm so glad. I saw a writer on a morning show the other day who said she got botox after seeing a picture of herself looking forty and not Salma Hayek forty, but forty forty. It made me sad. Her inner critic obviously expects her to look like Salma Hayek! She seemed like a nice articulate pretty woman who hated herself and didn't mind going on television to detail this hatred in detail. The host offered to give her a hug after the third insult directed toward her innocent body. And I thought my inner critic was mean. But she's getting more quiet with each passing year. Like they say in the movies, silence is golden.

Michelle's Spell of the Day
"It's sad to grow old, but nice to ripen." Brigette Bardot

Cocktail Hour
The new season of Weeds starts next week!

Benedictions and Maledictions
Happy Saturday!

The Longest Day Of The Year

In light of the start of summer, here's a list of my favorite summer activities --

Watching movies.

Sitting on my tail.

Thinking about winter.

Drinking blood orange martinis.

Sitting on my tail.

Listening to the Velvet Underground.

So dear readers, what are your favorite summer activities? See you tomorrow!

Happy Father's Day!

Happy Father's Day! Here's my wonderful dad, circa 1973.

Waiting For The Muse

I just read a blog post about how said writer hates to hear about the writing habits of writers. This doesn't bother me too much. I kind of liked hearing Larry McMurtry talk about writing for a couple of hours a day longhand with a Bic pen in a long ago class where he didn't answer any questions about his meanings, spirituality, or inspiration. He pretty much stuck to questions about the physical world which drove most of the students nutty. We were all pretty young and believed in the muse. Which is to say that we needed to get out a Bic pen because that bastard Muse was in hiding. And all the fancy equipment writers tend to believe will help them capture this mysterious being is usually distraction.

But here goes my own pet peeve list in relation to writing. Hearing people talk about why they can't write. Or what they would write if they had time to write if they didn't have so many other things to do. This is the worst, the assumption that people who write have more time than anyone else. Maybe yes, maybe no, but if you wait to have "time" to write, you will never write. How said person should just whip together a children's book/genre thriller/ romance novel/ self-help tome "for the money." As if these are somehow easier than other books to write and will pay off so they can do "real writing." Still, I love writers. Except when they are writing. And then they are grouchy. Or talking about writing. Usually when they are in their cups. But otherwise, we rule. I've got a Bic pen here somewhere . . .

Michelle's Spell of the Day
"There is more wisdom in the body than in your deepest philosophies." Friedrich Nietzsche

Cocktail Hour
Nurse Jackie has only one more episode -- waah!

Benedictions and Maledictions
Happy Tuesday!

All The News That's Fit To Print

Still recovering from evil summer cold, but can't resist some of the recent news bits. Jack White has a divorce party -- I approve. Who says divorce can't be as celebrated as marriage? Anthony Weiner. Ummm, hope he has a hands free phone. Couldn't resist. But the man has suffered, let's face it. When Jane Lynch and Bill Maher read your tweets on air, it's pretty awful. All sex talk sounds horrid out of context. Mr. Weiner is no Henry Miller. But how he does go on like Henry! And I'm getting pretty sick of the whole rehab thing. You do something questionable and then straight to rehab! While the man may suffer a sex addiction (and I don't know if that's real or Memorex, as the old ads used to say), why rehab? Are there no therapists in all of Queens? One thing we do know -- there are places where a man can get his chest waxed.

And the Mavs -- well played! Clearly, Cleveland put a curse on King James who looked as one of my friends puts it, scared stupid the entire finals, particularly last night. I get pressure, but what happened to the warrior I once watched on the courts? A formidable opponent against my beloved Pistons, I wonder the question that scholars and philosophers have posed since the beginning of time -- What. The. Fuck? So that's all for today -- back tomorrow!

Summer Cold

I recently read that it takes ten thousand hours of practice to master anything. Of course, I start trying (operative word) to do the math in terms of writing. How many hours have I logged? No idea. I've spent a long time wanting to write, a long time studying writing, and a long time actually writing but am I in the proverbial ballpark? Not sure. At the magic mark, will I know or have I passed it like a city on a road trip without any notable signs, a place designed to take you somewhere else? Or as so many cards and pillow samplers suggest, is the journey the important thing? I have come to the conclusion that I have no fucking idea.

Also, I have a summer cold which adds to the surreal aspects of this exercise. Cold medicine makes everything trippy, not like anything really good, but trippy like you never quite know where you are. I suppose that's a lot like writing. You're always on the road, hoping to see something great. But what is it you're looking for? Evil clowns? Museums dedicated to things that you didn't know that happened in the first place? Whatever it is, the road will take you there. Stay alert. You never know when you'll hit the mark.

Michelle's Spell of the Day
"You're going to kick me out of my own trauma?" Nurse Jackie

Cocktail Hour
Movie suggestion: Midnight in Paris

Benedictions and Maledictions
Happy Saturday!

Happy Best Friends Day!

Never heard of this holiday until today, but happy best friend's day! I usually hate made up holidays, but I'm a big fan of friendship. I've heard a lot of things about friendship and the one that comes to mind is that friends are God's way of apologizing for your relatives. I happen to like my relatives so it doesn't apply directly, but my friends are wonderful in every way. They deserve awards for days. Friend duties -- helping you break up with men (special thanks to Angela on this one for a notable airport getaway car), listening to your boring stories (all of my friends and the readers of this blog fulfill this one), helping you move (this is where true friends come in), giving you presents you didn't even know you needed until that moment (Hello Kitty makeup!, Kentucky bourbon, vintage bar sets), and helping with funerals (only the hardcore friends need apply on this one). I'm not one who uses the expression BFF, but I have tons of BFFs who all make everything a little more wonderful. To all my near and dear, this one is for you! See you tomorrow . . .

Ten Items Only

A few nights ago, I slept in a room with two giant Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls made by a woman who had undergone a lobotomy in the 60s and now has dementia which takes the form of feeling as if Santa Claus is trying to force her to have his child, a strange variation on Rosemary's Baby. The dolls gave me the creeps before I knew their history, staring at my with their vacant eyes, a reminder of the inherent strangeness of childhood and oddly reminiscent of blow-up dolls. My hostess for the night is a deeply kind woman who spoke of the difficulties of being a stepmom and how she always felt she couldn't say anything in her situation for fear of making it worse. She smiled after this revelation and said, I call my girlfriend who always tells me to pump the love. She takes care of her mother despite the fact that her mother was unable to take care of her much of her young life in addition to her heroic efforts with her husband's ex and her great love for his children.

I got to thinking about her friend's advice, to pump the love. I'm great at this so long as I like the person. Where it gets tricky is the whole loving your enemy stuff. Enemy, such a formal and formidable word when in fact it's usually someone who hardly seems glamorous enough to be an enemy -- your beloved's ex who wears a thong leotard so revealing that you can tell if a bikini wax might be in order, the person who always gets into the magazine that you have been trying to break into for years, the person in line with twenty items when the sign clearly says Ten Items Only. I think of my friend who has been through so much and still pumps the love and packs snacks for me with a big smiley face that says Thanks for staying with me! In honor of her, I'm going to try to pump the love and failing that at least shut my mouth when I can't.

Michelle's Spell of the Day
"It is, I believe, a new and significant invention of drama or the novel, a new way in which people can learn to look at life, by seeing the real life of others interpreted by the camera." Margaret Meade

Cocktail Hour
DVD suggestion: You Don't Know Jack

Benedictions and Maledictions
Happy Saturday! Rest in peace, Jack Kevorkian, Michigan's own. And a note to everyone -- I have had very limited internet access and will return all emails as soon as I can.

Solar Eclipse Day