Side of Honeydew

Shiver of Sharks

2012-01-25T00:00:00.036-06:00

We lay awake thinking about where we'll be sleeping this time in say March. Lately, we lay awake coughing. Phlegmy but harsh, or dry and every 90 seconds. But soon the coughs will be gone, and we'll still be wondering.

He's two flights away from finishing flight school. So in February - unfortunately detracting from the time he needs to be spending in preparation for Valentine's Day - he'll receive his naval wings and become the hybrid animal many dream about, a flying fish of sorts.

But for a few more days - weeks - we'll still have a hard time quieting our minds about where we'll end up, no, where we'll arrive. And what kind of fish he'll be flying.

If I do manage to mute the issue, the other issue surfaces: Everyone I know is being impregnated. Not with some body-snatching alien, thank god (even though that would be kinda cool), or in a tricky knock-up situation, but with what will be a perfect mashup of their astounding, adoring parents. But still. Still.

The static between my ears as each announcement comes is unavoidable - the rush of blood to the head that isn't as thrilling as the Coldplay song makes it sound. Childbearing. The stage women love and fear. So in addition to wondering if we'll become East Coasters or San Diegans (AKA residents of "the whale's vagina"), or residents of one of the beautiful and tantalizingly far off naval isles of Guam, Japan, or Hawaii, we're peppered with the following questions, albeit on a lovable basis.

Courtesy of the Schwarze family blog

Are you pregnant? (When did this become okay to ask after every declined drink, roll of sushi - which I will still eat while pregnant since fish aren't caught with broken thermometers for hooks - or stomach bug?)

Are you pregnant? (Did the first jaw-drop not settle this?)

Are you trying? (You really want to know if we're humping like bunnies?)

Are you trying? (Has your cheek met the palm of my hand?)

Are you on birth control? (Is that not the same thing as trying anymore? Oh you mean trying is actually stripping away every shred of spontaneity and carefreeness from doing the humpty dance?

Because at some point we became adults on the brink of barenness instead of biblically fertile young adults.)

Do you want boys or girls? (Oh is that technology available now?)

What names do you like? (Ishmael and Jose, because everything else will be either tainted, taken, or briefly mentioned and therefore the cause of the cold shoulder by the time we get around to knowing the genders of our unborn children.)

Did you know you don't have to have kids... (Wow.)

One question that gives me fuzzy insides when I answer is, What's it like being an aunt? Corbin James Pritchard is my brother's son, my sister~~-in-law~~'s boy. He stretches and smiles now and was the most precious curled up potato bug I'd ever seen when I met him for the first time over Christmas. One day he might answer to Stretch or Corbster or bring some new, weird, wild and wonderful thing to our family like a contagious laugh or emo style. One day he'll have a big heart like his dad and be an unconditional ray of sunlight like his mom. And maybe I'll get to read to him and with him, show him a story for the first time, discover new ones together. Maybe he'll come stay with his cousins. The one thing I do know is that, that love is there regardless, more solid than anything; it's more sure than where you'll live or work or when you'll have another.

Since I can't sleep, probably like a lot of the superhero moms out there right now, I look through pictures of the Corbster that family have sent and consider myself well on my way to popcorn lung as the DVR'd Golden Globes play in the background.

Night turns into morning as I watch Felicity episodes and surf the Web, (I find out a group of sharks is called a 'shiver'), instead of writing like a good girl. The inspiration happens when it happens. Offspring, too.

In the meantime, I continue to want to chop off my hair despite the critics and blog about surfing baby waves on a beach in the Mariana Islands (forgetting about shivers in more ways than one). Or hole up and write. Or visit places like Kyoto and Godzilla Park.

And they can come, too. When they get here. There.

Courtesy of this|next

Reasonable Faith

2012-01-03T15:00:00.042-06:00

Courtesy

If all the bookstores go away, where will we go? Where will I go? When time stretches out and it's okay to look at book covers, niche magazines - reading stand alone chapters somehow comfortable on the floor or in an obscene chair, sometimes on a wooden chair, text juxtaposed with a latte that's almost too sweet. Almost. How else will finding a first edition, or specially highlighted copy, be memorable?

Like brides, mail order just doesn't cut it.

But there is a time and a place for a Kindle. (It's proven itself worthy as an e-reader.) Backpacking across a continent. When your arms are so pathetically weak, you don't want to hold up The Deathly Hallows. When you need one hand to breast feed. But they still make you turn off the not-really-electronic-electronic device on planes, leaving your hands idle for take-off and landing. Blech.

Dicks like to ask me what it's like to be an aspiring writer in a digital age. (The difference between curiosity of opinion and seeming satisfaction is tone.) What do you think? That it gives me great peace of mind to know that people are caring less and less about piracy and the beauty of a physical book, magazine, or journal. As we move toward the end of the world, I realize a huge chunk of the industry will never be enjoyed in hard form, the smell of that literature gone forever. All for a lighter backpack.

Annie gives Miley edge.

Annie Leibovitz takes the most beautiful pictures I've ever seen. (I can't pretend to think Ansel's landscapes are as interesting as Johnny Depp and Kate Moss together in bed, unedited a turquiose hair tie discarded on the hotel room carpet. Annie's lover facing cancer from a New York terrace. John Lennon the day he died. Her daughters. The White Stripes. All with so much interest that a shot earlier lay untapped.)

But as I sat for hours looking through and reading A Photographer's Life, a birthday gift, I knew there was no better way to enjoy these photos, even without the din of a museum and potential crowd. Not even an iPad can properly digitize the ulimate coffee table book. And is The Paris Reviw really as good on it? Is a blog post as good when it's printed out on scrap paper, robbed of it's glow and clickability? No way, jorge.

I heard a rumor that Powell's Books in Portland, Oregon, was closing. I didn't even start to smile or laugh (as I sometimes do at the first break of horrible news; I know, it's awful). But my friend and I quickly searched the Internet and breathed again when we didn't find any substantiating evidence. Powell's is where my dad and I have gone together and alone, something in common shared for hours.

It's from where my parents sent me pictures of my favorite authors doing readings while I was overseas. It's where the rare book room has a book worth a quarter million dollars. It's where there are entire sections devoted to Pulitzers or Japan or graphic novels or audio books. It's surrounded by vintage clothing stores, Jake's seafood, gilato, and the rest of Portland. It's an oasis for even the non-reader.

Courtesy of Isak

So I still have heart. Or at least reasonable faith that I'll only have small regrets in my old age (like seeing the pyramids and not climbing them - whoa! What?) and a slight worry for future generations of readers. There has to be others out there who lived for the daily classroom readings of Hatchet and thus have to own a copy they can make notes in. Who want the hard copy of IQ84. Who want unique versions of Jane Eyre, Harry Potter, Nancy Drew mysteries, The Hunger Games, and vampire chotsky dotting their bookcases, spilling onto the floor and other areas of the house, behind curtains.

Who want every book that changed their life.

Rolling Stone Annie wouldn't lose hope or give up. Austen, Franklin, even Meyer wouldn't. So neither will I.

Because when we do give up completely, things like lightbulbs, modern art, Oscars, Facebook, and the magic of flight, never happen. Lists of wonderful things just wouldn't exist.

W.I.C.K.E.D. (or nerdy) is good

2011-12-12T22:30:00.004-06:00

After three days of puking out my source-of-strength kcals and then some, and many more days of Cary footslogging through the hardest section of flight school thus far, I can actually say facing a shopping mall at Christmastime would seem like a break. This is saying a lot, given that at some strange point in my life, shopping became irrelevant.

The neighbor's winter fantasyland, complete with softly beeping electronic carols, seems nice now.

The seasonal drinks at Starbucks not so stupid.

The Kmart commercial with the wannabe pop song and pseudo people--nope, still don't like it.

In a matter of days, Cary'll be done with Instruments if weather and brain cells deprived of sleep permit. In a matter of days, I'll be splitting from whatever the hell it is I do. And we'll leave flight manuals, Microsoft Office, and social media where they belong: The bookshelves labeled Dreams That Require Work and Overused, Overpaid Trends.

Taking a break from scolding a client for excessive capitalization and exclamation points in Facebook posts, the Code-Dude and I visited the local TBS Comics--where the powers of tightly packed creativity and nerd smell combine to create the quintessential comic book store experience.

Obviously, the real deal is still out there. Those who embraced who they were long before it was cool to. More than simple growing up, I'm sure many learned far before I did that people who hate you or dislike you for whatever reason is moot. Off center in the narrow store was a strip of workbench-like tables, surrounded by patrons propped up on stools. I stole glances at their trading? Playing? Yellow scaffolding for storage hung overhead.

We joined in letting our freak flags fly and began going rack by box, shelf by shelf, unabashed commentary running...

Scott Pilgrim books - 'Cool art' ... 'I feel like I'm six again.'

Japanese graphic novels - 'They go/read backwards!' ... 'Why is backwards so cool?'

Red Wing - 'This looks cool' ... Is he a pilot?' ... 'Why do white covers stand out so much?'

Twilight graphic novel, True Blood Comicon editions, Vampirella - 'Of course.'

The Punisher - 'I can't find The Crow' ... 'It seems like it'd be cool.'

Thor - (whispered) 'What's the difference between Marvel and DC?'

Bat Girl - 'A #1!' ... 'Would be cool to feel like it's a beginning.'

Star Wars graphic novel - 'Ooo' ... 'Ahhh...'

It's official, nerdy has become cool. The thinnest books have become more valuable. Understanding pictures over words means you're just as smart (if not more so). Throw in a malt shop and a Sheldon-esque T-shirt, and you're living a different kind of American Dream. Or is it just nice to talk about something you like with someone who likes it, too?

By the way, anyone a fan of The Maze Runner? (mentioned in last post) I'm tentatively starting book two of three, and... It's just... They always peter out! This is my series theory. (Exception: J.K. Rowling's SEVEN Harry Potters.)

The Hunger Games? Great, right? But the other two? They slowly slid into that chasm of entertainment OCD that makes you finish what you started. The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo? Just too much complexity. Twilight? Too little, especially for an extra movie. Ender's Game? We'll see.

Whatever happened to one-hit-wonders? To Kill a Mockingbird. Black Beauty. Invisible Man. Wuthering Heights. Gone with the Wind. One wonderful hit shouldn't guarantee an author anything but an intern's thoughtful read.

This kind of publishing would be like making the entire basketball team try out each and every year.

But then there's the money. And if I was an author with a contract, I probably might feel differently. hehe

But I'm not. I'm not wondering at what bookstore I'll be doing a reading next week; I'm wondering where I'll be living in three months. And again in a year or so. And again three years after that. But since we don't have a lot of money, this is perfect. Because a sense of adventure is all we have.

I'm realizing it's all any of us have.

*World In Catastrophe: Killzone Experiment Department, from The Maze Runner

Frack

2011-11-30T23:59:00.378-06:00

The good holiday is over. When I was little, all I wanted was presents. Now, all I want is good food. (Like stuffing. And cranberry sauce in the shape of a can, right?) Thus, Thanksgiving rocks. But these days all that's left is the concluding wintry month in which I receive metaphorical lumps of coal from Santa, because I'm a pretty selfish girl. Still.

This recent turkey-tofurky-smurfy-whateveryouwannacallit weekend, we travelled the 618 miles to Louisville, Kentucky, to meet up with some other displaced family members due to careers. But I only wanted to do this because these people make me happy and laugh. And I would get to bring Cary's brother home with me. And we could watch The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy and Battlestar Galactica and start reading The Maze Runner series.

I also wanted to see Louisville. And another '-ville.' Nashville. Where we ate at the corner steak and spaghetti (weird combo to me but Cary doesn't see it) place Demo's and roamed the few short blocks that really are the strip. It was cold, but that didn't keep the doors shut; live music poured onto the sidewalk, and an open air concert with beer tastings was in the middle of it all. We visited a warm Ernest Tubb Record Shop to get Johnny Cash and Elvis compilation albums.

(Getting older isn't so bad for your taste buds...)

In Louisville, we swore we wouldn't even try to imitate the way natives say their town name. Turns out, we didn't ever need to, nor did we hear a soul say "Looavull" once. We hit Churchill Downs. We lost money. (I once again tried to regurgitate to Cary all I had learned from the Seabiscuit book and Secretariat movie.) We hit the Louisville Slugger Museum & Factory. We got suckered into wanting tiny bats as well as posing in front of the giant one out front. We hit Muhammad Ali's museum. It was cool. But I secretly wished it were Katniss Everdeen's - since Jennifer Lawrence is from there supposedly. Even though this doesn't really make any sense). We ate Cuban. We begged for military discounts everywhere we went. We even got stuffing and jelly cranberry sauce.

The best were the Mammoth Caves. This cave, or series of caves, is the largest in the world if you can believe it. Believe it. This national park encompasses 390 miles of discovered cave. We visited both "ends" and saw Frozen Niagara (not as cool as it sounds) and took a couple mile tour into the main part (way cooler than it sounds). We descended into a gaping black hole the size of a big house that made me so curious about how the original explorers may have reacted to it. Shock? Greed? Not much at all?

Once in the main cavern - this time the size of a Hollywood mansion - Cary said it seemed like a place every Native American tribe leader would meet to make the big decisions.

Uh huh. Uh huh. I could totally see that.

But every time we had a good observation like this, it was dashed by the tour guides' wisdom.

It got short and narrow in one place, just enough to make your panic meter rise a notch. Hmm, perfect. The crickets were kinda like giant spiders. It felt cool and sometimes damp. You could hear water in places, or see it. There were deep crevices. There was a bathroom a mile in.

It felt warmer outside when we resurfaced after a lot of stairs. We walked gingerly across the soapy, spongy mat again to rid our shoes of certain things picked up. A fungus or something is killing the bats somewhere in the nation. (I listen well.) And it could wipe out the thumb size bats that apparently inhabit the cave but don't like to make an appearance for my blog. "Would you want to make your bedroom where people are turning on lights all the time and being noisy?" One of our tour guides kept asking us rhetorical questions like this.

But with the lights out, and the kids in the group as quiet as they could be (which is louder than at any other point on the journey), we got to experience cave darkness and wannabe silence. This was cool.

So... I went the whole day wearing my Mammoth Mountain sweatshirt without getting a single comment on it. What the frack?

Well, that brings me to (as hoped) the fact that I've spent the week breaking from work for mini Battlestar Galactica marathons. This might just be the best show ever. They say 'frack' instead of 'fuck.' Most everything square has the corners chopped off: dog tags, books, papers, computer screens, pictures. It was on the SyFy channel from 2004 to 2009, but it's now available on Netflix streaming, thank the gods (they use the plural).

I crack up, I tear up, I hold my breath. I learn how to say the eff word without really offending anyone and sounding like some kind of muppet. What else do you need?

* * * *

The best of the road trip music in case you need to add a few songs to sugar and spice up your playlists:

WordGirl for Grown-ups

Editors usually get this right, but civilians rarely do.

Incorrect: I honed in on the cute girl.

Correct: I homed in on the cute girl.

Also correct: I honed my flirting skills.

Word of the day: Frack. Yep. Use it. Maybe it'll peak the interest of people who weren't (and still aren't) early sci-fi adopters and didn't do things like read Ender's Game and The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy when they were 11. This is okay.

Tumblr Treat

chapter five: SF

dear self, leaving the down jacket in the car does not keep you warm.

yours (literally),

What Would Salander Do?

2011-11-14T17:15:00.267-06:00

Courtesy of The Telegraph

Lisbeth wouldn't be caught dead running a race.

Since discovering the Swedish films last year (finally), and the books (again finally) this year, the character Vogue said people say is today's Scarlet O'Hara role has become more than the entertaining protagonist of the Millenium trilogy for me.

She's become someone who makes the activities I do seem kinda pointless.

The girl with the dragon tattoo, who also played with fire and kicked the hornet's nest, makes choices solely based on consequences. Due to her quintessentially fucked up childhood. If it won't get her hurt, institutionalized, or require any pointless socialization or activity, Lisbeth Salander will, well might, do it.

Coffee, Coke, cigarettes, sandwiches. Black. Boots. Mac electronics. These are necessities. Fighting violence against women. Also a necessity. Sex? Any gender will do. Revenge? Serve it frigid. If she's going to splurge, it'll be on a motorcycle, a room with a view, IKEA furniture, or by taking down a serial killer, billion-dollar thief, or sex trade ring leader - also her dad - without anything but a keyboard. Or a nail gun.

So maybe she would consider running the Pensacola half-marathon if she knew it would help her run away from bad people, or chase them down.

Nope, she'll never be a Salander.

However, as I jogged along with some buds on Sunday, I started to feel less and less like a bad-ass and more and more like a sack of pulp with gravel in my joints and ugly black-and-blue toenails. Aw well. At least I can prepare and hope for an ethical foot chase in my future.

Tip: Read each book and chase it with each Swedish movie available via Netflix streaming.

Note: The American version due out this Christmas will not be as good. But go see it anyway despite the slight, but expensive, slap in the face to the Swedes. Director David Fincher made me feel a little better about wanting to see it when he told Vogue this:

"We are walking in other people's footsteps, and we have to be careful."

That's right you do. Rooney is no Noomi. Daniel no Michael. Despite the looks. But we all still want to see the American interpretation ... Damn it.

PS
Harriet's hair is still not right in the U.S. version. How hard is it to find a black-haired Harriet?!

PPS
Per entertainment, if your'e not watching Homeland, you should be. Showtime On Demand that shit.

WordGirl for Grown-ups

In a world of electronic communication, spelling is easy with spell check but grammar, and thus meaning, sometimes suffers. This doesn't mean that shortened words in text messages and incomplete sentences in e-mails are not okay. They are.

(Especially in blogs, where all rules are your own.)

But a quick read through for clarity, or professionalism, or whatever the intention of the medium is, is even cooler. Your reader will like you more for it. Lisbeth would never turn in a Milton security report in less than perfect form. But I also don't see her spelling out every 'u2' or '&' and adding superfluous commas in a message to a fellow hacker. She would, however, make her point clear - the ark of communication.

Word of the day: Quintessential. Adjective. Representing the most perfect or typical example.

Tumblr Treats

WHATEVER DOESN'T FIT.

You stub your toe, think I deserve this.

You step lightly for two days, doing ledger work behind those wide, round eyes.
A leaf caught in the fence. Rain against the windowpanes.
You see the sunlight, think it’s a gift.
You deserve it, after all.
You see your mistakes, think they’re reversible. Think you can do better next time.
You gain some ground, think it’s an accomplishment and not a reprieve.
You’re a pattern maker.
Double stitching disparate elements into something pretty to wear to the funeral.
The event is just the event.
The moment only counts when you’re still living in it.
Don’t connect the dots.

Just eat the berries.

You deserve it.

Come on, Come on, It's the end of the world

I like to do things the same way over and over again. Like how I will always wash my face last in the shower, or take six gulps from the water fountain, or leave before I am left. And maybe it’s because I’m scared, or maybe it’s because I know I will be too reckless. I’ve scraped my knees more times than I can count, but don’t you know that’s how I tell when it’s time to stand back up? My heart hasn’t started beating any slower, and I haven’t gotten any farther than I already am. I’ve cut my hair once or twice and that was change enough for me, and god damn my knees won’t stop bleeding. I read, you know. Vonnegut and Nietzsche and all those other great authors. I couldn’t tell you shit about them or what they said, but I wanted to sound worldly and you wouldn’t guess it but I haven’t read a new book in a year, rather I’ve been reading summaries to make pleasant conversation when silence falls awkwardly at our feet just like my dress on the floor. For christsakes, my knees are dug into the gravel in the same way my nails dig into your skin. I always stick my feet out from under the covers, you know. They just get so god damn hot, and maybe there’s a chance that the stories our parents told were true and the boogeyman exists and he’ll steal you away in the night if you’ve been a bad person. I still have nightmares, and I still can’t visit cemeteries because I don’t belong, and I’m still afraid of getting lost, and I’m so fucking tired of scraping my knees.

Courtesy of BPRMedia

Learn more about the man behind Salander, Stieg Larsson, the author who's best-selling books were published posthumously.

Hallows' Eve

2011-10-30T15:30:00.209-05:00

29. Bam.

I promised myself I would never be a person who hated telling their age, or never rode amusement park rides. Who wanted birthday celebrations to cease and a magic eraser for the marks of aging. But it's harder than I'd thought. Being perpetually 25 would be nice as rental car companies and In Time suggest. And after spending almost my entire 29th birthday at the Pensacola fair, there are some things I realize I won't be able to fend off becoming.

Like getting motion sick from rides like The Stinger.

But as we near 30, the hus (who's five months younger, damn him) and I can still knock back mystery meat corn dogs, a tower of cheese fries, and two helpings of funnel cake - as well as take to several spinning rides set to pop music - without actually getting sick. But my mind did still wander mom-like to the germs in the fun houses and tempting waste of money that was the giant, 100-and-some-pound rat.

The hus and I can still hear the carny's gravelly, repetitive voice.

"The rat ... The giant rat ... Real and alive." (Heard about 36 times while we waited in line at the bumper cars.)

What was it?! A pig dressed to look like a rat? Was it stuffed? But he said it was alive. Arghhh!!! We mature only so much, I suppose. But against the backdrop of gothic teenagers holding hands and making out - and despite my 15-year-old look tendencies and gift to myself of pink and purple streaked hair - I still felt...29.

Courtesy of Gossip Lover

At midnight tonight, the final day of good ol' birthday month begins. So while I need to save some candy for the bite-sized trick-or-treaters tomorrow night, it'll be a final 24 hours of sugar and scary movies. I'm thinking leftover birthday cake, Sour Punch Straws, and some American Horror Story. There's just something literally positively thrilling about thinking every mosquito, light flicker, or bump in the night, is something sinister.

Or maybe it's because I never wanted to be a person scared of scary movies.

WordGirl for Grown-ups

I don't know how many times I've proofed something that has as much capitalization in it as sharks off the coast of South Africa. Below are the rules. Pretty short. Fairly easy.

The beginning of a sentence, or line item =)
A proper noun, or a word derived from a proper noun (e.g. English class)
A person's title - but only when it precedes their name!!
The points on a compass only when referring to a specific region (e.g. We're from the South.)
With everything else, just be consistent, and you'll look grand.

Word of the day: Acquiesce. Verb. To accept something reluctantly but without protest. She acquiesced to receiving a 29th birthday gift from her parents.

Tumblr Treats

daphnemarie

"All the art of living lies in a fine mingling of letting go and holding on." - Henry Ellis

The Witch Days of Fall

2011-10-10T23:59:00.324-05:00

via Tumblr

It's the most wonderful time of the year. Bewitching really. A rebirth. For some of us anyway. For you maybe, think of it as with the leaves falling away, so are the dog days of summer and any bad juju from the year so far.

The onset of autumn means my birthday month does a mashup with Halloween costumes and candy, and zero expectations for cooking meals or mailing holiday gifts or hanging out with anyone who doesn't embrace Oktoberfest, dressing up (or down), and nil responsibility. It's when fall TV comes back with so much gusto I can't take it all in. When the weather isn't all that bad no matter where you are.

To celebrate properly, let's commence with the 2nd Annual ALY (Always Laughably You-Said-It ... I don't know) Fall Entertainment Review, which includes some outliers in the movie category as usual.

Suburgatory
I missed the pilot, since fall premier week for me is like trying to guide a seven-year-old through Disneyland in a logical way. (But anything you missed you can almost always catch online, or on iTunes, thanks to the networks being smart - like maybe you haven't discovered Happy Endings, or how stupid but addicting Revenge is.)

Wulp, Suburgatory follows former Manhattanites Tessa and her dad (surprisingly fine Jeremy Sisto) as they adjust to an extreme (of course) suburban lifestyle. But as long as every other 'extreme' punchline or situation is a funny one, I'm in. Plus, Tessa's embrace of today's smart girl is the new"it" girl adds points.

Her cute ginger-ness also helps.

New Girl
Dark hair, banged (there's really no better way to say that), blue-eyed beauty Zooey Deschanel very nearly pulls off today's second place "it" girl: the awkward/quirky/nerdy one. Most of the time, I believe she's the painful yet humorous nerd chick. But, and I'm not sure it's a bad thing, at least once each ep, she looks like a guy's dream wife...with an Emma Stone voice and Kristin Stewart commentary on life.

Unfortunately, points were taken away from New Girl when Daman Wayans, Jr. left after the pilot.

Up All Night
If you like Will Arnett (Amy Pohler's husband, aww), you should tune in and support. It may not make it otherwise, as neither did Running Wilde despite the DVR love I gave it. But the new show has made me crack up several times - and I'm not ever up all night with a little one. At the start of the last ep, I laughed almost as much as when Howard and Raj from The Big Bang Theory were virtually kissing each other with Howard's long-distance relationship invention.

Dexter
It makes the cut again in 2011, but only as long as it skims the issue of faith and doesn't go too deep. That may sound bad, but faith is just too niche, and they'll alienate people from their fairly wide audience base. Come on, Dex writers, just keep killing people Batman-style and with the usual dose of depth afforded Bruce Wayne.

Courtesy of The Realm Toys

Fright Night
Though this horror flick was released toward summer's end, the 1985 remake found it's way into my heart as cult horror classics sometimes do. For me, Colin Farrell plays the best old school vamp yet. Anton Yelchin, Toni Collette, Imogen Poots (yep), Christopher Mintz-Plasse (even with his small role), and more, make a tight cast. And the cinematography, writing and effects combine to spit out a funny, jumpy blast.

Popcorn and a Coke recommended.

Straw Dogs
This 1971 remake also launched its way to the top of my fave scary movies list. There's nothing supernatural about it, just tension, the appropriate amount of blood and flesh and cursing, legit fighting, and a commentary on southern sociology. Personally, new director Rod Lurie made Sam Peckinpah's original a slam dunk instead of a script that was rape-focused for shock value while the rest droned on. From the opening shots to the lead villain's (ASkars') end, every string links back to the rope, leaving a neatly woven, tightly edited, undeserving-of-its-low-box-office-sales hit.

Food, Inc.

Courtesy of The Amateur Gourmet

This was a Netflix discovery in September. As with most food documentaries, it was an eye opener that made me think or say wow several times.

The air and light tight quarters of chickens; the bullied, crippled cows; and the fact that most of our food is just some form of corn is pretty weird and sad. I could never look at a chicken McNugget or slices of Oscar Meyer sandwich meat the same. I should learn what's grown locally and what each season brings by way of fruit and veggies.

To distract myself from our depressing food situation that everyone should know about, I watched this next movie.

Courtesy of MGD Film Reviews

La Femme Nikita
The original. French. 1990. Directed by Luc Besson (Taken). Not the American remake or two television series that followed. This was the real triple threat. Streetwise, provocative, emotional Nikita. When Nikita nervously but relentlessly completes her first job and escapes by plunging down a trash chute, falling head first into a trash bin, lacking grace and making me giggle, Anne Parillaud won me over more than any other Nikita I've seen.

Plus, I found out Tcheky Karyo (who plays Bob, yep, her mentor at the underground agency of assassins) has the longest IMDB list ever! Seriously, see how long it is! You'll recognize him from so many movies, it's crazy.

To celebrate the evolutionary year prior to *the citizen triple threat that is 30*, let's explore a self-realization of late, shall we...

Given that I spend much of my time indulging, er, researching, the entertainment industry - and even though I consider myself a confident enough person - I'm always amazed when people go (what seems like) out of their way to hang out with me, or us. Huh. Hm. I guess I don't always bore my running buddies to death. I guess we don't always send other couples running for the door and never looking back. Think about this. Who's always asking you to hang out? Who keeps asking you questions about your life? Even after they've maybe seen you trip, puke, or make a fool of yourself politically and/or religiously. No matter who you are, there are people who will like you and want to hang out with you.

For instance, I've heard all kinds of things about Steve Jobs (this Onion article is good). Tough to get along with. Bit of an ego. But besides him being rich and famous, I would still be interested in just talking to him, picking his brain, enjoying his genius. Even someone that rubs you the wrong way in one way, can be so right in another. I was more sad than I had realized I would be when I heard of his passing. Because this is what Steve gave me, someone he never knew or would probably care to know:

Courtesy of Mac Rumors

The first generation iPod - This was something on which my future husband and I listened to Jerry Seinfeld and Bob Marley over and over between classes and on weekends while overseas, twirling that physically spinning dial as we clicked through the vomit green screen. Marvelous. Inventive. On its way.

The all-powerful PowerBook - Again, the future husband (who also owned a white MacBook) and avid Mac follower made me that way by osmosis, (plus, my dad was happy to explore the Apple of his youth); thus the purchase of a silvery, trusty, 12" PowerBook for the rest of my higher education. It served me so well I could cry.

My very own iPod - This one showed me you really can go for a run without listening to your pathetic breathing, or tiring out your arm while carrying a Discman that skips. An invention still on its way.

The Shuffle - This itsy-bitsy breakthrough was pure bliss. I no longer had to sag my shorts some with the weight of an iPod, or wedge the latter into my sports bra and risk water contamination. Easy, discrete tunes. Purposeful, simple and lasting. Mac to the core. It has gotten me through hundreds of snail-paced (but nonetheless) miles.

The MacBook - As a family unit now, we own a MacBook. (And a Boot Camp running Mac Mini - which is great if you like small, pretty, multi-tasking stuff, as Mac users often do.) We remain thrilled consumers. These computers are reliable and mobile enough to see me through pages and pages. My own helicopter.

iPhones - The latest Mac purchases for our family are what users worldwide have found to be their necessary electronic. A phone, GPS, iPod, notepad, learner's and gamer's dream. A big resource in compact form. Legendary. Like Steve.

Steve Jobs
1955-2011
The last American who knew what the fuck he was doing -The Onion
Now go eat an apple and appreciate good electronics and good friends.

The other day, I hooked my precious iPhone up to my car stereo to enjoy some Foster the People and Band of Horses while I also enjoyed settling a chicken McNuggets craving. Oh. Umm... But it made the two shots I got feel better. One flu. One tetanus. One in each arm. Ridiculously sore. Ridiculous idea. Each chicken McNugget I lift, I feel it. But no one is around to hear me complain. Unlike now.

WordGirl for Grown-ups

Do not end a sentence in a preposition.

WRONG:

Where's the party at?

RIGHT:

Where's the party at, bitch?

Just kidding, but you get the idea, (like I did from a greeting card).

WRONG:

Where are you at?

RIGHT:

Where are you? (Don't be repetitive!)

Word of the day: Quixotic. Adjective. Exceedingly idealist. Use it. You'll start hearing it everywhere and realize how you've just been shutting out words you don't know.

Tumblr Treats

She had realized that it was foolish of her to ever have expected him to love her as she loved him, simply because he was incapable of loving anyone like she loved him. As a matter of fact, most people were incapable of loving someone like she could love, and by now she has lived enough to realize that. But it has only dawned on her today. (Original source)

"that kid's been workin hard."

FOOTNOTE

*The citizen triple threat that is 30*

No more excuses for not actually doing what you want to do in life
No more feeling physically less than awesome - that body is uniquely yours and your greatest tool no matter what the hell you do, or don't do, with it
No more feeling like you have to settle or grow up - you can stay Peter Pan forever as long as you remember to take a multivitamin and walks, feed your pets and/or children, and pay your bills; that's it

M5 Alive

2011-09-23T17:00:00.012-05:00

[whisper] Vroom, vroom.

I usually pick up the Kindle when the hus turns on Top Gear. But every now and then, I get pulled in by a joke made funnier by a British accent, or an especially creative battle of American cars. Let's just say I've tuned in enough, and respect the hus enough - as well as the other men in my family - to appreciate a good car when I see one. Or get the chance to drive one.

[whisper] Vroom, vroom.

Nope, that's not a Mazda from its cute commercial, interrupting my self-deprecating blogging - that's my big brother's M5 beckoning me back to Washington state. Though he's had the BMW since grad school, the stars aligned only recently for me to slip behind the wheel and into the leathery smelling dome of the silver, 2001 model.

Courtesy of an MBWorld discussion forum

Besides a jittery couple stints in second gear (which my dad reassured me he's had as well), the five-speed (or stick shift - fact for dummies like me: these terms are interchangeable), treated me like a cowboy's well-trained horse, responding to my every movement. I left my brother's neighborhood, driving gingerly, getting the feel of the "poppy" clutch, gears that click in to place like fun-to-push buttons, and brakes definitely in better condition than my own car's. As I boarded (yep) the freeway, the onramp was short, reinforcing my #1 reason for why fast cars are safer. I accelerated, realizing how 70 feels like 90 in our used Toyotas, and how that same MPH feels like 40 with the longtime manufacturer of German engine bad-ass-ness.

I was on my way to meet up with someone but started pondering, what after?

I'll have a few hours before the next family/friends activity. I should just drive. I should just drive the way to Mount St. Helen's. One of my favorite places in one of my now fave cars. I never knew driving could be this much fun! Weee... I should find something else besides Your Story Hour to listen to? Hm, it is relaxing. But I need ... Okay, this'll do. U2. Man, I could get used to this. No more brake-chattering 4Runner, or stiff-sticked (that's what she said) Tacoma pick-up. Life would probably just unfold more easily for me. People would want to turn my blog into a book. Then a movie. Featuring ZooeyD and ASkars, and directed by Sophia Coppola. Then I could trick some house into publishing a mediocre book of mine. Then I could afford to buy the hus his own dream car to keep him entertained while I'm on a book tour. That only tours Paris.

Before I exit the freeway and my daydream, I accelerate one more time and feel the car hold me in my black, slippery seat, seatbelt tight, hands easily gripping the wheel and stick shift that will beckon me once I leave the land of pine trees and country roads and return to Pensacola. SIGH

It feels good to feel alive like that. If only more commercials for female consumers played on that. Women seem a careful kind of pathetic. Wanting both good car engines and good makeup. Romance, not sap. (Like I've said), just-not-cardboard tampons and sweet-smelling shampoo - not white pants in a mosh pit and vaseline-smeared tresses. Chick flicks and lit with plot. Inventions that will remove the fast food smell from your car, blow our your hair like the stylist does, and trim your own bangs. Cures for cystic acne, breast cancer, and why not, testicular cancer. We want, at least I want, the reality of good engines and good makeup alike.

Don't give me this:

Give me this:

Let these women write more of our entertainment. Let me. JUST KIDDING

Courtesy of The New York Times
{Great article - yep, that's Juno's Oscar-winning Diablo Cody and
New Girl writer and real life new girl Liz Meriwether}

In honor of my wish to be like the above ladies, I'm introducing a new Side of Honeydew feature called WordGirl for Grown-ups, even though the cartoon can be enjoyed by anyone over age 11, too. The concluding blurb will hopefully sometimes teach you something you didn't know regarding definitions or grammar. And thus help you not seem like an idiot. Because I often do until my co-freelancers or weirdly grammar-smart hus correct me. If you don't want to learn anything new today, that's okay - scroll to the end, and your treat for reading this post will be something cool via my friend's Tumblr.

Oh, and feel free to submit your own tips or tumbles, especially call out my mistakes. =)

And yes, it's Friday night, and I'm blogging. Because until I become rich and famous (so, never), I'll stay home and blog while my husband hovers over the earth on fun and exciting helicopter trips to everywhere but here.

[whisper] Vroom, vroom.

WordGirl for Grown-ups

How to speak, or write, correctly about your plural possession of something (read on; it'll make more sense)

Please commit this to memory and take the time in conversation to practice it, because it's messed up all the time on reality TV shows, and it makes me wanna throw the remote at my beautiful television. Tsk, tsk.

WRONG:

Cary and I's beamer. (AKA BMW)

RIGHT:

Cary's and my beamer.

Hint - You should be able to remove either subject, and the sentence will still make sense. Also, just like in another aspect of good grammar, the person who's not you should be referenced first. How polite, right?

Tumblr Treat

Quotes of the Day

“It’s never too early for pub mix… or to be at a pub.”

In response to me [Erin] asking if someone was ok, “Yes, it was just a strange dream-to-reality transition this morning.”

“Careful with that - it’s a man tool.” (It was a new razor blade)

“When I saw your sweatshirt on the ground, I thought someone had poured water on you.”

Thank You

2011-09-11T08:00:00.020-05:00

~~Words are not enough.~~

Anja Niedringhaus, The Associated Press

August 5, 2011 and June 28, 2005, and moment after moment after moment of deserving silence since September 11, 2001. We are war-weary, yet our soldiers keep volunteering and our civilians keep building taller buildings 10 years over.

The Little Piggy with the Low IQ Goes to Market

2011-09-04T16:00:00.097-05:00

Courtesy of The Movie Database

The other night, I lied (laid? eff!) awake, thoughts reeling and body edges restless. I was trying to save the final chapter of the book I was reading for the beach (the female protagonist had just died anyway), and when I went out to watch TV, nothing was on. 'Cept The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Which is great, but it wasn't in HD, so I pouted while watching.

I was still restless with a lack of writing inspiration, and I longed to just jump into the story with Arthur, Trillian, Ford Prefect, Zaphod Beeblebrox, and Marvin the depressed but oh-so-cute robot. Adventure...with a British accent ... This is what I needed.

"Any man who can hitch the length and breadth of the galaxy, rough it, slum it, struggle against terrible odds, win through, and still knows where his towel is is clearly a man to be reckoned with."

Courtesy of Sharp Pen/Dull Sword

I'd settle for a summer in Paris in a crap flat instead of a spaceship and alien worlds. Heck, I'd settle for weekly shopping trips to the higher-scale Florida grocery store Publix instead of Walmart. But since it was nearing 2 a.m., I instead started pondering if I was anywhere near smart or creative enough to come up with a plot like in 'Hitchhiker's.'

So, I leaned from the couch to precariously grab the laptop off the coffee table with one hand and its T-rex-weak arm and did a complimentary, online IQ test. Yup. 38 questions, distracted just barely once or twice by a comment like this:

"On the planet Earth, man had always assumed that he was more intelligent than dolphins, because he had achieved so much - the wheel, New York, wars and so on - whilst all the dolphins had ever done was muck about in the water having a good time. But conversely, the dolphins had always believed they were far more intelligent than man - for precisely the same reasons."

Or this:

"I refuse to answer that question, on the grounds that I don't know the answer," says Zaphod.

Or this:

Marvin: "I am at a rough estimate 30 billion times more intelligent than you. Let me give you an example. Think of a number, any number." Zem: "Er, five." Marvin: "Wrong. You see?"

Courtesy of Wikipedia

[Wait, maybe being smart isn't that big of a deal, I think. Cleverness seems to be. Aren't those related though? Why don't I know that?!]

I eventually clicked SUBMIT.

I checked my e-mail for my results. Things start to jump out at me from the screen. Credit card information? $9.99? That'll tell you my IQ right there. What was I thinking...Hadn't I done this before? Found a Web site, answered quizzy questions, opened my e-mail, checked, sighed, deleted. Oh just settle for the toothpick test, Al. (However, I don't think I can do that either.) Maybe just using toothpicks after meals means you have a decent IQ. Maybe just knowing that as you get older, you need to make sure your teeth are food free, lipstick isn't smeared on them, and that you don't clear your throat a zillion times after a meal if you're around people. Maybe just operating like a decent human being means your brain is decent enough. Just not for novel writing. Shiat.

Courtesy of Smart Couponing

So, I went on a Publix adventure the next day.

Justification: It was on our way home more than Walmart. And we thought it would be fun. We climb out of the car and see slender, stylish people moving through the parking lot as we grab a cart and make our way, too. I pull on my sweatshirt, because while it's hot though stormy here lately, insides are pumped full of AC.

"Warm enough there, girl?" a man asks me as we enter.

"No."

We meander through the bakery, deli and produce as well as each and every soothingly-lit aisle. I use the excuse that I don't know where anything is, but really, I just wanna see what yummy foods, fun packaging, and organics await my careful plucking.

Courtesy of the blog True Wild Life

Eventually, our basket is full of prettier generic boxes and bags, and new (to us) kinds of fresh fruit (despite our fridge being broken and living out of ice chests for 6 days - I must say, my hands begged to fall off after digging around for 15 seconds at a time for a single stick of string cheese or cup o' yogurt - how do penguins and the like do it? But the new fridge is here. The ice chests gone. The trips to super-cheap Twice-the-Ice dispensers over. Sniff? Nah.)

We now manually motor up to one of the several minimally-lined check-outs. We're rung up, bagged, and rolling out to the car in such a short amount of time, and by seemingly truly happy people - healthier and almost overly helpful - that we don't know what to do with all the extra time in our evening.

Courtesy of the blog hitchhikers guide to jms

The receipt is substantially larger ($160 for a volume that usually costs us around $120). But I just wanna be more like the couple that had been leaving the store as we entered. The grown up skater boy and girl with the hipster outfit and salon hair, packing groceries into a Subaru. Hm. Enough saving for these things it is. I'll save Publix for when I need to avoid thinking about my IQ.

Wanted: User-Friendly Best Friend

2011-08-19T21:00:00.042-05:00

On a good day, I'm a glass half full girl.

So, I'll begin with what I have.

I have childhood best friends. The people who know your 11-year-old self as much as your 28-year-old one. They sat by you at lunch and slept over on weekends. They made you laugh so hard you peed. They stuck up for you. You fought, you made up, you leaned on each other when you got dumped, or were worried about something especially big. You stay in touch in any way you can, because you can't imagine not.

I have college roommates. Friends from a year abroad, or who was just as excited as you about going from dorm to off-campus living. You may not stay in touch as much, but if you do, or see each other, you don't miss a beat.

I have siblings. Sweet, brilliant ones. Ones who give sincere hugs and ask sincere questions. Who are doing amazing, impressive things across the country.
Sigh, (Can you see what I'm getting at?).

I have a good mom. And dad. And like good moms and dads, they are my parents before my friends.

I have former co-workers. Who do a fairly spiffy job of keeping the conversations alive. Random text messages about good books and movies. Now and then birthday presents of jelly beans and funny cards. Even willing to meet up for sushi when I pass through their sunny parts of California.

I have two consistent e-mail buddies, another introvert and another writer. Some days, this is perfect. Being content to be a freelance writer means I usually adore being left alone all day. But not all the time. And when I'm somewhere in-between, rehashing the best quips from the previous night's 30 Rock, or encouraging words about zany novel-ing, is just what I need.

I'm a military wife. And just a wife. So, there's always a nice, little conduit to female companionship there. Be it Cary's best friend's wife. Be it the wives, girlfriends, or fiances of aviators. Be it a kick-ass aviatrix herself. And of course, there's always the mass e-mail about "lunch bunches" and "game nights," invitations to baby showers and teas. And while everyone understands we're all in need of local pals, we're all just passing through. Especially during training.

I have a husband who is my best friend. This zaps all feelings of isolation 99.9% of the time. But even a gay guy ... There are some things male buddies just don't get. Never mind, I would gladly accept applications for a GBF TODAY.

And I have a dog who's my best friend when my husband is in the dog house.
(The cat doesn't count since she bites.)

Courtesy of eMovingStorage

What I don't have is what I've come to title as a

'user-friendly best friend, will travel, clone-like.'

Sadly, I realized advertising for one on Craigslist might lead to my grissly murder by an Apple computer/Vanilla Sky lover. Best friends only come in the form of friendship bracelets and other jewelry via Ebay. And 222 Facebook acquaintances, and Twitter followers who un-follow me as quickly as they follow me, don't count.

Maybe it's all the friendship-themed books I've read lately. I want Ron, Hermione and Harry always nearby and ready to make me laugh or help me with something. I want Minny, Skeeter and Aibileen. I want a bond like Princess Lissa and Rose Hathaway have. (Well, maybe without the ghosts and insanity.) But I'll be moving every few years of most of my life now. So, in every place, I'm holding open auditions internally for a BF. Because my childhood friends, family, and even latest and greatest buds, no matter how tiny or flexible, won't fit in my suitcase. (And they have lives in case you were like, hey, just throw them in the moving truck; they're not bigger than a couch.) Thus, I have to resort to this:

The Internal Examiner
Classifieds section

Naval aviator wife seeks user-friendly best friend

Courtesy of Sony Pictures

Military knowledge not necessary, just super easy-going personality. In fact, zero aircraft talk a plus. No babies yet. Likes animals. Would love to travel to places like Japan, Guam, Hawaii, San Diego, Virginia, Florida, Washington D.C., Europe, and other places including the Eastern seaboard. Always writes and calls back or explains why not. Book and movie buff to no end. Chocolate and wine fan. Comic book fan. A nice blend of agreeable and opinionated. Can talk sex, drugs, and rock 'n roll. Or pop. Someone I don't have to pretend around that I don't know the names of almost every movie or TV star you'll ever try to think of, and that I haven't actually finished a show's entire season in one workday. Knows laughter is the best medicine.

Thinking more long-term? Consider baby back-packing. Where we stuff our little ones into Baby Bjorns and do things like walk on the Great Wall of China and tour volcanos.

It's a tall order, I know. But I'll make it worth your while.

Note: Will give rides to airport but complain about it, so I don't feel guilty when I do.

* * * * *

"So," Cary says, "You basically want an Aly clone."

"Yeah. Basically ... But better. The 2.0 version."

Courtesy of Sony Pictures

Why Fear is My Wish

2011-08-08T11:00:00.240-05:00

I have a friend who has a Tumblr. And while this micro-blogging site still first brings to mind patio cups, it's the only place I go regularly to get inspired by its cryptic text, true beauty images and soulful Shuffle ideas. She strikes me as private, so I won't share the link directly. But maybe she'll read this sometime and share it with you melon ball lovers in a comment. If you're lucky, you'll get a link to her Frisco-dedicated tumble as well. If I'm lucky, she won't loathe me for plagiarizing the most beautiful of them all. To me. Of late. Because people who read windy blogs deserve to be cryptically inspired, too.

Sometimes we discuss posts over e-mail, but usually I admire and feel better in silence. She did explain to me one time how Freud had a theory about fear being our wish. Hm. [ponder]

Our thoughts and feelings intertwine here.

Courtesy of Elizabeth Miervaldis

all men should strive

to learn before they die

what they are running from and to and why

--James Thurber

Fuck what they think. ~Cheynesaw

{paraphrased} Especially while naked, appreciate flaws, struggles, substances, athletics and overall strength. Scars, weird teeth, mistakes, pills. Every curve, every scream of protest. Thank these things. Maybe above all else for women.

RIP Jasper

you are the first and only cat i’ve met since moving to this city. when i couldn’t tell if these new people liked me, i knew that you did and it made things better in a small but significant way. those boys loved you so much, even if they were annoyed with your cries for attention in the early morning hours. you just wanted to be with them. you just wanted to be loved. it’s all anyone really wants. jasper, you will be missed. i hope you get all the cat food and head scratches you want in heaven.

"And then I felt sad because I realized that once people are broken in certain ways, they can’t ever be fixed, and this is something nobody ever tells you when you are young and it never fails to surprise you as you grow older as you see the people in your life break one by one. You wonder when your turn is going to be, or if it’s already happened." --Douglas Coupland, source

How do we engage in our lives from a place of authenticity and worthiness? How do we cultivate the courage, compassion and connection we need to embrace our imperfections and recognize we are enough - we are worthy of love, belonging and joy? ... Love with your whole heart, even though there’s no guarantee. --Questions posed by Dr. Brené Brown, Wholeheartedness researcher and professor at the University of Houston, Graduate College of Social Work

Courtesy via snafubar

"We are all alone, born alone, die alone, and - in spite of True Romance magazines - we shall all someday look back on our lives and see that, in spite of our company, we were alone the whole way. I do not say lonely - at least, not all the time - but essentially, and finally, alone. This is what makes your self-respect so important, and I don’t see how you can respect yourself if you must look in the hearts and minds of others for your happiness." --Hunter S. Thompson, source

'It was a girl’s face, but she’d stopped being a girl when he wasn’t watching.'

- A Visit from the Goon Squad by Jennifer Egan

“I think the point is that 'skinny' girls are 'allowed' to feel beautiful 100% of the time, no questions asked, no justification needed ... However, if someone who wears a size 8 or 6 or 4 were to say “I look alright,” it would be met with “WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN, YOU LOOK FANTASTIC!” in almost any circle. 'Skinny' women are given permission to feel beautiful every day of their lives, while anyone outside the socially defined realm of 'skinny' has to fucking fight for it (both 'way too skinny' and 'too fat' alike). After a couple decades of hating myself, I’ve realized just how fucked that actually is." --Emily and Paper Tiger

"The cure for anything is salt water - sweat, tears, or the sea." --Isak Dinesen, source

Even source text or the like can be inspiring. Like forest milk. Or, Je suis perdu. Unhappy hipsters. Internerd. Boy wonder. Even Instagram.

Courtesy via Ronocklats-

E: not even coffee is making me happy today.

R: did you forget to put the whiskey in it?

(Taste of Frisco tumble:)

me: i still don't know about the summers here. i don't know if i can handle the lack of sun and heat.

him: there have been a couple nice days.

me: yeah, like four.

him: hope you enjoyed them! that's your summer!

It's people like Her who make me realize the best artists aren't super-human but perfectly human. Who drink bourbon because they like it. Who don't lie about how many cupcakes they ate. Who thinks of pairing things like the best (researched) peanut butter and Costco tortilla chips - and then shares that information. Who can smoke one cigarette. Who can take leaps of faith. Who can run fast or slow. Who can dislike marriage and babies but love yours. Who texts back. Who texts first. Who sees the beauty in small, random gifts. Who sees that work isn't everything. Who knows the perfect place for a tattoo. Who sees one man many ways. That a career can be a hobby. That family is worth it in the end. That you can disagree agreeably. That nothing is so serious.

Her latest music worth finding:

Nada Surf, Inside of Love; and Blankest Year
Tears for Fears, Break It Down Again
Handsome Furs, Repatriated
Fleet Foxes, Helplessness Blues; and Montezuma
The National, Terrible Love
Frightened Rabbit, Swim Until You Can't See Land
Bon Iver, Your Love
Death Cab for Cutie, Tiny Vessels
The Ravonettes, I Wanna Be Adored
Intro, The XX
Kate Nash, Kiss that Grrrl
Old Crow Medicine Show, Wagon Wheel
The Cars, Since You're Gone
Phantogram, When I'm Small
Neko Case, Middle Cyclone

P.S.
The brothers Followill will be missed from the limelight.

Courtesy via litmusound

Always On, Slightly Off

2011-07-26T23:59:00.231-05:00

The Independent Film Channel (IFC) mantra is cool. That's it. Just wanted to share that. Other things worth sharing are below. Well, I'll let you be the judge of that.

Courtesy of Zimbio
(Read on to see why the Kings
wanted to pose for Side of Honeydew.)

While watching IFC, I spotted that the movie Apocolypto would be airing soon. Hadn't seen it. Hit record. We watched it on and off over the next few days, flipping back and forth between it and a streaming Gone With the Wind (1939!). Those evenings, we were held by the action of the Mayans, and remembrance of how miserable Scarlet et al's lives really were. The movies were very different in their suspense (ah suspense; can I get an amen?). But both packed a survival punch. Whether racing through the forest Dangerous Game style, or getting the preggers Miss Melanie to safety. The subtitles and old-ness disappeared. (Well, a movie intermission was weird. And Mel was always in the back of my mind.) But watch both if you haven't already. And if you like Apocolypto, you'll love the book Rescue of Broken Arrow. Well, I did in 5th grade, and the flick reminded me of it.

A visit to the Gulf Breeze Zoo here in Florida also made for some good movie-making. Come on, give a watch or two - you have to admit those goats are adorable. Sadly, we emptied our sizable cup of animal jelly beans while walking the paths of this surprisingly large and interesting zoo for being set on a small strip of land extending into the Gulf of Mexico.

There were peacocks roaming around - about which the hus called out, "Um, these guys are out" - a seriously roaring lion, a tiger that really wanted to be a house cat (rolling around all kitty style), tiny monkeys with even tinier, almost indiscernible baby monkeys on their backs, crazy-eyed ostriches, the biggest, bumpiest turtle I've ever seen, a huge alligator (finally, yay, but doesn't count, 'cause it wasn't in the wild, boo), an enormous gorilla park, which was really quite beautiful and Jurassic-Park-like (we mainly saw regular looking monkeys but did get a 20-second glimpse of a flippin' miniature King Kong strolling through his lush, very green, moat-surrounded kingdom, touting his silvery butt before disappearing into the mist - ha!), and camels - which were the absolute best part. Because this ginormous animal from Bethlehem just came right over to Cary and finished off his feed cup. Tip: Go see them first. Start toward the right! The right!

Okay, one more animal movie. Or two. Dolphins!!! You have to be careful though - because did you know dolphins kill more humans than sharks? Just kidding. (Shout-out to Cody) FYI, Shark Week is this week.

(And some playful, only slightly boring zoo bear cubs are at www.youtube.com/alylawson.)

Courtesy of Good Lawd!

If home movies aren't your thing, maybe you need some solid television to sate your entertainment appetite. Right now, I'm promoting Showtime's United States of Tara. A) It was created and is sometimes written by Diablo Cody, who I have to restrain myself from being sickeningly jealous of for winning an Oscar for writing Juno and being young, successful, and having a kick-ass name. B) Toni Collette usually rocks in acting. C) It rocks - all the personalities (Buck and Gimme especially), the kids (Marsh and Kate), the sister Charmaine, her funny, rolly polly guy and baby daughter Wheels, and of course the super cute and wonderful husband and super perfect script.

But between Tara, the recent Ironman competition, the one-legged wrestler who took the national championship this year (we salute you, Anthony Robles), and our sad but brave loss to underdog? Japan in the U.S. women's World Cup, I need to dry my eyes. So, I snagged tickets to a Kings of Leon concert. It was everything I hoped it would be, pot smell and all.

The hus does his first helo flight tomorrow, so wish him luck on his hovering. It will be bigger than this. But maybe not bigger than this toad. Unfortunately, hopping down the road, he was slightly off.

A Whisker Away

2011-07-12T12:00:00.011-05:00

Courtesy of girlsports Tumblr

I have to explain the game.

Wait, I have to explain the history first.

I jumped on the bandwagon at the glimpse of pretty, healthy faces, soccer socks and suntans. I'm not gay, but I am amazed when girls manage to be beautiful and athletic. And soccer tends to bring this about. I was at once caught up in the fandom of Mia Hamm (from her fellow brunette-ness, to her Michael Jordan/I Can Do Anything Better than You commercial) and of course Brandi Chastain's sports bra liberation. Winning was icing on the cake. Twice.

But time passes. And I forget the exhilaration of being truly inspired by a female athlete. The Olympics help a lot. Disney show remakes help a little.

But the other day, when the FIFA Women's World Cup came surging back for its 2011 debut in Dresden, Germany, I found myself frantically searching online for the schedule. And boy was I glad the hus included Sunday's game in the DVR line-up.

We missed the Korea game but knew we'd won. 2-0

We watched the Columbia match. 3-0. Nice.

Then it was time for Sweden. The blondes took us 1-2. So we would be forced to play Brazil, a top-seeded team boasting the world's best female player, Marta. Just Marta. Like Pele' or Madonna; the whole team is like that. I was nervous, intimidated. But the game started off with an 'own goal' (in our favor) - when the other team scores a goal for you. It ricocheted off another player (Daiane, the poor girl). But that gave me the edge I, er, they, needed to move swiftly through the game without much distress.

But as the minutes passed, the refereeing and sportsmanship declined.

A poor red card call led to the U.S. playing a man down. A poor penalty kick (PK - why does that sound so cool?) call led to a Hope Solo (U.S.) save being negated. Brazil's second try at the PK ties it up. Overtime. Brazil scores, taking the lead. Damn it. We're in the final minutes, seconds. Brazil is doing something strange. Diving, flopping, pretending to be hurt enough to waste too many valuable minutes, being carried off on a stretcher only to hop up once on the sideline and rejoin the match. Motherfucker! Die, Erika, #13, die. However, the hus brings up the point that many of the players, especially Marta, look like they would shank you in a second. Stab, stab, stab. Eek.

But our laughter has died out. We're silently raging at the stocky ref, the pissed off Marta, her lowball team with shiny black ponytails and the deepest of tans. We enter the 122nd minute. Clutch Californian Megan Rapinoe, who looks straight off the surfing beach with her blonde, cropped hair, does a cross kick to Abby Wambach, our star on a dry spell. Abby's body jumps and twitches. Ignoring everyone around her, she uses her head to flick the ball past the goalie's fingertips. It slams into the back of the net.

Courtesy of the Eastbay blog
Solo makes the final match block.

We are screaming. The pets are freaking out. Abby is screaming, smiling, careening to the sideline, sliding in the grass. Hope Solo is jumping up and down. The team contains themselves enough to hold it together until the time expires in a tie. All of this done one man down. It's shoot-out time. Hope prepares herself. The kicks are neck-in-neck until poor Daiane misses. It's the potentially final kick, and it's up to Ali (oh yeah) Krieger. And that's it. She does it. !!! We're still in the tournament. We're going on to play France. We cannot believe it. It's the best game we've seen since Boise State. And it's soccer. Tune in tomorrow, July 13, for the next match. See true, international, girl power football, and feel your heart, come to life. Who knows, maybe it'll be another "whisker away"-type match. (Thanks, English commentator who really doesn't know what's going on during the game and likes to ask us, the audience, questions that have to be rhetorical).

Because we work so hard watching sports, we need sustenance. Like sushi. Thank goodness we have friends that make it. So, we go to Joe Patti's on our way over. Joe Patti's is a trip. A long row of cases of fish and white-apron-and-baseball-cap-clad people behind them, communicating with the auctioneer-like man friendly-like dictating the numbers to be served. We weave our way through fish-hungry people, take a number from the red hair dryer on a stick, and soon make our selection of tuna. The lady dodges my camera. But I get the hus. And a shot of lobsters in a tank, thick rubberbands around their pinchers. They always get me. My heart goes out to them, and I also pause to long for a Red Lobster cheese roll (click for recipe). We peek at the wine and stroll by wasabi, through aisles of crackers and stacks of bright orange fish eggs and the paler ginger. We're ready to be rung up, and they double-bag our tuna on ice. It's all so cool, fast and usual, we're impressed. By the whole thing.

This has nothing to do with the post,
but Butters actually caught a sand crab at the beach
the other day and couldn't believe it;
she carried it around in her mouth for a while, quite proud.

Thank goodness we also have friends who organize camping trips. Otherwise, our fourth of July would have been just fireworks partially hidden by a warehouse on the bay. (And when a ship horn sounded at the end of the finale, Butters lost it; we left dog scratch and mosquito-bite ridden. Then she ran through a patch of tall grass near where we parked and got covered in little seeds I had to pick out sprawled on the kitchen floor.)

But we know cool people. So we also got to travel up the Blackwater River several bends, our gear packed into a tiny, flooding motorboat - it couldn't be all the logs in the shallows we have to mow over on the way - and on to camp atop a sandy sprawl perfectly set in front of a rope swing and strategically placed logs. Perfect because we could go on the rope swing as well as watch crazy passersby go on it - and perfect logs, because we got to watch every canoer and tuber try to navigate them. All groups, races, ages, shapes and personalities, shouting at their kids, struggling with paddles, hurling obscenities, sporting boob jobs, admiring our 4th decorations I've grown rather fond of.

Meanwhile, we sit in our lawn chairs, parked halfway in the water, pretending not be enjoying the front row seat. Or not pretending at all.

We decide we need ice. Navy wife L-Fri and I make a trip with the hus driving the boat. Back at the dock, we'll make a quick trip to the nearest convenience store. (Preamble: there's no alcohol allowed in the river's state park; there are beer cans scattered across the boat floor.) We putter past the bends, picking up speed as we all enjoy the quicker the navigation has gotten over the weekend. L-Fri notices we're gonna pass the dock and hollers. The hus keeps his speed but turns the boat in a big circle. We grip the boat edges and watch all the half-beached/half-floating canoe rentals knock into each other from the waves. We laugh and start pulling up to the crumbling dock.

Aly thinks: Hey. There's a cop standing there. In a green uniform. Looking out over the river. Huh. Blink.

Meanwhile, L-Fri has deftly scooped all the cans up under the bow and blocked their escape with the anchor; she also dumped a red, plastic cup's contents (which someone brought as entertainment for the short wait) and has it join the cans.

Aly turns around and says pointing at nothing: Hey, should we... Oh. You got it.

A whisker away, L-Fri, a whisker away. Inspiring as the girls of soccer.

(FYI everyone, TempurPedic beds in the store are much softer than the ones you get. You have to break it in. A bed you have to break in! WTF.)

Zilch

2011-06-28T21:30:00.023-05:00

This is what's been going on. Sheesh. The only things I've done, learned or loved in the last couple weeks is what follows.

Okay, maybe there were a few more yummy meals, solid movies, buzz time and quirks sprinkled in, but these are the only things I can remember - since I became a bad writer and stopped jotting things down, Bruno Mars' The Lazy Song being my anthem for several days times two.

I would also rather inform than bore.

Paddle boarding is super hard in wind. Perched atop the longboard skateboard of surfboards (er, I guess they share the same name), I notice what was intended to be a nice, crisp turn around a buoy at the mouth of the bayou is more like orbiting Earth...as Pluto (the star, planet, whatever).

But the arm and ab workout, and water floating over my feet, makes the trek worth it. Also, watching the pup freak out when the hus and I paddle away together. How can anyone like us that much?

Having 'watch' means your spouse will not return to you for 36 hours. This isn't so bad. I was able to finish book one in The Hunger Games trilogy. (If you haven't read these, you must finish what you're reading as quickly as possible and get all three books ASAP. You will not. Be able. To put them down.) I was also able to re-watch fave eps of Game of Thrones and Sunday's True Blood season four double premier.

Some freelance work and housework made it in there somewhere, too. But I know what you might be thinking. Why didn't I marry an HBO executive, or an author of gripping novels. Because no one can make dog walking fun like that helicopter pilot. It wasn't the same by myself. And that's all the difference.

Courtesy of Geekologie

Your 5th anniversary gift should be wood. No, not that kind. Well, sure. But it should also be the material. The list creators probably had a house in mind. But since we already have an upside-down one of those, we opted for a bed. Well, a mattress. King. TempurPedic. Mmmm. And if we have enough left over after bedding, maybe a platform frame - er, bed. The terminology alone was a killer - not to mention the research, warranties, discounts and mattress covers with a warranty all their own to protect the bed-ack!-mattress...blah, blah, blah). The point is, wood is good all around. Bed, bed, or the down payment on a house at the bottom of the market. But don't forgo a dinner with dessert, and maybe tickets to see The Green Lantern, along with a package of coconut M&Ms instead of coffee, and river camping for 4th of July, and some Bachelorette that night.

We don't ask for much.

Blood Mary's have more ingredients than you'd think. Since we forgot to freeze the freezer bowl before getting ready to use our new ice cream machine, (no rock salt necessary - huh), we didn't have bowls overflowing with homemade (?) chocolate chip mint for the True Blood premier. But the bloody Mary's were apt and probably just as darn good. If you want/need to make one, you'll need the below to make it properly tasty.

Courtesy of Pimp My True Blood

Vodka (and heavy on it)

Tomato juice (and ice, if you forgot to put it in the fridge when you got home)

Lemon juice

Worches-ces-tres-ter (whatever) sauce

Tobasco sauce

Salt

Pepper

Celery (yes, you need to stir with it; you'll also enjoy munching on it nervously as you watch Eric threaten Sookie)

(Vampires optional)

And as for amounts, just do whatever you want. Hooray.

Magic is Might

2011-06-14T18:00:00.280-05:00

CLICK TO ENLARGE
Courtesy of GQ

There was an article in GQ about the concept of middlebrow. Anything in your life choices, activities and tastes as lowbrow as Jersey Shore, and as highbrow as J.Crew (it's all income-relative though), is often deemed acceptable by your peers. Anything between seems to deserve a knitting of the brows. Unless you're lucky enough to be constantly surrounded by people (including your own mind's eye) who don't give a shit. But most of us have to come into contact with people and inner voices that scoff or compare. But that's no fun, right?

The magical thing about middlebrow is, more often than not, it's what you really want to do. And if you don't do it, you usually regret it and make everybody around you miserable; it could be as simple a choice as ordering a fancy salad instead of a turkey sandwich, or as big as flying helicopters and keeping a blog (blogging is a big decision) over piloting jets and publishing novels. You know, something like that...

Courtesy of DeviantArt,
by Bubblesjungle

Voldemort had it wrong that magic is might, meaning eliminating the so-called half-magical wizards and witches. Those seemingly middlebrow magicians were often the most powerful. And so is the magic that spirals from both tiny and monumental life choices that may seem too normal; there's no such thing really.

Last Thursday, the hus was selected to fly helicopters [insert fireworks, National Anthem and American flag backdrop here]. Every squadron, within the overarching Whiting Field Training Airwing 5, has their own unique ceremony - so visit my YouTube Channel to see what the Red Knights' training squadron (#3) does... (Clicking will give you time to brace yourself if you don't approve of drinking in any situation, as well as promote the act of bookmarking my YouTube Channel.)

The H-60 Seahawk (Yay, Seattle Seahawks)
Courtesy of Naval Air Systems Command

Below: The H-53 Sea Stallion practicing with Navy Seals
Couresty of American Specia Ops

Friday, the hus checked in to his helicopter squadron at Whiting (the only place the Navy and Marine Corps train helo - what cool people say - pilots). On June 23, he'll begin his helo training with ground school again, officially part of squadron H-18: the Vigilant Eagles. Hahahahaha. Ahem. No, the best part is, their call sign is 'Factory Hand.' A good four syllables to squawk over the radio. (Although, this wasn't my first thought.) Until then, the future helo pilot (pending any breakdowns, after which he would return to his alter ego of strapping physical therapist) is on vacation in a way ... AKA invading my home office.

Benefits of helos we've discovered -

Helo crews see some serious action, in war time and out; this is a draw for the brave and a turn on for the proud.
The helo community is family-oriented (whatever that means).
You feel your speed flying so low, and it's cool to fly low in itself, right?
You enjoy weird maneuverability.
About 6 more months of Pensacola! Beaches, the river, the swampy, swarmy south, and the kind of friends that have made this a Newbold-esque experience.
Have helos, will travel. These pilots are stationed EVERYWHERE.
There are only two kinds, so I only have to learn about two kinds of aircraft now. Instead of a zillion. Or a dozen.
We can watch movies with helos in them and feel cool.
The hus will be winged (metal pin not feathers) as an O1 (ensign) most likely. Kinda cool, too.

Whilst the hus is out being smart enough to nab his second choice naval aircraft (it almost took first place on his wish list after receiving a remote-control helicopter for his birthday), I remain thick enough that I miss commercial flights. During my stopover in Houston from LAX (after a rollicking good time girls weekend in Santa Barbara), I ran screaming from the restroom when I saw a sign flashing 'Pensacola' over a gate different from the one I was waiting at - and an attendant firmly closing the heavy door without me on the other side.

Order of events to explain -

Waiting to pick up my order of chicken McNuggets at the crowded Houston airport McDonald's...
A guy with a cool jacket wishes me good luck as he grabs his own greasy, white bag.
I head to my gate (listed on the passageway monitors), even though I'm an hour and a half early, and settle in with Harry Potter's last deadly adventure, in a chair near my supposed gate - with a sign boasting a city in Maryland...
But the attendant casually agrees the gate will be for Pensacola evenutally.
I read.
I pee.
I read.
I pee.
I read.
Guy with cool jacket sits down next to me. Harry learns he has to die. I look up for a breather. "Hey," he says. We look at each other. "McDonalds." He sort of points. "Hey," I say, "Yeah." He turns out to be a naval firefighter. Go figure. He soon leaves for his own plane to San Diego.
I decide on one last trip to the bathroom, since my flight from LA had the seatbelt light on half the time, and I couldn't fully focus on Harry.
Upon exiting, this is when my brain screams in realization that gate switching, Potterwatch, trying to find out where the firefighter got that jacket, overbooked flights and under-announcing, combined forces to thwart my travel plans; seat 11C was given away 15 minutes before I even realized it.
The customer service desk understands (another traveler this happened to doesn't care), and I only have to pay a small room fee. Though I secretly hope my life was saved for $49.99. I mean, that's a crazy sushi night. A haircut. Or something else to boost my appearance. But really, it's my ego that needs a sushi boost, since no planes crash in the night.
I glance longingly at the hotel bar, as I creep to my lonely room.
True Blood is on!

Courtesy of Brand Eating

But it doesn't beat watching it at home.

Just Do It for the Faint of Heart

2011-05-27T11:00:00.066-05:00

Courtesy of Brian McBride (CA)

A river runs through a nearby national park. Blackwater river, which pours into Blackwater Bay at a pace so perfect, you can float it three feet above its white, sandy bottom - if you can manage to keep your tube or raft from popping amongst the smattering of twigs and trees, their leaves taking a dip themselves in the clear, greenish water.

You're forced to pack light. Sunscreen, a sandwich, swimsuit, sunglasses. Your choice of drink. Your choice of friends, with whom you'll spend a lazy 3 to 7 hours talking shop or entertainment or kids or just shooting the shit about whatever your brain waves ramble over.

Bend after bend goes by, sometimes beckoning you to a small beach or large sandbar, sometimes to greenery surrounded reddish cliffs, off which people (carefully?) leap to the soft, watery shallows below. You pass people who've set their beach chairs up in the warm water, half bodies soaking up the sun and drinking mysterious liquids out of big, colorful water bottles. Few are fishing. Many have dogs.

Source unknown

We go as slowly as possible, not wanting the trip or the day to end, stopping at beaches for long stretches of conversation, meandering slowly through the repeating S beneath a wide strip of blue sky, much more current than languid paddling keeping us going. We approach the last bend, marked by a small bridge stretching stoutly out of the now dark green, almost black, water. I beach my beloved raft and stare at that white line between your toes you can never get tan. We pile into the second car and head back to the first.

If you ever get the chance to float a river...do it. (Waterparks don't count, but they are easier on which to read a book.)

So, Oprah's Book Club is no more. Oprah seemed like someone who would remember the moment she learned to read, too - the moment it just...clicked. Not only was every Oprah's Book Club book a solid shot an big game read for readers, but, for most writers, that badge was up there with making a New York Times bestseller list and, er, appearing on Conan and being featured at Comicon.

But don't give up; you can still e-mail your manuscript to oprah@oprah.com. Maybe your pitch will at least make her read your words and reply with solid gold kudos and a Web site mention. So, in the meantime, print that manuscript out (Hint: set your printer settings to black and white, 2-sided, and the fasted possible speed - that shit will just shoot outta there - but be sure to be there to keep the pages in order, he, he, he). Sprawl out with a glass or cup of something, start reading for feel, highlighting story sections, moving them around, and getting some setting, flow, drama and tension in there. Then write some more and click SEND.

Do it.

The below is an ode to Gaga in celebration of her triumphant (subjective, so I understand the below is only for true fans) junior album (if deluxe versions don't count - not sure about the rule on that). If you're inclined to pop and haven't bought the new record yet...do it. If you're not, and need a good book to read besides vampire stories, 'Arry Potta', The Hunger Games (geeze, the UK's kicking our ass), and the Millennium Trilogy, Oprah's is a super-duper list.

If you don't read, do it, starting with this blog more - don't wait for the movie version.

Ode to Gaga

Oh, Chrome. Probably enough.

The beginning is the best.

Up for adoption?

Oh, Alex.

For more fun times, visit the official Lady Gaga YouTube channel.

For even more eye candy fun times, which don't require loading... Oh, Gaga fans. Oh, Japan - much love. (Courtesy of the TokyoFashion.com blog.)

A Highlight Waiting to Happen

2011-05-13T20:02:00.388-05:00

In the weeks leading up to Selection, when the hus and I will know what naval aircraft platform he will be embarking upon - and where we'll be for the next year or so - these are things most worth discussing of course...

(If you find yourself asking us the same questions over and over, review the chart at the end of this post and commit it to memory, or suffer the wrath of shortness.)

Cookie Cake

No real occasion necessary to consume

This is the most wonderful mall treat of late. Marine wife Leslie introduced me to this fantastic dessert many deserve after a day of shopping and traipsing - and then more traipsing, which is needed in order to burn off the sugar content that must amount to a week's worth. But don't think about that when granting yourself this slice of soft chocolate chip cookie decorated with sickening (you know, but in a good way) sugary icing.

Tip: If your bank account can't handle walking miles around a mall all day, run the McGuire's 5K (or a 5K near you, including your neighborhood) - then indulge.

WordGirl

I know only some of you actually care about words, and most of you only read this out of pity for a struggling novelist, but if you happen to be a fellow starving (er, minus the cookie cake) wordsmith, check out this awesome possum cartoon on PBS Kids, whether you have kids or not. And yup, I watch PBS Kids. And the Disney channels. And ABC Family. These are my main reasons to have children - so I can watch these unabashed and in good company.

WordGirl teaches as well as follows the adventures of 10 year-old 5th grader Becky Botsford, originally from the planet Lexicon. Her sidekick is Captain Huggy Face, a monkey who was a pilot in the Lexicon Air Force, (this would be a good 'call sign' for the hus, yeah?). On Lexicon, Becky stowed away on Huggy Face's spaceship; Huggy was startled by Becky and crash landed on Earth, where they were both taken in by a kind family (whew).

Captain Huggy Face becomes their pet, and they name him Bob.

Becky finds she has superpowers now - flight and super strength. Becky and Captain Bob use the broken spaceship as headquarters to fight the crimes of creative enemies including one who inserts the word "Wham" into sentences at the most inopportune time. Okay, okay, words don't play a huge part except for the introductory and concluding lessons and searching for a couple certain words during the episode. But Becky has cute bangs, and Captain Huggy Face? I mean, come on, you gotta love that chunky monkey.

Friday the 13th and the Impending Year 2012

Yup, from the movie

I typically celebrate Friday the 13th with a scary movie. So Scream 4 was an obvious choice. But I couldn't bring myself to put pants on and drive through a downpour-ing thunderstorm to see it. So I stayed in. I encourage you to not be like me and brave hydroplaning in order to be a true horror flick fan.

I also encourage you to research the Mayan prophecy of 2012, because who doesn't want to? Don't answer that. I'm voting for an intelligence transformation on Earth, instead of a physical or spiritual, that will let us figure out terrorism, economy, gas prices, processes, paperwork and pollution solutions - or that we collide with a black hole so I can finally understand those things despite having taken astronomy freshman year of college. If you don't read the Wikipedia article, at least watch the movie 2012, or the somewhat related Apocolypto (in spite of Mel Gibson), on the eve of December 21.

And party like it's 1999!

"I was gonna wink at them, and then they would know - WINK."

This is an example of what the hus does to me in social situations. I warn you, it may seem cute, and it does to me now, and often during the situation, which only makes it worse, because I can't prove my point while laughing and smiling. So I'm at least recording it for posterity.

We're late to an event. And it's not my fault. It rarely is. Seriously! And the hus admits this and says we can blame him. Which is true anyway, I point out. And he's on the phone with some of our friends from the event. And he blames me! I freak out as he hangs up. "What are you doing?" I say, "You were supposed to take the blame." "I was gonna wink at them, and then they would know," he says and winks at me. "But you were on the phone; they can't see you!" "Oh." "Fuck me." "Okay."

The last few weeks have continued to involve social tardiness, seeming nagging when I'm really just trying to usher the boy to our next so-called event, and almost getting arrested for "staying too late" at our friends' apartment complex pool - a situation that could have been avoided if he just answered the officer with "I'll be right out," instead of "we'll be right out." SIGH

Whizzing and Shitting, AKA the Facebook for Dogs

We were walking the dog one cool, dry evening after a cold front (which the hus explained to me), amused at how our three-legged, yellow lab wanted to sniff, pee and poo at different sites. "Is she really marking that as her territory?" I had asked, adding to my many questions to the hus that should be rhetorical since it's not like he knows everything. Yet. "Just sayin' she was there, what she was doin'...

It's like Facebook for dogs."

Star Freebies

During an evening of rainbow chip cupcakes, rum and disorganized Cranium and Apples to Apples, several ladies and I discussed the topic of freebie affairs with celebrities. Most agreed you and your spouse can pick one each; the subject can change but should be announced prior to the astronomical chances of meeting that person. But some still felt, no matter if it was one of the Jessica's, Angie herself, Pitt, or Pattinson, that no such freebie should ever exist. This made me wonder if an Indecent Proposal and that one Entourage episode could be mashed up into a catastrophic version of Notting Hill. These are the kind of ideas I come up with people! So if you have a better book or script idea, please, please, help me.

Credit not guaranteed.

The New Beetle

Like this. Save for it. Buy it. Cheer the world.

The new Beetle/Porsche mashup in image mode.

Courtesy of Volkswagen

The Office of Letters and Light

This office organized NaNoWriMo, the national novel writing month (November) writing marathon and April's Script Frenzy for aspiring screenwriters. They also promote young writers and photography. So snaps to The Office of Letters and Light. Also for mashing up photos and words; nice job photog and subject for portraying how to literally write where you are.

Wulp...

The aforementioned have been the highlights (inspired by an ESPN anchor during a highlights segment) of my life since my far off last post due to a substantial boost in beach time. And, er, work and novelizing - sure, yeah. At least I just learned novelizing is a real, live word.

Click on the chart below to enlarge.

Super Friends Stefani and Coco

2011-04-13T16:20:00.333-05:00

I think this is the new album cover?

When I was 11, I went to Disneyworld. I haven't been that excited since. Until April 9, when Lady Gaga came to The Big Easy, just three hours west of P-town 2.0. Two days prior, I was driving and listening to the radio, hoping Gaga's latest hit would be played. The DJ came on and briefly mentioned tickets were being given away to see our lady in New Orleans. I had to find out when, and how I could make my attendance happen.

StubHub showed me that I had 48 hours to make it happen. (How had I not heard?) Then the best kind of excitement kicked in. A wish. Was coming true. NOW. Grateful for fellow Gaga fan and co-conspirator, Marine wife Leslie, we bought corner seat tickets and prepared ourselves for a night of driving and dancing. Serious dancing. The kind that involves jumping up and down, fist-pumping, screaming and singling along at the top of your ooey-gooey lungs. Because who hasn't felt like they were born to feel that way.

My favorite concert to that date was Britney Spears. Yes, even over Coldplay's yellow beach balls popping through the audience, Lilith Fair's free-spirited weed smell, and Jars of Clay crowd-surfing (and yes, the only mosh pit I've dared enter is a religious one - but this will hopefully change the day I can afford a floor ticket). So Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta took the cake and ice cream, too.

Courtesy of Anirudh Koul's Flickr stream (since my shot sucked)

While the former reining princess of pop Ms. Spears had an indoor waterfall, laser lights and eye-sticking, all-American good looks, our lady had a flaming piano, a flaming bikini, a piano inside the hood of a pickup truck, and a wiggly fame monster from the bottom of the sea. But above all, she committed wholly to putting on a riveting, passionate show centered on what was, in my opinion, pure pop musicality and branding genius. She can write, sing, dance, entertain and NEVER lip-syncs.

"I never have, and I never will," she growled prettily.

She also intermittently yells at us little dressed little monsters to put your fucking phones away, stand the fuck up, get your fucking hands in the air, and just dance. So I did.

Queen's Radio Gaga incarnate also took fall-defying (and sometimes submitting) stances, posed precariously between piano bench and bandmate guitar stem. The girl is crunk - striking poses, strutting moves, and singing notes that would make the greatest artists gape in awe. The cherry on top is that this chick's not publicly political, just out for equality.

If you can get past your normal self (aka a civilian versus a star) - perhaps one who doesn't sleep with both men and women, drink from a teacup with a fake diamond at the bottom every morning, try to give a Vogue interview buzzed, or wear masks, meat, wigs and decals that make you look like you've got protruding bones - you'll see how you can't argue with that. Equality, in case you forgot. WINK

The kicker ... She knows what everyone says. Her body's okay; her face is blech. She shrugs it off. Because she puts on her cape (her fans' fandom) and holds her head high. Can't we all learn from that? Feel it? Can't we all ignore the peanut gallery a little more successfully because of our own personal fans and her anthem-esque music, a cornucopia of hits with hooks and climaxes like Just Dance, Bad Romance, Telephone and Alejandro. They can make us hold our heads a little higher, try a little harder, think outside the box. Run further, dance bigger, make love crazier.

Twenty-five years old. As the hus would say, lock her up and throw away the key, so she can do no harm to herself and continue to create musical bliss.

One concert tour T-shirt later, I fold it in next to my "It's Britney, Bitch" T. It's no plastic dress, disco stick, go-go boots, or even feather earrings, the other little monsters were sporting as we watched Gaga live - but I'm a bigger little monster for having been there, seen it.

Courtesy of This is Not the Blog You Are Looking For

Some 20,000 people poured out of the arena, adrenaline happy, experience appreciative, maybe even ready to tackle another chapter in the next great American novel all us writers claim to be working on. Paws up. Show your teeth.

The only thing that would compare to being Stefani's bud might be being Coco's. Sure, the gaunt, brilliant designer would have been a nice friend, but Conan O'Brien's team Coco takes the cake here.

Every night, he joins our DVR, waiting with self-deprication, corny but down-to-earth jokes, quirky impressions, awkward movements and self-centered interviews.

Can't the stars just interview him?

I would settle for working for him over a lifelong friendship, just writing out the queue cards or being assistant to the assistant to the talent booker, even polishing Andy's shoes. But if there was a chance I could be in a sketch, write a sketch, or merely shake his hand - as I walk on stage to be interviewed as the youngest Pulitzer Prize winner ever...

Er, maybe I should start by just seeing his show live, too.

Latest funny Conan bit. Fricking watch it all.

And a bit of a song from our lady's new album, (releasing May 23). (Yup, sorry, I shot it.) Don't worry about the ballad feeling, she said - and I so-called quote - the new record will still be something you can dance to and shake glitter at.

What other super friends are in our future?

A new combination of Madonna and Michael...

A new Oprah...

An iPad 1 Million Robot...

The Bottom Rung of the Upper Echelon

2011-04-03T15:00:00.252-05:00

Courtesy of Hollywood Dame

Local April fools were victims of pregnancy and drop-on-request (DOR) request scares. Even better, Ryan Air jokingly announced it would offer child-free flights. Don't tease me. Google issued a spoof above my head. Angry Nerds was "released," along with the Groupon Clone, Deals for Hipsters. And apparently we can now control Gmail with our bodies. Anything to get us to move, huh?

Speaking of moving, I mowed. Lawn-mowing is said to fall to the military wife. And since this responsibility in our household usually falls to the hus, brother-in-law, paid gardener (ugh) or no one, I felt it was time to step up. Well, I stepped up, and then I stood back (with shot muscles, sweaty bangs and mosquito bites) to survey my land of missed strips, wavy mow paths and long patches around trees and the corner stop sign with a mixture of pride and dismay.

It was really hard. I will now never go for a run or hit the gym on a mowing day, because my entire body fell victim to this cruel joke from nature ... I started wrapping up the cursed lime green extension chord, (which I had to flip this way and that to avoid shredding - even though I wanted to) because I had had to wait for the sun to ease, and dusk had made it impossible to finish the back, or even begin to edge.

Today, I finished, with Cary showing me how to navigate and toss the chord effortlessly - and he advised me not to mow over logs and dog poop. Oh. Then I went inside and tried making Adventist meatballs (you know, Loma Lindites and Wally World residents, the ones with that tasty ketchup-y apricot sauce?). But then I threw up because I felt so domestic. Just kidding. I blogged about it instead to purge myself.

The only other contextually exciting thing I've done with my time - while Cary sailed through Aerobatics and started plowing through Instruments (the poor guys is getting zero sleep and somehow still managing to learn a plethora of precision and non-precision approaches [or, in my words, a gazillion different ways to find out where you are in the sky and in relation to what] - is enjoy a delicious Irish meal at McGuire's in the downtown area of the other P-town.

Courtesy of Delish

The couple who just keeps introducing us to darn cool things took us there a week ago (for once for food instead of a run and an encore of beer and popcorn), and it was scrumptious. Which is hard to believe, since just over the channel, England can't figure out how to make anything taste good without frying it or skipping it for tea. McGuire's offers a dozen different burgers, from the classic cheese and a reuben burger to a burger doused in wasabi or the $100 filet mignon burger (which comes with caviare and champagne).

Our server said she sells about one of those a year, usually for a winging; one guy tried every burger on the menu (including the PB burger and hot fudge burger), then ended his routine with the Benjamin sandwich. The place also has yummy sausages and sauces (that's almost what she said), and bathrooms with signs that make almost every first-timer go in the wrong door.

We chased our Irish meal that weekend with a celebration of the Irish Carroll's 28th birthday. (Yes, I'm a cougar by five months, or is he a Lolitary? Wait, no, that makes me sound worse.) The attempted Vegas-themed house party (I heart you house parties), was celebashed (my new word that takes a celebration bash to the next level - meaning parents get sitters, couples flirt and strangers may come and go) with one of Cary's squadron mates? colleagues? water soldiers?.

The celebash included chocolate birthday cake, Gray Goose shots (the word in the kitchen was that Belvedere is even better, but it's preference [and price] seems to depend on which coast you reside) and intoxicating games of distracted Texas Hold 'Em, (Will a game ever be played when every player knows how and stays focused? But will it then loose its charm?), and Taboo (which led to the realization that boys will always cheat to avoid feeling like girls are more articulate). Whew, 'nuf parenthesis, yeah? I should learn how to write.

On the way home from playtime, the hus and I discussed how hard we work at our careers but still doubt ourselves often, have roller coaster inspiration, and enjoy the path of least resistance in the woods of achievers. "It's like we're ambitious but not that ambitious," said Aly. "We're on the bottom rung of upper echelon," said Cary.

We laughed evil-y for a few moments.

Okay, the one other exciting thing of late is that I found out Bill's house from True Blood is within driving distance. Spring oh spring. Thank you for shortly bringing us True Blood season four, Lady Gaga's junior album and the new Sookie Stackhouse installment. All we need now is Harry Potter #8 and Breaking Dawn to bump up its release date as well as be four hours long instead of two separate. Can I get an amen?

Plane Jane

2011-03-17T12:00:00.068-05:00

Mardi Gras extends from the Louisiana boot to Pensacola Bay and up to Floribama, Mobile and beyond. There's wannabe Lakers colors and strange "king cake" everywhere. And you've got to watch out, because if you don't pay attention at the parades, you'll get beaned in the head with candy, and whipped with beads. Like me. And like our friends - who wisely invited us to the downtown Pensacola Mardi Gras celebration - you can take this time to avoid eye trauma and hone screaming, waving and catching - collecting as much free shit as possible. From Indian (is that PC?) headdresses to plastic cups and moon pies. (Though a crushed, 'orange' flavored moon pie is a little iffy.)

Dirty pretty things

Cloudy, pretty things

The city barely had time to sober up before St. Patrick's Day hit, begging for beer festivals following 5k runs and slutty green outfits. But what are we doing? Skipping the corned beef and sauerkraut and watching Top Gear, letting the hus rest up from his second solo flight, flown today. Oh. His first! That was done a couple weeks ago (ahem, sorry) with the T-6, number 056. Surprisingly - apparently - the check ride (the flight prior to a solo), is the more challenging and nerve-wracking. And after your first primary school solo (one is already done during IFS [Introductory Flight Screening]), those around will happily oblige you a dunk in the tank outside the line shacks.

Good job, Red Knight 056. Good job, photog.

Click to enlarge (ha ha)

So, military wives do things like yoga while they're husbands are out buzzing around in the MOA (military operating area = 2 layers of 12, 4-6,000-foot blocks). And while I'm doing sit-ups (yes, I know these aren't technically part of the yoga plan), I pull a muscle. Not a leg, arm or back muscle like a normal person. But a neck muscle. Not even a normal neck muscle. But the muscle between my throat and chin. Like my swallowing muscle, let's call it... I pulled my swallowing muscle doing sit-ups. (That'll teach me to stray from crunches.) I seriously had to stop what I was doing and lay there breathing, willing the pain and swelling sound in my ears to go away before I was compelled to run around the neighborhood screaming. It did go away. And when I told my formerly-a-physical-therapist-hus, he said, oh yeah, I've had that - it sucks. Suck it did.

When I was able to wolf down food again, I had the energy for a shopping trip. This was of course between hours and hours of productive, well-paid (pah!) freelance marketing writing and a side of novella editing (in which after each paragraph, I start to think about writing head-beaning parades and pulled neck muscles into the storyline). With goals of freshening a pointless wardrobe (an occupational hazard when working from home), I instead got sucked into the miraculous shopping activity of picking out Crocs Jibbitz.

Alright, so for any fellow writers short on whimsy or advice of late - or any interested readers or followers - the below are some faves from the last couple weeks.

Kurt Vonnegut's Short Story Sage-ism -

Use the time of a total stranger (your reader) in such a way that he or she will not feel the time was wasted.
Give the reader at least one character to root for.
Every character should want something, even if it's only a glass of water.
Every sentence must do one of two things - reveal character, or advance the action.
Start as close to the end as possible.
Be a Sadist. No matter how sweet and innocent your main characters, make awful things happen to them, so the reader can see what they're made of.
Write to please just one person. If you open a window and make love to the world, so to speak, your story will get pneumonia.
Give your readers as much information as possible, as soon as possible. To hell with suspense. Readers should have such complete understanding of what's going on, where and why, that they could finish the story themselves - should cockroaches eat the final pages.

Vonnegut qualifies the list by adding that Flannery O'Connor broke all these rules except the first, and that great writers tend to do that. (Good ol' Catch-22. [If feeling less polite - insert stream of consciousness cussing here.])

The words I had to find and wish I wrote -

Plain was the same as it ever was the same. 

Plainly plain ... Samely same.

But then,

Someone lit the flame. 

Plain rode away on lion’s mane. 

Where plain met fruits with strangely names.

Such wonderful things they did contain. 

A shot of life to a hungry vein. 

The captive beast who broke the chain. 

And there upon that fruited plane, 

is where plain became what plain became. 

So much more than more than plain.

Plain will never be the same.

Jane Does Suspense, JK Does Arry Pawt-Er & the Lawsons Do Strife

2011-03-01T18:00:00.187-06:00

Will this keep you reading?

I watched the Oscars out of the corner of my eye. Because my new iPhone is taking over my life. Something - even a device that plays to my inner gadget freak - that pulls me away from the perfect combination of narcissism, envy, art and beauty, is an accomplishment for the maker. Thanks, Apple. Thanks, Mr. Seidenberg.

Natalie Portman did draw my attention. But her normally single self and Zac Posen dress was replaced with a Rodarte pregnancy frock and boring co-star fiance (not what I had in mind for this child turned hot actress who can actually act and stay out of trouble). Boo for babies and commitment on this night. Would she really party it up afterward? And her acceptance speech only made me think of her Harvard degree and not the sweet, dark, edgy girl (with an A-line haircut) from The Professional. But then again, maybe a sweet, dark, edgy ballerina isn't that much of a stretch for her, and Winter's Bone's Jennifer Lawrence should have clutched the little, golden man who gives you a big career boost in exchange for a belly rub.

By the way, below are my 2010 movie recommendations, no matter who you are (in particular order):

TRON
True Grit
The Social Network
Inception
The King's Speech
Winter's Bone
The Town
Despicable Me
Black Swan
The Fighter
127 Hours (just the sawing the arm off bit)
Unstoppable (just kidding)

Do not see Blue Valentine no matter what Ryan Gosling and Michelle Williams make you assume. The Kids are Alright and The Tempest look like they might be decent, but I haven't partaken yet. Oh, and Just Go With It is hilarious. The hus and I laughed through the whole thing. Unlike Grown Ups. Looks like Adam Sandler is hit or miss. Just Go With It made everyone in the theater laugh; plus, guys get to stare doe-eyed at Brooklyn Decker, and girls get to see Jennifer Aniston triumph.

I usually return from the movies, or close my laptop, with a fresh dollop of inspiration. But then I get writers' block and turn to a book for more Daisy. I'm reading Harry Potter. (Thank you, thank you, LL Bean and Cody Dude; it's also great to read the book and then watch the matching movie RIGHT AWAY - a completely different, awesome experience) Would anything be more wonderful when you're 13 then finding out you're a wizard? Nope. Well, maybe a vampire. No, wizards and witches seem to have a pretty sweet set-up. And those are nice. So then I started thinking about what I wanted to be at different ages growing up...

Ant. Bird. Mermaid. The missing princess, Anastasia. Fruit Bat. Adopted. Pevensie kid who gets to go to Narnia every year. Punky Brewster. Unicorn. Mario's brother Luigi. Nancy Drew. Penguin, or dolphin. A care bear. A pretty alien. Rainbow Brite. A resident of TRON City. Rachel Green. Veronica Mars. An American Idol. The youngest ever Pulitzer Prize-winning writer who gets picked for Oprah's Book Club and gets to be on the show as well as announced by Oprah herself... wearing a Zac Posen dress. Convict. Shapeshifter. Wife. Mother. Heaven-goer.

But main character and storyline ideas shift and blur constantly. I read Northanger Abbey in college and wanted to write romantic suspense. Tackling Victorian, Puritan passion - turning a turn around the room, sewing, reading, playing piano, walking, and being called upon, suspenseful? That's irrefutably good writing as well as entertaining. But then I became obsessed with every short story in The Paris Review, but they were all so different; I couldn't pinpoint a style I liked as well as do. I read J.K. Rowling and saw that children's books can be complex but clear, that true creativity surpasses criticism and subjective plagiarism. I envied. The list goes on. Experience the plot like Jon Krakauer? Report on it like Sebastian Junger? Crank it out like a well-oiled factory, like Danielle Steel? Create my own genre? Risk cliche' and chick lit and only shock value.

The fears go on. Ah ha! Saved by the iPhone - I better get going; the hus is on his way home from his last flight before his check ride tomorrow. Which precedes his first solo flight in Primary school, thus his second in his life. Got it? All I really need to know is he has bigger things to worry about than tossing around ideas and blogging and squeezing in a teeny tiny run to save my computer-glued body. But before I log off, below is a little scenario (set to the tune of The Vampire Diaries, since they seem to love product placement) I recreated to show how difficult it was for us to actually walk out of Best Buy with iPhones in hand and common sense exercised.

* * *

Stefan and Elena enter Best Buy at 1:49 p.m. on a sunny Sunday afternoon and are greeted by an employee working in the mobile department, Mario.

Mario: Hi there, how can I help you?

Stefan: Hi, we'd like to upgrade to the new Verizon iPhone 4 as well as join my Uncle Jack's family plan.

Sexy even under stress courtesy of fanpop!

Elena: I'm already on Verizon, but he's on AT&T. (Elena points to Stefan.) I'm on my aunt's family plan presently, and he's on his other uncle's plan.

Mario: Okay, do you have your uncle's account number, phone number, address, the last four of his social security number, his verbal and electronic pass codes as well as PIN, your authorization passcode, and, why not, the names of his unborn children?

Stefan (thinks for a second): What uncle?

Elena: I have it all written down here. (Elena hands Mario a crazed piece of paper, and Mario tries using the information for about 20 minutes.) How come you can't just look it up?

Mario: Our computer system, The Beast (real name), only works one-way.

Elena: As in, input? (Mario smiles vaguely.)

Elena: Er, I'm not sure if the addresses are all right, since I'm not sure if the account holders use their home or work addresses for billing. (Mario finally looks up.)

Mario: Neither of you are authorized users are on any of the accounts. Can you please call everyone in a specific order to have them authorize you, release you and add you when and where appropriate?

Stefan (voiceover indicates he wishes he could use his vampire speediness to speed up this fucking process): Sure. (Elena and Stefan roam the mobile department on their cell phones for 40 minutes, talking and texting and exchanging instructions, phone numbers, codes and details about upcoming family events ... Another couple finally gets up from one of the department benches, and Stefan and Elena can sit.)

Stefan: They sure sucked all the fun out of this, didn't they?

Elena: They sure did. Who's they?

Stefan: I don't know. (Stefan gets bored and figures out how long it takes for Verizon and Apple to start profiting from a cell phone and plan sale. Elena figures out her aunt can't release her from her current plan, because it will disrupt the phone, Internet, cable service bundle. Stefan cusses.)

For the next 2 1/2 hours, Mario solidifies for Elena that she should stay with her aunt's plan, and Stefan can switch to his uncle's (which uncle again?) plan, but they'll need to keep a close eye on minutes and figure out how to split up the cost and payment of the primary line ... Then Maria takes over, because Mario must complete the transaction of yet another desperate couple.)

Elena: This makes me want to be like Alexander Supertramp and just burn my social security card and frolic into The Yukon - er, then eat berries and get sick and die.

Stefan: Because you didn't have an iPhone to Google if the berries were poisonous or not. (They both laugh, a little hysterically. 1/2 hour later...)

Maria: Sorry I'm having to sync your new phone five times, Stefan; it's The Beast. Why don't I start ringing you up at least?

Elena: Great. (Elena gets up because the third customer has come along trying to access the credit card machine that's mounted to the desk right in front of their hard, heavy bench.)

Pensive Stefan courtesy of vampdwordpress.com

Stefan: So, Maria, just to summarize... The student discount is higher than the vampire discount, and it applies to the whole bill amount, even if you're not the primary account holder, unlike the vampire discount.

And it makes sense to get the $15 a month insurance, because otherwise, you have to buy a replacement phone for $700 versus the $200 contract price... But the insurance doesn't cover anything if you don't have the phone, like if it's lost or stolen. And if you get the insurance, the Geek Squad rate is $30 for both of us instead of $60.

Maria: Sure. (She finishes syncing and ringing them up.)

Stefan and Elena leave Best Buy at 7:02 p.m. - it's dark out.

Stefan (big sigh): Now I'm so starved for blood, I have to kill an innocent person, probably in this parking lot here.

Elena: Well now I don't have time to do more than one blog post in February.

Escape from Alytraz

2011-02-06T19:00:00.269-06:00

Courtesy of Seeking to Glorify

I've decided I live for escape. (I actually found this out when I was five and only wanted to pretend to be a mermaid and eat Popsicles all day; raspberry chlorine should be a new flavor.) I think even if I spent all day writing - not freelance marketing presentations, or pro bono work for mooching loved ones - but real writing... The kind that has no restrictions or reviewers (at least until you're lucky enough to get a slash-and-burn agent and editor)... The kind that allows for mermaids and Popsicle breaks...

I'd still want to do be doing something else.

I'd still live for reading over writing, watching TV and movies over ocean waves and the view from a hike or bike ride, eating over running. But we know what's good for us, right? So these purely entertaining activities are tainted. Tainted enough that we do our very best to bear our Alcatraz-like routines of work, diet and exercise, and [insert appropriate obligation here: such as vacuuming, cooking casseroles, giving your kid or dog a bath, taking care of your other kid/pet, also known as your spouse], to stave off the guilt when it comes time to party.

Alcatraz Hotel in Germany

The flip-side is how alluring a prison is to me sometimes. Maybe not Alcatraz. Maybe more like an upstanding mental institution or behavioral medicine center, or psych ward full of interesting, funny, dark people. Who wouldn't want to lounge around in a comfy jumpsuit (extra great if you get the cool, blue uniform and cotton-y sweatshirts akin to the Prison Break costumes), or your one pair of pajamas you had when admitted (you don't even have to stress about what sweats to wear).

The day would consist of reading on your bunk (watching cable if you're on death row), playing ping pong, feeling better about yourself after hearing about other people's problems in "group," having some interested, highly educated person listen to you vent about your day - versus your partner, who's just as tired from the daily grind as you - washing down happy pills with apple juice, getting praise for things like eating all your food, screaming your emotions but not hitting, and organizing a pizza party or joining the inmate writing program.

Sounds pretty fucking awesome to me. If it weren't for the rapists, restraints and wake-up calls, it'd be a pretty sweet deal. Juvie even sounded good to my 13-year-old self. All society expects of you is to not shank someone. But no matter how many dense peers, teachers or managers you'd get to avoid - no matter how many tests, sprints, veggies, bills, tax returns, and loads of laundry - institutionalized life would probably still suck. Because there's always someone to answer to, even if it's just God.

For now, I have to live on the Today show and America's Newsroom, lunch (the best time of any day), Netflix, the hus, walking the dog, and wine - but not too much on this one, chickabee, because then you end up worshiping the porcelain basin. For now, I have to live on things like these. And this:

And these: (The theme songs themselves are like sensory-absorbed Prozac.)

Courtesy of Warming Glow

As Leslie Knope would say, when it gets to be too much, count backwards from 1,000 by sevens and think of warm brownies.

Or, let a puppy lick your face.

* * *

Blog usability research (AKA Ai student Cody Delmar) shows men click, and women scroll. But the hus says he likes scrolling. And I like clicking. We're probably just weird. What do you prefer? Endless scrolling... The ability to scroll through a handful of posts... Or, do you like the organized archive as a map to past posts from your favorite bloggers? What way were you born to enjoy your momentary escape?

And be sure to check out www.facebook.com/alylawson to see the latest Naval aviator photos in the Flo Rida album. There's a sim bay filled with wizard cauldrons as well as astro weenie trees.

What Puts the Whirl in My World

2011-01-19T21:00:00.342-06:00

How we know more because of Google.

The same can be said for Wikipedia. (Even with the new, smooth call to donate.)

Whether this "more" is useful, insightful, a guilty pleasure, or just plain good and healthy, is always up for debate. Well, not really, because debates intimidate me, and I usually "lose" to people who read, watch, blog and use Google and Wikipedia more. I attribute this more-ness to them having an iPhone or Droid though.

The iPhone. Which is perceived so valuable, and its interface, appearance and marketing so effective, that Steve can keep charging hundreds of dollars for it, while PC-y phones can be bought for $1 at contract renewal.

Everything Mac. Except for that period in time when firewire cables became obsolete. And Steve simply left our firewire external drives high and dry, essays and entertainment stuck on it until you could break into your brother's house and use his desktop as a middle man in order to (even though I hate "in order to") have a marathon soundtrack.

E-readers. If only for the sake of taking 100 books back-backing, so you don't have to tearfully drop paperbacks into trash bins, or leave hardbacks on thin hostel bunks.

Husbands. And wives. They made a choice to hang out with you forever. That's pretty impressive no matter who you are.

Peanut butter.

Excel. Every formula, every format, every tingle of glee it provides when you make one change, and it echoes throughout your entire budget, or loan repayment plan, or tax outline, or other spreadsheet that helps organize your life into correct, little, framed and colored boxes, like the shows you record and every important detail about them. This is why Netflix, Amazon, and home libraries are also wonderful. A cost-effective, organized way of accessing and tracking bliss.

Licking peanut butter off a spoon while playing around in Excel.

New socks. Soft. Fresh. Good color. No nubbles. No embarrassment when you visit people's houses and want to be a good guest and pad around in stocking feet. Recommendation: Target Xhileration ankle socks in black, white, charcoal and heather gray for $2 each (store only).

GPS. This has saved my marriage. (However, we still waste gas making U-turns.) And it's cousin GIS, which gave me my first real marketing job, for which I'll forever be grateful. Yes, I would like some wine with that.

Space heaters. Every female knows why. These are almost as important as an education in case anything happens with your significant other, like infidelity or saying they like any other hair color but yours (at which point, they'll receive their pillow for the couch - but you'll be out of a heater). Tip: put it beside your bed, and when you can't warm your feet up, just flip it on and dip them out in front of it; bring back in when warm; you'll be toasty all night.

The rawest and best of hygiene and beauty products, tissue, Q-tips and mineral powder. (I would say Chapstick, too, but it's addicting, so it's really more of a bane than a whirl.)

Toilet flushers. Anything flushable - drop it in and lever it away. That's why trash chutes also rock simplicity. And trash chutes aren't attached to an Emerald Coast water bill.

Adidas (especially Firebird) track and your favorite kind of sweat pants. And jeans. Maybe all pants. And sneakers. Because you can't beat Sambas, Uggs, flip-flops and combat boots either. All bought on Ebay. Ebay's pretty fucking unbeatable, too.

The ability to sneeze full out.

Microsoft Outlook. Get on it Steve. Entourage doesn't count.

Book lights. This one's great. Flashlights will work, too. Extra good when under the covers. Okay, good lighting in general. This could be anything from avoiding blue lightbulbs (there are "warm" efficient bulbs) and embracing colored paper lanterns, or leaving Christmas lights up year round. Ambiance is attitude. Which is why I scream at the hus for turning on all the kitchen lights while I'm trying to cook. Who says vampire lizard is a bad thing.

Vampire lizards.

Every single Dyson vacuum. Charge me whatever you want. This seems to be a theme. Give me what I need and more, and I'll pay you whatever you want. (That's what he said.) And really anything that helps create a cleaner world. Like awesome construction jobs. But that's less whirl and more just a simple evolution.

Toyotas. Breaks shmakes.

Tampons. Sorry, but it's true. I mean, what's the alternative? Leaves? Chilling in an outhouse all by yourself?

TV trays. Though I refuse to use one (Cary has one I admire), because I like spilling these days and enjoying not having my mom around to be disappointed in me. Anything that makes you feel grown up and free is whirly. (No, I'm not drunk.)

Stimulants. And depressants that strangely act as stimulants for some people.

America.

Dancers.

All professional athletes and artists really. The hus has pointed out these aren't ark-worthy professions. I agree physicians and accountants make the world go round - and I'm willing to pay them pretty pennies, and grant them every last space in the bomb shelters. But the people that make life worth living, who make you laugh so hard you fall silent, who make you question things you never would have noticed, who make you love life more, are what make the world whirl. Cake and vitamins. We want and need (and thus want) both.

I wonder what makes your world whirl...

Now for all the people that only eat honeydew for the military shit. Okay, this is pretty cool once again.

Notes on the below video:

Cary's flying the same plane, but with different markings, since the Texan filmed is the Air Force version (and at a different base).
Also, the cockpit panel (dashboard) is now a three-panel glass display of cooler digital screens, instead of the individual, older looking digital instruments in the usually blue Air Force Alpha; there's also a teleprompter looking thing in the Navy Bravo, so the pilot can keep his head up more. And practice Medal of Honor speeches.
Yup, those rotations, spins, stalls, and falls are what he's actually learning and doing - quite well for a physical therapist.
He's also doing G-awareness maneuvers (called GX). But of course he still can't maneuver a car through a parking lot to my liking. I think he's doing it on purpose.
Getting sick is common. Despite the little dairy and ginger pill diet many pilots adopt. CLaws apparently has a justice scale of a stomach. Oh, except when they're just flying back to regional in a straight, level line. Hee, hee.
Towards the end of the clip - yup, that's where he sits, in the front like that; the instructor is behind. Cool knee notebook, huh? I feel like I need that when trying to explain my job to people.
I know. The stick. You can't help but let your mind wander.

Writing It is Easier Than Talking About It

2011-01-13T23:59:00.025-06:00

Peanut (who escaped the gallery): "So, what's it about?"

Writer: "Umm......"

Now imaging inserting a book topic into this growing, (but it will quickly die), dialogue that's unfortuantely continued with a topic like ... A writer (go figure). A man who takes a magic pill and can then use his brain to its full potential (taken). A murder beneath the Eiffel Tower. (Ooo, but hasn't that been taken? If in doubt, yes.) It's a Christian YA novel (snore). It's a collection of coming-of-age short stories. (The listener thinks, What the fuck's a short story?) It's about a justice-seeking serial killer who shares a sweaty state with hot vampires. (Every former literature professor of that writer just had a seizure.)

Then there's always an awkward pause or two, depending on how much longer a conversation about books, let alone writing them, can last. If the peanut is kind, they'll try and think of one or two more questions and listen politely. If they think they could write at least as good as you, they'll give you ideas, or feedback on pages they've never seen. If they don't read, they'll quickly change the subject back to their own job. If they do read, they probably understandably think it's all a pipe dream without much chance of water gushing through it.

But if they're one of those people who reads as well as confidently admits to Twilight being as good a read as To Kill a Mockingbird, then they're both bright and honest - the kind of people I love to surround myself with. (Yes, I ended a sentence with a preposition, Grammar Girl). And I hope these people (who I like to call 'almonds') rub off on me. If they read, think like this, and actually sit down and write themselves, the almond becomes a cashew, and I want to eat them up, absorbing every shared experience and insight. Because only they know what it's truly like.

So, after some more strained, straggling conversation over a meal, in line for a movie, in the car, or chilling on some couches, we usually flip back (within about 60 seconds) to anatomy, engines, teeth, cooking, budgets, kids, dogs, even cats.

But we might come back to writing at some point. Blogging. Freelancing. The future bestseller. Maybe over dessert, or on the way home from sushi or the beach - which is irritatingly frigid for Florida right now, despite the northern gulf being obviously different from Jupiter.

Peanut: "So, what's it called?"

Writer: (thinks) Well, shit-fucky.

Have your cake and eat it too: Write and don't talk about it. As for pleasing Twi-hards and English profesors, I haven't figured that one out yet...