Hey Blunder Woman

Easy Does It Prologue

(Oops. It’s actually Chapter 1)

Technology confuses me….but I’m trying this stuff any way. I’ll get it figured out eventually, but until then…here’s a trial post of Easy Does It. Let me know if it works for you…and especially if it doesn’t. 

Imagine your average juggler: tight pants, crazy ruffled shirt, kooky hat. Now imagine that they’re not very good. Sure, they can juggle one ball in the air…but that’s not really juggling. That’s more of a ‘throw up and catch’ sort of thing. Toss another ball in there and, wow, two balls, pretty impressive. Add twenty more. That poor juggler! Balls flying everywhere, raining from the skies.

But maybe, maybe when all the stars align that same juggler will have two maybe three seconds of success, when all the balls are floating in the air and you (the  watcher) think “My God, maybe this time it’s going to work”.

Super extended metaphor but I feel like that juggler. Except I really don’t like tight pants (though Keeley swears my jeans are all one size too big and the jeans she forced me to buy–size 8–are now my favorite).

Why all the ball references? Besides that any time I mention balls I giggle like a school girl?

My life is balls. Balls balls balls. 

Mmmm. Balls. 

Now I’m distracted. Okay. Focusing. Focusing.

Here’s what’s happening: I am tired of being a wannabe-writer. I want to make a living at this. So I’m juggling about a hundred balls in the air hoping that at one moment, they’ll all float magically and maybe that agent or publisher will pause and say “You know she’s got something there”.

Here’s what I’m doing, much of it you’ll find here:

1) Audio version of “Easy Does It”

2) Podcasts of “Blunder Woman”

3) Recording of radio play “Hot Summer Cool Breeze”

4) Recording of radio plays that are sci-fi and medical dramadies

5) Performance at Dog Story

6) Praying to the Gods that someone buys my book. (Thanks to Dana for actually trying to convince a book club to read it)

7) More writing workshops

8 ) Idea of turning “Blunder Woman” into a screenplay or webcast.

9) New narration website so I can get paying gigs

10) Attempting new jamming recipes (which really doesn’t pertain to any of this, but I like making jam.)

Something’s got to work, yes? Oh, and I’m still working on this new mystery.

So. I’m going to ask you dear readers a favor. If you like my work, take a little pity and spread the word. The more people who see what I’m doing, the better chance I have of having something actually happen. Not that you need to do this or should feel obligated, but a girl can ask for a little help. I’m trying to entertain, but I also want to eat. And wear pretty clothes. And smell good.

-T-

Last night a friend of mine invited me over to finally watch Firefly. I’ve been meaning to do it; it’s been in my Netflix queue forever. It sort of had become that thing you have every intention of doing (like a bikini wax) but the commitment is just too much.

Cast of Firefly

And, like many things in life, watching a new TV series (or reading a new book, or watching a play) is sort of like dating: awkward at first and then, hopefully, wonderful. There are the bad dates too: the series you have high hopes for but lets you down (Earth 2). And there are the good dates, the dates all others are measured against: Battlestar Gallactica, and in ages past, X-Files. Was I ready to commit to a new relationship with a television show? Does my philosophising here smack of pathetic?

Yes. And Yes.

Here’s the thing about sci-fi, the genius of it if you will. (My friend and I discussed this heatedly and agreed. Of course, we’re both geeks, but that’s an aside.) Science Fiction isn’t science fiction at all; it’s simply a setting that enables characters to live to their fullest. It’s a setting that allows writers to break the rules of our everyday world and stretch characters to their utmost. Much like war dramas show man v. man, and romances show women v. their own hearts.

Mythology does this too…putting characters in ridiculous situations. Consider poor Atlas carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. But what does carrying the world on your shoulders MEAN? I have met Atlas before, the broken man, the broken woman, the life that goes on but with unendurable suffering. The truth of what it means is too painful, but metaphor, oh, we get metaphor.

Sci-fi—when it is good, it is very very good. It’s poetic. Grand. Funny. Heartbreaking. And when it is bad, there are furry puffballs multiplying like psychotic rabbits. But even that, really, is good in its own way.

Captain Kirk and The Trouble with Tribbles

So. Watching Firefly, I laughed. I was touched. I was enticed and titillated. And maybe just for a little bit I felt that much more alive. It’s the same thing that happened when I watched Battlestar. I felt a little bit of the euphoria you get when you meet someone you’re attracted to and you start to have a conversation and pheromones are popping.

Yes. My pheromones were popping. Which leads me to another question…but I’ll save that one for a later date.

I’ve noticed a peculiar thing happening lately: men. Not just men in general, you know, walking on the street, high-fiving each other, flexing their muscles while they wait in line for a latte. No. This is altogether stranger. I’ve noticed men noticing me. This is an epiphany. Truly. And I’m not sure if it’s something that’s always happened or if this is a recent occurrence. Lately, though, they’re being awfully nice to me and I don’t think it’s because my t-shirt says “Please Don’t Kick Me”. Nice men are popping out all over the place, and really, it’s starting to freak me out.

Today I stopped to get lunch at Marie Catrib’s (lentil samosas and tabulli) and the guy behind the counter with tattoos decorating his arm like evil lace, talked to me about this old hig school buddy he just saw and he hasn’t been in high school for 13 years (which means he’s 31) and said buddy is married to his high school sweetheart and isn’t that amazing because relationships are so hard, aren’t they, and communication, well, that’s what it’s all about. I nodded dumbly, then handed him my money “Here.” I said. He said “You make sure to come back in here soon, okay?”

Then I walked out into the weird universe I’d just entered.

Went for a run.

Came home to the garbage truck idling in the driveway, and the garbage man pulling away my green can. Hmm. That sounds mildly naughty. So I’m going to get in my house and he stops me: “Hey! Are you the owner? I just met your mom. She’s really nice. Where’d you move from.”

Before I answered, I noticed that he was looking me directly in my eyes and that he was very very handsome, in the way that a UPS man or a mailman or a construction worker is handsome. It has something to do with the uniform and the ability to lift heavy things (which could be you, naked). But the garbage thing was a bit of a turn off. I told him I was separated from my husband. “Hey! I’m just getting a divorce! If you need anything, let me know. Seriously. It’s a long road, but you’ll be glad you walked it.”

Then we had a five minute conversation in which we found out our kids are the same age and that relationships fall apart if you don’t have good communication.

Then the guy at La Cantina asked me if my margarita was all right. 

Yummy margarita on the rocks with salt.

Oh. I guess that wasn’t weird. He was just being a waiter. Still, weird kindness is going on…and at the reading I gave last night, I did feel like eyes were on me. And they were, because I was standing on a stage alone with a spotlight on me, but it’s more than that.

The point is: I’m not invisible anymore, and it’s awfully nice to be seen.

Cheers, all.   

Sometimes when I’m feeling particularly reflective or nostalgic, I think I’m waxing poetic. And then I stop being reflective and start thinking about “What does waxing poetic mean, exactly?” Oh, sure, it means you’re feeling words of poetry about life in general, which probably means you’re being sentimental and annoying. And the term was coined long before hair removers, I’m sure. But I do feel sorry for the term, just like I feel sorry for guys named “Dick”. Might not have been a big deal in the 50′s, but you just don’t want to be referred to as “dick’ anymore, and no one, god help us, is called “Pussy” either.

Poetic, In Need of Some Hair Removal

So what was I waxing on and off about? The 4th of July. It was my first holiday without the kids and I felt an intense sadness, not only for being without them, but for the loss of our family and the fantasy of a family. Even when I was the stay-at-home mom and cooking and had the husband and the kids, I still missed the fantasy. In my mind, there’s an intense comfort in being a family that I never actually felt. But now I can’t even pretend I have it, whereas before, I could at least make others believe I did. Now, it’s clear, I’m a single mom…and there isn’t really anything funny about that.

Sorrow lends itself to bad writing and poetry I think.

So here’s a bad ode to the 4th of July. Read it out loud, and in your worst beatnik imitation:

ODE TO THE 4th

O, day of birth for America

O, day we celebrate independence with hot

weiners

from the grille.

I love the explosions in the sky

It echoes the explosions

 of my heart when I think of

you.

Yeah. Supremely bad poetry always makes me feel good. Now wax that Poetic. He needs it. 

I’m trying to start a new project, but my heart still belongs to the old one: “Blunder Woman”. Writing is a bit like dating…you have the courtship period, then the frustrating and exhilirating long relationship where you figure everything out..but the trouble is, all the projects (and I’m discovering, again, this is like relationships) come to an end. Then you have the break up and the crying and the sudden weight gain due to too many cocktails, cookies, cake and just saying aw-fuck-it and eating the cheetos too.

CHEETOS by rubisstudios.com

Okay. That last part might just be my issue.

My point is, with writing, you have the initial excitement, the relationship, and then the breakup. The real trouble comes when you try to start something new.

I’m working on a new piece and one of the main character’s names is Pepper Wellington. Trouble is, when I sit down, I’m still thinking about Chloe Knaggs, my dear alter-ego, my Blunder Woman. The greater trouble is, there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t manage something awkward and embarrssing and it helps to write about them. So like the old relationship, I’m looking backward at the previous book with longing, even though it’s over. I should be focusing on Pepper Wellington. Maybe there’s something there. Maybe if I just give it a little time, a little focus, a little commitment, it will all work out!

Now I don’t even know if I’m talking about relationships or writing.

Here’s what I do know: I got yet another rejection for “Blunder Woman” today. “Easy Does It” is available to purchase and selling like hot cakes, which means not at all, because no one (not even grandmothers) orders hot cakes any more. I have a staged reading on Monday that I pray people are coming to and will enjoy. I have a new book I should be working on but can’t seem to get connected with. And on top of all of it, I’m just plain depressed.

*sigh*

What do I do with this besides see a therapist? Write another line of Pepper Wellington. Hope she takes me somewhere. Hope that in my real life, I can relax a bit and enjoy all the embarrassing mess ups because I seem to have a talent for it. And maybe, just tonight, because it’s the 4th and all, I’ll have one more cookie. It’s not like I’m going to explode or anything. Nope. Explosions will be in the sky from fireworks. (I’m reminding myself of this so when they go off I  don’t have a heart attack.)

Happy 4th all.