The Perfect Man - A summary to date - 1-5

1) He must have world-class take my breath away intelligence.
In short he needs to know lots of stuff that I don’t. Good luck with that mere mortal boys.
Ref. Skyhammer, Pablito, Frenchiepants, Hoosie, The Analyst, Angel Boy

2) He must laugh at my jokes.
More than that he must motivate me to tell even greater jokes.
His laughter. I relish it, I crave it. It is a new addiction with no calories and only side effects are sore cheek muscles from smiling and sore abs from laughing.
Ref. Hoosie, Pablito, Angel Boy

3) He must enjoy to give and receive frequent massages.
The memory of just how good he was at the art of massage. And he loved doing it too. Mind you it was part of his training in physical education and if memory serves one of the few classes he actually bothered to attend. This is really just a euphemism for the idea that he really, really has to like touching me. But you knew that.
Ref. The Fiancée, The Analyst, The Baritone

4) He must embrace his sense of silly.
A man who can giggle without then turning around and leaping on the table in the presence of a mouse? Someone who would be happy to eat cinnamon toast and tea every morning for a week, simply because you announced that it was “cinnamon toast and tea” week. Makes me feel cinnamon toasty just thinking about it.
Ref. Skyhammer, Hoosie, Pablito, Frenchiepants, The Cossack, The Analyst, The Skateboarder, Angel Boy

5) He must make me feel brilliant.
Because he IS brilliant in some way and then when he gets that very considered look and says to me “You’re brilliant” – I actually believe him. More than that, he has to not mind that I just might, in some ways be more brilliant than he, and instead of finding that frightening, finds it exciting.
Ref. Skyhammer, Hoosie, Singer, The Jester

Just say NO to chain emails.

I don’t know how to be any more definite or explicit than that kids. DO NOT send them to me. I will delete them. They are not a harmless bit of fun. They are BLACK MAGIC. And I’m not exaggerating or kidding even a little. These things that promise a wish come true or something wonderful will happen if only you fulfill its terms of emotional blackmail are just that. Black. Mail. As soon as you begin to realize what you have opened and are reading hit the delete button and say a prayer for the poor misguided loved one that sent it to you.

If you think I am a Strong Woman or one of the Greatest Women in Your Life or Gift from Heaven whatever title or twist of phrase these things suck you in with. Know what? Frack off. I don’t care to have someone else’s thirteenth hand expression of my magnificence or of your affection for me. Send me a fracking email telling me you love me or think of me or I just crossed you mind in an idle moment and you are just wishing me the best. Now that would be a wish come true or a blessing or an unexpected nice surprise.

I do believe in magic. The universe fair crackles with its power if only you care to narrow your eyes and look sideways to see the fairy lights sparkle along the horizon at dawn or dusk. It also contains evil and part of my definition of that is being forced into evoking that magic on behalf of some faceless nameless spawn of a demon email that gets handed to me by a clueless friend all in the name of “fun” or a chain prayer for the betterment of all humankind, or fulfillment of my dearest wish. But watch out - you don’t meet the demon’s terms and at the best nothing will happen, at the worst, well, suffice it to say that the variations on “have a bad day” are infinite.

Do not threaten me or mine with harm. Don’t. For my wrath is mighty and my reach through space and time is infinite.

I do believe that people love me and want to connect with me and share their experience of the magic of ordinary days. Chain emails are not the way to do it. Though if what you are after is having me say a prayer for the sake of your immortal soul, well then mission accomplished. But I would have said one any way, even if you just sent me an email to say “Hi, I’m thinking of you. No need to email back, just wanted to let you know I’m thinking nice thoughts. Be well. Love.”

That’s what it’s all about, or so I’ve been told. Love. So next time you get one of these noxious frauds in your in box. Why don’t you delete it and instead send a couple lines of “just thinking about you” to ten friends. There. That’s my wish. Now go outside, turn around three times counter clockwise and spit. Only way it will come true.

I wonder if I do believe?

In romantic love I mean. I mean as a thing to be desired and striven for celebrated and cherished. I mean I do believe it exists; I've seen evidence of it enough with my own eyes if not with my own heart. But I did have one of those crystalline morning thoughts on my drive to work this AM - maybe I don't really believe in it after all. I was listening to the Canadian Tenors sing about love and I cetainly do enjoy listening to handsome young men sing about such things. But I was struck and not the first time by how obsessed we are in art and music about the topic, in particular given kind of the lack of its expression in real life from day to day.

I've been in a bit of a pause with writing on my rom com, but not because I don't know what comes next, cause I do, but because I'm reluctant to make myself go there emotionally. All the rollicking set up has been done and now the stakes keep getting higher and higher for my co-protagonists. They are about to really put their respective hearts out there for to be stomped on a bit, well alot, before I can bring it on home to happily-ever-after. Which means that I have to join them in both the hopeful heart soaring butterflies in stomach bit and in the getting squished and kicked to the curb bit. Now, you might wonder what that might matter given that it is, after all, fiction. But you know what? It does matter and will be doubly hard as I have written the gosh darn thing with co-protagonists which means that they both need to go thru their own individual hell in different ways before they can come out the other side. Sigh. Now I know why good writers get paid so well. It isn't just for the 10,000 hours to mastering the words and form. Its the honesty and the hope and the hurt. I'll get there and I'll give it to you. But it will cost me.

At the end of it all though, when the orchestra swells and the rose petals fall, we'll all be all the better for it. So maybe I don't believe in romantic love. Not for me, not yet. But I sure want to.

Random Lunch Hour Thoughts

Well, so here we are again. Hump day. Can’t believe its only Wednesday. If memory serves, somewhere around here is the most depressed day of the year, statistically speaking. Yep, that was this past Monday. The third Monday of January. Gotta say I was a rough and rainy one, that’s for sure. Hauling it out of bed was truly a Herculean effort. That then makes this the longest week of the year. I’ve had three people say to me within the last 24 hours “I can’t believe its only…” Yep. It’s only.

Today comparatively is superb. Though I feel like I’m getting a head cold. So that is fascinating too, that I am more energetic than I’ve been in weeks, and happier, and yet sneezy, runny nose, sore throat thing coming along at the same time.

Still riding the endorphin rush from guitar lesson last night. The hour post guitar is the happiest of my week I think. I really feel good about myself and my life afterward. Which is really superb and yet kinda annoying because then I stay up too late for a Tuesday because I’m having too much fun to go to bed. And of course the endorphin rush doubled cause I went to the gym as soon as I got home. So who’s the big squishy butted writer now, hey? Well. I still am of course but I rode the guitar endorphins wave right downstairs to the gym and then caught another one by actually working out. Very different behavior for me. And even though I am a bit short on sleep and scratchy throated today I am walking without a limp for the first time in three weeks. Can it be that the working out is finally starting to pay some dividends? Please, please say that its so.

Thinking a lot about time today. And sorry do love all of you married women types with kids but if one more of you tells me that I’m “lucky” that I have time to write or “lucky” I have time to learn the guitar I just might haul off and pop you in the nose. Thing is kids we all have several things that are absolutely the same for you and me. We both have 24 hours in a day and we both have to live with the choices that we have made. You chose to be a wife and mother. I did not. You have to live with your choice and I have to live with mine. “Luck” has nothing to do with it. And I should point out the hundreds of thousands of women – wives and mothers – that have written gagillions of words. Somehow they make the choice to find the time. Their kids too seem to grow up with a fairly normal blend of function/dysfunction as those of you who choose not to find the time to write. Or go to the gym or play guitar. You know what? Be an example to your kid and do those things if that is what you want. Let them learn along with you or learn that Mummy is an individual and her needs are just as important as yours. I think maybe they will be better men and women for understanding that.

This rant inspired by the fact that I am trying to fully comprehend how MY needs have not been met so I use food to cope instead. For example, I need to telecommute during the Olympics as the stress of commuting will be horrific. Not to mention that the type of work I do will actually move faster if I do it at home with less distraction. But I procrastinated over “asking” if that would be okay, because it is really important to me, only to find out that it was decided at a meeting I wasn’t at, that it was assumed already that I would be. So I stressed MYSELF out over asking to have my needs met, oddly in order to do a better job. I dunno, is it really that Catholic guilt thing that it has to hurt in order to serve others. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I will get twice the quality work done in half the time, plus preserving my health and sanity and I was AFRAID to ask. Sorry for shouting at you.

One last thought on the time thing. Yah, I have it and maybe you don’t. But don’t ever forget what you do have that I don’t. You have love. Wanna trade?

Hi I'm back.

Sorry. Been thru a rough January patch. All done now I think. Thanks partly to my friends who can't seem to stop telling me how terrific I am. So at the risk of insulting them I think I had better start believing it a little bit more.

Sure, been having a tough week as a person and a writer. It happens. What needs to happen is less judgement on every moment and more effort to achieve small victories. Success it appears from all I can tell, from an accumulation of small successes. I can hear Mel Gibson in my head from "The Patriot" - "Aim small, miss small." Of course he was encouraging his ten year old to blow the head off a red coat, so maybe I better find a more fitting analogy.

But, not tonight. Running out of gas and thus will try and be funnier, more insightful and prolific anon.

Better today.

See the joy of the creative personality? The fact is I shoveled a ton of story yesterday despite my late night fit of pique.

Thing is. Just because I’m all happy joy joy sunshine girl today doesn’t mean that yesterday wasn’t deeply ugly. It was. And I share that with full realization that it doesn’t make me look very attractive or heroic. It is truly the double edge of the creative sword and if you think you’ve escaped it? You’re either deluding yourself or you are a crap writer. And I’m afraid I have to stand by that, even if I hurts your feelings.

Not that there isn’t a place of joy and harmony for writers. But you don’t get a free pass. Sorry. As my guru of writing says in her book “Inside Story” (and I paraphase, Dara forgive me) if you as a writer can’t get down and dirty with your theme and your own experience. We can tell. Happy for your privacy and our comfort, we don’t know what about your writing is true. So. Delve deep, be honest with yourself. If you honestly explore the question before you from your own experience? Heaven awaits. Or so I’ve been told.

It goes hard today.

A simple loving question from a friend in an email “How goes the writing?”

Today my darlings it goes hard. I did it though. An hour at lunch and an hour and a half post work pre guitar lesson. But it was hard. It was work. It was also good but still a long way from done. I got to the place where the wrong guy asks the girl to get married and she says yes. Wow is that a crappy example of art imitating life.

And oh yah. Wrote for the man all day as well. And I am damn lucky to have that job and need to give it my best each and every moment that I’m there.

Discouraged today. Despite so much praise and support from so many fantastic people I still can’t manage to put together a decent living from my talent.

I got another bridesmaid email. I am so fucking tired of being a bridesmaid the next person who asks is likely to get a takeout chopstick between the eyes. I’m tired of "almost" and "maybe" and "if you only…"

And please don’t comment on this one. Don’t send positive emails or your love. I already know how lucky I am to have all of you so let’s just take that as read.

But if any of you were here I would surely take a big long hug. But no conversation, okay? I am tired of words.

Yes. It goes hard today.