This is what I get for complaining about losing against Ruby in cribbage. I don’t know where her luck (er… talent?) comes from, but after winning my second game in about 8 1/2 years (!!!) against her a couple of weeks ago, I was very disgruntled tonight to see that she’s back on her winning streak.
Ky’s finally sleeping again, and is back to school for her morning classes, which is good. I’m assured by the school that she’ll manage to get those credits without a problem – music class, which is hardly surprising (the principal tells me she’d have passed that one based on her talent, never mind that she doesn’t bother with any assignments – I don’t know whether to be proud or pissed off), and geography. Now, that surprises me.
Two credits is better than no credits, though, I guess, isn’t it? I’ll try to be proud.
My own sleeping is not happening again, now. I’m a little concerned about my job. I’m getting there, but it’s difficult. Luckily, I don’t have to drive to get there, so no lives are in danger – unless I blow the place up, but there are safeguards in place against idiots, so maybe that’s not such a big worry…
I need to finish the latest novel. That’s that “hard” one I mentioned a while back. It’s still got a lot of the same elements that the sitcom had in it, but the entire pilot plot has pretty much disappeared, along with a character or two. I’ve kept the bare bones of what would have been the first season. I tried to change the main characters’ names, but they just will not be renamed. All I’ve managed to do is steal away their last names completely.
I had a lot of false starts trying to pick this project back up again. There was a time that I ate, slept and breathed it. That turned into boozing and smoking it, and I think I just wanted it to go away. Working on it kept bringing up nasty, bad thoughts that I didn’t want to think.
I lamented about this to Ky one day, and she surprised me by telling me I should be getting it done and over with. When I told her I didn’t want to listen/watch/write my main characters anymore, she rolled her eyes.
I told her I’d noticed she wore the one and only promotional t-shirt made for the project all the time, even though she’d once told me she was glad it was dead in the water so what’s up with that, huh?! And then, she made me laugh by paraphrasing Holden McNeil:“They’re fictional characters, Mom. Fictional characters. Am I getting through to you at all…?”
So I’m working on it. And it gets a little easier (and a little closer to done) every time I sit down to it.
My blog is turning back into a place to air my grievances, and although that’s part of what it’s for, I really want to get back to telling the Ruby stories (there’s a ton of them), and The Father Chronicles (there’s a ton of those left, too).
And I talked to my Mom today, and she’s feeling a little lost and lonely without my Dad. She said it’s gotten worse, lately, and she’s been rereading his letters from World War II. At first, they made things worse, but now she finds them a comfort and is glad she saved them…
Wait a minute…. “You have letters from Dad during the War…?”
All his letters…?”
Wow. I didn’t know this….
“Can I read them…?”
“Ummmm…… can I blog them…?”
So as soon as I can get myself down to Teeny-Tiny Town, I will have a new category here: Dear Maude…
Another worry is my imminent move. Far, far away.
I’m not certain how imminent it is, now, considering new and ugly turns of events of legal and financial persuasions that may (shudder) bankrupt me (not if I can possibly avoid it), but I will be moving to Vancouver and will be there for at least a year, once I manage it.
I’m going to be going back to school (yes, again), in an accelerated screenwriting program at the Vancouver Film School. I chose this program, because a Canadian school somehow seems more “doable” than trying to get into one in the States – although I’d rather be in the States. I have more friends there. 🙂
It’s going to cost me a mint, though. I don’t know where the money’s going to come from, yet, but then again, I bought the Prissy-Van with money I didn’t have yet, and so far, so good, she’s still mine. I’ll manage this. Somehow. Gulp…*
I didn’t think I’d be able to convince Kyla to go with me, so was working out an alternative arrangement for her, but when I told her about it (actually, I let it slip in a moment of upset over all this stress), she surprised hell out of me by telling me she would love a change of scenery.
In the movie, “Blow”, George’s dad tells him that money isn’t real. “It doesn’t matter, Georgie…”
My dad would have disagreed with that one. I sure as hell disagree with that one.
I am about to embark on a legal battle of epic proportions.
Well… Epic for me. The Sire has gone AWOL.
That still doesn’t change the house situation, though.
This should not be affecting me. I have a very legalish sheaf of very legalish-sized paper that says I don’t own that house. If he were to sell it, I could not demand a cent from the sale.
But (Ain’t there just always a “but”?!).
Six years ago, the house was supposed to be refinanced and my name removed from both deed and mortgage. It was not.
Every now and again over the years, I have “reminded” The Sire of his legal obligations. He has always promised to “get right on that”. And then did not.
There are a couple of “should haves” that I “should have” taken care of between now and then…
I should have legally forced him to refinance the place the first time he kakked on doing so.
Better yet, I should have told him to kiss my ass when he asked to keep the house, and forced a sale. I gave him my half of that house. How stupid is that?!
Life got in the way, though, and I have a tendency to take the easy way out.
But now… my name is still on that mortgage.
The mortgage rep. tells me I am legally responsible for half of the mortgage left owing, never mind my legalish sheaf of paper. Yet (and this is insane), in the same breath, the same mortgage rep. tells me I don’t have a legal right to know what’s left owing on the mortgage, because my legalish sheaf of paper gives me no rights to the house.
That particular bright bunny argument, I hope to win with the next phone call. I had that argument with them a while back and won it with a few choice words.
In truth, however, if The Sire really has walked away, the bank will come after me for the whole amount owing. They are not going to piss around going after him, if he pulls a disappearing act, when they already know where *I* am.
I will find him, though…
But this is where it really gets dicey…
I’m really worried about what all of this is doing/going to do to our daughter, which is the biggest of the reasons why I haven’t done what I should have done a long time ago.
But (Again with the “but”! Apparently, I have a but fetish.) I can’t live like this any longer. I have plans, dammit, and those plans do not include bankruptcy over a house that I no longer own, don’t want, and won’t shoulder.
Fox and MTV are teaming up for a two-hour remake of The Rocky Horror Picture Show, reports Variety.
Helmed by the 1978 film’s executive producer, Lou Adler, the new version will use the original musical screenplay for The Rocky Horror Show written by Jim Sharman and Richard O’Brien, and may add in some additional music.
I am SO not impressed with this. Somebody make it stop. And, for the record, Rocky Horror was released in 1975, not ’78…
I slept last night! Oops. I guess I mean the night before last. Friday night, anyway.
I’ve been having sleep concerns since before I quit the Dream Job; it’s a big part of the reason I quit to begin with. Still wide awake, staring at walls, ceilings, clocks, tvs, computer screens, or the insides of my eyelids until sometimes 5:30 am. Nasty. I thought quitting the Dream Job would solve that. Nope. Maybe it’s that I’ve spent the entire school week that just passed listening to Larry, Darryl, and Darryl drop all those cars on my roof, instead of working. I’m a little nervous about my schedule again, now.
Whatever it is, it could be a lot worse. One of my blog buddies has been going through a bout of “Fall Asleep and then Pop Awake Again Every 20 Minutes Syndrome”, which I’ve experienced on occasion and it’s much worse.
Worse still, is if insomnia turns into a full-blown White Night, which, if you’re familiar with the works of L.M. Montgomery, specifically, the Emily series, you’ll understand why I consider it so. Luckily, I haven’t suffered a white night in a long, long time.
Anyway, I slept! Through the night! (hooray!)
I woke up from my wonderful, sound sleep this/yesterday morning staring Kyla’s brown rat, Fatso Ratso in the face, he smiling and nudging my chin, having chewed through the base of the replacement cage that he got as a reward for chewing 18 holes through the base of his old one.
And so, we must part ways. I haven’t figured out how that will happen yet. I like the little (huge) guy, and don’t want to be cruel and set him “free” to be eaten by a bird. He could probably take a bird, if he had any meanness in him, but he’s a friendly, little (huge) goofball, and the only living creatures that are afraid of him are the cats. I imagine that’s because he’s bigger than they are.
But go, he must. He chews everything. Like my modem cables. And Kyla’s underwear, which would probably cure her of leaving it on the floor if she had any left. I’m hoping the pet store will feel sorry for us and take him back. Not give us a refund – just take the damned rat off our hands.
Kyla and I watched a horror movie tonight. We’ve been into the recent “exorcist/possession” kind of movies that have come out over the last couple of years. Most suck, truthfully. She wants me to rent the most recent version of The Exorcist with all the scenes that mankind couldn’t handle in the 70s put back in. I saw the original (pardon me, I heard the original; my head was in a pillow through most of it) and I’m not sure I can manage the “new” one.
Tonight’s movie is NOT the one pictured at the top of this post, but it started out pretty good: decently freaky visuals, definitely terrifying audio… but the best stuff was in the first part of the movie, and the thing kind of turned into a stupid flick to watch if you like horror movies. We said as much to each other as the credits were rolling, when…
The bedroom door creaked. It was a loooooooong drawn-out creak, one instantly recognizable to us both, because we hear it anytime we open the door all the way to get in there, or close it half-way to hang something up on the back of the door. Needless to say, neither one of us did it; we were both sitting on the couch on the other side of the wall. Neither of the cats bother with doors unless one is closed tightly, in which case the Patchouli-Cat sits in front of it and yells at us, because she feels we should not be allowed to close doors. Sheikh just sleeps – doesn’t give a damn what side of the door he’s on.
Kyla looked at me and said, “You are going in there.”
Now, in that split second, I remembered that not ten minutes before, after going up the hall for something or other, I had come back down the hall toward the living room and noticed that the bedroom door was closed tightly. For reasons unknown, Patchouli hadn’t yelled about it, and I opened it so the cats could move back and forth again. We only ever close that door so that Sheikh can have his mushy food in peace, instead of pieces, which is what would happen if Patchouli got in there while he was eating. She would beat him up and take it from him. Patchouli has decent teeth, and Sheikh does not. Sheikh gets mushy food in the evenings. Sheikh is The King.
So I opened the door. And came back into the living room, and we watched the rest of the by now stupid movie.
So somehow, by the sound of it, the door creaked itself to the half-way open position.
I said, “I am not going in there.”
Ky said, “I’m only twelve!”
Okay, so I didn’t say that. I made her turn the lamp beside her on. The hall light was already on so we could get to the bathroom throughout the movie without running into demons that might leak out of the dvd player, and Ky tried to crane her neck around the living room door while sitting on the couch, five feet away. When that didn’t work, I decided to be brave and actually go into the hall and look. I stood up.
She said, “Can I sleep in your bed tonight?” I suddenly felt much more brave.
And just then the bedroom door slammed shut.
I don’t mind telling the Internet at large that I damn near shat. I’m pretty sure, when I look in the mirror (assuming I have the guts to leave this room to do so), that every hair on my head will have turned white.
And then Ky said, “Don’t say ‘hello’.”
Have you seen 28 Days Later?! Have you?! I had absolutely no intention of saying “hello”. I had absolutely no intention of doing anything other then sit back down and put my head under a pillow at that point.
I’m not sure how long it took, but I finally got the guts up to go look. Yes, the door was closed. When I got up the nerve to open it, the bedroom light was on (yes, I suppose I could have left it on.). There was a sleeping cat on each bed. The window was open (very slight breeze), and I said, “It was the wind.” Like I really believe it was the wind.
Kyla felt much better though, laughed it off, and in about ten minutes, was sound asleep in her own bed.
I hope she’s still there, un-possessed, in the morning. It’s 3:26 AM and I’m never leaving this room again.
Good thing Julie taught me how to pee in a coffee cup.
Kyla came home from school yesterday with her book order: her very own copy of A Bridge to Terabithia. She’s read school copies several times already, and seen the movie in the theater three times now. She rushed in at 3:30, dropped the book in my hands, and rushed back out to her babysitting job.
I’d only seen the movie once, and never read the book at all. So, of course, I changed all my Friday night plans immediately (homework, video rendering, writing and new computers being set up are not really Friday night occupations anyway…), and drew a bath. And I did something I believe I haven’t done since 2002: I read an entire book in the bathtub in one sitting. Errr… soaking.
And, yes, the book was much better than the movie, as has always been my experience, although I really loved this movie (note to self: find a copy of the first movie version for comparison sometime). The book has only 128 pages, so it isn’t that long of a read. I was just contemplating refilling the tub with hotter water for a second run-through, when the phone rang.
It was Louie, my Dream Job bossish/partnerish-type person with assignments and schedules and bath-time advice: namely that one does not bathe in the late afternoon/early evening. Apparently, that is an early morning activity only. And should be done standing up, under a shower-head. Luckily, Louie is only a bossish person now, with no real power, so when I hung up the phone, I refilled the tub and read the book again, remembering the “Real” King of Terabithia with growing clarity…
“At first they avoided each other during school hours, but by October they grew careless about their friendship. Gary Fulcher, like Brenda, took great pleasure in teasing Jess about his ‘girl friend’.”
Back in the Olden Days (some time in the mid-70’s)…
One of the worst insults to a young man of a certain age is to refer to his best friend as his girlfriend. It’s an even worse insult if the girl is your cousin, which may give said young man a quick retort to fall back on (“She’s not my girlfriend!! She’s my cousin!!“), but not the sort of satisfaction he would get from, say, pounding the crap out of whomever lobbed the insult. On Main Street. At the top of his lungs. In front of the entire third grade.
Of course, the presence of the entire third grade preempts any attempt at crap-pounding, simply because there’s no way of knowing if someone is going to “back’em up”. Pounding the crap out of one guy is possible, but two to four? Better to be embarrassed than to be bloody and embarrassed.
Mike at nine years old, though, can’t just leave things be. If he can’t pound crap, he will do the absolute worst thing he can think of. He will give them The Sign.
The Sign has no religious or satanic connotations to us. Sinful connotations, certainly, but we’re not concerned so much with burning in hell as we are with being strapped and/or grounded if a teacher and/or parent should see The Sign being performed, even if the other kid does deserve it (which he does, the nasty little bastard). Worse, my mother is a teacher, which makes utilizing The Sign, even in extreme circumstances, that much more dangerous. On Main Street. In broad daylight.
Use of The Sign is, in fact, so heinous, that it makes the target absolutely boil over with rage, so Mike has learned to be careful – hurling other, less volatile epithets over his shoulder while gradually inching further up the sidewalk, further from the crowd, looking for all the world as if he’s creeping away shamefully, his pride in tatters. When he judges the distance from the crowd compared to the distance to safety (my house, smack at the end of Main Street) to be favourable, he suddenly whirls like a dervish, whipping his fingers into The Sign violently with both hands. My God, he is brave.
And my God, he can run.
Which is a lucky thing, because The Sign evokes a preternatural vehemence in 9 year old boys. Lucky for Mike, I can run as well, because it is my job to beat them both to the driveway and call the dog, who will bark ferociously, viciously whenever I say “Sic’em!”, but will simply raise her eyebrows whenever Mike says it. And once the thugs are driven back, Mike and I will retreat to our own version of Terabithia, which, in 20-odd years will be buried under 60 short tons of fill and covered with 3 to 5 houses worth of lawn (not to mention 3 to 5 houses).
Knowing it’s gone makes the memories more bitter than sweet. Life’s like that.
I imagine Mike must be terribly disappointed now, that in the 21st century, The Sign is bandied about openly by drug-addled metal heads and 9 year old boys alike, a token signal used as some sort of not-so-secret handshake, stripped of its terrible symbolism. Of course he’s disappointed. It was bigger than The F-Word, after all.
It (almost) never fails when discussing favourite authors, that I discover that pretty much everybody on the planet has heard of Kurt Vonnegut, but if pressed hard enough, will eventually admit that they never actually read anything by Kurt Vonnegut.
Come on, really?! Slaughterhouse 5 was assigned reading in one of my high-school english classes! How could you not have read anything by Vonnegut?! No, you can’t use “he was censored at my school”. That should have made you want to read him more.
Do yourself a big favour and go buy any one of his books. Read it. Then you won’t have to lie about it later (and no fair watching Bruce Willis movies instead, cheaters!).
Ky and I went to see the movie tonight. I don’t know why I never read that book – until Kyla mentioned a school assignment about it (she’s already read it twice), I had never even heard of it. I’m so ashamed of myself.
The movie was wonderful. I have never been quite that enthralled, I don’t think; it was just so perfectly “me and Mike Valley” (Well, except for that really nasty bit, but something nearly as bad did happen in 1975, and I don’t think I’m over it even yet). If I had read Bridge to Terabithia when it came out in ’77, I would be a very different person today, I’m sure.
Mike, are you out there somewhere? Did you see the movie?
1. An odd smell…
3. Three containers of mostly full margarine.
4. “A macaroni & cheese casserole that turned into a science experiment several weeks ago.”
Is that what that was…? I feel sick…
5. Lightbulb. (aside from the burnt out one that I can’t get unscrewed, that is.) It’s the replacement, left there in disgust when the old one wouldn’t come out. And because we all know that light bulbs stored in the fridge last longer. Or is that pantyhose…?
5 Items in my closet
How much does that suck?!
5 items in my car (If I had a car to put five items in… bearing in mind that if I ever have a car, it will have to be big enough for a minibar…)
1. Built-in computer networked to my building with state-of-the-art ultraspeed satellite internet. (Duh.)
2. My chauffeur. Somebody’s gotta drive.
3. My bartender. Somebody’s gotta mix the drinks.
4. My kid. Because she’s cool and I like hangin’ out with her.
5. Either Ellen DeGeneres (who would be telling me how glad she was she gave me that camera after all), or Val Kilmer (who would be signing my contract – Come on, Val… you know you want to…). Screw it, it’s my car; they can both come as long as they don’t bicker.
5 items in my purse (I don’t carry a purse – so I’ll use the pockets of my cargoes)
1. Keys. In case they lock me out.
2. My hanky.
3. My cigarettes. I’m sorry, okay?
4. My digital camera.
5. My cell phone. ‘Cause we all know I’m gonna get lost.
And as amended: (or perhaps, more justifiably, in retribution:)
5 ways to leave your lover
1. In court.
2. In tears.
3. In pain.
4. In jail.
5. In traction.
I’m tagging these favourites (apologies all around):
1. Suzi, of I’ll Tell You What It Shwaz, which sucks for her because she’s right in the middle of a big pile of “busy” right now… Sorry, Suzi. Well, sort of sorry…
2. Bonanza Jellybean, back “fresh” from the horse show.
3. Deni, The Last Girl on Earth, just ‘cuz I’m dying to know what a professional musician from New York City has in her fridge…
4. Julie, of Julie Goes to Hollywood fame, just ‘cuz I’m dying to know what a professional screenwriter in Hollywood has in her fridge… Does she have a fridge, and does she even need one, she of the Hollywood Power Lunch/Dinner/Drinks Meeting? (Damn, but I’m jealous…)
5. Val Kilmer, of The Salton Sea, because if he’s gonna ride in my car, dammit, he’s darn well gonna pay for it somehow!