Hawaii-atus

I’m supposed to talk about ideal co-stars, topic #41. I’ve been supposed to talk about it for several weeks actually. I completely blew off September. I’ve talked myself into the fact that I did it on purpose. I refuse to write in September, I’ve said on many occasions. Actions speak louder than words, of course, so I had to force myself to stay away from blogging during month number 9. How that lead to nearly abandoning October I’ll never know, other than generally an object at rest tends to stay at rest. In an ongoing effort to become an object in motion that stays in motion, I will now vow to blog daily for the next week. I can make this promise because I am doing what all good series do when they have writers’ block and have no idea what to do with the characters anymore: send them to Hawaii. I am the Brady Bunch for the next seven days. I am sitting in LAX as I write this anticipating touchdown in Honolulu at some ungodly east coast hour that is entirely acceptable in the middle of nowhere. Indeed when I land I expect hot chicks wearing tastefully placed coconuts and rustling grass skirts to greet me with trademark grins and colorful flower strings. They will respectfully pause when I fall to the ground and smooch it because I can’t believe the plane actually found land in the midst of all that blue. I might even kiss the pilots if the door is unlocked and one of them is a woman. I never dreamt I would be going to Hawaii. It has always been a crazy faraway place of volcanic mystery in my mind that makes for great scenery but can’t possibly be real. I mean, how did they find it? And how do they keep finding it? It’s like the only thing on that side of the globe. If you look at a map, honestly, it’s a few little dots and thousands of miles of a really pretty blue color that represents certain death. Boarding the plane, I’m sure I will be slightly comforted by the couple from Ohio in matching Hawaiian shirts. Surely they got those the first time they went and now here they are going again! They trust this craft. They’ve been there and back in a tin can with wings and by golly, it’s perfectly sane to climb aboard with a couple hundred other souls, sit facing the same way and breathe the same stale air for several hours into nothingness. I know it’s a real place, but my only real exposure to this exotic land has been my parents’ honeymoon photos from the mid 60’s and that 5-day stretch when the Brady’s went on vacation and Bobby found the tiki statue. After that, I was petrified of tarantulas crawling the length of me during sleep and I never hung any sort of artwork above my bed. I would also leave a trail of bread crumbs wherever I go. Or Doritoes. Or small sandwiches. The Hawaiian episodes taught me that you can’t mess with the Island gods or you will end up getting kidnapped by Vincent Price. It is only because he passed that I’m somewhat encouraged I won’t fall victim to a similar fate. Can’t speak for his ghost, however, which given the option would probably roam 87 and balmy day in and day out. Well, they called for us….boarding soon. Kiss the kids. I love you all.

Walking on Air

Well, well, well. It is nearly September and only now am I arriving at topic #40. I need to make a serious run this fall to complete all 100 subjects by Dec 31, midnight. What have I been doing all summer? It's dusty in here. There's a cobweb! Two!!! Damn spiders. The least they could do is write a little instead of spinning all that nonsense. I wish I could say I've been too busy to write. To some degree, I s'pose I have. But my niece McKenna might argue in a court of law I had plenty of time to rack up thousands of Webkinz bucks so she could buy the state of California for her pet canary. That took a few hours of idly playing stacked solitaire while sipping a cocktail and "winding down" as I call it. I am very stressed out, people. I spend hours a day on a computer multi-tasking with a variety of applications, completing project after project so the first thing I want to do when I'm done with that is get right back on the horse and mouse click my way through 537 hands of easy peasy solitaire for school kids. It's relaxing. I wish the coins were real. I'm nearly out of Jack. The point of this whole thing is today's topic, which is: why I want one of those Mac Airbooks or Air MacBooks or that impossibly thin laptop with the Apple on it that has zero capability but looks absolutely stunning on your lap in a coffee shop accessing stocks. I do not drink coffee. I have no stocks. More than likely I would be drinking a Lemon Lime G2 (shout out, Roni!) and accessing on-line roulette, but whatever the case, how cool would that be?? I have been lugging around this Toshiba Satellite laptop (named, I presume, for the object most like it in weight) for over 4 years and every time I see someone with an Air I feel fat. It doesn't matter how much I work out, how much I starve myself, how much shorter I cut my hair...one look at that Mac and I'm thinking Lipo. I would dearly love to send my Toshiba into orbit and approach one of those pastel t-shirted fellas in the nearest Mac store and get hooked up. I would even bring my own manila envelope carrying case. Having read all the reviews, I'm well aware it would be a colossal mistake technology-wise to invest in something incapable of staying on for more than 7 minutes because an 8-minute battery weighs too much, BUT I would never have to use the word schlepp again. Even though I've discovered the Air has no CD drive, I would act surprised about that after buying it and then remark again how thin it looks. And, I would forgive the inaccessability of its ports. So what if it's hard to plug in a flash drive or some silly cable if you want to sit at a table? Move!! Get on a flight. Who the hell's gonna stare at you at the library anyway??? You're destined for Hollywood with an Air under your arm. I think if I had the Air I'd write more. I would write more and e-mail my files to my big Mac for storage so's not to bog my Air down. I would be a stealth writer. Mobile. Flexible. I could write outside. In the park. On a bench. Surrounded by life. Thoughts would pour out of me for 7 solid minutes. Then I could move inside, near an outlet, meet other Mac Air people who also need an outlet. I could bring a surge protector. I could be popular!! Even as I write this I feel clunky, awkward and alone. I can't think of a single moment when anyone has asked me about my Toshiba. It still has XP. The screen is pretty big. The battery weighs more than a toddler. I pulled it out on an airplane once and the woman next to me frowned. Frowned and shifted to the farthest corner of her middle seat. All the babies started crying again. All the babies. Embarrassed, I mumbled something about needing to re-pack my bag and put it away. Had that been the Mac Air....well, I don't have to tell you it's the difference between getting a highlight and stretching those roots for another month. My laptop has been good to me, don't get me wrong. Yeah, it's big and it's a little slow, but I don't want to abandon it. I just need a break. I need to see other laptops. I'm sure once I take the Mac Air out on the town I'll realize how much better I have it at home. It's a moment of weakness - form over function. It's hard not to give in. So I will dangle it like a carrot... write your SECOND novel on the Mac Air... by then it will likely have been reduced to a microchip shot into my brain, adding a mere .00000012 ounces to my overall bodyweight and requiring nothing more than a passing thought to piss out an entire work of art. Ah, Macintosh, I salute thee.

Write Stuff

I wonder if we should stop telling kids they can be anything they want to be. It's a nice sentiment, but 40 years later I am still not a novelist. I am everything but a novelist. Except I'm not a very good swimmer, I can't fly a helicopter and the officer who pulled me over did not fully understand my objective of someday breaking the sound barrier as my 2nd grade teacher Mrs. Gusky confirmed I one day would. On the flip side, I can build a website, I know a lot about golf and I make a mean cheese tray. Oddly, none of those things came up when I was in kindergarten. All fantasies aside, I have always wanted to be a writer. It's the one constant in a long list of professions I once aspired to and a host of others I actually engaged in. If I dreamt of being an astronaut, I was writing in space. If I imagined myself playing major league baseball (not just during the war), I was revealing my secret life of 'roids and whiskey in a stirring autobiography. If I ever made it into the ballet, well, hilarity ensues when I put pen to paper in a tell-all about how I duped the folks at the International School of Ballet (or "bal - lay" as I pronounce it per Billy Elliot). To finally write a book of consequence would be the fulfillment of a lifelong dream to get something organized, lengthy and complete on paper. In 5th grade, I showed signs of actually getting the job done when I penned (literally) "Rescue from Devil Shark Island." It was pages and pages and pages of my handwriting in blue ink. I illustrated the cover myself. I think it was about getting rescued from Devil Shark Island. At age 10, living in south central lower Michigan, you can imagine how many shark attacks I had endured. I lived in constant fear of shark attacks. I avoided the lakes. I skimmed the pool profusely before entering, always mindful of the deep end. I checked the filter often. I was fascinated by the everpresent possiblity that I could actually be attacked and eaten alive by a shark. As a kid, I poured my heart out about it in one of my best works of fiction to date. Since then, I have written an awful lot of crap about stuff I don't know and mildly gotten away with it. What I haven't done is written much about what I've actually done. "Write what you know" is what they always say to writers struggling with that first novel. Did I mention I wanted this to be a lengthy book? It would be a little less than stellar to put what I know in a book. I know how to change a tire. I know how to make a sandwich. I know how to mix a cocktail. I know how to play softball. I know when I have "my days" (as my Oma used to call that time of the month) I will cry at some point during SportsCenter. I know how to run a golf tournament. I know how to use Word and Excel and Powerpoint. I know how to edit videos. I know how to tell time. I am a good texter. The jobs I've actually held reveal little more about what I know: newspaper carrier, pizza delivery person, teacher, coach, training video producer, director of communications and training, graphic designer, web designer, I.T. manager, dancer (still paying attention?!), entrepreneur, average speller, stand-up comedian, tournament director. In recent years, I would say the bulk of my written work can be found in e-mails littered across cyberspace. I've posted content to a number of websites. My thoughts are trapped in a few cell phones here and there, some discarded for the next best thing in technology. But there's no cohesion. There's no focus. There's no plot. There might be some characters, but what are they doing? How do I write a book about a gal growing up in the midwest who has a nice family and likes volleyball? One time, in college, she delivered pizzas. Now she is a webmaster. The end. BOR-ing. I think if they're gonna tell you from day one you can be anything you wanna be (or all you can be and then some), they should also can the "write what you know" shit. The two don't jive. My new advice to myself so I can finally be a novelist is: be what you are and write what you wanna be. You can use it, too.

Some Assembly Required

I like putting things together. Not just 2 and 2, but actual things. Like furniture from Ikea. It's packed up so nice in the box, complete with instructions and a special tool that will only work for that project. Yet I always save the tool after construction, "just in case..." You never know when a friend will purchase the exact same giant wall unit, somehow misplace the tool and then call you for help. Sometimes the tool can also be used to pry open a paint can or scratch a spot on your back you can't quite reach. It doesn't say that in the instructions, but I tend to think outside the box. Consequently, I have a drawer full of mini metal wrenches, allen keys, glue bottles, leftover dowels and uniquely Swedish screwdrivers that could double as shoehorns. I'm amazed at how Ikea gets all the parts of a complete set of patio furniture into a flat box that easily slips into the back seat of a Corolla. I enjoy looking at the display samples of massive entertainment centers and then criss-crossing my way through the store, past all the tempting signs for the meatball special, to the warehouse bin where the incredibly small box of parts sits, waiting. It's hard to imagine what's in that box will eventually pop up into a shiny new shelving unit that will easily hold all your crap and then some plus a big flat screen TV, but once you put it together, voila! And the leftover box is just right for Maverick's temporary amusement, easily recycled Monday morning. I have assembled a lot of furniture in my time. I've pieced together nightstands, dressers, bookshelves, shoe organizers, wood beds, wrought iron beds, entertainment centers, kitchen tables, benches, desks, decorative carts, armoires and utility cabinets. My grandpa could build all that stuff from scratch with real tools, but it makes me feel a little capable that I can manage building those things on my own with nothing more than a screwdriver, and not always the right one. Why is it when you need a Phillips you can only find the flathead and when you need a flathead you can only find a butter knife? I'll admit I sometimes skip ahead in the instructions, especially if there are more than two steps written out under a diagram. I just look at the next picture. I don't want to read 14 paragraphs of detail. You can usually tell from the drawings where it's all headed. But I will also go back and re-read more closely when my handywork looks nothing like the picture so far. More than a few times, I've had to take something apart after finishing it because the wrong side of the board is facing out. I am also somewhat challenged by hinges and swivels. Anything requiring sensitive adjustment really depends on how much I've had to eat prior to starting the project. I have to be careful because I'm forever torn between finishing what I've started and taking a break. Breaks are dangerous. They involve a good sandwich, maybe some chips, a soda or two, what's on TV, I could use a nap...I don't necessarily want to get back to it. This means powering through to completion even when I'm not at my sharpest. Hence, doors that are a titch off when closed and drawers whose bottoms slip out and bow under the weight of their contents. Acceptable when you're contemplating a BLT. Not so hot when you're proudly touring your place and someone says, oh, is one side of that shelf higher than the other? Well no wonder all those candles are in the corner! Sometimes I'm really in the mood to put something together. Like the time my mom decided to sell our bunk beds. They were in the basement, so I took them apart, carried them upstairs and reassembled them in the garage for the sale. Sometimes I'm called upon in the darkest hour to whip pieces into place. One year my brother got a bike for Christmas. It came in a box, wheels and tubes, frame, seat, handlebars all in disarray, and I was in the basement till after midnight cranking it whole. Sometimes, admittedly, I dread a project in a box. One word: mini-blinds. A 4" x 4" square of instructions in 4 pt. Arial with a lone diagram that looks more like a football play is not enough. I can see why some people resort to newspaper or two pushpins and a towel for window treatments. For the most part, I'm game for anything that works like Legos. I loved them as a kid, but it's a little weird to still ask for them for Christmas. Since no one has taken me up on it in 30 years, I live vicariously through my nephew, Aidan. And I have to say, I was never one for dollhouses, but boy did I miss out. I put one of those babies together for my niece this past Christmas and by the time I snapped the roof into place I was thinking, I'm a girl. It would be all right to have one of these in my house, right? While we were arranging the little furniture (which, sadly, came assembled) on the various floors and making up soap operas, I was thinking, seriously, I could put one up in the loft and my nieces can play with it when they come over! Never mind they're 777 miles away and don't exactly drop by on random evenings looking for toys...but hey, "just in case." Air quotes make it okay to build more than one, right?

I've Got the Bejesus in Me

Horror movies scare the bejesus out of me. Not exactly sure how the bejesus got in me, but I can tell you it comes flying out at the opening credits, especially if the words are in white typewriter font, really small on a totally black screen with no music. All it has to say is something like "The Blooding of Duncan McGee" and I'm frightened at the mere prospect of Duncan's demise. The first scene can be Duncan bagging groceries and I'm already wondering if the tomatoes are actually killer tomatoes...my cursed imagination far outshines my penchant for logic. Most people probably find horror movies silly and predictable, but I am the one who is always startled by the crazy knife-wielding dude hiding in the closet at the log cabin on the lake. I hate that he wears a mask. I hate that his knife is grossly over-sized. I hate that he grunts like a tennis player with every strike. I think he is in my closet. Or under my bed. Or standing at the back door just after I flip off the light for the night. Movies like Halloween, Halloween II, Halloween III through Halloween XXVII have left a mark on brain for all eternity even though I only saw the first part of the first one 30 years ago. I only have to hear that "alternate-between-the-same-two notes-on-the-piano plunky theme song" to freeze in my tracks and wonder if Mike is behind me. His weird rubbery hands clutching a knife (not un-like the biggest one we have in our drawer that I sometimes chop lettuce with) and his pale face devoid of expression like the alter ego of one of those blue man group fellas. I think I was 11 when I saw what I saw of Halloween The Movie. All I remember now is that I had to sleep by the stairs at a slumber party right after and I didn't really care that they put my training bra in the freezer because I was actually alive the next morning to find out. I made the mistake of watching Nightmare on Elm Street way back when and still few evenings go by that I don't picture myself being filleted by Freddy's wackadoo claws just before falling asleep. I try to push my brain instead to Edward Scissorhands making a bunny out of a boxwood so that I can transition out of hell, but I can't shake the feeling that I will be sucked inside my mattress and spewed out seconds later in liquid form. I don't know who thinks of this shit or whether they realize the sleepless nights they've caused me. They'd probably be proud of it. Just thinking about writing on this subject has influenced my dreams the past few days. Last night I was trapped in a woodshed for a while that was lit in a greenish hue like someone was watching me with nightgoggles. I must have had them on too cuz I could see all the pitchforks pretty good. Reminded me of that scene in Silence of the Lambs where Jody Foster follows the bad guy into his basement. I don't even follow my cat into my basement and I'm fairly certain there isn't a well down there with severed fingertips at the bottom. I mean, I haven't looked in every corner. One of the lights burned out recently. I can't be totally sure. I didn't even go through a "phase" with horror movies - you know, where you sort of like them and like grossing other people out by sharing what you saw. I was never curious or even the least bit appreciative of horror as an art form. I don't know if it's really because I'm somehow, impractically, afraid to die under similar circumstances or if my mind just can't wrap itself around the act of creating scene after scene of gore, loosely tied together as boy meets girl, boy sexes up girl, girl needs to use the outhouse, girl never comes back, boy goes after girl, boy never comes back, best friend shows up at the pond, has to use outhouse, sees what's left of boy and girl, best friend never comes back, best friend's girlfriend shows up at the pond, has to use outhouse... if something can be learned from this it's hold your pee. Especially when it's dark out and you are at the pond. I wish I was one of those people who could actually go to the movie even though I'm frightened by it. Like I could watch it through my hands or something. Or look away when it's really scary and have someone tell me what's going on. At least then I could say I saw it when someone brings it up at a party. It's the same way I feel about Cedar Point and Six Flags and roller coasters that have to have a flashing light on top of the first hill so airplanes won't hit them. I wish I could just get in line like everyone else, casually lower the bar when I'm in the front car and take the next two minutes to see how much bejesus I really have in me. Because I don't watch horror flicks anymore, can't even bring myself to flip through a scary novel (abandoned The Shining half way through when I was 19 and my parents had casually moved my room to the basement) and I don't have the balls to hop the Millenium or the Superman or the mine ride at Disney for that matter, I have no idea how scared I really could be. I just assume I will be scared shitless and that's a mess I don't want to clean up. Not when the toddler next to me, smiling ear to ear, is wearing a diaper yet to be soiled. Was he even tall enough to get on?!

The IQ of the Beholder

What is considered a decent IQ? I think 200 is genius or something, so probably 100 would be average. Or half a genius. Depending on how you look at it. I supposed if I had a high IQ, I would know how to look at it. Truth is, I do have a high IQ but it has gotten me absolutely nowhere so far. In grade school, it was sort of important. It carried some weight. Not with other kids, of course. Unless you were looking to whoop some ass or get yours whooped. "She has the highest number...let's get her!!" And then I made everyone tackle Maureen Podlewski. I'm kidding. No one tackled Maureen. She punched me once. I was not going to mess with her no matter how high her number was. I think adults were way more into IQ's back then. Adults and Maureen. They would get all atwitter about a kid scoring higher than 160 but what did it really mean? Somewhere along the line I'd heard those tests were based on a curve, so big deal. You're smarter than the rest of us hanging out closer to the top of the bell. Good luck with that. Straight to Jeopardy! Although Jeopardy is way harder than an IQ test (unless you yell your answers really loud at the TV in a roomful of people and "sound" right all the time). If you've ever taken an IQ test, you probably know that it's just a lot of patterns and numbers and funny math. And dare I say, the more often you take the test, the "smarter" you get. You can take one on the internet right now and score a 12. Go ahead, take it again... I bet you get a 146. Then enter your cell phone for some really great offers! Things like free ballroom dance lessons and a commercial airline ticket to anywhere in the continental U.S. It's sort of sad, what's happened to the IQ, or "intelligence quotient" as we 146-ers like to call it. It's gone the way of the dodo (irony...) and vanished as a reliable measurement of one's thinker. I excel at patterns and funny math, but rarely am I challenged in real life to fill in the missing number from a series of numbers. Or count the number of boxes within a diagram. Or determine which shape comes next in a row of shapes that have been progressively altered. It's nice to get the answers right, but I still can't dial my parents' full phone number from memory, neatly pack a suitcase or hang a picture without a level. I love puzzles, I really do. Sudoku is singularly responsible for settling my nerves in any seat on an airplane. Added bonus: no one talks to me. (Unfortunate shortcoming: it does not stop babies from crying). As a kid, I read the book on how to solve Rubik's cube and then proceeded to solve every Rubik's cube in Meijer's on the weekends as my mom shopped for groceries. I enjoy colors and shapes and numbers and patterns and how everything fits together, but I still wash reds with whites, end up with pinks and throw things in the dryer that don't belong. It's really great that I can read assembly instructions and diagrams better than most (thanks to years with Legos), but I have a drawer full of extra screws, plastic nubs, tiny dowels and nuts (no bolts) that much of my furniture survives without. I'm skeptical about my IQ. If the number is high, I don't think it means you're smart. I think it means you did a good job answering some brain teasers that maybe other people could give two shits about. I like that I'm good at little challenges, tricky questions, story problems. But I hate that I have no idea how to take apart a car and put it back together again. It bugs me that I don't know much about Mars. And I could kick myself for not paying more attention during the botany unit in school. I am killing yet another beautiful plant as I sit here. It's on my window sill. The Sun Star. I think it's South African. Knowing that most South Africans visiting America do not drop dead upon arrival due to drastic climate changes, I'm thinking the demise of this plant is surely my fault. My IQ is no help with how often to water this thing. I started out giving it as much as I would need, but then again, I pee. I thought I would get smarter with age. It would seem smarts are directly related to effort at this point. If I want to be more intelligent, my pursuits must shift from idly playing games on my niece's Webkins account (Cash Cow is awesome because it's all about colors and patterns!!) to actually reading something informative. Actually retaining that information is another story, but I'm not going to put down my cocktail to pick up a book. I've got two good hands for a reason. I'm capable (and smart) enough to sip and absorb at the same time. I might even let you know what I find out...

When I Lay Dying...

I haven't decided yet. I'm supposed to blog about cremation vs. burial. Do I come up with uplifting topics or what?! I guess now that I'm on the other side of 40 I should start weighing these options a little more heavily. I do this believing that they are the only options for my "remains" (I put "remains" in "quotes" because they are hypothetical and when spoken, the word is also "accented" with the right and left-handed two-fingered "air quote" gesture.) I know I could come up with better ways to dispose of me than a coffin or a match, but it just isn't practical. Why bother others with it? I mean who would want to hear after my passing that I want to be shot into space? Or strapped to a jetski and released into the waves toward Hawaii? I have no plans to go to Hawaii while living, but hey, once I'm dead I might even take that flight. Forget the jetski, put me in 14B next to a crying baby. What do I care? Make me hold the baby. I won't know the difference. What if I wanted to be frozen? But not in a lab, more like somewhere in Alaska. Put me on ice, right along one of those cruise lines so at certain times of the year, I can be seen with binoculars. Embed me in a sort of clear ice chamber, if you will, so I can see out and you can see in. Go ahead, have a whole conversation right in front of me about how bazaar it is. I don't care. I can't hear you. It seems so defeatist to choose immediately between ashes and soil. Can't I be seen just a little while longer even if I can't see back? Cremation seems the more practical choice. I am no nonsense. I don't want to be a burden. Reduce me to fluff and seal me in a small pot. The pot can be decorative. I can sit on a mantle for a while. I can remind others of the good times. Until the pot is deemed worth something. Then I am accidentally sold in a yard sale by the neighbor's kid. This is all because rather than honor my wishes of having my ashes spread atop Mount Washington (they must be hiked up, not driven...I can be a bit of an ass), everyone decided to keep me around a little longer. Now who knows where I'll end up. So maybe going six feet under is better. Put me in a box. Say your good-byes. Bury me and mark the spot with a rock. You can always come back and say hi. I'm not going anywhere. The thought of that makes me sweat a little. I commiserate with people who say they don't want to be buried because they are claustrophobic, but at the same time, I like to believe when dead I won't notice. I am annoyed to no end by people who refuse burial because they fear becoming "worm food." So annoyed I have once again employed the use of air quotes. Truth is, some of those coffins look pretty cozy. I see all that satin-y lining. Soft pillows. A nap with the lid open can't be that bad. It's when they close the lid I panic. Kind of like how I panic at the thought of being conveyor belted into the oven. This is what makes the decision so hard. I don't really know what will happen when my cold feet hit the flames or when the lid closes on my quiet frame. I think the point is to never know. Not that I won't ever die, but that being dead means you are not aware. Everyone else is, but not you. Given that, I should take a poll. What's easiest? Ashes or a me-sized box? Would you rather have me on your mantle (rotate among family and friends seasonally) or in the ground (you come to me, at your convenience)? I'm always impressed by others who know without question they want to be cremated. Equally so by those who unwaveringly say "I want to be buried." The gift of compromise is my burden...I suppose I wouldn't mind being buried so much if I were just a pile of ash. Dig a small hole in the backyard and put what's left of me in it. So, to the flames first! And then to the earth to think about what I've done.