Mandajuice

Vampire Party

So.

NEW MOON is opening on November 20th!

(See right there how I squelched my natural urge to add six more exclamation points? That's called self control.) (You're welcome.)

And since I love my vampires as much as the next middle-aged** mother of two, I'm thinking it's time for a party. We could meet up at my place for appetizers and cocktails beforehand and then carpool to the theater. (We'll find some designated drivers!)

I was thinking it might be better to wait until the second weekend after the movie release just to avoid all the sullen, salivating teenagers.

Saturday the 28th?

Cinetopia Theatre in Vancouver, Washington.

Any takers?

Anyone? Anyone?

Bueller?

If you're local (in the Greater Portland Metro) and interested, leave me a comment and I'll send you an evite.

** I swear that until I typed the words "middle-aged," it had never before occurred to me that I was, indeed, MIDDLE-AGED. Am I? Is 33 considered a middle-age? HOLY CRAP ON A CRACKER.

Still Edward is, like, technically over a hundred years old, so I'm clear.

Hailstorm

In which we overreact to the weather because we still have California in our blood and OHMYGOD, THE HAIL! WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE!**

This was the view from the front porch, a veritable winter wonderland.

We had to run out there again a few minutes later when the gutters overflowed and the HUGE FIERY CRASH was so loud, we thought the house had been hit by a meteor.

 

** That is NOT my real voice. That is my EXCITED MOMMY voice. I swear, I'm not that much of a goob. (Actually, I totally am.)

Required equipment for classical coffee-house concert attendance. Apparently.

1) Eye-wear. Preferably something my father would've worn in 1977.

2) A tie.

OR

3) A suit jacket.

4) NOT BOTH.

5) If you're wearing the suit jacket, it requires an ironic t-shirt beneath it.

6) Or a trench coat over it.

7) An iPhone.

8) Modern hair. "Modern" meaning EXTREMELY SHORT and jauntily cut with a razor or TOTALLY A MESS, like honestly, not only do you not own a COMB, you don't even have running water.

9) An earnest expression.

10) Facial hair.

11) No, seriously. I counted two soul patches.

Seestor

My requirements for good music are simple and twofold:

1) I have be able to sing along to it

and

2) I have to want to.

Seriously. That's it. I'm not picky. I like everything from Queen to Count Basie. I sing along to Hannah Montana every chance I get. (No. Not kidding.)

When I listen to live music, (which I don't do nearly enough now that I live so far away from my father), I like it to be jazz, preferably swing, but I don't care what kind it is as long as the singer knows her phrasing and the drummer understands that he isn't the star.

But classical music?

Um. No.

Not even a little.

I can't tell the difference between Bach and Mozart. It all sounds the same to me. And you can't dance to ANY of it, much less sing along.

You can't even make out to it.

But I have this pesky little classical music problem called: A SISTER.

A sister who just moved to Portland.

A sister with a degree in FLUTE PERFORMANCE.

A sister who is a highly-skilled, well-trained, professional CLASSICAL musician.

A sister I kinda dig.

Even if she is a band geek.

So when she called to invite me to her latest gig, I said yes without the slightest hesitation. In fact, I quite looked forward to subjecting my ears to two hours of raw, unfiltered CLASSICAL music. In public.

Because she's my SISTER and I love her.

And you know what?

She was GOOD.

I really enjoyed myself. I really enjoyed the MUSIC too, which shocked me more than anything else, even more than witnessing the way Audrey transformed from the goofy kid whose diapers I used to change into a performer. She's amazing in front of a crowd - confident, mature, comfortable with herself and at ease with her talent.

This is her art and I'm embarrassed that it's taken me this long to really, truly appreciate it.

My single, 24-year-old, classical musician sister is decidedly not an avid reader of 'saucy momma fiction,' but I know she can't wait to read my book. And after seeing her performance last night, I can't wait until the next time I get to see her play.

Nanowrimo Day 9

Nine days in and I'm just beginning to hit my stride. Of course, my scenes have no settings, the characters have no clothes and the plot has no ending. Did I mention my protagonist sells cars for a living?

By 8:30 I was starving; my feet were killing me from standing in heels all day; and Johnny Stockbroker was still trying to decide whether his wife would prefer her $80,000 push gift to arrive on her driveway with “Starfire Pearl” or “Golden Almond” paint. I was down to my last strand of patience when a flash of black hair caught my eye through the outside window. It was Colin stalking his way toward the receptionist's desk and the sight of him made me blush into a shade of crimson so embarrassingly bright it could only be labeled “Matador Red.”

Nanowrimo Day 8

I spent too much time today backtracking and trying to figure out what the hell to do with my plot. I'm not used to writing this fast! Except when it's my own idea, of course.

Anyway, here's today's sample of hasty fiction pudding:

Every other man with whom I’d shared my secret had been horrified. Literally and utterly appalled. It was written on their faces, in the way they physically recoiled from my touch after hearing the truth.

I was under thirty and naturally blond. I had an 18-inch waist and a Japanese convertible. I wasn’t supposed to be anyone’s mommy. I never saw any of those other men again and the expression on Brandon’s face told me he was ready to join the pack.

Nanowrimo Day 7

In spite of everything else going on with us - and there's plenty - I'm still making word count for nanowrimo. I feel like the book is a WRECK. I'm not used to writing so much without stopping to edit!

The next morning I woke up to find a single pink rose on my door step. Beneath it sat a square white envelope with the letter “L” written on it in Colin’s curly left-handed script. There was no other message inside, just a five-by-seven photograph of a ratty leather restaurant booth. I recognized it immediately as one of Colin’s compositions: intentionally off-center, taken without a flash, slightly grainy and framed with a thin white border. The only light in the photo came from from the dented lamp that hung above the table, a rustic chandelier made from an empty coffee can and a single bare light bulb. 

It was the exact spot in Dublin, Ireland where he’d first kissed me ten years ago.

Thirty minutes

Today I decided that all this writing and reading and general household neglect is not making me the best mother. Or even a passing one. I'm no where close to the mother I used to be, but that doesn't mean I can't at least TRY to be better. Even when I'm at my lowest, which I'm pretty sure is where I am, I have something to give my kids: I can still give them myself.

So today I gave Alex 30 minutes.

It doesn't sound like much and I'll be the first to admit that it isn't enough.

But thirty minutes without any interference - no TV, computer, Kindle, books, iphone or otherwise, no driving anywhere or dirty dishes or other household distractions - well, that's a lot more than I've BEEN giving my children. So it was a good place to start. I told him about it in the morning so he'd have plenty of time to choose what he wanted to do and by the time his sister went down for her nap in the afternoon, he had our thirty minutes all planned out.

We played legos, then cards (with a trick deck!) then more legos, then more cards. I ended up giving him more than an hour of my complete, undivided attention.

And he loved it.

And I need to make sure that if nothing else, I do at LEAST this every day. It's only 30 minutes. It might not make me a GOOD mother, but it's better than nothing.

I'm sick of feeling like nothing.

Nanowrimo Day 6

Six days and 10,004 words later, I'm still in it to win it. And by win it, I mean: learn how to write an Irish accent without it sounding like a scene from SHREK  or an ad for Lucky Charms.

“Knock it off, Colin,” I whispered against his mouth, even though his hands felt like they were right where they belonged. “Seriously. I have a boyfriend.”

“If I thought for even a moment that you were in love with that scrawny streak of piss, I’d leave ye be, but we both know yer not.”

Nanowrimo Day 5

Until I can come up with something better, I've decided to call my current work-in-progress:

PIRATES OF THE APOCALYPSE!

Which is hilarious because it's a contemporary romance-slash-family drama that features neither pirates, nor an apocalypse (unless you count a teenage pregnancy as the second coming).

I'm having SO MUCH FUN writing this, mostly because I can let go of my inner critic and write utter CRAP and laugh at myself. It's going to be a bitch to edit come December.

Here's today's fictional dilly-dally, in which I contrast my protagonist's current boyfriend with her old flame.

Brandon arrived first, in a stiff cloud of still-crisp work-shirt and traffic-induced angst, his dark blue eyes glued to the screen of his cellphone. He gave me the same distracted kiss on the cheek that he gave every other member of my family.

Colin, on the other hand, came home like a lost nomad who’d been handed a GPS. A GPS that had been pre-programmed with my body as the home address. I was the first and only person he noticed. Seeing him walk through the front door with his tie loosened and a five o’clock shadow reminded me of my father. All that stifled intensity dispersed like a whisper at the sight of his beloved.

Nanowrimo Day 4

Still chugging along making word count! Today's quick flash of fiction:

I took a deep breath and tried to rearrange my universe to include a Colin Quinn who still looked and sounded and smelled like the same slippery pirate he’d always been, but who was now, in fact, a pirate with a steady job and a fresh-cut sense of responsibility. It was a nut my mind couldn’t quite crack.