NaNoo November

The conversation you are about to read is true. The names have not been changed so that everyone can feel my pain. The time was shortly before the onset of November, or 21,245 words ago. I think I've used some of them twice.


"I think you should do NaNo."

“Nano?”

It’s not that I can’t keep up, but whenever the Captain wants to win an argument, he uses words I don’t understand. I think he gets them from random advertisements in Popular Science magazine. This one sounded vaguely like one of those yoga poses that causes your hamstring to snap.

“Yep, it’s that. . .”

“Oh, I know. That’s what that alien said on that hokey show back in the 70’s. Remember Robin Williams played him.”

“He didn’t say Nano. He said Nanoo. It means hello. I think.”

“No, I think it meant goodbye. Sort of like Over and Out.”

“Maybe it was one of those all purpose words that means something else. Like Aloha.”

“Aloha? Like in Hawaii? If a research trip to Waikiki is involved, count me in.” Finally, an idea I could get behind to try my spray-on tan.

“Waikiki is way too expensive.”

“Maui? I can pronounce them all, but I can only spell the main ones. I’ve been practicing my vocabulary for extravagant vacation destinations.”

“We’re not going there either.”

“It figures. Like when you say we’ll go to a romantic movie only we never do.”

“I took you to see Inception.”

“What was romantic about Inception?”

“People were asleep.”

I pause. It’s true that when you reach 50, a full night’s sleep is about as rare as a trip to an exotic island. But a movie where the girl dies doesn’t strike me as romantic. “I don’t think that counts.”

“Fine. I’ll take you to a romantic movie.”

“I don’t know what’s playing in Hawaii.”

“We’re not going to Hawaii.”

“See. I told you. You hold out the roast pig then you yank it away.”

“Roast pig?”

“Isn’t that what they eat in Hawaii? When they have those luaus and girls in grass skirts do the hula while you eat?”

The Captain pauses a moment to reflect on girls in grass skirts. “I don’t know. I’ve never been to Hawaii.”

“Looks like you’re not going now, either.”

“I was just trying to talk you into participating in NaNo.”

“Is that one of your SciFi alien words?”

“No. It’s short for NaNoWriMo.”

“Oh, well that makes it better. No trip to Hawaii and now you’re speaking in tongues.”

“It’s short for National Novel Writing Month.”

“Oh.”

“You sign up to write a 50,000 word novel during the month of November.”

“Is one of those words Hawaii?”

“No.”

“Then you can go sleep by yourself. I’m going to the movies.”

“What’s playing?”

“A romance.”

“Which one?”

“It’s a oldie, playing at the cultural center downtown.”

“But which one?”

“Blue Hawaii. But don't worry. It's a discount show.”

The Other End of the Telescope

I have it on good authority (Wikipedia or The Smoking Gun, I can’t remember which) that sometimes when people make discoveries or craft clever inventions that could change the face of the world, they irresponsibly share their findings with other people instead of keeping the whole thing to themselves to pass off to huge conglomerates later for outstanding sums of money.

That’s what a man named Galileo did all those dusty years ago and is the reason I am now sorting through headlines that shout peculiar things about the public display of various bits of Galileo’s anatomy, which somehow became separated from the whole of Galileo in general. If you’re interested at all in the science of mathematics, you’ll be excited to hear that these random pieces are known as fractions, and therefore Galileo is still teaching us things long after he was buried, which is when he did the most traveling.

It seems that Galileo Galilei, which would be a smashing name for a romance novelist, came to be known by the Church as a Very Bad Boy. Back then Church was spoken with a capital C and in charge of the way people thought about things. Today Kanye West and Taylor Swift take care of all that.

The Church was mad because after Galileo invented a nifty tool called the telescope, he found out that the earth spun circles around the sun instead of the other way around, which caused me to fail Physical Science and send my Grade Point Average, which is essential for getting allowance, into the dumpster.

The Church put Galileo under arrest in his house where he whiled away the last years of his life playing video games in the basement instead of inventing more stuff like You Tube or Google or things like that which would make life easier for those of us who were grounded for making bad grades in science.

The Church wouldn’t let Galileo, whose name begins to look funny after you write it a lot, be buried any place good like under the Hollywood sign or on Broadway. So a long time after he died, people who secretly liked the telescope because they could use it to spy on their neighbors who should keep the curtains closed anyway, dug up Galileo’s bones and took him to be buried near his best friend Michelangelo. During this important scientific process, known as migration, a person described in local stone tablets as an admirer, lopped off some of Galileo's spare body parts in case there was a market for them on e-Bay. In case it comes up, I’d rather my admirers just send a nice card.

However, since Galileo died before inventing e-Bay, which is really more like something another old guy named Da Vinci would come up with anyway, the random body bits got tucked away in the junk drawer in the kitchen or the box of Christmas decorations in the attic or in a spare teenager’s room, where they wouldn’t be found for many years.

Luckily for us, we live in a generation where we’ve discovered things of our own, like how bad it is to use water bottles more than once and that the decomposed body bits of our friend Galileo were hidden secretly in a box with a big statue of him on the top. Unfortunately this discovery came along too late for me to write a report and save my science grade, but maybe they’ll do somebody some good.

I don’t think Galileo will be using them any time soon.

A Terrible Waste

Those crazy kids Barack and Michelle made the cover of In Touch magazine this past week sharing the secrets that keep their love alive. Is it just me or does anybody else have a problem with the President of the greatest nation in the world dishing on his love dare in a trashy magazine? I can see him giving up his diet tips to help reduce the need for national healthcare, but isn’t it a little undignified for the First Couple to act out their version of the Presidential Dating Game in the cheap seat glossies?

I appreciate candor as well as the next person, but I don’t want a President that kisses and tells. That’s just un-American. That sort of thing is supposed to be exposed by freedom of the press.

My problem is this. If the man doesn’t keep quiet about keeping the First Romance alive, how can we expect him to keep his lips locked when it comes to lying to the Russians about how many nuclear half baths we’ve added to the White House? How do we know he won’t leak the National League standings to Fidel and Charlie McCarthy Castro?

I refuse to encourage the media in meddling in the private affairs of the President and his main squeeze. I’m proud to say that I did not buy that magazine. No siree, I read that puppy right there at the cash register, leaning against the Snicker bars and Juicy Fruit gum.

Speaking of puppies, I’m wondering how long true love is going to last now that they have a pooch on Pennsylvania Avenue. A few episodes of Doody Gate and there’s going to be a drop in the polls for the love match.

I can just see the President getting up and shrugging on the First Plaid Bathrobe in the middle of the night and padding along the White House shag when all of a sudden the First Feet find a squishy gift left unnoticed by the new puppy Bo who, at five months old, is still a better leaver than Retriever. The first thing the man of the house is going to do is blame it on the Missus.

“Michelle!” he bellows over the handy Intercom.

A few minutes later a sleepy voice answers back. “Baby, I’ve been up interviewing with trashy magazines and modeling longwaisted dresses all day. This had better be good.”

“There’s POOPY in the White House!”

Silence. Then, “Baby, this is America. There’s been poopy in the White House for 200 years.”

Mr. Obama, wise in the ways of political excrement, thinks to himself a minute. “The situation is foul and stinky and I put my foot in it and smeared it everywhere. I need someone who’s an expert in smelly waste to help me out.”

So he calls Bill Clinton.

Anything But Tuna (AW Blogroll for February)

The February Blogroll on Love vs. Romance is reflecting more opinions than a poll for the best Superbowl commercial (I’m a softie for the Clydesdales). But for the most part, Love is ahead in the count. If this were a tennis match, Love would be at Game Point and Romance would have Love. Funny, that’s how it’s worked out for me, too.

We’ve heard from Ralph Pines, Razib Ahmed, Kat Frass, and Benjamin Solah. I’d like to turn from Benjamin’s political perspective toward more personal politics. Then we’ll be off to Scribbletown to see what’s happening there.


Anything But Tuna

“It doesn’t bother you?”

“Nope. I think it’s fine if you choose to shave your legs only in months containing an ‘R.’ Pull up your socks and nobody will notice.”

Bill threw a wool jacket over one arm to have ready in case my hot flashes wore off before we got home. A man who overlooks legs that would choke a weedeater and remembers to bring along an overcoat when the temperature is topping 70. Who says romance is dead? All the same, for my fiftieth birthday, I’m hoping someone will give me a working thermostat.

Romance when I was 20 meant heels, hose, a revealing dress, and a delicious dinner with a date fueled by hormones. These days I keep my hormones in a bottle, and wearing heels means a good chance of spending the evening in the not-so-cheap seats in the Emergency Room draped in a hospital gown that reveals more than any dress I ever owned. I don’t consider it a date if I have to pay the deductible on my health insurance.

I’ve known Bill Dear since he was married to the Tuna Casserole Maker and I was married to the Salesman. That was back before home computers, but right after hand-held calculators became such a hit. Having already surfed the Marital Blissless superhighway with a sweet talker, I was suspicious of Romance, a slippery devil I couldn’t count on when the going got tough or long division was involved.

But these days I recognize Romance for what it is when it grows up: Love in action. So Bill doesn’t try to sell me on the idea of an electric razor for the Mohawk on my shins. And I feed him pot roast. Or barbecued ribs.

Anything but tuna.


Remaining Blogroll:
escritora
ChaosTitan
Cathy C
harri3tspy
truelyana
tatkinson

25 for 50 More

I’ve been tagged by a mob of folks (3) to share 25 things about myself that will astound my friends. I’m supposed to do this on Facebook, but I haven’t figured out how to do that even though Carolyn told me. Also, since I a) don’t have any friends and b) already astound those who know me, but not necessarily in a desirable way, it took me some time to consider this proposition. But in the light of c) I need a blog post for my birthday month, I thought I could join in the spirit of the thing and spew some information. Much like projectile vomiting of vital statistics. Enthralled? Aghast with anticipation? You’d rather exfoliate your face with a hedgehog? Great! Let’s see how big a mess we can make.

1. I graduated college in the days when computerization for the common person seemed almost as possible as the invention of fat-free cheese. And look at us now.
2. I majored in English. And graduated with honors. That and the senior citizen’s discount at Jack in the Box will put you in debt for a cup of coffee.
3. I hate coffee.
4. I didn’t pursue a degree that would result in a job because 1) I am passionate about literature and b) I planned to marry a rich entrepreneur who would supply me with chocolate covered cherries and books for the rest of my carefree life.
5. I love chocolate covered cherries.
6. I love books.
7. Life is not a novel by one of the Bronte sisters. Or one the kind featuring Fabio with flowing hair and a ripped bodice on the cover. God often finds your plans for life amusing. Which may not seem to go with the other statements, but really does.
8. My parents agreed to pay for my education as long as I was not married, because after that I would be officially On My Own.
9. I hold a Bachelor’s Degree instead of a Doctorate. If I’d remained a bachelor, I’d be a Doctor today.
10. I got married because I found a man that, at the age of 19, seemed destined for a future that would supply my needs. (See number 4.)
11. I discovered that truths you hold at 19 don’t necessarily write checks on the account of Mature Thinking payable in chocolates and book club memberships.
12. I gave birth to two sons.
13. I discovered that you cannot change the gender of an unborn child by buying frilly baby dresses. You can, however, create stories that your friends and family will tell at your expense for generations to come.
14. I got divorced because he jumped out of the way when I threw the jewelry box, thereby damaging a perfectly good jewelry box, a six-inch square section of the bedroom wall, and sixteen beaded bracelets that I got at a yard sale. Prosecution rests.
15. I spent two years as a single Mom.
16. I discovered that sometimes it’s all right to give the kids cereal for supper, and that if it takes all your energy to do that, it’s okay to call for early bedtimes all around.
17. I married Bill, a dear man who decided it was easier to get married than to make a six-hour round trip every weekend to empty my trash and cut my grass.
18. I learned that sometimes a newly-emptied trash can says “I love you” better than a dozen roses ever could.
19. I got a cat. And a cat. And a cat.
20. I got a dog or three.
21. I attract stray animals like black pants attract extraneous lint and animal hair.
22. I learned that some men really do have that jaw muscle that twitches in their cheek when they are furiously angry. Just like in the romance novels
23. I learned that a wife that can’t say no to stray animals is a major cause of marital stress.
24. I promised not to take in any more animals. Not even the ferret who wandered down my driveway. I fed it, but I did not keep it.
25. I learned that my first 50 years was not just practice; it was really life. I plan to remember that during my next 50 years. Which will start Thursday, February 12. Feel free to encourage me on my journey with good wishes. And gifts.

Bad Bread and Broken Hearts

We all know one. The woman who collects men like other people collect salt and pepper shakers or old teapots or odd nicknames. I have a friend who is cooler than a julep and sweeter than sugar cane. She attracts men like fruit tea attracts flies. She’s had more husbands than Paris Hilton has party dresses for housepets. At a time of life when I’m shying away from getting a dog with a long life span, Raelynne’s going through suitors like a paring knife through parboiled potatoes. She’s met the perfect man. Seven times.
"I’m cutting my losers,” Raelynne fumed as she strode into my kitchen bright and early one spring afternoon. Raelynne rarely rises before noon on the weekends except in cases of extreme emergency such as news that Brad Pitt is filming nude scenes next door. She nestled into my kitchen chair like it was a vat of warm chocolate.
“You mean your losses?” I asked, pulling up a stool. If she’s up and around at lunchtime on a Saturday, there’s probably a story worth making coffee for. I popped a roast into the oven, set the timer for four o’clock, poured myself a cup of Maxwell House, and settled in to listen.
“No, when I say losers, I mean losers. I’ve reviewed my list of current relationships and found there are individuals there who no longer offer any value-added services.”
"Value-added? Sounds like romance is dead. Who's been voted off the island?”
“There's Lance,” She poured a cup of coffee from the pot and stirred in an ice cube. Raelynne says life is too short to wait for coffee to cool. “I asked him to stop by Oscar’s and bring deli sandwiches with him when he came over to do that flower bed under the living room window yesterday. Don’t you know he took so long trying to decide what kind of bread to get, he only had time to do half the flowers before dark. And to top it off, he brought pumpernickel.”
“So let Lance shop some other bakery for his hard rolls. Who else?”
“Well, there’s Sam. He’s a dear, but he's a stripper. I keep finding one dollar bills in the strangest places.”
“So much for Sam and his singles. What ever happened to Steve?”
“Oh. Steve. Well. . .” She paused and traced the ivy design on her coffee cup with one newly purchased Raspberry Rose fingernail. “I’m afraid he had a character flaw I just couldn’t deal with.”
“What was that?” I asked, spreading strawberry jam on an English muffin.
“He was in love with me. He kept asking me to marry him. I finally ran out of excuses, so he had to go.”
“But I thought you cared about him.”
“Best man for growing roses I ever met. Vacuumed my house every Tuesday, took out the garbage every weekend, and never raised the lid on the toilet that he didn’t wipe under the rim before he put it down.”
“Sounds like love to me. Why didn’t you marry him?”
“My dear girl,” Raelynne looked shocked. “What would I have told all the others?”
I thought about my own Romeo. He’s put up with a lot more than bad bread and garbage duty over the years.
Romance isn’t dead. It’s just making the rounds.