Smug.

That’s the only way I can describe what I just saw at the RNC.  Sarah Palin may THINK she can convince middle America that she’s cool, feisty, and whatever…  Sorry, Sarah, I’m not chancing voting for a ticket that includes a candidate who banned books from public libraries, advocates pro-life in ALL circumstances (including rape and incest), and pushes abstinence only programs in public schools despite the fact that THAT education clearly didn’t work for HER children.

I just reviewed the following video to remind me what I’m pushing for:

A Good Indicator That the Tides are Turning

Add this to my list of big news events that I’ve missed while in my little writer mode.

Kay Ryan, a poet compared to the likes of Emily Dickinson and (my personal fave) A.R. Ammons, has been named Poet Laureate. Woohoo!

I Promise…

…that I won’t start posting chapters from this novel, since no one actually READS chapters of unpublished novels from obscure blogs. I’m oddly excited about it and will likely randomly post snippets for critical inquiry and/or the shear hell of it.

I must say, I think I may have lied. I’m thinking the semi-autobiographical thing is more entertaining than some modern Shakespearian shake up (and it’s really weird that artichokeshavehearts posted an encouraging comment minutes before I copied and pasted this little entry…talk about serendipity…thank you, Artichoke. I always knew they had hearts).

I need to stress that this is SEMI-autobiographical, since there’s no way in hell my friends and family would ever approve of the real story. Not that I would blame them…

I snagged the first line at Six Word Memoirs and their “A Life in Bites” contest. If this is ever published, I’m probably going to owe someone some kind of royalty.

I should also mention that all the names of the characters are completely fictional.

*deep breathe*

“It’s not you. It’s the garlic.” He didn’t think she noticed that he was picking his nose while saying this. Oh. She noticed. And also confirmed for the 400th time why she broke up with Aaron Chekowski four years before.

“Are you kidding me? Is it that bad?” She held her hand up to her mouth and huffed out a few breaths, checking to see if Aaron was right, since despite his lack of table manners, he had always been honest. During a drunken New Year’s Eve battle she hauled off and punched him in the arm for calling his in-the-closet best friend a f-g. The night after, when it was obvious that their short-lived union had come to a palpable end, he mentioned that brute force was a major turn-off, and if she ever hit him again he would never talk to her, regardless of their status. And, “It hurrrt!” She tried to back peddle, claiming that his lack of sensitivity in regards to his best friend’s sexual orientation was sufficient cause for an ass whipping, but got his point. Don’t punch men. They have nerve endings too.

“Well, as long as your date doesn’t mind your pie hole smelling like a f—-g Italian Restaurant…” He wiped the snot on the side of the bucket seat of her beat-up station wagon.

“Did you just wipe a booger on my seat?” She glared at him from the driver’s side, digging her finger nails into the tan steering wheel.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did. That’s disgusting. Get out of my car.”

Luckily for Aaron, Roxanne was pulling up to his house, “So, ah, see ya later. And I didn’t pick my nose.”

“DID TOO!”

P.S. (and totally unrelated to the post) I don’t care what anyone says, I’m going to see Mama Mia Friday. And I’ll probably be going alone, so keep your eyes peeled for a chair dancing solo artist at your local movie theater. Oddly, I never liked ABBA when my college roommates overplayed their tunes in 1996.

Possible Titles

I’ve been on a serious writing kick, blogging my unemployed time away, instead of filing out applications and such. I keep hearing Story Corps on NPR and thinking, man, I’ve got a story to tell. So I spent yesterday googling various ways to start this epic novel that will likely never see the light of day in a used bookstore. I fell upon a few great sites that offer up some decent advice on how to start…and starting has clearly always been the hardest part for me.

I think I’m slowly ditching the idea of writing a memoir, since, seriously, who wants to read an autobiography of an overeducated, slightly alcoholic, chain smoking substitute teacher with a trusty dog sidekick?? Maybe I’m wrong, but I think I’m going to head to Shakespeare for some inspiration, maybe take a “modern” twist on The Merry Wives of Windsor or one of the other comedies. Maybe a problem play would better suit my purpose. I guess I’ll figure that out along the way.

Though I’m sure the title will change over the course of this little project, here’s what I have so far:

• To Come Back and Rise (Care of Carly Simon’s “Hola Soleil”)

• They All Laugh at Angry Young Men (Care of Lambert, Hendricks & Ross’s “Twisted”)

• Joni Mitchell Says

• Like Everyone She Knows (Care of James Taylor’s “Like Everyone She Knows”)

• A Defector from the Petty Wars (Care of Joni Mitchell’s “Hejira”)

• Between the Forceps and the Stone (Care of Joni Mitchell’s Hejira”)

• My Salad Days (Care of Shakespeare in Antony and Cleopatra: “My salad days,/ When I was green in judgment, cold in blood.”)

• The Art of Quitting

New Books

Water For Elephants by Sara Gruen…My great grandfather on my Dad’s side supposedly hopped a train in Oneida, NY and joined the circus for a few years. Reading this is making me want to do a little research and see if those family legends are true. If you’re into Depression era history, animals, and the old roadshows, this is a must read.

Are You There, Vodka? It’s Me, Chelsea by Chelsea Handler (think: Are you there, God? It’s Me Margaret). I’m on summer “break” and caught her interview on the Today show this morning. You can actually check out the first chapter here.This part had me laughing:

The problem with being the youngest of six children is that my father had me when he was forty-two years old, resulting in what I like to refer to as “severe generational gappage.” That, coupled with the fact that he was born without the embarrassment gene, left us little in common. It would have seemed completely appropriate to my father for me to hold a press conference in the school’s auditorium the next day, wearing a helmet with a maxipad stuck to my forehead while announcing into a microphone that I’ve been a “bad, bad girl, and I’ve also been known to sh*t in my pants.”