It occurred to me that we all have an internal list of what we want in Mr. Right. I’m dwelling on this because both M and I have decided to fling ourselves headlong back into the dating pool recently. Yes, I know, my family is going to think we broke up or something. Never fear, M and I remain as unlesbian as ever and still Just Friends. My family will someday get the memo, but I fear today is not that day.
Moving on!
So, requirements. I mean, I sit down when I come up with a heroine, and I make a list of all the things she needs in a man. Someone who is complimentary, but not too much alike or different. Someone who understand her issues. Someone who challenges her enough so that she (and he) will never become complacent.
I thought maybe I need a list of my own. Just a short one, with the major highlights I’m willing to reveal on the internet.
1) Intelligent. By this, I mean he doesn’t need to have the collection of university degrees I do (though bonus points if he does), but he needs to be curious about the world around him and want to constantly learn more about whatever interests him (double bonus points if he shares some of the same interests I do)
2) Humor. I love to laugh. If the guy doesn’t get my humor and think I’m funny, and vice versa with his humor, then I have found from very sad experience that we’re dead in the water. This is a must (bonus points if he’s good at making me laugh)
3) No children. This is a deal breaker. I don’t want kids, so if he does we’re at a rather life-defining impasse.
4) Insanity. I don’t want him to actually be insane, but if he’s going to survive my family gatherings, he better be able to hold his own against insane people (psychologists need not apply, I really don’t want to know what their official diagnosis is)
5) Strong. I am a hellaciously stubborn wench. I admit it. Hell, I own that shit. I’ve worked hard to build and maintain my stubborn skillage. That said, Mr. Right better be able to hold his own not just with my family, but with me. Pushovers would bore the bejesus out of me inside of an hour.
6) Non-douchebag. Another deal breaker. Douchebags need not apply. I can be a pain in the ass at times, but I think in general I’m a decent person, and I don’t want to date an asshat.
7) Friends. That’s right, he better know the value of good friends and he better be able to pass the friends-test. If the people who love me bestest see us together and raise the douchebag flag, then we might have a serious problem.
8) Chemistry. This one is less definable, but I’m sure you all can figure out why I want it. A lot.
So, there’s the list. *sigh* I’m going to be single forever, aren’t I? That kind of a man falls into the no-such-thing land of unicorns and fairy tales.
I’ve been doing the headless chicken run for the last few weeks with all the teaching I’m doing, and it’s going to keep being nutty for three more weeks until the university’s Fall Break hits. If I miss any normal blogging days, you know why. Love you all, but I’m soooo tired.
I was at an art museum display this week and it was phenomenal. They had Monet, Manet, Picasso, Dali, Rodin, Renoir, Degas, van Gogh, Matisse…the list goes on and on. It was a seriously made. of. awesome art display. It was a once in a lifetime kind of thing to behold. I’m not even an artsy girl, but this? This was cool.
When I got there, it was way more packed with people than I was expecting.
I felt a bit claustrophobic, but everyone was polite about letting other people see all the pieces, so I just rolled with it. They had these nifty handheld thingies (technical term, there) that would give you more information about specific works. You held them to your ear like a phone, so you didn’t have to hear everyone’s thingy going at once.
I’m not normally a fan of Picasso’s work, but the colors in this piece Fan, Salt Box, Melon made me stare and stare trying to take it all in.
Sounds nice, right?
Sadly, it wasn’t. It was distinctly unpleasant. Why? Because in every room of the museum was a screaming toddler. What were people thinking bringing children that age to a museum? There’s nothing there to entertain them, the art isn’t going to do much for them, they can’t touch anything, they’re expected to be silent, and the place was packed in like a sardine can. I felt bad for the kids, frankly. In their place, I’d be pitching a screaming fit, too.
What really upset me was that all of the parents didn’t think that they should leave when it was obvious their kid was having a meltdown and wouldn’t stop any time soon. I couldn’t concentrate to read the plaques by the artwork, couldn’t hear the handheld thingy over the screeching, and added to the claustrophobia of the place, it just made me rush through when I normally would have lingered.
For a moment, I thought it was simply because I’m not a parent that I was so irritated. I mean, I know they paid to be there, too, but if it’s going to disturb everyone else, I thought they should take their kids and leave. I did feel better when a couple with a sleeping infant walked by me and the father turned to the mother and said, “Why would they put a child in that position? This exhibit is ruined for me because they’re so loud. If our baby starts crying, we’re leaving.”
If the man hadn’t obviously been married, I might have kissed him on the spot.
However, the final piece I got to see was Dali’s The Dream. I geeked out. I love Dali. He is, hands down, my favorite artist. So, screw the rude, evil parents and their demon spawn, I stood there and squinted and tilted my head in every direction trying to look at all the details. Gorgeous!
I don’t dream that often. Or, rather, I don’t remember my dreams. Maybe 2-3 times a year, max.
So, last night was one of those nights. And Robin D Owens, Gena Showalter, and Jill Monroe were all in it. Since I’ve met them all in person outside of writerly events, maybe it make sense that they were there, but it was still a very odd dream.
For one, I was at a writer’s conference. Could have been RWA, but maybe not. It was in a huge, lavish hotel that I know I’ve never been to. And there was a huge buffet of dessert. Cakes and candies and chocolate fountains big enough to dance around in. It was like the Ritz meets Willy Wonka.
And here’s where it gets really weird. Jill is standing outside this door looking very secretive. So, I go up to say hi and ask about the door. She says it’s the dessert area for published authors (PAN) and everything outside is for regular conference members. She tells me not to go in because once I’m in, I can’t come back out for the regular dessert. I tell her that I should go in because I have a book out now and I’m a PAN member…plus, one dessert buffet is as good as another if they’re provided by the same people, right? Looking really saddened and disappointed, she lets me in the room.
Inside, the room is tiny. A storage closet with lots of extra chairs stacked on top of each other. On a little table in the middle is a teensy tray of sugar cookies. Gena is in there telling Robin how it just sucks that everyone else gets the awesome dessert and all we get are the “bitch cookies.” Robin’s trying to eat one of the cookies and grimacing. Gena gets even more mad that we don’t even have any juice or booze to wash down the icky, stale bitch cookies.
She stomps out of the room, grabs Jill, and insists they leave the party because the cookies are for bitches and she’s not eating the bitch cookies. Robin just looks at me, looks at the cookies, sighs, and casts a very longing glance through the open door at the Willy Wonka chocolate fountain.
I don’t know, is my subconscious telling me that being published isn’t as exciting or thrilling as I thought? Did I eat something weird last night? Or am I merely intrigued by the offer of Gena’s bitch cookies?
I’m headed to the symphony this weekend. I’ve never been to the Utah Symphony, but I’ve heard it’s quite good. They’re doing Ode To Joy, which I’ve always loved, so I hope they do it justice. Well, really, I just love Beethoven. The man was a musical genius and his music is divine when done well.
I just decided spur of the moment to snatch up a ticket and go. Bad seats, but I just want to listen and experience anyway, so I don’t need to be up close and personal with the orchestra. Time for a little culture and away-from-the-computer time.
If you scroll waaaaaaay down my sidebar, you’ll now see a widget that displays my favorite YouTube videos. It’s pretty awesome…go ahead, push a button!
Also, note that my Author Talk interview is on the top. That’s right, cuz it’s my current most favorite-est video.
So, the reunion show was on last night. It was on back when I was in junior high and high school. I think I only watched the first year or two and then the last episode.
But it weirdly made me nostalgic for high school, which I thoroughly loathed. Don’t get me wrong, the kids weren’t all that bad, but I was too loud, too fat, too socially awkward, and had a self-defensive sarcastic streak guaranteed to make anyone in a forty mile radius dislike me. Actively. Topping all that off, family life was–I’ll be kind here–”turbulent.” It’s not a time I remember with much fondness, and I’m sure a lot of people can relate. Someone told me that high school was supposed to be the best years of my life. Thank gawd they were oh so wrong. Pretty much every moment since has been better. And how sad would it be if the best life had to offer was over at 18? If you die at 90, that’s a loooong downhill slide into suckfestage. Ouch.
But, seriously? Bad poetry and now nostalgia for a time I’d rather forget. Yep, I’ve officially gone bat-shit crazy.
My reaction?
Friending all the people I went to high school with on Facebook. Well, those that I could find. (I also grabbed a bunch from grad school and college, so it’s not all self-destructive friending) Maybe it was that my ten year reunion is coming up sooner than I would like. How is it that a decade has passed? How is it that only ten years have passed?
I suddenly have a desire to write a high school reunion hook up romance novel. Oh, crap…that’s like the first step down a slippery slope to Greek and sheik baby daddy stories! Mad Madam M would never let me live it down. Ever.
But I digress…back to the show!
Overall review? Bad acting, odd storyline, less-cute cast. Bad acting. Poorly constructed, completely outlandish teen angst plot devices. So, basically, par for the 90210 course. Ten years later, but still not awesome.
Fave line?
Kelly-of-old-90210: “How did you get started teaching?”
Lame-male-school-teacher: “For the chicks.”
I’m remodeling my apartment and decided to go through all the old boxes in my storage closet and ditch all the old crap I didn’t want along with the old furniture I was getting rid of. I hired a removal company (who just happened to have very fine looking men working for them–thankyoujesus) so I figured get it all over with in one go.
While purging myself of useless old stuff, I found all kinds of letters that I apparently kept to torture myself, every paper and notebook I had ever written in college or grad school, an angsty teen diary…and a few post-it notes of very bad nonsensical poetry I had written when I was around 17. I don’t remember if I was drunk or high or had just hit my head when I wrote it, but I decided to let you all vote on that one.
I give you…tormented teen weirdness. They have no titles, just badness (original bad spelling and grammar provided for extra amusement), and thankfully they’re all short. This is why I write romance now and not books of poetry.
Bad Poem #1
here we are today in forever tomorrow,
not withstanding interupption
though stopping now and then to smell the roses
Bad Poem #2
The world I love is crumbling,
within itself,
into a destitute manner,
uncaring of all who nurtured its womb and
crave its solace for their own purposes
Bad Poem #3
When love is not enough
it withers as in Autumn
to fall into despairing self-gratification,
lacking warmth and seeking only its former luster
as it settles in and wraps itself
around a wintering heart
Bad Poem #4
hello,
how are you doing today in this world
of forever tomorrows,
however undone within itself
or wholly loved by others
and given respect by those who don’t know any better
I vote that I was definitely on some kind of intoxicant when I wrote these because, damn, they don’t even make sense most of the time. And, apparently, I had a thing for “forever tomorrow.” Oy.
So, I’m finally getting around to updating the pictures in my office. I mean, I’ve used the same ones for years now. For as long as I’ve been a librarian who had an office. In my last job too, so these are some old ass pics.
In various sizes, here are the ones that made the cut:
Me and Calamity Jane at her graduation.
Me and M at Calamity Jane’s graduation.
Me, Robin Rotham, and R.G. Alexander in China Town during the RWA conference.
Me and M at the Romance Divas dinner during the RWA conference.
A group shot of Divas on our way to the Harlequin Party during the RWA conference.
After 27 plus years of sleeping on hand me down beds and mattresses, I finally upgraded to one of my very own that no one has ever slept on except me. It was delivered yesterday afternoon and I slept on it last night. It was delightful.
And it looks lovely with the new sheets Grams got me as a queen-sized gift.
Here’s how I feel about it. I found this on Flickr and it expressed things so perfectly. Though my last mattress was a double and not a twin.
