And So It Is

New idea: let’s talk about all the ways I’m dumb.

The most obvious way (to me – and feel free to chime in, friends, with things you’ve been dying to say but haven’t) is that I am loyal beyond reason. No, I’m not talking about toward people although, yes, even there I’ve experienced how that can be unhealthy but let’s stop being serious and let me ramble. I’m loyal in the way that one cannot not buy Crest and also doesn’t know why and I don’t have to set here and answer your questions. (Sorry. I watched Ali yesterday. Which won’t stop being on my top 3 favorite movies ever for always amen.)

I’ll just…put this here for ya.

So Crest. Loyalty. It’s like I think this is some intrinsic aspect of my personality. As if if people thought I used Colgate (which is a stupid and LUDICROUS, obviously) they would somehow misunderstand me in a very meaningful way and I would be misrepresenting myself and the whole system would fall apart.

And so, I find myself having to – or attempting to, at least – give long-winded, unwarranted and uninteresting disclosures (which totally works on Twitter, by the by) when discussing my writing soundtrack. Because there was a time that it was 100% Hans Zimmer/James Horner/Thomas Newman – and if James Newton Howard, Antonio Pinto and Dario Marionelli make their way into heavy rotation, I’m not hurting anyone.

But then Daft Punk’s Tron Legacy soundtrack sort of overwhelmed the writing of Cait, or maybe the revising, I can’t remember… and Florence & the Machine actually seemed to be singing about Avrilis, which was fine because I was reading, not writing. And when I was actually writing new words on new pages, I was still for the most part going back to my mainstays. Imogen and Elsie, they were conceived legitimately. (Was that a weird way to phrase that??)

And then I don’t know what happened. I re-envisioned one of them. And I can’t even really remember how I came upon it but I made a playlist of Tycho, Hammock and God Is An Astronaut. O_O And that’s all I’ve used. And I love it. And am also ashamed. … WHO is ashamed of things like this?! Seriously. What is going ON. When I talk about what I’m writing to, I feel the need to give back-story-info-dump on my progression and how maybe this shouldn’t so much be considered a progression (which the other party never said it was in the first place because they truly don’t give a good doggone beyond initial interest in seeing what other people listen to while working) because I still very much consider Zimmer/Et Al to be my writing companions even though, no, at the moment, I’m not listening to them but I’m sure I will – and, believe me, I understand such info dumps to be an occupational hazard. Yet I am helpless. Rendered ridiculous by a strong sense of loyalty to SOUND, when it comes down to it.

I dunno. Pray for me.

Oh and also, this:

Hiiii, angles that make me look ALL of the wide!

 

My Heavy & Completely Justifiable Grudge

Jeanne Coyne. {Insert Louise Belcher laugh of insanity}

Ohhhhh, JeANNE.

You thought you could have it all, didn’t you? Didn’t you, JC?! You thought you could be Gene Kelly‘s fiancee AND a big Hollywood dancer, beside the likes of Tommy Rall, Ann Miller, Bob Fosse (DO YOU SEE WHERE I’M GOING WITH THIS?!) – and people have lied about you. LIED. Even on Gene Kelly’s IMDB page, some knucklehead wrote that you were a “major talent” in your own right.

And you know who *really* got hurt by your selfish shenanigans?! Bobby Van. Dear sweet Bobby. In what should have been his final chance to showcase his delightfully charming brand of breezy dance. Shoulda had his moment. Wedged between the break-out performance of Bob Fosse and the whimsy of Tommy Rall. But you know what happened? Jeanne Coyne.

Now, if you know me *at all*, I won’t have to point out which bent-leg-havin’, slow-coach-bein’ “DANCER” she is in this clip. But for those of you who don’t wanna be surprised and saddened, she’s the one in the yellow. And don’t be alarmed when the director just stops looking at her in the first bit of her “dance”. But seriously, can you find the one who does not belong??

TEN. SECONDS. He got ten seconds because of you, Jeanne.

::collects self::

You guys, this has been weighing on me since I was like EZRA’s age. I just. I had to get it off my chest. ::sigh:: I feel so much better. I feel like this is gonna be a turning point. Now I can focus all of my attention on how the brothers and REALLY NOTICEABLY MISMATCHED during the barn raisin’ scene in 7 Brides for 7 Brothers. ::pulls tapes, prepares case::

*NOTE: This all came crashing down today when Dina pinned a picture of Gene Kelly. Jeanne is the first thing that comes to mind. Which is just…not fair. Because… Gene Kelly.

 

Hey, Bethany. Stop hitting yourself.

Once upon a time, I cried laughing when I realized I’d saved a gift set of Burt’s Bees products for dang’on ten years because why wouldn’t I do something like that. It looked nice. Therefore I did not open anything, but kept it for the SPECIALMOMENT. Only when I opened everything. Yeah. It was borderline rancid. I took rather a good talking to when I admitted this on Twitter. Particularly when I got to the part where I still wasn’t throwing certain items away, but I WILL acquiesce and let the citrus-basil-something-or-other lotion go and I guess it’s not a good sign that it’s brown and wasn’t it like a pale orange when I first got it? But I tried it and it didn’t burn very much so I think they were overreacting. And also maybe just wanted my goodies.

That was before today. Today, I’m…mildly concerned. For myself. And my hoarding tendencies. And I’m only gonna show you these things because ….. hmm. I’ll get back to you on the ‘why’.

So as we do every couple years, the hubs and I have been purging our storage closet. This helps me deny my tendencies. Until you go through the “keepsake” box of the things too important to get rid of (so they get put in these bins and then the bins get neatly stacked so I win at life and oh no, this sounds like something from an episode of the show who shall not be named). And in my HIGH SCHOOL keepsake box? Aside from every letter/note passed even though I have to think a long time to remember about 25% of the note-givers. ::facepalm:: WHY is history so hard for me to part with? What accurate portrait of myself do I think my descendants will have by reading notes from people I CANNOT AT THE AGE OF THIRTY REMEMBER?!? Come on, son. Snap out of it.

But please remember. The following items…are from the high school box.

What you’re lookin’ at: a bag (an empty, run-of-the-mill this-is-what-your-purchase-came-in baggy from Sanrio); an opened sleeve of tissues; a small notebook.

What you’re not lookin’ at: the unopened Pochaco printer paper, still in pristine condition…and still being kept; the Pochaco coffee mug…which is obviously in the kitchen cabinet; the unused Keroppi stationary which I gave to my son to keep from having to throw it away.

Mama had a problem. I also came upon these tiny rubber stamps from the same store. O_O I feel like I need to remind you that I’m now thirty and these things were still taking up room in my house. …And that I did throw those pictured items away but only after taking pictures and herein immortalizing sweet mercy of heaven I see the problem now!

But you’re like, hey, even though you’re pretty sure this stuff was purchased in 1994 or 1995 which means you weren’t in high school, you were in junior high so. Close enough.

Come’ere, honey. There’s more.

I was not in high school when I used this. Actually – full disclosure – I’m not sure I’ve ever seen this before in my life. But in all the times we’ve purged before, this was important enough to save a place. [Short break for tear-shedding.]

YOU GUYS?! THIS IS A NEWSPAPER CUT OUT OF A PAULY SHORE MOVIE ANNOUNCEMENT. (Okay, I’m not at all ashamed that I love that movie and In The Army Now and junk but for TRUE?!) MAN. HELP ME, OBI-WAN! YOU’RE MY ONLY HOPE!

I mean, yes, at this point I’m like, BETHANY. Getchu some help. PLEASE. But do you wanna know the thing de resistance? DO you? Are even prepared for this?

 

……

 

Oh. What’s that? You’re not sure what I’m showing you?

THAT IS A SLAMMER.

AS IN POGS AND SLAMMERS.

WHY HAVE I BEEN SAVING AN EIGHT BALL SLAMMER?!? You guys, this is my final blog post. I’m turning myself in. I can’t even right now.

Forget the scented drawer satchel from my favorite Victoria’s Secret Garden collection that I hoarded somewhere OTHER than the drawer as though not putting it in there would save the scent until I was ready. #dead

Forget the hospital wristbands I collected from other people and I have no idea what they are for or the date because WHAT DO I NEED THIS FOR?! #dead

NONE of that is the breaking point.

I. HAVE. A. SLAMMER.

#DECEASED

 

A Bushel And A Peck

I’m such a weirdo. This happens every time – as far as I recall – and I still put it off …every time.

When I’m writing, there are a few things I’m trying to accomplish …. wow, I’m like two seconds from aborting this post. First being redundant, now stating the obvious. I’m good with words. Okay, but what I mean is there are always one or two things I’m trying to reveal or weave into the narrative that I don’t want to shout at the reader. My hubs, aka First Reader, is therefore subject to conversations during which opposing counsel objects on the basis of leading the witness. Because I’m trying to ask without asking if what I’m attempting is coming across. (This is probably just as annoying as it sounds.) And then at some point I remember that I always end up telling him the whole intended story. I need one person who knows what I’m going for. Just like I need the next reader to not know what I’m going for. Both let me know what’s making it to the paper.

Just tellin’ ya things for no reason. Which is sort of what I’m always doing. Isn’t that weird? I’m always unnecessarily telling you stuff (it’s called blogging) and yet sometimes I’m like, huh. What was the point of that? Silly Bethany. Thinkin’ things.

Anyway, wanna see one of the reasons Allods is better than World of Warcraft?

Our gear is so much cooler now….siiiigh

That’s Josh’s toon having swept my toon off her feet. AWESOME. #ItsTheLittleThings Oh plus it’s free. O_O WHUTTTT?

Also, I shared this on Twitter and maybe threw my girl, Elise, into a fit of laughter at my expense. But secretly, she knows gaming is the bees’ knees’. (Seriously can’t decide on those apostrophes. Man. It is time to go.)

 

You Bed Not Flake It Up

[Dear brain - really? TLC lyrics as soon as I woke up this morning? You are cruisin' for a bruisin', friend.]

Here’s how this works. I have a fleeting moment of “I’m gonna blog about that tomorrow” and then – as she is wont to do – my brain waits until I lie down to go to sleep (or in my case, when my eyes are burning and I have no choice but to close them) and begins writing the post. Right there. Laptop closed, head on pillow, scribbling in my brain – against my will. And I commonly have this reaction.

….
That was me, defiantly ignoring the writing going on in my head. And also secretly (secret from my brain, don’t tell her) trying to memorize it. So in the bright light of today, have I remembered those witty phrases? NOPE. Because I’m an idiot. So I am forced to bring this post to you in list form, forgoing all attempts to showcase my quality.

Whoops, now I’m thinking of Faramir.

(1) So, first things first. I need someone to diagnose this once and for all. (As in, do you do this – which means I’m normal – or do you not do this – which of course means I’m dumb.)

Most of the time when I stop reading a book it’s because said book has failed me. BAD BOOK! It doesn’t always mean the writing itself didn’t hold up, but usually. Sometimes, in rarer circumstances, it’s the main character. He or she no longer has my loyalty, probably because I can see the author in the character’s place and the latter’s being made to behave in a way I feel serves the book but isn’t honest. As in, the character’s been sacrificed for the needs of the book. And that means I’ve lost that lovin’ feelin’.

Sorry.

And so anyway. There’s another reason I put down a book. (This is the only part to which you really needed to pay attention.) On now three occasions, I’ve put down a book… because I love it too much.

Not nice, guys.

To date, I have put aside: A Mercy by Toni Morrison, Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison, and – presently – Speaker For The Dead by Orson Scott Card. ToMo has a new new book out and I still haven’t gone back to A Mercy but I assume I will have to have the next one on hand before I will. Invisible Man all but destroyed me (with its beauty and precision) but I returned to it and am better for it – if I wasn’t able to write for several weeks after finishing it. Because please. Why. It is the singular book that made me go – no other books need be published forever amen.

This doesn’t mean I don’t love other books and wanna marry them over here and over there and in the sky and on a cloud. (There should be another explanatory picture here but let’s try to wrap this up.) Instead, I liken the experience of having to stop reading something to the way a film can be overstimulating. Except in the case of films, it’s not just the movie, it’s the music, it’s everything. It’s sensory overload. It’s overwhelming. Makes me feel anxious. (This is probably diagnosable too but quick, look over there!) And the thing about the overstimulating film? It doesn’t mean the movie’s “good” or “bad”. It’s an entirely separate quality that is sometimes irrational. I’m going to list a couple movies that have at one point or another been too overstimulating. Moulin Rouge – surprise, surprise, Baz Luhrman is on a list of films that made me feel like Ned Flanders in Las Vegas.

Flanders. Entering Las Vegas.
You’re welcome.

Happy Feet. My sister and nephew-son used to watch this constantly and I couldn’t even stand overhearing it. Couldn’t handle it. (Wait, maybe this is all Nicole Kidman’s doing!)

Tron: Legacy. This one’s a no-brainer. Daft Punk (DAFT.PUNK.) and The Grid. And this is actually the only movie of these three that I really like and wanted to not have rapid heartbeat so I could watch it properly. So I watched it a ton and now it feels normal.

Stop looking at me like that.

And so Speaker For The Dead. It’s too good. It’s overwhelmingly too good. It’s better than Ender’s Game. And I’m not even gonna duck because I KNEW I was gonna wanna read SFTD before I ever read Ender’s Game (which is AMAZING and you have to know that to be able to put this conversation in the proper perspective. It is THE science fiction novel. Period. And then I read Speaker.) In fact, I read an essay by the author that explained how Speaker was the story he wanted to expand and to do it, he went back and wrote Ender’s Game and I could read it out of order but NO. My husband would not allow it. Said nothing compared to Ender’s Game. And until I started Speaker, I believed him. Have mercy….I believed him.

In summation. Take that, brain, I wrote it all by myself. (Wait…) Well, I wrote it when I felt like it not when you tried to force me. And without tooting my own horn? Pretty sure I nailed it.

 

Oh wait, the list…

 

This Things I Believe

A popcorn kernel sleeve stabbing just the right gum tissue can send a good woman to the brink of insanity.  #FLOSS

We’re not as willing to give up NYC as our first American casualty as every major motion picture would have you believe. Can we maybe fight the next aliens somewhere like Omaha? (Forgive me, Omaha. But it’s Manhattan. And I’m tired of seeing her get ravaged.)

And also, why does everything have to become a movement? Like, natural hair used to mean one didn’t use relaxers. Now it’s taking on that whole fifth-level-vegan feel where people give you side-eye if you use things they don’t “believe” in using. O_O It feels like that episode of the Simpsons where the moms take their kids to the emergency room because Marge used a non-stick pan on the muffins and served the juice in the bad-kind-of-plastic sippies. Le sigh. Now, don’t get me wrong. Some of these natural hair bloggers are genius and I want them to just do my hair everyday, but sometimes it’s just EXTRA. Exhausting, even. Brother!

Now that this post is three days old…I should probably just release it into the wild…

 

Help me, Helvetica

I’m confused again.

So, the thing is that I’m not boring. As in, when I speak, I make it worth your while. Try to give you that bang for your buck. (No one pays me to speak. Yet.) Storytelling is kind of a thing of mine, to be honest. Here’s something that is markedly easier to do on paper than in polite conversation: past tense. As in, if I’m expressing an outrage or emotional intensity that I experiencED? I’ll express it with vigor. Because flat-lining my tonal presentation is boring and I’m trying to take you on a journey.

Here’s why the confusion: I’m getting the impression that 99% of people mistake this for being REALLYUPSET.

Haiiiii. It’s a retelling, y’all. Calm down with the calming me down. Are emotions really that simplistic that the way you’d know I was harboring deep seeded rage and the like is if I just flat out told you? You don’t think you’d – Idunno – see some sort of social and mental decline or untethering become increasingly visible in my life as I spiraled out of control?! Nope. I’d just tell a story about the past in an intentionally animated and – IF I SAY SO MYSELF – entertaining fashion and bam, you’re my psychiatrist who truly knows my inner workings now.

Yeesh. (See, like how I actually still totally love you.)

And no, this isn’t about something else – like the fact that for one brief, shining moment I had a hooded hounds tooth cape that I wore once and then a mouse came down from the upstairs flat through the used-to-be-a-stairwell-now-is-supposedly-a-closet and touched NONE of the ramshackle older jackets but decided to filet the back of my cape to make its unholy nest of which in a few hours it will have no need because exterminator, breezy, that’s how we do.

It is not about that.

P.S. That new favorite gif of mine? I literally just saw it on another blog and white-knuckled it. And now it is mine. ::kisses the internets::

 

And We Are Very Good Friends

Life is so confusing. How can one simultaneously think (a) I am so beyond the point of having another baby and (b) what’s the point of life if I don’t have another baby? O_O Srsly. Who thinks these things – both. together.

I blame 30. 30 is almost definitely maybe beating me at this point. She brought her A game and I am routinely caught unawares. For instance: this is the age where I am perpetually confused as to whether everyone’s older than me or everyone’s younger than me. Like I’m in the middle of this transition. That’s it. That’s the end of the sentence. I’m in the middle of the transition. Like, it started last year and I dunno, next year it’ll finish? I have no idea. I just know things make less sense right now. I am serious, this is coming from a sappily married woman who is trying to explain the strangeness of 30: people can be too young for me to innocently say out loud that they’re handsome without feeling like a criminal.  That concept, I assume, becomes normal between now and 40. This year? It’s WEIRD.

Then there’s that whole having to ask friends whether they know what I’m talking about. Things that are rapidly becoming off limits with about half of my friends. Oh, I dunno. Toad the Wet Sprocket. Yeah. They are now background music of a party thrown by grown ups with tweens for kids. Meaning when I start singing along and pass the fake mic, my gal pal has no idea why I expect her to know the lyrics. O_o Music references are now in the strange middle ground where they’ll know stuff before my time and present day but not what I listened to in middle school. Sigh. Silverchair. O_O Silverchair, people. Arrested Development? Anyone?!

Now I realize there’s the recent throwback music that is represented on television and then the recent throwback music they throw in for authenticity – like Toad the Wet Sprocket. Because, seriously, the Rembrandts were so not a thing and who EVER heard the theme song for Friends on the radio?! Who?

Why did no one tell me 30 was awkward?! Because they either told me it was “old” (half my friends) or barely adult (the other half). Thanks for nothin.

That’s not my girlfriend behind me. That’s 30. Freaking me out.

Geez. Someone who’s 40 tell me I’ll be okay.

Oh, life.

(is bigger….it’s bigger than you and you are not me SEE THAT’S WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT! Why doesn’t everyone know what I’m singing when I do that?)

 

Stop Hitting Yourself, Bethany

Sometimes the degree of temperamental…ness is eye-roll-inducing. Not that it’s new or anything but yeesh.

So after a drought – insert long story about business side and writing side of writer life being seasonally dominant, etc – I’ve been preparing to mull over this new kernel. Yep, you read that right. Preparing to mull. The kernel came, I was interested in it… and then realized I didn’t really know anything yet. [This is that thinking about writing stage, 'member?] And taking account of my past four projects that popped out of the ether like show-offs and quickly formed their nuclei, I knew there was little I could do to find the rest of the story. [Insert "advice" of all manner to which I might answer, if it were that easy - if I could just write what you tell me to - it wouldn't be an art AND also, why don't *you* write that then?]

And then anyway. Every idea I came up with – you know, as opposed to “received” from said ether – was quickly rejected. I even wasted an hour doing research on something that the story kernel then reminded me was irrelevant based on the only thing I knew about the concept. Great. I did have some progress – in that I figured out a how (in this case, how it’s being presented), sort of like a from whence. Every speculative aspect I wanted though = nope.

And then this morning I’m laying around and the POV pops up. And for some ridiculous reason this means I can start writing. Okay, and one little thing else but come on. Really? That’s what I was waiting for? Oh, but it gets better. I’m hearing a couple of lines from one and then the alternate narrator – no I’m not worrying about whether “people” like that – and my brain tells me, yes I can write it but that if I don’t capture those things and in the right method (longhand or typing, but I don’t know which one), inspiration gone.

Some of you will think this is a (not so) elaborate ruse. My brain’s bluffing. Except she’s not. She’s really that big of a tool, promise. So the reason I’m writing this blog post before I start writing? Because I’ve already forgotten most of what it will say – which is nowhere near how I brainstormed the story starting and may well change many times itself – and I don’t know what music is fitting and also, I hate to admit… this is part of the process sometimes.

Procrastination? If so, my subconscious is crazy like a fox. She’s seriously got me fooled and not for the first time.

And before we hand out those one-size-fits-all gems of writerly wisdom – “just write! it doesn’t have to be perfect! all that matters is getting the words on the page!” – shut up. That’s not how it works here. Please, seriously, shut up.

First they’re sour…

Sigh. I’m sorry. I love you. Just please. Stop making suggestions for the moment, yeah? I’m sure that helps someone – just not me. What? No, *I’m* not temperamental. My brain is.

 

It’s Not Me, It’s You

We have too much history. We know each other too well, or at least – I know you too well. There’s too much baggage to really see you in a new way, and that’s sorta what I’d have to be able to do for this to work.

It’s like. I feel like *I’ve* grown and… you’ve kinda. Festered. And I mean that in the nicest way possible.

Maybe if I could afford to run away with you, try again in a new place, with nothing to distract me. You know. From all the baggage that is you.

I’m not even saying it can’t work. I’m saying, I don’t want to? That. (I don’t want to.) I want excitement and possibilities and newness. I want a blank page.

I’m sorry, you beautiful, hideous work-in-progress with far too many thousands of words to be enticing. And you, my silly White Whale who’s been “done” three times and now I can think of another way to write you. I’m most sorry to you, string of vignettes that will one day be beautiful and animated…if only I had any graphic ability, maybe we could be happy together, today. For now, leave me alone. Seriously, get out. It’s not me. It’s you.