Magnolias & Moonpies

Greetings from Gulf Shores! I never thought I would ho to the beach for New Year's, but here I am. Sure it's a tad chilly, but nothing like the 33* weather at home. A new decade finds me doing all kinds of things I normally don't do, but isn't that the point?
Somehow - call it intuition - this year is going to be the one - for what, I'm not sure yet, but I've got a good feeling that good things abound in 2010.

That's the beauty and intrigue of the new year - a chance to start over, to reinvent, to try something new, to DO. This is truly the year of doing and accomplishing. And so it goes....

Requesting claim code for access.

I got this from my ABCs, who got it from someone else, who probably got it from someone else . . . you get the idea.



Funny part about this little activity is that some of my information brought up limited to no photos, so I had to improvise a bit. If you'd like to play along, just follow the directions below to create your very own Mini-Me Mosaic.

Directions:

1. Type your answer to each of the questions below into Flickr Search.

2. Using only the first page of results, pick one image.

3. Copy and paste each of the URLs for the images into Big Huge Lab’s Mosaic Maker to create a mosaic of the picture answers.

The questions:

1. What is your first name?

2. What is your favorite food right now?

3. What high school did you go to?

4. What is your favorite color?

5. Who is your celebrity crush?

6. What is your favorite drink?

7. What is your dream vacation?

8. What is your favorite dessert?

9. What do you want to be when you grow up?

10. What do you love most in life?

11. What is one word that describes you?

12. What is your flickr name?

Last night, the ABC's (our girls' club) went to the premier showing of Sex in the City dressed in our finest denim, khaki, and/or cotton blends - as one might expect from the cool, casual chicks that we are. Our newest member pre-ordered our tickets to ensure we'd get a seat, which, at the time, I believed was a thoughtful gesture, but completely unnecessary. For all I knew, we were just going to see a movie. No big deal, right?

As the one member of our club who is oftentimes out of "the know," I had no idea how much the media had sensationalized this event; I was completely clueless. Therefore, nothing could have prepared me for last night's spectacle the Monaco.

I mean, nothing.

On the ride to the theater, I listened intently as my sisters of the ABC gabbed about the latest gossip and hype surrounding the movie premier and nodded in agreement, interjecting the occasional, "uh-hmm," as though I knew what they were talking about, when actually, I had no clue. Sure, I'd watched the series (when I could), and I laughed and cried with Carrie and the crew, while watching re-runs late at night as I graded papers. However, the thought never occurred to me to visit web sites and read articles and reviews about the upcoming cinematic event of the summer. All I'd seen were the movie trailers.

Within fifteen minutes, we were circling the parking lot (with fifty other cars) in search of a parking spot. Limousines of all shapes and sizes littered the parking lot, and local news and radio station vehicles lined the sidewalks in front of the theater. After ten minutes of driving up and down the parking lot in a serpetine pattern, we realized that there wasn't a parking spot within three miles. It was girls' night. We deserved to go all out, so we opted for valet parking. Pulling up to the curb along side three or so empty vehicles, one of two valets approached the driver's side window. At first, I believed him to be eager for a tip, seeing as how he and his co-worker were idly lounging by the valet station shootin' the breeze. I couldn't have been more wrong.

He greeted us with, "I'm sorry, but we aren't able to park your car for you."

You've got to be kidding me? I thought.

"All of these cars are ours," he continued gesturing behind him, "and that cop down there is watching."

What?! Who has ever heard of valets getting busted by the cops for parking cars a la valet-style?

The valet then lazily returned to his perch leaving the other three or so cars to - I don't know - park themselves, I suppose.

Right then, I should've suspected that this was no ordinary day at the movies.

We then pulled around to the back side of the theater in a most civilized manner, but not before Ethyl (that's not her real name) yelled out the window to the oh-so-busy parking attendants offering her most sage advice as to what they could do with their valet sign.

The theater was buzzing with high-society wannabes - women of all ages dressed in sequins and stilettos clutching Cosmopolitans in one hand and the backsides of the few men present with the other. Giggles and cackles rang out from all sides as we made our way through the perfumed throng of inebriated socialite hopefuls to retrieve our tickets from the automated ticket booth.

"Wow," I mused. "I feel a tad bit under dressed."

Handing our ticket stubs to the little ticket-stub-taker, we headed straight for Theater #3 to snag the "good seats." We did not stop for popcorn; we did not stop for drinks; we did not pass "Go" nor collect $200 for fear of being stuck sitting in the front row. One by one, we entered the dark theater. Unable to adjust to the darkness that quickly, my eyes deceived my feet and I tripped up the steps - twice - but I don't think anyone noticed.

We were in luck! Nobody had claimed the very back row, so we plopped ourselves down in the first four seats in order to have quicker access to the powder room, if the need should arrive, during the two hours and fifteen minutes of what we'd hoped would be the best episode of Sex in the City yet.

Much to my chagrin, another band of Carrie Bradshaw wannabes marched to the back row and maneuvered their buxom, pot-bellied selves into the seats adjacent to ours and began squawking incessantly about their shoes, their purses, and their fake hair. One, in particular, was louder and more obnoxious than the other fifty-somethings in her group, and she remained vocal throughout the movie.

"No, I can't hold that popcorn!" she shrieked. "Do you see this outfit? This is linen! You hold it - no, you!"

During one of the most climactic scenes,our cinematic neighbor became quite excited. Arms flailing, feet stomping wildly, she hollered, "OMG! If he don't get outta that car, I will leave this theater. I will walk out right now!" and then she added, "And I mean it!"

He didn't get out of the car, and she didn't leave the theater despite her affirmation at the end.

At that moment, I wanted to reach around my friend and stuff the rest of that bag of buttery popcorn in her mouth. Instead, I leaned past my also-annoyed comrade and shot one of my best "would-you-please-shut-your-pie-hole" looks in her direction to which she politely replied, "Oh, sorry!"

She didn't talk the entire time though. Midway through the movie, she stampeded over us and presumably headed for the powder room. (I think she went to the bar, myself.) Our reprieve was short-lived, however, for she returned in full force.

Not to give away the movie, but Carrie changes her hair color, an event that happened while this woman was indisposed.

"When did she dye her hair?!" she asked incredulously, as though offended that "Carrie" didn't consult with her first before embracing the Clairol.

Really. You do know this is just a movie, right?

Probably the most annoying part of our loud-mouthed neighbor was her constant comparisons of she and her friends to the characters on the screen. "You are so Miranda," she said to one,"and you are so Charlotte," she said to the other, "and I am soooo Carrie!" *giggle*

Blech! Keep in mind, this woman had to have been at least fifty, as were her girlfriends, but she acted more like she was fifteen and had just hit puberty.

Despite the crazy distractions, I thoroughly enjoyed going to the movies with my best girlfriends. My favorite part was watching the next batch of Carrie-crazed women enter the theater for the second showing.

One twenty-something girl caught my attention: wearing a black sequined cocktail dress and much-too-high stilettos, she stumbled through the entryway tugging at the hem of her dress while calling to her denim-clad friends, "Hey! Wait up!"

Guess they didn't bother to give her the memo. What would Carrie Bradshaw say about that?

I'm so used to spending most of my 'free time' writing, but it's the stuff I've been so used to writing that has almost ruined this kind of self-expression. Stuff like:

• Fragment/run-on/comma splice
• This sentence doesn't logically follow.
• What?
• I have no idea what you just wrote.
• Are you kidding?
• Did you read the same book that I read?!

Okay, so I'm only kidding on the last few. I didn't actually write those comments - I thought them, even said a few out loud.

I've come to realize that creating handouts and grading essays has predominantly been my writing outlet. Occasionally, I have written with my students - whatever assignment/prompt they were given, I sat down at my desk and wrote along side them. When I'd read over what I'd written, I noticed that I began every piece of writing the same way - with a participial phrase. After a while, I noticed other patterns - the occasional fragment, heavy alliteration, the dash, compound nouns and adjectives - which gave way to discovering quite a bit about my writing style.

I know, I'm a nerd. I fully embrace my nerdiness and welcome all the brain wrinkles created by these nerdy thoughts.

One day this summer, I'm going to clean/organize my jump drives and file folders on my computer condensing, purging, deleting (yes, permanently erasing documents that took hours/days of my life to create). I don't need to waste any more time creating handouts - I've got thousands as it is. I can't remember when it all began, but it ends now - this is the summer to declare freedom from that which stifles, constricts, strangles.

Change can only truly come from within . . .

I must preface this post with the fact that I love, love the Google! They definitely market to women - the iGoogle homepage that can be decorated and personalized and redecorated (as many times a day as I wish) is a girly-goodie I thoroughly enjoy each time I power up the laptop.
Tonight, my husband decided he wanted to find and read what I had been writing. So, I told him to Google the name of my blog thinking it would pop right up.

I mean, I just pulled this title straight from the inner recesses of my brain late one night and, thinking myself to be rather clever and quite imaginative, used it as the title for my blog (as you can clearly see). All he had to do was type the title, and *poof* my blog would miraculously appear.

No-brainer, right?

Wrong.

(This is where the 'dangerous' part comes in.)

My blog did NOT come up. At all. Someone else's did from a different blog site. I was stunned.

Although this other blogger's title was the name of her post (and it was spelled differently), I couldn't help but feel this stabbing pain of failure in the pit of my stomach.

This nasty little tidbit came right after finding out (just lastnight) that the stories I've written over the past seven years and kept hidden in this ratty spiral-bound notebook were all published last year. By other people. This devastating news produced a blackish, soul-sucking cloud - similar to the one that follows Eeyore - over my head that riddled my brain with endless ponderings, which subsequently led to the following line of philosophical questioning:

• Why didn't I do something with these stories seven years ago? (stupid, stupid, stupid)


• Were my ideas that unoriginal that random people from Randomville, USA could write the same stories?
  
• Do I scratch these stories and start over?


• Had I not an original idea left in my head?


• Were there any original thoughts left . . . anywhere?

After that last question, I found my answer.

According to most literarians, there are only seven basic plots. Seven. Out of the millions of published books, each contains one of seven possible plots. Considering those small odds, I guess it's only natural for story ideas to have similar odds. In fact, my students can read the same novel and write completely different essays about it - some good, some bad, some really, really bad. The differences come in the diction and syntax and style and voice - those elements of writing that are unique to each.

With that in mind, I am compelled to continue writing, setting myself apart from others with my choice of diction, syntax, style, and voice. As Commander Peter Quincy Taggart used to say: "Never give up, never surrender!"

A little side note that sparked giggles, then outright guffaws:

Ugh! I keep getting e-mail about my 20th class reunion. Some of my classmates - I graduated with about 600 - have created a web site dedicated to our class reunion. I have to admit, the web site is pretty neat. I spent almost an hour browsing through the names and pictures and profiles - I hardly recognized any of them. I don't think I even knew half of those people in high school. I looked through the photo albums and found pictures of both high school boyfriends. There was even one of me - weird. Of all the people in my graduating class, only 50 or so have confirmed, a handful have regretfully declined, and the rest, I suppose, are hiding in some remote area on the planet - smart.

Call me crazy, but I've decided not to make the six-hour trek to my hometown - Ft. Walton Beach - with my husband and child this summer to spend the weekend with a bunch of strangers who just so happened to graduate the same year that I did from the same high school that I did. Yes, I realize that my hometown is on the beach . . . so what? Why would I want to pay $162 to hang out with a bunch of people that I didn't hang out with in high school?

Besides, I went to the 10th - it blew chunks!

I so looked forward to meeting up with all my friends from high school, seeing old boyfriends, laughing, catching up on good times . . .

Yeah, not what happened.

The first night we met at a local bar. It was summer (of course) and hot and humid (naturally), but the bar had NO air conditioning whatsoever. And there was not a cold drink to be had in that god forsaken place. I mean, the "ice water" consisted of a small, white plastic cup with a beer logo imprinted on the side filled with warm tap water and two half-melted slivers of ice that became one with the other elements in that cup within mere seconds of taking the first sip. (My hands and feet are swelling just thinking about it!)

Those who were there early had obviously been to the bar many times in search of the one cold drink and hadn't yet given up hope in finding it. As I walked through the throng of drunken high school wannabes to begin my quest of the one cold drink, I was stopped by one of my classmates - the one who tried to steal my boyfriend AND my best friend in the same year (girls don't forget these things).

She wanted to catch up on old times, as though they were such wonderful memories worth rehashing. She talked of similar acquaintances, and teachers, and colleges, and careers - bor-ing. As she rambled on about people and places I cared nothing about, I envisioned an entirely different conversation that went something like this:

ME: Hey! Remember the time that you accidentally dropped that note to my boyfriend in my locker because you though it was his locker, but it wasn't, and you told him how much you loved him and wanted to "be" with him - in the Biblical way - and then asked him to break up with me so that he could be yours forever?

HER: Uh . . .

ME: And remember the time that you tried to turn my best friend against me and bribed her with tickets to college football games and wild, high school parties and then she realized what you were doing - because I told her what you were doing - and she told you that she would be your friend, but that I was her best friend, and then you got mad at her and cut up all of her school pictures into teeny-tiny pieces and put them in an envelope and sent your cousin to her house with that envelope and a paper sack filled with dog crap, and he put the envelope in her mailbox and threw the paper sack on her front door, and then you called her and told her she needed to check her mail?

HER: Well, I . . . uh . . .

ME: That's what I thought. Guess we're done catchin' up!

Reunions. Bleh!

So, my friend Rachel, who would never try to steal my boyfriend or throw dog crap on my front door, has sent me my very first meme:

1. Pick up the nearest book.

2. Open to page 123.

3. Find the fifth sentence.

4. Post the next 3 sentences.

5. Tag 5 people.

Okay. Those of you who know me know that I love, love, love picture books. Since they don't even have 50 pages, I grabbed the first book next to my pile of Olivia books - Diary of a Wimpy Kid by Jeff Kinney, but page 125 only has four sentences. Then I grabbed the second closest book with enough pages - The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants by Ann Brashares. And lo and behold!page 125 is a picture of the pants with a single quote from Mario Andretti (I kid you not! I couldn't make this up if I tried.). Third time's a charm! And the winner - God Save the Sweet Potato Queens by Jill Conner Browne. I haven't read this yet - it's in my To-Read pile.

So, here goes:

Page 125, fifth sentence ff:

"But, as I was saying way back there, we were having a girls' gathering, and someone was getting out the bowls for the Fritos, someone was putting ice in the glasses, and I was making Chocolate Stuff, naturally, and someone else was making Armadillo Dip. Only one in our company had been sitting idle this entire time, holding up her end in the chatting but not doing any real work - lolling, as it were - and by and by, she asked if she couldn't do something to help. I surveyed the work at hand and suggested that she might want to chop the onions for the Armadillo Dip. She said okay, got up lazily from her perch at the kitchen table, looked sort of far-off, and then she said, to no one in particular, 'I guess I should wash my hands first, I just had sex an hour ago,' just as casual as you please."

I know I added an extra line, but it was the best one! Besides, without it, the previous lines would've been quite uninteresting, and anyone who's ever read any of Jill Conner Browne's Sweet Potato Queens books knows that they're far from boring! I have to add that I'm currently listening to Rick Springfield's "Love Somebody" as I type this.

Oh, the irony!