Something awful happened today. Only 2 days after my 27th birthday, I made two remarks in a row that completely dated myself. I am, officially, old. I will pass on these remarks so you may feel my pain as well.
Mistake #1
“You know, like in Fight Club.” With his confused shaking head, I realized the problem. Aged 21 years presently, he would have been a mere 13 years old when I watched this movie as a freshman in college. Legally, this movie was off limits. While I was sneaking into bars with fake IDs, my coworker was probably busy bugging his mother for candy money and a new pokemon card.
Mistake #2
“No, I don’t know who Jimmie Johnson (the race car driving auto entrepreneur) is…I know who Johnny Johnson is. You know, on Newsradio. Have you seen that show?” My other coworker, fresh from indentured servitude at 22, stared at me quizzically. It dawned on my thick skull, being originally aired from 1995 - 1999, the likelihood that a workplace-based sitcom would appeal to a 10 year old is slim to none. I just stared at my desk and reveled in memories of the sweet rivalry betwixt johnny johnson and jimmy james. They shall not know the greatness.
And I do remember when movies cost 4.25. And gas was $1. And we bought candy with nickels. And our cartoons didn't make any sense because crazy acid-heads were putting animals in shirts with special powers, not because they came from another country and were badly dubbed. Oh, I think I need a nap.
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
The end of some things
The last week closed out NANOWRIMO, my novel class and my 26th year on this earth. Of course, I failed NANO fantastically, passed my novel class wonderfully and we are still awaiting results of my life. So, perhaps it was a wash. On the bright side, I am much heavier with knowledge, word counts and holiday food.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
BOMBAY II - the revision
With nothing much happening, I have decided to revise my Bombay post in the manner of Strunk and White.... reading is not necessary as this is my first try at this kind of writing and is probably a gigantic failure. Enjoy, I say, with a flourish of my hands.
Not ready to settle for Guitar Hero and 40’s for my boyfriend’s 28th, we decided on posh restaurant eating to raise the festivities from the redneck classification. We tarted up, brought our doppleganger duo, and paid parking rates rather than circle 15 minutes in increasing frustration. Not prone to dining where reservations are encouraged, we assumed it the height of manners to show early by twenty minutes. This is, apparently, not so. The waitress, on hearing my name, squeaked “the table isn't ready! Your excessive promptness has unsettled us.”
Being inherently gracious, we sidled up to the bar, ordering a round of drinks. Five couples arrived after us and were seated. We ordered a second round of drinks and drained them. Emboldened by boredom, I approached the Hostess and inquired after our table. She gasped, clasped her hand to her face “I need to get your table ready.” I bellowed "how dare you forget me, you heathen!" and threw her in the fountain, or would have, if not for my lingering bout of cowardice .
A table was decorated in haste in the center of the dining area. My mouth busied itself with watering, and my gaze narrowed. With each linen straightened and fork polished, the waitress led us past the elegant table to one in the back. Four chairs were stuffed underneath with little room to maneuever without ruffling the neighbors. A single spotlight glared on C’s head. One could assume we aren't as pretty as we thought.By this time, half our party was decidedly tipsy. We ordered another round of drinks. Eventually, our waitress showed. I ordered the Chicken Tikka – grilled chicken with the appearance of having marinated in cherry kool-aid -- C favored the lamb curry. My portion of lamb was served with a heaping side of invisible guilt.
I twiddled my thumbs, memorized the décor, made small talk. Despairing of the waitstaff, the bartender, having stalled several minutes, brought our drinks. More waiting commences. At that precise moment, half our party is drunk, having eaten nothing all day. Alcohol paired with an empty stomach leads to depravity, so, a blessing occured when the busboy arrives bearing food. Balancing the overloaded tray on an adjacent table, he served the first two dishes. Then, as he turned, the entire tray cartwheeled off the table, and smeared our curries, rice and naan into the carpet.
One would assume this guaranteed prompt replacement of our food. Assumptions, based on wishes rather than fact, rarely find themselves in the “true” category. The clock hand ticked another quarter turn as we licked the empty plates, desperate for calories. Our waitress appeared querying "where's the rest of your food?" We informed her the only curry served to the table was currently splattered on A’s purse. “Oh, that was you?” replied the waitress, near giggling. Her surprise divulges two things; one, the idiot that dropped our food failed to inform anyone; and two, this place sucks.
Ten minutes pass and our waitress delivers 2 servings of rice for four people, half the garlic naan, lamb curries and extra lentils. The food was tasty, but unimpressive. For all the trimmings, I would have expected more. C was served a complimentary mango mousse that is fluffy and sweet and had A digging around with her spoon long after the last drop was consumed. We asked for the check. They charged for the missing naan, and all of the drinks, which are easy to comp when screwing up horribly. Oh yeah, and this place damn expensive for poor folk.
Total time: 2 hours.
Not ready to settle for Guitar Hero and 40’s for my boyfriend’s 28th, we decided on posh restaurant eating to raise the festivities from the redneck classification. We tarted up, brought our doppleganger duo, and paid parking rates rather than circle 15 minutes in increasing frustration. Not prone to dining where reservations are encouraged, we assumed it the height of manners to show early by twenty minutes. This is, apparently, not so. The waitress, on hearing my name, squeaked “the table isn't ready! Your excessive promptness has unsettled us.”
Being inherently gracious, we sidled up to the bar, ordering a round of drinks. Five couples arrived after us and were seated. We ordered a second round of drinks and drained them. Emboldened by boredom, I approached the Hostess and inquired after our table. She gasped, clasped her hand to her face “I need to get your table ready.” I bellowed "how dare you forget me, you heathen!" and threw her in the fountain, or would have, if not for my lingering bout of cowardice .
A table was decorated in haste in the center of the dining area. My mouth busied itself with watering, and my gaze narrowed. With each linen straightened and fork polished, the waitress led us past the elegant table to one in the back. Four chairs were stuffed underneath with little room to maneuever without ruffling the neighbors. A single spotlight glared on C’s head. One could assume we aren't as pretty as we thought.By this time, half our party was decidedly tipsy. We ordered another round of drinks. Eventually, our waitress showed. I ordered the Chicken Tikka – grilled chicken with the appearance of having marinated in cherry kool-aid -- C favored the lamb curry. My portion of lamb was served with a heaping side of invisible guilt.
I twiddled my thumbs, memorized the décor, made small talk. Despairing of the waitstaff, the bartender, having stalled several minutes, brought our drinks. More waiting commences. At that precise moment, half our party is drunk, having eaten nothing all day. Alcohol paired with an empty stomach leads to depravity, so, a blessing occured when the busboy arrives bearing food. Balancing the overloaded tray on an adjacent table, he served the first two dishes. Then, as he turned, the entire tray cartwheeled off the table, and smeared our curries, rice and naan into the carpet.
One would assume this guaranteed prompt replacement of our food. Assumptions, based on wishes rather than fact, rarely find themselves in the “true” category. The clock hand ticked another quarter turn as we licked the empty plates, desperate for calories. Our waitress appeared querying "where's the rest of your food?" We informed her the only curry served to the table was currently splattered on A’s purse. “Oh, that was you?” replied the waitress, near giggling. Her surprise divulges two things; one, the idiot that dropped our food failed to inform anyone; and two, this place sucks.
Ten minutes pass and our waitress delivers 2 servings of rice for four people, half the garlic naan, lamb curries and extra lentils. The food was tasty, but unimpressive. For all the trimmings, I would have expected more. C was served a complimentary mango mousse that is fluffy and sweet and had A digging around with her spoon long after the last drop was consumed. We asked for the check. They charged for the missing naan, and all of the drinks, which are easy to comp when screwing up horribly. Oh yeah, and this place damn expensive for poor folk.
Total time: 2 hours.
Monday, November 19, 2007
NaNo sucks.
I wrote approximately 3,000 words last weekend. I finished a new first chapter that incorporates all of the new backstory and an entirely revamped plot. While it may seem I am failing with aplomb, through NaNo, I have solved the great mysteries of my novel that blockaded my writing. I shall now burst forth with unprecedented speed to break the NaNo land speed record.
I think I am in love...
I fell for two men this weekend. There names are Strunk & White.
For those unaware, they are, respectively, the writer and editor of Elements of Style. This book taught what countless hours of English classes have failed: the use of the semi-colon. Far and wide have I searched for an explanation concerning that drasted dot suspended over the lazy comma. No English majors, no janitors, no J school participants, upon questioning, could explain the existence of this grammatical conundrum.
The semi-colon rules follow as such:
For those unaware, they are, respectively, the writer and editor of Elements of Style. This book taught what countless hours of English classes have failed: the use of the semi-colon. Far and wide have I searched for an explanation concerning that drasted dot suspended over the lazy comma. No English majors, no janitors, no J school participants, upon questioning, could explain the existence of this grammatical conundrum.
The semi-colon rules follow as such:
The main reason one uses semi-colons is to link two sentences, with the same subject, to inform eachother. i.e.If two or more clauses, grammatically complete and not joined by a conjunction, are to form a single compound sentence, the proper mark of punctuation is a semicolon.
Stevenson's romances are entertaining; they are full of exciting adventures.
It is nearly half past five; we cannot reach town before dark.
It is of course equally correct to write the above as two sentences each, replacing the semicolons by periods.
Stevenson's romances are entertaining. They are full of exciting adventures.It is nearly half past five. We cannot reach town before dark.
If a conjunction is inserted, the proper mark is a comma (Rule 4).
Stevenson's romances are entertaining, for they are full of exciting adventures.
It is nearly half past five, and we cannot reach town before dark.
Note that if the second clause is preceded by an adverb, such as accordingly, besides, so, then, therefore, or thus, and not by a conjunction, the semicolon is still required.
I had never been in the place before; so I had difficulty in finding my way about.
In general, however, it is best, in writing, to avoid using so in this manner; there is danger that the writer who uses it at all may use it too often. A simple correction, usually serviceable, is to omit the word so, and begin the first clause with as:
As I had never been in the place before, I had difficulty in finding my way about.
If the clauses are very short, and are alike in form, a comma is usually permissible:
Man proposes, God disposes.
The gate swung apart, the bridge fell, the portcullis was drawn up.
John was mean; he liked to kill kittens.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
NoNo
Just got 616 words detailing the outline of my whole novel. Which, in case you're keeping count leaves me totally screwed.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
NaNo is bending time and space to defeat me
Where did the rest of the month go? It's half gone starting today. And am I at the halfway mark? No. It therefore follows that external forces are thwarting me. But, on the bright side, I solved my novel problem and can now move on unencumbered.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
And the Worst Service Award goes to... BOMBAY!
Intending to swank up the decidedly low-class* festivities surrounding my boyfriend's birthday, I made reservations at a posh restaurant in Hillzcrest. We got all tarted up, brought our doppleganger duo, and actually paid for parking in a nod to our swanky togs. So excited were we, that our habitually late party showed twenty minutes early for our reservation. Maybe I haven't made enough reservations in my life, but I assumed it would be the height of manners to show early so they wouldn't have to hold the table for a bunch of ruffians. I was mistaken, methinks, the waitress, on hearing my name, stared at me in horror and told me the table wasn't ready because we were *gasp* early then ran away to do stuff.
Being that we are inherently gracious, we sidled up to the bar and ordered a round of drinks. At least five couples that showed after us were seated. We ordered another round of drinks. When those were finished, I sauntered up to Hostess and inquired after our table. She, yet again, gasped and clasped her hand around the cross on her neck and squeaked that she needed to get our table ready. And I screamed at the top of my lungs, "how dare you forget me, you heathen!"and threw her in to the fountain. It was either that, or I went back to the bar and waited quietly for another ten minutes as they hastily set up a table in the middle of the dining area. When that was finished, she led us past the beautiful table to a cramped table in the back with one weird spotlight glaring on the birthday boy's head. I guess we ain't as pretty as we thought.
By this time, half our party was decidedly tipsy. We ordered another round of drinks. Ordering time came I got some Chicken tikka. You know, that chicken that looks like it's been marinated in cherry kool-aid and grilled in heaven's barbecue. We also got lamb curry which is served with a heaping side of guilt.
Then we wait, and wait. We wait some more. Finally, the bartender takes pity on us and finally brings our drinks. So we wait some more. At that precise moment, half of our party has finally passed into drunk, having eaten nothing all day. I don't know if you have ever been around drunken, famished people, but it ain't pretty. Suddenly, the food arrives and a crisis is averted.
The busboy puts the overloaded tray on a table next to us and serves the first two dishes. Then, as he is turning, the entire tray cartwheels off the table and smears our curries, rice and naan into the carpet.
You would think this would put us at the top of the list to receive our food, but no dice. Fifteen minutes later, licking the plates clean, we finally see our waitress again. "Where's yo' food?" she asks, then lets it slip that no one told her we were the people whose food is now a permanent part of the decor (and A's purse).
Ten minutes later, we get one bowl of rice for four people, half the naan we ordered, our lamb curries and some random lentils. We have to ask for more rice and are charged for extra naan when the check comes ten minutes after we ask for it. Oh yeah, and this place damn expensive for poor folk.
Total time: 2 hours.
*40's and guitar hero, while totally awesome, do conjure images of white tanks and sweat stains
Being that we are inherently gracious, we sidled up to the bar and ordered a round of drinks. At least five couples that showed after us were seated. We ordered another round of drinks. When those were finished, I sauntered up to Hostess and inquired after our table. She, yet again, gasped and clasped her hand around the cross on her neck and squeaked that she needed to get our table ready. And I screamed at the top of my lungs, "how dare you forget me, you heathen!"and threw her in to the fountain. It was either that, or I went back to the bar and waited quietly for another ten minutes as they hastily set up a table in the middle of the dining area. When that was finished, she led us past the beautiful table to a cramped table in the back with one weird spotlight glaring on the birthday boy's head. I guess we ain't as pretty as we thought.
By this time, half our party was decidedly tipsy. We ordered another round of drinks. Ordering time came I got some Chicken tikka. You know, that chicken that looks like it's been marinated in cherry kool-aid and grilled in heaven's barbecue. We also got lamb curry which is served with a heaping side of guilt.
Then we wait, and wait. We wait some more. Finally, the bartender takes pity on us and finally brings our drinks. So we wait some more. At that precise moment, half of our party has finally passed into drunk, having eaten nothing all day. I don't know if you have ever been around drunken, famished people, but it ain't pretty. Suddenly, the food arrives and a crisis is averted.
The busboy puts the overloaded tray on a table next to us and serves the first two dishes. Then, as he is turning, the entire tray cartwheels off the table and smears our curries, rice and naan into the carpet.
You would think this would put us at the top of the list to receive our food, but no dice. Fifteen minutes later, licking the plates clean, we finally see our waitress again. "Where's yo' food?" she asks, then lets it slip that no one told her we were the people whose food is now a permanent part of the decor (and A's purse).
Ten minutes later, we get one bowl of rice for four people, half the naan we ordered, our lamb curries and some random lentils. We have to ask for more rice and are charged for extra naan when the check comes ten minutes after we ask for it. Oh yeah, and this place damn expensive for poor folk.
Total time: 2 hours.
*40's and guitar hero, while totally awesome, do conjure images of white tanks and sweat stains
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
NaNo you selfish crab, give me back my weekend
So, despite having my bf's b-day, I managed to somehow crank out near 7,000 words this weekend of backstory. Turns out this little town is quite interesting and everyone's got drug problems and anger management issues. Pretty sweet huh. Still working on the backstory for the nemesis, but I promise there will be beheadings and swordplay!
Word Count: 17,520
Words to Goal: 7,485
New Word Goal: 25,005 (friday night 12am)
Words to end: 32,480
Word Count: 17,520
Words to Goal: 7,485
New Word Goal: 25,005 (friday night 12am)
Words to end: 32,480
Thursday, November 08, 2007
Me so tired...
Got a new word count. So, Vanna, tell them what the new total is!
Word Count: 10,733
Words to Goal: a million, or 7,604, whichever comes first
New Word Goal: 18,337 (sunday night 12am)
Words to end: 39,267
Woohoo! Wasn't sure I was ever going to pass the 10K mark.
Word Count: 10,733
Words to Goal: a million, or 7,604, whichever comes first
New Word Goal: 18,337 (sunday night 12am)
Words to end: 39,267
Woohoo! Wasn't sure I was ever going to pass the 10K mark.
me ate gator burger.
I have incorporated the soul of this scaly being and am now that much more powerful...
now more than the termites and William Scranton III will fear me.
now more than the termites and William Scranton III will fear me.
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
Haha I wrote something
Well, just when you pick up a big project, that's probably when life throws a bunch of lemons at you a little too hard and you wake up in a hospital bed two days later and realize you have missed your word count by a landslide. Was that last sentence a run-on? Or was it an amalgamation of mixed metaphors lengthy enough to throw even the most dedicated reader into a snoring stupor? Either way, it boils down to the fact that I take no responsibility in my lack of word count. It was the other guy's fault.
Word Count: 8,905
Words to Goal: a million, or 9,432, whichever comes first
New Word Goal: 18,337 (sunday night 12am)
Words to end: 41,095
I say damn! I gotta step on it. But most of my writing tonight was backstory that informs the frontstory and is worth, like, the weight of a hamster in gold.
Word Count: 8,905
Words to Goal: a million, or 9,432, whichever comes first
New Word Goal: 18,337 (sunday night 12am)
Words to end: 41,095
I say damn! I gotta step on it. But most of my writing tonight was backstory that informs the frontstory and is worth, like, the weight of a hamster in gold.
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
Ugh, with the time change
Everything else is peachy keen with that silly little thing call daylight savings. Sleeping in an extra fake hour because you forgot to go to sleep early -- totally awesome. Showing up to work late with your hair still in curlers because you pretended to forget about said time change -- priceless. Having your three hour novel class be extended to your muscle memory of 10:30 instead of 9:30 -- Absolute shite. However, the bonus of actually being in the class will be passed on to you via my world famous writing tips! (oh, and just a forewarning, my typing seems to be going the way of my stuttering, spluttering speech...down the crapper.)
******************************************
Writing tips 87A - Why adverbs suck.*
*Illustrated using the timeless device utilized by Animaniacs. Please view the following good idea/bad idea example in stick-figure vision
As my infinitely intelligent teacher said last night, the reason your adverbs suck is one of the following:
a) you use an adverb when you could be using more specific language
Bad idea: Johnny ran briskly.
Good idea: Johnny, the space cowboy, galloped along the uneven, ketchup-colored, terrain; peeking over his shoulder, he noticed the hoard of rabid space cows closing the distance.
******************************************
Writing tips 87A - Why adverbs suck.*
*Illustrated using the timeless device utilized by Animaniacs. Please view the following good idea/bad idea example in stick-figure vision
As my infinitely intelligent teacher said last night, the reason your adverbs suck is one of the following:
a) you use an adverb when you could be using more specific language
Bad idea: Johnny ran briskly.
Good idea: Johnny, the space cowboy, galloped along the uneven, ketchup-colored, terrain; peeking over his shoulder, he noticed the hoard of rabid space cows closing the distance.
b) you use an adverb to re-emphasize a point that was previously emphasized
Bad idea: Amy lightly sprinkled some poison stuff on her diary, covering it completely and thoroughly. She desperately wanted to know which person it was who had invaded her privacy so thoroughly and completely. If she knew, then she could quickly and efficiently hide her diary in a place that horrible person, that had so dastardly invaded her stuff, could not get to it, verily.
Good idea: Amy sprinkled anthrax on the front cover of her diary. Let's just see who falls first, she thought. Because, it was not a question of if, it was a question of when...
******************************************
Okay, I have more, but my mound of paperwork is teetering precariously.Monday, November 05, 2007
And the hare turns back into a turtle...
Well, despite my best inentions, I got less than 500 words yesterday. That puts me just shy of what I am supposed to be doing. This whole writing insane amounts is really hard when you are not sure what to be doing with your story. I am going to be putting up a new goal that is really optimistic and hard, but will only get me slightly higher than the minimum, 12,000 words by midnight Nov. 7th. This is hard for two reasons, one: I have a three hour class tonight and they will notice in a novel writing class if you are in fact novel writing and not participating; and two: I need sleep. I found out last week that I get really cranky when sleep dreprived. Now, I just need to figure a way to incorporate napping and writing without spouting out gibberish. Ideas are welcome, there's a box on the door if you don't feel comfortable speaking to me directly.
Word Count: 6,553
Words to Goal: 5,447
Words to end: 43,447
Word Count: 6,553
Words to Goal: 5,447
Words to end: 43,447
Saturday, November 03, 2007
Her first write-in! Awww.
I went to my first write in which was brilliant because it uses the double team of shame and peer pressure to urge you to write more.
I stayed an extra hour and a half to get over 6,000 words.
Word Count: 6,142
Words to Goal: 3, 858
Words to end: 43,858
I stayed an extra hour and a half to get over 6,000 words.
Word Count: 6,142
Words to Goal: 3, 858
Words to end: 43,858
Friday, November 02, 2007
NaNo Word Count
Too tired for anything else right now.
Word Count: 3,846
Words to Goal: 6,154
Words to end: 46,154
Word Count: 3,846
Words to Goal: 6,154
Words to end: 46,154
Ugly Betty Warning!
For those who have always wondered if something that is mostly silicone and bleach could be classified as a sentient life form, wait no longer! Guess whose guest starring as Wile's bridesmaid... Victoria Beckham!
Wonder who got hornswaggled into thinking that was a good idea?
I'm intrigued though, they have gotten so much out of the wooden Rebecca Romijn and TV movie staple Vanessa Williams, maybe they'll get a good bit out of her. Fingers crossed for no recurring roles though. Her mystic tan haunts my dreams. (I'm assuming it's mystic tan, although she could just marinate herself in Fanta overnight for the same effect.)
I'm rooting for her though, I have always been a fan of anthropomorphizing.
Wonder who got hornswaggled into thinking that was a good idea?
I'm intrigued though, they have gotten so much out of the wooden Rebecca Romijn and TV movie staple Vanessa Williams, maybe they'll get a good bit out of her. Fingers crossed for no recurring roles though. Her mystic tan haunts my dreams. (I'm assuming it's mystic tan, although she could just marinate herself in Fanta overnight for the same effect.)
I'm rooting for her though, I have always been a fan of anthropomorphizing.
This can't be! Can it?
Oh you lucky, lucky people. A second Ugly Betty Recap in nearly so many days!
Whoever thought that setting a sitcom to the score of Wicked would work out so darn well? Not only do we get to see Freddie Rodriguez harassing Betty to the Valley Girl lilt of Popular, we get to seethe with jealousy that Taye Diggs wife still looks gorgeous under sage colored, matte makeup. So, as a quick recap, because my friday is uncharacteristically stuffed with working to be done, I am just going to storm through. Mark totally disses his new boyfriend because he is just not mode-tastic, more closely resembling Seth Rogan and the Wookie population than homoerotic greek sculptures. He confesses to Amanda that he wuvs his fuzzy boytoy and doesn't want to end up sad and lonely like Wille who is unfortunately weeing within earshot. Did I mention Wile has to gain six pounds in a week? Nothing funnier than watching models eat under duress. Betty and Henry try to lie their way to forbidden love, but are so awkward and artless that their affair is a miserable flop. Only when Hilda reminds Betty that it could be worse, Henry could be pushing up daisies like Santos, do she finally do the reverse walk of shame to get her freak on to the strains of defying gravity. Oh yeah, and Daniel gets dumped by a cougar for having a brain. Didn't see that one coming.
Whoever thought that setting a sitcom to the score of Wicked would work out so darn well? Not only do we get to see Freddie Rodriguez harassing Betty to the Valley Girl lilt of Popular, we get to seethe with jealousy that Taye Diggs wife still looks gorgeous under sage colored, matte makeup. So, as a quick recap, because my friday is uncharacteristically stuffed with working to be done, I am just going to storm through. Mark totally disses his new boyfriend because he is just not mode-tastic, more closely resembling Seth Rogan and the Wookie population than homoerotic greek sculptures. He confesses to Amanda that he wuvs his fuzzy boytoy and doesn't want to end up sad and lonely like Wille who is unfortunately weeing within earshot. Did I mention Wile has to gain six pounds in a week? Nothing funnier than watching models eat under duress. Betty and Henry try to lie their way to forbidden love, but are so awkward and artless that their affair is a miserable flop. Only when Hilda reminds Betty that it could be worse, Henry could be pushing up daisies like Santos, do she finally do the reverse walk of shame to get her freak on to the strains of defying gravity. Oh yeah, and Daniel gets dumped by a cougar for having a brain. Didn't see that one coming.
Thursday, November 01, 2007
Hello NaNoWriMo!
You thought I wasn't going to answer the door because I was cowering from all those trick or treaters last night. But I did. And hell ya, after freezing a bit, I was able to get down 2,121 words of rambling in a brand new character. And shout out to P-Town cuz that's where I am writing about.
I'll set up an end of the week goal (sunday y'all) of ten thousand words because it is always a good idea to get a leg up on it for the week two slump.
Word Count: 2,121
Words to Goal: 7,879
Words to end: 47,879
I'll set up an end of the week goal (sunday y'all) of ten thousand words because it is always a good idea to get a leg up on it for the week two slump.
Word Count: 2,121
Words to Goal: 7,879
Words to end: 47,879
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Mode Madness!
Awww..the most adorable UglyBetty episode yet.
Mark curbkicks his underwear model for the most adorable hitchcock fan ever. Seriously, if my heart wasn't already surgically attached to Trent from Daria, I'd paste his poster on the ceiling over my bed. As it is, I'll only paint his likeness in acrylic and enter it in the county fair. Christina figures Betty will get over Henry if she can just quench the fire in her loins with a little internet dating. After a couple tries, Betty can only muster up a suitably sexy photo when staring at a ham sandwich. Hope she doesn't hook it up with someone kosher. A disastrous bowling date ensues; he ditches when she dries her pits on the hand blower thingy. I mean, ew. Henry wins her back by making up a story about a dead bird, dropping his silverware and finally getting some action on the awesome CGI brooklyn street where Betty dwelleth. Fish and Yoga nearly off the Meade family and Alexis finally gets over that pesky amnesia thing. Guess she'll start having to wear a bra again.
Back at the casa de Suarez, Hilda ignores her ailing son to quilt with ladies who are so old, they've climbed into their own graves and starting piling the dirt on themselves. Justin steals the family car, wraps it around a sycamore and gets his first ride home with the PoPos. Good thing Brooklyn has good mass transit, because the last time I counted, Betty was the only one with a job. And she don't makes much bones slaving for trust-fund-baby-cum-mode-wrecker Daniel.
Elsewheres, Wile is still scheming, Ignacio is underused and where is Amanda? Is she making out with that dog again in the love dungeon? Oh, and the scene between Hilda and Justin is totally hanky worthy. This show is even better than HIMYM at pulling the old heartstrings while being silly, stylized and slathered in Neon Green.
Mark curbkicks his underwear model for the most adorable hitchcock fan ever. Seriously, if my heart wasn't already surgically attached to Trent from Daria, I'd paste his poster on the ceiling over my bed. As it is, I'll only paint his likeness in acrylic and enter it in the county fair. Christina figures Betty will get over Henry if she can just quench the fire in her loins with a little internet dating. After a couple tries, Betty can only muster up a suitably sexy photo when staring at a ham sandwich. Hope she doesn't hook it up with someone kosher. A disastrous bowling date ensues; he ditches when she dries her pits on the hand blower thingy. I mean, ew. Henry wins her back by making up a story about a dead bird, dropping his silverware and finally getting some action on the awesome CGI brooklyn street where Betty dwelleth. Fish and Yoga nearly off the Meade family and Alexis finally gets over that pesky amnesia thing. Guess she'll start having to wear a bra again.
Back at the casa de Suarez, Hilda ignores her ailing son to quilt with ladies who are so old, they've climbed into their own graves and starting piling the dirt on themselves. Justin steals the family car, wraps it around a sycamore and gets his first ride home with the PoPos. Good thing Brooklyn has good mass transit, because the last time I counted, Betty was the only one with a job. And she don't makes much bones slaving for trust-fund-baby-cum-mode-wrecker Daniel.
Elsewheres, Wile is still scheming, Ignacio is underused and where is Amanda? Is she making out with that dog again in the love dungeon? Oh, and the scene between Hilda and Justin is totally hanky worthy. This show is even better than HIMYM at pulling the old heartstrings while being silly, stylized and slathered in Neon Green.
What we talk about when we talk about love....
Amanda: Ooh. maybe I'll stay here and mock you.
Mark: He's a 9. I'm an 8.
Amanda: He's a 10, you're a 6.
Mark: You're a bitch, I'm a 7.
Mark: He's a 9. I'm an 8.
Amanda: He's a 10, you're a 6.
Mark: You're a bitch, I'm a 7.
10...9...8...7
Well, the countdown is over. I only have a few more hours cowering in the dark, hoarding candy before the NaNoWriMo is upon me. Wish me luck.
And just to set the record straight, I am only hoarding the candy so I don't have to give it to those greedy, wandering heathens.
And just to set the record straight, I am only hoarding the candy so I don't have to give it to those greedy, wandering heathens.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Maxim names Fuglies!*
Maxim magazine stepped up its campaign to undermine/destroy all remaining traces of female self esteem today by posting its top "Unsexiest" list. Is this rag a plant by alien invaders to convince the gestating population to off themselves so they can terraform more easily?
#1 Goes to...wait for it...Carrie Bradshaw! Oh, sorry, I mean Sarah Jessica Parker.
Perhaps it is not sexy after all to be able to blend in with a crowd of malnourished six year olds. Whodathunk?
#2 Goes to Amy Winehouse.
I guess heroin chic really is over. And somewhere in the darkness Calvin Klein smashes a model in an apoplectic rage.
And, number quatro is crowned on the ex-queen of sleeze Madonna. Or is it Esther? And the reason is probably the harshest thing I have heard since Margaret Thatcher snarked on my widening ass. Maxim donned her “Willem Dafoe with hot flashes.” Ouch. But really, doesn't her faux British accent open her to any slights that should come her way? I rather think so.
*Is this something the male population really wants to start, because MissJaye might just start a "Tiny PeePee List" that will devastate the male Hollywood population.
#1 Goes to...wait for it...Carrie Bradshaw! Oh, sorry, I mean Sarah Jessica Parker.
Perhaps it is not sexy after all to be able to blend in with a crowd of malnourished six year olds. Whodathunk?
#2 Goes to Amy Winehouse.
I guess heroin chic really is over. And somewhere in the darkness Calvin Klein smashes a model in an apoplectic rage.
And, number quatro is crowned on the ex-queen of sleeze Madonna. Or is it Esther? And the reason is probably the harshest thing I have heard since Margaret Thatcher snarked on my widening ass. Maxim donned her “Willem Dafoe with hot flashes.” Ouch. But really, doesn't her faux British accent open her to any slights that should come her way? I rather think so.
*Is this something the male population really wants to start, because MissJaye might just start a "Tiny PeePee List" that will devastate the male Hollywood population.
Here I was going along thinking I wasn't a crazy person. Well, let me qualify "crazy" as in not drooling on a street corner crazy. It's already documented on many a government form and police record the other type of crazy. But, I guess I am closer to the foil hats and food sculpture than I thought according to this.
I was feeling all superior to all the stupid people who are superstitious. Really, aren't superstitions just social indicators of backwater upbringings and tussles in the hay with your second cousin?
That was...until I reached the bottom.
Apparently I am in the company of people such as this:
I have to go, this post is creeping me out.
I was feeling all superior to all the stupid people who are superstitious. Really, aren't superstitions just social indicators of backwater upbringings and tussles in the hay with your second cousin?
That was...until I reached the bottom.
The most admitted-to superstition, by 17 percent, was finding a four-leaf clover. Thirteen percent dread walking under a ladder or the groom seeing his bride before their wedding, while slightly smaller numbers named black cats, breaking mirrors, opening umbrellas indoors, Friday the 13th or the number 13.Awww...Miss Jaye is so guilty, guilty, guilty.
Apparently I am in the company of people such as this:
Those who dismissed the existence of ghosts include Morris Swadener, 66, a Navy retiree from Kingston, Wash.Okay, maybe I'm all prudish being an American and whatnot, but who the hell gave this kid a gun? Every time I thought I saw a ghost, I was tied to my bed by invisible fear ferrets. In order for this stupid zygote to get his hands on a firearm, it either had to be in his room, or, he had to venture through a ghost filled shanty to get pa's gun from the chicken coop. My money's on it been propped up next to the hayfilled bag with mysterious stains he called a bed. Nice parenting bitches. I'm sure the rest of that rat trap wasn't childproofed either.
He says he shot one with his rifle when he was a child.
"I woke up in the middle of the night and saw a white ghost in my closet," he said. "I discovered I'd put a hole in my brand new white shirt. My mother and father were not amused."
I have to go, this post is creeping me out.
An ode to Dr. Evil
We remember your humble beginnings from you heartwrenching speech in Austin Powers...Your words shook my soul.
The details of my life are quite inconsequential.... Very well, where do I begin? My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low-grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a 15-year-old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet. My father would womanize; he would drink. He would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Sometimes, he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy. The sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament... My childhood was typical: summers in Rangoon... luge lessons... In the spring, we'd make meat helmets... When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds — pretty standard, really. At the age of 12, I received my first scribe. At the age of 14, a Zoroastrian named Wilma ritualistically shaved my testicles — there really is nothing like a shorn scrotum — it's breathtaking... I suggest you try it.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Ever ditch a friend on accident?
I totally forgot to tune in to Ugly Betty last night and therefore can do no witty recap to rival TWOP's. My day is ruined.
However, since all of the major networks have started putting full episodes online I can just hop over to ABC.com and watch all the shows to my heart's content. Rotten thing tho, if you don't have broadband, you're totally screwed. How come I don't feel more sorry for you?
However, since all of the major networks have started putting full episodes online I can just hop over to ABC.com and watch all the shows to my heart's content. Rotten thing tho, if you don't have broadband, you're totally screwed. How come I don't feel more sorry for you?
I give better advice than this...
While stumbling throught he internet this morning, I banged my shin on a particularly unweildy webpage. As I sat on the floor, rubbing my injured knee, I happened to read the advice posted on this "Dear Margo" website thingy. This woman, Margo (who used to be Dear Prudence on Slate and never even once lived up to the Beatles song) admittedly has not earned this pedestal to spout her wisdom from. She doesn't even have those silly little letters at the end of her name (you know, the ones that differentiate her from real doctors). Her only credentials come from being the progeny of an agony aunt of old. And, as evidenced by my lack of ability to place an I.V. line, a parent's talents are not necessarily your own. Miss Margo proves this yet again with her sage advice to this reader.
The unfortunate and unimaginatively named K.L. wrote in with a husband who is clearly suffering from referred post-pardem psychosis. This is evidenced by his onset of germophobia, constantly bathing his dog's feet as if this were the bible, angry outbursts at family pets (did she even see Single White Female?), and belief in "homemade remedies". Obviously this guy is out of his frickin' mind and headed towards delusions of grandeur. She should check her accounts to make sure he hasn't withdrawn junior's college fund to start up a new branch of the Branch Dividians. That is, of course, unless she likes Texas and Kool-Aid. Then it's fine.
"Dear" Margo's only advice to her was to eventually boot the dog out the door and go see a pediatrician. Because no self-respecting crazy person is going to go against the advice of a doctor. You better make it a male doctor because it seems like homey don't like them chicks.
My advice to K.L. is to run far and fast before the husband get picked up yet again by his mothership. He is obviously an alien. I mean, really, home remedies? Tell E.T. that here in America, if you can't overdose on it, it ain't medicine.
The unfortunate and unimaginatively named K.L. wrote in with a husband who is clearly suffering from referred post-pardem psychosis. This is evidenced by his onset of germophobia, constantly bathing his dog's feet as if this were the bible, angry outbursts at family pets (did she even see Single White Female?), and belief in "homemade remedies". Obviously this guy is out of his frickin' mind and headed towards delusions of grandeur. She should check her accounts to make sure he hasn't withdrawn junior's college fund to start up a new branch of the Branch Dividians. That is, of course, unless she likes Texas and Kool-Aid. Then it's fine.
"Dear" Margo's only advice to her was to eventually boot the dog out the door and go see a pediatrician. Because no self-respecting crazy person is going to go against the advice of a doctor. You better make it a male doctor because it seems like homey don't like them chicks.
My advice to K.L. is to run far and fast before the husband get picked up yet again by his mothership. He is obviously an alien. I mean, really, home remedies? Tell E.T. that here in America, if you can't overdose on it, it ain't medicine.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Change my f-ing job already
If you're like me, you spend a lot of time on free websites trying to find a new career to siren call you to the rocks of job stability. You spend countless hours prodding and poking in the hopes that finding the perfect job that will cure you of your distressing apathy.
While leapfrogging through About.Com, I came upon an article delineating the 6 reasons I should consider a career change. They include: life change; negative job outlook; burnout; stress; boredom; and $$$$. I know what you're thinking, these broad, vague labels can cover just about any career malady that works you up enough to crawl all the way online from your cubicle. But given that About.Com is such a large, and therefore reputable, website, they must know of what they speak.
Or do they?
In reading this, I discovered a shocking dissonance between experience and recommendations about the job market. The assumes that you had once madly loved your chosen job and then, like that boy you dated from prep school, the love faded and he eventually fired you for falling asleep on the job (please spend the rest of your day turning that simile into multiple euphemisms). The essential mistake here is that the job market is some sort of genie that is actually granting our career wishes.
Not so! cries the masses.
There ain't no one I know chose the career they're in. No one got that chance. In the thousands of people that are in my first two degrees of separation, I can think of like ten people that are doing what they wanted. Everyone else clawed their way into something to pay the bills. Even then, the people who are doing "what they wanted" are doing it at some crap business they'd rather not be associated with. It's lose/lose right now for most. So I should probably just sit back and stop looking at the greener grass over yonder and start my filing.
*I am rather sorry for the qualitative decline in this post. If you need me to fix it, I will be over at craigslist.org trolling for a job.
While leapfrogging through About.Com, I came upon an article delineating the 6 reasons I should consider a career change. They include: life change; negative job outlook; burnout; stress; boredom; and $$$$. I know what you're thinking, these broad, vague labels can cover just about any career malady that works you up enough to crawl all the way online from your cubicle. But given that About.Com is such a large, and therefore reputable, website, they must know of what they speak.
Or do they?
In reading this, I discovered a shocking dissonance between experience and recommendations about the job market. The assumes that you had once madly loved your chosen job and then, like that boy you dated from prep school, the love faded and he eventually fired you for falling asleep on the job (please spend the rest of your day turning that simile into multiple euphemisms). The essential mistake here is that the job market is some sort of genie that is actually granting our career wishes.
Not so! cries the masses.
There ain't no one I know chose the career they're in. No one got that chance. In the thousands of people that are in my first two degrees of separation, I can think of like ten people that are doing what they wanted. Everyone else clawed their way into something to pay the bills. Even then, the people who are doing "what they wanted" are doing it at some crap business they'd rather not be associated with. It's lose/lose right now for most. So I should probably just sit back and stop looking at the greener grass over yonder and start my filing.
*I am rather sorry for the qualitative decline in this post. If you need me to fix it, I will be over at craigslist.org trolling for a job.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Corps and Copses
There's something inherently useless about forcing people to work when their county has been declared a national disaster area. No one is going to give a crap about the little things when people's houses are burning and you're looking every five minutes to see if your zone is being evacuated. What should really happen in these times is the companies that can afford it should ante up, put what amounts to chump change on the table and give some worried people some goddamn time off.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Monday, October 22, 2007
San Diego! You on fi-yare!
This reminds me of a lovely little cocktail party I attended on the lower east side of Eugene. Quite smashing really. A darling stump and ax set up for drunken revelers to try their hand at that quaint old art of lumberjacking. So chic! We were all taking a bit of air in the yard when an old dorm-mate of mine comes trotting out wearing the sacrificial head of the latest pinata. As he was strutting around, showing off his new animal head, someone (alas, I can not remember who) took a lighter to the back of his head and set the animal on fire. This dorm-mate continued his loud boasting while smoke start to rise from his topside-nether-regions.
The boy he was talking to screamed "Dude, you're on fire!"
He replied, swigging his beer. "I know!"
"No, dude! You're on fire!"
"I know!"
Then, apparently the heat finally traveled from his hat to his scalp and he squeaked like a monkey with it's tail caught in a meat grinder, threw the pinata hat into a five gallon bucket with two inches of water. Good sumaritan that I am, I stomped it down with my shoe and caught the hem of my ratty jeans on fire.
He stared in to the bucket that steamed with burnt pinata. "Dude, I was on fire."
"I know."
The boy he was talking to screamed "Dude, you're on fire!"
He replied, swigging his beer. "I know!"
"No, dude! You're on fire!"
"I know!"
Then, apparently the heat finally traveled from his hat to his scalp and he squeaked like a monkey with it's tail caught in a meat grinder, threw the pinata hat into a five gallon bucket with two inches of water. Good sumaritan that I am, I stomped it down with my shoe and caught the hem of my ratty jeans on fire.
He stared in to the bucket that steamed with burnt pinata. "Dude, I was on fire."
"I know."
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Writer's block
I'll give 5 whole dollars to anyone who can convince me that it is easy to write 8 pages when you have to hand them over to 25 judgmental peers the next morning. I am up for anything up to and including, hypnosis; chemically induced delusions of grandeur; a "miracle elixir" sold from the back of a traveling caravan. I would prefer the elixir, preferably in a brown medicine bottle with a handwritten label.
Okay. I'll go as high as six dollars. But it better be good.
Okay. I'll go as high as six dollars. But it better be good.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Ugly Betty, the American Telenovela!
I give this episode a C+ on the Mode Meter, although against almost anything else on TV, it's still an A. The main story sucked and I am so over the accountant who, incidentally, got crowned "baby daddy" this week. Victor Garber intimidates like a mo'fo' from his post as High J. School inquisitor. And his bitchy aside about gambling away his pulitzer money made me want to squeeze his cheeks more than I wanted to when he was on "Alias". James Van der Beek plays a throwaway character who can't stand post-op tranny's (on the bright side, it seems he's grown in to his forehead). Betty lies, cheats and steals. Daniel and Alexis share many awkward and slightly touching moments next to the urinals. Jason makes out with a girl while drunk even though he's only like 12. This is going to be his "ugh, when I pretended to be straight story" when he comes out in college with his musical theater degree. They certainly are letting him get away with a lot. I mean his dad died like 4 episodes ago.
But, the bright shining star of this episode was Amanda, who, somehow stole the show in the middle of last season and stubbornly refuses to give it up. Now, she must disect an ancient studio 54 random sex pattern to unmask her real father. I smell cameos!
But, the bright shining star of this episode was Amanda, who, somehow stole the show in the middle of last season and stubbornly refuses to give it up. Now, she must disect an ancient studio 54 random sex pattern to unmask her real father. I smell cameos!
A/P style despises me
I apologize for the grammar of the last post. It is amazing how much you grammar suffers when you are forced to switch from blogger to a spreadsheet every time someone walks in your office. I shall leave them here for nostalgia's sake.
P.S. I totally won a dictionary bet regarding the word "auxilliary" on wedensday.
Jaye: 1
S: 0
P.S. I totally won a dictionary bet regarding the word "auxilliary" on wedensday.
Jaye: 1
S: 0
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Q & A
“How was your weekend?”
“Fine, I didn’t do anything. You know, but fine. I mean really, what is there to do?” (uncomfortable laugh)
Why are they still here? “So, you do anything?”
“Went to vegas. Why didn’t you do anything?”
Uncomfortable pause.
This pause is only uncomfortable because I can’t tell the truth. The truth would go something like so.
“No. No, I didn't go anywhere. You wanna know why? This is why. Because I hate people. I hate being around them, I hate driving next to them. I hate traffic. I hate waiting for it to die down. I hate trendy places, non-trendy places, the next big thing, “so last week”, and dives. I hate parking. I hate not parking. I hate driving around the same block for the 17th time, riding someone’s bumper and scaring pedestrians because I don’t want to pay $27 to parking in a godforsaken parking garage to go to some lame club where everyone is judging me by the size of my non-mystic-tanned-ass. I hate hair extensions, bitch drinks, and cover charges. I hate waiting for an hour for overpriced table scraps and gorging in the middle of a crowded restaurant next to two losers on a blind date pretend her diatribe about how she’s the best interior decorator on the west coast is fucking crap because it looks like a colorblind backup dancer picked out her outfit. That’s right honey, he’s just trying to get in your pants.”
Okay, and there’s no way you can actually say that without salivating and having to wipe the spit on the back of your hand.
There are also other statements/questions that resemble the “how was your weekend” question that require similar responses. Questions such as “whatcha doin’ this weekend?”, month early queries on my plans for holidays that are repeated twice daily, and anouncements that it is almost Friday give me the same aneurysm. This is compounded by the fact that up to 85 people can ask me these questions with varied understanding of the English language. So, instead of throwing myself from the control tower of the airport across the desolate flightline that comprises the view from my office in a rented trailer stuck in the middle of a vast, endless parking lot, I’ve just decided to lie my ass off.
I have already told various people that I have been to Morocco over the weekend, staged a coup and invented a new kind of jet fuel. I shall keep you comprised of the details until my lying reaches such grandiose proportions that I am hunted by homeland security and stored in my rightful place in a storage locker in Gitmo.
“Fine, I didn’t do anything. You know, but fine. I mean really, what is there to do?” (uncomfortable laugh)
Why are they still here? “So, you do anything?”
“Went to vegas. Why didn’t you do anything?”
Uncomfortable pause.
This pause is only uncomfortable because I can’t tell the truth. The truth would go something like so.
“No. No, I didn't go anywhere. You wanna know why? This is why. Because I hate people. I hate being around them, I hate driving next to them. I hate traffic. I hate waiting for it to die down. I hate trendy places, non-trendy places, the next big thing, “so last week”, and dives. I hate parking. I hate not parking. I hate driving around the same block for the 17th time, riding someone’s bumper and scaring pedestrians because I don’t want to pay $27 to parking in a godforsaken parking garage to go to some lame club where everyone is judging me by the size of my non-mystic-tanned-ass. I hate hair extensions, bitch drinks, and cover charges. I hate waiting for an hour for overpriced table scraps and gorging in the middle of a crowded restaurant next to two losers on a blind date pretend her diatribe about how she’s the best interior decorator on the west coast is fucking crap because it looks like a colorblind backup dancer picked out her outfit. That’s right honey, he’s just trying to get in your pants.”
Okay, and there’s no way you can actually say that without salivating and having to wipe the spit on the back of your hand.
There are also other statements/questions that resemble the “how was your weekend” question that require similar responses. Questions such as “whatcha doin’ this weekend?”, month early queries on my plans for holidays that are repeated twice daily, and anouncements that it is almost Friday give me the same aneurysm. This is compounded by the fact that up to 85 people can ask me these questions with varied understanding of the English language. So, instead of throwing myself from the control tower of the airport across the desolate flightline that comprises the view from my office in a rented trailer stuck in the middle of a vast, endless parking lot, I’ve just decided to lie my ass off.
I have already told various people that I have been to Morocco over the weekend, staged a coup and invented a new kind of jet fuel. I shall keep you comprised of the details until my lying reaches such grandiose proportions that I am hunted by homeland security and stored in my rightful place in a storage locker in Gitmo.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Vivacity on the Punk Tip
Writing tips #3 (or four, who can count that high?)
Last night's class was pure madness. After the smoke cleared and the "officers" left the area back to the reigning troglodyte, we pulled up our chairs (those who had chairs left) and sorted through the wreckage of our notes for useful suggestions.
Tip #427
Your story sucks and your main character keeps getting in the way of things. Every time the camera zooms in and there's some action, you can see her in the bottom of the frame, painting her nails or something. Egomanical slopbucket that she is, your going to have to get rough with her if you want her to learn her lesson. So, take a baseball bat, or a particularly vivid shade of red pen and fight her back until she is crying in the corner.
Bad Ex: Shanna thought she might get in trouble.
Good Ex: I reached back like a pimp and I slapped the ho.
There will be more once I can raise the bones for a nasty little ransom on my baby blue messenger bag. Donations Accepted.
Last night's class was pure madness. After the smoke cleared and the "officers" left the area back to the reigning troglodyte, we pulled up our chairs (those who had chairs left) and sorted through the wreckage of our notes for useful suggestions.
Tip #427
Your story sucks and your main character keeps getting in the way of things. Every time the camera zooms in and there's some action, you can see her in the bottom of the frame, painting her nails or something. Egomanical slopbucket that she is, your going to have to get rough with her if you want her to learn her lesson. So, take a baseball bat, or a particularly vivid shade of red pen and fight her back until she is crying in the corner.
Bad Ex: Shanna thought she might get in trouble.
Good Ex: I reached back like a pimp and I slapped the ho.
There will be more once I can raise the bones for a nasty little ransom on my baby blue messenger bag. Donations Accepted.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Writing Tips #2
Tip #1
"I would never write about someone who is not at the end of his rope." -Stanley Elkin
Damn fine point, Mr. Elkin. Why would we want an account of someone in the mid-rope range? So get out there, shove all of your characters to the end bit and start pushing them toward a cliff. I am currently doing this to the flat, boring nemesis of my novel and just realized I know nothing about her.
This quote was acquired from the lovely little required book for my novel class: The Plot Thickens by Noah Lukeman.
Tip #2
Don't let your novel get all dressed up with nowhere to go. My common problem, and apparently the problem of many writers in pompous MFA programs (per this book I am reading, The Portable MFA)is to sacrifice plot for the sake of pretty language. Being that most of my previous catalogue has less plot than the back of a cereal box, this tip pretty much excludes most of it from being technically classified as writing.
Tip #3
(Pulled from the Kidd Tutorial, which could use a massive overhaul) Don't ever, ever, ever use words for their archaic meanings. Unless, of course, your novel quotes an ancient text which your hot archaeologist will explain to the busty intern to get in her pants and save the world (isn't that the plot of Librarian III?). Looking up words in the dictionary and using the fourteenth definition down for the verb of your seven word poem does not make you smart or deconstructivist or whatever you were going for. It just shows everyone that rather than going for something worth reading, you spent your saturday night reading the dictionary while the rest of us were chugging brewskis.
Tip #4
Find a nemesis. Chances are, you have read at least one novel that has personally offended you by its existence. Now, set out to prove that you are better than him/her. And, hopefully, you will eventually gain enough clout in the publishing world to personally destroy the dreaded author's career. This was the motivation I needed to get my art show.
Update!
"I would never write about someone who is not at the end of his rope." -Stanley Elkin
Damn fine point, Mr. Elkin. Why would we want an account of someone in the mid-rope range? So get out there, shove all of your characters to the end bit and start pushing them toward a cliff. I am currently doing this to the flat, boring nemesis of my novel and just realized I know nothing about her.
This quote was acquired from the lovely little required book for my novel class: The Plot Thickens by Noah Lukeman.
Tip #2
Don't let your novel get all dressed up with nowhere to go. My common problem, and apparently the problem of many writers in pompous MFA programs (per this book I am reading, The Portable MFA)is to sacrifice plot for the sake of pretty language. Being that most of my previous catalogue has less plot than the back of a cereal box, this tip pretty much excludes most of it from being technically classified as writing.
Tip #3
(Pulled from the Kidd Tutorial, which could use a massive overhaul) Don't ever, ever, ever use words for their archaic meanings. Unless, of course, your novel quotes an ancient text which your hot archaeologist will explain to the busty intern to get in her pants and save the world (isn't that the plot of Librarian III?). Looking up words in the dictionary and using the fourteenth definition down for the verb of your seven word poem does not make you smart or deconstructivist or whatever you were going for. It just shows everyone that rather than going for something worth reading, you spent your saturday night reading the dictionary while the rest of us were chugging brewskis.
Tip #4
Find a nemesis. Chances are, you have read at least one novel that has personally offended you by its existence. Now, set out to prove that you are better than him/her. And, hopefully, you will eventually gain enough clout in the publishing world to personally destroy the dreaded author's career. This was the motivation I needed to get my art show.
Update!
November Madness
I must be off my frickin' rocker because I have decided to do NaNoWrimo this year during it's actual month. You can check out my previous anxiety attacks about this on previous postings. Probably anything with profanity in the title and a word count at the bottom refers to my last writing catastrophe. Or to my court appearance.
Everyone who knows me intimately can now look forward to bitchiness and incoherent ramblings. Well...you know, more than usual.
Countdown to November starts now:
Days 'til the madness ensues: 17
(I'm just warming up for my word count marathon)
Everyone who knows me intimately can now look forward to bitchiness and incoherent ramblings. Well...you know, more than usual.
Countdown to November starts now:
Days 'til the madness ensues: 17
(I'm just warming up for my word count marathon)
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Update: Dancing to lil' wayne in indecent fashion finally pays off for SoCal Woman
What's that up there? Is god crying?
No, little tommy, god is pouring one for his homies over southern california.
No, little tommy, god is pouring one for his homies over southern california.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Someone out there wants to do something stupid...
And you know who you are.
Polyphasic sleep may sound like a rash, but actually, it is an insane experiment in sleep deprivation and will power. And someone who really admires Napoleon is about to do it (it would be more effective in publicly pronouncing your love if you wore a blue bustier with gold trim and stuck your hand down your shirt, but, to each his own). Since I have a miserable track record in both sleep deprivation and will power, we will just have to pretend that I did the experiment so I can publish the results for my foolhardy first cousin twice removed, backed up once to reverse niece status, or as we shall call her henceforth "Jenni".
Day 1 -
I accidentally slept through the first 3 alarms I set, set fire to my hair with a hair dryer that wasn't even plugged in and stubbed my toe trying to kick my door down when I dropped my keys down the storm drain I was trying to clean with a toilet brush. I think today went rather well.
Day 5 -
My mind has entered a new realm of existence. I now know that the only way to world peace is through the cunning use of double negatives and twine. I have started keeping super secret video diaries in a language I have fashioned entirely from gutteral noises and finger gestures.
Day 12 -
The sound of the follicles falling from the skin of my cat grates on my nerves. The cat is less happy since being shaved, but I have been able to take off my earmuffs for moments at a time. I have also begun to run my neighbor's errands since their incessant bickering over the large scale rocket I am building in my backyard has begun to overpower my will to live. Having a slave has calmed them somewhat.
Day 17 -
The wife was out of hemmorhoid cream. I must find a new place to live. I have been scouting caves in the remote regions of the Appalachians.
Day 31 -
My cat ran away. This cave is a bit lonely. I have decided to forego sleep altogether to make my true breakthough.
Day 35 -
The hallucinations have started. Who knew I would be Admiral of my own private army of tree people? We march on Washington tonight.
Day 47 -
I decided to build my very own flying machine. While testing it today, I died from birdstrike.
See, the dangers of Polyphasic Sleep are very real. However, if you happen to turn in to a dictator of the finest quality, please remember that I was always behind this. You're really great, you are. Super-fantastic.
Awesome.
Please don't hurt me.
Polyphasic sleep may sound like a rash, but actually, it is an insane experiment in sleep deprivation and will power. And someone who really admires Napoleon is about to do it (it would be more effective in publicly pronouncing your love if you wore a blue bustier with gold trim and stuck your hand down your shirt, but, to each his own). Since I have a miserable track record in both sleep deprivation and will power, we will just have to pretend that I did the experiment so I can publish the results for my foolhardy first cousin twice removed, backed up once to reverse niece status, or as we shall call her henceforth "Jenni".
Day 1 -
I accidentally slept through the first 3 alarms I set, set fire to my hair with a hair dryer that wasn't even plugged in and stubbed my toe trying to kick my door down when I dropped my keys down the storm drain I was trying to clean with a toilet brush. I think today went rather well.
Day 5 -
My mind has entered a new realm of existence. I now know that the only way to world peace is through the cunning use of double negatives and twine. I have started keeping super secret video diaries in a language I have fashioned entirely from gutteral noises and finger gestures.
Day 12 -
The sound of the follicles falling from the skin of my cat grates on my nerves. The cat is less happy since being shaved, but I have been able to take off my earmuffs for moments at a time. I have also begun to run my neighbor's errands since their incessant bickering over the large scale rocket I am building in my backyard has begun to overpower my will to live. Having a slave has calmed them somewhat.
Day 17 -
The wife was out of hemmorhoid cream. I must find a new place to live. I have been scouting caves in the remote regions of the Appalachians.
Day 31 -
My cat ran away. This cave is a bit lonely. I have decided to forego sleep altogether to make my true breakthough.
Day 35 -
The hallucinations have started. Who knew I would be Admiral of my own private army of tree people? We march on Washington tonight.
Day 47 -
I decided to build my very own flying machine. While testing it today, I died from birdstrike.
See, the dangers of Polyphasic Sleep are very real. However, if you happen to turn in to a dictator of the finest quality, please remember that I was always behind this. You're really great, you are. Super-fantastic.
Awesome.
Please don't hurt me.
Writing Tips from the writing class
These are the gems I have acquired so far. Write this down.
Tip #1: Your book (if it has multiple characters) is only as good as the interaction between those characters. So, if you find yourself between a bitch and a skankplace, change them hos. They don't play nice.
Tip #2: You have to make it clear from the first bit what is at stake for little Molly with the false leg. Have someone take it away in the first page so she can spend the rest of the 400 pages trying to get it back.
Tip #3: Don't let your main character disappear from a scene he is in. We're not going to see him getting drunk on cough syrup at a bar mitzvah if we don't follow him to the toilet to watch him pee sitting down.
Tip #4: Don't use cliche's. You will get all red faced when everyone knows your character intimately and has already crosssed them off their xmas card list. Baby jesus doesn't like having boring people at his party. And neither do we.
Tip #1: Your book (if it has multiple characters) is only as good as the interaction between those characters. So, if you find yourself between a bitch and a skankplace, change them hos. They don't play nice.
Tip #2: You have to make it clear from the first bit what is at stake for little Molly with the false leg. Have someone take it away in the first page so she can spend the rest of the 400 pages trying to get it back.
Tip #3: Don't let your main character disappear from a scene he is in. We're not going to see him getting drunk on cough syrup at a bar mitzvah if we don't follow him to the toilet to watch him pee sitting down.
Tip #4: Don't use cliche's. You will get all red faced when everyone knows your character intimately and has already crosssed them off their xmas card list. Baby jesus doesn't like having boring people at his party. And neither do we.
Ugly Betty Update!
Henry's hung over on wine coolers and antihistamines (who hasn't been there?). And if he doesn't channel his temper towards someone other than the ModeWhores, he's about to get laid more than a skanky gorilla. Charlie's back in some flyover state carrying either the spawn of a spineless accountant or a mildly unattractive dentist. Oh, and she's so busted for cheating. Unfortunately the chemistry is off on Willy and her bottom feeder. Did they accidentally have hetero-sex this summer and botch their codenpendency? The blond stick nudes it up on the red carpet! Murder! Mayhem! And, the tranny's not much fun since she stopped being a bitch.
Stay Tuned!
Stay Tuned!
Friday, October 05, 2007
The answering machine will get it
I am going to be in the poconos this weekend for the annual coconut harvest. I suggest all of those who plan on telemarketing my number this weekend leave a brief and detailed message so I can return your call later.
Thank you,
Jaye, M. Esq.
Thank you,
Jaye, M. Esq.
Thursday, October 04, 2007
I felt guilty about the lobster. Just a little.
I got my first crack at crab legs in a while last night. It’s pretty easy to distract people from what you are saying when you are waving four connected twelve inch claws, a tiny fork and a nutcracker in the air. So, just to recap the night’s business proceedings the following things were decided:
1. My father has named me the sole beneficiary of his will and offshore tax shelters (including those in Thailand).
2. J – I have your power of attorney.
3. R and S.P. have agreed to join the circus for the foreseeable future.
4. Oh, and I got our waiter’s license and registration should a getaway car be needed. Any suggestions on what to do with an ’89 datsun?
1. My father has named me the sole beneficiary of his will and offshore tax shelters (including those in Thailand).
2. J – I have your power of attorney.
3. R and S.P. have agreed to join the circus for the foreseeable future.
4. Oh, and I got our waiter’s license and registration should a getaway car be needed. Any suggestions on what to do with an ’89 datsun?
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
To: The Fiery Haired thorn in my side
I would like to give a shout out to Danielle Oz who has managed to make my life seem even more boring than usual. Congrats on the pilot! Break a leg and all that.
(Just to make everyone else feel worse about themselves as well, I will inform you that she will be paid to sit pretty in a bar and make fun of people. Life is so unfair.)
(Just to make everyone else feel worse about themselves as well, I will inform you that she will be paid to sit pretty in a bar and make fun of people. Life is so unfair.)
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
Homework
Last week I had to deal with the first large amount of homework I have had in about a year. It's always suprising how deer in the headlights it makes you feel to know that you are actually paying someone to make your life harder.
After hemming and hawing for, oh, about 5 days, I finally sat my ass down and wrote. Do you know what the crazy thing is? My blog actually helped. The very thing I had vowed would never help a living thing has helped little ol' me. Not that it would admit to helping me. It would rather eat metal shavings in an undercooked flan.
Back to Saturday...
After defacing some school property, I sat down and had a little "me" time with a gin and tonic, called forth the spirit of truman capote and tried to get some words down before my vision started to blur and I fell of my chair. Okay, maybe I didn't, but it sounds more literary than "i got up early and stared at my laptop for 3 hours before leaving to marathon scrubs, yet again."
I am so sick of J.D. and his overstuffed pillow lips. Why are they so red and shiny?
So, after twenty hours straight of worrying about 8 tiny little pages, I hit up kinko's for some mindboggling copying and showed up ten minutes late for class despite breaking the speed limit by several prime numbers.
Here comes the part where the blog helped... wait for it... wait for it...
Then, this girl in class started lamenting the fact that she couldn't get her character to do anything. She pushed and nudged and prodded and finally whacked it in the back of the head with a canoe paddle, but it still refused to budge. And I realized an actual rule for characterization, which I told to the whole class while stuttering and spurting out the wrong nouns.
Now!
It's a given that you will relate to your main character in some way, but in the beginning you may have trouble separating the character from yourself enough to differ what their actions will be and the actions you would make in the same situtation. If you find yourself with a stuck character just make a list of ten things that you would not do in that situation and try one of those for your character. If this does not free your character up, then maybe you are just a bad writer.
After hemming and hawing for, oh, about 5 days, I finally sat my ass down and wrote. Do you know what the crazy thing is? My blog actually helped. The very thing I had vowed would never help a living thing has helped little ol' me. Not that it would admit to helping me. It would rather eat metal shavings in an undercooked flan.
Back to Saturday...
After defacing some school property, I sat down and had a little "me" time with a gin and tonic, called forth the spirit of truman capote and tried to get some words down before my vision started to blur and I fell of my chair. Okay, maybe I didn't, but it sounds more literary than "i got up early and stared at my laptop for 3 hours before leaving to marathon scrubs, yet again."
I am so sick of J.D. and his overstuffed pillow lips. Why are they so red and shiny?
So, after twenty hours straight of worrying about 8 tiny little pages, I hit up kinko's for some mindboggling copying and showed up ten minutes late for class despite breaking the speed limit by several prime numbers.
Here comes the part where the blog helped... wait for it... wait for it...
Then, this girl in class started lamenting the fact that she couldn't get her character to do anything. She pushed and nudged and prodded and finally whacked it in the back of the head with a canoe paddle, but it still refused to budge. And I realized an actual rule for characterization, which I told to the whole class while stuttering and spurting out the wrong nouns.
Now!
It's a given that you will relate to your main character in some way, but in the beginning you may have trouble separating the character from yourself enough to differ what their actions will be and the actions you would make in the same situtation. If you find yourself with a stuck character just make a list of ten things that you would not do in that situation and try one of those for your character. If this does not free your character up, then maybe you are just a bad writer.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Petraeus
In an effort to get my ever-expanding ass off the couch, I have signed up for a class. Sure, you say, I have tried this before and dropped. Didn't I sign up for both Soccer and Piano last term and drop within hours? Didn't I even walk out of the piano class halfway through, after a quick speech about how I was too poor, because I couldn't be bothered? Haven't I signed up for, and subsequently dropped, half of the community college catalogue? The answer is, unfortunately, yes.
Walking on to a community college campus may be uplifting for some. But to me, the whole thing looks like a run down high school for the most populated class on Earth. Sure, they try to cover up the concrete walls with interesting architecture, and you know that everyone there (per advertising) has a burning will to learn and endless potential. But the whole thing smells, tastes, and feels like high school. I hated high school. And no matter how much I want to learn and get motivated / improve myself, there is no way in hell you can get me back there. If I had to do it all over again, you can be damn sure I would be one of the girls smoking in the bathroom and starting fights with the band geeks. I have learned that all the shit we put up with in high school is simply not necessary. Since I am older and wiser now, I have realized there are several things I would do if a genie sent me back to that evilness. For your convenience I have fashioned a list.
Things I should have done in high school:
1. Punched out one, or several, of my coaches for being ass faces (before I turned 18, of course.)
2. Bilked a student association out of a grand of tax free profit pocket money. (wait, I did that. no, i didn't steal it.)
3. Sued my principal just for fun.
4. Smoked on campus and then run from the cops through freshly falling snow that covered my tracks.
5. Defaced the school mascot.
6. Engaged in hijinks.
7. Set fire to the football field the night before homecoming.
8. Did the nasty with Christian Slater after he fired blanks in the caf.
9. Spiked the cafeteria food with hallucinogens.
10. Skipped every day save for assembly days when I would hide and smoke in the bathrooms with other malcontents.
Given that I have such an extensive list of things to do should I go back to high school, and Community College is so similar, it stands to reason that I am too busy to get all of this done and must therefore forfeit my place in the class. Really, it will be a relief to the principal/dean of said institution.
Walking on to a community college campus may be uplifting for some. But to me, the whole thing looks like a run down high school for the most populated class on Earth. Sure, they try to cover up the concrete walls with interesting architecture, and you know that everyone there (per advertising) has a burning will to learn and endless potential. But the whole thing smells, tastes, and feels like high school. I hated high school. And no matter how much I want to learn and get motivated / improve myself, there is no way in hell you can get me back there. If I had to do it all over again, you can be damn sure I would be one of the girls smoking in the bathroom and starting fights with the band geeks. I have learned that all the shit we put up with in high school is simply not necessary. Since I am older and wiser now, I have realized there are several things I would do if a genie sent me back to that evilness. For your convenience I have fashioned a list.
Things I should have done in high school:
1. Punched out one, or several, of my coaches for being ass faces (before I turned 18, of course.)
2. Bilked a student association out of a grand of tax free profit pocket money. (wait, I did that. no, i didn't steal it.)
3. Sued my principal just for fun.
4. Smoked on campus and then run from the cops through freshly falling snow that covered my tracks.
5. Defaced the school mascot.
6. Engaged in hijinks.
7. Set fire to the football field the night before homecoming.
8. Did the nasty with Christian Slater after he fired blanks in the caf.
9. Spiked the cafeteria food with hallucinogens.
10. Skipped every day save for assembly days when I would hide and smoke in the bathrooms with other malcontents.
Given that I have such an extensive list of things to do should I go back to high school, and Community College is so similar, it stands to reason that I am too busy to get all of this done and must therefore forfeit my place in the class. Really, it will be a relief to the principal/dean of said institution.
Dear...
Dear Blog,
I am very sorry that this past year has been riddled with dry spells and avoidance. I promise in the future to follow through with my pledge to ignore work in a more productive fashion.
More or less Sincerely,
M Jaye
I am very sorry that this past year has been riddled with dry spells and avoidance. I promise in the future to follow through with my pledge to ignore work in a more productive fashion.
More or less Sincerely,
M Jaye
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Quarterlife Crises
seems to me that our specific generation is in perpetual crises. perhaps it is the youth that being only 26 affords me, but me and mine, we always seem to be on the edge of a cliff or straddling an oblivion that threatens to overwhelm us. and everyone you talk to, no matter what age, we've deemed it socially relevant but naming it a crisis. For those who graduate college, there's the depression and m&m's crisis that marks the overwhelming knowledge that you have to go out in the real world for the first time in your life. And once you've finally righted yourself from that catastrophe, you've got the quarterlife crisis which peaks on your twenty-fifth birthday and makes you realize you're finally old enough to mark you life in percentages. This blends nicely in to the 10th year reunion crisis where you decide that nothing you have accomplished in your life is enough to go back and face those who tortured you/you tortured. This, of course, blends seamlessly with the I am turning 30 and now am supposed to be responsible meltdown... All of them, seemingly unrelated and revolving around specific life events have one thing in common: the perpetual feeling that this isn't what it was supposed to be. Somewhere along the way, it all turned to shit and most likely the damn thing was hollow to begin with.
Maybe it is the fact that we were brought up with such high expectations. We came of age when millionaires were made overnight with little to no training. We all expected that silicone valley rush to the top. The ease of it all. We figure, as long as I have my website, or do this one other thing, it will be fine, I will be set for life. But that won't happen for most of us. And with increasing debt and cost of living, we're clinging even more tightly to the dream of hitting the one big thing that will land us our cushy life once and for all. I sure as hell want that. But then you start to get older, and your back starts hurting and you start settling lower and lower. You start bargaining with your dreams which one will you sacrifice first. And after the first one goes, the second.
I guess I am just maudlin today. Perhaps I have indigestion.
Maybe it is the fact that we were brought up with such high expectations. We came of age when millionaires were made overnight with little to no training. We all expected that silicone valley rush to the top. The ease of it all. We figure, as long as I have my website, or do this one other thing, it will be fine, I will be set for life. But that won't happen for most of us. And with increasing debt and cost of living, we're clinging even more tightly to the dream of hitting the one big thing that will land us our cushy life once and for all. I sure as hell want that. But then you start to get older, and your back starts hurting and you start settling lower and lower. You start bargaining with your dreams which one will you sacrifice first. And after the first one goes, the second.
I guess I am just maudlin today. Perhaps I have indigestion.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
F the war
It seems that when my opinion of the so-called "war on terror" can sink no lower, they always surprise me and add yet another dimension of fucked up-ness.
Seems like really good idea to reinstate the draft on the war with the least public support since the Spanish Inquisition. Which, if you take in to account the torture, rampant idealism, persecution of idealists and unchecked abuse of power, this war is really starting to resemble. I think that they only leaked this proposal on NPR so they could judge the sort of public outcry they would get. And, given that this new advisor is only a few months old, Bush could abort him in a sacrificial goat sort of way to save the administration should he come under fire.
The only thing that has saved us from this in the past was bra-burning and rock music. Oh, and rampant drug use, interracial crises and jimi hendrix. We must draw on the sixties and seventies if we want to get ourselve sout of Iraq. So, come on people, smile on eachother, and send some hate mail to the big white house on a hill.
(info courtesy of:huff po)
Frequent tours for U.S. forces in Iraq and Afghanistan have stressed the all-volunteer force and made it worth considering a return to a military draft, President Bush's new war adviser said Friday.
Seems like really good idea to reinstate the draft on the war with the least public support since the Spanish Inquisition. Which, if you take in to account the torture, rampant idealism, persecution of idealists and unchecked abuse of power, this war is really starting to resemble. I think that they only leaked this proposal on NPR so they could judge the sort of public outcry they would get. And, given that this new advisor is only a few months old, Bush could abort him in a sacrificial goat sort of way to save the administration should he come under fire.
President Nixon abolished the draft in 1973. Restoring it, Lute said, would be a "major policy shift" and Bush has made it clear that he doesn't think it's necessary.I think the President should really be weighing his options more carefully if he's reinstating policies that Nixon decided was too evil for his administration (which was armed solely with horns and pitchforks).
The only thing that has saved us from this in the past was bra-burning and rock music. Oh, and rampant drug use, interracial crises and jimi hendrix. We must draw on the sixties and seventies if we want to get ourselve sout of Iraq. So, come on people, smile on eachother, and send some hate mail to the big white house on a hill.
(info courtesy of:huff po)
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
p.s.
UPDATE: screw the book. the book is dead. i'd rather fall on my boyfriend's ceremonial head-cutting sword than try to make that thing in to a book again. and thus with my avid declaration of hate, my interest i once again piqued.
i have to get a therapist.
i have to get a therapist.
{ yawn }
and she crawls out of her cave ready to face a bright new day...
hello there spawndevils. it would appear I have been having a bit of a nap for the last couple hours...months, maybe years, I'm too bleary eyed to read the clock. It seems due time I should strike up my correspondence with the nether regions of ethernet once again. I hereby swear torture to those who have pushed the "next blog" button one too many times and fallen on my asscrack of a page. and if you ain't having it, piss off and push the button again. this time it'll be porn. i swear.
seems i am in a confrontational mood. would anyone care for a joust?
hello there spawndevils. it would appear I have been having a bit of a nap for the last couple hours...months, maybe years, I'm too bleary eyed to read the clock. It seems due time I should strike up my correspondence with the nether regions of ethernet once again. I hereby swear torture to those who have pushed the "next blog" button one too many times and fallen on my asscrack of a page. and if you ain't having it, piss off and push the button again. this time it'll be porn. i swear.
seems i am in a confrontational mood. would anyone care for a joust?
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I finally tracked down my nemesis book. It took some doing, but here is the plot synopsis for Jane Heller's Female Intelligence:
A contemporary comedy of manners, Female Intelligence is a social satire about the way men and women communicate - or don't. Dr. Lynn Wyman has a wildly successful practice in sensitivity training, instructing men how to become fluent in the language of Womenspeak so they can relate better to the women in their lives. She teaches them how to ask for directions, how to participate in "active listening" and how to say, "How was your day?" With thousands of satisfied clients, numerous talk show appearances and a bestselling book, Lynn Wyman is at the top of her game. But when Lynn's personal life suddenly becomes the stuff of tabloids and her professional reputation is sullied, she must do something - anything - to resurrect her career. After spotting macho CEO Brandon Brock on the cover of Fortune magazine's "America's Toughest Bosses" issue, she bets her friends that, by tinkering with his words, by adjusting his speech patterns, by putting him through her Wyman Method, she can turn him into "America's Most Sensitive Boss" and climb back on top. Little does she know that by winning her bet she will lose her heart. Female Intelligence is a hilarious look at our inability to bridge the communication gap between men and women, despite all the Mars/Venus books on the market. It's got Heller's trademark mix of humor, romance and suspense, not to mention her dead-on take on men, women and relationships.