Blah

I did not win ScriptFrenzy, though I am almost finished with my original sitcom and I have a good outline (except for the end) for a Modern Family spec. Things got accomplished, just not all the things I wanted. I try to do too much because I think I can and when I don't, I feel as if I've failed. But if I hadn't had the goal I had, I wouldn't have gotten as much done as I did. Thanks to everyone who wrote or called and encouraged me.

I'm not feeling very good today. As if I'm aging right before my eyes, I'm beset with a series of complaints. The muscles around my sciatic nerve contract at least once weekly in the past few weeks to make me nearly lame, my shoulder hurts so bad sometimes it makes me want to throw up, my lower back gives me problems all the time. My advice: Don't be in car accidents after the age of 30. Well, I'm still alive and for that I'm grateful. This is the accident that happened in December of 08, so don't get too worried.

I have a book idea in mind. Not necessarily a good one, but an idea nonetheless. I never thought about writing a book (this one would be sort of non-fiction, though creative non-fiction - and no, not a memoir). I've always only wanted to either do short stories or write for television. Frankly, the idea of writing long fiction frightens me. I've done it. I won NaNoWriMo one year with a completely horrible 57,000 word piece of crap. I'm proud I completed, but not proud it exists.

Right now, I'm tired. I wish I weren't. This is when I feel old age, when I would rather just sit around than do the things I know I want to do. Maybe when I start my book idea, it will bolster my other efforts because working on the book will also give me stories for my articles and maybe the interesting characters I meet will provide comedic fodder for my other ventures.

I know I complain a lot (as the Honey says, I'm the Queen of Complaining), but I do know that I have a goal and I will achieve it, whether I do it in inches or in miles.

Trivia Nerd

I have a friend who comes down from Alabama to visit his family and when he does, we make plans to meet on Wednesday for Trivia. The last two times he was in town, we won overall, which is a $20 bar tab.

So I head to the bar and run into a couple of friends on the way, one of which decides that she will join me for trivia. I expected my friend to be late, so the two of us are answering the questions by ourselves until he arrives.

The first round of questions ends with us winning. The winner of each round gets a pitcher of beer, which is a nice, free way to get your drinking done when you are as poor as we are right now. Of course, 2 glasses of beer later, we find ourselves the surprise winners of round 2. We guessed on at least 3 questions and didn't think we got the 30pt questions correct, but we did. Total guessing. That's another pitcher of beer for us and my friend has yet to show. Because we are so anal about not looking as if we're cheating, we usually leave our phones alone, but I check to see if he's left a text. He has. He's going to be much later. It's the final round, how much later is he gonna be?

He got there for the final jeopardy style question, well after the 3rd round. We got it wrong, but if we'd listened to him, we would have won it all! I only had one more free drink after that because that was all I needed, but it turned into a hell of a party, even with the dj being as lame as he always is.

I like drinking beer and having fun with my friends, but I have the most fun when I'm playing trivia. Maybe it's because it reminds me of being in college, when we would go to the Red Dog Pub in Cambridge and play NTN trivia. A bunch of us would walk over from Boston, grab a booth and a drink and we would try to outnerd all the other nerds in the place. The trivia I play now is similar, but we've all developed a camaraderie that is nice. Friendly and competitive, we talk smack but are okay if the other person wins. It's almost a family in a way. We expect to see each other every week, we complain about the questions, but we always enjoy getting together every week and trying to be the biggest nerds in the room.

Ooops!

Dear Everybody,

I'm not in my right frame of mind today. We got to leave work early today and when I got home, I fell right to sleep. And now i'm about to go out to First Friday. I will owe you two posts tomorrow as well as two writing prompts. Do you forgive me internets?

Love,

ThisGirlTV

Here We Go!

Day one of ScriptFrenzy and I am restless. I haven't written anything, don't even really have an outline, but I do have a goal. I'm not supposed to worry about that at this time of day, but I do. Oh well, getting home will tell the tale. If I write my four pages today, I will indeed be doing something great!

Today I was driving with the windows down. You don't always get to do that in Georgia. Right now, it's the right kind of hot, not the stifling heat that will be upon us in the next 4 weeks. While I can drive with the windows down, I will.

So, every day this month, I will do at least one writing prompt on Little Southern Girl. It will be unedited and maybe not make sense, but it will be done. I'm going to try for mornings, but some days, it will be afternoon. Anyway, if you have anything you'd like me to write about, write it in the comments.

Today's Writing prompt: It's time for you and Writer's Block to part ways. Write a letter breaking up with Writer's Block, starting out with, "Dear Writer's Block, it's not you, it's me ... ."

Dear Writer's Block,

It's not you, it's me. We've met so many times, it seems like we were destined to be together. Do you remember the first time we met, when I was trying to write that romantic short story about two people who thought they hated each other but in the end fell in love? You were right to try to stop me, but wrong for doubting my dreams. I remember you stepping in just when I thought things were going great. With one fell swoop, you took every word that I had in my head from me. You demanded my time, my thoughts, and my attention, as if I didn't have writing I needed to get done. I expected you to be my rock, not my block, and you never had my back. Do you remember when I applied for that screenwriting class in California and I almost didn't make it because you decided to make an appearance and took my focus from what I was doing? I think that's when I knew it was over, even though I didn't want it to be. You're comfortable. Hypnotic. Like staring at a blank white screen, cursor blinking. You knew the end was coming. I saw you less and less. Maybe you went to talk to that guy writing a cookbook - maybe that girl trying to finish her thesis. I know you thought she was cute. But I didn't get jealous and maybe it's better to not get jealous, but when I don't miss you, you know it's time to part ways. So, Writer's Block, I hope you can find someone who will love you like I once did, who won't use you as a crutch, but word of advice: try being a little more supportive of the people you get with. That makes all the difference.

Yours truly,
ThisGirl

St. Paddy's

Wednesday nights are trivia nights, and occasionally - or maybe a little more than occasionallly - followed by Ladies Night. Ladies Night is the night when ladies drink for free at a local bar.

Ladies Night fell on a St. Patrick's Day this year. Double Trouble.

Not only were there ladies getting drunk as hell, but the drink specials convinced the fellas to do the same. Normally, this isn't a problem, but there must have been a full moon or something that night.

The music was the same. Lame. We usually sit through the music for the free drinks, but 2 gin and tonics and a couple of 12 oz beers later, I knew I was gonna get on the dance floor, even if I also knew I wasn't going to have any real dancing fun.

My thing is dancing. Oh, I dabble in televison (and I know a lot about television) and I knit and spin yarn, and I love to write, but give me a good dj, some music made for dancing, and my feet will hit the floor and I won't sit down. I start dancing as soon as the music is up and won't sit down until it's over. I don't need alcohol to dance, like some people do, but it never hurts to have it.

The time on the dance floor started out like any other with this particular DJ. Dance for 2 minutes, stand on the dance floor holding my drink for the last 3 minutes of a song he'd decided not to change. During the second song, however, I was joined by a friend. By friend, I mean some drunk frat guy, a little taller than me with about 50 lbs. on me, who decided that instead of dancing, he would simply back into me. Putting my hand in the middle of his back, I gently, but firmly, pushed him away from me. He didn't acknowledge me nor did he do that thing that most people do when they bump into someone on the dance floor. Apologize. Even though it's unnecessary, it's a common courtesy thing that is welcomed. Rudeness aside (and he was pretty drunk), I kept dancing. The next thing I know, that same dude is backing into me again. I push him away again and this time I give him a dirty look. His friends get him off the floor.

Cut to about 20 minutes later. Little Sister is swing dancing with a guy we know when our friend from earlier decides he needs the dance floor, and he needs the space where Little Sister is. She pushes him away, but this time, he turns around and tries to start something with the guy. Little Sister steps in front of the guy to confront our friend. Usually, that makes a guy back down. Who yells at girls?

Drunk ass frat boys, that's who.

Of course, with this idiot yelling at my sister, I drew myself up to my full 5ft11in height, moved Little Sister out of the way and politely screamed that if he loved life, he'd better not get in my sister's face again. He then proceeded to tell me he was a man and that I couldn't talk to him that way. I told him that as long as he kept yelling at my sister, I was gonna talk to him however the fuck I pleased. We continued our repartee nose to nose for nearly two minutes before his friends pulled him away while I stared him down. He resisted, hoping to fight me I assume, and to be honest, I wanted to punch him myself, but I did the responsible thing. I watched him until he was pulled away then searched for the owners. They were nowhere to be found. So, on a cocktail napkin, I wrote, "There is a guy, blue shirt, khaki trousers, who is drunk as hell and bumping into girls on the dance floor. I just thought you'd want to know just in case I need to kick his ass." I passed the note when I got my drink and two seconds after I got on the dance floor, the bartender I'd passed it to was there to make sure that asshole didn't mess with another girl.

I avoided the guy, but Little Sister said that our friend kept staring at us for a bit. She said it looked like he considered coming back to start something, and while he started towards us a couple of times, he always thought better of it.

Both my maiden name and my married name is Irish. It's always been a joke that I'm more Irish than my husband, who has the most Irish name I know. A "black" Irish joke is usually imminent. Wednesday night, I almost got into a drunken brawl, and it's the most stereotypically Irish I've felt since the last time I wore my Kiss Me, I'm Irish t-shirt. Which was a long time ago.

Get Back

I've been up since 6:30am. I don't like getting up that early. I have a lot of writing to try to do today before 6pm - maybe even until midnight if it comes down to it, so I will be brief in this format.

I was so ready to go home yesterday and when I got home, I was so glad to be there that I didn't ever want to leave. For those of you who pray and for those of you who ask things of the universe, my one request is that this year I am successful. Ask that for me.

I'm not talking success as in my name is known worldwide - although that would be nice. I'm not even talking big publications in big... publications. I'm talking about able to support myself and my college captured husband solely on writing. We're working on him supporting me in the future. But now, let's work on me for support.

We knew when we took this step, it was going to be hard. We knew there would be times when we wouldn't have any money. But now we are looking at bills we didn't even know existed (poor record keeping. My bad) and having no money once all the monthly stuff is paid. I wish we could get a break. The thing that put us over was switching to a new school. Extra money we weren't expecting to pay... they waited until it was too late to make the switch back to the old school which wouldn't have been as expensive, although it would be a waste of time because nothing else he took would transfer... and we would have lost the "hold" money we had to pay once they accepted him into the school. It feels like a racket.

And as much as I talk about wanting to do something else, I'm so grateful for my job. I could be without a job. I know several people who are. I could have to try to do this all on half of my salary, which is what almost any other job would pay. I'm glad that I am coming up with ideas that may help us in the future, but I wish that those ideas could be paying for us now.

Can you see how much our financial woes are affecting me? So I worry and my hair doesn't grow and my skin gets dry and the area behind my eyes are tired and I find myself slipping into despair (yeah, that bad). And then I remember we've been able to survive with the help of friends and neighbors and occasionally, my mom. At least when my dad was alive, before the end, I could count on an infusion of $80 every couple of weeks because he'd won somebody's lottery. I'd buy an orange soda and sit in the car with him as if these were old times. They were not. Our landlord is awesome too. Not enough can be said about his generosity and kindness to us in our hard times.

Financially, the thing I miss the most is eating out. I need to start writing food reviews again. Maybe I can do them on my own and take them out of taxes next year. I still haven't tried the brunch at a couple of places. I hear there's a Bloody Mary bar (Make your own Bloody Mary's? Heaven. With lots of hot sauce) and they put hollandaise sauce on the omelets.

Oh well, eventually, we will get out of this hole and be the better for it. Maybe we will learn to be frugal people and will become people who learn to save our abundance.

The Hills Are Alive

I'm learning how to play guitar.

It is an ugly, ugly thing. My fingers are sore. No. Sore is an understatement.

They hurt like hell. Even as I type. Particularly because I'm typing.

I can play Smoke on the Water in the wrong key and one string at a time, which is an accomplishment. A major accomplishment.

The Honey asked me why I wanted to learn to play guitar... As I watched him go through song after song, doing with several notes what I can barely do with one finger on one fret. It's interesting, learning how to play. I haven't quite figured out what this will mean for me. Will I learn to be better and bust out the guitar when my musician friends start playing around? Will I start my own band? Will I just fiddle with the guitar in home only and around close friends? I don't know. Is this my third life crisis? I started knitting when I was 28. I start guitar now that I'm 34. What will I start 6 years from now?

Is there something about getting old that leads us to reinventing ourselves? I know that I'm not always happy with who I am. I want to change. My hair, the languages I know, my sense of style, my "fount" of knowledge, etc. There is almost an aching need to know more, to move past the old boundaries that existed in my mind. I sang karaoke for the first time, although sing might not quite be the word. I'd like to convince myself that my cold was to blame, but who am I kidding? The thing is, I did it. I embarrassed myself in front of a room full of children and it was liberating. I felt invincible. Now, another goal is before me and I can only respond to the sound of music.

Oh, and it doesn't hurt that I actually know what fret means now.

Free Falling

This is harder than it used to be, getting my thoughts out. Back then, I didn't have anyone to embarrass but myself. I still remember the url - http://publictrust.blogspot.com. I got the name from a poster on the wall about the constitution at a former place of employment. Back then, I didn't know that you wanted a url that people could remember and go back to.

Those days were a bit more carefree - I had time, a job that didn't require a full 8 hours, no one was paying me to come up with articles on a monthly basis. Don't get me wrong, I love it, but it's harder to get in the creative stuff. Or just to get stuff off of my chest.

I had lunch with a freelance writer a few years ago. She told me that if I started writing for a living that writing creatively would be much harder and that I would even begin to hate the act of sitting down in front of the computer to do something. I'm definitely not at that point, but I do resent the time that my body requires for sleep and for friends and all the other things I want to do. I like those outlets: trivia night, movies, hanging out, staying in. But it all takes time. Just like I have to come to a realization about my weight (despite the magic office mirror in which I look fantastic), I have to come to some sort of realization with my writing.

The Honey is sick of hearing me talk about this. In his mind, if I wanted it, I would do it. And really, in my mind, that's how I feel too. But then I try to imagine a future where I just teach and don't go after writing and my fingers begin to itch, like I've already cut the computers away from their tips and they feel the phantom pains.

So, yes, I want to do this and yes, I will whine, and yes, I need your encouragement (and sometimes ass kicking) and maybe a deadline or two that has nothing to do with the writing I get paid for. While I'm going to apologize to you now for what you may have to put up with in the future, I'll thank you kindly for the encouragement.

Just a Little Something to Think About

If you insist on going at least 10 miles under the speed limit, you don't deserve to have flames on your vehicle.

Porch Sitting MoFos

My husband and I chose to live on a street that has a bit of a reputation. The people who live there and hang out often are called the Magnolia Street Mafia. I'm not sure how the reputation evolved, and maybe one day I will ask the Don, but as it is, when you walk down the street, and people are on the porch where the Don abides, you want to stop to pay your respects.

The Don is not a benignly menacing king, like Corleone. He's so laid back, it would almost be a joke that he's the Don, but there is something commanding about him that tells you to give him that respect because he will give it back to you, two-fold. His house is open to you, his porch is your port of call and on those days when you just want to sit and talk to somebody, anybody, there he is, he and his mafia, ready to parlay.

Normally, I don't get to see the Don's wife, but tonight, she was out and I took the opportunity to sit and talk. There is something very arresting about her, the tilt of her head, the way she moves her hands, and when she speaks, her voice moves in and out of sound. I know, it's weird. You continue to hear everything she said, but it is almost rhythmic, like she's singing an Irish tune, the lilt almost imperceptible, but just there, in earshot. She speaks as if she loves everything she's saying, like she treasures each word she chooses. Each crafted story is her child, which she introduces to the world and she doesn't care if you think it's an ugly baby or not, she just cares that you got to see her precious bundles of joy.

I'm sure I'm making it all up, but as we sat on the porch, drinking our wine out of mason jars, talking about cell phones and trees blowing onto power lines, talking about birthday parties and CD release parties, the chill settling into our bones, I realized that there might be a few more things about the south that I like.

I Met Santa

When he walked through the door, I swore I heard bells. He had on a bright red shirt, overall, and black boots that, when shined, would look good underneath a red suit. His hair was pulled back in a high ponytail and the underneath hair flowed white down his back. His beard was big and bushy and the mustache above his lip curled up in a cunning little imitation of the handlebar mustache.

I said hello, looking for the twinkle in his eyes. I almost added Santa, but I'm pretty sure he was incognito. He walked to towels before disappearing around the corner. When he finally came back to the counter, he had two bags of Lindt truffles and was talking on his bluetooth. I joked about the imaginary bluetooth of crazy people, then we had a short conversation about chocolate where I recommended the milk chocolate ones with the white chocolate centers that melt in your mouth. He bought his candy and left. A few seconds later, Santa comes back with one of the white chocolate truffles in his hand, which he gives me with a wink and a smile.

A few minutes later, my manager and another worker come up. "I just saw Santa," I say. "I saw him too!" L. says. "Good, I didn't think I was going crazy," I say. "Did he have a list?" T asks. "No, but he gave me candy."

Santa is awesome.