Monthly Archives: December 2009

When we met he was a screenwriter, and the first year of marriage had his writing as well. Directing was his true passion, but writing was the stepping stone that would take him there.

Those first years I watched my husband create characters and story lines. He changed with each script, morphing into a vehicle for the characters.

I know what real writing looks like, and I know I’m not a real writer.

Still when my husband starts a new project he will go to the stationary store and buy a leather bound notebook. Almost always it is black with sturdy pages. He reverts into his creative self, only now he has production to think of at the same moment. He is a gifted man.

I’m writing a book. There, I said it out loud. I’m writing a book, and I have everyone in place to support me. Emotionally, creatively, grammatically and fiscally, I’ve got a team.

I stood in CVS at ten o’clock, the day after X-Mas looking for a leather bound notebook. The aisles were ravaged by the holidays, and the stationary section was completely removed.

I bought a journal, with flowers on it. The pages are heavy and sturdy, and now it’s my job to fill them.

Took the kids to my tennis partner’s house to pick oranges and grapefruits, as her trees are overflowing with citrus. Alexander said her house is more fun than an amusement park. I would tend to agree.

They played baseball while I visited with Nina and Will, I met the hobo, and watched Will take a walk with Daisy and a child Jane’s age. My heart swelled. My friends are good people.

Got to Joann’s house very late, ate, drank and the kids were merry. It was a room full of incredibly bright folks, being incredibly silly.

A perfect day.

If today you celebrate X-Mas, my prayers for you is that you enjoy your friends and family. There is really nothing one should enjoy so much as them.

We used to go to downtown with my dad when we were little. The cement benches were host to sleeping homeless men (I don’t recall seeing homeless women in my youth). The homeless men of my youth were Vietnam Veterans and drunks, almost without fail.

I don’t remember how the discussions begun, but they always ended the same way. My father would say to me, “That man was someone’s baby. Someone rocked and kissed him when he was a baby, and someone still loves him.” I was never taught to be afraid of homeless people, nor to pity them too much. I was weaned on a steady diet of compassion. Perhaps that’s why I’m drawn to the work that Mark Hovarth and Matthew Barnett do. It’s like they set the table for dinner and invite people to join, they give folks an opportunity to work things out.

Today when I went to CVS there was a man out front holding a pack of cigarettes. He was in his 20′s tall and unremarkable, except that he needed a shave. He asked me if I smoked. “Nah,” I chuckled, because he was just so hustle-y (shaddup it’s a word!). He continued, “Well, would you mind giving me some change for food?”

It took me a moment, and then I realized that he was standing in front of a drugstore, selling single cigarettes at a markup in order to raise money, and that he was probably homeless. I only had big bills so I told him I’d get him on the way out.

I spent a hundred dollars on something, odds and ends that our house needed. On the way out I stopped to give him two dollars (I’m a sucker during the holidays), and I took a closer look. He was a young, articulate man, broad shouldered and appeared quite sober.

“You’re too smart for this.” I said.

“I know.” He replied. “I’m going to get a job, next week. I promise.”

“You don’t have to promise me, if you’re smart enough to make money selling cigarettes people could buy 10 steps away, then you’re smart enough to work. Do you have a home?”

“I’m staying in my car right now.” He put his hand on my shoulder and I saw that his knuckles were scarred. He wasn’t clean, but I let him make the connection. I think we both needed it.

We talked a little more, I told him that the Dream Center might have some resources for him. He told me that he had dreams.

And then I gave him ten dollars. Because he told me that he was a good guy, and I believed him. And if he wasn’t? Well, he was a good enough salesman to have earned it.

It probably wasn’t the right thing to do. It’s just what I did.

I tanned. As child people occasionally mistook me for a Latina. My skin would pass bronze and go right into brown, my hair would streak with reds and oranges. I felt good when I had color, and doctors told us to get a healthy tan.

I still spend a good bit of time outdoors and though I slather myself with sunscreens every day of the year, I play tennis and run. Exercising indoors is punishment to me. I get color.

Oh, and I have roseacea. Really really bad rosacea. The sort that makes your skin burn when water touches it. I’ve tried everything from Oracea to Metrogel to Finacea. The only thing that keeps my roseacea under control is the laser. The laser hurts. The laser is expensive and it honestly, truly hurts my face.

This morning I showed up to the doctor at 10am and they began by smearing a compound of numbing agents all over my face. I sat for an hour and then they started. First the nurse ran the Aurora laser across my face with a medium setting. I didn’t feel much of anything except the tender spots near my nose. Even that was tolerable, because mostly I was numb. Next there was a pass of the same laser at a high level. It hurt a little bit. The V-Beam laser came next. It’s like having pebbles and air flung in your face. Two passes, one moderate, one high.

I laid on the table thinking, “Would I want this for my daughter? What would my mother say if she stood in the room right now?”

It’s just after 4, when I look in the mirror I appear battered.

My skin betrays me, it tells the secrets of the nights I stayed up, the cigarettes I smoked, and the sun I worshiped. My roseacea was triggered by pregnancy, and I became flush eleven years ago.

Making the outside match the inside, well, it hurts.

Mr. G and I were were sitting with Alexander in the family room, which is open to the kitchen, but also has a sliding door (complete with dog door) to the back garden. My boys were playing with the PlayStation and I was trying to understand it. I came dangerously close to caring about it when all of a sudden my son and husband saw a rat run in through the dog door and make a sharp left into the kitchen.

Mr. G and Alexander leaped into action, my husband guarded the kitchen so the rat couldn’t leave (remember it’s a galley kitchen) and Alexander ran upstairs (because he’s smart). Naturally we were all barefoot, and anyone who’s seen a horror movie knows that rats will nibble your toes off. I went upstairs and got some boots on, and my husband yelled for the kids to bring him shoes.

The kids wouldn’t help. Stinkers.

I did what any self respecting blogger does. (more…)

It’s really great when you’re a blogger to include photos in your posts. I don’t do it, because I take crummy pictures, my mom takes great pictures, and she posts one almost every day at iPhone Gran. Check it out, you’ll like it.

Here’s the issue with photography. It’s simple to go to google or flickr and search for an image. What comes next is actual work, and I tend to avoid it.

Let’s say I go to Flickr and search for roses. I might come across this:

I Stole This Picture From @mitchsurp

If you take a look there’s a watermark across the bottom indicating that it’s a stolen picture.

Much like the music industry has to fight piracy, writers and photographers do too. My work is my own. That it’s here on a blog is, in fact, a little silly, but it is work nonetheless. You may not have it unless you pay me.

If you are looking for a photo to add to your blog post, flickr is a wonderful resource. All you need to do is be sure that it’s copyright free. Let me show you how.
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