Writing, Politics, Karaoke

I am (I have promised myself) in the last two weeks of writing the rough draft of my mommy-lit (and yes, you might need a sentence diagram to figure that all out. Yes, as a matter of fact, I do call myself a writer). The penultimate scene is at a karaoke bar, a place I've only been to myself a few times. I seem to be having a hard time getting myself there (figuratively, not literally).
First I have to get my heroine through another scrapbooking session, then some time with her son, then the karaoke. And then I am going to let the darn thing rest, like a roast turkey, until I begin to carve the hell out of it. The writing is going well, though, even if I am taking forever to get to the point (um, so what else is new? Check out the length of this post!)

In other news, this is my last day as President of the Beau Monde. I have enjoyed it, but I will be happy to pass the position on to the new President, someone who is a lot more competent than I am.
In other political news, I seem to have been in a state of shock--or numbness--post-election. Well, I'm waking up, and boy, am I pissed. I seem to be screaming at the radio at least twice a day (and it's NPR, I'm not taunting myself by listening to talk radio).
And I am not organized enough to do anything more than scream.
I'm mad, but I'm also apathetic. Not a good combination. I might have to get off my ass and do something soon.
Or lose my voice.

Thanks for coming,

Megan

5 Blogs I Can't Live Without:

Under the pretext of keeping Maili amused, Sybil invites bloggers to list their 5 favorite sites, so here are mine:

Retrodepot Fabrics sells fabulous fabrics, buttons, t-shirts, etc. I have always wanted to get the Bettie Page buttons for one of my husband's shirt, but worry he'll find it too kitschy.

Dooce is another S.A.H.M. (read her blog to find out what that means):

Wikipedia tells me anything I might want to know.

The Smart Bitches tell it like it is. Hysterically.

And last, but not least, I love reading Kate Rothwell's blog. She and I share more than a few opinions, only she's not as much of a wimp about expressing them.

I do check quite a few more (er...procrastination, anyone?), but those are the top nickel for me.

Takeshi Kaneshiro from House of Flying Daggers. Yum.
 

...And Another Thing

Yes, two posts in one day. I am not here to tell you what I had for breakfast (two slices of whole wheat bread with peanut butter, glass of milk), or that I FINALLY found a way to wear this cute top I got about ten years ago (with my cuffed Old Navy jeans; very faux boho-chic) or that for some reason I am sweating like a moose, even though it's cooled down some.
No, I am here to say I have read my first Nora Roberts. It was actually J.D. Robb's Naked In Death. I liked it.

I still have no plans to:

-see E.T.
-see Titanic
-pull an all-nighter
-watch any reality TV shows
-do jello shots
-find Colin Farrell attractive

Other than that, I'm wide open.

Thanks for visiting. Again!

Megan

Finish Line

So anyone who's visited lately knows I am thisclose to finishing the WIP. It's a mommy-lit, is a load of fun to write, and actually has a PLOT. So what's the freaking problem? Me. I cannot seem to sit myself down in the chair and write lately. Sure, I did some last week, but not enough. Sure, I'll do some later tonight, but it won't be enough.
It's never enough (which is, not coincidentally, the story of my life).
I have to take it one tree at a time (see "Forest" post below). I have to move towards the exciting denouement with precision, care, and patience. I have to figure out what my son and I are going to do when he is done with school tomorrow.
Wish me luck. My goal is to be done by July 13.

Thanks for stopping by,

Megan

People Are Idiots

So I was at my local library branch today. It's a pretty small library (at least, compared to the main branch of the Brooklyn Public Library), and it doesn't have a ton of books. But the people are nice, and the library now has on online reservation system so that's where I go to pick up the Troy DVD, for example, or romances where the only copy is living in Sheepshead Bay.
The library is doing some reorganizing. Fine, they're trying to straighten things up and are integrating mysteries and science fiction into regular fiction. It's a little disorganized there right now. By next week it should be all finished.
So this woman--this tag-her-immediately-as-a-wacko woman (I mean, the loud t-shirt, ill-fitting cap and the rainbow painting she was carrying sorta told it all) is carrying on about how 'many people are upset with the new system. People are unhappy, and library patrons shouldn't be unhappy.' In a loud, pay-attention-to-me voice.
You know what I say? Find me another place where I can take out books, DVDs, CDs, a place for me to sit and read with my son for hours, a place where there are computers for use, printers, fairly nice people, a great reference section, all for free, and then you have the right to complain.
Otherwise, STF up. Oh, and that rainbow painting was crap.

Two words: dish.y. 

Ashamed

I read romances. I have a weird fascination with Shania Twain. Patrick Swayze slays me in Dirty Dancing. I've been known to enjoy gin and Fresca.
And yet, I am still ashamed to admit I am about to go pick Troy up from the library. I will be watching it alone, because my husband has no interest, and even my friend, with whom I watch many, many bad historical movies (King Arthur, anyone?) will not stoop so low. Even she has more respect for herself than I do.

It is my guiltiest pleasure: dishy guys in bad movies spouting god-awful dialogue while their ab muscles ripple. Me on the couch, diet Coke at the ready, eying them for everything they've got. Maybe I'll get sybaritic and haul out the tortilla chips, too. Woo-hoo! Who said the life of a stay-at-home 40 year-old mom was dull?!?

Shallower Than A Puddle On A Hot Summer's Day

I've been a member of a book group for over ten years (I mention them below). We've seen marriages end and begin, many children, many books, many, many opinions on which was the worst book we've ever read. (Mine? My Cousin, My Gastroenterologist. I did not make it past the first page.). Until recently, I've had no problem beginning--and finishing--the book by the time of the next meeting. But a fairly steady diet of romances is making it harder for me to trudge through some of the more literary books. This month, we're reading The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, which I am really liking, but I took a break to read the new Julia Ross. Gah! 600 pages do not get read by themselves, missy!
Anyway. The meeting is next week, and I haven't even reached p. 100. I am pathetic.

Thanks for reading. Hope I didn't make your eyes glaze over.

Megan

Sickity Sickity Sick

Now everyone in the house but me is sick. I can really sympathize, though, since I just had it all, too. So no writing, again, but plenty of toast-making. I'm very good at toast.

Happy Father's Day to all the dads!

Thanks for stopping,

Megan

Sick . . . And Tired

No writing because I've been sick. This is the year of Megan getting sick. My paranoid mind thinks it's because my body has finally realized it's turned 40, and it's all going downhill from here until death. First illness was some sort of nasty intestinal bug, followed by a massive asthma attack. So last night I was at the ER for my asthma, which is all better now, thanks. The only good thing about the whole thing is that I lost three pounds. How sick is it that I am actually excited about that?

And speaking of dying, I've come to the very sad realization that when I die, I will still have books on my TBR pile. I will never read all of the books I'm interested in, no matter how fast or frequently I read. Never. That is a bummer. I did read an entire book at the ER last night, though. That was another bright side to the whole mess.

Thanks for visiting,

Megan

No. No, it's not.

Another one of my edged teeth instigators is when people start a comment with "Is it just me, or . . .?". Usually, they follow that bon mot with something asinine that most everyone feels. So, no, it's not just you. And no, you're not making an original or cleverly snarky comment at all. For example:

Is it just me, or is it really hot?
Is it just me, or is Michael Jackson incredibly strange?
Is it just me, or are teenage girls wearing less than when we were kids?
Is it just me, or is airplane food bad?
Is it just me, or is Angelina Jolie stunning?
Is it just me, or is chocolate the best food ever?

Ad nauseam. So stow it. It's not just you. And you're not funny.

Is it just me, or does this annoy anyone else?

Megan

No writing, but plenty of snarking

This week has been sucky in terms of writing. My son had a half day on Tuesday, so we went to the American Museum of Natural History. We spent four hours there. FOUR HOURS. He had Thursday off entirely, and I had planned to take him to the movies, but apparently every other parent in Brooklyn had the same idea. So he wanted to go back to the Museum, since four hours of looking at dinosaurs and stuffed animal cadavers was not enough. It was nice; the Museum is air-conditioned, we got to see the movie about DNA and the Genome Project (his favorite movie at the museum. He's a fool for DNA.), and then we went outside to the Museum sprinklers. While we were there, I saw a sight that even made me, a fairly hardened New Yorker, gawk: a woman wearing possibly the tightest pants I have ever seen. Ultra low-rise. Stretch. White. With high heels and a tiny little tube top. She had to keep hiking the pants up to cover up her thong. Tiny, tiny pants. Did I mention white? It was the whoriest outfit I have ever seen. And she didn't seem at all self-conscious about it. I guess you can't be if you're wearing white stretch pants and a tube top. I kept looking at her, wondering what she was thinking, and why she had decided to wear that outfit to the Museum. New York is suffering a heat wave, so of course there is all kinds of exposed flesh being paraded around town. I'm not looking forward to seeing teenage belly flab spilling out from under too-short shirts. But I'm used to it by now. But that outfit? That was just crazy. I feel old.

Mark My Words

In the 'Million Years...' post below, Meljean asks why no scraps of paper as bookmarks. Even reading that comment makes me get all skeeved out. I think it probably has something to do with my OCD, which also makes me do perpetual anagrams (how pissed am I that my first name rearranges to 'mange?'), count things, know where my husband's keys are all the time. Or it could have something to do with the way my mom reads paperbacks: crack the spine, push down the middle of the book, and dog-ear the pages to mark where she leaves off. By the time she finishes, the book will not stay closed. The pages are all splayed everywhere. But all I know is that whenever I start a new book, I must have a bookmark. And not just any bookmark; depending on my respect for the author or the type of book it is determines the bookmark. Yes, I have a hierarchy of bookmarks. Bottom of the list are random bookmarks I've gotten from bookstores and authors I've never read. Then come nice-looking bookmarks from some of those same places, maybe bookmarks from a fellow Beau Monde member. Then comes the bookmarks from author friends. Then the pretty ones you actually buy, with flowers. Then there's a Lord of the Rings bookmark with Legolas. Last, and used the most rarely, are the leather Mary Balogh bookmark and a blue floral one my friend brought back from Italy. Right now the blue one is in the Neal Stephenson opus I will finish one of these days, and the Balogh one is waiting for something equally special. But bottom line is, whenever I don't have a bookmark, I panic.

Not in a Million Years . . .

Lifted directly from Donald Maass' Writing The Breakout Novel comes this plot point from my current WIP: my heroine's therapist has challenged her to do things she wouldn't do in a million years. So far she's asked someone for money they owe her, asked a foxy guy out, and done scrapbooking (with, may I add, very little snarking.) There are more things coming, but I have to get there.

So I was thinking about things I would never do in a million years:

1. Use emoticons in my emails/blog posts.
2. Use a scrap of paper as a bookmark.
3. Ever willingly listen to Fine Young Cannibals, Frankie Valli, or any other high male vocalist.
4. Wear matching sweatshirts with my husband.
5. Scrapbook.
6. Eat lima beans.
7. Wear gold jewelry.
8. Get a perm (again--I had one for a brief period in the '90s. What the f*ck was I thinking?)
9. Violate the 'no shorts' pledge I took three years ago. No weather is hot enough to expose my upper legs.
10. Get on the subway without a book.

Thanks for reading--

Megan

Pulpy! 

Thursday? Already?

How come the week seems to fly by when there's a holiday? I mean, it's not like I have a job to take a day off from--a stay-at-home mom doesn't get days off, except we had much-loved company visiting this weekend, which was fun. But it's Thursday already, and I haven't written my usual 1,000 words a day. I have been sick, and therefore grumpy, although some might say that makes my writing better. I'll write more tonight. But the end is in sight--a first draft will be done by the end of June. The Picky Vegetarian comes for a visit next week, which I am very much looking forward to. And the Smart-Alecky Husband is back from the business trip, which is also nice. So, except for the whole clutching of stomach, writhing in pain thing, I'm doing well. Even though it's already Thursday.