I’m happy to report that this is my last day at work for the next two weeks. Two weeks. Why? I’m taking some much-needed time off, to visit the bestie and to head to the beach with another group of friends.
What I’ll miss about work for two weeks:
Nothing
Happy Friday, youse guys!!
(I’ll still be posting, obviously, so as to not carelessly abandon my 31 Days of Posting Challenge/Plan, so you won’t get to miss me.)
I’ll also leave you with a song that embodies, to me, all things vacation, fun in the sun, enjoying time with friends, and John Stamos (he’s on the drums, for one thing, and he’s also my boyfriend).
Have I mentioned that I stalk all things musical theatre? The title is a reference to one of my favorite jams from Jesus Christ Superstar. Anyway, Happy Friday to you, and you, and you. Following is the buzz on yours truly, what’s been happenin’ (and very entertainment-y, as you’ll see):
NaPoWriMo was a complete success. Woo hoo! Thanks to all who read my work, commented, followed this blog, etc., in the month of April. I’m even more in love with poetry, if that’s humanly possible, and we’re registered at the local library if you want to get us anything. (Way to wrangle a metaphor, no?) In general, I learned that I really can write every day, if I put my mind to it. I suppose all that raucous laughter at a fellow writer who once told me he gets up at 5am every morning to write was unwarranted, huh? Sorry.
The summer movie season is starting and I’m trying not to drool with excitement. Beginning with this film, starring an actor that I’ve adored since antiquity (already bought my ticket for tomorrow, yeah!), I intend on fully taking advantage of this time of year. After IM3, I wait with bated breath for The Great Gatsby, Star Trek Into Darkness, Man of Steel, etc., etc. Reviews will be provided, naturally. Did you know about my lifelong obsession fascination with all things comic book, sci-fi, and general popcorn fun? Hey, I may prefer a literary adaptation or a British accent in film, but I still gets my fun on. But we never talk about that stuff on here because, well, I’d rather talk about other things. But it’s Friday, so have at it, Kitten Heel Marvel.
Anyone heard of Netflix? When I’m not working, or taking care of life, or eating, or sleeping, or stalking summer movies or musical theatre or Robert Downey, Jr., I’m glued to the old iPad, watching everything from Bollywood films to Murder, She Wrote as they stream on Netflix. Sigh. I would complain about the utter waste of time, but…I love it.
This last thing going on in my life is a bit beyond bullets and a quick summary. You remember this. Well, things got kind of interesting. As in the quiet, almost nonchalant way I was approaching my feelings about this individual didn’t necessarily change, but I was talking about him a lot. A lot. Talking about him turned into wondering whether he shared my feelings, which turned into he obviously shared my feelings, based on his peripheral staring of me, which turned into a much-needed intervention from my concerned best friend after listening to my ramblings about this guy. I lost my marbles a bit. Side-eyed staring (which seriously happened like two times) and other non-events are not indicators of mutual interest. In the end, I’m just grateful for the tough love dispensed by my bestie. Said tough love even inspired me to write an essay, which I submitted here for consideration. I’ll provide updates should it be published. Anyway, crushes are ok, but I want more and will hold out for just that.
You’ve heard of Downton Abbey. I know you have. Even more, you’ve likely watched it, and regularly, at that. Everyone is talking about Downton Abbey. Talking and watching.
Except me.
Shocking, isn’t it? Those who truly know me know about my lifelong devotion to anything Masterpiece, anything period drama, anything Brit miniseries, the whole thing. A good friend of mine, a sassy 80-something year young lady whom I love to pieces and who loves the show to pieces, was flabbergasted when I told her that no, I hadn’t watched more than 5 minutes of DA. Her mouth fell open; she scolded me; “this is right up your alley!” she kept saying. I agreed with her and promised that I would definitely go online to catch up with all the past episodes before watching the current season. She seemed satisfied with this plan.
But the truth? I have no intention of watching Downton Abbey. (Sorry, Nance!)
Why? I have my reasons…
I just didn’t want to do it. I didn’t feel like getting into characters that would undoubtedly stay in my brain, for me to breathlessly wait for the next installment to find out what happens to them. And then when DA became a real life series with seasons and everything, I just threw my hands in the air and decided to not even start.
This happens from time to time. I decide against getting involved with a much-talked-about TV extravaganza experience. Oh, the hype, the hype. It sometimes pushes me away. For every Lost–I’m a Lostie, always and forever–there’s a Mad Men. Not one episode watched, despite my obsession with the swinging 60s or any bygone era, really.Weird, huh? Oh, wells.
I once told my sister, quite seriously, might I add, as if we were discussing quantum physics, that my packed TV schedule sometimes precludes me from getting into new shows. She laughed for maybe an hour or so. Anyway, it’s true. Sometimes, you get on the DVR sched, sometimes, you don’t. The Abbey didn’t get on there. (Well, it did, but that’s because that my handy DVR automatically records anything Masterpiece related. For the record, I would see it on the schedule and sadly delete each entry, holding on to the my odd refusal to begin a new TV relationship.)
I didn’t see Colin Firth or Matthew Macfadyen in the lineup. So…
Ignore that last bullet. Pure facetiousness. (Wink.)
I know, for a fact, that Downton Abbey is an amazing series. I can feel it. I just don’t feel like watching it.
(Someone make sure that my sassy 80-something year young pal doesn’t see this post.)
It’s been a while, yes. I have no excuses, no. I’m going through that weird, are-we-still-in-winter lack of motivation, where I do nothing of the following: write, think, work out. Instead, I do all of the following: wallow, frown, eat. BUT, I’ve been eating quite well lately. Staying largely away from pastries and bagels (since I’m of the belief that I would shove an old lady out of the way for a blueberry bagel, this is pretty significant); balancing protein, fats, and carbs, whatever all of that means; choosing cereal for dinner from time to time. These are all good things, so I suppose I haven’t turned too much into a mid-winter lump. Don’t get me wrong, though: we have entered Lump Phase 1,000, for sure. More so emotional/metaphysical/mental/ lumpification. Anyway. A few other things I’ve been up to:
Apartment hunting. In Paris.
Falling for this guy. (See The Artist as soon as you can.) He’s French, by the way, to keep with the theme.
That’s about it, folks. Oh, wait: I’ve also been eating the following quite obsessively:
You were expecting French fries, weren’t you? To keep with the theme?
I’m all over the place today. Restless, bored, stressed out, ready for the weekend, not ready for the weekend. This is a day of polar opposites, it seems. Prove it? See below.
On a good note, a few friends and I started a book club! Yay and yay! I’m pretty excited. Our first book will be featured on “Kitten Heel Marvel is Currently Reading…” soon. It’s a beloved favorite. From an author I will never tire of. Discussed with friends I adore and love. Can’t wait.
But there’s this other storm (told you about the polar opposites, didn’t I?) brewing in me. It’s a heady combination of envy, sadness, defeat, resignation, and acceptance, all of which has manifested itself into slumped shoulders and a lot of sighing. I don’t know what else to say. Logic and emotion are currently battling it out. We’ll see who wins. My money’s on emotion, though, based on those potent adjectives previously listed. Nothing is reasonable in that list. It’s a stinker for sure. If I’m found lying in the corner a day from now, frothing at the mouth, we’ll know which winner took all. Sigh.
On another good note (see? I’m not playing with a full deck), check out this cast from the upcoming movie, Contagion: Matt Damon, Marion Cotillard, Jude Law, Jennifer Ehle, my Elizabeth Bennett from the originial Pride and Prejudice adaptation on A&E, Laurence Fishburne, Kate Winslet, etc. etc. It’s delicious casting, it’s an intriguing premise, and I’m so there.
I’m also in the mood for a good, old fashioned French film. Did I talk about this? That I’m currently re-learning Francais? My job has free online Rosetta Stone courses, so I’m taking advantage. So far, admittedly (being someone who loves everything French EXCEPT learning the language), Je suis excite about the whole thing. Anyway, time to hunker down and look for some foreign films.
Ugh, I wish it were time to vacate these premises.
Most writers have weird rituals and habits. Some won’t discuss a story, not even a little bit, until it’s finished. Some do the exact opposite. Mark Twain apparently wrote lying down. Vladimir Nabokov wrote his stories on 3×5 index cards, clipped them, and stored them in slim boxes. My true love, Mr. Billy Collins, only writes with a fine tip, Black Sharpie pen. Eons ago, I had a beloved, treasured Scripto pen that I called Blackie, which I used to write my stories with (when I used to write in longhand). And, yes, I cried when the ink ran out of Blackie. Anyway, most, if not all, writers have a thing they do.
What thing do I do? When I’m into a story, when I’m falling in love with it, thinking about it, weaving the tale and working on my character studies…I insert page numbers.
Prior to inserting page numbers, the story is a blank canvas to me, a rough piece of clay that I’m working with. But then comes this moment, this feeling, when I know it’s time to make it official. Weird, indescribable, dizzying, my ritual. It means that I’m ready for the progression, to see it through, to work with it until the final page.
That’s happening now with a story that I’m working on. I just inserted page numbers minutes ago…
Onwards! Onwards!
Oh, before I leave, in honor of that thing we all do:
She was fiercely intelligent, hilarious, insecure, brave. She was my age. She wanted to answer the telephone by saying, “for whom does this bell toll?” (Awesome or what?) She was obsessed with psychology and Sigmund Freud. She was everything to me.
I discovered Anastasia Krupnik in the books of Lois Lowry, one of my favorite young adult authors growing up, but I truly believed that she could be found on her surburban street somewhere, hanging out with her brainiac parents and her annoying little brother, Sam. She was so real to me. This morning, as I read a feature about the recent boon in young adult novels, I broke out into a silly grin when I turned the page and saw an interview with with Ms. Lowry herself, in which she discussed how she loved writing the Anastasia books. (The series has since ended, to my chagrin. Apparently, her publisher felt that the series was “outdated,” being that Mr. Krupnik, at one point, used a typewriter. What-ever.)
I decided this morning that I want to revisit the world of Anastasia. (A few years ago, I ignored the curious looks of a few kids who watched as I nonchalantly sauntered over to the young adult section of the library and commenced with squealing as I looked through those old books.) The article in the paper reminded me of the joy those books brought me, and as I remain a sucker for nostalgia, I resolve to go back in time.
Can’t wait!
The Anastasia Krupnik Series
Anastasia Krupnik
Anastasia Again!
Anastasia At Your Service
Anastasia, Ask Your Analyst (my personal favorite)
Anastasia On Her Own
Anastasia’s Chosen Career
Anastasia At this Addressen the special “he” wants to meet her.
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