I'm in France for the next few days, and before you pity the French too much, they invited me. When my French publisher, the too-cool folks at Bragelonne, invited me to attend the Les Imaginales conference, I assumed it was a cruel trick. "Listen, I understand you don't want me in your country, ever, and I don't blame you, but there's no need to be a jerk...what? No, really? You're serious?" Having no wish to say on my deathbed, "Wow, I really wish I hadn't turned down that free trip to France" along with "Also, I probably should have turned the lights on before taking that ill-fated shower", I took them up on it, and here I am. If that doesn't teach them, there's no point.
This is my second full day here and it's terrific so far. The weather's gorgeous (I brought summer with me, and you're welcome, France), the food's divine, the scenery is jaw-droppingly beautiful, and the people are so nice. I can say "hello", "good-bye", "yes", "no", "please", "thank you", and "please please God tell me you speak English I DON'T KNOW WHERE I AM or even what day it is", and that's all the French I know, but I've found that if I greet people with "Thank you, please, I'm sorry, good-bye!" in French, the locals take pity on me and respond in English. And their sentences make way more sense.
I'll be blogging more about the trip once there's more to tell; meanwhile I'm posting pics and comments daily on my Face Book page, so hop over and check it out if you want a good laugh(s) at my expense. Also, my husband is guest-blogging sometime this week! Be warned: it's gonna be graphic. And awesome! But mostly graphic. No. I'm not kidding.
More next week, but in the meantime I'm making a mental note: stop swearing at the table and then excusing myself with, "Whoa, pardon my French!" to the French.
Also: the show Psych is hilarious when dubbed in French. I think. And so is Winter Planet. Who cares if it's dubbed? It's penguins!
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Monday, May 21, 2012
I Terrify Yet Another Neighbor
I went up to our cabin this weekend to check on the place and work on my pot garden. (My garden in pots, you druggie pervs.) Some of you know a bear we named Hammock occasionally ambles through our yard and stares at me from nearby ditches while I iPod out to B.o.B.'s "Don't Let Me Fall". (Which I think should be re-titled "Don't Let Me Be Devoured Alive".) No, this isn't a blog about Hammock, though I know many of you will be disappointed. A disturbing number of you, frankly. Lately I've noticed newbies popping up on my Yahoo group with questions like, "Is this that writer who studies bears?" (No.) "Is MJ like that poor Grizzly Guy who got eaten by grizzlies because he loved hanging out with grizzlies?" (No.) "Wait, she's a writer? I don't want to read about her writing. Wanna read about the bear, Ottoman." (His name is Hammock, and you can't. So there.)
Eventually there will be a black-bordered blog written by my husband which will begin, "Last week MJ and Hammock crossed paths and irritated each other for the last time." This isn't that blog. But despite the absence of an omnivore who could kill me with one paw while deaf to my outraged shrieks and F-bomb usage, I did manage to come off to a neighbor as a deeply disturbed weirdo who has contempt for all living things, including but not limited to her pot garden. (My garden in pots!)
So I show up Saturday and, after a quick bat-check (see earlier blog about my arch nemesis, bats, or as I call them, "Eww, bat, bat, it's a bat oh GROSS!") started to move my pots of dirt outside. Many people, I'm told, actually grow things in pots. Me, I like to use them to store dirt and seeds that never sprout. And my dirt pots need lots of sunshine. So outside they went. I also started transplanting seedlings (yep, I cheat, I only grow herbs from seeds, when I'm not growing dirt). And that's when I realized I had nothing to water them with, and I was waaaaay too lazy to hunt for the hose, unravel it, trip over it at least twice, yank spider webs away from the outside spigot as I hooked it up, then realize the hose is so tangled it looks like a big green ball of string...exhausting. I didn't have a watering can, either, which I should remember when I'm buying dirt for my pots (I never do, though).
So I popped into the house for a pitcher, when I realized my one pitcher had tea in it. Tea! How'd that happen? Oh, right: I made tea. I poked around the kitchen with no luck, until I checked the liquor cabinet. Success! There was a big vodka bottle with only an inch or so of potato-booze left. Not having a need for potato-booze at 9:00 a.m., down the sink it went. I rinsed it, then filled the giant vodka bottle with water, and back out I went.
One of our neighbors was staring at me from the street, which is not uncommon. We're, um, kind of memorable. Neighbors have seen/heard me sprinting from a black bear, prowling the neighborhood at night with a fillet knife, flinging addled bats from the belfry (our cabin was once a church, so it really is a belfry), roaming the neighborhood with several jangly bells hung from various parts of my person...you know. Just everyday weekends.
So he wanders over (brave man!) and we chat about the weather and what a mild winter it was and the entire time he's not making eye contact, the entire time he's watching me water herb seeds, tomato seedlings, and flowers with my giant jug o'vodka. And of course I know what he really wants to talk about, and it ain't the weather. But I've got a small streak of sadism in me, so I was in no rush to enlighten him. Nope. I was gonna make him ask. So I up the chatter: "...but I don't have time to dick around with fertilizer, if they're gonna grow, they'll grow, and really, it's up to the fates..."
He finally cracks. "They'll die."
"...and what am I, am I the god of herb gardens? Ha! Hey, in a pinch I'll use the dried stuff...get it? In a pinch? Because lots of recipes require a pinch? D'you see what I did there with my play on words? I..."
"They're gonna die."
"...can't really the tell the--what?"
"Your plants. They're gonna..." He breaks. "Why are you watering tomato plants with vodka?"
"Because I really. Hate. Parsley. Die, parsley seeds!" Okay, I didn't say that. But boy, I sure wish I hate. What I really said: "I'm not...although I had the flu last week and my doctor did tell me to drink lots of clear fluids."
"I don't think that's what he had in mind." He gives me an appalled look. "Who's your doctor?" Like the quack in question was lurking in the nearby raspberry bushes, ready to jump out and force a liter of vodka down his throat.
"And they need lots of liquid. Don't you, my pretties? Ahhhh, yes..." I cooed, shaking the vodka bottle to get out every drop onto the moisture hogging tomato seedlings. "Mama's here." I finally took pity on him. "I didn't have a watering can and I stupidly made iced tea without considering all the consequences. I drove myself to this! Accidentally. So I'm the victim. Twice!"
"Oh." He nods. "Okay."
"Desperate times call for desperate measures."
"Okay."
"Pot gardens aren't a hobby for the cowardly."
"I have to...uh..." He made a vague gesture back the way he came. "So, okay."
"Come back anytime!" I called after him. "Just some advanced warning, gin is also a clear liquid!" He quickened his pace. "Don't judge meeeeeeeeeee!"
Huh. I never know what to make of weird neighbors; does anyone?
Eventually there will be a black-bordered blog written by my husband which will begin, "Last week MJ and Hammock crossed paths and irritated each other for the last time." This isn't that blog. But despite the absence of an omnivore who could kill me with one paw while deaf to my outraged shrieks and F-bomb usage, I did manage to come off to a neighbor as a deeply disturbed weirdo who has contempt for all living things, including but not limited to her pot garden. (My garden in pots!)
So I show up Saturday and, after a quick bat-check (see earlier blog about my arch nemesis, bats, or as I call them, "Eww, bat, bat, it's a bat oh GROSS!") started to move my pots of dirt outside. Many people, I'm told, actually grow things in pots. Me, I like to use them to store dirt and seeds that never sprout. And my dirt pots need lots of sunshine. So outside they went. I also started transplanting seedlings (yep, I cheat, I only grow herbs from seeds, when I'm not growing dirt). And that's when I realized I had nothing to water them with, and I was waaaaay too lazy to hunt for the hose, unravel it, trip over it at least twice, yank spider webs away from the outside spigot as I hooked it up, then realize the hose is so tangled it looks like a big green ball of string...exhausting. I didn't have a watering can, either, which I should remember when I'm buying dirt for my pots (I never do, though).
So I popped into the house for a pitcher, when I realized my one pitcher had tea in it. Tea! How'd that happen? Oh, right: I made tea. I poked around the kitchen with no luck, until I checked the liquor cabinet. Success! There was a big vodka bottle with only an inch or so of potato-booze left. Not having a need for potato-booze at 9:00 a.m., down the sink it went. I rinsed it, then filled the giant vodka bottle with water, and back out I went.
One of our neighbors was staring at me from the street, which is not uncommon. We're, um, kind of memorable. Neighbors have seen/heard me sprinting from a black bear, prowling the neighborhood at night with a fillet knife, flinging addled bats from the belfry (our cabin was once a church, so it really is a belfry), roaming the neighborhood with several jangly bells hung from various parts of my person...you know. Just everyday weekends.
So he wanders over (brave man!) and we chat about the weather and what a mild winter it was and the entire time he's not making eye contact, the entire time he's watching me water herb seeds, tomato seedlings, and flowers with my giant jug o'vodka. And of course I know what he really wants to talk about, and it ain't the weather. But I've got a small streak of sadism in me, so I was in no rush to enlighten him. Nope. I was gonna make him ask. So I up the chatter: "...but I don't have time to dick around with fertilizer, if they're gonna grow, they'll grow, and really, it's up to the fates..."
He finally cracks. "They'll die."
"...and what am I, am I the god of herb gardens? Ha! Hey, in a pinch I'll use the dried stuff...get it? In a pinch? Because lots of recipes require a pinch? D'you see what I did there with my play on words? I..."
"They're gonna die."
"...can't really the tell the--what?"
"Your plants. They're gonna..." He breaks. "Why are you watering tomato plants with vodka?"
"Because I really. Hate. Parsley. Die, parsley seeds!" Okay, I didn't say that. But boy, I sure wish I hate. What I really said: "I'm not...although I had the flu last week and my doctor did tell me to drink lots of clear fluids."
"I don't think that's what he had in mind." He gives me an appalled look. "Who's your doctor?" Like the quack in question was lurking in the nearby raspberry bushes, ready to jump out and force a liter of vodka down his throat.
"And they need lots of liquid. Don't you, my pretties? Ahhhh, yes..." I cooed, shaking the vodka bottle to get out every drop onto the moisture hogging tomato seedlings. "Mama's here." I finally took pity on him. "I didn't have a watering can and I stupidly made iced tea without considering all the consequences. I drove myself to this! Accidentally. So I'm the victim. Twice!"
"Oh." He nods. "Okay."
"Desperate times call for desperate measures."
"Okay."
"Pot gardens aren't a hobby for the cowardly."
"I have to...uh..." He made a vague gesture back the way he came. "So, okay."
"Come back anytime!" I called after him. "Just some advanced warning, gin is also a clear liquid!" He quickened his pace. "Don't judge meeeeeeeeeee!"
Huh. I never know what to make of weird neighbors; does anyone?
Wednesday, May 02, 2012
I Endure THE RAVEN & Clear Up Misconceptions About Crazy-Ass Writers
Writers aren't like writers on TV (Liz Lemon: "One time I laughed at a blind guy eating spaghetti! Sometimes I pee in the shower if I'm really tired! I saw my grandparents making love once and didn't leave right away!") or the movies (Mary Fisher: "He held her body as he had for a millenium with an ease neither of them had ever, ever known. He reached for her...nub...love...button!"). But my friend Cathie enjoys pretending they are. Specifically, she likes pretending I am. So I probably should have known what I was in for when we decided to indulge our John Cusack jones. We went to The Raven last night with her son, August, and it was pretty terrific. The other show, I mean, the Cathie-and-MJ show, not The Raven. The Raven sucked ass.
First, I was completely floored by how much her eldest had grown. You know how it is with your friends and their kids: you see the pals pretty regularly, but maybe not the kids. And they have this weird thing they do where they get bigger, really fast. Contrary to our demands that they remain children, pre-teens and teens ignore their parents' wishes and aggressivly grow. With malice! They do it on purpose, just to mess with me! I mean, their parents. And even though back in the day I found it annoying when my parents' friends would exclaim about me getting tall, the only stuff to come out of my mouth last night were the cliches I was sick of: my, my, look how you'e grown! Wow, what have you been eating? I can't get over how tall you're getting! When I was your age etc., etc., blah-blah-blaaaaaaaaah. To give August credit, he listened politely to my inane babbling while churning through a bucket of popcorn the size of his head.
The popcorn! Okay, movie popcorn tends to be pretty yuck-o, unless you love the taste of stale. Also, they sell it for about eighty bucks an ounce. Also, the Carmike movie theater in Apple Valley has a special: if you buy the bucket of popcorn, anytime the rest of the year you can bring the bucket back and they'll fill it for free. "You don't even need to be here to see a movie," the concession clerk explained. So, what, it's like lunch? You could bring your bucket to the lobby and eat popcorn for the rest of the day? Could you get a sandwich with that, or just M&Ms? Would you bring your friends to the movie theater and treat them to popcorn while not seeing a movie? What...what is the selling point, here? Why is this something I'd want in my life? But Cathie was intrigued, so into the theater we went, bucket o'popcorn in tow. I assume she's gonna hold on to that bucket and, in a month or so, invite me to come to the movie theater to eat popcorn but not see a movie. Can't wait!
So, The Raven started. And I tried to keep an open mind, because I love John Cusack. Better Off Dead ("Two...dollars...") and Gross Point Blank ("I killed the president of Paraguay with a fork. How've you been?") are two of my all-time faves. The Raven, however, will not be one of my faves. In a movie about a writer, it was hilarious that the writing was awful. They must have told John Cusack to scream nearly all of his lines. Shrill is not a good look (or sound) for him. I wish I didn't know that.
So early on Cusack/Poe is trying to wheedle booze out of a bartender, probably trying to convey "tortured writer self-destructing in a world where he is scorned and misunderstood", but instead he put across "giant douchebag". He starts breaking glasses and bottles and shoving chairs while screaming about what a misunderstood genius he is: "NONE OF YOU HAVE THE CAPACITY TO UNDERSTAND MY ART!" Crash, shatter. "HOW DARE YOU JUDGE WHEN YOU HAVE NO SOULS!" Clink, clunk. "YOU ARE ALL SCUM ON THE MUD PUDDLE OF LIFE!" (I'm paraphrasing.)
Cathie whispered to her son, "Yep, MJ does this all the time. That's why we can't go to Applebee's anymore."
As above, Cathie gets most of her ideas about my work from TV, movies, and books. After she'd seen She-Devil she asked if I lounged around all day in pink silk dressing gowns, writing with pastel ink, fussing over my be-poufed yappy poodle while thinking up euphamisms for clitoris and seducing married men. "Yeah, but only on Tuesdays," I replied (I hated to shatter the illusion). Damn you, Meryl Streep! This isn't the first time you've caused trouble for me.
And whenever I'd head to a conference, she'd remind me to beware of dumpy brunette women prowling the hotel bar with an axe while they muttered what a dirty bird I was, and threatened to play their Liberace records. Like anybody would need warning to avoid that.
Later in the movie, Poe has to write a new story and it has to be perfect and suspenseful and his best work ever and the editor can't change a word or the killer's gonna bring the hurt on another vic. So he's swilling booze and scribbling on parchment rolls that look like toilet paper for giants and screaming at the editor, "SHE WILL DIE IF I DO NOT DO THIS THING! YOU CANNOT TOUCH A WORD YOU INBRED SWINE! I WANT MY TWO DOLLARS!" (I'm paraphrasing.)
Cathie leaned over. "No more bitching about deadlines for you," she informed me cheerfully. I had to agree; Poe's writing deadline seemed pretty stressful. Mine tend to lack that whole iminent death vibe.
"I WILL KILL THIS MADMAN WHO I ACCIDENTALLY INSPIRED WITH ALL MY DARK GENIUS AND YOU WILL NOT CHANGE ONE WORD YOU WILL NOT CHANGE THE TITLE YOU WILL STAY OUT OF MY WAY SO I CAN SAVE THAT POOR WOMAN FROM THE CLUTCHES OF A MAD KILLER YOU STUPID ASSHAT DUMB SHITS!" (I'm...never mind, you know what I'm up to.)
"That's exactly how she is," she murmured to August. That poor kid! All he wanted to do was sit through a terrible movie with his chatty mom and her annoying friend, and eat his weight in popcorn, and now he's gotta put up with weird writer comparisons, and his mom's buddy sneaking popcorn. "MJ always storms into offices and yells, 'PRINT IT ALL OR GO TO HELL, DAMN YOU, SO I CAN SAVE THAT POOR WOMAN FROM THE CLUTCHES OF A MAD KILLER!' when her editor wants to make necessary changes. Don't even get me started on her prose."
In addition to the writing myths that kept springing up, the dialogue was pretty terrible, which would have been unbearable if it hadn't given us more ammunition. A few examples: one of the characters described their mental state as "I guess I went a little nuts!" which I cannot imagine was early-to-mid 19th century jargon. Poe is also referred to as an alcoholic, when it's commonly thought the term wasn't used until 1849...the year he died. Of alcoholism! Or not...by then I'd lost all interest in the fate of Cusack-Poe. No interest in him. No interest in the heroine's fate. No interest in whodunnit. No interest in THE POOR WOMAN he was trying to save FROM THE CLUTCHES OF A MAD KILLER. Nope, I'm out. I'm just gonna steal more popcorn and stoically endure. C'mon, end credits!
After ten or eleven hours, the credits rolled and I gratefully lunged for the exit. Other than the pleasure of Cathie and her little boy's company (who has defiantly grown at least a head taller than his mother, despite strict orders to the contrary), I left the theater with a smile on my face: "And to think, I didn't have anything to blog about this week."
Ha! Now you've all got to pay the price for my John Cusack fixation. Quoth the Raven, "You would be wise to do as Mother says, Lane Myers." Whoops! Wrong Cusack movie.
First, I was completely floored by how much her eldest had grown. You know how it is with your friends and their kids: you see the pals pretty regularly, but maybe not the kids. And they have this weird thing they do where they get bigger, really fast. Contrary to our demands that they remain children, pre-teens and teens ignore their parents' wishes and aggressivly grow. With malice! They do it on purpose, just to mess with me! I mean, their parents. And even though back in the day I found it annoying when my parents' friends would exclaim about me getting tall, the only stuff to come out of my mouth last night were the cliches I was sick of: my, my, look how you'e grown! Wow, what have you been eating? I can't get over how tall you're getting! When I was your age etc., etc., blah-blah-blaaaaaaaaah. To give August credit, he listened politely to my inane babbling while churning through a bucket of popcorn the size of his head.
The popcorn! Okay, movie popcorn tends to be pretty yuck-o, unless you love the taste of stale. Also, they sell it for about eighty bucks an ounce. Also, the Carmike movie theater in Apple Valley has a special: if you buy the bucket of popcorn, anytime the rest of the year you can bring the bucket back and they'll fill it for free. "You don't even need to be here to see a movie," the concession clerk explained. So, what, it's like lunch? You could bring your bucket to the lobby and eat popcorn for the rest of the day? Could you get a sandwich with that, or just M&Ms? Would you bring your friends to the movie theater and treat them to popcorn while not seeing a movie? What...what is the selling point, here? Why is this something I'd want in my life? But Cathie was intrigued, so into the theater we went, bucket o'popcorn in tow. I assume she's gonna hold on to that bucket and, in a month or so, invite me to come to the movie theater to eat popcorn but not see a movie. Can't wait!
So, The Raven started. And I tried to keep an open mind, because I love John Cusack. Better Off Dead ("Two...dollars...") and Gross Point Blank ("I killed the president of Paraguay with a fork. How've you been?") are two of my all-time faves. The Raven, however, will not be one of my faves. In a movie about a writer, it was hilarious that the writing was awful. They must have told John Cusack to scream nearly all of his lines. Shrill is not a good look (or sound) for him. I wish I didn't know that.
So early on Cusack/Poe is trying to wheedle booze out of a bartender, probably trying to convey "tortured writer self-destructing in a world where he is scorned and misunderstood", but instead he put across "giant douchebag". He starts breaking glasses and bottles and shoving chairs while screaming about what a misunderstood genius he is: "NONE OF YOU HAVE THE CAPACITY TO UNDERSTAND MY ART!" Crash, shatter. "HOW DARE YOU JUDGE WHEN YOU HAVE NO SOULS!" Clink, clunk. "YOU ARE ALL SCUM ON THE MUD PUDDLE OF LIFE!" (I'm paraphrasing.)
Cathie whispered to her son, "Yep, MJ does this all the time. That's why we can't go to Applebee's anymore."
As above, Cathie gets most of her ideas about my work from TV, movies, and books. After she'd seen She-Devil she asked if I lounged around all day in pink silk dressing gowns, writing with pastel ink, fussing over my be-poufed yappy poodle while thinking up euphamisms for clitoris and seducing married men. "Yeah, but only on Tuesdays," I replied (I hated to shatter the illusion). Damn you, Meryl Streep! This isn't the first time you've caused trouble for me.
And whenever I'd head to a conference, she'd remind me to beware of dumpy brunette women prowling the hotel bar with an axe while they muttered what a dirty bird I was, and threatened to play their Liberace records. Like anybody would need warning to avoid that.
Later in the movie, Poe has to write a new story and it has to be perfect and suspenseful and his best work ever and the editor can't change a word or the killer's gonna bring the hurt on another vic. So he's swilling booze and scribbling on parchment rolls that look like toilet paper for giants and screaming at the editor, "SHE WILL DIE IF I DO NOT DO THIS THING! YOU CANNOT TOUCH A WORD YOU INBRED SWINE! I WANT MY TWO DOLLARS!" (I'm paraphrasing.)
Cathie leaned over. "No more bitching about deadlines for you," she informed me cheerfully. I had to agree; Poe's writing deadline seemed pretty stressful. Mine tend to lack that whole iminent death vibe.
"I WILL KILL THIS MADMAN WHO I ACCIDENTALLY INSPIRED WITH ALL MY DARK GENIUS AND YOU WILL NOT CHANGE ONE WORD YOU WILL NOT CHANGE THE TITLE YOU WILL STAY OUT OF MY WAY SO I CAN SAVE THAT POOR WOMAN FROM THE CLUTCHES OF A MAD KILLER YOU STUPID ASSHAT DUMB SHITS!" (I'm...never mind, you know what I'm up to.)
"That's exactly how she is," she murmured to August. That poor kid! All he wanted to do was sit through a terrible movie with his chatty mom and her annoying friend, and eat his weight in popcorn, and now he's gotta put up with weird writer comparisons, and his mom's buddy sneaking popcorn. "MJ always storms into offices and yells, 'PRINT IT ALL OR GO TO HELL, DAMN YOU, SO I CAN SAVE THAT POOR WOMAN FROM THE CLUTCHES OF A MAD KILLER!' when her editor wants to make necessary changes. Don't even get me started on her prose."
In addition to the writing myths that kept springing up, the dialogue was pretty terrible, which would have been unbearable if it hadn't given us more ammunition. A few examples: one of the characters described their mental state as "I guess I went a little nuts!" which I cannot imagine was early-to-mid 19th century jargon. Poe is also referred to as an alcoholic, when it's commonly thought the term wasn't used until 1849...the year he died. Of alcoholism! Or not...by then I'd lost all interest in the fate of Cusack-Poe. No interest in him. No interest in the heroine's fate. No interest in whodunnit. No interest in THE POOR WOMAN he was trying to save FROM THE CLUTCHES OF A MAD KILLER. Nope, I'm out. I'm just gonna steal more popcorn and stoically endure. C'mon, end credits!
After ten or eleven hours, the credits rolled and I gratefully lunged for the exit. Other than the pleasure of Cathie and her little boy's company (who has defiantly grown at least a head taller than his mother, despite strict orders to the contrary), I left the theater with a smile on my face: "And to think, I didn't have anything to blog about this week."
Ha! Now you've all got to pay the price for my John Cusack fixation. Quoth the Raven, "You would be wise to do as Mother says, Lane Myers." Whoops! Wrong Cusack movie.
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