Life of Cinematic Moments

Apple Cinnamon Cupcakes with Dulce de Leche and Honey Cream Cheese Icing.

2011-10-06T10:35:00.000-04:00

As per your twitter requests, here's my recipe for the cupcakes. Let me know how yours turn out. Also, going to do my damnedest to return to writing on LOCM:) XO

For Apple Cinnamon Cupcakes
1/2 c. butter
1 3/4 c. sugar
2 eggs
4 c. shredded apples, loosely packed
2 1/4 c. flour
2 tsp. baking soda
2 1/2 tsp. cinnamon
1/4 tsp. nutmeg
1 tsp salt
1 tsp vanilla extract
Preheat oven to 350.

Sift and whisk together flour, baking soda, salt, nutmeg and cinnamon. Set aside. Cream butter and sugar in mixer. Mix in eggs and vanilla. Add shredded apples and mix on low. Add the flour mixture until just combined.

Fill 24 cupcake liners halfway with batter. Bake for 18 minutes or until tops are spongy and browned.

Meanwhile, make your Honey Cream Cheese Icing:

2 packages cream cheese, softened
1/3 c. honey (I use whipped cinnamon-flavored honey that has a denser texture, but you can add a dash or two of cinnamon to regular)
1 tsp vanilla
1 c. powdered sugar (can add more or less depending on desired sweetness/density.)

Mix cream cheese, honey and vanilla. Add powdered sugar until combined. Place in refrigerator for at least an hour to set.

By now the cupcakes should be out of the oven and set to cool. Time to make the dulcede leche!

1 can sweetened condensed milk
1 tsp sea salt

First, increase the oven temp to 425. In a glass pie pan, empty the contents of the condensed milk and sprinkle evenly with the sea salt. Place the pie pan in a larger pan and fill the larger pan with hot water to immerse only the bottom half of the pie pan. Cover the pie pan tightly with foil. Place in the oven for about an hour, replacing any evaporated water in the larger pan as needed. The milk should have taken on a brown, caramel-like consistency. Stir the dulce de leche and allow to cool before transferring to a pastry bag with a piping tip.

Now it's time to assemble. Cut small holes in the tops of cupcakes. Pipe the dulce de leche inside. Frost with the cream cheese icing and feel free to decorate with any additional dulce de leche (as I did.)

Savor the Fall goodness and enjoy the deliciosity.

Fly and buy.

2010-08-02T20:49:00.009-04:00

Cinematic Moment: Inflight Shopping.

On a recent flight from Tampa to San Diego, there was a shortage of overhead storage space. Everyone unlucky enough to be in Zone 4 or higher was required to check their carry on bags at the gate, so all my reading material (ipad included) was held hostage by US Air. In desperation, I resorted to the only thing I could find to entertain myself-the SkyMall Magazine. Granted, I've leafed through many an edition of SkyMall, marveling at the statues of Bigfoot, the incredible portable pillow selection and the Lord of the Rings "one ring" replicas. But never had I actually read the sucker, page by page, taking in every tchotchke and home improvement gadget on the planet, listed in one, easily perusable publication. Four hours and two vodka sodas later...I compiled my favorites. I present to you, the useless, the stupid and the just plain creepy:

BED MADE EZ $29.99

Essentially a plastic wedge used to tuck sheets in between the mattress and box spring, a chore which is traditionally accomplished with something called a "hand." The Bed Made EZ has shown me the error of my outdated ways, while helping me do my part to waste more unnecessary plastic...and my money. I'm also not entirely sure how cramming this wedge in your bed will save your back from the excruciating pain of placing sheets and blankets on top of it.

FACETRAINER by NO!NO! $149.00

Touted as "the only fitness device that applies the proven principles of resistance training to facial muscles." Created for the woman who doesn't mind looking incredibly stupid for a portion of the day, in the slight hope she will some day look slightly less creased. It's the facial equivalent of headgear. My husband would take one look at me in this thing at night and likely run for the hills. What good would it do me looking 1o days younger then? Besides, I prefer putting on my own scary mask (found in the bargain bin at K-mart for $3.00) and terrifying random children. They say laughter keeps you young AND it doubles as a couple's activity. Two words: Date. Night.

DIGITAL IMAGING CAMERA WAND $119.99

"Capture images on your computer screen of your warts, moles or other hard to see places..." This is the manufacturer's pitch, which really opens up the doors for the potentially freaky uses of the medical wand. It's touted as a wonderful way to bring in photos of health concerns to your doctor. I'm sure your doc will love receiving the hourly emails of your every inflamed body part, freckle and that bottle cap you somehow got lodged in your rectum last Saturday. It's a hypochondriac's dream and a med student's nightmare.

THE PERFECT TRAVEL VEST $99.95

The makers of this vest urge you to "forget bulky exterior pockets that advertise your valuables and stop paying for carry on bags." So pockets sewn onto the outside of your clothing just aren't cutting it anymore? You're sure to hide the fact you're holding anything at all in this GIGANTIC safari vest. Apparently they've overlooked the fact that layering this monstrosity over a business suit isn't sure to garner you any promotions and while it may hold "a digital camera, glasses and a magazine(!)" that doesn't quite take the place of an actual carry on for someone who's traveling further than the local aquarium. Until you come up with matching cargo pants that hold a laptop, Subway sandwich and at least two adult DVD's-I'll save my hundred bucks to check a bag and grab a pashmina.

CHERISH LIFELIKE BABY DOLL $99.00

This vinyl baby doll prides itself on its "hand applied hair" and "tiny hand-painted fingernails" created to "give the illusion of life." The whole concept of this poltergeist child skeeves me out. No one who can appreciate realistic fingernails should be in the market for a baby doll in the first place. But the real peanut butter on the jelly is the product review I discovered on Amazon:

"The baby's hair claims to look real but once you get the baby you will see that it looks like someone took some glue to the head. It also does not look like a real baby."

Some people just shouldn't have kids...or plastic ones at that. Enjoy your week everyone!

Death of herbs makes me sad.

2010-03-04T09:34:00.003-05:00

Cinematic Moment: Poetry Hour

Maybe if we use it, the basil won't die.

I remember when I noticed the first leaf beginning to brown around the edges

and crinkle up as if it were trying to hide from itself.

I ran to fill up the green antique pitcher

we bought at that shop on Main Street last Spring.

I served water with pieces of fresh cucumber and springs of mint

in the handled matching glasses that came with it for weeks.

It reminded me of the sea glass we found at Brighton Beach

the day it stormed so hard we could barely see a foot in front of us.

But the pitcher lost its novelty somewhere around Autumn and the first snow.

It has been a long winter, I tell myself,

and living things need light.

I try a variety of fertilizers

each one more potent, lasting and proven effective.

Desperation sets in and I speak to the plant in quiet tones

making promises I likely won't keep.

I'll be better.

I'll play you classical music at the right volume.

Maybe we can work out way back to the times when you grew without trying so hard

and I was never too full.

--cs@02009

Tiaras and Cold Feet: From ZSP.

2010-03-03T11:28:00.005-05:00

Below is an excerpt from the short story I wrote for Zombie St. Pete under the name Chonny Sanchez. It's titled Tiaras and Cold Feet. Some of you have been asking where you can find the book (which sold out at the release)--ZSP is taking pre-orders for the second printing if you write an email to zombiestpete@gmail.com. Enjoy!

...Kathy and Max took their seats. The lights went dim and the MC danced out onto the stage, wearing a tuxedo covered completely in silver sequins as he belted out the pageant’s theme song, looking like a musical string of Christmas lights with a dying battery. Behind him was an enormous backdrop bearing the pageant name in silver cursive, with a row of flamingos wearing high heels embroidered across the bottom.

“Ladies and gentlemen, let’s bring out our first contestant in this year’s Junior Pretty Flamingo competition, Jessica Brown! Jessica describes her perfect day as coloring with crayons!”

Let the games begin, Kathy thought. She watched the first five girls come and go without cause for concern, listening to the MC announce each of them from the stage, the exclamation points punctuating his voice.

“Contestant Number Six. Chrissy Karp. Chrissy describes her perfect day as adopting a homeless puppy!”

Upon hearing her name, Chrissy emerged perfectly poised, like some dwarfed pinup in her doll-sized polka dot bikini. She continued without a beat, stopping to pose and flash a smile that was flawless, thanks to a porcelain flipper that covered her recently lost baby teeth. Kathy’s heart dropped past her knees. Even she had to admit that Chrissy was breathtaking.

So enamored with Chrissy’s swimsuit presentation Kathy almost overlooked her own daughter climbing up the side of the stage. The first thing she noticed was the child’s skin. Was it the spotlights casting that grayish blue shade on it? Then she saw Brandibelle’s mouth was blood red.

When will she learn to stay out of the makeup kit? Kathy fumed to herself.

Max put his head in his hands, mentally throwing in the towel on any hopes of a JPF crown for Brandibelle.

Parents began to shout.

“What is that kid doing on stage?”

“Someone get her down!”
“I think she’s bleeding. Where’s her mother?”

Everything happened so quickly. Kathy got up from her seat. In that same instant Chrissy did a quarter turn to face Brandibelle who, now standing behind her, bit into the soft flesh just below Chrissy’s collarbone. Brandibelle turned her head almost mechanically, ripping an Oreo sized chunk out of the baby smooth skin. The wound sprayed blood like molten lava, hot and red, across Brandibelle’s cheeks as she began to chew the sinewy hunk of meat. Some of the audience members gasped. Nearly all the others turned to each other in disbelief. Kathy sat back down.

“Who approved such a disgusting routine?” a particularly straight-laced mother asked. “It’s totally inappropriate.”

“I believe it’s the work of that Max Starr guy. I’ve heard he’s a real genius.”

The woman to the other side of the two turned at the mention of his name. “Do you think this is what the judges are looking for? Something different?”

Max was in too much shock to correct them.

As Brandibelle worked her way to Chrissy’s abdomen, the MC dropped the mic, suddenly looking very ill. In a few uncoordinated motions, Brandibelle bit into her waist, peeling the skin down from Chrissy’s ribcage to her bellybutton like a half-wrapped birthday gift. A jack-in the-box of intestines and organs popped out onto the wooden stage floor. The MC’s color was changing by the moment, a cobalt blue flush washing up over him. Brandibelle crammed two fistfuls of ropy guts into her mouth, the blood like a fresh coat of lipstick as she eyed the MC, hungrily. The suspension of disbelief had gotten the best of the audience who remained oblivious to the severity of the situation.

Finally, a father, Chrissy Karp’s in fact, spoke out. “Will someone tell me what the fuck is going on here? I didn’t dish out three grand in fees to watch a B horror movie.”...

(c.2009@Chonny Sanchez)

Youtube celebrities. In the future.

2010-02-22T09:50:00.008-05:00

Cinematic Moment: What happens to the youtubers?

So I've been watching a lot of Youtube these days. You know, the requisite homemade videos that make us laugh, wince, cry or wonder if the human race can even make it to 2012. Something tells me we don't need a Mayan prophecy to kill ourselves off.

What I've been wondering about while watching these videos, is what the long term effects of being a YouTube superstar can have on someone. How do these people move on and have functioning lives and careers?

Take for example, the "Leave Britney Alone boy." Note that I left the boy in quotation marks because to be honest, I'm not entirely sold on that. Regardless, here we have someone who's been turned into a celebrity for wearing loads of eyeliner and sobbing hysterically under a blanket, begging for the whole world to leave a then, clinically insane Britney Spears alone. No, he is not a friend or relative of Ms. Spears, just a fan. The kind of fan I'd be concerned might be interested in abducting her children to steal hair samples for DNA replication. He also appears to buckle pretty easily under stress. Even stress that doesn't directly effect him. Can you imagine this person working in an office or even a bagel shop? Let's say someone doesn't return a co-worker's call. Lo and behold, hours later, his boss locates him underneath a desk, covered completely in Post-It notes screaming into the heavens while drawing black circles around his eyes with a Sharpie.

Then, there are the adorable ones. You take a child who does something and give it praise and attention for doing it. It's simple puppy training, really. Classic Skinner reinforcement. Think about the kid in the "laughing baby" video. It's just so freaking cute, we can't stop watching. All 109,212,718 of us. That's exactly 109,212,718 cases of positive reinforcement. My survey says he's ending up in some institution for cracking up constantly as an adult. A cackling adult running around the streets of Anytown USA, losing his shit anytime someone makes a noise isn't called endearing-it's called freaking loony.

Then there's the infamous "Charlie bit me" youtube video. Flash forward 20 years and we will find "Charlie" on a job interview.

Interviewer: So tell me Charlie, what would you say your strengths are in the workforce?

Charlie: (grabs interviewers hand and bites him, drawing blood because his adult teeth are in)

Unfortunately for the interviewer, Charlie's big brother is also up for the position and can't resist cramming his finger into the mouth of everyone he meets, in turn blaming THEM in a bird-like British accent. For the rest of his life.

To be fair, there are some youtubers who will benefit from their fame. The "Jesus is My Friend" guitar player is clearly one of them. He wins at life. Tay Zonday is another, who's song Chocolate Rain reminds us all of a simple concept: It doesn't really matter what the words are, as long as they rhyme. It also doesn't hurt to look like Howdy Doody if you want people to instantly trust and love you.

Last, but certainly not least, there's one of my ultimate faves, which if you follow me on Twitter, you already know. "That's my penis" guy is the ultimate winner of the YouTube video game of life. With three simple words, he managed to convey three grander ideas to the world: "This particular officer of the law is not very intelligent", "I do not in fact have a weapon because I am a peaceful man" and finally, "Yes, my mammoth junk does extend 3/4 of the way up my abdomen, thank you." WIN!

(Ps. Missed you guys! Sorry it's been so long, but I may have a special treat for your patience...keep you posted. )

Intimate

2010-01-21T01:38:00.004-05:00

Cinematic Moment: Intimate.

There comes a day in every life

I think

When we grow too familiar with ourselves

Over acquainted with the backs of our own hands

or the right leg that stretches just a bit further than the left.

The preoccupation with ones mind trickles down into the mundane

A slow crawl into the affliction known as routine.

Wandering slightly out of the wonder of self discovery

like falling out of love

with someone whose knowledge of foreign government was once intriguing and now dull.

There are days I'd like to rearrange the face in the mirror

mixing and matching the parts until they form something brand new

Something fresh and beautiful

perspectively speaking.

I would remaster the art of painting a new pair of lips with matte red and pink gloss.

Memorize all over again the lengths of borrowed lashes

the eyebrow where my nose once sat upon my face.

Indeed I would.

For now

the mannerisms are not quite as memorable

The jokes are not nearly as funny

when it's actually just me.

--cs@2010

For all you Floridians...

2010-01-19T00:49:00.004-05:00

...Come on out to the St. Petersburg Pier for zombies, music and good times. Myself and other ZSP contributors, along with "Breathers" author S.G. Browne, will be there signing books, giving undead hugs and having a dashing old time. See you there!

Take a little trip.

2010-01-19T00:35:00.006-05:00

Cinematic Moment: From China with Love.

Nothing can really prepare you for the first steps out of the safety of an airport and into a truly foreign place. You can read books, buy quickie guide phrase translators, and do your homework online. Go for it. None of it counts when you are staring in the face of a country with customs, tradition, even laws you don't fully understand. A social faux pas at home may be embarrassing, but ultimately something to laugh off: In a foreign country, it could brand you for the remainder of your stay. The punishment for breaking most mid-range laws in the states is some light jail time, maybe house arrest. In this new land, the punishment is death. And the clincher? You have no idea what anyone is saying. (*Cue Law & Order theme*)

I consider myself a fairly seasoned traveler. I have the airline security check down to a fine art, much like Clooney's character in Up in the Air. Shoes undone, computer in hand, liquids pre-packed in ziplock and handy, cotton clothes, no metal, sans jacket. An understanding of the rules makes me comfortable. At least enough to see which I will choose to break. This is why our recent trip to China threw me for such a loop. For Westerners, the is nothing more foreign than the East. The lack of dairy, the currency exchange, the treatment of animals we would call pets, the government, alphabet, toilets (and toilet training for that matter. Can you say "cut a hole in the toddler's pants and let him or her go anywhere?") food, dishwashers, medical care, internet censorship...the list could go on for pages. That is not to say that the differences are bad in any way, they're just, well, different. And the dissimilarities have me more intrigued with a culture than I've ever been.

Take, for instance, the pride of the Chinese in their history and growth. They are a nation on the brink of unbelievable progress and success, yet they are proud of each small step to a degree that is humbling to a Westerner. They respect their elders and the idea of loyalty. On certain holidays, the children bow to their parents and grandparents, a way of saying thank you for taking on the job of parenting. Then there are the things passed on for generations, be it a fable or story of a Buddha or simply a tradition such as the art of preparing tea. I was so mesmerized by the beauty of brewing tea in China--the meticulous pressing of the leaves, mixing of different flowers and mushrooms, giving the first tea to the copper frog for good luck and prosperity--it seemed like liquid poetry. I probably drank 3 gallons of tea while there and I couldn't stomach the stuff before we went.

We walked the Great Wall, with its uneven steps covered in snow and ice, hiked to the top of a mountain to burn incense to the goddess of Mercy, Guan Yin. We ate with the locals out of shared bowls, throwing our germophobic caution to the wind and perused the Forbidden City, where thousands of years of dynasties lived and reigned. I saw Chairman Mao's Memorial, where he still rests, encased in a crystal coffin. We stood above the tombs of the Ming Dynasty, learned to say everything from "I don't need it. It's too expensive" to "One coke with ice, please" in Cantonese, and laughed at our own awkwardness when children began to cry upon seeing us. There were strange aquatic creatures, sweet potatoes cooked over garbage cans, acrobats, pearls, 5 star hotels, what felt like -2 star hotels, the coldest temperatures in a century, string pianos, rock bands playing hooked up to car batteries on the streets, filthy water, 3 hour long massages...We took as much in as possible.

Writing a post like this is not typical for me. Usually I try to capture tiny moments, but I would have had to divide this into 1,000 smaller posts about every other hour spent there. So instead I can only give you the feeling really. Of course the trip didn't go exactly as planned. Nothing ever does in life (and I firmly believe the difference between happy and unhappy people is their ability to recognize that.) But it was the most incredible experience of my life. If you get the chance, travel as much as you can to places that captivate or even intimidate you. You may leave, changed.

Bad Dog Blog in real life.

2009-12-27T00:03:00.003-05:00

Cinematic Moment: Two stupid dogs.

Barbara has taken two topples down the icy stairs this week with no injury, which, at a whopping 10 pounds is like falling off a 5 story building and walking away unscathed. Thursday afternoon I had to remove her from the FedEx man's shoe as she attempted to attack him on his walk back to the truck. I guess she should be rewarded for letting him deliver the presents first. Yesterday, she survived the 8 year old niece's toting her around like the newest Dora the Explorer doll.

Benson chooses to live on the edge by experimenting with exotic food options. This weekend alone he has ingested a red bean Kit Kat from Japan, a bag of airline chocolate chip cookies he stole from my laptop bag, a carton of candy cigarettes from the boyfrianceband's Christmas stocking and quite possibly our second Apple TV remote. I thought I misplaced the first one, but the latest disappearance from the only coffee table he can reach has me wondering. I had to pry the last candy cigarette from his locked jaw as he tried to run from me with it like a true addict.

I'm beginning to think my dogs are bred with wolverine and garbage disposal. You know, it's not like we never taught them to behave like civilized doggie beings. They have organic food with flax seed oil, choke-proof collars, wonderful-looking fancy toys. Yet still they continue to play ONLY with the Christmas ones, as if they received the ripped-to-shreds-Santa-plus a decade ago and simply haven't gotten another toy since (cue sad violins.) We brush their teeth with poultry toothpaste and give them delicious treats when they do pretty much anything mildly entertaining. They even have health insurance, dammit! So how is it that we raised these hoodlums? Is there no reward for good doggie parenting? Pray for our children people, pray hard.

PS. Happy Holidays from LOCM, Chonny and her silly silly pups--xxx

Funeral for a friend.

2009-11-30T19:35:00.002-05:00

Cinematic Moment: Progressive (but kind of awful.)

Over the weekend, I picked up one of my favorite print publications, Bust Magazine. I love this magazine, I really do. Spunky bitching, resourceful trip planning, great storytelling and cheapo crafts on a budget all in one place? Sign me up. I read it religiously and highly recommend it to any intelligent man or woman out there.

That said, I have a confession about the December issue: It scared the shit out of me. No, it wasn't the tutorial on how to knit your own fab garments or the amazing Christmas gift lists from editors and staff members (including a yellow bicycle that made me physically drool on the pages. Seriously, now they're stuck together.) It was a little sub-section for DIYers facing life events. The portion about planning your own budget wedding? Cool! Even the blurbs about giving birth in your living room in a baby pool were at least...understandable (though images of sitting in the aftermath of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre in a plastic pool shaped like a turtle is not the imagery I was wishing for this holiday season.) I mean, who wouldn't want to bring a child into the world in the privacy of her own home, without 15 doctors and nurses staring at your lady parts and poking you with sharp things. Plus, you could order in Chinese food afterwards. Sweet and Sour Chicken and placenta all in one place.

The article that this CM is about, is the section where Bust suggests you might want to handle the burial of a friend or family member yourself. And I don't mean picking out the right poem or the outfit you know they'd want to rest in peace in--I mean, literally cleaning and burying this person on your own time. Now, I like to think I have a pretty open mind. I also have so much love in my heart for those close to me that I'm overwhelmed with emotion even considering them being gone. But the recommendation to pick your loved ones body up from the morgue in, you know, your Honda Civic (because it's legal in most states to transport a body without a hearse) and schlep them back to the your house for preparations (AKA the apartment you share with a roommate and an overly curious cat) just seems a bit extreme. It even goes so far as to suggest a website where you can learn to "clean and prepare" the body without embalming and either buy your own casket online or, hell, who needs a casket, right?

I certainly have mixed feelings about what I want when I pass, but the idea of cremation and donating my organs is winning the battle at the moment. I also don't necessarily see a problem with burying a body in the natural soil (where lawful.) But the article made it death seem like baking a cake for a friend or picking someone up from the airport, not really addressing the emotional and lasting repercussions such a burial process might have in a Western frame of mind. Not to mention the truly horrifying things that undertakers see daily in their lines of work, which may not be the last way you want to view your beloved grandmother. Just one girl's opinion, but this is a CM I want no part of.

Gabba Gabba

2009-11-28T23:41:00.004-05:00

Cinematic Moment: Some quality overheard quotes from California's finest.

"I am suing Macy's because I ran into a statue outside their store. Some stupid sculpture. And I wasn't even drunk."

"You can't fool me. I'm a CPA!" (man asking for a dollar)

"I'm reading about training the kids the way the Dog Whisperer does."

"Hello good looking sir. Might I possibly trouble asking you for a quarter?"

"Why are we allowing women to perpetually pat themselves on the back without calling them on their shit?"

"Most days he's a nasty killer." (Guy whose sleeping dog doesn't wake up despite us petting it)

"Well from a philosophical standpoint, who am I not here with, really..." (Man to woman asking him who he's at the hotel with)

Sorry dudes...

2009-11-04T17:48:00.001-05:00

...been a little tied up;) Be back next week!

Maggie May: Part 6

2009-10-20T21:38:00.003-04:00

Cinematic Moment: Short Story Time: End

“You do know that the baby on the show will not be the real spawn of the two actors who play the fictional characters, right?” Patrick seemed genuinely concerned.

Now’s the time when we all chat about last night’s television shows. It’s not planned or anything, I’ve just noticed that every time we meet, at nearly the exact same point in the evening, someone feels the need to try to re-enact the hilarity of Alec Baldwin’s monologue on 30 Rock or the latest Madmen scandal. Don’t get me wrong. I have no problem with chatting. But it’s times like this that a teeny little part of me wonders why we are fighting so hard to stay alive when the best small talk we can come up with is everyone’s opinion on Danny Bonaduce’s testicles showing through his spandex Dancing with the Star's costume. Sometimes I think the only reason some people fight illness or poverty or get a Master’s degree, is to feel like they are part of a group and aren’t completely alone in their choices.

But then I remember I am one of those stragglers seeking out company and anything lighter than the darkness in my soul. A year ago, I wanted to die. My thoughts, as I had stood by the bathtub, a piece of shattered picture frame in hand, had been of the peace death must bring. Like a stone buried deep underground, neither heavy nor light, not hot, not cold or concerned or lied to. Just...there.

Unfortunately, when I woke up to bad news in that hospital, I realized that mortality looks a lot less comfortable when its imposed on non-negotiable terms. It was me against the world now, against Carter, against fate and most importantly against this very real disease pulsing through me. And I wasn’t alone. I had a vegan and a tea-drinker and this mystery woman in the brown turtleneck. They were like me. Stronger, perhaps, but not completely different. I wouldn’t show them the rotted wood frame of my soul because I was beginning to learn it was purely cosmetic. I’d forget about a cheating lover. My wrists would heal. My enemy now would not emerge victorious. My foundation was solid concrete.

As we said our good-byes that night, the woman, who’d introduced herself as Lila, gave me her business card in case I wanted to get together for dinner sometime. It sounded like a date. For a split second, the implications of having a relationship with a woman were irrelevant and I was purely excited. It was never too late to make a big life change and frankly, picking a new flavor of partner might be an excellent one in my case. I opened the door for her, leaving my coffee mug on the table to develop a new brown line, like a ring on the stump of a sequoia, showing its age.

***************

THE END

(*Note: Sorry about the length guys. It appears I didn't take into account the double spacing on Word would translate into half as many pages here on Blogger. Hope you enjoyed the story regardless. We will return to our regular programming after this week.)

Maggie May: Part 5

2009-10-15T09:25:00.003-04:00

Cinematic Moment: Short Story Time: 5

I remember looking deep into the doctors mouth as he said the word, searching for quick redemption in that cavern of gum and shadow.

“That lying husband might have saved your life” the nurse marveled as she took my temperature.

I said nothing.

Mistaking my silence for not catching her strong understanding of the concept of coincidence, she had continued on: “You know because if he hadn’t a’ done what he did, then you might have never gotten blood work.” The thick southern drawl turns the word “did” into two words. “Dee id.”

Again I remained tight lipped, my blood was boiling exponentially faster with every syllable.

“Don’t feel embarrassed about it, honey. My man slapped me around real good a couple a’ years ago and I found out I was sick too. Just that my sickness was of the baby variety. S’how I ended up in California. Guess things have a way of workin’ out, don’t they?”

She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring so I could only assume she had made the trip here without him. Rather than find out find out a potentially worse truth, I chose to believe that version and never asked. She put my chart back up on the door with an almost pageant like wave and walked down the hall. I never caught her name.

The woman with the pink nails jolts me back to the 101 with her tapping. God, it was like time traveling. They had to have some sort of medication for this. I made a mental note to ask my oncologist.

“So how amazing was the Office last night?” Tricia blurts out, obviously having held in her enthusiasm for a while.

“Pam’s baby is going to be really adorable, I think. I mean, Jim is just a doll baby.” The puppy eyed woman speaks up, finding her alcove in the conversation.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Maggie May: Part 4

2009-10-14T05:00:00.001-04:00

Cinematic Moment: Short Story Time: 4

I don’t recall feeling anything of the sort. Everything familiar was nibbling through the marrow of my bones, billions of tiny mice eating me alive. Something sick began to blossom from the walls like a contagious mold. I tore through books, spotted with lines and highlights that I once would have searched for meaning in. The photos on the nightstand stared back at me, the beaming smiles of a man and woman laughing at me, holding hands under a shadowy palm tree, their skin blushing like warm pumpkin pie sprinkled with cinnamon. I no longer knew these people. When I smashed the frame on the ledge of the victorian claw-footed tub in our shared bathroom, I remember watching a quarter-sized chunk crumble off, the glass from the photograph shattering to pieces on the tile and feeling as if the room was suddenly filled with light, like an overexposed photograph.

When the lightness began to close off from all sides like the aperture on a camera, the darkness of sheer hate was left in its wake. I wanted to take out the hazardous materials that had infiltrated the pale blue walls of our apartment. We had searched for months for that shade. When I finally found it, I told him being surrounded by it everyday would feel like living up on a cloud. Adorable, right? Now I'm sure if there is a hell, it's painted the same color. It took nearly 18 hours to purge the entire 1200 square foot house of him. 18 hours and not a single tear.

And then, the flood.

It started with tearing. Sitting on the cold linoleum floor in the empty house, I reached up and ripped a handful of the flaming strands from my head, glaring at them as if they were on trial for treason. The locks fell to the floor like glittering red icicles, long and tapered. I knew the second I picked up the razor that I wouldn't be looking back. I wanted to hurt. To strip myself of any pretty packaging. I wouldn't be the living vessel for it any more. I was surprised at the sheer, translucent skin under that mess of hair, as I slowly filleted it off in clean stripes, marveling at the contrast of red beside white. How patriotic, Maggie May, I had giggled to myself.

Ha...Cue black.

When I woke up in the hospital the morning after the hair incident, I don't know which made me feel sicker-the suffocating grey of the gown I was wearing or the blood spotted layers of gauze holding my wrists together. From the doctor's story, my mother found me lying in a puddle of my own blood.

A pool of coagulating blood sprinkled with bits of red hair. Can you imagine what that must have looked like? I must have blacked out. The doctors quizzed me for hours. Why, Maggie, why? One would think they knew better than anyone. I had been too blind, too infected with naievete to make it. When someone is sick, you have to bleed the patient out. Ironically, in my poetic attempt, I couldn't have been more right about being sick. It turned out not only was I legally crazy, I had a low white blood cell count.

Leukemia.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Maggie May: Part 3

2009-10-13T21:28:00.002-04:00

Cinematic Moment: Short Story Time: 3

Two other women from group sit down, but I can't remember their names. They're new. One of them has the eyes of a puppy that's been beaten by its owner, a combination of confusion and fear. The other looks more aware, almost wise in her nonchalance and owning an entitlement to coffee at the 101 that none of us regulars ever did. I want her to like me. I pour myself another cup of coffee.

“Wow,” she says, glancing across the smudgy table at my wristbands. There are at least a dozen of them, each a different color for a different cause. “Seems you're a very empathetic woman, supporting all of those things.”

“I like to think there are a lot of people fighting battles out there. I want them to know they have support.”

It's not a lie if it's not hurting anyone. The bracelets do show support. No one needs to know they hide weakness too. The woman is dressed in a deep brown, thin turtleneck that emphasizes her thin, long neck and fitted khaki pants, like a model from a J. Crew magazine. But her nails-they're painted a fluorescent shade of pink I haven't seen since the 80's. It seems uncharacteristic. I am overcome with the same sense of intrigue I felt when I met my husband, Carter. Just thinking about him drags my mind out of the diner conversation and back to the day we met.

I first saw him at a party. He had a cartoon bunny on his shirt. It was one of those random things that proved a great conversation starter. The connection was instant and at least for me and lasted until the day I heard about the affair.

At the time, I never had a reason to suspect he was unfaithful. I never found passionate love notes tucked in the pockets of his jeans, the phone was silent after 9 PM and he happily listened while I droned on about the monotony of the day's events. It didn’t take much to nod his head in agreeance with my opinions on taking an alternate route to avoid rush hour traffic or whether we should drink 1% or 2% milk. But he was never paying attention to the things that hadn't happened yet. I whispered dreams I had for us every night, purring into his ear like a pathetic stray kitten while he combed his knotty fingers through my hair. I think the only part of me he loved were those dead strands. There was a trip to South African wine country I hoped we’d take in a few years, an advanced cooking class to attend so we could throw fabulous cocktail parties...It was months before I noticed my words could have been in Latin. He had no interest in the future. He knew there wouldn't be one. He was biding his time.

I'll never forget the way I threw everything out. The hand of fate, in what I believe was a sadistic move, landed me in an independent movie theater a few weeks earlier, where I caught a mid-afternoon film. In the movie, the gorgeous leading lady fought back the tears, frantically inhaling the scent of her ex-boyfriend from every T-shirt in the home they had shared. Within minutes, she’d torn through his entire closet searching for the tender familiarity nestled in some old sweatshirt.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Maggie May: Part 2

2009-10-10T20:33:00.003-04:00

Cinematic Moment: Short Story Time: 2

A young man in the back lets himself out first, the door of the Adam's Center swinging open into the ashy twilight of a brisk night. The consistency of California weather is enough to send one packing 4000 miles across the country. There's rarely the question of rain and on any given night my faded denim jacket will do just fine. My first time here was on a school trip from my hometown of Atlanta when I was 17. We walked down to Abalone Cove to learn about the delicate ecology of the tide pools. I stood out on the serrated rocks, high above a bubble ocean that seemed to reach up to the foamy salt sky. When I returned home, I began counting the days to my 18th birthday so I could escape. I had found my real home and now every time I am away, I feel like I'm having an affair with some other city.

Rounding the corner a few blocks from the Center, the passing rumble of the cars overhead on the 101 makes me feel nostalgic, though for what, I'm not sure. A handful of us always go for coffee at the 101 Diner in the Best Western after group meetings. The java's nothing special, but the people-watching is unparalleled. It's nice to be the watchers and not the watched every once in a while. I'm wearing my favorite flowered bandana tied around my head in a bow like a newborn dressed as Rosie the Riveter. Thank god the look is making a comeback. I can almost pass as one of those “hipsters.”

The crosswalk is flashing with caution but I opt to throw it to the wind and awkwardly jog across the street, nearly trampling down an un-groomed man walking a perfectly groomed maltese. He avoids eye contact as if I have the plague and it’s optically transmitted. Since my hair fell out it’s been a part of everyday life. I’m not an expert, but in my experience, it’s a natural instinct to seek out the eyes of another human being. I find myself always searching them for something vulnerable. A hint of empathy. Or at the very least a glimmer of curiosity about another person. Some say eyes are the “windows to the soul.” I can’t confirm or deny since I don’t believe in any sort of god so I don’t claim to know much about the existence of a soul. I will say, if I’d created mankind, I’d be sure to hide the soul in a better place. Maybe in a drop of blood, circulating the body undetected. Or nestled in the thin membranes of a pancreas where no one would ever think to check...

And suddenly I’m in the diner, the back of my thighs sticking to the patent leather of the booth as I scoot in to make room for the rest of the group. Since my prognosis, my mind has a way of drifting off while my body goes through the motions. They say it’s a form of post-traumatic stress disorder. I like to think it’s a coping technique to get through the chemo, but sometimes it’s surprising when I’ve been daydreaming about a particular poem or something and find I’ve just pumped $40 in gas.

Patrick, the father of two small boys, slides in beside me and Tricia, a journalist turned holistic tea maker next to him. It's a big trend among survivors to completely reinvent their lives once in remission. Being given a second chance at life instills a sense of wonderment that's usually reserved for children and the mentally retarded. The waitress click clacks over to us with an aluminum pot of fresh coffee, leaving it on the table, along with five shallow mugs, lightly stained brown rings inside. Tricia asks for a cup of hot water. She always brings her own tea bags, impressing us with talk of the antioxidants found in white peony or rose hips. I'd love to be the kind of person who drinks tea. The truth is, I can hardly stomach the smell of it. Instead I gulp down black coffee a cup at a time. I realized a long time ago that sipping diverts the pressure of conversation from you and passes it onto someone else. Sometimes I finish nearly a whole pot myself, though that number increases exponentially with the size of the group. Just thinking about a one on one coffee date gives me an ulcer.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Maggie May: Part 1

2009-10-09T22:42:00.003-04:00

Cinematic Moment: Short Story Time: 1

“Sometimes I wonder if it's really gone. I'll be doing something normal--grocery shopping, reading a book--and all of the sudden, I’m paralyzed with this fear that it's still inside me somewhere, hiding and eating away. I’m trying to stay positive like everyone says I should. But I can’t shake the feeling that every breath I take could be the last.”

The heads in the room begin to nod knowingly, most of them gleaming from the effects of the drugs meant to save a life, while destroying a body. Others sport fresh brown and yellow hair looking like sprouts emerging from the smooth earth of porcelain scalp.

“My name's Maggie. I'm going on 3 months in remission.”

Stepping carefully down from the podium, I take my seat in the scratchy red conference chair, to a room full of applause and words of encouragement. A victory for one here is a victory for all and every loss cuts tenfold. As far as anyone is concerned, I'm just another survivor. My mind can't really get around the word sometimes. Technically speaking, anyone who is still breathing is a survivor, considering we're all racing against an opponent with an unbeaten track record. Death is no amateur. But once you've given him a damn good run for his money, you’ve earned the title in a way most people haven’t.

Next up to the plate is Crimini, a small boned vegan on the upswing from a year long battle with lung cancer.

“I've always put health first in my life and thought maybe I'd be exempt from a devastating illness because I took the time to take care of myself. You could say I'm resentful in a way...all the years I spent judging my friends for smoking and eating red meat,” she smiles down from the podium, more like a giant baby than a young woman who, according to doctors, shouldn't be alive. “I wish I would have lived more for the moment, is all. That's something I'm going to change now.”

A woman in the back of the room absently runs her fingers through a chin length bob the color of the blackest night. The color of something malignant. She is silently saying her good-byes. It's amazing how something as trivial as losing your hair consumes you during chemotherapy. I’ve learned those dead strands define you in ways you can’t possibly understand until its taken away. Women like Sinead O’Connor shave their own heads and are considered brazen and liberated. The women in this room don’t feel any of those things. They feel exposed, stripped down against their will. “Blonde bombshell.” “Curly brunette girl-next-door.” “Salt and pepper GQ type.” These titles sat waiting in a box somewhere in the basement for us to stumble upon them again in a few years.

My hair was long and glossy, like the ruddy teak of a freshly waxed boat deck. When I walked, I could feel it swishswish with each step, a pendulum on the clock of my back. No one ever really thinks one day that ticking clock will stop keeping time. Not to mention, there's not a single person on earth who can replace the battery. Everyone talks about mortality like it's the score of a baseball game. Sure, the stats are there in front of our eyes, but we always hold onto the hope something unexpected will happen. Always searching for a way to avoid coming face to face with the man in black.

The second round of applause breaks through the soft breath of Crimini spilling her guts a millisecond before she’s

finished speaking, indicating we’ve all had a teaspoon too much sadness for one evening.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Once upon a time...

2009-10-09T21:32:00.003-04:00

Cinematic Moment: Two week long story time?

What do you guys think about my posting a couple pages a day of a short story I just finished, rather than CM's for the next 2 weeks? It's not zombies or crazy fantasy or anything like that. Something more along the lines of a long Cinematic Moment.

Things are going to be crazy in my world, so I thought it might be something fun and different ala "Postcard Illustrated Week" and I could keep updating during festivities and life. Yes? No? Let's get an ice cream? Talk to me.

One of my better plans.

2009-09-29T19:36:00.002-04:00

Cinematic Moment: I think I'm learning Chinese.

As my father lives about 7 months out of the year in China and will be welcoming my new half-brother into the world there in December, we will be taking a trip soon to check out the scenery, the Giant Pandas, this big Wall I keep hearing about. I'm getting increasingly excited about the visit as I love Asian culture and the energy you can find from a new place.

Sadly, no matter how hard I try, learning new languages is not my forte. After 8 years of Spanish, I have still really only retained enough to order myself an alcapurria and a beer, to find the bathroom and to ask about someone's pets. It's pathetic. Needless to say, I've given up all real hope of absorbing a good deal of Chinese and trying to cram "Rosetta Stone" style sounds like a waste of a few hundred dollars. Who needs fancy things like pictures and DVDs and, you know, books? I've decided the "fortune cookie" method might just be the most efficient and economical way to do this. In an attempt to recruit people to hope on the "fortune cookie" way of language learning, I thought I'd demonstrate some of the sentences I've learned to form by using this innovative new method:

"Wo hen Hao jin tian" : "I am fine today."

"Chan sheng cai chi" : "Greedy lettuce to eat?"

"Mian dianying yuan yao" : "Inside movie theater medicine..."

"Qiu tang jiu." : "Autumn sugar wine!"

"Zuo ke" : "Be invited"

I know what you're thinking. If these are even real Chinese words and translations, what the hell constitutes a greedy lettuce?? But chew on this my friends. Would you rather make sense or get your daily language lesson with a side of Chicken Lo Mein. The choice is yours. All I can say is thank goodness I have my dad to help us get around or who knows what kind of medicine theater we could end up in. Wish me luck.

Restoration.

2009-09-26T19:43:00.005-04:00

Cinematic Moment: Restoration.

Meters, feet, a mile...

Who knew how far they climbed?

Making friends with the dippers on the darkest nights

reaching into the universe for company while the world they built slept comatose below.

Not ungrateful, nor cruel, simply confused as to who's in charge.

So wonderfully brushed and nicked,

Like a sparsely filled enormous drawer of laughably oversized dinnerware.

Or a handful of very long necked steel brachiosaurus carefully lifting their delicate heads,

comparably small mouths opening fluidly

to take a fresh leaf from a tree.

Only there are no trees here.

There is no life.

Bending their metallic necks

they craned to hear the exact syllable that would mark the end of industry.

And all the wheels marveled at the word play of a craning crane.

While patiently listening for the sound a skyscraper makes when it dies.

---ce@2009

Kill Audio Series Trailer!

2009-09-25T18:49:00.001-04:00

Undead.

2009-09-24T08:40:00.003-04:00

For all you zombie lovers out there, I just finished a story to be featured in a publication called Zombie St Pete. I'll keep you posted on all the details as they unfold. Zombies and pageants and the Sunshine State...oh my!

Looking around.

2009-09-18T21:56:00.001-04:00

Cinematic Moment: Google keyword search take 2.

Once in a while here on LOCM, I like to take a moment to address the people who have landed here by mistake, whilst searching far and wide across the interwebs for something.

To "hamsters eating."

I sincerely hope you are a sweet, chubby cheeked little boy doing research for a show and tell project consisting of printed internet photos of hamsters eating and you bringing in your own pet, Snoopy. What I hope you are not, is a chubby cheeked grown man all worn out on trolling for "girls eating" and trying to feed your fetish by moving into some beastiality nonsense. That's why I tell ALL my hamsters, never put up photos on the internet of you out at a party, eating your pellets. It could come back to haunt you.

To "magical moments taco."

Dude, there are not supposed to be mushrooms in this taco? Wait...whooooooa...Sadly, we don't have any of that here, but stick around and I might pull out a fantastical journey frittata.

To "titanic themes for fundraisers."

A word of caution, dear searcher. When I think of fun and essentially giving away money to get nothing but warm fuzzy feelings in return, I don't typically think of enormous tragedies and dying in the icy waters of the Atlantic Ocean. Was there no "trail of tears theme" available? Might I recommend something a bit more...not horrible? Casino night? Hawaiian luau? I suspect you are possibly Dwight from the Office. Who put you in charge of the planning committee?

To the stragglers.

You won't find your local movie times here. I hate mundane Wednesdays too. I feel for you whoever searched "Apple repair for water damage $755" and yes, I obsess over baby birds leaving the nest. Happy Friday babies!

September

2009-09-14T15:57:00.004-04:00

Cinematic Moment: Bid adieu to the last warm month.

I am on the back patio. The sun, low and heavy in the afternoon sky illuminates the delicate leaves of the lemon verbena, until they appear nearly translucent in some spots, their kelly green veins spidering like lace.

The peony, it's once soft hot pink petals, now a crunchy, dead amber, arches away from the heat, begging fall to put it out of its misery. It can't bear to watch summer go.

Bags of long forgotten gardening supplies, organic peat and bone meal, gypsum and potting soil line the edges of the broken-in wood. An enormous tin bucket is flipped on its top in the corner, as empty as its promise of "Cold Beer."

As the sun ducks behind a cloud, a desperate attempt to conceal the rate at which its falling now, a slightly cool breeze whispers in, bringing with it the smell of cinnamon and nearly ripe apples. It begs the trees, husssssshhhhhhhh. And the trees leaves are so enchanted they allow themselves to be carried away and used as confetti. Thrown as rose petals for the blushing Autumn to walk upon.

---ce@2009

Chocolate art.

2009-09-12T21:01:00.003-04:00

Cinematic Moment: Pretty Self-Explanatory.

What y'all think you know about CM's is shattered by my little cousin Kalilah Belle's living them through a cup of pudding. Someone show this to the Grinch ASAP.

Nit twit.

2009-09-12T10:46:00.001-04:00

Also, if any of you care to hear more frequent inane ramblings, I am now twittering. Sigh...what a sucker I turned out to be. Follow me if you want.

xxx

Inside out and Upside down.

2009-09-12T09:37:00.004-04:00

Cinematic Moment: Body Snatching Planets

Mercury's current retrograde position is ruining my life. For those of you that don't have a mother who is not hip to the merits of teaching their kids about planetary alignments, astrology and mediums, you can catch up on the logistics of what this means HERE, but basically it is a time when everything you can think of can go wrong.

This week I have had to return a grand total of FIVE delivered gifts for replacements because they were damaged or missing parts. I got one box full of glass items that was completely smashed to bits. I have gone through two mysteriously failed Direct TV cable boxes, only to find out there is an additional issue with the satellite dish. An artist's computer crashed the day before a deadline. Wedding invitations have gone missing and delayed the RSVP response time. My arroz was slightly mushier than usual. I burned my finger on hot glue from the glue gun (quite possibly the slowest moving viscous liquid on the planet and I still couldn't move fast enough.)

On top of that, I have been compelled to do weird things. I'm not talking like trying on jock straps kind of weird, mostly subtle toss ups in my food routine that have led me to wonder when this will end. For example, yesterday, I woke up and made 2 hard boiled eggs for breakfast. Gross. Not only do I hate hard boiled eggs, but I've never actually made one on my own. I may have even...um...I'm embarrassed to admit it...googled "how to hard boil an egg." But I had to have them. Then there's the spicy things code that goes like this: Screw spicy things. But last night when i made chicken empanadas for the boyfrianceband, I stuffed the mix with jalapenos and ate like 4 of them. ( Instead of my typical food perch on the countertop where I feel I do the best work, we ate in the dining room. Yes, the dining room--this is just freaky people. FREAKY.) This morning, I was overwhelmingly compelled to put milk in my coffee. The same coffee I love to drink black as night.

Why are you doing this to me Mercury? You better get your ass back in gear so I can get mine back too. Be brave everyone.

Watch it.

2009-09-04T14:20:00.002-04:00

Cinematic Moment: I might have said this before, but it was a lie. Because this is...

...THE BEST THING I HAVE EVER SEEN.

Another sunny concept

2009-08-20T11:27:00.002-04:00

Cinematic Moment: Florida Style

Drive Through Weddings for $20?

I wonder if the venue will refund our deposit...

2009-08-19T15:38:00.001-04:00

Cinematic moment: muti task. Blogging on the treadmill while picking out wedding cakes on the blackberry. Technology makes life simple and oh so complicated...

Passive aggression to the oldies.

2009-08-16T00:16:00.007-04:00

Cinematic Moment: Exercising dictatorship.

I accompanied my mom to her local gym yesterday while in Florida for my grandma's 80th birthday party and 2 wedding showers. It turns out, the place is less a gym and more a prison, judging by the dozens of passive aggressive signs taped to almost every nook and cranny. Here, I present a couple of them to reiterate the point:

Keep in mind the radio was tuned to a station of soft hits from yesterday and today. Gym stations should consist of something to get your blood moving, not put you in a workday coma. Guess I'll have to suck it up.

Got it. No radio and now we can't wear deodorant--to the GYM. No worries.

No radio, no deodorant and corporal punishment for changing one of the 5 TV's tuned to CNN. Oh wait, can't miss the sign below that too: Looks like I better remove my asscheek from the hand sanitizer. Bummer.

I will be sure to set them down gently, though I'm not sure how many reps I'll be doing anyways as I jam out to "hello" by Lionel Richie and try not to sweat and aggravate my deodorant free armpits. I hope no ones allergic to sweat.

The insanity apparently does not end. What exactly in this gym are we allowed to touch or use? Don't use the mirrors for exercising? What does that even mean??! No radio, no deodorants or TV changing, no wiping hand sanitizer on any other body part, ixnay on the harsh weight noises and for the love of god, don't look in the mirrors.

2009-08-13T12:14:00.001-04:00

Cinematic moment: NJ transit.
Currently a man with a reggae station boombox (wtf), girl with a remote control car racing down the aisle and loud gossiping dudes

Money can't buy me blogs...

2009-08-10T23:26:00.003-04:00

...But my new blog can help me not spend money!

I have started (sigh) yet another little internet jam, a blog about coming to terms with all the useless crap I have acquired over the years. I may expand it eventually with user generated stuff and stories, but for now, it's just me and all my garbage if you're interested.

If you have clothes with sales tags in your closet or buy the last stuffed animal at the store because you feel bad for it--welcome: IMMATERIAL GIRL

Making up is hard to do.

2009-08-10T20:19:00.002-04:00

Cinematic Moment: Smudge proof.

I've never had wonderful experiences with makeup artists. It's not that I've never worked with a good or even great one, especially in my photo taking days, it's just that they aren't typically too familiar working with tanned, freckled girls. It is a contradiction, really and most times I leave the chair looking like I'm wearing a mask or there's someone else's head popped onto my body.

That said, I went for my wedding makeup test this week. It was not bad--the artist was very sweet and did a nice job overall, but the second I left the chair I knew I didn't feel like myself. So I decided to forgo a makeup artist altogether and do my own damn makeup for the ceremony. The trick is now to find products that will last all night without steering too far away from my typical tinted moisturizer. Men, you might as well stop reading now...

After a lengthy and uber-expensive trip to Ulta, I walked away with tubes and tubs and potions to last a lifetime, promising to resist water from the gallons of tears I will surely shed and many, many champagne toasts. I figured I should do multiple run-throughs until I get the hang of it and find something that works, but first I needed to put it to the test. So, with a full face of makeup, I slapped on my sweats and headed to the gym.

The packages never promised to withstand the stares of fellow gym goers. I was "that girl" who wears foundation and 2 layers of mascara to step class, the one who curls her hair for yoga, the standard "Juicy" wearing gym rat who barely breaks a sweat. Except I wouldn't be caught dead in anything proclaiming my ass as 'juicy' --and I was there to sweat.

Long story short, I returned home soaked; my hair saturated and salty, clothes full of sweat, muscles aching. But I'll be damned if my makeup looked less than perfect. It withstood the test of the treadmill and an hour of "What not to wear." It can surely handle a couple life changing hours, right? Bring it on.

2009-08-08T22:01:00.001-04:00

I'm texting CM's from my bberry now! The future has arrived friends.

Free Samples.

2009-08-07T15:52:00.002-04:00

Cinematic Moment: Snacks at Sam's club.

I heart wholesale clubs like Sam's and Costco. Nothing gets me going more than good old fashioned consumerism in bulk. I mean, who doesn't need 8 gallon vats of mayo and 165 crescent rolls in his or her lives? I'm more a fan of the gigantor bags of Dunkin Donuts coffee and the super-sized Cheesecake Factory delicacies, but who's to judge the man on the hunt for enough pickled jalapenos to service Taco Bell for a full year? Yes, there is much delight to be found between those giant concrete walls.

The recent Blockbuster "Employee of the Year" starring the ever awe-inspiring acting talents of Jessica Simpson and Dane Cook (please note sarcasm) opened the layman's eyes to just what goes on in our favorite wholesale retailers. We were introduced to stockers, check out connoisseurs, forklift drivers...but perhaps the most prominent and unsung hero of the establishment was notably amiss from this film. That's why, today's CM is about the people who help keep our nation fed during these long shopping trips--the free sample men and women of America.

The free samplers are the "lunch ladies" of the adult world, but with added awesome because their "love don't cost a thing," kids. With plastic gloves and an arsenal of tiny cutlery, they are forced to engage in conversation with dozens of shoppers who are too embarrassed to let on that they really don't care about the MSG content in that hot pocket wedge--freeloaders just need to keep the free samplers distracted so they can nab seconds.

My question is, who decides which sample person gets what? That person should realize what a position of authority they are in, essentially sending someone to the center aisle with hundreds of wondrous cream puffs to hand out joyfully to a long line of adoring shoppers; dooming others to the depths of the frozen food section where they must dole out scoops of shredded pork in tiny plastic cups to the one or two brave enough to test out the meat shot. Lucky for them, people are suckers for anything free. I know this because I have been to comic con, where fanboys wait in line for hours to pick up plastic bags and bits of paper promoting companies and characters they've never heard of simply because "it was free."

Still, it makes me sad that there are free samplers who get stuck with the shitty samples. I've seen a man pimping condiment samples, but with no tangible food to try it on. The logical side of me tried to make a love connection between Sweet Vidalia Onion Dressing guy and the Water Cracker lady. Not the most obvious choice of food pairings nor humans for that matter, but at least there would have been something to put the damn dressing on. No one wants a shot of pure oil. Once there was a woman with a dog food display. The food was just lumped into a big mound in the center of the tray, so I'm not sure that tasting was her goal, still I suggested maybe this particular tasting was better suited to Petsmart. She said, "Well do you have dogs?" She meant "I'd like to shove this Beneful up your ___."

The last sample situation that made me sad was last week's adorable Mashed Potatoes lady. She was probably in her late 60's and never before have I seen someone so eager to hand out scoops of powdered potato mix. Unfortunately, she was trapped between the Yogurt and Ice Cream Sandwich samples. Terrible location. No one was in her line and she had the look of a grandma on Thanksgiving who has mistakingly used baking soda instead of sugar in your coffee and you don't have the heart to tell her, so you simply don't drink it. Since there were no connections to be made, I sampled the damn potatoes. Tasty, but not nearly as good as seeing her smile.

Here's to the Free Samplers. If it weren't for you, I'd probably shop in a place where I didn't have to feed an army, but life would be a little less sunny.

Old news in town.

2009-07-21T08:54:00.004-04:00

Cinematic Moment: Terrible real CM.

So last night, I finally convinced myself and significant other that it would be a great idea to watch a chick flick. We have a long history of chick flicks not being the movie of choice most of the time, so I have to really save up the ones I want to see for the right time, when the boyfriance is at his most vulnerable and tired. I cracked open a bottle of dry riesling, a bag of chips and some bodacious onion dip. Then I popped in what would prove to be the WORST movie of all time.

Now, I've seen Glitter. I've seen Gigli. I've even seen Six Days, Seven Nights. But nothing prepared me for the huge pile of burning garbage that was New in Town.

First off, let's discuss the script. Now as a bit of backstory, the film was set in New Ulm, MN, which is incidentally, the birthplace of many of my Lutheran childhood friends. Something tells me the writer of this movie has either never set foot in a town like this or was born and raised there from the amount of sheer spite against middle America evidenced in the script. The jokes were poor, the constant references to scrap-booking and tapioca illustrated a lack of alternate creativity and an unrealistically one-sided view of small towns. On the flip side, it seems the writer's opinion of Miami and CEO's was also a bit skewed. Let me cite a line as an example:

"I might be from a big city, but I know how to start a fire. Where's the switch?" Really? First of all, the big city is Miami which has a shortage of fireplaces to begin with. Then there's the fact that the character is originally from a small town where her father worked as a maintenance man in a factory. She didn't have a fireplace with real wood? Did she ever read any books about, oh I don't know, cavemen discovering fire? Don't dumb down your lead character or make her look like a flaky bitch (a bitch yes, but never stupid) when she's a major player in a big corporation.

Then there's the acting. Come on Renee! Where's Bridget Jones, man? I had such big hopes for you and your adorable pursed lipped expressions. You fell so flat on this one I couldn't even stick up for you as my man went straight for his phone to go on You Tube rather than watch you pretend to fall in love with the plant manager. And don't you think you're getting off without a verbal lashing Harry Connick, Jr! How could you not save this film with your charm and birdlike singing voice? And where were you in the caroling scene? YOU DIDN'T EVEN GET A SOLO!

But my biggest acting disappointment in New in Town was Frances Conroy of 6 Feet Under fame. Oh, sweet, sweet Frances...you played a blossoming widow and mother to a newly uncloseted homosexual, a junkie and a single father with a murdered wife. The complexities of your character and theirs were so deeply rooted and so delicately played in that show. Did you fall and hit your head after that, taking on the role of a realtor in this genital herpe of a movie? I wanted to love you. I wanted you to redeem it from every sin (and there were many) but alas, you could not do that in the first 40 minutes and I had to turn it off.

So a word (or 300) of caution, save up your chick flick fix for something else. I know most of you probably never had the slightest interest in seeing this film in the first place, but humor me;) I'm running on pre-comic con fumes.

Comic books are for cool kids.

2009-07-15T20:17:00.004-04:00

Cinematic Moment: Shameless book promotion.

So I haven't really posted anything about the comic that the frianceband and I are working on, but with the debut at comic con quickly approaching, I thought I'd drop a line or two about it for you guys. The series will be co-published through BOOM! and Evil Ink and is chock full of dark humor, satire, ridiculous characters and abstract musical references. We also have the Harvey nominated (and brilliant nevertheless) artist Mr. Sheldon Vella. If you like any or all of those things, you should check it out:)

You can get more info on Kill Audio HERE. Add yourself to the reader's list on the blog!

Hurray.

2009-07-14T16:21:00.003-04:00

Cinematic Moment: Woof woof from the sky.

An all pet airline!!!! I'm obsessed.

Weaks.

2009-07-13T21:24:00.003-04:00

Cinematic Moment: Winery timery (doesn't rhyme until you go.)

My mom, bestie and her GF have been in town for the last 2 weeks and after doing all the requisite touristy shenanigans (amidst furious wedding planning) I decided to get extra fancy and bring them to a winery for a tour and tasting.

We learned a lot. I'm pretty sure there was some talk about fermentation and champagne bottles exploding in the cellar. I also remember them saying the casks above are actually empty and that this particular winery produced the only New York wine on the White House wine list (a Riesling.)

It's after we did a tasting that consisted of about 7 different varietals, a cream sherry and port--that things get a bit blurry. From what I'm told, most official wine tasters don't actually drink the wine, but that feels a bit counterproductive doesn't it? So we savored it all and then ended up leaving with enough bottles of our own to warrant the check out woman asking "Did you leave any wine for our other guests?"

Other notables of the week:

Finding out that the sketchy bar down the street is not actually a strip club at all.

Goat cheese and carmelized pizza at Jane.

One logged fires and nachos made of old hard taco shells instead of s'mores.

Having my blackberry back in my hand, in my bed and in my heart.

Benson failing miserably at getting it on and landing himself straight in the doggie friend zone.

Sobbing like a kid with a stolen easter basket while watching the MJ funeral for 2 hours with the girls.

Using the term "sexting" in enough sentences to fill 4 hours of PSA's about the dangers of it.

Realizing the only thing worse than trying to lose weight is watching shows about people trying to lose weight.

My mom noting that the creepy men in the restaurant were staring at her as if she had "two eyes."

Invite design, flowers, earrings, comic con. CHECK.

Beh-old!

2009-07-01T20:09:00.012-04:00

Cinematic Moment: Things that make you go "I'm a dinosaur."

I'm three years older than Pixar and with far less accomplished (unless it's a contest of who has made the most people cry.) On that note, I'm 4 years older than the contact lens and a whopping 5 years older than crack, though we've caused similar devastation if you find the average.

THIS article.

Pluto is no longer a planet. Does this mean Disney's Pluto is not really a dog? Are we supposed to live our lives questioning everything we've ever known? Now I know what Christopher Columbus's friends must have felt like.

I can't make it through more than 5 minutes on MTV, even when I'm drinking.

Mountain Dew has like 5 flavors. When I was a kid, it came in one: "Mountain Dew."

You know how they make you read Stephen Hawking's "A Brief History of Time" in high school because it's a classic? Well, I was in kindergarten when it was published. That must make me a classic too. By classic I mean, OLD.

The high school kids at the deli call me "maam" and the old ass men at the gym try to call me on the phone.

Back to the Future 2 is 20 years old. And the "future" they are referring to? Only 5 years away.

Taylor Hanson of Hanson fame has FOUR children. Yes, four. And that young one they subbed in for the drum machine? He has a little nugget too.

I'd be willing to give my ID to someone under 21 who looks like me-with the condition they have to give me theirs. Also, when I get carded, I look all around to make sure someone's watching.

This was the pinnacle of science when I was young:

Sigh.

Take it---no, put it on!

2009-06-29T21:09:00.003-04:00

( Photo by Colby Katz )

Cinematic Moment: Man dancers.

I spent the weekend cooking up a storm with friends from the city and dreaming up brand new ways bring booze, fruit and the ice cream maker together with repeated success. Now I'm rejuvenating on the couch watching Cake Boss and marveling at the bakery owner's refusal to make a bachelorette party cake with man strippers on it.

I don't really understand the concept of the bachelorette party and the male nudity that comes along with it. There's something appalling about a thong clad man gyrating around, rubbing his sweaty appendages on the guests and looking like a sausage smashed into too little casing. The male form isn't exactly aesthetically beautiful (judging from the one's I've seen on TV, mom.) There's something even more disgusting about having to ingest a cake covered in this visual. Gross!

Fire.

2009-06-24T09:45:00.002-04:00

Cinematic Moment: Life with Propane.

"Grilling out" has always been a mystifying concept to me, though not unappealing. As a child, I'd watch my dad carefully pack the charcoal into the grill at the park, throwing lighter fluid on it and striking a long wooden match. He was like a modern day caveman. Eventually we upgraded to a propane grill and that was even more intimidating. I left the actual cooking to the "menfolk" and flopped around on the slip and slide until the burgers were done. I dreamt of owning a car with buttery leather seats, a house with marble floors that smelled constantly like cinnamon, a rolodex, a car phone (yeah, I'm old as dirt). The thought never crossed my mind that I might, one day, have a grill to call my own.

Last week, momnpopinlaw decided we needed one so we could eat outside on the deck. I was taken aback by the suggestion, not because I didn't want a grill--it's just that it was like asking if I wanted to pilot a commercial flight to San Francisco. I hadn't seriously considered it because grilling was a foreign language. A foreign language made of spontaneous combustion and accidental fires that could singe off your eyebrows. Nevertheless, it was new and exciting and potentially disastrous, so of course I jumped on the "let's buy a grill" wagon.

The boyfrianceband and I went and picked one out, hoisting it into the old van. He had to hold it in place the whole way home as it slipped back and forth on its new wheels, chattering the whole way as if it were telling us a story. Once we got it on the deck, we installed the propane tank, hung up the sweet new tools we got, unpacked the cover. Then I wiped it down, centered it on the rug, wiped it down again--anything to avoid actually lighting the damn thing.

After reading the directions about 100 times front to back, I was thoroughly terrified. Who knew spiders could take up residency in the tubing and cause a backward explosion? And what's all this talk about propane leaks? A simple "how to" would have been sufficient without turning the grill into the next weapon of mass destruction that I willingly brought into my backyard. Eventually, we bit the bullet and my man lit the thing. No fireworks, no burning balls of propane shooting towards our faces. Just a smooth even flame, safely contained.

After sampling our first round of delicious meats, it's safe to say momnpopinlaw have created a monster. A grilling monster.

Let's kick the week off with some inane rants, shall we?

2009-06-22T16:41:00.004-04:00

Cinematic Moment: A smorgasbord of thoughts for a Monday.

After a total of 17 days spent last month all over the Caribbean, nothing is more depressing than coming back to 10 days of rain. And I'm not talking just a drizzle for 15 minutes--this is 'build yourself an ark' kind of weather where the sun has had 11 minutes of face time in a week. The lack of Vitamin D makes me depressed and hungry 24 hours a day. So not only do I really not want to leave the house to go grocery shopping, I insist on scouring every cabinet and pantry for left over chocolate chips, stray granola bars--I even thought about drinking a can of sweetened condensed milk and pretending it was flan. Some call it a downward spiral. I call it Seasonal Affective Disorder (just in the wrong season.)

You know that feeling you get when you watch a scary movie and you want to warn the person about to get slashed with that hatchet or know that if it was Friday the 13th YOU would NEVER run upstairs to get away from the killer? Even though you know there is nothing you can do to change it, the instinct is to try in your head. It's the same when you watch someone else playing a video game. Except that you can change it--the control is just in someone else's hand. Nothing drives me crazier than watching other people play video games.

Tuxedo shopping was the simplest part of wedding planning. It also may be the cheapest. What's that all about? I can't commit to a pair of shoes, but we dressed 7 people in 20 minutes?

Sometimes you just gotta buy the new Black Eyed Peas album. I have no shame and furthermore, no remorse.

What kind of landscaper plants two blue spruce trees (estimated growth 20 feet hight) in a flower bed that lines a house? Oh I know. The same kind that comes to do a walk through drunk off his ass.

I still can't get my head around the idea that writing a 20-page long short story is leaps and bounds more difficult than writing something 100 pages longer. There must be some mathematical equation being defied in the land of fiction.

Cooking fish of any kind totally weirds me out. The texture reminds me of what lepers must look like as their flesh flakes off and the smell is the nasal equivalent of a finger down my throat. That said, I am going to make my best effort to keep my gag reflexes in check and attempt to make salmon for the frianceband. Wish me luck.

2009-06-02T16:05:00.003-04:00

Cinematic Moment: Something serious.

Some of you might know that I just got back from an 8 day long trip to the Bahamas which was every bit as amazing and insane as you can imagine. However, last week, I returned home to news which has changed my entire plan for a LOCM post. A family member committed suicide over the weekend. I've been grieving in my own way, mostly internally, but have decided to post about it because of the circumstances, in hopes that it will reach someone who's dealt with it before to let them know they aren't alone.

Death is a very personal thing and when it's at one's one hand, it becomes something entirely different. You feel a whole spectrum of emotions from complete devastation to shock to anger. Suicide is not an easy way out. It leaves so many people in it's wake to answer the unanswerable: Why? How could we have not seen signs? The ones left behind hear it like church bells for the rest of their lives. While they are eating dinner, in the middle of the night, writing an email at the office: Could I have done something differently? The pain is something you can't put into words and because the universe can't be held responsible, you carry the blame on your shoulders. For every suicide, there are a hundred victims.

In the case of my own family's tragedy, we saw no signs of depression, though perhaps we should have looked harder. The truth is, sometimes there are no indications of how someone is really feeling. We all wear the mask we choose to put on that day. All we can do is remind each other to keep persevering. Life is all about deep valleys and sky high days on the graph. If you are at a low point, there is an incline just around the bend. Please just hold on and keep pushing through. Life isn't always easy or what we might want it to be, but there's no simple way out. A better day is coming.

SUICIDE PREVENTION HOTLINES

1-800-SUICIDE

1-800-237-TALK

Suicide prevention website

Empty nest syndrome.

2009-05-13T23:09:00.005-04:00

Cinematic Moment: Missing a piece.

I noticed their daddy building a nest right outside our front door. From there a momma bird appeared and beneath her, 4 bright blue eggs. Taking a peek in that tiny nest became a daily habit. I'd bring the dogs outside and make sure they were OK around five times a day. My man would chide me for peeking at the nest through the window, scaring away the mother occasionally on accident.

One morning, the eggs were gone. In their place, 4 tiny pink bodies pulsed. I yelled out--"We're grandparents!" It was so exciting to see them there, breathing itsy bitsy breaths and squirming around while their parents went out to get them food. Every day I watched them grow a bit more--new feathers popping up each morning. I tossed out breadcrumbs and seed. I took photos and gabbed to my own mom about their birth and progress, taping up signs to warn the landscapers of their presence: "***Please do not disturb the baby birds or run them over with lawn equipment***!!"

Finally, they opened their eyes, nearly spilling out of the nest with their quickly growing wings and mass. I spoke to them gently. "Welcome to the world little babies." They opened their mouths wide for a snack. I was in love.

A few days ago, as I took the puppies out for the evening, I checked in on them to say goodnight. My heart stopped when I realized there was one lone baby in there, huddling into himself to stay warm. His mother chirped to me from a nearby tree, getting nervous at my presence. My first instinct was sheer panic. Then I started to cry. Had something gotten them? If they had indeed become groundlings, why was there one left behind? I stayed in the rocking chair for almost an hour in the dark waiting to see if a cat or hawk came back to get the last one. I was ready to attack and defend that baby. But nothing came except the momma, who nestled in on top of the remaining bird.

I couldn't sleep all night wondering if they were going to be alright. When I woke up, I ran out to check on him. The nest was completely empty.

It's funny how something so ordinary can have such a profound effect. I sat on the front porch, pulled down the landscapers sign and crumpled it into a ball. I felt alone in every sense of the word. I can't imagine being a parent who has to let their children go. It must be the most difficult thing in the world.

I'll never know what happened to my little bird babies. I prefer to think they are learning to fly.

Trek to the stars.

2009-05-08T15:26:00.003-04:00

Cinematic Moment: A real cinematic moment.

Do you remember being a kid and going to the movies? For me, it was magic. The theater wasn't so far from my house that we couldn't walk there and when our parents were feeling desperate to get the kids out of the house, walk there we did. Pulling open those glass doors at the entrance was the pitchers breath before throwing a 90 mph ball towards the mound. In real life, I was a slow bloomer and still bordered on the possibility of Santa Claus and unicorns while all my friends assured me otherwise. Each time I handed over a ticket to the attendant, I could simultaneously hand over disbelief for 2 hours without feeling immature. Everyone in that theater was on the same page--it didn't matter if Batman wasn't real or lions couldn't sing in real life. At the movies, you could age as quickly or slowly as you wanted to. And I wanted the world to stay surreal forever.

Today the frianceband and I went to see the newest Star Trek movie. Though I am by no means a "trekkie", my father certainly was and dragged my brother and I into the world whether we liked it or not. At first I loved it, but eventually turned against the series when I was a teenager and growing increasingly concerned with others opinions of what was cool. "Star Trek" was just above "going to the movies with your dad" on that list. In those teen years, something else happens. Your willingness to suspend disbelief becomes more selective. Sure, I'd accept that the Prince of some made up country could easily meet and fall in love with a hot dog vendor in some romantic comedy, but throw in an alien or a sword and you lost me.

At the ripe age of 26, having attended more comic book conventions than I can count, learned the difference between "fantasy" and "sci-fi" and begun co-writing a series myself, I could give a shit what anyone else thinks and decided to give Star Trek another shot.

We went to the 10:30 am showing--one that was nearly full to capacity. The enthusiasm of Trekkies is contagious and walking up to the concession stand, I felt like a kid all over again. The anticipation, the banter over how it will be...holy shit the concession stand sells chicken fingers and Bon bons?? My childhood movie snacking was confined to popcorn and stale butterfingers! I'll take one of everything.

I won't go into detail, but the movie (along with the chicken fingers) was phenomenal. Great casting, great script, just the right amount of nostalgia and a secondary love story. I think what makes a lot of people turned off by science fiction based movies is the intimidation factor of spacecrafts and foreign things blowing up and I don't know, nebulas--but not once in this film did I feel intimidated or out of my element. Rather than leaving me on Earth, Star Trek took me along to the final frontier. And the movies were magic once more.

It's madness I tell you.

2009-05-06T12:02:00.005-04:00

Cinematic Moment: Cue cake tastings.

When a normal person is overwhelmed with stress, there are a variety of things they can do to help relieve it. Close your eyes and breathe slowly through the mouth. Count to 10. Take a long, peaceful walk. Indulge in a pint of Ben & Jerry's.

But not me. Actually ridding myself of stress would be uncharacteristic. Instead, it seems I really love compounding it with more unnecessary tasks. Take for example, the fact that I am heavily wedding planning and seeing as how my bridesmaids and mother are in Florida, doing it almost singlehandedly. I can't wait to be married, but wedding planning can kill you with details and is especially hard to do when you're hopping from shore to shore (as I will be in a few weeks.) Yet, I can't seem to just sit in one place, pick up the phone and make decisions. I'd rather give myself other, more instantly gratifying tasks to complete to avert the stress, desperately clutching for anything I can immediately control.

Here is an account of what I should have done this week, versus what I actually did:

1. Compile list of wedding songs for band.

1. Clean and organize garage down to color coordinating cans of spray paint.

2. Send reception contract confirmation.

2. Purchase chaise lounge chairs--then decide to spend afternoon planting complementary flowers on the deck.

3. Arrange transportation from hotel to venue.

3. Buy bright yellow 1971 VW SuperBeetle on whim after frianceband sees it on the way home. (Houston, we have transportation--hooray!)

4. Scour the webs for bridal shoes to bring to Monday's fitting.

4. Decide to have the driveway paved.

5. Finish addressing save-the-dates.

5. Creepily spy on the newly hatched baby birds in the dwarf fir tree out front. Pretend I'm not so their mom won't leave them. This is still happening.

6. Chicken...or fish?

6. Maybe there's an answer to this question in "Pride, Prejudice and Zombies."

7. Check in on bridesmaids' fittings.

7. Spy a paint called "spa" in Home Depot and cannot wait a day longer to paint the bathroom that color so I too can have the tranquility of a spa in my very own home. Start painting at 9pm. Give up at 2am when my eyes glaze over. Waste the next day fixing mistakes and giving more coats. The color is less spa and more like a newborn baby boy onesie.

I need to get it together this week people. I feel like I'm trapped in a romantic comedy wedding movie montage.

Rubber ducky, you're the one.

2009-04-26T21:04:00.006-04:00

(This is not me or my bathroom for the record;))

Cinematic Moment: Splish Splash from yesterday.

Those closest to me know the bathtub has been one of my life long vices. There's something about a body of water, no matter how small to stop the spin of the Earth for a few minutes. For me there's a very childlike element to the tub, unlike the shower which signifies the always hurried adult, rinsing off on the way to work. A bath, on the other hand, is leisurely and begs you to stop and stay a while.

My childhood memories are admittedly a little blurry, but for some reason, I remember every minute detail about baths in those days from the color schemes of the tiled walls to the subtle chlorine smell of different family members water: The aunt who always had jars of Noxema on the cappuccino colored ledge of her fiberglass tub, another who had a custom made soaking tub about 4 feet deep that I am still in awe of, my best friend's windowless bathroom with her mother's matching pink daisy razors and Avon products. Looking back, I suppose my obsession has increased to mildly fetishistic levels, but I digress.

In my old age, I'm very serious about the process. I typically customize my bath time to the season...Eucalyptus salts for aching winter bones, a pumpkin pie scented candle to match the changing Fall leaves, maybe some rich coconut bubble bath for a summer soak after a day of sun. But nothing is better than the first bath of Spring, which I just had the pleasure of floating around in for a good 45 minutes.

We returned home from the city late this afternoon with swollen feet from a 5 hour long walk, tanned shoulders and a hankering for some reasonable take out. The sun, having shone all day, left the grass warm enough to smell the new life in it. As it sighed back behind the horizon, the winds picked up, allowing a cool breeze to pour through the open window. I dipped my feet into the water, a handmade waterfall pouring heavily into the basin tub and inhaled it all. If the world feels a little light in the winter, with the snow feeling like a sprinkling of baby powder, Spring embodies a grounded, much heavier feeling. The air sits at nose level and the scent reminds me of what it must feel like to grow from the soil.

I started a book called "The History of Love." I draped a hot washcloth over my face, dunked my head under the water and pretended I was a mermaid with my hair floating around me, watched the flicker of the scentless candle on the counter top. It was a glorious first bath of Spring and something you should really consider...

The road less traveled (because it sucks.)

2009-04-20T13:28:00.006-04:00

Cinematic Moment: Finding your way.

"If you're successful at the wrong thing, the mix of praise and money and opportunity can lock you in forever." Starbucks cup

I had a long conversation with a friend of mine from college this morning. We got to chatting about common friends and where they are in their lives, marveling at the slow and calculated ways of Father Time, who, in this economy, seems like he's been struck by random lightning.

I don't think it's a coincidence that success at something doesn't necessarily mean you are meant to spend life doing it, just as failure to make a living at what you enjoy is no reason to cut it from your world. The universe doesn't need to explain its rationale and the majority of the time, won't even drop a hint as to why it works the way it does. So what can we do then? Should we simply wait around for it to point us in the right direction? Is existence more or less meaningful if your passion goes unnoticed?

The common thread for a lot of the happy people I know is they all have the same answer to the question: Not to sit and watch the clock, but to persevere. While the world churns your experiences, composting them into something bigger, you have to keep pushing through and making your own personal progress. The tricky part is ensuring you don't get strapped into something you don't love for the reasons on that Starbucks cup above. (I know, wisdom from Starbucks...it's truly mindblowing.) It's easy to go for the comfortable...for what pays the bills. But accepting mediocrity is a waste if it isn't what you crave. You'll always have the itch for something else.

I say take both roads. Do what you have to do for the time being to make ends meet, but never stop pushing towards what moves you and you really can have it all.

Just a little random life therapy for a Friday. Now go get a beer and your dance on;) We meet back here on Monday to discuss the chaos of wedding planning, the pros of aging and why my handbag is my life coach. LOCM Class dismissed.

Order!!

2009-04-15T11:13:00.004-04:00

Cinematic Moment: Traffic court.

I'd love to apologize for being absent from CM for a couple weeks but frankly, I had what I thought was a great excuse: I was preparing my case for traffic court. Allow me to paint the picture appropriately...

Over Thanksgiving weekend, I was pulled over for speeding on a country road. The speed limit had changed abruptly from 55 to 30, with the 30 mph sign located at the bottom of a hill. I was doing 46. Not sure how many of you have attempted to simultaneously slow down and accelerate up a hill---but it's no easy feat. Needless to say, I pleaded not guilty to the citation and decided to take advantage of this country's wonderful justice system. I've never actually been to court, but I have watched my share of Judge Mathis. I could pick the sound effects of Law & Order out of a sound effect audio line up. I also loved trial thrillers like "A Time To Kill" and "Fracture." I don't like to brag, but you could say I'm an expert on courtroom proceedings.

Knowing the preparation is half the battle, I spent a great deal of time preparing my case. I didn't want to get in there and get yelled at for wasting anyone's time, like Judge Judy always does. I consulted every attorney friend I have, took photos, put together a cross-examination for the police officer should I need to prove the location was indeed a speed trap and practiced my closing argument with the frianceband over and over. The day of court, I put on my suit jacket, some Mary Janes and threw my hair into what I consider a professional looking low pony tail. Black portfolio in hand, I walked into the town hall with my head held high, ready to plead my case.

All the preparation didn't prepare me for the nightmare that is traffic court. A 4:00 court appearance meant not that I would have a hearing at 4, but that EVERYONE in the county would have a hearing at that time. I was also one of the only people to read the fine print about "proper dress" being "required." Unless, John Deere hoodies and flip flops are considered proper dress in some cultures. I was also one of maybe 10 without dozens of unpaid citations and whose pockets weren't surely filled with meth. I was more out of place than a high heeled sore thumb. And where the hell were all the lawyers and gavels?

I didn't get a word in edge wise when it came down to it. I agreed to a plea deal before any sort of trial happened--I never even opened my black portfolio to show my evidence. It's all for the best I'm sure. Lord knows I probably would have caved under pressure. I just wish I'd gotten in one "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury..."

GYTOFS

2009-03-31T11:33:00.004-04:00

Cinematic Moment: Showing some love

For any of you LOCM readers who are familiar with the Kill Audio comic series (keep an eye out for more info on the debut in print soon) you are familiar with our very talented and wise cracking artist du jour, Mr. Sheldon Vella. What you might not know is he has another series called Supertron that is definitely rad and is running a competition to promote the second season's debut. If you love great comics, boobies, showing your boobies or just seeing boobies while reading comics, go HERE . Where else can you get quality reading and a chance to show the world your goods in one click?

This cannot be good..

2009-03-27T09:39:00.005-04:00

Cinematic Moment: A haunting in New York.

While we were on the other coast, our house sitter brought it to my attention that our house is situated on old Indian Reservation land. Thinking she was messing with me, I did a little research myself. I was horrified to learn she wasn't kidding. As someone who believes in paranormal activity, probably from watching Ghostbusters one too many times, I am equally as afraid of spirits as I am of home intruders. I called my mom to whine about it. She said, "You have nothing to worry about-the Indians were very peaceful. Plus we're part Native American."

"Well mom, I don't think my fractional heritage is going to give me a get out of jail free card. They may have been peaceful until we stole their land from them and plopped a 3000 square foot house on what may very well have been sacred ground. Does the phrase "Trail of Tears" ring a bell?" That said, I decided if I was welcoming to them, maybe they'd leave us alone and we could co-habit--living and spirit alike. I would offer them coffee and warm goat cheese and spinach salad. Hey, Chief Running Wolf, how about a game of Scrabble? Quit cheating-I know you can see right through that dictionary!

My plan was working splendidly, I have to say--no creepy noises, no TVs turning on and off, no random knives being tossed in my direction from the kitchen--just peace and quiet. It was this very peace and quiet that I was basking in as we lied down to sleep a few days ago. I didn't even close the drapes, it was so comfortable. As I shifted positions in bed, I opened my eyes briefly, glancing towards the window. WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?? I know this phrase may be surprising to you, but I guarantee you it's not as surprising as what I saw. Shining through the glass, like some blazing Batman signal, an image was being projected against the wall. An image that looked uncannily like a tee pee. I couldn't sleep all night. I lied there listening for warrior chants to start.

The next morning, my frianceband reassured me that it was just a watermark on the window from 2 years of uncleaned gutters and a lot of Spring rain. I reassured him he is a filthy liar. I hope he's ready to donate some of that hair when I get scalped...

Proud parent.

2009-03-25T21:24:00.005-04:00

Cinematic Moment: Surprise!

A month or so ago I was at my local pizza joint and overheard the delivery guy talking about his Great Danes having 12 puppies. I've always been a bit of a sucker for dogs that could be mistaken for horses--the Mastiffs, Great Danes, St. Bernards. Sign me up. The idea of checking out a dozen of these little sweeties was far too much for me to pass up. With the man of the house away, I recruited a friend to go with me, thinking I would just not tell him and then send a pic of the puppy to him when I got there. He would not be able to say no. My friend agreed this was a great plan and that she would use the same tactic with her hubby. So we made the hike to PA with visions of smooshie faced canines dancing through our heads.

Well, the reality is that once we got there I realized no matter how badly I'd love to, we do not live a lifestyle conducive to a 180 pound dog. This is why we have little ones. But that is not to say that the animal gods did not shine down on me that day, as it turned out the Great Dane mommy's mommy has a sister (say that 3 times fast...and try to figure it out.) This sister has a Brussels who is itching for some loving from our little Benson. We like to think of her as a surrogate for Barbara and Ben, So yes, ladies in gentlemen, the 2nd week of April, I will be dropping him off for a conjugal visit and sometime this summer, I'm going to be a grandma!!

Bi-focals, knitting puppy sweaters, spoiling the little one rotten--count me in. Let's take a gander at what my future grandpuppy might look like:

Ages ago...

2009-03-17T10:36:00.005-04:00

Cinematic Moment: Years of prose.

It's only been a handful of years that the night seemed to open up like a hole drilled into the black cancerous mouth of a cavern, exposing the pink spongy flesh of morning. What was once heavy and uncertain, has the playful banter of a dozen balloons, allowing themselves to fly with whatever breeze comes along, but always remaining tied together. We sit around in wrinkled cream sheets, rubbing our feet together to remind the other we are still there. Palm to palm, eating cookies with chunks of powdery chocolate and drinking plastic cups filled with ice cold milk. We sing our words most of the time.

And we watch the seasons change out the window, while our own faces slowly change from young to slightly impressed with the lines of late night expressions. I never grew afraid of smiling more wrinkles into mine. Gone are the days when I tried to scrub them away, like some sort of stain. The candlelight bounces off the moss colored walls, gloss paint singing back to the flame. The light continues to catch on a guitar with hardware the color of an Italian gold bracelet my grandmother gave me for my 15th birthday. The dogs nuzzle as close as they can get. I study the pattern of his facial hair, how it grows in singularly and coarse, black in some areas and a deep auburn just below the bottom lip. I listen to breath pacing itself, slowing down from man to beast to ozone. Listening to the heartbeats of all living things come to a lull.

And I sneak across the kitchen for a glass of water, silently laughing at our luck in this lifetime.

In like a lion, out like a lamb my ass.

2009-03-15T15:59:00.005-04:00

Cinematic Moment: A little Spring Cleaning.

In the wake of a West Coast trip (which has thrown my sleep schedule so out of whack that my usual 7:30 am wake up call has become 11:30) and my man's second annual 30th birthday (that has lasted 3 days) I decided to do a little outside spring cleaning. Donning some yoga pants, an old green hoodie and 3 year old Uggs that I couldn't care less about destroying, I inhaled a couple cups of coffee before heading into the great outdoors. Terra cotta pots scattered, bags of planting soil, broken wooden birdhouses, fallen wind chimes--I faced a backyard that appeared to have barely survived a winter rivaling Hiroshima. But I was fully caffeinated and ready to take on the aftermath.

With the dogs under foot, we broke up old tree branches, tossing them into the fire pit to await a summer demon fire. I replaced my favorite wrought iron table on the sun deck where it will see many a morning breakfast in the next few months and hosed down the patios, freeing them from a 5-month old leaf cardigan. The dogs rolled in the mud the way I'd imagine a pig would, Barbara chasing the falling twigs. Benson at one point, disappeared, finding an old corn cob from the field next door and attempting to fit the entire thing into his mouth so he could bring it indoors secretly, like a little creepsicle. We were all feeling alive with the sun smiling down and the sky most blue than the Atlantic Ocean.

Then, I remembered the 20 gallon Rubbermaid I had bought to start my Tupperware garden last summer, still sitting on the deck railing, neglected. It was full of rainwater, soil and some remnants of forgotten Brussels Sprouts I'd planted and never actually picked. Against the advice of gardener friends, I had also never gotten around to drilling drainage holes in the bottom. It was a task enough to plant the damn Tupperware garden, let alone use a power drill and I recall my attention span was very short on this project. That would be why it was still festering here.

As I dumped some of the water out of the thing, a familiar smell wafted up from the ground below. You know when keep flowers in a vase too long and the stems rot? It smelled like that, only instead of 1 cup of rot water, there was roughly 16 gallons of it. I got as much as I could out of the bucket so I could attempt to lift it off the deck railing and bring it into the woods for a proper burial. Low and behold, as I heaved it off, the weight was too much for me. The whole Rubbermaid fell to the ground, smashing into little plastic splinters and ricocheting about 13 gallons of rancid Brussels Sprout dirt water back onto me. Not just onto the tattered sweater and Uggs, but all over my face, pants and squeaky clean Heidi braids.

Not even the dogs will come near me now because I smell like the ears of a homeless man. Spring, it's on.

A day in the life of a procrastinator extraordinaire.

2009-02-24T22:56:00.007-05:00

Cinematic Moment: Ways I have avoided doing work today.

7:30am Rise and shine! It's going to be a productive day.

7:37am Mmmmm...coffee.

7: 39am It's been a while since that cutting board got a good oiling. Also, the refrigerator is full of almost expired stuff. Better clear it out now before my trip.

8: 15am There are too many half-burned candles in this house. I should light them all so I can replace them before I leave next week.

8: 28am Text boyfriance for mouth pain sympathy.

8: 31am Call mom for general life sympathy.

9:00am Put on pink cashmere writing robe and go to office.

9:06am Forgot my amoxicillin. Back downstairs.

9: 07am I'm pretty sure antibiotics require a rest period. I'll kill some time on ebay looking at new candles.

9: 30am Yay, my friends are online! Better catch them up on what I did in the last hour. "Hey guys, when's the last time you oiled your cutting boards?"

10:00am Rearrange desk to get better natural sun light.

10:30am Get sunglasses to enable vision of computer screen in new light.

10:31am That man couldn't really have inhaled that kitten. I should do research on urban myths.

10:40am Write approximately 5 lines of script.

11:00am Go to change music on ipod.

11:02am You know, if I can't beat the computer on ipod Touch Scrabble, then I shouldn't be a writer at all.

11:22am Those candles have been burning a while. Better go blow them all out.

11:30am Back to office. Write 5 awful poems with Magnetic Poetry on inspiration board.

11:40am Think I'd be better inspired with new office wallpaper.

11:41am Research wallpaper online.

12:00pm Lunch time! I'll make a frozen burrito so I can get back to work quickly.

12:10 pm Can't open my mouth wide enough to eat frozen burrito. Switch to string cheese.

12:12pm Exerted jaw too much on lunch. Need Vicodin.

12:13pm One should never write on painkillers. One should nap on office daybed.

12:17pm Can't nap. Need to make fresh coffee to wake me back up.

12:30pm Drink cup of coffee. Have to pee. Bad.

12:32pm Check face in bathroom mirror. Are those fine lines around my brow? Time for at home chemical peel.

12:50pm I'll get you this time bastard cheater Scrabble computer using words like "qua."

1:15pm Boyfriance calls. I tell him of my Scrabble wizardry. He cannot hide his desire to bow down to my high score. ( I may have made up that last sentence.)

1:25pm Uh oh, skin's peeling. Can't imagine from what. Better do at home microdermabrasion to slough it out.

1:35pm Stress over state of skin conjures up wedding thoughts. This wedding isn't going to plan itself. Google many wedding related things online. Oooohhhh, flower girl dresses and cuff links!!

2:00pm AIM Miranda about the great progress I'm making on my Clutter article. Think of how great her new puppy will be. Give her the chore of making cake toppers.

2:10pm Email some toy creators to send pics of toys.

2:20pm Talk to Boyfriance about Street Fighter 2 tactics and cake toppers.

2:30pm Water plant on my desk. Change coffee table books to new, more interesting books.

2:40pm Write 3 more lines.

3:00pm Decide the secret to writing this script is music I don't have. French cafe music.

3:01pm Spend itunes gift card on Parisian chic jams.

3:21pm Revert back to Sufjan Stevens.

3:25pm Discover cousin's wedding site. Mom wants me to have a wedding site. Research wedding sites and wonder what the hell I would put on one with no plans?

3:40pm Get wedding site. Immediately regret it. Look for delete button. Hmmm... do we need a monogram?

4:15pm I'm hungry already. Can I make anything from celery, a half jar of blueberry jam, a filet mignon and a bottle of champagne?

4:16pm Research it online. Discover my pantry may not be well-stocked enough. Better research that too while I'm at it. Make new grocery list.

4:45pm Oh my god. Just remembered my dress is a 4.

4:46pm Remove cashmere robe and go to gym.

Tomorrow is a brand new day folks;) Plus, how can one work under the conditions you see below?

A real Cinematic Moment.

2009-02-23T17:45:00.002-05:00

Cinematic Moment: Not sure what to make of this...

Laughter or tears??

Mmm mmmm good.

2009-02-20T16:33:00.005-05:00

Cinematic Moment: Did we need another reason to dread adulthood?

Do you remember when you were a kid and you got sick or broke a bone? As much as it sucked not feeling well, you still got to miss a day or two of school and lay around all day watching your favorite movies. People checked in on you every half hour. You got coloring books and ice cream to soothe your sore throat. Your mom stroked your hair, took your temperature, brought you your meds with a warm bowl of chicken noodle soup. Being sick as a kid was like going to a child spa.

Medical issues aren't so fun as a grown up. Coughing, fever and pain aside, you still have to go pick up your medicine on your own. Sure you can have ice cream--just grab it as you schlep through Rite Aid, bleeding from your mouth and waiting an hour for your pain killers (which you can't take until you get home.) Life doesn't stop just because you don't feel good. There's no magical caretaker the doctor can prescribe along with those antibiotics. The dogs still need to go out, the garbage men will be expecting your trash at the usual time, the UPS lady expects your signature at 8 am and more than likely the sky will decide to snow just to prove a point.

An upside is you get the day off. A downside to that is you will pay for that day off in cold hard cash one way or another. Your mom can't write you a note explaining why you should still get paid. But staying home sick doesn't mean you won't feel obligated to work. You'll spend the "day off" staring at your laptop while trying to keep the keyboard clear of snot, as you attempt to do a little guilt work between lapses of Nyquil-induced unconsciousness. It's not pretty. You stare at the door, waiting for someone to arrive with a coloring book...or a gun with a single bullet. But no one comes.

So you hobble to find your second dose of meds and make yourself a can of Campbell's Chicken and Stars. You're too weak to change the movie in the DVD player and too cheap to invest in the movie channels on TV (not that you could afford it with all these sick days you've been taking.) So you flip back and forth between Trading Spouses and some Lifetime movie about identity theft while the ice pack on your head slowly comes to a boil. Isn't it fun being a big girl?

(Please note, this blog is a dramatization of a medical problem on a typical day. It doesn't reflect my current wisdom tooth situation which involves me laying around in footie PJ's while mommy takes care of me and scratches my back. There may also be some singing of Rock-a-Bye baby in there.)

2nd Annual Feb. 15th Day.

2009-02-14T13:30:00.005-05:00

Cinematic Moment: Some love lyrics for the morning after.

With all your lies, you're still very lovable.

---bon iver, for emma

You said we were an accident

With accidents you’ll never know what could have been
So we were an accident
You’ll always be my favorite one

---motion city soundtrack, my favorite accident

You and I should get away for awhile

I just want to be alone with your smile
Buy some candy and cigarettes and we'll get in my car
We'll blast the stereo and we'll drive to Madagascar
---blink 182, m & m's

Then she says she needs affection
While she searches for the vein
She's so good with her stiletto
You don't really mind the pain
She cuts you out, she cuts you down
She carves up your life
But you won't do nothing
As she keeps on cutting
'Cause you know you love the knife

---billy joel, stiletto

Like a plane crash that never hits the ground

I fall in love with you
I'm nose over tail for you

---alkaline trio, nose over tail

When you wake up in the mornin', baby, look inside your mirror.

You know I won't be next to you, you know I won't be near.
I'd just be curious to know if you can see yourself as clear
As someone who has had you on his mind.

---bob dylan, mama you been on my mind

Oh happy day.

2009-02-14T10:26:00.007-05:00

Cinematic Moment: Will you be my Valentine?

My earliest Valentine's Days were a bit like a birthday. My parents would surprise us with gifts and send us treats at school before doing their own thing as a couple later in the evening. I'd get a card from my grandma, some cartoon bunny or turtle covered in red and pink hearts with a handwritten note about how special we were to her and $5 to spend on conversation hearts. We looked forward to it. As I grew up and got a job hostessing at a restaurant at 15, my mom still sent me roses to work. I'd stand up there on the podium, slightly embarrassed it was my mother sending them, but mostly overwhelmed with gratitude and pride that she was so thoughtful.

Once I got a boyfriend however, things changed. Valentine's Day suddenly grew a ton of expectations in my mind, which is one thing if they are fulfilled, but a very different monster when they aren't. V-day became a holiday like New Years Eve--always overhyped and typically disappointing. With every new man in my life, I felt a bit more jaded and a little less interested in celebrating what I had decided was a Hallmark holiday.

Then I grew up even more, got a real job in an office and moved in with a man. Sure enough, on Valentine's Day not only did I get 100 Peruvian lilies from mom, but a fax (on the company fax, mind you) reading " I love you baby girl. Have a fun day at work!"

It's funny how easy it can be amidst the daily grind of running a household, a business and a relationship to overlook what's at the core of it all. People worry about overusing the phrase "I love you" thinking it might lose its meaning. Does breathing become any less necessary because you have to do it every few seconds? I think you should say I love you every chance you get and mean it more every time it comes out of your mouth. The evolution of love--the mistakes we wish we could take back, the secret language you develop over the years, the understanding of a person almost better than yourself, the moments when you feel your heart might explode from complete happiness, the fighting over trivial things or over huge issues, the room to grow--it deserves recognition as much as a dead president or adventurer. It deserves its own day because it is something we live in and for. It expands and branches into every part of our lives; from the day we are born to parents who will always think we are the most beautiful creatures to walk the earth to the lady at the coffee shop who remembers what you drink every morning to people who wake up every morning and care enough to read what someone else they've never met has to say.

Most of the time we keep things light around here and we discuss horrific music videos or shit sandwiches. I know a lot of you are going through tough romantic times right now or no romantic times at all and don't even want to hear the phrase "Valentine." Today isn't meant for guilting your significant other into buying you that tennis bracelet you've been eyeing up or moping around because a relationship didn't work out. It's for everyone who has ever felt loved by another human being, a day devoted to reminding those people what you should be reminding them of everyday. So get out of those pajamas and go fill the world with love! And don't worry--I haven't forgotten about giving February 15th some extra attention with song lyrics that will break your heart;)

kisses,

chonny

What brought you here.

2009-02-13T18:32:00.002-05:00

Cinematic Moment: What brings you here?

Google has proven to be quite the search tool in this golden age we live in. Every few days, I check the statistics of my blog and can see exactly what someone searched to land here. Sometimes they are looking for LOCM, other times they are looking for something else, along the lines of "Life can not be counted by minutes but by moments." Then there are the things they search in which I have to re-evaluate how exactly they got here and more importantly, what the hell are they looking to find. A few of my favorites from the last week or so...

Google Search: "My sad moment with my parents"

I have to admit this one bummed me out. That someone was seeking out other people who have had sad moments with their parents online makes me wonder why this kid didn't just go out with his/her friends and bitch about the man getting him down. I feel even worse that the desperate ploy to relate to someone on the interwebs led them here where they no doubt felt even worse about life.

Google Search: "you will attend an unusual party and meet someone important"

I envision a dude on his 9th consecutive night of Chinese takeout, googling the fortune he got like it's some sort of online rewards program. News flash dude man, you will never meet that special someone if you don't physically leave your home, though I suppose an unusual party could qualify as you dancing in your tidy whities to Cher while drinking Tanqueray from a baby bottle.

Google Search: "cinema baby popcorn eating images"

Not sure exactly what you were looking for, Googler. Baby popcorns eating pictures at the movies? Some sort of popcorn fetish site? Luckily we have all of that here on LOCM. This leads us to the next google query, "Can guinea pigs eat popcorn?" As I probably didn't answer this question in any previous blogs, I will do it here for the next unsuspecting searcher--Get off your ass and go buy some guinea pig food. I know it's you searching "dogs eat Indian Food" and I am not pleased.

Google Search: "Made a decision"

So you made a decision. Congratu-fucking-lations. I know there should be some sort of award ceremony or support group for such dedication, one which can be accessed through a search engine, but chances are your brilliance will go unappreciated.

Google Search: "eat shit sandwiches"

This one made me peruse my whole blog to find out where I may have insinuated or referenced eating a shit sandwich. For the record it was used HERE in a purely exemplary fashion. For the man out there searching for the shit sandwich recipe, you will rest easy knowing it's quite simple, but might I suggest turkey on whole wheat?

Enjoy your weekend my loves and expect a post tomorrow so sappy you'll get stuck to it like a fly in molasses. XOXO

Comic con hangover.

2009-02-09T21:02:00.004-05:00

Cinematic Moment: Back in the saddle.

A little something to ease us back into CM's. I told you guys all the real talent comes from Florida--the production value of this music video really proves that. It also illustrates how I've felt without all of you guys in my life the past week.

XXO,

Chonny

Keep your feet on the ground.

2009-01-30T21:18:00.007-05:00

"Sometimes it is less reality and more what you want to see."

Cinematic Moment: "CM Illustrated Week" Postcard 12

A friend of mine grew up in a house on the Hudson river. The water is just beyond a little stone wall and the view is absolutely gorgeous. It doesn't hurt that her mother has an eye for design, a natural green thumb and a way of making a space perfect for lingering long into the afternoon. For the record, she has since passed this trait on to all her girls, who continue to create immaculate, effortless spaces.

As I sat on the old wooden chair one morning, looking out at the bridge linking land to land, I remembered a particular morning a month earlier. We were stuck on the bus to White Plains, a few hundred feet from the bridge, where a man was threatening to jump. At the time, I had been shocked by the news from the bus driver, responding to our inquiries about the hold up, but have to admit I didn't think much of it that morning, my sleepy-eyed query quickly turning to anxiety about being late to work. Now, I thought about him in depth.

What kind of things must he have felt standing there on the ledge, looking out into the grey water, chunks of ice floating still and angry from a cold January? Was he scared or ready to feel the wind on his face? Who had he left behind and more importantly, did they know how he felt? In the hundreds of mundane moments he encountered that week, what about that Thursday morning made him feel so absolutely hopeless that the bottom of the Hudson seemed the safest place to be?

All of the sudden, on a perfectly beautiful morning, with the spring sun shining a bit too brightly for February--I was heartbroken. Something occurred to me about this thing we call "reality." There isn't such a thing. Rather, life is this endless perspective, a constant struggle with relativity and being on the right side of it. It will always get the best of us if we allow it to. It's our job, be it a difficult one, to not let that happen.

The man on the bridge ended up living through the fall. There is a chance he has gone on to see reality a bit differently. I hope he's drawn himself out of the ice water.

Flickers.

2009-01-29T21:43:00.005-05:00

"Candlelight even gives life to tacky sculptures of coral."

Cinematic Moment: "CM Illustrated Week" Postcard #11

I try to light candles in almost every room in the house if I'm home. When the sun goes down, the flickering makes everything a little more enchanting. This sketch was done in the tub, with a dozen little tealights lit around me and a very cold glass of Pinot Grigio.

I bought the coral statue as a way to keep my Florida roots woven into the decor. Sadly it became more of a random necklace holder on the side of the bathtub, useful for days when I forgot to put things in my jewelry box. That explains the giant out-of-place heart plastered on the side of coral. Gold certainly doesn't grow on coral...or under the sea, for that matter.

Anyways, the moral of this illustration is evident: I am convinced candlelight would make a pot roast sexy.

Smile.

2009-01-27T10:00:00.006-05:00

"Late night traffic jams get a face."

Cinematic Moment: "CM Illustrated Week" Postcard #10

On days I would commute back upstate from work to the house in the country, I took the bus. The ride was almost 2 hours each way if you count traffic and stops, which was a blessing in the morning for a long nap, but a curse on the way back when all you wanted to do was be home. During those days, I rarely saw my house in the daylight.

Around the time of this sketch, I had put in my 2 weeks notice and was beginning to really pay attention to the things I had gotten so accustomed to seeing that I'd stopped looking at. I wanted to ingrain them in my memory so I wouldn't forget this phase of my life. The triangle shaped glass office building we passed everyday, going over the Hudson in the morning with it's sinister haze, the Greek men in my office who had my bagel ready to go before I even ordered it and always made me laugh. Even something as mundane as the red tail lights on the cars in front of the bus became intriguing to me. They gained a sort of alien facial structure. It struck me as something I wanted to remember. Even now, when I'm on the road I search for faces in the red lights.

What do you want?

2009-01-25T07:50:00.009-05:00

"My boyfriend's idea of love is different than mine."

Cinematic Moment: "CM Illustrated Week" Postcard #8

I'm not typically a girl who takes 2 hours to get ready. An hour? Maybe. When on the road, that time allowance is even smaller, especially when it's a battle to even find a shower, let alone wash my hair. Once in a while, on a day off, I'll linger in the tub a bit, hoping my body will absorb the water like a camel hump to clean itself later on if the venue's "shower" is actually a glorified sink. At times like this, my significant other will work, if there is internet available. Otherwise, he will rush me in one form or another, so we can hurry up and patronize fine establishments like Ruby Tuesday, in flourishing places such as Idaho City.

On the day that birthed the above sketch, I was being legitimately rushed from a Hollywood hotel room to make a movie showing at the Cinerama Dome. In an effort to appease my darling for a few more minutes, I gave him my 10-minute sketch book and said, "Draw me a love picture." Yes, I said a "love picture." Perhaps requesting a 600 second image that would sum up his overwhelming feelings of passion and affection was too tall an order, as literally 4 minutes later he had put the book down and was back to harassing me. To my dismay the image above is what I saw as we walked out the door.

If one were to hold this love picture to its title, his feelings would be the half-gestated child of Captain America and the Tick. I found it so hilarious I added the caption to remind myself this is why I love him and more importantly, why men and women really need each other.

We never close.

2009-01-24T22:24:00.003-05:00

Cinematic Moment: "CM Illustrated Week" Postcard #7

I was standing outside a bodega underneath my apartment on 96th when I decided I didn't want to work for someone else anymore. I wanted to be able to travel, to go back to school, to write, to learn another language. That was the day I made the decision in my mind to quit my job and freelance. I had no idea where I'd end up or what I truly wanted to do. It was terrifying and invigorating. All I knew was when I sketched this, I felt my life was more wide open to possibility than ever before.

You look glovely.

2009-01-24T06:00:00.001-05:00

"Winter doesn't seem as bad now that I have fingerless gloves. I can chew my nails!"

Cinematic Moment: "CM Illustration Week" Postcard #6

I'm a bit of a glove fanatic. Every time we go shopping or antiquing, I come home with a new pair...vintage cream tea gloves that are a bit too small, furry pink mittens with gold flecks, striped, solid, long, short...I love, love, love them.

This winter it was fingerless gloves. I was going through what I like to call my Homeless Material Girl phase. A friend of mine who worked for Atticus hooked me up with a pair along with a matching beanie. I was through the roof with enthusiasm...until I realized my fingers were frozen. Too cold to remove them from my pockets. Too cold to hold a coffee. Far too cold to bother biting my nails. These gloves lasted a week on my hands before I moved to my next glove obsession: the perfect pair of opera (upper arm) length black leather. Sadly I never got around to illustrating those because I couldn't hold a pen.

Open up.

2009-01-23T11:29:00.005-05:00

"The city never sleeps, even if its eyes are closed."

Cinematic Moment: "CM Illustrated Week" Postcard #5

I'll start this with the grammatical observation that there is no apostrophe in "its." I apologize for my mistake, but I only had a few minutes and wasn't thinking clearly. That said, this sketch was done on a weekend evening, sitting at the 125th St train stop which is 30 or so feet up above the city. The view is pretty impressive if you take a moment to observe. 125th St. simply vibrates on a Friday night. It's the best way to describe it. People shopping on the streets, catching up with old friends, music blasting, a constant traffic jam. It's some of the best people watching and what I consider the place to find the most genuine human interaction in NYC.

While I watched the world buzz below, I got to thinking that to live in a big city certainly takes a thick skin. In the suburbs or for instance, the beach town I grew up in, it's easy to never have to encounter misfortune or pain in others. You simply don't have to see it if you don't want to. It makes helping or exposing yourself to the grit of life a conscious choice instead of something you learn to live with. A place like New York City, though, requires living a full circus of emotion every time you walk out of the house. Where there is beauty, there is equal tragedy. Yet, people accept it and continue with their days and nights. I guess sometimes closing your eyes is all you can do.

A cat by any other name.

2009-01-22T08:45:00.004-05:00

"Fuck you Gato."

Cinematic Moment: "CM Illustrated Week" Postcard #4

When I made the decision to get a place in the city, we already had our house. Since I'd only be spending every other week in Manhattan, I couldn't afford a place of my own. Instead I opted to share a room in a 3 bedroom apartment with a friend of mine from college. By NY standards, the apartment was huge. $650 a month got me my own closet, a sweet lofted bed and what is unheard of in the city--an eat in kitchen. It was also a dog friendly building a block from the park. I envisioned myself walking down Central Park West, a large floppy hat on my head, walking two small, blissfully excited dogs. I'm pretty sure this was a result of watching the "Uptown Girl" video too many times.

My roomate was the perfect mix of fashionista, little girl, perfectionist and fierce business savant. Beneath Marc Jacobs bags, press releases and glittery boobie tassles, sat a perfectly white, perfectly made bed, the kind you'd see in a department store or swanky hotel. The crowning glory of that bed, however, was her favorite childhood stuffed animal, the precarious "Gato." Gato was a stuffed cat that once was white, but now had taken on the color of freshly poured concrete, his fur matted together from too many adventures. Little did I know that ironically named jerk of an animal would become my nemesis.

One night was enough to show my the dogs hated it there. Barbara had an anxiety attack every time someone walked by. If the person was walking a dog, forget about it. Benson did a little better, but not much. I decided maybe if they took turns and had all my attention, they might adjust better. I brought Barbs to stay with her grandparents in Rockland, where she spent a lot of her childhood and absolutely loves to be. Benson came with me for what would prove to be one of the more trying weeks of my life.

With Benson in the house for the week, everything at the apartment had to be shifted a bit to accommodate him. The roomies clattered to play with him and take him out, loving the idea of a part time pet. He soaked up the attention...then soaked our white rug in urine. He barked for hours at a time, crying for his sister Barbara. He thought about chewing up a Missoni scarf, gummed the heel of my new leather boot...but more than anything, Benson wanted Gato. If I took my eyes off of him for .5 seconds, he had Gato in a tooth choke hold. For that week, I lived in absolute fear that he might sneak Gato into his crate and eat him alive. I could picture the tears of my roommate staining her white Chanel pumps, mourning the loss of her childhood friend.

Everyday I'd put the thing up on my bunk bed to keep him safe, Benson desperate to find a way up there. My roomie would come home and move Gato back to her bed, not understanding that I wasn't some weird security blanket nabber, this was for his own safety. I spent more time and energy on saving that damn stuffed animal than I did doing anything else.

Long story short, Benson came home and I promised the puppies I'd never split them up again. Gato made it through that week and continues to spend his geriatric days on her new bed.

You like your tights with patterns.

2009-01-20T21:50:00.007-05:00

"I guess everyone makes mistakes."

Cinematic Moment: "CM Illustrated Week" Postcard #3

A girl in the back of a cab, her riveted leather handbag on her lap. Patterned tights and black heeled feet protrude from the purse. She tells herself "I guess everyone makes mistakes." This girl could be a businesswoman who screwed up a large account. She could be a kept woman, rationalizing away her husbands infidelities while leaving their Park Avenue penthouse in a fit. Perhaps she's still in college and instead of studying Western Humanities last night, she learned a whole semester's worth of kamikaze shots and going home with strangers you met in a bar. The girl on this postcard looks deep in thought, refusing to stare out the window at the city passing at light speed. Instead she loses herself in the jagged stripes on her legs, also traveling at light speed with their vertical bolts of color, though not nearly as dangerous as the world outside.

In truth, this girl fits none of the above lives because she is me. And the large "mistake" in question is the fact that I wore tights and high heels that night and it was cold enough to neuter a squirrel. When writing the caption, I felt the need to make it ambiguous and tinged with regret. This is a textbook example of my need to make everything a memorable moment in my daily life. Maybe it's the reason most art galleries keep the inspiration subjective to the viewer...things are always a little more intriguing in one's mind.

A more fitting caption? "Damn, I should have worn my fleece Conan boots because my ass is fucking freezing."

Please take your trash.

2009-01-20T00:01:00.001-05:00

"Gross things in my personal space on the train: Why did I sit here?"

Cinematic Moment: "CM Illustrated Week" Postcard #2

I used to ride the Metro North train from Harlem/125th St to Westchester county every morning in what New Yorkers call a 'reverse commute.' Everyday on the train was a new adventure. One morning a man proceeded to vomit all over the car, running back and forth until the floor was good and coated. We had to wait on the tracks for an hour for the authorities to come and pick him up. I've seen early morning drunks in business attire, loud ipod singers and what could only be streetwalkers on some bizarre upstate mission.

This particular morning, I made a poor seat decision. The illustration shows how lazy I truly am, as evidenced by my drawing the problem instead of getting up and relocating.

Amongst the "gross things in my personal space":

Man with wandering eyes

Used Q-tips

Bag of unknown substance and origin

Coffee spill

Studio Sounds.

2009-01-19T12:38:00.005-05:00

"And in this world, there is no such thing as harmony."

Cinematic Moment: "CM Illustrated Week" 10-minute Postcard #1.

We kick off with this week with a doodle from a Brooklyn recording studio. At the time, I was working as a copywriter for an ad agency, writing commercials for hospitals and small banks. The job was interesting, but I hated the concept of being in an office when I could be out in the great big world. My argument was that I couldn't be expected to ooze creativity in a sterile environment and shouldn't have to be there every other Friday. God knows why, but my boss agreed.

I thought I could write the 30-second spot we were doing for Bon Secours hospital while my boy rehearsed for an upcoming tour. I hadn't taken into consideration that there were others rehearsing there too, creating the residual noise of an atomic bomb filled with jingle bells. I struggled for a half hour or so, writing and re-writing the same word 15 times before leaving to get a cup of coffee. "It'll help me focus," I thought. Multiply this process by 6 hours and you have 12 over-thought words, a severe case of carpal tunnel, caffeine tics and the bathroom habits of a newborn. Bon Secours could have offered me a lot more than I them at that point.

I finally gave up trying to write and just listened to all the sessions happening in the studio. A handful of miscellaneous musicians perfecting their craft, each different room holding a new sound. When aurally ingested as a whole from a couch at the center of the room, however, the harmonies and genres clashed as they poured from beneath the cracks of the studio doors. It was an interesting concept; cacophony in such a melodic place.

Announcing, CM Illustrated Week(s)

2009-01-19T07:52:00.002-05:00

Cinematic Moment: Lost and Found

Last year a friend and I had this great idea to buy these postcard sized drawing books as a way to make visual notes on the year. We would then gift them to each other for Christmas so we could see how the year looked through the eyes of a friend. The sketches had to be under 10 minutes long and were meant to document the CM's of our days, rather than be marveled at for their artistic beauty.

Being the dolt that I am, I ended up losing track of mine in the move from the city and was unable to wrap it up as a present. A few months later, I found it in a duffel bag pocket while in Japan. Then I somehow lost it again in a flurry of post-engagement excitement.

It seems the drawing book loves suitcases as it was located again this morning in a bag my man was packing in. Considering its relevance to my friend is a little lost now a year later and the fact that having something to do to keep my mind of missing my boy is crucial this month, I have decided to feature 2 weeks worth of these tiny sketches as inspiration for Cinematic Moments. Think of it as a sort of CM "Shark Week." I hope you enjoy them and are inspired to pick up your own way of seeing the world in little (awful) pictures.

Mundane Wednesday

2009-01-13T12:03:00.005-05:00

Cinematic Moment: Thoughts of the day.

1. Divorce

I've recently been following the story of the man who is suing his soon to be ex-wife for the kidney he donated to her. He wants it back, but will take the $1.5 million he deems it to be valued at. Kind of a low figure, as it sets the price of his life at a cool $3 million, but I won't argue that. I might even venture to say he is worth considerably less.

This case raises some serious concerns and potential problems when it comes to marital gifts and assets that are part of someone's body. Think of all the Hollywood couples having to break themselves into pieces, "her" squeezing the collagen out of her lips into a glass jar at the courthouse: "him" removing the calf implants she bought him for his 40th birthday like a pair of chicken cutlets. Doing a little research on the internet for bizarre divorce cases, I stumbled upon something called a "Divorce Party." This is a party much like a wedding, only celebrating the separation and breaking of a holy union. The tiny coffin you see below is used to "bury" the wedding ring. Take any amount of human joy or suffering and there is someone capitalizing on it. That's almost sadder than asking for an organ back.

(The bride has died. What a mean cake...)

2. Septic Tanks

I have to be honest, I never thought the day would come that I would ever use the term "septic tank" in a conversation other than referring to some quaint log cabin on a skiing vacation. But, the universe never fails to surprise and I've had to learn the in's and out's of a septic system. For those of you that don't know, having a septic tank rather than a water company is basically like owning a 2000 giant fish tank--only the fish are actually billions of bacteria and instead of eating fish flakes, they chow on human excrement. There's a visual for you.

Being a neurotic clean freak, I find myself dumping bleach down the drains pretty frequently and taking showers that last well into the double digits. This is apparently murder for the doodie eating bacteria. Without them, the cesspool would cease to break down and we would have a big problem on our hands. Browsing the aisles of the grocery store yesterday, I found the box you see above. Rid-X. The box claims to "prevent septic backup." When it comes to human waste potentially seeping out into our lawn, I believe "prevention" is key, so I sprung for the $10. It turns out Rid-X is actually billions of bacteria in a box--just add water. Kind of like Sea Monkey's, but much more disgusting and smelling of vomit. Let's keep our fingers crossed that the little guys will be happy and reproduce exponentially.

3. Wise-asses at work.

We stopped at Starbucks after the gym this morning. Straying from my usual black coffee, I ordered a latte. "No sweetener, please" I said to the female voice over the speaker.

"A latte doesn't have sweetener" she replied, matter of factly.

"Ok. I'd also like a lemon loaf too."

"You know, that has a lot of sugar in it."

"I just don't like sweet coffee!"

I was shocked and happy to get a little sarcasm with my morning coffee. We pulled up to the window to wait for the goods. The woman in the SUV in front of us stopped, getting out of her car and wedging herself between my open window and the drive thru window of Starbucks.

"I forgot sugar!" she said, "I can't drink my coffee without sugar."

She was cute and clearly very serious about her needs as she stood there, in the cold, for a solid 4 minutes, chattering. I found it ironic she was desperate for what I had just turned down. Just then the girl came to the drive thru window with my lemon cake, looking appalled at the woman standing there. "Um, ok, I can get you some sugar. And just so you know, there's a door there so you can just come on in and get it next time."

The woman got in her car and drove away. "What a nutjob" the girl said to me handing me my sugar-free latte. I may have finally found a friend in this godforsaken town...

You oughta be in pictures.

2009-01-10T09:01:00.008-05:00

Cinematic Moment: The original ambiguous duos.

After much debate over sound quality, the boyfriance has decided that we need to revert back to vinyl. In an effort to get some information on a turntable and picking up some worthy LP's, we ventured out a half hour from our house to a reputable record shop to explore. Don't get me wrong, I love music, but after the first hour of listening to two men talk about needles, the problems with a hardwood floor, the pro's of virgin vinyl as opposed to recycled--I had exhausted my interest in the details.

I opted to instead, flip through the religiously alphabetized albums. The records were separated into vintage and re-pressed. I've recently been a little more attracted to the vintage side of things. If given the choice between something new or the same thing with a little history, I'll take the latter. This rule doesn't apply to things like cars or homes, in which I'm afraid of breakdowns and ghosts that just won't leave. So, I found myself in the old section, marveling at the covers of records that I love or remind me of my childhood. Eventually this too got boring and my immaturity kicked in. I started looking for album covers that were just ridiculous, interrupting their conversations with "Hahaha, guys check this out! What kind of dicksicle approved this cover?!"

Many of them probably seemed a great idea at the time. New and life-altering. A female jazz singer holding a dozen paint brushes straddling a chair. A young boy lying provocatively on his side in small shorts and a gold chain. The fact that a group of creative people with one single job-to produce a cover that will sell records-allowed these to pass, blows my mind. I began to gravitate to two particular artist duos that seemed...different than I had always remembered them: Loggins & Messina and Hall & Oates.

Now let's let the covers do the talking shall we?

The first cover, "Bigger than Both of Us" and can only refer to the secret love many are convinced these two had for one another. That's all fine and dandy, but what's with the space station setting? One of you should have said "I can't go for that...oh, no can do." You know what I can't go for Hall and Oates? A nice red wine and RITZ CRACKERS. The second cover is like some weird high school yearbook page. Instead of "Have a good summer!" Hall has used a phrase that says it all: "ooh yeah!" Oh no.

Front of album

Back of album

Since I was a little girl listening to Pooh Corner, I've always loved Kenny Loggins. Now seeing these covers, I'm beginning to wonder if the song was at all about Winnie. Take exhibit A. Just two friends in linen pants and hats they stole from a Jimmy Buffet shoot hanging out on a sailboat, with no women to bog them down. Bros before hoes. So we come to the last two photos above, taken from the album "Best of Friends", which the owner of the record store ended up gifting to me because I was having the time of my life with it. The cover isn't so bad, save for the small case of "camel balls" Loggins is sporting. It's also not very good.

Then there's the back...poor Messina being used as a prop to possibly cover said camel balls. Maybe they're dancing. Possibly Loggins is saving Messina from a slight stumble. Whatever it is, these pals are having a good time. My favorite part of this album is the credit on the back to Jenn and Jann for "cover concept." Concept? Two dudes standing around as friends? My mind is blown.

For good measure, I'm throwing in the album below because it is such a brilliant oversight and hey, it's almost Sunday. Time to give back to the lord. Happy weekend!

Hamster on a toddler (eating popcorn.)

2009-01-07T19:55:00.010-05:00

Cinematic Moment: This one's for the Shorties and superstitions.

When I was still in Pull-ups my parents thought it was the right time to get me something of my very own to love. In this case, it would prove to be a long haired, blonde hamster. I had already learned some interesting words at this point in my life, having acquired language skills while on a cross country trip from Florida to San Diego, where my mom read all the billboards out loud to me. My first word was "taco." The hamster, I named "Shorty" which I pronouced 'shole-tee.' At least it wasn't "whopper."

My god did I love that hamster. At least I'm told I did. Shorty spent the first year of his life being toted around in my diaper. I'm aware this sounds like the opening line of joke (in poor taste, I might add) involving Richard Gere. But it's not. And seeing as how most toddlers either don't have pockets readily available to them or simply have no idea what they are, I car-pooled the little guy with his head and front paws dangling from the front of my Pampers. My mom claims he was ridiculously well behaved, sucking up the attention in a way uncharacteristic of rodents.

Shortly thereafter, I learned that urinating in Shorty's car seat was simply bad manners. I credit my concern for his well-being with my learning to use the toilet at all. So Shorty spent less time traveling with me and more time doing activities, like hanging out under the couch cushion while I sat on it. Anthropomorphism can be such a bad idea when it involves a small child thinking a small hamster has the same desires and ideals as she. He hung out in my Play School car with the Wee family. He watched The Wizard of Oz with me, hiding behind the couch in my hand while I whispered to him that the Wicked Witch was make believe. If I was going in the pool, I thought Shorty should too. My dad once had to fish him out of the pool with the net we used to skim leaves and bugs out. I got a talking to about Shorty and how he wasn't allowed to swim anymore because he'd get sick. I put a band-aid on his cage and hoped for the best. At one point, all of his hair fell out, but it grew back the color of melted caramel.

Believe it or not, Shorty lived to be 8 years old, which I'm pretty sure is 1000 in hamster years. I'll always count him as my first best friend and thank the heavens for that hamster. Without him, I'd still be peeing my pants.

(DISCLAIMER: The hamster above is played by an actor impersonating Shorty. It is not actually him, mainly because when I was a child, cameras were the same price as private jets.)

Good Mourning

2009-01-07T08:44:00.006-05:00

Cinematic Moment: An unsettled canvas.

Today is the kind of day that makes me grateful to know a life outside the warm blanket of the Florida sun. It's not one of those where the fresh snow falls down in fluffy white buttons. It's not the kind when newscasters speak of inches or getting out your sleds. This variety specifically is a much bleaker version. The ground and sky are the same color, like a dirty blank canvas on which the artist has only completed the trees. They stand tall, yet plagued by bits of negative white space where the sleet falling catches in their branches. Ice falls from the sky making sounds one might associate with a chipmunk scurrying through a pile of fall leaves. If you look closely, you can almost see what's happening below the layer of ice on the ground. It is translucent, allowing a few brave blades of grass to pierce through for air. Our driveway is very long, taking up most of our 5 acres of land, but where it usually winds, black and obtuse in the middle of the woods, is now tamed and muted with ice. It could be a river to the untrained eye.

The dogs are the only ones in this house who don't feel the effects of the day, Benson running back and forth from their toy box to show Barbara what delights he's found. Their enthusiasm over the same toys every day amazes me. I can't even write with the same pen for more than a week without getting bored and seeking something more innovative. Lately they have been obsessed with the Christmas toys their grandma got them last year. An elongated tubular Santa Claus in particular. He's been reduced to one eye and his red suit now has the patchy consistency of a rotten tomato. I hope their new toys from this holiday will intrigue them next year.

On days like this, I am free to lounge around in my favorite robe, a soft pink cashmere gift from my mother, without feeling guilty. I suppose that's the dilemma of a writer. We work best in specific, controlled environments, but that's not to say our environments don't mirror those of the "clinically depressed" in the real world. Today is an exception. The weather implies everyone is allowed to be a bit more brooding than usual before or during their everyday tasks. The good citizens, caring friends, mothers, mathematicians, fathers, taxpayers, whatever. Allow yourself to be manipulated by the gray, like a puppet.

Benson settles on a bright green bear with a plaid bow tie. I settle on another cup of coffee and a morning soak.

I'm on a roll...and so is this hedgehog.

2009-01-06T19:51:00.002-05:00

My best friend and I spent all of a couple weeks ago watching these animal videos. If you haven't already seen it (which I'm sure you have as we are light years behind in youtube video knowledge) might I also suggest Hamster on a Piano (eating popcorn.)

Toy Story.

2009-01-06T15:19:00.019-05:00

Over the holidays, we were surrounded by sweet children unwrapping toys. Being so out of the loop got me thinking about my own childhood, mainly the psychological damage inflicted upon me and all the fellow children of the 80's and 90's, by the toy choices of their parents. Many of the hot ticket items of the decades were up for consideration in this CM, but only 4 made the cut. I'm sure you guys will come up with the rest. In the meantime, I present to you:

Cinematic Moment: The 4 Most Trauma Inducing Toys of My Childhood.

#4. The Speak and Spell

According to Wikipedia, the Speak & Spell was "originally advertised as a tool for helping young children to learn to spell and pronounce over 200 commonly misspelled words." This would have been a brilliant idea, had they not chosen the voice over talent from the homicide unit of a backwoods prison, then automated the guy for good measure. My cousin used to hide in the closet with it when I was going to bed. The room would be pitch black and from the closet I'd hear a small, metallic voice. "COULD." "WOULD." "HAPPY." Oh my god. These might as well have been "MONSTER." "I'M THE DEVIL." "YOU LOOK DELICIOUS." To this day I tear up listening to the automated teller at Wachovia.

#3. Glo Worm

I'd like to speak to the creative director who sat in on the meeting to pitch the Glo Worm. "I read about this species of worms somewhere. The females glow, showing the male they're at the peak of fertility. I think it'd be totally amazing to do a plush version for small children." Hey Mr.--lot's of things glow. The moon, for example, is something many people view as soothing. It also happens to give off light. That flourescent pea green dick with arms and the creepsicle face? Not so much. Thanks for the nightmares.

#2. My Buddy
Growing up, I had a lot of buddies. For example, the little girl who lived down the street. She was my age and didn't have demon eyes like this guy. For one thing, My Buddy (and his girl equivalent Kid Sister) set a terrible example. That is the idea that kids can buy friends. Why bother sharing or bathing when you have a constant pal? Even the smelly kid had a buddy all of the sudden. In my day, everyone was toting around one of the above--while developing absolutely no social skills. This little guy had removable overalls, making it superior to the not undressable version the 90's kids got. Sadly no one likes a buddy who keeps his or her clothes on, so it was discontinued. Stripping him down was really the only fun thing about this toy.

#1. Sea Monkeys
I have to admit-the Sea Monkey almost didn't make number 1 of this list because they are just so damn awesome. Who didn't have Sea Monkey's on their Christmas list as a kid? The reasons they DID make this list, however, heavily outweighed their sheer novelty. The Sea Monkey caused me more psychosis than anything else over the years because everything about them is a lie. I like to call it the biggest load of shit since Santa Claus. A huge underwater hoax my parents foiled me into believing simply because they didn't want to get us a tiny monkey like the neighbors had. (For the record, the neighbors parents lied to them too because that thing was most definitely a flying squirrel.)

Sea Monkeys were the kind of present you spent the entire holiday break staring at. You told all of your friends about them. Then, that first Monday back to school you bragged to your teacher that you were the proud parent of actual monkeys...from the ocean. She shattered your dreams with a few words: "Brine shrimp."

Next, there were the tricks you were told they'd do. Someone may have even broken down and gotten you the underwater Big Top Sea Monkey circus set. Let me tell you from experience, those little bastards may do backflips, but they sure as hell aren't doing anything on command. Except dying. Which leads me to the third reason they suck. Unlike a real monkey which could outlive its owner, Sea Monkeys have the lifespan of a diseased goldfish. For any normal child, a pet dying so early on is severely traumatic. This didn't matter to me so much as the second I found out they weren't actually miniature monkeys, I dumped them in our 150 gallon fish tank to feed our snowflake eel. Let's see you do backflips now, jerks.

It's a wonder any of us came out of that era quasi-normal. I suppose it's a huge step up from our parents who played with hammers and rusty nails. The list is still missing a number 5 though. So tell me. What haunts your dreams?

Oil on water.

2009-01-06T10:44:00.007-05:00

Cinematic Moment: Treat your grandmas well

While getting an oil change the other day, we ran into quite the character. I heard her before I actually saw her, gabbing loudly with the man sitting in an adjacent chair, about lottery tickets and gambling. He explained that even if you win at a slot machine, the IRS will be knocking down the door for their share, taking it from your social security if need be. "You can't win for losing!" she cooed, shaking her head. Now I saw her fully in all her maternal glory. She was wearing an aqua colored pullover over a button-down, black corduroy skirt that skimmed her ankles. Pepto-bismol pink legwarmers peeked out between the hem of the skirt and a pair of New Balance deserving of the name. Her glasses were gold rimmed and the size of a teacup rim. Her tiny hands fidgeted through a red fanny pack, a relic of some local fireman fundraiser.

The man at the desk told her the car had passed inspection; the charge would be $21. As the only other woman in the room, she immediately latched onto my presence as, most importantly, the only other woman in the room. "Oh for heaven's sake, do they see us coming! You're a woman so you know what I mean." She looked at me from beneath her wool cap, the color of 3 day old ash.

"I sure do!" I replied, shaking my head in her direction, while adding a quiet "But not here so much" to appease our resident oil change man. I've always been a people pleaser. His eyes said traitor. I figured he'd forgive me for siding with the 85 year old woman.

She spelled her name out loud to avoid having to hobble to the desk with her cane to fill out the paperwork. E-u-d-i-s. I would have pegged her for a Bertie had I not heard it with my own two ears. She continued rifling through the fanny pack. "People been taking things out of my car you know, so I took my papers out of there. Now I can't find my license."

I spotted the barcode of a New York State driver's license poking it's head from the flames of the first pocket. "Um, I think that's it there."

She went on to explain that she didn't mean her license, but her registration. They'd give her a ticket if she was caught without the thing. This of course was another conspiracy against women. She was sure of it. I agreed again. With all the misogyny floating around, what was the world coming to?

Even with her car ready to go, Eudis stuck around for a bit, pouring herself a cup of coffee. She poured a hefty amount of what she thought was creamer into the cheap styrofoam cup, tsking herself at the realization it was in fact, sugar. "By heaven do I love sugar. But I can't have it, you know. I'm a diabetic." I hadn't known this, but something told me we were not getting out of there without learning a great deal about Eudis that we hadn't know when we woke up that morning.

Swapping out her sugar laden coffee for something a little more diabetic friendly, she came back over to tell us a complete and thorough history of her disease. The medications her doctor had accidentally prescribed that gave her bizarre elderly acne, her opinions on Medicaid, the lack of vegetables in the hospital cafeteria and how she figured if she was going to die from a diabetic seizure, she "might as well do it eating ice cream." I could respect that. And I did.

When Eudis was finally left, registration in hand and wishing us a blessed New Year, the people in the waiting room at Jiffy Lube shot their sympathetic looks at us for having had to deal with her. That crazy old lady. What they didn't understand is how sorry we felt for them for not being able to handle the musings of a sweet elderly woman with no one else to talk to. I would have sat there all day and chatted with her, like a surrogate granddaughter. She wasn't crazy, just lonely. My fiance hit the nail on the head when he said on our way out: "I think she's just misunderstood." You can't win for losing.

Mobile Blogging from here.

Fruit Sad-lad.

2009-01-05T12:07:00.000-05:00

Cinematic Moment: New year's realizations

After what should have been a 20 hour drive back to NY from Florida turned into a 38 hour drive, I am a bit mentally exhausted and should be laying in a ditch someplace. Instead, I've spent this morning thinking of ways to organize all the new goodies Santa brought our way. Streamlined, matching, clean ways that would land my skills in Real Simple magazine.

One quick trip to Walmart birthed these raw canvas looking little storage boxes with a slot so you can write in what they're storing. It was like discovering the Holy Grail. And 2 for $10? 2009 was shaping up to be the year of organization. I thought of all the things I could put in such boxes. Laundry sheets, bottles of vitamins, rogue chargers from old cell phones I'd kept just in case, dog treats and tea bags and photos, oh my! It was an OCD wet dream.

I spurted off my mental list to my man (who clearly wasn't sharing in my enthusiasm for compartmentalization) going on about how perfect this bin would be for his crumpled up receipts. He was quickly sidetracked by a marked down Millennium Falcon and went over to check for any missing pieces responsible for the sale price. I began to meander over to the other decorative bin aisles, hoping for more fashionable container finds, beaming with pride over my ability to stick with my resolution to stop procrastinating. It was then I saw them.

At the corner of an aisle were about a dozen bins made to look like produce boxes. Inside sat loads of beautifully fashioned plastic fruits. There were bananas with small brown specks, shiny grapes in cognac and green varieties, loud yellow lemons. It was enough to bring tears to my eyes. Even the bright red tomatoes, which I despise in real life, seemed edible in plastic.

My affinity for plastic foods began when I was a little girl visiting my grandma's house. She had a sterling silver bowl filled with these plastic grapes that I loved to pluck off and chew on. Clearly my parents were too loaded on champagne to stop their 5 year old from gnawing on rubber, but at least now I had discriminating enough tastes to seek out the plastic foods, as opposed to the year before when I plucked all the noses off a garland of plastic Santa's, eating half a dozen before my mom caught on. More importantly, at the time, the idea of someone having plastic foods seemed foreign to me. I thought for sure this must be what refined adults did-purchase rubbery, realistic food items in the way I collected Barbies. I was determined to someday have my very own bowl of inedible produce.

Standing here in Walmart, burdened with 16 canvas boxes, I knew it was now or never. I didn't trust myself with the grapes, so instead opting for 6 green apples from a crate, dumping them into the top box to carry them to the register. I knew they'd be perfect in that useless bowl in the dining room. One more useless thing I can't live without. I suppose I was right about the gathering of pointless crap being the marker of adulthood. As I saw my fiance quickly approaching with a box the size of a small child, filled with a Star Wars ship he'd been eyeing for at least a year, my suspicions were confirmed.

I guess at least we're organized...