February 28, 2011

Party Party Party

See me? I'm the one sitting on the couch (next to lady in red)
checking out the book. Yeah, that's my head!
Besides laundering a hundred bath towels for people who wipe, wad, and wield them like toilet paper, I had a busy weekend. First I had lunch with good friends at Chez Zee, and then I went to my friend Bee Pedersen's book launch party at the W Hotel in downtown Austin. All proceeds went to CASA. Check Bee's site for a new murder-mystery.

After Bee's party, I hightailed it north to another party. A creativity party.

What the hell is a creativity party, right? Everybody, even your cranky/skanky Aunt Brunhilda, has something they're passionate about doing, like blogging, juice harping, naked-body painting, cherry stem tongue-tying, bearded-dragon juggling, and, of course, helium balloon sucking/rapping. The possibilities are endless. Hell, I know people who've elevated peeing and cursive writing (simultaneously) into art forms. Ditto for those who can burp haiku. Wait, did I say, I know them? No, no, no, I don't know them. Ga-ah.

So at a creativity party, people bring their passion and present or perform it. It's an "everybody fails/nobody fails" kind of deal, and it's super fun. If you like being the center of attention—and even if you don't—it's a real kick. I performed my blog post, "Yap-Yippity-Doo-Da," because it was clean and we didn't have to send the children out, as we have in years past.

After the show-and-tell, I made a dreamcatcher. Showing you the actual photo of it takes real guts on my part. Let me just bow and say, "I failed!" But it was fun—mostly because I met the most lovely women around the table who were doing a far better job of weaving the twine than I. They were from the UK, and since my new novel takes place on the Isle of Wight, they'll be terrific beta readers for me. Oh yes, I totally conned them into it!

Ever heard of a Theremin? Think of the eerie soundtracks from the old—and I mean old—scary movies, like Spellbound (1945), The Day the Earth Stood Still (1951), and The Thing (1951). A Theremin was even used in The Ten Commandments (1956). I guess trudging down a mountain with a bunch of I-am-that-I-am-engraved stone tablets or turning a staff into a snake that devours other snakes could warrant some eerie background music. I dunno. Anyway, we had a Theremin at the creativity party. Apparently you can buy a kit and make yourself one. One of the party-goers brought his, and I got a chance to experiment. It was fascinating, and I wanted to take it home. However, 20 amateurs hovering over it, one after the other, can make you want to stab your ear drums. If you're curious about what a Theremin sounds like, here's a cool sample of its modern use:

Speaking of creativity, my friend Carolyn, co-host of the creativity party, is a life and writing coach. She was recently interviewed about her very cool "book whispering" services:
"I coach people who have the desire to write… yet they are not writing. Some people have a novel, memoir, non-fiction book or even blog that’s been percolating in them for years, but they either haven’t started writing… or they start and stop and can’t get any traction. It becomes very frustrating because they really want to write, yet they’re stopped. I coach with them to discover what gets in their way and clear the path towards joyful, more effortless writing."
Carolyn offers her services by phone or email, so if you need to get that writing project off the ground, I highly recommend her! From personal experience, I can tell you she helps you sort through the brain clutter so you can make real progress with your book. Go check her out here, at Backyard Pearls.

Okay, off to fold and put away some more towels. Otherwise some peeps are going to have to drip dry and prance around naked after their showers tonight. I have seen naked butts running through the house more than once . . .

February 20, 2011

What the?

If you're not already following me on Twitter or Blogger 
(Google Friend Connect), why not do it now? You know you wanna!

February 18, 2011

Reality Check

I apologize for being MIA for so long. I have been utterly absorbed with my move, the day J.O.B., freelance clients/work, and The Bachelor. As a general rule, I refuse to watch so-called reality shows, but I admit, as soon as I got a glimpse of that bitch Michelle and her skanky, back-stabbing ways, I was hooked.

For you virgins, The Bachelor is the bloody gangland shoot-'em-up you can't veer your eyes from. I work my schedule around each week's broadcast with the zeal of Charlie Sheen toward his weekend two-fer: a coke dispenser and a porn star.

Not even ravenous kids could prevent me from plopping my ass in front of the boob tube with a cocktail. "Drink a glass of milk," I say, waving a dismissive hand over my head. "That'll hold you for two hours."

Then comes Brad, he with the bionic wedge of a torso, and his harem of potential wives. I didn't see him the first time he tried to find a wife. That year, he was internationally regarded as the Jesse James of Assholes after saying "I got your back -- NOT!" to his final two bride wannabes. But this year, to my mind, the guy's all right. Hell, he kicked Skanky Michelle off the show last Monday -- FINALLY -- and I couldn't help gyrating deliriously around the room with a bearded dragon on my chest (long story, and he already has a girlfriend who was "sunning" herself in the aquarium).

So Mr. I-Wanna-Say-I-Do has redeemed himself. Plus, he's in therapy, and I have the utmost respect for people willing to open a vein for the sake of becoming a better person. Plus plus, he's an Austinite. And this year, Brad might actually have found true love.


Okay, gotta go. Wipeout is on, and I need a good dose of reality.

February 2, 2011

Alone and Naked with Yanni. Stop it.

I'm beginning to think that not only am I predisposed to wanderlust, but my brain likes to loiter in the places I've been and so takes its sweet time catching up. What I mean is, my feet are on the ground here in Austin, but my head is still flighty. And I have to figure out what's next, which I would totally do if I could just land the plane.

Fortunately, I'm in a good place. Which brings me to the meat of my post. I'm no longer Alone and Naked with Yanni.

There, I said it. You pervy people who keep coming here looking for that? That ship has sailed. You normal people who keep up with me, you know that my running-around-the-house-naked love affair with Yanni happened last summer; and quite sadly I've now entered into territory where Yanni is the equivalent of Lord Voldemort, or He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. And really, what self-respecting rabid fan would subject her musical sex-symbol-of-yesteryear to the anathema of Generations X and Next? No, not me. The young'uns can have their beat boys and that Fitty Cent guy.

The aforementioned post was one in which I lamented that living alone is not remotely part of my true calling. Now that I'm living temporarily with my daughter and two nanaboys, I'm reminded of the axiom, "Be careful what you wish for," cuz these days I'm never EVER alone. That is, unless I go into the bathroom and lock the door, and even then the family Boxer feels the need to accompany me. And may I point out that the walls are so thin in apartments, I'm not sure I'm ever really alone. You hear what I'm saying? I can't croon in the shower for fear my vocals will end up on WikiLeaks. Damn you, Julian Assange!

Plus, and this is the most egregious news of all, my pastime of running around gloriously naked has been severely, um, destroyed. I know. The tragedy that befalls my life is never-ending. I'm now subject to wearing clothes ALL THE TIME, not to mention humming "The Flower Duet" in private to myself. Yeesh, one's children can be so cruel.

But back to last summer's most-highly-sought-after post, Alone and Naked with Yanni. I've gotten thousands of hits from this one post and only 57 measly comments. Pervy people, if you stop in to see me (or me naked with Yanni), please leave a nice note. That just shows you have manners.

The next closest post, I Didn't Shave My Legs for Sex, has less than a quarter of the hits. That tells my scientifically analytical mind that Naked trumps Sex. Or that Yanni trumps Sex. No, no, Yanni IS Sex—figuratively speaking. But never Alone and Naked trumps Yanni, which is obviously blaspheme and cause for a trip to Confession.

Anyway, I've moved on, you obsessed lovers of Alone and Naked with Yanni. So stop it.

UPDATE: Twice as many hits today on "Alone and Naked with Yanni" as this post here with essentially same title. C.R.A.Z.Y.