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Tuesday, February 14, 2017

My Leading Man (Based on a True Story)

Yes, it's really been two years since my last blog post. What's your point? I'll have you know I wasn't twiddling my thumbs. In those two years I started a thriving business, took care of my mother, dealt with a couple of angsty teenagers, and discovered Netflix. So, yeah, I've been kinda busy. Not that I have to justify my blog slacking to you. Instead of being all judge-y, how about you just read this new post and get off my case?

Because we're huge movie buffs, I decided to express my love for my love using the titles of all nine 2017 Best Picture Oscar nominees.

Happy Valentine's Day to my leading man! 

You're the Cary Grant to my Deborah Kerr;

The Jimmy Stewart to my Irene Dunne;

The Ryan Gosling/James Garner to my Rachel McAdams/Gena Rowlands;

The Hugh Grant to my ... whoever played his love interest in "Love Actually." 

I'm not one to keep my feelings HIDDEN. FIGURES that I would write something witty to tell you how much I adore you, huh? Right now you're probably shaking your head and muttering, "What a show off." I love when you call me that.

From your ARRIVAL on our first (blind) date, I sensed I was meeting someone who would play a significant role in my life. After we kissed goodbye under the MOONLIGHT on our second date, I called my mom to tell her I was going to marry you. Thanks for making my prophecy come true. As you’re well aware by now, I like to be right.

You make me feel valued, beautiful and secure. It’s such a comfort knowing that—no matter what—you support me. You don’t just go to bat for me; you swing for the FENCES. Come HELL OR HIGH WATER, you will make sure I’m happy and fulfilled.

It hasn’t all been rum and roses. (The saying is “wine and roses”, but you know I never touch the stuff. Plus “rum and roses” has a nice ring to it.) I mean, nobody’s perfect. Not even you. There have been times when—if I’d had the means—I might have transported you to WWII-era Okinawa and left your ass at the top of HACKSAW RIDGE without so much as a squirt gun to defend yourself. But despite what you might think, given the aforementioned alarmingly specific death plot, I almost never fantasize about killing you. 

I’d be LION if I said you’re the fortunate one. I am blessed beyond measure to have your heart, and I’m so honored you accepted mine all those years ago. You’re an amazing husband and father. We’ve built a wonderful life together. Through good times and bad times, I would choose you all the time.  And I would follow you from shore to shore; from LA LA LAND to MANCHESTER BY THE SEA.


Your leading lady

Saturday, May 9, 2015

Happy Mother's Day. I Got You Some Air!

I was leaning toward skipping the annual-ish Mother's Day blog this year. I've been busy, OK? But then Hubs posted this ad on Facebook, and I realized I can't take any chances.

So, Hubs, here's what not to do for me this Mother's Day if you have any hopes of repeating the act that made me a mother.

Hot Yoga

Contort my stubby legs and T-Rex arms into a pathetic pretzel while my boobs produce enough sweat to drown a grown man? Nah'maste right here in this chair. Thanks, though.

Mammogram Screening

Speaking of my boobs--which I do often because they're kind of hard to ignore. I mean, these things are a BIG part of my life. My cups runneth over. You know what I'm sayin'? As such, squishing my ample girls between two cold metal plates is not my idea of a suitable Mother's Day gift. I realize you're concerned about my health. So take that $100 and buy me a juicer instead; because I'm likely to put a vice grip on a couple round things on your body if you buy me a mammogram.

Toxin-Free Air

This is tantamount to me giving you water for Father's Day. Or dog poop. Or something else of which we currently have an unlimited free supply. Yeah, I realize our grandchildren's grandchildren are at risk of wearing gas masks to the treeless, grassless, Styrofoam-littered community park, but that's their problem.

Fifty Shades of Grey DVD

I'm sure some moms are all twitchy with anticipation of getting this on Sunday. Well, I've seen the movie and it was about as sexy as watching a Dave Ramsey get-out-of-debt podcast. I'd rather be spanked with a riding crop--across the face--than sit through that drivel again. If I wanted to see a sadist get his jollies beating someone, I'd watch The Itchy & Scratchy Show. Besides, the mouse and cat have better chemistry.

Brazilian Wax

Hey, I know! Let's both get our no-no spots waxed. You first.

Well, Hubs, I hope you have a better understanding of what not to do to make my day special. If not, I may have to take you into the "red room" and beat the shit out of you, you know, in the name of romance.

Saturday, November 15, 2014


Daughter and I attended a screening of "Beyond the Lights" a couple nights ago. I had completely forgotten she'd auditioned for a small role (the main character as a child) in the film. Daughter recalled it as the young actress sang a song that was part of the audition. The role was for a biracial girl who can sing. With her mixed heritage and soulful voice (as determined by the unbiased ears of her proud mother), Daughter seemed perfect for the part. But we quickly realized while watching the movie that she was not a good fit. The role called for kinky hair, which was an important plot point. Daughter got that good hurr; her loose curls would not have worked. She even does a spot-on British accent that would have served her well for the one line she would've spoken. But hair is hair. You can't fake that shit; not convincingly. 

We chalked it up to a great reminder that sometimes--no matter how talented you may be--you just don't have the right look for the part. That wasn't the only time Daughter has been asked to audition for a role she isn't right for. She read for the daughter of the main characters in "The Conjuring." Hubs and I laughed when she got the request because the couple is white and their daughter is their biological child. It's based on real people, after all. So a little beige girl up in there would look a tad silly. But Daughter auditioned anyway.

She also auditioned for some movie in which she was to play a younger version of Isabelle Fuhrman's character. If you've seen Ms. Fuhrman in "Orphan" or "The Hunger Games," you know she's white. Like white white. But Daughter auditioned for that, too. What's that? You'd like Daughter to try out for the role of "small Jewish girl" in a Hanukah print ad? She'll be right there!

Daughter always auditions. You never know what may come of it, or what connections you'll make. So, if she gets an invitation to read for the role of a half-girl/half goat with green eyes and a red fro, Daughter will audition.   

Over the summer Daughter auditioned for a role in a much-hyped film releasing next year. They haven't announced who's been cast in "her" role, but the character's family has been announced. The dad looks biracial. The mom is brown. The brother is browner still. Not sure how my little beige child would fit credibly into that family, but "The Cosby Show" got away with it ...

Although she's half black, Daughter almost never gets auditions for black characters. There was that one Church's Chicken TV spot. We drove four hours round trip to discover what I'd already suspected; she was the only butterscotch chip in that chocolate chip cookie. You have to wonder what the casting director was thinking. But, hey, we stopped at our favorite outlet mall on the way home, so the day wasn't a total loss.

Such is the life of an ethnically ambiguous actress. Truth be told, the majority of work she books is Hispanic roles. Hell, if I didn't know better, I'd think she was a Latina. What can you do? Enroll the girl in Spanish lessons, that's what.

Así es la vida!

My ethnically ambiguous future star

Friday, August 29, 2014

Small But Perky

I'm just gonna put it out there: I've been neglecting my blog. But you need to cut me some slack. I've been busy with other creative ventures (insert shameless plug for Mouse Monikers). Life's all about balance, ya know? Lately, it seems as if I'm balancing a stack of plates on my head and both hands, while walking a tight rope. And, let's be honest, I've probably had a couple drinks.

I hate depriving you of my wit, but that's how it has to be for a while. After all, I'm writing a novel AND building a business (insert another shameless plug for Mouse Monikers). On top of that, there are these two kids who keep asking me to feed them and drive them places.

This doesn't make up for my negligence, but I'm gonna leave you with this text convo between Hubs and me this morning. If you're like me--immature with a 13-year-old boy's sense of humor--you'll have a laugh.

Disclaimer: While I'm sure Hubs wasn't expecting me to make our texts public, a writer's spouse gives up all rights to privacy. For reals. It's in the vows. Nothing's off limits. He should've known I'd milk this for all it's worth; that I'd squeeze every last drop of humor out of it.

Speaking of boobies, which I do often (see previous admission of immaturity in paragraph #3), I thought up the breast ... I mean, best ... shirt to wear on my upcoming trip to Disney World. Hubs made me pinky swear not to create this shirt to wear around innocent children. I really don't see the harm since most of the little dears probably can't even read yet. Well, I'm at least sharing it here. Brilliance like this demands to be seen.

Sunday, July 27, 2014

A Dear Hubs Letter

Dear Hubs,

I've been putting this off because you've been pretty decent to me over the last 16 years. But you're coming home tomorrow night, so this has to be done now.

I've found someone else.

Look, no one ever means for this to happen. It's just one of those things. (Insert two or three more breakup clichés--except "it's not you, it's me." It's definitely you.)

Let's be honest. You had to see this coming. You're always going off on these exotic work vacations without me. Germany, Italy ... Iowa.  Case in point: you're in China right now. The closest I've ever gotten to China is watching "Shanghai Noon" over a plate of La Choy's mini chicken egg rolls. (Have you tried them? Those things are delish!)

I don't want to go on and on (and on and on) about your shortcomings. I'm sure you feel bad enough finding out you've lost the love of your life. I would, however, like to introduce you to my new fella. After all, he's going to be your children's stepdad.

Hubs, Thor. Thor, Hubs.

In case you've been stricken with temporary blindness from all that sightseeing in Beijing, let me explain Thor's appeal. First, he's freakin' hot. Like, ridiculously gorgeous. He might even be an inch or two taller than you. Lest you think I'm with him for purely shallow reasons, here are some of Thor's other attributes:
  • You could bounce a quarter off that ass. Ok, that's shallow, but it needed to be said.
  • He never leaves me. Never. This man stays put. I'll run errands all day, come home and he's standing right where he was when I left. That's dedication right there.
  • He's an attentive listener. I can talk to him for HOURS and he never interrupts me. He just stands there staring at me with those sexy, brooding eyes. Thor understands that sometimes I need to vent. I'm not always looking for him to solve the problem.
  • He carries a hammer all the time, so he must be really handy. I bet he'll tear right through that honey-do list you never seem to have time for.
I think you get the picture.

So, when you (finally) get home tomorrow night, you might want to get yourself a hotel room. Please don't come here looking for a fight. I can't predict what Thor will do. I mean, look at that face. Does he seem like someone you want to cross? I don't think so. Just grab the kids and go.

With warmest regards,