%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |   A place where everybody can feel easily offended - my head! |
|
I'm gathering quite a collection of blogs. "Invalid Item"  is a bit-of-a-rant. I've got a big gob, and it would be a shame not to use it. "Invalid Item" is just that. It's the product of the bits of me mentioned above  filtered through my subconscious."Invalid Item" dealing with all things to do with battling sexes, especially exes.Want to know something trivial or obscure? Not really bothered about whether it's right or wrong, as long as it's believable? ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** WELCOME TO THE HUMAN GOOGLE!  I may never have mastered the art of tying shoelaces, but I win every time I play Trivial Persuit. Friends place bets on how many people I can, unintentionally, upset on a night out. I am the place where boundless enthusiasm meets embarrassing arrogance. Important Information - Please Read I realise some folk do not get Satire. I love a little baffoonery and believe, rather like the jesters of old, you can say quite a lot more than kings when people think you are an idiot. If you are literal minded, best not read on. If you can tell your arse from your elbow, and recognise when an attack isn't an attack then please read:
Heck, even if you can't tell your appendages from one another, read it anyway: who am I to tell you what you can do and what to take from my writing?  The XGC rating is due to the unknown content of many minds - it may be fluffy bunnies or....not! YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED Welcome to my world! Acme  ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** http://twitter.com/acmetweet Skype me at acmetoo template thing-a-ma-bob: {c:green}Write{/c}: {c:green}Edit{/c}: {c:green}Kids{/c}: {c:green}Relationships{/c}: {c:green}Physical{/c}: {c:green}FFF{/c}: |
| A few weeks ago hubby gave me the 'it ain't you, it's me' speech: the whole 'I'm not happy, and I don't know what I want, but it might not be you' thing. It smacked like a bolt against a broken horse's head. It blew me away. I can honestly say I was happy in the relationship, but then, I don't notice subtleties. I'm not the subtle type. Food, sex, and beer and the world is hunky-dory. It means that by nature I am a plain speaker, and a plain listener: say you love me, you love me; say you hate me, you hate me. I also expect people to hear me with a plain ear, but not all ears are tuned to the obvious and will seek out hidden depth and meaning in the least little thing. In wondering what went wrong with my relationship, I tried to listen subtlety, but all I got was confused. After all, a body can read anything into pretty much anything. Best for me to stick to plain and simple. So, where the feck did I stand? Was he leaving me? Was he staying? Was there someone else? Was there something wrong with me/us/him, and if so, could it be fixed? Did he want to fix the broken bits when he let me in on what they were? I gave him a list of options: 1. Love me. I'm ace. I don't take you for granted, and go out of my way to please you. I cook like a whiz, shag like a bastard, and don't ask for money/hols/houses/cars, etc., etc., 2. Get help. If it really is you, and not me, and you're having a mid-life crisis, no one--even with the most supportive intentions--can help you other than yourself, and you may be best off doing this via a professional councilor. 3. Fight. If you think there's something dangerously wrong with our marriage and you want to mend it, I'm willing to fight for our marriage, and if you want to do the same, then organize some marriage counseling and I'll pour all the effort you need from me into that. 4. Leave. Don't torture me by stinging this out longer than it has to be. I'm a frickin' human being and I need to grieve, mourn, lick my wounds, mend, and move on, as well as get my shit together, find a solicitor, a place to live, and provide stability for our children. He chose 3. He then went to work away for a week and couldn't help get pissed off that I wasn't 'smiling' down the phone at him when we chatted. "I've found a good website for marriage counseling," I said. "Don't hassle me about it. I said I'd get it done, now leave it with me." Fair enough. "If you do make up your mind that you want me, place my wedding band back on my fingers; it's a nice gesture, deeply symbolic, and will make me feel better." "I will." He hasn't. I didn't want to fall apart as badly as I did that first week of him being away. I lost half a stone and gained 10 years worth of sleep-deprivation wrinkles. I don't do limbo very well. I confided in my priest that I was having trouble in my marriage and would be cutting back on the voluntary work I do to make more of an effort to share time with hubby. I confided in friends that my world had turned to shit, so that they would be ready for the possibility of 'breakdown' phone calls. I confided in my mother, in case I needed somewhere for the kids and I to go to. I confided in my doctor, as I was worried about the precarious state of my physical and mental health, and was referred for personal counseling. Hubby came home for the weekend. The pressure was on to 'have a good weekend together'. Gawd, my stomach was on the verge of puking every two minutes. The weekend ended with no ring back on my finger and no mention of marriage counseling. He went away to work for the next week. I cried some more, found myself forcing polite, mind-numbing conversation with him over the phone each night and trying desperately to play by a set of rules that I no one had let me see a copy of. He came home for the weekend. I couldn't take the pressure and finally popped. As if by magic, I turned back into myself. "What the hell do you want from me? Heck, what the hell do you want?" Apparently, he'd decided we had a couple of good weekends and that his original outburst was just a 'blimp'--a bad day. I tried to tell him the torture I'd been through, and how seriously I'd taken the threat to the end of our marriage. I can't remember what was said, but it amounted to me being a silly thing. ouch. Now he keeps getting pissed off at me because I can't smile, and because I've started to take an interest in what he does without me: "Who were you out with last night?" and "What the fook do you do on FaceBook with all those large-breasted friends of yours, if you don't kill dragons and mafia dons like normal people?" Of course, this is pushing him further away. I was happy, he wasn't. He made me unhappy, and now he's unhappier with the results. I was told to try harder. I have tried harder. It feels very one-sided. He's spent a week at home and been out two nights on Christmas work dos. I'm starting to resent him, his outburst, and his head games. And I know he resents the fact that I confided my misery to friends, family, and professional medical services. He almost convinced me that his original outburst was a blip, but now he sees the fall-out of how seriously I took him (letters of referral to counseling services, increased paranoia about what he does and where he goes, broken-woman dour expressions and the kids asking him if he still loves them), and I see it in his eyes: he had his shit day and it's over, so why won't everyone else just let it be over and get back to normal? If I don't watch my step, he'll be out of here... ...thing is, I'm frightened. If I believe the dream of what could be, and my world turns to shit again, I'm not sure I can take it. Would it be safer to put up the defenses, and lose the man I love, rather than be continually hurt and threatened by the possibility of losing the man I love. I really don't to limbo very well at all. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| I've had one of the best days of my life for a long time. What doing? Who with? Well, the who with is easy: ME! I do like my own company; I'm so thoughtful, considerate, and genuinely affectionate toward my needs and wants. What doing? Ah, well, there's the thing. I've been doing things that I do not normally do. Not things that I don't do--no--that I don't normally do. Time was (ooh, a good decade ago at least), Acme went by another pseudonym, or two, in music land. If you've followed a few of my past blogs, you'll have to forgive me repeating myself here: I sing like a frickin' angel. I hate it, of course, because I like dirty music. You know the kind: muddy guitars that your ears plead for a tetanus shot after listening to, chainsaws of electric bass coursing through your veins, and more pound per hit on the skins than mere mortal could bang out. So, having alternated between indie/rock/grunge/metal/garage/a-whole-other-heap-of-delightful-noise, it is a little disappointing to sound like one of the heavenly chorus. So, when it came to being a rebellious teen and forming a band, I knew I had to learn an instrument. Luckily for me, an ex-boyfriend had done a project in shop class which turned a slab of wood into a home-made guitar, complete with strat single pick-ups, coat-hanger whammy bar, and light switches. It bloody worked, though! That was that. I became a guitarist who wrote most of the lyrics. Everyone else's instruments weren't of interest to me. I'm rather self-absorbed, so as long as I did my thing well, and everyone else did theirs well, I just got on with it. Fast forward past all the gigs, riders, totty, A&R gang, press, demo tapes, etc., and, surprise surprise, I got pregnant and settled down with hubby (who continued to gig with his band for quite some time after). He's a keyboard player and electronic genius, so when his band split due to 'artistic differences' he made his own music in our home studio. Because he's a smoothie with more of an orchestral groove, my voice fitted his music and so I sang a few tracks for him. We did a couple of gigs, too, and while they were successful and got us a following, we just saw it as a hobby. Now we get to today. I wanted to know how all the buttons in the studio worked. Like I said, that side of things never effected me, so I never learned. I wanted to learn. Actually, I think I wanted to be obtuse: he hates teaching me anything, because I'm so feckin' annoying to teach. I make tutors go at my pace, repeat themselves, and ask questions ALL the time. Anyway, he was due a bit of obtuse Acme, so a button-twiddling session was arranged. I bloody loved it. Sure, there isn't a single live instrument on the recording I have made (choices out of thousands of samples), but it's my music! I made it! I chose the drums, the style, the base, the FX, the works, and I put it together how I wanted to. Guess what? It wasn't rock. No, apparently, I'm a secret hip hop queen with a penchant for brass accents. Who'd have thunk it? Seriously, it was great fun, and I realised that I can actually start playing rock-out tunes again, using the studio tracks as backing tracks, in place of band members.  If I ever find a way of popping MP3 things on here, I'll do it. You can laugh at how street this motha is.  ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| Good gravy! I'm exasperated. Why? Well, it's a darn good verb, for a start. Think about it: when was the last time you were 'exasperated'? I'm pleased to say I've managed to type for five minutes. That might sound sarcastic, but it isn't. There was never going to be a lot of writing involved in the Age Concern scripts: they're common scenarios, and how to handle them. All in all, each 'skit' should last between 1 and 5 minutes, so I don't know why I was procrastinating doing it. And the thing about writing to 'order' is that I don't have to be incredibly proud of what I've written; I just have to follow the brief! So, here it is, warts and all:
One down, three more skits to go, and then I'm onto the Short Stories. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
I find it increasingly difficult to do two things: twiddle with the fabric of space and time concentrateTime management are two words that strike the fear of God into me. If I think of management as an extension of 'manage' and take manage to mean 'cope', then no, I'm not coping with time. I need more of it. I need less of it. I need it to bend around corners. I need to be hitting deadlines--exciting deadlines, at that, but all I seem to be able to do is cope rather than organise. I'm my own worst enemy. Look at me, now: I'm blogging about it all, instead of hitting my writing deadlines. I've got about five looming deadlines, three of which are pressing: By the 28th of November I should... ... be handing over a couple of dialogue role play skits to a partnership group who are road-showing safety issues for the elderly. These sketches only need to be two actor speaking roles along the lines of someone coming to an old dear's door (eg, gas board, doorstep sellers, etc.) and how the home owner can handle the interaction in a safe and satisfying way. I haven't started  The show hits the road on the 7th December {e:panic} By the 15th December I should... ...have written at least two, edited-to-the-best-of-my-ability, 5,000 word short stories based on interviews with local people. These are for inclusion in a funded short story anthology, for which I'm guaranteed one to be used, if only I could start to write it  It goes to publication editing at the end of the year. By the 31st December I should... ...have written, polished, posted and be anxiously waiting, for a 15 min stageable comedy script to go to contest. The producers involved are professional, no nonsense, and showcase to a number of industry bigwigs in telly land. Last year's winner has gone into production. It's an opportunity I can't afford to miss, if I want to try my hand at comedy script writing for real. Haven't a clue what to do... {e:hitsheadagainstkeyboard} The thing is, I was hoping this blog entry would be cathartic--get my finger-tapping imagination revved up and out onto the track. Instead, I seem to have noticed that I'm a very small hobbit standing in front of Mordor's massive volcano, in a swimsuit that you can see all my wobbly bits wobble in. Lordy, where is my boundless enthusiasm? Where is my impenetrable ego? Where is my windmill-tilting naivety? ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| We've all been there. I don't think I'm in an 'End of the World' place right now. Sure, I'm in a dark place, but I'm not so hopelessly lost as I know I could be. Why? Well, because my step-son sent me a question on FaceBook, and I gave it an honest, knee-jerk, reaction that surprised me and made me smile. Question: If you knew today was your last day on Earth, how would you spend it and why?" Answer: "If today was my last day on earth, I'd find me an ocean to dive into, so I could marvel at the noise, its vastness, its awesome power, its constant changing, its fathomless depths. Why? For the pleasure of allowing its salt to dry on my smiling lips before it swallowed me and made me a part of its briny wonder." For the past few days I've felt like I was drowning on dry land. This response reminded me of a place, physical and mental, where I feel blissfully complete, alive, exhilarated and calm, all at the same time. I love the sea. I love the ocean. I've nearly drowned three times, and, on each occasion, there's been a point when I stopped struggling and gave myself over to the sea; each near-miss gave me something comforting to embrace--not death, please don't think me too maudlin, but rather a sense of letting go, of self-acceptance, of peace; each time, I've been rescued and have been equally as pleased to find myself very much alive! It doesn't matter what flotsam and jetsam life vomits on my shores; I'll always have the ocean in my heart. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
... be pleasantly surprised by people  It seems that ever since I picked up a pen to amuse myself, I've been told why I should write, what I should write, how I should write, and how it's a big, bad world out there; full of critics and no opportunities. Bull. There's a crap load of opportunities out there for a writer who wants to take them, and everyone I've come into contact in publishing and production seems keen to offer feedback, support, and encouragement. Last year I found out about a British sitcom contest--a week before it closed  Feck it, thought I, and pulled a story out of my arse (erm, I adapted an old short story) and did an allnighter on the keyboard, even though I'd never written a script in me life. It was okay, but not brilliant, and, surprise surprise, wasn't shortlisted, but the producers were friendly, supportive, and sent info on where I could access services/workshops etc., if I was interested in slogging on as a would-be comedy script writer. They've recently got back in touch--personally replying to an 'thank you' I sent them last year. I found this touching for a number of reasons; not least because I'm an auto-deleter when it comes to too many emails in my in-box. Another reason was because in that thank you I happened to mention that it was a shame that there weren't any workshops/script surgeries in the north of England, and the reason he wrote to me was to let me know of two new northern ones taking place next month. The other cool thing was that his email highlighted a link to a fab website with details of the current contest. Now instead of a week, I've got five to come up with something. Ace.So, along with that, I've met an independent British short story publisher (a bloody rare breed in a sea of novels) who is seeking submissions for a new anthology, as well as the anthology that I'm currently writing for. So many opportunities, so little time. I guess I better pull my finger out of my arse, instead of my stories  If any of you guys are interested, here are links to those opps, too (not sure if they're UK or international. Check to see if interested): http://www.comedy.org.uk/make_it/ http://www.commapress.co.uk/ ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| So, haydidly-ho If I had died three days ago, it would have been in the sure and certain knowledge that I had led a happy life, loved long and well, made a positive impact on friends, loved-ones, and complete strangers, and had a whole heap of fun in the process. I find myself very much alive even if I'm not in the same place--yet, that is. One good thing about having an ego the size of a small planet is the fact that I bounce back rather well. So long as I don't cash my chips in any time soon, I'm sure to find that near perfect nirvana that is me again. Until then, you might find Bella Lugosi has possessed my usual chipper demeanor. Mess, mess, messity, mess. Strangely enough, I'm not referring to my personal life, but, rather, my personal habits. If I took a photo of my house right now, I would be sure to receive supportive kindnesses regarding the mess the burglars left behind. Only, there haven't been any burglars. All the mess is family mess. Kim and Aggie would have a field day. Thank jimminy Kim's in the jungle right now  Why such a mess on 'Monday Cleaning Day'? (And yes, I do have to schedule it, or I just find myself winnowing in and out the towers of crap.) Because, after six months of putting it off, I thought I ought to crack on with my Tax Return, seeing as though there's about 10 weeks before everyone who is submitting a Self Assessment return should have it in. HM Inland Revenue stop receiving hard copy returns at the end of October, and even though the government website is quick, easy to navigate, and well run, oh boy, if you leave it too late, the whole thing slows down to a fritzy mush on 31st Jan. Gawd help you if you need to talk to a service adviser So, it's done. My taxes are in, even if visitors to the house need to be up-to-date with their tetanus jabs. Hubby's working away now. He never reads my stuff, so he won't know how crappy the place looks, unless the kids start crying on the phone about mum's new entomology hobby where the kitchen used to be. Back when I can. Miss you all. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| ... I'm not a monster, but I sure do look like one. I don't often complain about being ill, but I'm going to. MMMOOOOAAAANNN WHHHIIIINEEEE WOOOOOOAAAH IS ME I look like the friggin' elephant man. Apparently, I'm allergic to penicillin. How do I know this? Well, I have a balloon where my face used to be, and attractive spots all over it and my scalp. Nice. I've managed to contract a double ear infection, so besides being deaf and in agony, I'm rattling around with the amount of pills I have to take on top of the new non-penicillin based antibiotics, ear drops, anti-inflammatories, and horse tranquilizers. Nice. Oh, and did I mention, I look like the friggin' elephant man. So, if you're wondering why I'm a crap judge at the moment, it's because I can only read and review during lulls in pain, moments of lucidity, and when I can open my puffy eye-lids wide enough to read off the screen. I'd rather go through a 72hr labour, than feel as shit as this. |
| It's funny what my warped little brain latches onto. In the case of Lorien's thoughtful entry it wasn't just the removal of Oxford commas (I find it hard to edit out any comma... they're pretty), but the fact that as soon as I think hard left socialist I get all gruffty and hormonal with nostalgia. A good few years ago (before me vows) I had to read The Socialist Worker for weeks to try and seduce the new office temp where I worked. He was so bolshie and cute; he looked a bit like an angry version of the poet John Hegley (http://www.johnhegley.co.uk/)  Of course, I made a terrible hash of it, as I rather over did it on the Citizen Smith 'Come the glorious revolution, up against the wall, little black book' bit. I wonder whatever happened to the Tooting Popular Front?Anyhoo, for some reason, short angry socialists hit a horny button in me that other folk get pressed by the idea of muscle men, cowboys, Clark Kent, or surfers. It takes all sorts to make the world go round, I guess. [Embed For Use By Upgraded+] ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| Everyone's neural pathways are fused a little differently to the next fella's. Hints and tips and guidelines are one thing, when it comes to writing, but we all go about it different ways. I like the way Dark Lady thinks about the process of writing; it's always interesting to read other writers' perspectives on stuff like that. I hardly ever prep the same way twice. I think I'm a little too gung-ho for my own good, but it does mean I'm prolific. One good thing about that is I often find a sliver of something special, even if it's only a sentence, in amidst the muddy crap of writing blurgh that spews out of me. I was corresponding with alfred booth regarding this very subject. He'd written a short 'spur of the moment' writing exercise in WoT two weeks ago. Because of my vacation, I hadn't had a chance to read and comment on it until yesterday. When I did, one line in particular stood out as one of those 'I wish I'd written that' moments. I highlighted its fabness in my comment to him. He was over the moon at how good it was, too; he'd forgotten all about it! It was great to find another writer who does that. I try not to edit, or delete, anything straight away, even if I'm embarrassed as hell about how pants it is. Fresh eyes on a piece, just a few weeks later, can see things that the writer/editor of the day simply misses. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
I've sent out a shit review. I hate it when I do that. It's usually a result of over-reviewing in one sitting and aping the googly eyes on my costumicon, but that's no excuse. I sound like a reviewing alcoholic, regretting the night before and having 'just one more... just one more...' Feckin' apostrophes. Bastards. At least as soon as I realised what a stupidly wrong piece of grammatical advice I'd sicked up onto the public review page, I did shoot off a quick email to the recipient explaining what a knobhead I was. So, at least I can be thankful for that small mercy. Do I really blame myself? Of course not--not deep down. No, I hold a sort of mini-resentment against the group email that went out to the judges of the contest I've been writing my reviews for. Here's why: I'm impressionable, and think that all group emails are AIMED at me. When I got back from Corsica, I dropped an email to the group leader, explaining that I hadn't forgotten about my judging obligations, but had quite a bit to catch up on. They replied saying that they had just got back from vacation, too, but that they could get their reviews done in no time (guilt, guilt, guiltily, guilt). Then along comes the group email with a finger wagging and one of those 'if you don't want to be a contributing member of the group, there are plenty of other folk who are waiting to steal your ruby slippers while you melt under the little wooden house that will land on you...' -- or words to that effect. I think I actually whimpered when I read the telling-off email. I've got to get a grip: there are other people in that group--people who probably haven't sent out a short note to apologise for the lateness of their judging. That group email was probably meant for them. And yet, I had to do my reviews for ALL the contest entries RIGHT THERE AND THEN. Idiot. I know that each writer deserves a thoughtful and considered review--and trust me, they were, but I obviously turned into a moron halfway through and was too dumb to realise it until after the fact. Feckin' apostrophes. Bastards. 59 of my community recognition points are related to reviewing (MBs and points via the 3,200 reviews I've done since being here). I'm normally pretty proud of those facts, but not when I feck up. I hate fecking up when it has an impact on someone other than me. Erm, especially if the someone in question happens to be shit hot when it comes to grammar Bastarding dotty-squiggle marks. |
Bela Lugosi's in me shed (in me shed--in me shed) Christopher Lee is playin' dead (playin' dead--playin' dead) Peter Lorre's eyes are as big as his head (big as his head--big as his head) and Acme's sad; all my ups are fed (my ups are fed--my ups are fed.) I wanna cry (just a little bit), but it would sound all whimpy and shit; folk would think me simply more of a tit, but Bela would understand and 'get it' Why? 'cause he's in me shed! Bela Lugosi's in me shed (in me shed--in me shed) Christopher Lee is playin' dead (playin' dead--playin' dead) Peter Lorre's eyes are as big as his head (big as his head--big as his head) and Acme's sad; all my ups are fed (my ups are fed--my ups are fed.) I wish there was a way to let you hear the tune, but that's been my favourite mental song since I was a nipper. It's never-ending, but my favourite part is the rising notes to each line of the middle verse, coupled with the elongated crescendo of the 'Whhhhhhhhhhhhyyyyyyyy?' Ooh! I've just remembered what the tune is Do you remember a crap kids film called, The Gnome Mobile? Well, it's that tune. |
| I'm always amazed by the odd way that my humanity comes out. The biggest cause of personal wonder is my ever changing perception of things; what kind of day am I having? A glass half full, or a glass half empty? Ghostranch's entry reviewed the personality and joy of her cats. It also touched upon their sad passing: the shock of their sudden illnesses, the seasonal bad-timing, and the heartache of big decisions for both cats at the same time. Heartbreaking stuff, yet her overall tone was one of fond remembrance and nostalgia. I guess that was a glass half full entry. I'm in a different place today. I'm prone to the occasional dose of 'fear'. Fear days give me no warning of their arrival. They appear gradually, like bile rising in my stomach that worsens as it progresses. Today, I've got the fear. In the past month there have been two fatal shootings within 3 miles of my house, and one semi-automatic gun-point robbery of a kid's bike, just 1/4 of a mile away. Sometimes, I hate reading the news, because ignorance really is bliss. I was 24hrs on the right side of that robbery, but having just found out about it, I feel as if I should be vigilant. Vigilant? For what? Oh, because, when the world revolves around me, you can bet that there's a gun-totting maniac out there with my name on their hoodie. I lose all sense of perspective. It's all about me. Am I a drug dealer in a turf war? No... but I may still be targeted. Based on what? The fear. Am I a kid with a nice set of wheels, showing off outside a liquor store? No... but bike robbers may move up in their criminal expectations--maybe all the way up to the Miss Marple Machine. Why? Do they have no taste? That's not the point. It's all about me. My perceptions narrow when I have the fear. I should take a leaf out of Ian Brown's book and think of Fantastic Expectations Amazing Revelations. I need to change my perspective, rationalise my worries, and get on with living... Ah, who am I kidding? I don't need to use logic and rationale. I need to do what I do best: strengthen the walls of my fantasy imagination, take one giant leap for Acmekind, and be the Urban Astronaut I was born to be I don't get the fear for long--there's not much room for it alongside all the other shit in my head. I am made of star-snot. I am pure awesomeness. So's Ian Brown's song but the 'embedding disabled by request' thing comes up when I try to put a link to it here. Just hum. Actually, a better way to describe my ascent from fear is warrior-ish. I come out of these fugue states with a bizarre sabre rattling emotional state where nothing can stand in my way. I am the revolution. While I'd normally whop a Kasabian tune on the music maker, to serve as a rallying call to arms, I feel my muse taking a different direction. Sing with me, you lusty soldiers of righteous angst, and click my link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TAP5Sr3R638 Failing that, settle down and watch Terminator 2. Linda Hamilton doing mental institute bed pull ups? Yup, that's me. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
Prosperous Snow's FtL lead entry reminded me of one that I wrote some rounds ago, "Invalid Entry" [In fact, in trying to find the entry, I started re-reading a lot of my old entries. They were ace! Far better than the twaddle I'm coming up with this round. I think the main problem is that I got what I asked for. I joined FtL not to win (let's be honest, I'm a bit of a silly blogger, rather than a proper one, and don't use it as a writing exercise to polish my craft. I blog in order to twaddle. Twaddling is a form of writing that is not unlike sleep talking: highly diverting, amusin, sometimes disturbing, more often than not sheer nonsense, and of no worth.), but to make sure I wrote every day in preparation for NaNo.  I mean look at that last sentence! Even Virginia Wolf would have a hard time reigning in that stream of consciousness.]Anyway, I don't have dinosaurs in my front yard... for one thing, I have a driveway, not a yard, and apart from the 1996 Miss Marple Machine, I only have occasional visits from hallucinatory apes (see the terrifying results that misadventure via too much coffee can bring in "Invalid Item" ).The trouble with writing every day, when I know that there's no way that I can fit writing every day into every day, is that I rush, blundering through the brambles and barbs of my own hurry without really having a chance to savour other people's entries. Once FtL is over, I'm going to have to make a new promise to myself: I wan to read every day. Right. Must dash. Small children to deposit all over the borough in my Miss Marple Machine Taxi. |
| Poor Spidey--judged for the way she looks and not her actions. Thank goodness for WDC; at least this place turns that on its head a little. Keystroke actions speak for themselves. That's not to say that I haven't made my fair share of faux pas thanks to the mindless, quick 'send' button on the email We're all as daft as we want to be. Those cousins of Spidey's seem very selfish, and somewhat troubled individuals, but rather than dwell on them, I suggest Spidey dwell on herself: she's a successful young woman, who handles her personal and professional life in a responsible manner, and whose youthful appearance will be a boon in the ACHING, L-O-N-G, DECADES OF DECAY AHEAD of her. Sorry--my arthritic fingers seized up over the Caps Lock key {e:innocentwhistle}. It's hard to feel sorry for people blessed with good looks and thinking them a curse, but I know how frustrating it used to be going out and constantly being asked for ID. Happily, I've grown into my skin, become a wrinkly old fart, and now proudly don beautiful white hair at my temples (not grey, not pepper, but Kringle white). Hubby wants me to dye it, but, honestly, do I strike you as someone who would pass up the opportunity to look like Clarke Gable? Distinguished Acme  ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Some Hot Dame, no doubt enamored of my distinguished Kringle whites |
| Ooh, nightmares... I loves 'em. Not at the time, and when they reoccur? Well, that's just not on, is it? It's like internal plagiarism, or when plot lines are echoed in your favourite soap. The best, worst, nightmare I ever had involved a bloke called 'Stripey Pants Steve' and an Air-Shark. I realise that might sound like the lead up to a joke, but it isn't: it was a scary friggin' nightmare that nearly caused me to wet the bed. I'm visiting my friend Chris in his bohemian house. The cool hang out on a regular basis and I bask in their coolness. In fact, Stripey Pants Steve is there today, along with Minthra, a bare-footed biker hippy who blew through Manchester on her way to Thailand. Chris has made chickpea curry. He's in the kitchen, now, and is shouting something though to us. It sounds like, "Watch out for the shark!" That's ridiculous--we're on dry land, I think. Stripey Pants Steve goes to the open doorway that separates the front room from the kitchen. A Great White shark bites a chunk out of his side as it swims through the portal at waist height. Minthra starts to scream. She also starts to rise from her sitting position. Unfortunately, this brings her head to what would be waist height, and the shark is circling the room. It bites her head off. I can't move. Mithra's blood fountains from her neck in hot sticky splashes across my clothes and skin. "Chris! There's a shark in the front room. It's looking at me," I shout through. "And Mithra's dead. And Steve's writhing around on the floor with his stomach missing." Chris comes to the doorway, the chickpeas forgotten. "Oh, no. What a mess. I told them to keep an eye out for him." Chris walks casually into the front room and sits on the sofa on the other side of the headless sitting figure of Mithra. I'm on her other side, and because she's been beheaded, we don't have to bend around her to chat. He continues, "Look, it's simple: He comes through the back door of the kitchen and goes straight into the front room. He swims two laps of the front room and then one in the kitchen. He swims up the stairs, once around the bathroom, and the spare room, and then a double lap of the bedroom. He swims down the stairs and goes out of the back door--I don't know where he goes, then, but he does come back after a couple of hours. That's when you have to be careful. He's as silent and deadly in the air as he would be in the water, and you'll not see him coming, unless you're watching out for him." We both watch the shark swim into the kitchen. I'm terrified. I daren't move. I don't want to leave the house, because, at least here, I've been taught the routine, but out there, I'm at the mercy of a big sea of sky. Worrying. Terrifying, in fact, as Steve still lies groaning, and Mithra's blood covers me like sticky jam, I'm aware that sharks have a phenomenal sense of smell for blood. I still feel the same core of unsettling emotions that go through me when I recall this dream. Odd, isn't it, because I bet you don't find it scary at all |
| When I saw today's FtL title, my stomach flipped... more on that later. Chewie Kittie  made some smashing points about 'what makes a good blogger?' She writes what works for her, and I guess that is all that any of us can do. I read many different blogs with a wide variety of styles; some would be considered editorials--articles, even; other blogs are more like being allowed access to personal journals--'Dear Diary...'--in the more traditional sense. Just like picking up a novel, or a magazine, I choose my reading blogs by what I feel like reading at that time, and that's how I write mine, too.Pieces of Me was a song I wrote for my grandfather's funeral. I made sure I recorded it for the service, because there was no way that I could have sung it on the day. In fact, I had a hard time recording it, and it took several hours to lay down the vocal track. The result was that I sounded a hell of a lot better than I normally do--don't ask me why, but the Lord gave me the voice of an angel, when all I ever wanted was to roar like Suzzie Quatro. I've never sung it since, but it really is one of the best constructed chord sequences and vocal melodies I ever made. It's been a decade since I said goodbye. |
| Isn't it odd that when you 'get right down to it' or 'go back to basics', you realise that 'basically' only highlights the complications in our lives, not the basics. I really do feel for the huge changes in Akierey's life at the moment. No matter how many times people try to prepare other people for the addition of a child in their life, it comes as a shock about how much time, effort and thought are dedicated to them. I can sympathise with how frustrating it is to have to go out to work when she wants to spend these formative early days with her baby. Basically, there's no real answer, only real people's lives. She is bound to be a wonderful mother, and her family sounds positively delightful. I do hope she's only got one vagina, these days. |
| I kind of get what katwoman is saying. It's her truth, so that's all that matters. I think I may possibly fit Father Sex Bone as a better title. I may be a rather hideous example of an alpha female. I've been an active sexual predator since legally allowed (I've never broken any known laws...). I am, by nature and design, a rather self-centered person, the captain of my gang of one. Maybe, because I've always seen the people in my life as 'walk-on' parts to bolster my own star performance as a human being, I am, unsurprisingly, deluded about my own worth. Nonetheless, this does seem to have a knock-on effect in the bedroom. I know what I want, I get what I want, and 99% of the time I get it when I want it, too. So, where’d that go? Why all of a sudden is the choreography off? Why is it something we have to work for? Those people who want to say it hasn’t happened to them haven’t been in a relationship long enough to talk, so kindly sit down. Ooh, see? I've been in a relationship with myself for several decades and have notched up 13 of those years with hubby. I wonder if maybe I should ask him if he's happy? Seriously, maybe I should. I realise I can be a bit of an ostrich when it comes to other people's feelings and emotions. Not out of nastiness, but ignorance; I am as subtle as a brick, and do need people to communicate verbally with me, preferably using small words and handy diagrammatical presentations, what they need from me so I can supply it. Ultimately, the most thought-provoking revelation in katwoman's blog is the love bit, along with the subtle nuances of expressed desire. I'm hopelessly inadequate when it comes to the talking guff--as opposed to action stuff--that encourages sensuality and romance to flourish. After all, I had no idea that the style and variety of underwear was an indication of rising desire. I shall have to take today's choice of 'Daniel Craig Swimtrunks' as hubby's cry for a particular sexual need. I see sex and love as very different things. Sure, it might be great to get them together, but hubby knows that I'm a simple soul. Give me my oats = happy Acme. Write me a poem = happy Acme. Write me a poem, while I'm getting my oats and you'll might get ink in my porridge. It would seem I have more than my romantic side to work on... what a shocking pen/porridge metaphor I'm off to find my bikini. |
| I'd be a tad jealous of Susannah's gig-fest, if it weren't for the fact that I've had a road trip of my own... well, actually, I've ended up having a non-road trip. I certainly planned on doing much, much, more in Corsica than I was able to do. The roads conspired against me. First, there was that BIG decision: I let hubby pick the holiday. In all fairness, it's a family choice thing. 5 years ago Jnr chose a Greek Island with historical, and archeological sites of interest (which is what I would have chosen, but it's not our fault that we like the same kinds of things, even if the other members of the family do feel as if we gang up on them when it's our turns to pick ). When it was her turn, BA chose Disneyland (or Disneyworld--I forget which, but it's the one in Paris)... less said, soonest mended, about that one I think . I chose Rome (how heavenly! Even the graffiti and street crime seemed charming. We think we were nearly the victims of an attempted robbery, but the two fellas were rather put out by our refusal to understand Italian. It was a hot day, so they gave up...). Anyway, back to the point: hubby wanted a beach holiday, where all he had to worry about was basting himself on a suntan/burn rotisserie sunbed by the pool. He booked the entire thing on his own recognisance. So, when he didn't book car hire, I was a bit dubious as whether or not to ask if that were advisable. After all, we were self-catering on a remote part of the island. How would we eat? He wouldn't entertain the suggestion. He wasn't going to end up as my taxi for the duration. He was going to lie by the pool if it killed him. How long would it be, he asked, before a 'trip to the shops' detoured via a small mansion that Napoleon's uncle's cousin once slept in? He had a point. I shut up. It was his holiday.Even though I'd taken a couple of novels, he knew that there was no way I could last a week without at least one site of historical interest. Hubby said I could book a day trip out. I booked us on four tours. He thought this mocked his holiday, but went along with it--only after receiving self-inflicted third degree burns on the first day. The first trip was a coach to Porto Veccio to see the town for an hour and then stock up on supplies at the local hypermarket. We had to go, I said. How else could we survive the week without bog roll and biscuits? So we went, saw nothing, speed shopped for necessities and coached all the way back to the holiday apartment. I told him that shopping wasn't an excursion. I needed to book a day trip out, preferably without him or the kids. I needed a bit of Acme time. That was Monday. On Wednesday there was supposed to be a full day out in the mountains, nature watching, wild boar eating, and wine tasting. I love a bit of tummy culture, so set my sights on this one. It didn't run. There weren't enough other people who wanted to go on it. The rep promised to see if she could reschedule it for Saturday. I crossed my fingers, which were slippy with the suntan lotion I'd had the pleasure of marinading hubby in at regular intervals. By Thursday morning, I could have cried with boredom. I don't like 'lounging' around the pool. I like 'doing' things. I pointed out that Reception were allowing guests to book a laptop with internet connection for 15 minute slots. I received a 'look'. I did not book a slot. There was, however, another trip due out that evening: Bonafacio by Night. I extolled the virtues of the 'beautiful face' of Corsica to hubby. It would be an artist's paradise, I enthused. A feast for the eyes and soul. We could go out for a family meal and the kids could buy cheap tat from shops. Everyone would be happy. We went! Oh, and it was fabulous. I can't tell you how beautiful, quaint, cobbled, quirky, history-filled, and delightful it is. Well, I can't right now, because that's a story for another blog entry. Anyway, I finally felt as if I had gone out and seen a bit of the island, and all my hopes rested on Saturday, which now looked as if it were going ahead. Friday = sun-cooked hubby by the pool. Friday night = half a bottle of cheeky red and an early night for Acme. I got up at 6:30am on Saturday morning (I didn't have an alarm and promised myself I wouldn't go back to sleep and so miss the trip). I was ready by 7:00am, but the coach wasn't due until 9:00pm. I got to the pick up point at 8:45am. I was the first one there. By five minutes to 9:00am, I realised I was the only one there. At 9:10am, I was still the only one there and there was no coach. I waited twenty minutes and then gave up. The rep wasn't due back at the resort until the evening. I grump-sulked. Oh, I'm a smashing one for grump-sulking. Grump-sulking is a skill all of its own. A normal sulk is sorrowful, pitiful, and rather relies on bystanders noticing that the sulker is sulking, but grump-sulking leads to innocent bystanders diving for cover. A good grump-sulker can stomp, glower, and growl, all at the same time. It make come as no surprise to you that I am the best grump-sulker I have ever met. "What are we having for dinner, dear?" asked hubby. "We-e-ell, you can bet it won't be wild boar and a delightful merlot, with floral bouquet and peppery undertones." He tried to shut up, but his stomach rumbled ominously. "Let's all go out for a meal, instead!" he proclaimed over-cheerfully. "We can use the money we saved because your trip didn't take place." Stomp, glower, growl. "Come on, kids, let's go to the beach while mum has a bit of time to herself." Stomp, glower, growl. It ended up being a lovely meal. And I managed to pull of the biggest grump-sulk of all: I ordered the stinkiest fish-fest imaginable (hubby and kids hate the smell of fish, so I never get to cook it, or eat it, at home). I started with Paté la Mer, and had a sea bream and grilled prawn for the main, served with black mashed potatoes (using the ink from a squid). Heaven on a plate and sufficiently wiffy to appease my needless need for vengeance on my faultless family. I got my merlot, too... ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
 Log in to Leave Feedback |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
