Who goes there? Please leave comments so (An Aries Knows)!
Man, it’s hard being “35.”
And no one told me that there would be entire days when I could barely stand up or bear to move around and would terrify myself with visions of brain tumors and other things because:
information for those who’ll endure menopause or those who’ll endure those enduring menopause
Somewhere in my LJ archives is a post I made about deoderant. For years, I used Secret Solid, and then FOR NO APPARENT REASON it just stopped working for me. After trying some other products, I hit on Adidas Solid. I loved the scent, and it worked. Then our relationship also went to hell because it began to make me itch. So did everything else I tried.
Jim suggested that I find a deoderant only, that it could be the anti-perspirant ingredients that were causing the problem. It’s not easy to find a deoderant-only product, especially in Houston’s climate.
Finally, in despair, I started using what must surely be the lowest-end product in the deoderant world: Tussy Cream. It works beautifully, without irritation.
Tim and I were shopping the other night, and there was no Tussy on the shelves. “Huh,” I said to him, and referring to my recent C2 trauma added, “Coke must be making it now.” Tim said I should make a post of what would happen in my world if Coke took over more of my preferred products. So here it is.
I’m in the crabby mood that was predicted by Button Sunday. Not toward the people and dogs (and one cat) on The Compound, however. They’re great.
But whose idea of a cosmic joke is it that these things exist: BBQ Fritos, Coke C2, and yet not within easy access of me? Clearly, this is not a world run by an Aries.
Here’s something for the Tim fans. Timothy J. Lambert looks really hot today. Not in the “oy, it’s so humid” way. In the good way.
What? You want photos?
Now you know what it’s like to live in Snack Purgatory.
Dear Someone Who Knows Something About Snacks and Soft Drinks,
(and you know who you are),
Is the reason I can no longer find Coca Cola C2 at Kroger because Coke stopped making it, or because our Kroger has sucked ever since they remodeled?
I want my C2 in the can, damn it, and our Fiesta has never carried it.
Coke’s web site? Also sucks, when all you want is simple information. If, however, you want to do a lot of stuff that has nothing to do with soft drinks, I’m sure their site is outstanding.
Upon thinking it over, I’ve realized that Coke’s web site is to product information as MTV is to music videos.
Why do all these women call people so early in the morning? Clearly, they are not related to people who suffer from insomnia and migraines.
As you may recall, when I couldn’t make Elderly Lady understand that she’s calling the wrong cell phone, I programmed in her number as “Wrong Number” and gave her a silent ring so she’d stop waking me up three to four hours after I fell asleep.
Now I have Excitable Mother. Today was the third time that she’s called around 8 a.m.
I never answer these calls. For one thing, I can’t get to the phone before it goes to voice mail when I’m awakened from a sound or drug-induced sleep. For another, I vainly believe that hearing MY VOICE on MY VOICE MAIL repeating MY NUMBER will clue them in that they’re doing something wrong.
I am a stupid optimist. Today, I called her back and asked why she keeps calling my number.
Excitable Mother: Is this (gives me my number)?
Me: Yes. That’s my number.
Excitable Mother: NO, THAT’S MY DAUGHTER’S NUMBER.
Me: Ma’am, this has been my cell phone number for twelve years.
Excitable Mother: NO, THIS HAS BEEN MY DAUGHTER’S NUMBER FOR TEN YEARS. I DIAL IT EVERY DAY.
Me: You dial some number every day. You only dial this one every now and then. Always at eight in the morning. Could you perhaps choose a later hour to misdial?
Excitable Mother: I AM NOT DIALING THE WRONG NUMBER. (repeats number; mine again) THIS IS MY DAUGHTER’S NUMBER. THERE’S SOME MISTAKE HERE. YOU ARE THE ONE WHO’S WRONG.
Oh? You have just told an Aries that she is wrong, you crazy risk taker, you.
You will never know how much strength it took to keep myself from saying, “You are right. This is your daughter’s number. I, a strange woman you do not know, am answering your daughter’s phone in the early morning in a sleepy voice. Then I pretend that I don’t know her and that you’re dialing the wrong number. Now you put your little mind around that for a while, ‘kay, and see what conclusion you draw.”
But no. I suggested that maybe her daughter and I shared the same number but different area codes. She denied this, but without much force.
If she calls me again, I’m inviting her to our commitment ceremony.
Ever had one of those days when you wake up and you have what you assume is a sinus headache that should go away quickly although coffee would be nice and would probably help and without purpose or reason you open the refrigerator and find out that your lovely new refrigerator is working fine in fact so fine that a caffeine-free Diet Coke that’s probably been around for a couple of years because only your mother drinks them has frozen on the top shelf and exploded and now your lovely new refrigerator and all its contents are covered in brown sticky dried Coke including the ceiling and the light and what’s left of the Coke liquid has pooled in the bottom under the vegetable drawers?
Yes. It’s still Monday.
There’s a busy intersection near The Compound with a four-way stop. Sometimes during the day, but more often late at night, someone runs one of the stop signs and I hear the resulting collision. (There have even been occasions when cars have been hit so hard that they overturn, and should anyone be going that freaking fast in a residential neighborhood?)
Last night, I heard a BOOM at about 4 a.m. My standard reaction kicked in: I grabbed my cell phone, put on my shoes, and glanced through the window at Tim’s apartment to see if he was coming out the door. He wasn’t, so I made my solitary trip toward the usual point of collision. What I saw was a car slowly proceeding down a side street making a horrific noise because it had at least one flat tire and heaven only knows what else wrong with its front end.
While I was glad to see the driver was still capable of driving, I was disturbed because: 1. The car was in no condition to BE driven, which implied impaired judgment on the part of the driver. Big surprise. 2. I wondered what the car had hit and if the driver was leaving the scene.
While I really wanted to get in my own car and follow the crippled car to get its tag number, I was more concerned with whether anyone else might need assistance.
Except I couldn’t find a point of impact. My neighbor, awakened by the noise, saw me and came outside so we could go into Nancy Drew mode. We saw dirt and grass in the street, so we knew the car had run off the road, possibly into a ditch. After checking all his property for damage, we finally figured out what had happened. The car hit a concrete curb and somehow ended up in a bit of grass about twenty feet away from the impact. It either turned around or the driver managed to turn it around and keep going. So no other person or car was involved, thank goodness.
But what I really want to know is: How is it that my neighbor’s wife, who came out just after we solved the puzzle, LOOKED SO GREAT?!?! She didn’t hear the noise. She didn’t wake up when he left the house. She woke up right before she came outside, and her hair was in place and her loungewear looked like it had just come out of tissue paper from some upscale boutique and she just generally looked fantastic. That is SO WRONG. She clearly has supernatural powers…
Part 1 was the part where my flesh separated from my skull, fire shot out of my eyes, and my throat emitted a keening noise that melted slugs on Tim’s screen door. Aren’t you glad I didn’t journal Part 1?
Part 2 began yesterday, when I bought the second refrigerator–at a different merchant–that I’ve bought in a week. The first refrigerator went back courtesy of Lynne’s truck* when the store would not pick it up. They did, however, refund our money. Slugs everywhere thank them.
So this is Part 2, Day 2, wherein the second refrigerator fills the space in my kitchen and wonders why I continue to eye it with suspicion. It’s simple: Refrigerator One started out okay and went bad. So this one has to prove itself against the failings of its predecessor.
*Thanks for the use of the truck. Does the truck also have a name?
The review of SOMEONE LIKE YOU that Tim mentioned in this LJ entry made me think of a review for THE DEAL. In that one, the reviewer said we used a “token straight couple.”
Let me set the record…er…straight. From our earliest interviews and comments about our novels, whether the ones written by two people or four, we have always said and been honest about a single feature of the stories. We write FICTION that reflects the reality of our lives. That reality is that we have a very diverse group of friends, some of whom become our family. And within our biological families, there are people who accept us and others who reject us for certain truths about our lives.
The characters, the plots, the settings–they grow out of our imaginations. Even when we draw from our life experiences to create them, in the end, it’s just storytelling. Everything is meant to serve the story, not some author agenda, and also not any potential reader expectations beyond, “Is this a good story?”
If you don’t like the stories, that’s fine. If you don’t like the writing, okay. But it’s inaccurate to suggest that the writers have set up arbitrary “quotas.” A TJB or L&C novel is about people falling in love; and making and keeping friends; and being or discovering themselves; and not trying to measure up to anyone’s idea of what it means to be of a certain gender, race, sexual orientation, religion, political persuasion, or region.
In our particular case, for all four of us to have the same “agenda” we’d have to agree on it. No matter what sensibilities we share, Tim, Jim, Timmy, and I are unique individuals who by no means agree on everything. Among the four of us, there’s a lot of love and a lot of understanding and acceptance, but there are also marked differences because of the range of our individual backgrounds. I believe all of that ultimately serves our friendships AND our stories.
On a personal note, you know one fun thing about writing with other people? The number of times I’ve asked a writing partner, “Is he gay?” or “Is she a lesbian?” and I never got an answer. Yes, there are characters in our novels whose sexual orientation remains a mystery to me and THAT IS JUST LIKE LIFE.
Last year, or maybe it was the year before–when you’ve been 35 as long as I have, time has no meaning–I learned that when it’s crunch time on a manuscript deadline, I.must.not.read.the.news.
Today, like an addled prairie dog, I surfaced for a minute and read an article that left me gaping at my monitor. I won’t rant about it. I’ll just say that some people’s memories need to stretch back about six freaking years before they climb under the covers in a new bedroom.