You want to know something that's unfortunate? My affinity for the movies of Quentin Tarrantino and Robert Rodriquez. You want to know what is especially bad about that? The fact that I love the soundtracks of those same movies and have included them in the content of my iPod's music library.
Also unfortunate is the level of hatred that I harbor as a simmering ember in the darkest depths of my feeble heart, where it waits to be blown into white-hot heat the moment I enter the technological travesty that is iTunes. As a result I have never bothered to make a work-friendly playlist. Everything is in just one big shuffle-puddle of a mess.
You know where this is going. Both of those directors like to include snippets of dialogue on their soundtracks, as well as some occasionally questionable music choices.
Additionally unfortunate is my penchant for playing loud music when I am working hard at something requiring grown-up levels of functionality. The raucous melodies curb my distractions and narrow my focus.
Imagine my chagrin as I sat at my desk, midway through a morning of reading, planning and writing standard operating procedures for a grant-funded substance abuse program when the music paused and the voice of Juliette Lewis, amplified in spectacular Bose wave fashion, filled my corner of the courthouse with plaintive inquiry.
"Ricky? Would you eat my pussy for me? Please?"
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
Tuesday, January 28, 2014
Sunday, January 26, 2014
Earlier this week I read an article on the benefits of writing by hand; how handwriting stimulates different parts of your brain than writing on a keyboard does. My writing guru, Lois, was the first one to tell me about this several years ago. So, guess what I'm doing now? Got my smooth-writing gel pen and my handy-dandy Moleskine and guess what?
I gots nuthin'.
I am in one of those moods where I am desperate to create - write, draw, paint - and I am totally unable to take the first step. Or maybe this is the first step and it's the second one that is so bloody difficult. I just can't get a grasp on any sort of inspiration.
Grief has smacked me pretty hard this week and perhaps that's what's blocking the creativity. I'm embarrassed to tell you how my momentary joy at discovering a channel running old Night Court reruns morphed into something abject when I realized it was the episode where Judge Harry is interviewing prospective bailiffs because Selma had died unexpectedly.
I've always known that my life basically is Night Court, pretty much every single day. This just sort of confirms that, I suppose. Although, Sushi would be furious to know I compared her to Selma the Bailiff.
Speaking of Sushi, she (and several others) have taught me a lot about the value of thank you notes and written praise for expressions of good character, rather than just for good deeds. Recently I've tried to doing this more. I have been working, off and on, on a draft of a letter to the head of the state agency that oversees our funding. They sent auditors last week to help clean-up some long-standing financial errors. (Disclaimer: Errors from before my tenure. Heh.) The auditors were helpful, polite and competent - not at all like the whores of the anti-Christ that I'd always been lead to believe they were.
Then I got an email from one of them, which basically accused us of withholding documentation. (I had the secretary mail the bazillion and a half pages of additional documentation that she wanted rather than sending and resending it via an unreliable fax line.)
This particular auditor is very, very suited to her job. And she comes from a different cultural background than I - one I know almost nothing about. And I, accidentally, in a round about way, totally unintentionally, told her she had big feet the first day I met her. Given all of that, perhaps I misinterpreted her seemingly terse request.
I still need to do the letter, right? And still thank her for her fabulous attention to detail, right? It's the right thing to do, yes? Even though she pissed me off and I'd like to stomp those over-sized toes?
So maybe that's my creative endeavor for the week - to finish that bit of writing and put it in the mail. I still feel like I gots nuthin' though.
It turns out I unknowingly wrote this on the one-month anniversary of Sushi's death. No wonder the grief has been particularly palpable. How does our subconscious keep track of this stuff?
Wednesday, January 15, 2014
Some things from this week:
Someone - someone of the feline persuasion - threw up all over the cat bed. This particular bed is the subject of an on-going territorial dispute. Much like the dispute between Texas and New Mexico. Did you know we have never settled on a border between us? If I remember correctly there is a 27 mile long stretch of land, only a mile or two wide, running down the west side of the Panhandle that is claimed by both states.
Tomorrow the kid is signing a letter of intent to play college softball. She is going to play for Vernon Junior College. I was not at all thrilled about her going to junior college - a prejudice based on experience with local ‘thug schools’. However, this one seems to be a real college with real students and they are going to pay real money to cover her education there. I am SO easily bought. Gimme a t-shirt.
I bought car tags today. My office is seven - seven! - steps from the tax assessor’s office where they sell the tags. This is the second car in as many months that I’ve paid a penalty on for being extra damn late buying the tags.
I cannot get warm. What the hell is up with that? Prolly hormones or some fake-ass shit like that. Hormones cause profanity, too. Prolly. Shit.
We drank the Netflix Kool-aid again this week. We used to have it back when all you could do was get the mail service. Unwatched DVDs languished on top of the TV for months at a time. We finally cancelled. Now - downloads! Woah! Who knew how much I would like this!! For a while there, I was keeping track of how many hours of BBC mysteries I have streamed this week. I stopped because it was just getting embarrassing. Stopped keeping track, that is. I’m still sucking down the British detective shows pretty much every waking moment. And several not-really-awake moments as well.
Earlier today I was perusing Pinterest, as one is wont to do, and while scrolling through Edward Hopper paintings, I realized I have taken several photos that are reminiscent of his work. It’s kind of like the article Diane posted about mediocre artists, but in reverse. (Here’s a link to the article: http://dappledthings.org/2895/why-we-need-mediocre-artists/#comment-4134)
The kid asked her father if we could all watch something on TV tonight. As a - gasp! - family. He said “Ohhhh-kay…?” What does she want to watch? American Horror Story. At first I was so proud. But then I realized she probably just doesn’t want to watch it alone, on her own, in vulnerable solitude. I wasn’t nearly as proud. Then I realized we are allowing the child to watch American Horror Story. We are bad, bad parents. Or, maybe not…
Today someone described me as a “A real redhead! And she uses that redheaded personality to keep those crooks in line!” Made my day. Especially since it was my boss that said it.
Tomorrow the auditors will be done at my office. Surprisingly, I really have kind of enjoyed them. I am not even remotely suited to that sort of work, but I can certainly admire those who’ve got the ability to do it. Really - it’s like alchemy or something. And that one woman who is working right outside my office? She is burning UP some adding machine keys. It’s amazing.
How many things is that? Enough? Plenty? Too many? My li’l band o’ writer buddies is working on a one-word weekly prompt. Thing was this week’s word. Sometimes I’m good with the prompts. Sometimes not. And sometimes I just make lists.