So, I went to the dermatologist today. It was sort of fun to sit in the waiting room at the office imagining that they might have a magic face sander in the back that they could apply until my less than perfect skin peeled away to suddenly reveal the face of a young Elizabeth Montgomery. Or maybe Kirsten Dunst. Gwyneth Paltrow?
Yah, so they don’t have one of those.
What they did have was a huge amount of prescription creams, gels and pills. I’m to begin the regimen immediately. Wish me luck. I need it.
Otherwise…NaNoWriMo. Not so much. After my over enthusiastic post on the event, I realized that I’m missing a little thing called a PLOT for my prospective novel. Once I thought of a plot, I realized I have absolutely no idea how to construct the story. I know, I know, I read “Bird by Bird” and all that. I know that Kurt Vonnegut said writing a novel is like having no arms and legs and writing with the pen in your mouth…yes, I know. But, WAH! And anyway, I’m not sure whatever small talents I posses in the literary department really lend themselves to the novel format. I'm more of a columnist type (she said hopefully). I’m going to volunteer to bring a dish to any write-ins that may occur at my neighborhood coffee shop.
As for the family room. It is complete. And, after a quite painful encounter with Satan and Satan’s Rule Number One Hundred and Forty-Three, “Thou shalt only place thine furniture against thy walls, you idiot”, we got much of the furniture arranged in the room (and some in the living room).
The family room simply cries out for an area rug not only visually, but because poor FurGirl simply cannot gain traction on the new floor to save her life. At least fourteen times a day she has a notion to leave the family room quickly (usually because she thinks Satan may kill her) and, instead of darting from the room, the poor thing just stays in the same place while her feet work frantically beneath her, nails scratching futilely on the slick unfamiliar finish, unable to gain purchase. This causes her to be in an endless loop of disapproval with Satan as he gets even more annoyed when the phenomenon occurs, causing more frenzied scratching and an ever more frantic need to escape. “She thinks you might kill her”, I traditionally shout over the writhing, scratching (but still tragically stationary) dog. “I just might if she keeps that up”, he normally shouts back.
My Netflix queue has been leaving me cold lately. "Batman Begins", "Bewitched", "The Interpreter". Eh, whatever. All perfectly acceptable efforts, but certainly no wows. I have high hopes, however, for "Capote". Released on September 30th in New York and Los Angeles and, according to the website "coming soon to a theater near you". I tried to persuade Satan to take a little trip to Nashvegas for a screening last weekend, but no such luck. I tell you, the reviews are looking REALLY good on this one and the "rotten tomatoes" site has it at an almost unheard of 95% fresh. With Phillip Seymour Hoffman as Capote and Catherine Keener as Harper Lee it certainly could turn out to be The Big One this year.
I know. I'm always getting myself hyped up for these movies and then, invariably, I'm disappointed. But hope springs eternal. I'm always fascinated by all things sixties and Capote was on the cutting edge of the jet set crowd back in the day. If you've never read "In Cold Blood", you should. Well, you should if you enjoy having the be-jeezus scared out of you. Which, of course, I do. Also, Truman was actually the real life inspiration for the character of Dill in "To Kill a Mockingbird", a bit of trivia which I've always found fascinating.
Lastly, the time change. What the hell? Is there a problem with just everyone agreeing on what time it is and then just, for the love of God, leaving it at THAT? I swear, it's like they're out to get me with this "spring forward, fall back" B.S. Because, just when just when I've sort of got the hang of what time it is; just when I start getting in a ryhthm with the alarm? It's time to spring or fall or what the hell ever. Oy.