Halloween House Par-tay

First. Let's have a moment of silence for all the brain cells I killed during last night's party. Yo, my eye-leg coordination was totally off this morning when I woke up. Every few hours I'd flashback, with horrible clarity, to something humiliating and totally ridiculous that I had said or done. Like devouring chocolate covered toffee and drinking Cranberry & Vodka cocktails at the same damn time. Word to the wise: if you've never done it, don't try it. And saying, consistently 3 or 4 times, that "Yes, Adam West is the actual mayor of Quahog. He's Mayor Adam West" during one particular conversation.

Well, Sonny and I were invited to the small but cozy one bedroom apartment of one of Sonny's co-workers. We decided to go out on a limb and dress up for the celebration. Sonny was Clark Kent and I was Hip Hop diva, Kelis. I sprayed my hair with red-orange "nightmare hair color" and Sonny donned his sexy-ass, gray, double-breasted suit. We were quite a pair. Anyway, by the time I left the party I was talking about things that didn't make sense to me, I was so drunk. Even in my screwed up state I knew I wasn't talking sense. So I turned on the Zen Sleek in the car and started singing 80s pop songs. Yes, my voice warbled like a sun-melted vinyl record. The rest of the ride home was in self-absorbed silence, with me opening the window on the cool night air. Sonny thought I was losing it but I simply didn't want to hurl on his front seat. Again.

I continue to tell myself that the morning after heavy(ish) drinking, is not worth the greasy, thick tongue-in-mouth and the cranky, rolling stomach. It's not worth the sad resistance to light, noise and vigorous activity. I'm kind of disappointed in myself for having stayed indoors all day on such a lovely, dry day. But... I did refrain from vomiting anywhere so I guess that's an esteem booster right there :) Anyway, I think being drunk is an experience that every designated-driver-having individual should go through. It becomes quite clear by 1 in the afternoon the next day, when your stomach is too weak for toast and your head feels like the Rockettes are high-kicking inside your skull and just the smell of your own deodorant induces a dry heave... that you should leave the drinking to the pros. Shit, I'll stick with girly drinks that evoke giggles and deep conversation. Thank-you-very-much.

Before you go any further...

Why on earth do people say "No offense" before they say something highly offensive? I've always wondered about that. That's like saying "No pain" before I kick the hell out of your shins. Of course it's still going to hurt! Demanding that you deny the pain is not going to prevent it. I also despise "I hope you don't mind my asking". For all that, you should just take a chance and ask the damn question. Why get me all geared up to hate you for asking a potentially anger-invoking question? Why not just get it out and see if I mind your asking.

I'm as American as a Ford vehicle, but these things still cause me to pause for a moment. It's like being politely rude. Things have been this way for a long time now. Hell, I can remember growing up and my mom would always get in my ass for coming home with missing barrettes and missing ribbons; my hair would be a tangled mess. Why? Because the girls in my class loved to take each other's hair out and play in it.... and then quietly pocket the shiny, Goode ponytail bo-bos (colorful, plastic, double ended ponytail ties) and plastic snap barrettes. "Oh you have nice hair lemme braid it" while they're securing your hair accessories. And securing that ass-whooping when you get home.

Oh well....

The hunger that never goes away...

I've been reading like an insane woman. Really. It's ridiculous. I have about 10 books piled up beside my bed. I read them, paying as much attention to each page as I can, yet trying to finish each one before the due date pops up like a red-hot toaster pastry. The first book in this series of Madwoman-Literature-devouring was "The Graduate" by Charles Webb. It's a light book, in both content and actual size. If not for the conspicuous raised-leg shot of Mrs. Robinson's on the cover, I might have read it everysinglewhere I went. Instead, I read with caution, certain that those who had never cracked the book would think I was reading an explicitly sexual novel. It wasn't. Charles Webb's book was okay. Now... I'm sorry. This man wrote "The Graduate" before I was even a possibility. Before my parents knew each other even existed, he had written and had a movie made from his idea. Who am I to judge it right? But..well. I just wasn't all that impressed with his writing. It was basic, simple writing. No flowery sentences. No blooming metaphors. Just straight writing pretty much all the way. And Benjamin's character wasn't as charming or interesting as Dustin Hoffman made him on screen. This could be the first time I say this: The movie was more intriguing than the book. They hardly differentiated from the actual novel when making the movie. I mean the dialogue is basically the same and everything.

Well, when I finally finished that I picked up Angel Nissel's book entitled, "Mixed: My life in Black and White". She writes about her life as the product of an interracial marriage. It's amazing how her entire existence is practically ruined by this hunt to become apart of one group. To find acceptance with a group she only half belongs to: Blacks. To figure out and get around her distrust of the other side of her self: Whites. And trying to experiment and determine which religions would offer her the 'posse' of folks who didn't care about her "good hair" or her "high-yellow" color. The heartbreaking thing is that she never actually finds what she's looking for: just a place to belong. Her journey is funny, truthful, interesting and a very good read, though. While I'm not mixed (not noticeably so, at least) my child(ren) will be. This book offered up some very good advice for Sonny and me to use and re-use as our kids grow up in a color/racially conscious world.

Now I'm reading a collection of short stories from Leo Tolstoy. I never picked up one of his books in my life. Not even when I worked as a page at the NY Public Library and would shelve books. But since I dived into the first story, "Family Happiness", I must admit it's not only excellent writing but it's enjoyable. I'm not scratching the hell out of my head like when I tried Mary Shelley's "Frankenstein" (I seriously got as far as the second page before I set the book down and never returned to it). I'll probably blog about it when I'm done :)

Hey... reading anything good lately?

Chick-lit and me (?)

Jennifer Weiner, Meg Cabot, Sophie Kinsella and all you other faboo chick-litters, I have a two part confession to make. First... I have to admit: no matter how hard I try, I can't seem to borrow one of your books from the library. *cringes, peeks through one eye* I'm not even purchasing the book, simply taking it home for 3 weeks for absolutely free, and even under those capricious conditions, I can't do it. I don't like romance novels. I can't deal with reading about well-constructed, 300 dollar stilettos (*gasp* I can't even walk in high heels). I don't want to hear about 20 dollar cocktails and million dollar dreams. I'm a poor broke gal. I'd read a chick-lit novel about a girl who scours the aisles of Payless and eats at Arby's and enjoys her dusty-but-sturdy 12-year-old-car. Extraordinary things can happen to ordinary people too, you know? So maybe that's why I can't get into the genre for reading pleasure. It's all pipe dreams to me. Mr. Perfect who is the opposite of What This Girl Wants but ends up being her savior. How bout mixing it up a bit? Just a little?

Ok. Here goes the second part of this confession: I want to write chick-lit. What's that you say? Hypocrite? Idoita? Hack? Well, there's no need to call me names. And besides, they say that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. So, if you'll pardon the dust from that last cliche... I'm paying homage to the ladies of Chick-litdom. NaNoWriMo is coming up and I need a novel to cut my teeth on. Something to lose my concentration/mind/soul/words to for a month. I'm formulating an idea in my mind for an interesting bit of writing. *shrugs* we'll see.

Snow

Why? What the heck is going on around here? Everytime I turn around I'm hearing about another state being covered in the white stuff. I don't get it. It's only *glances at calendar* October! Sheesh. My car's been acting up a bit and I'm pretty sure I need to make some arrangements to "snow proof" it. Well, everyone's wearing sweaters, jackets, coats... it's officially cold out here in Ohio.

That Should Be Reason Enough

I've been going back and forth with Sonny this past weekend. His nephew's fiancee is having a bridal shower. Much to my surprise, I've been invited. Now, I have nothing against the engaged duo. I'm not a cold-hearted bitch. I just don't wish to attend the shindig. Simple, right? I RSVPed to the invite and made it clear to the disgruntled father-of-the-bride on the phone that I couldn't show up. I thought my offical duties were finished. Apparently they aren't. Sonny's mom wants to know why I'm not going to the shower. (she left a message Sunday night on our machine)

An argument erupted from the casual discussion between Sonny and me. Sonny explained that his mom has a delicate nature about "events" and "parties" and basically feels like she needs a good reason why someone is not attending. I feel that it's none of her damn business why I'm not going. Just know that I'm not going. She's not having the party; she's not planning it. She's just going to be there. Besides the fact that she's my MIL, why should I cater to her nosey tendencies?

There are a number of reasons why I'm not going, but the main one is the lack of resources I have: time and money. I can't afford a shower gift and my next few weekends are going to be packed with important chores. My car needs an alignment, I'm planning a vacation, and gosh there are those never ending piles of credit card bills. The bottom line is I was asked and I was polite enough to decline. Why should this inquisition be allowed? I mean really.