I get lots of strange writing requests, but the most bizarre one arrived recently: Write the biography of a guy who doesn’t exist. My mind went into overdrive and I called in Sheryl for a consult. Here’s Phillip’s story: The 30-something has three college degrees, distinguished parents, a wife of Swedish Nobel lineage and he’s breaking new entrepreneurial ground brokering deals in drone delivery technology. The wine connoisseur and philanthropist hangs at the microbrewery his college chum launched. He has two dogs: a mutt and a Husky. I’m meeting him at the Brew-ha-ha next week for drinks. Please join us.
I’ll return to the DMV again to update my driver’s license. Tried yesterday. I handed over proof of my new address, but the crabby counter wench wasn’t buying it.
“You didn’t sign your lease.”
“That’s because it’s my copy.”
“You can’t use it as proof of residence.”
“I’ll sign it now.”
“No. I’ve already seen it.”
“Can I bring it back signed?”
“No. I’ll remember you.”
“How about these envelopes?”
“We don’t accept anything with yellow change of address stickers.”
“So, I have to come back?”
My address may change, but the cast of characters populating my world obviously hasn’t.
Meet one of the senior Tarzans I have managed to encounter while shopping the OKCupid website for diversion. There are legions of 70+ guys sporting bare chests, long grey hair and seductive (seriously?) glances on the site. Many are married but looking for someone to braid their long locks. Sure, old habits die hard, but what keeps these guys in perpetual flower child mode? Rather than finding them compelling, I can’t stop picturing them at doctor’s offices handing over Medicare cards for heart meds and Viagra refills or queuing up at banks clutching Social Security checks. Not a pretty picture.
I apologize to Comcast after negative blog posts, including one outlining my intention to market Comcast voodoo dolls to other outraged customers. The Comcast guy scheduled to hook me up in Champaign not only arrived on time, but gave me new equipment even though I had schlepped my peripherals south. Now, I read that Time Warner Cable left customers in the lurch with a nationwide Internet outage, showcasing this company’s crap service. So, I’m not alone. I could be back in the blame saddle in the future, but for the moment, I’m giving Comcast a momentary reprieve. To be continued.
PR surrounding the show makes me realize I’ve missed Downton Abbey terribly after a dreadful summer of TV. Thoughts of new episodes make me want to break into a happy dance. I’ve forgotten the irrational speed surrounding Edith’s pregnancy and her baby’s birth (the kid’s now stashed at a local farm) and for heaven’s sake, give Edith a break with her love life and bring her baby daddy home from Deutschland! Will the black American jazz singer be back? I hope so, as the Crawleys move into the century while the Dowager and Carson blissfully remain in the last one.
I stare at the icemaker in the freezer and despite speaking gently and kindly to it, no cubes have been forthcoming. I know, I know. I should read the stack of materials left by the apartment manager—info sheets that tell me how to turn things off and on and how to adjust this and that. I’ve got a reason for putting off that mountain of paperwork: lots of writing gigs are flowing in and having spent a week writing checks, stocking my bank account over my ice cube bucket takes priority. I bought a bag of ice. My bad.
I’m couchless. My couch couldn’t fit into my building’s elevator; didn’t fit the stairwell, either. Thankfully, I’ve had it for years and it didn’t cost much, so when I found a home for it (I would have had to have paid to have it carted away), I was too stunned to freak out. Starting my “new beginning” as a couchless person is disconcerting. Shop? I’m broke. The cats are confused, too. Tuna tried settling into a grape box with no couch to claim. I, however, can’t fit into a grape box. I line up my dining room chairs and pretend.
My movers left my place with my furniture and crap directions last Wednesday, August 20th. Even I—clueless and technologically ignorant—manage to navigate long distances thanks to MapQuest, but my moving crew? Not so much. They left Wood Dale at 11:30 a.m., landing in Champaign at 4:05 p.m. I got there at 2 p.m. after having a tire replaced en route! Do they have GPS? Nope. Maps? Nada. A dispatcher sends directions. Oy. After arriving, they get in, but I can’t ‘cause the building hadn’t passed inspection. Four days pass. I’m finally in. My sanity is still in question.
Two days without the Internet will have advantages. I won’t run to the computer manically for e-mail checks, so I can unpack boxes and fill closets at a leisurely pace and take reading breaks when I want to put my feet up. On the other hand, I’m already suffering from Blogus Interruptus: Withdrawing from crafting daily blog posts feels like a daunting proposition as I await the movers to load the truck. Am I an addict? Could be. Added to my “to do” list: Find a Bloggers Anonymous meeting near my new digs. Start a new chapter if none exists.
I have assiduously avoided Woody Allen films for years because I grew weary of the same story line, but Julie convinced me that Blue Jasmine was worth a look-see. I loved that movie so much, I decided Woody Allen was redeemable. That, I learned, was a mistake after forking over $9 to see Magic in the Moonlight. The film sucks. I would substitute another word, but nothing else fits. Chemistry between the actors? Zero. Plot and dialog? Yawn and yawn. The scenery and costumes were gorgeous, but did I mention the film sucks? See it only if you’re a masochist.