The Watching Dead

Mark and I watched four and a half hours of The Walking Dead on A&E Sunday. First, let me say that A&E? Throwing around that Arts and Entertainment title very loosely these days………
I actually watched the show a couple of times last season. I got past the first time only because Andrew Lincoln, the guy who pines for Kiera Knightley’s character in the movie, “Love Actually,” my favorite modern romantic Christmas flick, is the lead actor. He plays Rick, the deputy sheriff of some southern town. I thought, when I watched it last winter, that it was kind of a doofy show except for him. After sitting through an entire evening of last season and this season’s premier, I’m not inclined to change my mind much.

The following are my complaints – in no particular order. Rick’s accent is in a word, appalling. Couldn’t they have hired someone to teach him southern lingo or at least have him watch Gone With The Wind? Andy Griffith and Hee Haw re-runs are on all the time.
Since Andrew’s character is the sole bit of eye candy on the show, they should really pay more attention to how he looks – maybe take some pointers from the Winchester Brothers on Supernatural. Rick looks dead and I’m positive he’s supposed to be one of the live people. No budget for spray tans?

The women in the show range from mild whiner to, if you call the zombies I’ll hold her down long enough so they can catch her. Even the kids are unappealing and annoying. Would it be awful to leave them all tied to trees or at least re-cast?

There are four guys besides Rick in the main ensemble. One is Rick’s best friend, who had an affair with Rick’s wife. Rick doesn’t know and the wife (mild whiner) is full of righteous indignation toward the friend because he apparently told her Rick was dead, so why wouldn’t she fall into bed with friend. They whisper passionate/hate-filled things back and forth to each other throughout each episode and I’m convinced by now that Rick is completely deaf or stupid because he’s never more than three feet away. There is an old guy who is the mechanic for the RV they travel around in and keeper of all weapons. The other two are Asian and African American, respectively. I find it weird that neither the women nor the two minority men are armed on a regular basis. What’s that word..............?

Every annoying thing listed could be forgotten if it wasn’t for the obvious.

The zombies.

They are screamingly funny.

I’m pretty sure they’re not supposed to be funny.

It’s not just that they look like a mask I could pick up at Wal Mart, it’s that we’re supposed to buy that people in the show are worried about escaping them. Honestly, all you have to be is awake. Their brains are cheese-whiz and because there’s no blood flowing, their skin is like parchment paper. A stiff breeze won’t take them down, but a baseball bat will – or if one isn’t handy and you’re, say, laying, just out of a coma in a hospital bed, so will the jello you got with lunch. They move at the speed of turtle so you’d have plenty of time to take aim.
All in all, it’s one of those shows that, as an intelligent adult, one really doesn’t need to watch.

But I will.

It’s not that I don’t have better things to do with my Sunday nights. It is the final season of Desperate Housewives. It’s just – well, I’m hooked. Mark too. At least a little. I fully expected him to be the voice of reason after Dead was over and say something to the tune of what a waste of an evening that was, but he didn’t. We discussed the same things I’ve mentioned here, then he looked at me.

“Next Sunday at eight,” he asked.

“I’ll meet you here.”

Sunday Morning

I sometimes wonder if I’ll ever want to write as much as I once did. I think of stuff to write but every time I sit down here to do so, I have an overwhelming urge to sleep. I am putting forth a lot of energy these days, working on the opening of our easyhome store but this lackadaisical thing I’ve got going is starting to bug me. I’ve always had an apathetic streak, a somewhat laissez-faire approach to life. So laid-back, I’m, at times, horizontal. How do you think I got five kids? Ha! Just kidding. That’s not how I got them, and we’ll leave the subject for another day. It’s time, now, to face the truth.

I’m lazy. If lazy had a color it’d be painted down my back. I used to think I worked better under pressure, which was why I put stuff off to the last minute. The truth is, I thought if I delayed acting on something long enough it would somehow get done for me or I would have no choice but to scrunch up my face, close my eyes and do it without even realizing I’d moved off the couch.

As I grew up, and certainly in the process of raising children, overcoming my casual style of life became a necessity. They had places they had to be and it was up to me to get them there. School, doctors, practices, recitals, games – all came with time and attendance requirements. I have a fairly good track record regarding all these, though some of my children who – possibly as a result of having had to deal with my easygoing approach to getting places – are insane about being on time, might not agree. When the subject is discussed I just remind them there is more to life than being on time.

And it’s true. There is. But it’s not just the, “being on time,” thing. It’s the listless, droopy, lethargic (yes I have the thesaurus open), un-energetic feelings that have caught up with me now that there aren’t a bunch of kids to motivate my movement out from in front of the flat screen.

I can’t have that. I’m only 49 years old (it aint November 27th yet, bub) and it’s much, much too early for me to be laying around atrophying. I’m really convinced that the only thing I can do is put one foot on the floor after the other to drag my ass out of bed and accomplish each and everything I have to do on a given day. Motion breeds motion breeds motivation breeds action breeds creativity breeds accomplishment and it’s all a great big circle/cycle that feeds on itself to allow passionate, imaginative people the inspiration they need to move forward and generate that which they love to produce and share with the world!

And so I will.

Right after this episode of “Law & Order.”

I have been amazed and appalled for years by the attitude the Catholic Church has taken regarding sexual abuse perpetrated by scores of its priests. It is not as if we're talking one or two - dozen - hundred. God only knows how many loose cannons the institution has put in parishes all over the world. The fact that the current pope will not but in general terms even acknowledge the fact that it happened anywhere, period, is personally offensive on an almost indescribable scale. Abuse, whether physical, sexual, emotional or mental is about control. The Church has been about control almost from its inception. Keep the masses in line in order to be in charge of everything from politics to money to property to what goes on in people's homes. Much of what Catholics believe has been either made up or changed over the years until the original mission of the founders has been so lost it's almost as if it never existed. I digress, I know - but I have little patience and less love for the church I grew up going to. At least as it is known today. You don't stop being Catholic when it's all you've known from the cradle. Most of the time anyway. However, they pissed me off fairly early when nobody could give me a good reason why women couldn't be priests. Then there was the speech about sex and sin (none of the Catholic boys I knew were held to this, by the way) and the oldie but goodie about purgatory. Seriously? I'm pretty sure it dawned on my fairly young that we're in purgatory here on earth - if we're lucky. It's not like I didn't try. Like many, I've longed to get past the bull shit and just look for the love. That proved difficult because the, 'unconditional love,' that they talked about came with so many......yeah, conditions. There were so many things a person couldn't do. Mass had to be attended no matter what - and let me tell you it was in our house. I didn't miss Mass the entire time I was growing up more than two, possibly three times.

I lost patience for and interest in the Church gradually over the years, waiting, longing for something to bring me back. It wasn't going to be God, that's for sure. He kept leading me away on a pretty steady basis. It wasn't just the papal eff ups or the ones on a more local level - though some of them were frigging epic. I'll never forget the time my mother and I stood with her parish priest outside my father's hospital room. Dad and Mom had no insurance at the time so when my father became ill, they took him to what could kindly be referred to as a discount health facility. In reality, I'm pretty sure most pet owners would keep their least favorite animals far, far away. The doctors at this place screwed up Dad's meds badly. In fact they overdosed him to the point where it almost killed him. Then, they had to bring him down off the meds - which could have killed him as well. He was at this point incoherant and the doctor kept saying it was either dt's or brain cancer. He wasn't sure which. Mom and I were both in tears as she talked to the priest, seeking comfort and maybe a little help. The priest shook his head and shrugged. No, he said. There's no place in the Church where you could get any financial help. We don't do that. What about Catholic Charities, I asked. Even just financial guidance or advice so they know which direction to go in. My parents have given money to the church unfailingly each and every week even when there wasn't any money to spare and my dad is Methodist. No, nope, he said. I really don't know what to tell you. You know everyone has difficulties. This sort of thing happens to everyone at one point or another. We all have troubles. We stared at the man, pretty much dumbfounded. All I could think of to say was, if we were Mormon, they'd have already written the check. Epic. Let me make clear that this was not a little parish out in the middle of Podunk, Nowhere. It was one of the largest parishes in the Phoenix, AZ area.

I won't go on and on about my grievances regarding the Church. Okay, that's a lie...... They are many and varied. I, like millions of others have been wounded by this organization. Like most of those millions, I could bitch forever. What good would that do? If I believed the dogma, I'd fight to change the Church. The thing is, I don't. Oh, I believe Jesus came and lived to teach us to love ourselves, God and one another. I'm not sure about the virgin birth and have serious doubts about the whole dying on the cross thing (there are many theorists who believe he actually faked the whole thing in order to fulfill the prophecy to the satisfaction of those who couldn't get the message without it). I sure as hell don't believe that the guys who "wrote," the gospels years and years after Christ lived conveyed accurate accounts of his life. It's well known and documented that many gospels were left out of the Bible because they did not send the message the Church officials wanted people to hear. So, all these years later, we, the parishoners are just supposed to follow what was decided for us a millenium and a half ago? If it looks like a sheep, walks like a sheep and you can get wool off its ass, it's probably a sheep. I do not baah.

But again I digress. It's my anger and frustration. It's the hurt. It's the son of a bitch who abused my friends and got away with it. All the Church ever did was make him leave the priesthood. Countless boys, now grown men, were left to fend for themselves in the wake of the wrong done to them by this "man" and the Church. For just as sure as the pope is doing wrong to the victims in Ireland, Germany and Argentina, he continues to wrong those harmed in The United States and all over the world. He represents what is still the most powerful religious organization in existence and he continues to shield those in power from those who would stand for the most vulnerable.

The ironic thing is, the more the Church hides from the reality of this latest atrocity (God, let's not even get into the Crusades), the more its credibility fades. This pope, Benedict XVI, is becoming more like a punchline in a David Letterman monologue than a true leader. If he ever wanted to know what I thought (yes, pure fantasyland, I realize) I would tell him it's simple. When in doubt, look at your bracelet. You know the one that says WWJD?

I keep looking for a reason not to write because that's what writers do. Lucky for me I'm finding lots of them (reasons). First and foremost - rejection. Not by readers. I'd have to have some for that to happen. No, I am speaking of agents. And they're not even really rejecting my actual work. They're just completely uninspired by my query letter. The last rejection notice I got said, "I didn't find myself grabbed by your subject matter." It should have been a very large clue to what I was doing wrong. Instead it knocked me to the mat like I was throwing a prize fight. I've never been good with rejection. My first reaction to it is always, what? You don't like me? What's not to like? Explain it so I'll understand for future reference and while we're at that you can get to really know me at which point you'll LOVE me. Didn't work with dating. Don't think it'll work with getting an agent. Unlike former boyfriends, however, I won't be convinced to give up on agents no matter how many people tell me I'm an idiot and teddy bears with cute saying embroidered on them won't make anyone think of me more often and with affection. The damn agents are stuck with me until one of them finally caves and says, "Yes! I want to represent you more than ANYTHING else in the world!" I believe in my work. Plus, the only other thing I know how to do is retail and that crap will drive me (or my boss) to an early grave depending on which of us is finally driven to load the proverbial rifle.

So, away with excuses and being depressed. To hell with people who don't like my queries. It only takes one yes - a sentiment that if I've heard once I've heard 1000 times. True or not it makes me want to smack the hair right off the person saying it but as it's usually my husband or mother, I'm forced to smile and nod, proving I'm over being down on myself because I can't take hearing how much God loves me when I'm convinced at that particular moment that God could give a rat's ass about anything I do. Also, if I sulk for too long, Mark makes me do naked disco. Don't ask.......

I have to go re-work a story angle now because I saw something in a movie that gave me an answer to a question I had about something in my story that was kind of loosey goosey. Then I have to work on my query again because five of the things have to go out per week. I wonder if the agents would find it more interesting if I embroidered it on a teddy bear?

Today is, "How many ways are there to completely piss me off to the point where I want to pick up an anvil and drop it on your head like you were Wiley Coyote?" day. "You," is subjective to whatever moment I happen to be in. It started at Tim Horton's where I finally figured out why half of my bagel is always sopping wet with butter and the other half is so dry it goes down like sandpaper. The idiots only butter the bottom half! Then, they put the top on, cut it in quarters and wrap it up. I wanted to say, "Listen, ace, butter both g.d. halves or I'm coming over this counter," but wisely kept my trap shut. It was early and I knew I could not have put the preceding politely. Then the top to my coffee leaked and I spilled some on my cream colored sweater and the very most sensitive part of my lap. By this time I was back in the car, where Mark swiftly hit the locks and began moving too fast for me to jump out and make good on my ugly (but silent) threat. We were heading to Rochester for an appointment, so I leaned my head back after making damn sure the freaking bagel was all the way down my throat. I didn't want to choke to death in my sleep. When we woke up I was, 'better.' Sort of. I read a book while waiting for Mark to complete his appointment and that was pleasant except for the guy to my right who couldn't sit his ass down for more than 15 seconds at a time.
"Little too much caffeine this morning," I asked. He seemed to have no idea at all to what I was referring. Moron. I drove on the way home as Mark was under the influence of some really good drugs that have a tendency to put grizzly bears to sleep. Mark kept insisting he was fine, that they had given him the, 'lowest dose possible.' OK.
"Did you feel anything," I asked.
"Not a thing," he said, grinning like a coked up circus clown.
"Then you got the full dose," I told him.
"No," Mr. Happy Face said. "No. I told them to give me very little."
"Okey doke." There was no sense arguing when I knew he'd be asleep two minutes into our ride home. We rode along in silence and I glanced at him to see if he was out. Not yet. He was staring out the window at the passing winter landscape with the silliest damn grin I had seen since early November when I received the same meds for the same reason.
"You know," he said on a great big sigh. "I do feel like I've got a pretty good buzz on."
"Are you tired," I asked.
"Not at all," he said. I nodded and turned to look at him again. He was still sitting straight up but was completely asleep, his eyes hammered shut. It was pretty cute and since I thought so, I figured my irritation was over for the day. I'd finally woken up. I was wrong. As we left the thruway a black VW tried to cut me off heading for the Easypass lane. I sped up (I drive a Chevy truck - puhlease), and went through the exit lane with this little bug riding my tail. She tried again to cut me off and all the irritation of the morning slammed back into my head in the form of murderous rage. Not a good place for that to happen, I realize. Luckily, the day a Chevy truck can't outrun a stupid little car like that is the day I go and get my Bobby Ewing Mercedes. I sped up with one hand on the wheel and the other one flashing hand signals at the b*$#@ driving the bug. She turned left the same as I did, in the lane next to me. I spoke some special words at the top of my lungs and might have given into my rage and followed her but I was hungry and there was a great big sign inviting me in to a fun place.
"Ooh," said I, all ten-year-old-happy. "Let's go to Friendly's." Mark just looked at me in his drug induced mellowness. "Yeah, shut up. I see the irony. Would you rather I follow the woman in the bug and beat her bloody THEN go?" He just shook his head. "Yeah, that's what I thought."

Who needs adventure? Rephrase. Who, among those to whom I gave birth needs adventure? Seriously. Now I know why so many mothers drink. Alot. My big idea of adventure is stepping from the California aisle at Premier Liquors to the Argentine aisle and trying a new red. Or maybe shopping at Forever 21 without one of my daughters (forget how gd big the place is - I just don't like people staring at me with that, "Isn't she a little old to be in this place?" look on their face. I know the look so well because it's usually plastered across mine as I follow the girls through the rows of clothing and watch the other women my age and older believe it or not, cooing over 80's stuff that I wouldn't even wear in the 80's. Breakfast Club anyone?), though that probably wouldn't qualify as adventure so much as an I really shouldn't have had that second shot of tequila before lunch-type lack in judgment.

I'm just really freaking a little over the thought of Kimmy going to South Africa in a few weeks. It's not like she's not going with people who've been there before. Her boyfriend and his brother are from there. They know where to go and what to do. It's not the 17 hour flight - after the 90 minute one from Phoenix to San Francisco and the 5 hour one from San Fran to JFK in New York - though, God, I cannot imagine wanting to go somewhere badly enough to fly a whole frigging day. I'm hoping to get my courage up enough one day (and procuring a valium prescription from my doctor) to fly to Europe. Kimmy said, "Mommy, what would you do if I decided to stay in South Africa?" Ha ha. Funny kid. I said, "It would be ugly, Kimberly Jean Josephine, damned ugly. Just imagine me flying for 17 hours. Imagine my state of mind getting off that plane, knowing that once I retrieved your sorry ass I had to get back on and fly home." She said it was a joke. I said it better be.

It's just - Africa. Lions, tigers, snakes that could eat my house, mosquitoes bigger than my head. At first I thought, well it's not like they'll be camping out. Yeah. They'll be camping out. Oh, and, "Maybe bungee jumping at Victoria Falls, Mom." Nothing like a close up look. Everyone whose children are NOT going to Africa keep saying it's a Once In A Lifetime Trip. For them maybe - the lucky bastards whose offspring are content to stay a little closer to home. This is my adventurer child, though and I know this is only the beginning. There's talk of teaching in South America, though I keep trying to pretend I don't hear her when she talks about it.

When I wonder aloud where Kim got this sort of desire, my husband (at his peril, let me tell you) states calmly, "Uh, this is your fault, Lorie." My fault? "Well sure. Who told her - told all the kids for that matter - that anything they want to do is possible. When Kim was 4 and asked why women can't be priests, who told her it was a stupid damn rule and she could fight to change it if she wanted?" heh heh...... "Who stood up to the principal at the junior high, in front of the entire office staff and a dozen or so students including our daughter, when she blamed Kimmy for some crap Kimmy didn't do and demanded that the old bat apologize? Who turned down a request from the same principal that Kim reciprocate, with the statement - and I quote - 'When hell freezes?'" point taken..... "Who has told her since she was born about the cross country trips you took as a kid and how much you love to travel." point taken..... "Who let her go to Hawaii and California and New York city before she was even out of high school?" Fine! Jeez, who can remember all this stuff..................

....And anyway, the point is moot. She's going. To Africa. I'll be drinking. Constantly. I told Kimmy that I am happy for her and, truly I am. It's just - I wish I could put one of those leash/harness things for toddlers on her and all her siblings so that when I think they're going too far I could sorta yank them back. She said, "No worries, Mom. You have your heart strings and we'll be tangled up in those for the rest of our lives." Awwww - I think.

So, on December 26th, as my child wings her way around the world, I'll raise a glass (bottle) of, who knows, maybe a South African wine and toast my crazy, courageous daughter and her adventure.........She better bring me a really good present.

It's noon on Thursday, December something or effing other. There are white out conditions outside my front door and I'm stuck inside unless I want to shovel the driveway.......So, to elaborate, I'm stuck inside. I'm also on the verge of a pms pity party. I can feel it creeping into my brain like pee down the front of my pants the one time as a little kid I remember not being able to hold it. It's warm, uncomfortable, then freezing cold, embarrassing and inconvenient. I have plenty to do and will choose to do so in a little while. There are cookies and banana bread to bake. Pasta sauce to make for supper, Christmas presents to wrap, decorations to finish and, as always, writing to do. It's the, 'I feel sorry for me,' thing that's slowing me down........Well, and I'm also pissed. Went on facebook this morning and was kicked off with a notice that my something that I can't remember what it is - not my e-mail but something else - has been reported for abusive behavior. What? It's not that I don't want to abuse sometimes and I guess I did make fun of Jermaine Jackson's second eldest son's name (Jermagesty......'Jer kidding, right?') but that is all I can remember. I filed some sort of are you frigging kidding me protest and they sent me an e-mail saying they would, 'get back with (me) soon.' I hit reply and said, 'how soon is soon?' Big surprise - haven't heard anything yet.......Anyway, that whole thing really upset me. I'm a nice pers - a good person, at least. 'Nice,' is harder to come by this time of the month more than others. There's also the little matter of the fact I can't get any agents to look at my writing. I sent a sample of my query letter into a blog called Query Shark and, hopefully she'll look at the letter and be able to tell me what in the bloody hell I'm doing wrong. I should totally re-do it and have made attempts but keep coming back to I have no idea what in the world I'm doing. Every time I hear about someone getting published I want to open my vein just a little bit wider. I mean, how did they do it? What did they do? Who did they do? Who and what can I do? I just have to stick with it, I know. It only takes one yes. Blah blah blah........I could look for a job........Retail again? Open that vein....