It gets creeper

Ah, internets! What evil delights won't you weave?

Not only can we see all too clearly that Mr. Travolta's hair may be, at times, applied with a teeny, elf-designed, camel-hair brush, and are invited to view, repeatedly, footage of pop divas running mad in the streets with junk food, but now we can also shop for underthings in such a fashion that we feel compelled to cover ourselves afterwards, from chin to toes, with hand sanitizer.

I give you Exhibit (pun intended) A: Knicker Picker.

It's just too, too intimate. And also, none of those women look like me. I can't choose a boy short. My love handles need to represent!

Just hit "demo" and let the cringing begin. They can see you, too, you know!

I'm not anti-Hillary, so don't get all commenty on me. I just dig this application.

(What? You say there are other people running, as well? I do believe you are mistaken.)

Hillary Is Mom Jeans

(just keep hitting refresh)

It would work for Obama, too.

Oh, wait.

BarackObamaIsYourNewBicycle

Spring cleaning

When I receive emails like this one from my animal shelter coordinator:

We are in crisis mode! We received 37 cats yesterday from a cat hoarder in ___ and will probably be receiving another 50 today from another cat hoarder in ___. We need you, your friends and your family to help us. We are desperately searching for foster homes to help house these cats... there isn't enough room or staff at the shelter to house them all! If you have space in your home please, please call me or respond to this email!

It makes me want to take some people by the shoulders and shake them until their teeth rattle.

.

For some reason, I have decided I need to know what George Clooney sees in Sarah Larson. Now, I do not have any shrines devoted to Sir Clooney. I don't follow with minute precision his every move or dating whatever. I enjoy his work, I thought he was a hunk of gorgeous during his "ER" heyday, and he appears to wear a tux with all the requisite elan. That's about it. So, why did I even notice? Oh, cuz it's everywhere:

How bar girl Sarah Larson snagged George Clooney

George Clooney's New Gal Turns Heads in Venice

Anyway, when I could have been writing or reading or grooming a rabbit, that's what I was doing last night - searching the 'nets for info on Sarah Larson.

Gah. It's such a time-waster, the internets - and I don't care! I'm all about french kissing it right on the lips!

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Here's a thing, oh, you Writers. I stumbled upon it yesterday. Come on, go for it, brave new world and all that: In The Motherhood.
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As mentioned, it's Spring Cleaning! I have bags and bags of books. I already donated a whole carload, sold some to the great used place in town, and still have more to give. Would you like one of these books? (dust bunny optional)

GOOD GRIEF by Lolly Winston
THE ALPHABET SISTERS by Monica McInerney
THE DOGS OF BABEL by Carolyn Parkhurst
MISS UNDERSTANDING by Stephanie Lessing
ME & EMMA by Elizabeth Flock
THE DOCTOR'S WIFE by Elizabeth Brundage
WONDER WHEN YOU'LL MISS ME by Amanda Davis
HAPPY HOUR AT CASA DRACULA by Marta Acosta
THE MAGICIAN'S ASSISTANT by Ann Pachett
TIPPING THE VELVET by Sarah Waters
ALTERNADAD by Neal Pollack
LUNCH LESSONS: CHANGING THE WAY WE FEED OUR CHILDREN by Ann Cooper

Let me know in comments or e me at BCAtkinson at aol dot com. Yay! Free books!

At Death's Intercom

I am about to hit Year 40+ohmygod with the speed of an eighteen-wheeler, one driven by a trucker jacked up on generic caffeine pills, warm diet Dr. Pepper, a handful of dry roasted macadamia nuts and a stick of turkey jerky. But not even my glowing stretch marks, the fact that my youngest child says "chillax" or catching sight of my white-gray, bloated, wing-tipped profile makes me feel as old as the news that the weird little man known as Prince needs a hip replacement.

Monday, Monday

I'm in one crazeee writing stretch. Oh, I know. It's not coal mining. I don't have black lung. I may have tarry liver, but that's not exactly from the writing. That is from the liquouring.

So, the Oscars, huh? Yeah. That may have been my last year glued to it. I miss Cher's Bob Mackie outfits, and drunken "Thank you" speeches, and the sense that things were a little messy and unscripted - and fun. It's become, more than ever, a catered corporate event, with longer dresses. It always was so, but, oh, cocaine and money and bell bottoms at least kept it awake.

Maybe we need to look at something more unpredictable -like a YouTube awards. The Tubies (Youbies?) could have some sort of annual thing and winners accept in character - in their unders, drunk, with their moms yelling in the background.

Other awards to be handed out:

Facebook - Most Used SuperFunWhatShoeSizeAreYouAnd/OrAreYouSexy Application,

Blogger - Most links in one entry,

MySpace - Best Misuse of Song As Personal Anthem,

or

MySpace - Glitteriest while Porniest "Thanks for the ad!" icon.

Do you "do" Facebook? I can only "friend" people I actually know (Okay, and two bloggers I read often enough that I know too much), but I think about "friending" a hot agent, just to see what happens. Facebook started for college kids, and sure, there are teens on there, but mostly it seems be 30- and 40-somethings, networking. See? We're application subversive, yo, with our Williams-Sonoma mixers and our high thread counts and our perimenopausal mood swings. Fear us!

Just another viewer

My Oscar guesses:

Best Picture: "Atonement" is going to win. Why? A World War (not sure which one; I didn't see it), broken hearts, tiny fabulous period hats and an emaciated Keira Knightly.

Best Actor: Daniel Day-Lewis, because he's batshit, plus, you know, he really does have The Talent. Unless the Academy is afraid he'll dedicate his Oscar to Heath Ledger in a continued display of his slightly weird fixation, in which case, they'll throw it to Tommy Lee Jones. Viggo is out of this world, but he played a for'ner and showed his wibble and bits and refused to apologize or blush enough. (Do you get the impression that he's so talented, most directors don't know what to do with him?) And they resent Clooney for getting all the dames, plus he resorts to the eye crinkle, still. Can he act? I'm not being snotty. I wonder, seriously. Can he?

Best Actress: Cate Blanchett, probably. It would be kick ass is they finally noticed Laura Linney, though.

Supporting Actor: It's between Casey Affleck and Javier Bardem, both of whom showed their chops. I'm guessing Bardem. The dark horse here is Holbrook, who has been very good always. But how much screen time did he get?

Supporting Actress: Again with the Cate Blanchett? The woman needs a spa weekend. Amy Ryan was astounding and nuanced and I really think she should get it. They may throw it to Tilda Swinton now that everyone knows she's in a threeway and they want to see if she'll thank both her husband and her lover while standing at the podium with those non eyebrows of hers. She is so unrepentant about it, as if, because they're fine with it, we should be. Like we don't have a vote. She scares them. She scares me.

Original Screenplay: "The Savages" was excellent, but it wasn't political enough for the Academy. Maybe. There was a distinct lack of WWII. "Lars" had the sex doll. They may go for "Michael Clayton," but that would be a nod to Clooney and no one wants that (Them, I mean. I'd nod at Clooney. Oh, yes, I would). I can't decide yet because I haven't seen most of these. I know, but with kids and work and all my charity work (I just snuck that in there), I pretty much just see things on DVD. (One of my most favorite things in the world is an empty theater. When I worked at the movie house, I'd take my breaks in the back of, oh, almost anything. Sitting with only three other people, no one munching popcorn at the back of my neck or texting or - DEARLORD - talking? A rainy Monday afternoon with a hot cup of coffee and rain outside is the best time to see a movie. You can even enjoy a Jane Fonda comedy in those conditions. Really. Okay, almost.)

Again, I was too busy mixing salve for the injured and feeding doves with my bare hands and watching "Rock of Love 2" to catch almost any of these. I'm gonna see how many I can view in the next 48 hours, with snack breaks. And I almost never choose a Best Director, because I wanted to be one, for a bit, and I always pick Best Screenplay, because I've written crap ones. I'm fickle like that.

I really enjoy the Oscars, at least bits of it. It's one of the few horse races I understand. I'm attending a get-together at a friend's house and she's very kind to invite me. Most people lock film school grads on the porch at these things. We talk about lighting and motifs and ohmygod, shut her up already. Someone, shove a canape in her mouth!

What do you think? What did you like? What stood out? Do you even care?

Another unsightly mess

What does it say about us, about Our Country, that I received more hate mail for an article I wrote cheering on some of my favorite canine actors - DOGS - than the one making subtle (not that subtle - I'm only so clever) fun of our politicians?

You know what it is? Dogs are lovable.

Not that I can really talk to you now. I can't make eye contact. I went skiing this weekend, which utterly defied the image of myself I hold dear (fresh air! athleticism! gleeful "hail fellow, well met" behavior. Why, one might spill one's coffee!) and the abundant sunlight triggered on my lip a freakish cold sore eruption. I haven't had one in over fifteen years, and I am like the Hunchback of Notre Dame suddenly, with one arm over my face, all hideous and shy, with a bulging eye and badly torn trousers.

It's a virus. So why does it feel shameful and unclean to be in public, like I have a big booger prominently displayed on my face? One that screams "Harlot!" in a high pitched voice, and waves ripped, dirty underwear over my head. Cold sores need to get their act together and work on their image. Hire some PR firm to design an ad that has a lovely J. Jill type woman (woven hemp sweater, violet linen scarf, $300 clogs) who looks chidingly into the camera and says, "Cold sores. They're not always VD."

See what happens when one gets away from the computer for several hours? Booger face.

I had fun. I kept to the sad,wee bunny hill, because I am afeared of breaking a (well-padded but ultimately poorly designed) hip. The moving carpet almost killed me. I was passed, more than once, by a pony-tailed two-year-old. I'm serious.

Skiing in California is quite different from skiing in parts of Massachusetts - the parts I attended, anyway. This was all jelly bean fleece and whole wheat avocado sandwiches. Skiing in parts of Massachusetts, one may find oneself elbow-to-elbow with a chain smoker carrying more than one can of Bud in his jeans pocket for that long, dry chair lift.

And not a real segue, because I saw it this weekend:
Did you see "Gone Baby Gone" yet? Go do that. All I'll say, in case you haven't seen it yet, is that the supporting casting was the only misstep - he tipped his hand, did Ben Affleck, with that one. But still - wowza. "Gone Baby Gone" made me miss the Bay State. I'm looking at a palm tree right now, here on the West Coast, and I have to admit that parts of Boston are so ugly - and yet it'll still always be part of me.

Just like cold sores.

I heard the news today

So, Castro has finally stepped down. Martha owns Emeril. But the news that really rocked me? Penn Jillette will compete on "Dancing With the Stars."

Penn Jillette: "The Aristocrats." Sock. Unrepentant Atheist. Libertarian. Ex-boyfriend of Debbie Harry. Inventor of a sexually explicit hot tub jet. Debunker of Mother Theresa while wearing a lighting rod helmet. That guy is going on "DWTS?"

I attended a Penn & Teller show back in Boston years ago, as a birthday gift, and the show seriously kicked ass. Stunning. I did some reading about Penn & Teller before the show and so when I somehow ended up standing next to Penn in the lobby during intermission, all I could think of was that his birthday was a day or two before or after or somehow right near mine, i.e, that week. So when our eyes met, I smiled and chirruped, "Happy Birthday!" He thanked me politely while his eyes shuttered oh, so slightly, like he was closing off something, and with those two words, I became Another Creepy Stalker Girl.

Dammit.

There is nowhere to go after that. If I had said another word, unless it was an offer to perform acts of a personal nature backstage, I was Possibly Inappropriate and Definitely Creepy. At least, if I had offered manual labor, I'd be Positively Inappropriate, Definitely Creepy, but At Least An Easy Lay.

I slunk away.

On freelance writing

When you pitch an editor an idea or query with an article concept, don't tip your hand and say you've written it already. Editors like to guide, in many instances, the direction of the piece, and like to think, in all instances, that you wrote the piece specifically for their pub. Even if you have written the piece, you'll need to alter it to fit when you start working with that publication. So, shhh.

If an editor says, "Thanks, but it doesn't fit our needs," don't argue. They may mean, You can't write to save your life, or This is really stupid, and they're doing it a nice way. Or, it simply may not fit their needs. Yes, you may ask if you can pitch again, on another topic. The back-and-forth about a piece is like a job interview; arguing with an editor is not the way you want to stand out. Freelance writing is not like door-to-door sales; you're not trying to keep your toe in the open door no matter what. You're trying to show you can work a topic, that you are professional and keep your Crazy in check, and you're worth taking a chance on, more so than the other 300 people who wrote in that morning. You come across like a shit first thing? It's your guess if the editor will want to interact with you again - ever.

For submissions: Spell check. Jaysus. Spell check is installed on every frickin' piece of software and on every damn cat butt these days. Use it. And if you're writing for the Web, get rid of those double spaces; this isn't your old term paper. [Admission: My emails are often riddled with spelling errors. I type too fast, with only four fingers, while drinking coffee, humming off key and blowing dust off my screen. I don't judge informal emails. But business emails? Take your time and make them free of obvious mistakes.]

If you are working with an editor, remember that you are one of dozens, maybe, literally, hundreds of people with whom the editor is working. Leave a bit of space between each non-project email. Emails about payment and taxes and upcoming content, if you are just idly chatting, with make the editor dread it when he or she sees your return address in that in box. I'm not talking about discussing a late payment or screwy paperwork - you need to run your own business. But the prodding, weekly, "Do you have more work for me?" missives are bad news. Stop it.

Five things I greatly enjoy stumbling across:

A stray whisker from my cat

Architectural follies
1950s motel signs

Small mountain towns

Christopher Walkin

First call of the day

Used Bookstore: Hi, this is Matt.

Me: Hi, Matt. I'd like to bring in two bags of books and two bags of music.

Used Bookstore Matt: Great What's your name?

Me: Barbara

Used Bookstore Matt: I'm sorry, your name was - ?

Me: Barbara

Used Bookstore Matt: Gotcha. And I didn't mean I was sorry your name was Barbara.

Me: I am.

Used Bookstore Matt: What?

Me: My name. Bar-BRA. I never liked it. When I was a child, I thought I should be a "Catherine." It sounded exotic. With long, flowing hair.

Used Bookstore Matt: I had a friend change his name to Joey.

Me: Joey?

Used Bookstore Matt: Yeah. He felt he was more of a Joey.

Me: What was his -

Used Bookstore Matt: Dave.

Me: He went from a Dave to a Joey?

Used Bookstore Matt: Yep. It fit him better, he said.

Me: Interesting. Dave and Joey are kind of on the same end of the name spectrum for me.

Used Bookstore Matt: Yeah. He felt a huge difference, though.

Clip show

Sorry I have been ignoring you. I've been on mutiple, end-to-end deadlines, and I feel like I've momentarily run out of words. Plus, you know, there was life stuff (Really regular life stuff. Gooey-eyed cat stuff. Science fairs - plural. Playing with gorgeous, doe-eyed shelter dogs their owners had simply discarded.).

I wrote about ill-advised celebrity dating choices for MSN: Bad Boyfriends

and

which celebrities are endorsing which of the Presidential Primary candidates: Celebrity Endorsements.

What struck me when researching the celebs and the candidates they support is how outspoken so many of the celebs are. And also, how much I enjoy that. I like when people speak their mind (unless they are being, you know, assholish). I like when people are unafraid to state what they believe and are unafraid to have someone disagree. I like that Roseanne and Rosie O'Donnell and George Clooney and Bette Midler and Cher and Chuck Norris and Dick Van Patten (he's still alive!) all have stepped up to the stump plate.

Oh, it won't change my views or influence my vote, but when folks are brash and even a little sassy? I say "Amen." Passion, when it comes to politics? Passion, when it comes to wanting to change the world? Amen.
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Why was the man buried in earth in his bathtub in his house? Some news stories just raise more questions than they answer.
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Gah. See? I'm still word-dry. Off I go for another wee bit. But I leave you with:

A fantastic TV writer blog: By Ken Levine; a wildly fun gossip blog: The Morehead The Merrier; an insider gossip blog: Crazy Days and Nights, and an alpaca -

Sticks and stones

Like all writers, I get slammed by people, both those who think I write dreck (Hi, Gina!) and those who know I write dreck (Hey, Uncle Tony!). I've had people flame me because, by adding details about one woman's outfit, (but not anyone one else's), I was a heartless snob. Do I write that hater and tell her the other examples were edited out for brevity? That the editor kept one in "for color?" Do I post somewhere that an editor added a knock knock joke in my service piece on refrigerators? And sometimes, honestly, it can't be blamed on the editor: I was hung over. Or I was typing with my feet while eating melted cheese from a bowl with my fingers. Or I was on my way out the door to a funeral for a man I killed in cold blood, because he cheated at Boggle for The Last Time. Can I say any of that? Well, no. I might want to, but that's not how it works. As much I want to jump in and explain or argue or defend, the truth is that writing is a self-reflective monologue. And if you have enough ego to tell the world what you think, I suppose you'd better have enough ego to withstand people writing about how you should shut the fuck up. Why are they so compelled, though? That's difficult for me to understand.

I just had a piece go live on TV dogs. That's it - dogs on TV. I chose some I liked. And suddenly, there are people insisting I'm a moron for not mentioning their favorite dogs. Even though I was listing, you know, my favorite dogs. And by mentioning, as employed, my favorite dogs and skipping theirs, I have proven to them beyond a doubt that I am a stone cold idiot.

Scene: Apartment complex, midday.
(I knock. Door opens. Man in bathrobe and slippers is in doorway.)

Me: Hullo? Are you Sneakpie432 at server dot com?

Sneakpie432: Yeah?

Me: (Checking notes on clipboard) I see you noted on February 9th on a message board that I am a sloth-like, talentless hack with mole-rat tenancies?

Sneakpie432: What of it?

Me: I need you to know that I specifically was asked by my editor to write about my own personal feelings regarding the interpersonal dynamics in that aforementioned news article, in a traditional narrative nonfiction format.

Sneakpie432: (blinking)

Me: Okay. (handing over clipboard and pen) Could you just initial this?

Sneakpie432: Oh, certainly. (signing) You know, what bothered me most was how I felt you misused the wooden hanger imagery. (Sneakpie432 hands back board.) It felt unfinished - like a simplification of Klaus Schreiber's early work.

Me: Right. (I check paperwork.) Do you know if SexyJanitor at server dot com is in?

Sneakpie432: He lives down the hall. Did he - ?

Me: He went all caps, with a slant towards the scatological.

Sneakpie432: Ah. He took his mom to the store, but they should be back any minute.

Me: Okay.

(pause)

Sneakpie432: Would you like to wait inside? I just made streusel.

Me: Oh, thanks. I can't stay long, though. I have four thousand people to get to before my piece on salmon-tinged pillowcases goes up Monday.

Sneakpie432: Four thousand? Wow.

Me: I know, right?

Sneakpie432: (stepping back to let me enter) Hey, are you up for some decaf? I can put a pot on in no time.

(End scene.)

Hot dawg!

I've been on double dog deadline, although only one of my projects has actually been about dogs. And what's serendipitous is that, just this week, I received this in the mail:







This is so the real me - I can't believe it. It's like looking in a mirror!


I am a huge Etsy fan, and I am a now madly in love with Secret Agent Josephine, from whom this was purchased.

Not a real review

Being a media mega fan is not all popcorn and ticket stubs. While getting my hair cut today, the woman next to me spoke words that had me chewing violently on a corner of my neck-protecting towel. She reviewed, for everyone within earshot, her thoughts on "The Bucket List." With, she said, Jack Nicklaus.

Exactly. She confused this:

With this:

And not once or twice - repeatedly. "And then Jack Nicklaus was on the gurney?" "And then Jack Nicklaus was all about to not jump? And then Nicklaus was so, like, into it! And the other guy [ohmygod, she doesn't know Morgan Freeman's name? "It's Morgan Freeman!" I shout - in my head. gnaw gnaw gnaw] gets road bikes and Nicklaus goes wild!"

I get paid to know the difference, or to find out the difference, or, okay, to fake that I know the difference. And it's so, so hard to keep your mouth shut when You Know Better, isn't it? But of course, if I opened my mouth, I would be That Know-It-All Bitch. And that's not one of my major (nor minor, neither) label designation goals. And the woman was perfectly nice; she simply was using the wrong name and I had it in my hot little hand! So, whatever. Nicklaus. Loved him in "The China Syndrome."

And then she talked about how the movie was thought-provoking. And I had just read a review in Salon.com that nailed it with this statement: "Any moron can make a bad movie. But it takes a special breed of schemer to make a picture as shameless as 'The Bucket List.'" And I really, really wanted to share. But, again - say anything? No. I just went ahead and stabbed myself in the eye with the shears.

Super Tuesday, now with a synthesizer

I am reading about political candiates and the songs they have used to get the public all het up and votie. Remember when George Bush the Elder dug Bobby McFerrin's "Don't Worry, Be Happy?" He did. He really did.

I am hoping against hope that some candidate might use this to sway voters:





Whatcha think? I hear Senator John McCain is looking for a new theme song.

In the booth

To be transparent, I'll state here that I am Democrat, although you probably know that already, what with my stained shirt and my inability to follow the will of The One God (kidding, but really, who can't use more humorless hate mail?). I am off to vote, and I do so with trepidation and excitement. The thing is - I don't see anything wrong with any of my choices. None of them are exactly who I want, but I can't even choose a favorite pillow! Plus, I have to pick the one most likely to sway everyone, not just people with "my" beliefs, and that's a bitter pill. Elections are truly about choosing the best of a number of bad choices. More than that - elections are about picking the person you think will win over "their" person and hopefully your choice also has most of your interest at heart, even if you find the person distasteful in some areas. Or not. Just saying. And, yes, I know - Democracy. Majority. Compromise. I get it. But sometimes it makes me sigh.

This is probably one of the only times I'll talk about politics, just like I seldom mention religions (mine or yours or someone else's). Although I may not agree with you politically, or follow your faith, I find the thought of arguing them with you (at you) insulting. It's much, much harder to talk you out of your belief system than to talk you into loving my favorite flavor of ice cream, and just as pointless. To assume my faith (godhead or political) is superior to yours is, I truly believe, insulting. You get to believe what you want, and so do I. R-e-s-p-e - you know the rest.

I'm thinking about the last election. The day the (alleged) results came in, I sat on a concrete stump on the edge of our neighborhood playground and stared at the dirt. Really. I could barely lift my head. My friend, Sandra, was with me, and soon we were joined by a long-haired man with a baby in a carrier, and he asked if he could sit with us. By his hair and his hemp and the way his head hung, I knew he was on our side - the losing side. The more than slightly suicidal/the World Sure Hates Us Now side.

Sandra lived next door to the playground, and we all went back to her house to stare morosely at the television, even the stranger with the baby and the hemp. He was quite nice and not a serial killer, but even if he had been, he was too morose over the election of Bushie to feel the blood lust. Plus a Baby Bjorn can really impede the reach of your machete-wielding arm.

So, then - off to the polls with me, and I hope, you West Coastians, with you. And at least for today, I will leave my machete at home.

Mass Media Monday

Dear Striking Writers,

First, let me say that I applaud you. And not that movie slow clapping that gets everyone to do the misty-eyed, slow clapping either. Oh, no, I mean real, foot stompy clapping. Y'all are getting screwed. New media is a mess and you need to be paid.

That said, I have a joke for you:

Scott Baio, Daniel Baldwin and Bret Michaels walk into a juice bar ...

(Wait. What? You've heard this one before? Are you sure? Cuz in my version, I get all stabby and am jailed. And Courtney Love makes a public statement on my behalf, as the latest in the quadrothanon of women to be strapped to a gurney.)

This strike has forced me not only to slack-jaw viewing of the most distasteful sort, it has also nudged me to rent movies and also read books. Books! I even, three days previous, resorted to speaking to my children.

Sirs, if "30 Rock" were on, would I be watching Daniel Baldwin allegedly sending photos of his baldweinie to Mary Carey? I dare say not. Not, sirs.

Desperately yours,
Just another viewer

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In other news, I do believe I'm voting for Mrs. Barockstar, Michelle Obama. Who's with me?

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In other, other news: Seriously, does anyone else sense an incredible sexual tension between these two?