Laundry Hurts My Feelings: September 2010

The Spammers Are Back Talking About Crackhead Teeth

Monday, September 27, 2010

Yes. I am interrupting vacation tales, AGAIN for some other nonsense.

And I know, I know you're saying, "Please, Suh, more vacation pictchahs." (That would be my version of pictures with an English accent. I am aware it's jacked up.)

But life just keeps whirring on by and I have so much to tell you and if I don't, I'll just explode.

And I know you don't want that on your conscience, do you, Internet?

"Well, she had so much she wanted to say, but I didn't care, I just wanted more vacation tales and the next thing I know, bits of tissue and body organ matter were sticking to me."

See, you have an obligation to keep me in a non-explosive state. So, with that:

First of all, Yay! The world is a sparklier place now that we've gained back one handsome man.

Have you heard? Joaquin Phoenix was just KIDDING!

Whew.

Because when he hopped on the bus to Crazy Town and grew his Amish beard and wore dark sunglasses and was spewing nonsense on David Letterman and rapping. Rapping? I thought, Say it ain't so Joaquin.

Because, It would have been a crime to lose such hotness.

And not only that, he is just one of those actors who slips into his roles so seamlessly.

I saw Walk The Line like 14 quadrillion times because I loved Joaquin's Johnny. I just totally believed I was watching Johnny Cash and if I'd been Reese Witherspoon, I would have been, "Oh, hell yeah, Mr. Johnny/Joaquin, you bring your drugs and your husky voice and your scarred, sexy lip right on in this here hotel room. No please, please, please, necessary."

Like I said, I've seen the movie a few times.

Joaquin went on Dave Letterman the other night, the scene of his wacky shenanigans last year. This time, he was freshly shaven, wearing a beautiful suit, with that still sort of dangerous glint in his eye.

Which is okay, dangerous glints are intoxicating. Just don't add a gnarly beard and rapping to the mix.

Joaquin was apologetic to Dave and admitted it is was all just one stupid hoax made up by him and Ben Affleck's little brother, Casey. The two of them made a documentary about Joaquin and the year of living crazy.

Joaquin, with his handsome so rightfully back in place, was promoting his film on Dave. He was spouting new age crap about this film delving into perceptions of celebrity. And don't you worry, Internet, I will review it. Even if it means, staring at Joaquin's gnarly beard for a couple of hours.

Because, I'm just all about you.

I''m sure it was all that Casey Affleck's idea, since he's probably desperate to crawl out from beneath Ben's chiseled chin shadow.

So, yes Joaquin is back. Go on out there, Joaquin and get busy making more hot movies for me to sigh over.

I received another fabulous spam, guys, which I'd like to share with you, today. This one was almost as brilliant as my, "Help! I'm being held by Russians and if I don't spam you, they're going to kill me."

I'm going to take this bit by bit for you. Here's the first part:

Hey, you experienced have hallatosis breath because of old rotten teeth. I bet you do that's why alot of you are always on the Internet. lol looking for sedatives and fast money because you need dental work immediately.

I'm not even going to touch on the bad grammar, spelling and punctuation skills of this spammer. But I will say, I think the spamming industry needs to perhaps, reconsider their hiring standards. I mean, if you're going to create spam all day about rotten teeth, shouldn't you at least know how to spell halitosis? And I won't even begin on a lot. Two words, dude, two words.

And clearly, they are off the mark, when it comes to their halitosis demographics. They're accusing me of surfing the net for sedatives and money to pay for my dental work. Me. The girl who has 3 different kinds of floss in her purse. The girl who is at the dentist getting her teeth cleaned more than she's at her hairdresser's.

I am not surfing the net for sedatives and money. I am surfing the net for this:

And this:

And oftentimes this:

My new spammer buddy goes on to say:

Anyway, I'm not selling anything or anything

Oh, so you just wanted to say Hi and call me Halitosis Breath with bad spelling? Okay and I'm not a shoe slut or a shoe slut.

But I do want to encourage everyone to look up veneers. google it or find it somewher or ask your dentist. It is the freaking best thing in the world.

Because veneers are the answer? Cover up the rot. That'll fix it. And where is somewher? Is that a place? Perhaps over the rainbow.

And sorry, but I have a policy. I don't buy anything from folks who use the words, "It's the freaking best . . . " If you have to resort to freaking best, you, man, are desperate. Maybe you should go try to sell your freaking best crap somewher else.

All that sugary candy that those assholes at mars got you tricked you and got you and your wife running around looking like the wicked witches and wizards of the west. You go to the dentist and get a cleaning but what the hell is that going to do?

Okay, now you're hitting below the belt. The Mars corporation is not an asshole. You are the asshole, you bad spelling, freaking best spammer. Mars is like the confectionary angel of the earth. They make Mars Bars and Snickers and Dove Bars. So, no they are not tricking me. They are keeping me deliciously happy.

And my wife? Granted, he doesn't watch A LOT, (notice the spelling, spammer) of sports and he likes fancy dishes and he has a favorite flower, but he can shoot a target dead center from a thousand yards away and he has no tolerance for feelings and Oprah and Project Runway and quiche. And the other day, I found a belt, a new belt, still laced into his dirty jeans in the hamper.

And when I went to pull this belt out of the loops, I realized it had fish. On the belt.

Embroidered fish on an article of clothing. I actually gasped. And then I thought, "I have a man who owns a fish belt . . . shit."

So, I wouldn't exactly call him a girl.

And a teeth cleaning, Mr. Freaking Best Spammer, is going to do a hell of A LOT. Ahem. It will rid you of plaque, halitosis and gingivitis, no matter how fast you empty that bag of Dove miniatures.

And, Silly Spammer, there are no wizards of the west. The wizards are all at Waverly Place and Hogwarts. They are not in the west. Perhaps you're thinking of somewher. Else.

You've got caved in teeth, appalachian mountain teeth, rocky mountain teeth, and general crackhead related teeth. It's rough on you I know but it's true. I used to be the same way. I did happen to spend a couple g's on some veneers in atlanta ga. Now I do bust out a smile on every occasion I meet a face . . .

Okay. Let's just process this last sweet, sales ploy, shall we? What is the purpose of calling people out on their bad teeth? Even if I did have caved in teeth or appalachian mountain teeth, (whatever that is) or rocky mountain teeth, (which by the way, I have been to the Rocky Mountains and those people have beautiful teeth. In fact, everything about them is beautiful and glossy and perfect, so I think you're all set if you have Rocky Mountain anything, pretty much.) Or crackhead related teeth (And what does that mean? If you're related to a crackhead, you have bad teeth?), but even if I had any of these sort of supposedly bad teeth, I certainly wouldn't want it pointed out to me on the Internet, by a bad spelling spammer. And, let me just say, if you've got crackhead teeth, I'm pretty sure, searching for veneers on the Internet should be your lowest priority. Might want to google, rehab facilities. Hmmmm?

I'm glad the Freaking Best Spammer can now bust out a smile, thanks to his many G'd veneers from Atlanta, Georgia. But I sure hope, he's not talking when he's busting out in a smile, because his grasp of the English language is appalling, no matter how pretty his teeth are now.

Veneers is a big step over gold and silver teeth replacements which are gaudy and look crazy.

I'm not sure I've ever looked at someone with a gold grill and thought, "You know, that's just a little too gaudy for me." I'm looking at someone with gold or silver caps on their teeth and thinking, "WTF?"

And there you have it, another delightful spam. Keep em coming, Freaking Best Spammers. Keep em coming.

And then there's one more thing: An update on my novel.

As I said before, in a moment of grace, I wrangled myself a critique partner, an aspiring author who also has a manuscript ready to go. We swapped novels last month and gave each other a deadline of Sept. 25 to finish critiquing each other's work.

A.B. was finished a few days before the deadline, because she is smart and organized and super efficient and I am not. I am not worthy of that kind of partner.

Even though we had over 30 days to critique, I was bogged down with first days of school, moving my girl back to college, high school reunions, vacations filled with wine and Mexico, washing machines that went on the fritz, homecoming dances and the deadly trio of housework, moronic dogs, and ducks to drive me slowly insane.

And so of course, Saturday morning, bright and early, I was staring down 2/3 of a still unedited novel.

And yes, I will admit to being disorganized and easily distracted by a man who keeps things fun around here. I'm also a cusser. I'm shallow. I cannot whistle or say the word entrepreneur. (I just mangle the crap out of it, so I avoid it.) I'm terrible at returning phone calls because I'm not a phone talker unless it's my sister. I'm really judgemental of bad driving, people with more than the allotted items in the express lane, bad fashion and folks who have horrific taste in music. I scream at my kids and I'm a drooler, big time. I'm talking, slurpy rivers of drool just flow out of my mouth at random times. It's quite embarrassing . . . for my kids, that is. I'm just used to it by now.

But the one thing I am, is a woman of my word. If I say I'm going to do it, nothing will stand in my way.

So, I announced on Saturday morning that I was not to be disturbed for the entire day. Because an edit should always be given its due diligence. An edit means going over a manuscript with a fine tooth comb.

Of course, hanging out the Do Not Disturb sign, is like hanging a carrot over my donkey family's heads.

I heard, "Mo-o-o-m!" between every other sentence, like little bleating sheep, pestering me with every bit of minutiae they could muster until I had to have a screaming fit, I told you I was a screamer and a slammer of doors. And finally the peace I demanded came over the house and I was able to lose myself in A. B. Keuser's, incredible novel.

I finished at 11:48 p.m.

Because that's the kind of critique partner I am, a slaphappy (isn't that a great word?), but diligent and always true to her word partner.

I didn't open my partner's critique and notes until after I was finished. It just didn't seem right. And so, the minute after I sent my notes and revisions to her, I opened up her notes on my manuscript.

And as soon as the words unfolded before me, I groaned.

Her cover letter of notes was organized and beautiful with different fonts and colors and headings and just a true work of beauty and I know, if it had been in the real world, her critique would have been laminated and bound.

And even though I took great care with the content of my notes, they were not pretty, not by a long shot.

And so for that, dear Critique Partner, I am sorry. Know that I did take my responsibility seriously, just not attractively.

This week I cannot wait to delve into her edit. Fix, spit and polish. And then, we are off. Eeeek!

I'll keep you informed.

Today's Definite Download" A Silent Film's, "You Will Leave A Mark". I hope these guys just get bigger and bigger and bigger. I love their almost orchestrational, edgy, alternative sound. Here's a link to their song, so you can see for yourself.

"You Will Leave A Mark" for A.B. and for me. (don't you love the way I'm always dedicating songs to myself?), Because we are on our way, man, bound and determined to leave our mark. Mine of course, will be a drool stain.

A Wine Country Tale Of Families And Al Stewart And Sitting On Laps

Thursday, September 23, 2010

On one of our very first trips to California's Wine Country, several years ago, we were told about a winery that made great ports.

I am not a port drinker. My Hubby is.

So, off we went to Prager Winery where they specialize in ports.

We'd been wine tasting for a good part of the day, so I was content to sit in the car with my book while my Hubby went inside to try some ports.

He was gone a long time.

Chapters of long.

But I had my book and it was a good book.

As I sat there engrossed in my story, a ruckus outside made me look up and to my horror, I saw a large group of people who, for a minute, I thought were a tour group, headed right towards me. People I did not know. Well, except for that one person who happened to be my husband.

The woman leading the troops pointed at me and said, "Is that her?"

And I was descended upon, by loud, drunken people who pulled me from my car and insisted I come inside and try some of this wondrous port.

My Hubby makes friends easily.

Prager Port was delightful. The tasting room was just an alcove of a room with a utility sink and Mr. Prager himself, with his Kris Kringle beard, was pouring the port. And I will admit, the port was silky sweet and tasted like the finest candy.

The group of folks who pulled me out of my car were locals who spent their weekends imbibing in the fruits of their land.

There were about ten of them and they insisted we accompany them to the next winery.

Which we did.

After we tasted at Rombauer, they insisted we follow them to the next stop.

About that time, I looked at my hubby and quietly informed him, I didn't want to follow them anymore.

They were a little too . . . drunk, for my taste.

So, my Hubby decided to lose them. When they took a turn, we didn't and we laughed and laughed at our cunning getaway.

The next thing we knew, they were there, right behind us, beeping their horn, flashing their lights, and waving us down.

At the red light, they all got out, looking like a gang of Chinese Fire Drillers and ran up to our car, banging on the windows. We didn't want to roll the window down. We were worried about being subject to some sort of drunken, angry car jacking, but we did anyway. They apologized for losing us, reassuring us they would drive slower and be extra mindful because we just couldn't miss the next winery that they, our new best drunk friends, were taking us to.

We looked at each other and sighed. We were stuck with the tour group of Drunkies.

And the thing is, I'm so very glad they found us and got out of their car and pounded on our windows and insisted we follow them.

They took us to a little winery, a cult wine they loved, with just this tiny, hole-in-the-wall tasting room.

It was called Frank Family Vineyards.

Our drunken Chinese fire drilling friends promised us the wine was spectacular and their chardonnays were over the moon magnificent.

See, Chardonnay used to be cool. It's not so much anymore. As trends go, Chardonnay is now the low man on the totem pole.

But I am here to come out of my Chardonnay closet to say, I love Chardonnay. I do.

I like big wine. I like wine with something to say. My favorite wine is Zinfandel. And no, not White Zinfandel.

I have a shirt that says, "Friends don't let friends drink white zinfandel."

Zinfandel is a big, hearty wine, full of jammy, berry tastes and a bite of spice to its note. Zinfandels are a notoriously fussy grape and hard to get right.

I think that's part of the reason I love it, because it's fussy. I'm fussy. But when done well, it is sublime. The wine, that is, not me.

Chardonnay is the big boy of white wines. It's not fruity like a Pinot Grigio. It's not grapefruit laden like a Sauvignon Blanc. If it's done properly, it's buttery with just a taste of oak (because in my opinion, this wine should only be fermented in oak) and the fruit will just dance on your tongue. It's a great white wine.

And so there we were, in this hole in the wall.

We were greeted at the door like old friends because these people were loyal patrons of Frank Family. In all honesty, I think they were loyal patrons of A LOT of wineries.

Anyway, we were immediately ushered to a back room, a VIP bar where I was poured one of the best chardonnays of my life. It had this buttery taste, luscious and creamy, with the perfect amount of oak and it was big and just brilliant and I fell in love with Frank Family instantly.

And Dennis.

Dennis runs the place over there and his heart is just as about as big as the barrel chest that encases it.

We became loyal patrons of their magnificent wines and with each and every trip we made to the Wine Country, Frank Family, was always one of our favorite stops.

A few years down the road, my father died, quite unexpectedly.

The week after his death, my Hubby and I were scheduled to head out to Napa and Sonoma.

We decided to cancel our trip. But my siblings wouldn't hear of it. They said my dad would have wanted it no other way.

And that dad of mine, who loved life, who loved a good wine, who loved us, would, indeed, have shooed us out the door, ordering us to have a good time.

So my wonderful Hubby informed my mom and my Aunt Lorrie, (my dad's sister and one of my favorite people in the world), to pack their bags — they were coming with us.

My Hubby booked flights and rooms for the ladies and we took them out to the motherland with us. My sister Beth and her husband also accompanied us.

There were more than a few tears on that trip, as we toasted my dad. And in those moments where we shared stories of his life and I just could feel my heart cracking in such grief as I let go of this incredible dad of mine, I felt his presence so strong, that love of his, so fierce. He was with us. I felt him there. I am certain of that.

But along with the heartbreak, there was an awful lot of laughter too, just the way my dad would have wanted it.

I'd like to share one of those laughter memories with you today.

Up in the hills of Napa and Sonoma, oftentimes it's hard to get radio reception. This was before the days of satellite and iPods and so we got nothing much but static.

We were in a tasting room perusing their gift shop when my aunt picked up a CD called "Music of The Wine Country" by Al Stewart.

"What do you think? Should I buy this so we can have some music?"

And I'm pretty sure at this point, I'd been to far too many wineries that day, because I just shrugged my shoulders and said, "Why not!"

I wasn't thinking about "The Year of The Cat."

What else would explain me embracing the music of Al Stewart, except copious amounts of wine.

We listened to that CD for the entire day.

And if at all possible, it was far worse than "The Year Of The Cat."

It was

But wanting to be polite, I just went with the crowd and pretended to enjoy it as I steeled my ears against Al Stewart's whiny yowl that ironically sounds like a wounded cat.

On the second day of our trip, someone popped in the CD and I thought, "If there is a God in Heaven, let that CD be scratched."

The car was quiet as we listened to Al Stewart and his whining punctured with yowling. After a few minutes of this simply unbearable "Year of the Caaaaat in Whiiiiine Country", my aunt said, "You know, this Al Stewart is just awful."

I breathed a sigh of relief and joined the chorus of "I know, right?!" from the entire car who had all kept their opinions bottled up until now.

My Hubby was driving, concentrating on the winding curves, as we all sat there complaining about Al Stewart and his awfulness. Suddenly, without a word and without skipping a beat, he just popped out the CD, rolled down the passenger window and flung the CD out of the car.

My dad, I'm sure, loved it.

Later that day, we found our way to Frank's Family. Dennis was there and as he was leading us back to the private bar, we told him about my dad and how we were all here, still so raw and full of grief, celebrating his life.

Dennis looked at us and said, "Come with me."

He took us into his office, a cluttered little gasp of space, where he opened up one of their finest vintages and filled our wine glasses. He raised his glass and said, "To Jack."

And we sat there in Dennis' office and told our stories about Jack and his greatness. And Dennis, listened well and good and kept our glasses full and whiled away the afternoon with us, listening to our stories of this great man, so much like himself.

The years have passed and Frank Family is no longer just a cult wine with a room in the back. Word of mouth and multiple awards have turned Frank Family into a rock star of the wine world.

We went to see our old friends at Frank's. Their new tasting room is gorgeous and cavernous and as always, we were welcomed with open arms. Big, wide arms.

Sadly, it was Dennis's day off, but Rick brought us into Dennis's new elegant office, so fitting for a man of his calibre.

Rick was kind enough to give us a private tasting right there in Dennis's office, just like that day of so long ago. And once again, I swooned at their buttery chards, their splendid wines, all of them.

Afterwards I asked Rick if I could take a picture with him as I stood by his side.

Rick grabbed me by the waist and pulled me onto his lap for the picture.

Later I said to my sister, "Why is it that guys always grab you and plop you in their lap every chance they can get."

And my sister was like, "What are you talking about?"

She says this doesn't happen to her. And she is something, with her glossy locks and sapphire eyes and long, lean marathon body.

I am nothing. I mean nothing. You should see my upper arms. They could be a member of the Wiggles. I am not long and lean. And I have a turkey neck. And yet, men have always done this to me.

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, riiiight.

Well, here's what I'm talking about.

Three men in two day's time, two days in a row, on vacation, pulled me down on their lap. Men I did not know. Men, who I was just standing next to them, posing for a picture and bam, the next thing you know, I'm on a lap! I'll show you the proof in the next few posts. And one of them, my friends, is a doozy.

So Ladies. out of curiosity sake, I'm taking a poll, I'd like to know, does this happen to you?

I personally find the lap thing a mite uncomfortable.

And not because I'm all of a sudden, sitting on a man's lap.

Hardly.

I adore being on a man's lap. It has nothing to do with that. I'm talking physical discomfort.

I'm uncomfortable because I refuse to just plop myself down on a man, full weight and all. I certainly wouldn't want to crush anyone. And so therefore, I center all my weight on my legs, so the man has the illusion, I am as light as Tinkerbelle. And even though my thighs get quite the workout as I'm all perched on the lap, it is excruciating after about 20 seconds. And that is why I am uncomfortable on a man's lap.

If you're ever out in Napa, Calistoga actually, pop in and see Dennis and Rick and the rest of the crew. They'll treat you like family and share some of their finest wine, which is mighty fine. And watch out for that Rick, he's a feisty one.

Program Note: I know I haven't been around much this week. I am heavy into critiquing my writing partner's manuscript as we speak. We are swapping our novels back to each other at the end of the week and as usual, I am behind. It's not just laundry that defeats me. Trust me, there's a whole list of things that defeat me on a regular basis. I'll be back to my usual bloggy self next week.

Today's Definite Download: This is one I've already used in my playlist, but it was in the days when the only one reading me was my wonderful non hula hooping sister. I love this song very much and it fits here, today.

The Weepies, "The World Spins Madly On" for Dennis and Jack and yes, even lap man Rick and especially for that man of mine with his big generous heart and the way he makes me laugh every single day. Good men, I am so blessed to have known as my own world spins, madly and I do mean madly, on.

Go take a listen, right here. Enjoy.

Why, George Clooney, Why?

Friday, September 17, 2010

I was going to post more vacation stories today, but I have to get this off my chest.

I saw the worst movie of all times last night. Worse than this.

My Hubby asked me if I'd like to see a movie. I usually just narrow my eyes and say, "Which one?"

And he usually answers with, "One of of those love stories you like."

And no, he is not the perfect man.

He is lying.

He has no intention of seeing a love story. What he means is, "I want to watch a love affair, preferably something about my love affair with guns and car chases and things and people blowing up constantly and of course Angelina Jolie in a leather catsuit."

That's his definition of a love story.

But this time he said, "The new movie with George Clooney." And since anything with George Clooney can't be all that bad, I decided to go.

Boy, was I wrong.

Hitting my forehead into a concrete wall over and over and over again wrong.

George Clooney's, The American is just awful.

More awful than a chorus of Real Housewives singing, "We Are The World."

More awful than hash from a can.

More awful than MRSA.

The movie theater had 4 other people in it. When the movie was over, there were 2.

The movie totally hoodwinks you into thinking that this is just going to be an on the edge of your seat kind of movie.

It opens with George taking a walk with what seems to be his Swedish girlfriend, when he sees prints in the snow. She of course, thinks it's an animal. He says nothing, but looks somber. He will spend the next 105 minutes vacillating between looking somber or tired. I'm really not sure which because . . . oh, did I forget to mention there's NO TALKING in this movie. I'm pretty sure if you counted up the dialogue, it would amount to 23 words. And George got 8 of them.

He can't talk, he's too busy emoting.

And I love George. My sister is planning on marrying him someday. But the man is not very good at emoting. He's good at charming. He's good at that gorgeous smirk thing of his. He's good at being the ladies' man and being the man's man. He's good at robbing casinos and being brilliant in, Oh Brother Where Art Thou? He's good at looking magnificent in a suit.

He is not good at emoting.

Anyway, back to the only scene in the movie that didn't make me sigh loudly. So, next thing you know, someone is shooting at George and his innocent girlfriend. George whips out a gun and without even aiming or seeing the shooter for that matter, he shoots the gunman dead with one shot. As he's leaning over the dead man's body, she is all a flustery because she had no idea he had a gun or could shoot people blindly for that matter. He yells at her to go back to the cabin and call the police, thus using up most of his dialogue for the entire movie. And when she does exactly what he asks, walking as quickly as she can in the snow back to the cabin, he shoots her in the back of the head and BAM, she's down and dead. She was just an innocent girlfriend.

I think.

I really have no idea because none of this is ever explained. It's hard to explain things when NO ONE TALKS.

But I think, even though he liked her, he felt he had to shoot her to keep her quiet. At least that's what I'm guessing. It was shocking. It made me gasp and jump a little in my seat. And I thought, "We have got ourselves a movie!"

Now, I don't need murder or gun play or any action at all to make my movie viewing a pleasant one. Far from it, actually.

I like me a story. I like quirky. I like suspenseful. I like avant-garde. I like historical and love stories and comedies and documentaries. I don't care what it is, as long as it's written well.

When you have no words, it's not written well.

The next thing I know George is in Italy. Why? I have no idea. But that was the beginning of the driving scenes.

There were many, many scenes of George driving down the long stretches of roads that make up rural Italy.

So many, that one of the 2 moviegoers said out loud at one point, "Okay, we get it! He drives!"

And I'm not talking car chases with the fancy stunt car driving. I'm talking driving and driving and driving and driving and driving. Just George and his car and the road. Just George and his somber and or tired face, driving. He doesn't even turn on the radio.

And when he's not driving, he's drinking coffee, sitting in a little Italian cafe drinking out of those tiny cups looking tired and or somber. He rubbed his face a lot. I think that was part of the emoting.

Oh, and also, this movie gave him a chance to show off his Italian since he lives in Italy now. I'm not sure if he has a good grasp of the language, but I can tell you he certainly can order a coffee very fluently in Italian.

And then he'd just sit there in silence drinking the coffee, emoting.

It was so quiet in the movie theater, I kept shooting my hubby dirty looks every time he'd snatch up a few more peanut M&M's. His candy rustling was the loudest thing in the whole theater.

Another big part of the action would be when George would go to the pay phone and call this wrinkled up, scraggly looking dude who was really scary looking. The kind of scary, like this guy is really good at torturing people scary. So, he would call this scary, torture guy up and whenever the torture guy would realize it was George on the line, he would sigh heavily, like he was very annoyed George Clooney was calling him.

I would never sigh heavily if George Clooney called me. I would breathe heavily if he wanted me to, but I would not sigh.

And then George would use up more of his dialogue by saying, "The Swedes found me."

Now who are the Swedes, you are asking?

Well, I have no idea.

But throughout the movie he catches sight of, I guess, what are Swedes following him and in one unexplained scene, he chases down a Swede who looks like Danny Bonaduce with very short hair and Euro clothing who was following him.

The Swede is in a car. George is on a motor scooter.

But of course, George overtakes the Swede even though he's on a scooter chasing a car and he shoots out the tires of, clearly, this very slow car and then walks up to the car and breaks The Swede's neck. And then he just walks away, never bothering to check ID to make sure the slow driver is a Swede and not Danny Bonaduce just looking for another 15 minutes.

But throughout the movie, George will occasionally go to the pay phone, call the craggy faced, torture dude and announce again, "The Swedes are after me."

And this is when I grew even more confused. Aren't the Swedish people pretty neutral in all matters? Aren't they peace loving? I really haven't heard much about Swedish thugs or assassins. I thought the Swedes were better known for their meatballs and ABBA.

The craggy face torture guy keeps ordering George to do the drop. Do not ask. Because I do not know.

George is living in a very small town in Italy at the time where evidently the only people who inhabit this town are coffee shop owners, a jowly priest and prostitutes. We'll get to the priest and the prostitutes in a minute.

The reason I think this is a ghost town, because another consistent scene throughout the movie is George walking throughout the town. He is always walking, either to the coffee shop or walking home to stare somberly and he always thinks someone is following him. So you see him looking around all somber or tired, but no one is ever there. There are no people in this town, except for the one time Danny Bonaduce caught up with him. And there are just giant scenes of him walking and walking and walking around the town. No one ever just passes by him with a "Wassup George". There's never a small group of folks huddled outside having a smoke. No one is ever walking their dog. They must have had zero money in the budget for extras.

The other integral part of the movie is "The Drop", whatever that is. This entails walking and walking and walking to a farmer's market type of thing where George orders a big block of cheese from an Italian woman. So now we know he is very good at ordering both cheese and coffee in Italian.

He sees a beautiful girl and he watches her with his somber eyes and when she goes to a little outdoor cafe to, you got it, get some coffee. He follows her and sits right next to her and yes, orders some coffee.

Caffe Americano. I know that phrase by heart now.

And the next thing you know, they're talking out of the corners of their mouths to each other as they look off into the distance and you have no idea what they're talking about, because they're pretty much just spouting off terms and numbers.

But then the real fun begins and George is seen in his apartment—building a gun. And that's when the terms like range and silencer and millimeters make sense. And guess what? There are these really, really detailed scenes of George putting the gun together.

Every single piece of that damn gun. And just so you know, a gun has a lot of pieces.

He builds this gun over a period of time, so lucky, lucky us got to see all kinds of scenes of him building his gun and then stopping and staring off into the distance looking somber and then rubbing his face some more.

Then there's the priest. I have no idea why he's even in the movie. He just spends all his time telling George he knows George is a sinner because he can see it in his face. I guess it's because of all the face rubbing.

And now we get to the prostitute. To me, she was the best part of the movie. She just lit up the scenes whenever she was on camera, giving the movie a bit of brightness in contrast to the somber George and the craggy face torture Dude and the jowly priest.

George started going to her because . . . well, I guess because he had to work off some of that energy from all the coffee. He sure wasn't burning much staring off into space and building a gun at an excruciatingly slow pace.

Now, there is a very intense sex scene in this movie. I couldn't really concentrate though, because that was when my hubby opened up his M&M's and the rustling candy bag nearly drove me over the edge that I was standing on because of this awful movie.

But I found this one thing quite ironic. As they're going at it, the prostitute mutters one phrase, "Slower. Slower."

And I'm all, "No! No! We do not need this movie to go any slower, even if it is a sex scene with George Clooney." This move was that painful. I'd had enough of George Clooney doing things sloooowly. I was so fed up, I didn't even want to see him having sex slowly.

Oh, and also because I guess George likes butterflies, although this is never quite explained in the movie because did I mention, THERE WAS NO TALKING, he had a big-ass tattoo of a butterfly across his back that was quite evident during the sex scene.

Now, all I have to say on that is— George Clooney, that butterfly tat better not be real.

Because if you really do have a great big butterfly on your back, I will personally come to Italy and hold you down as it gets lasered off.

George Clooney and a butterfly tattoo.

That is just wrong on so many levels.

In between romping with the prostitute, being called a sinner by the priest and walking, drinking coffee and driving, George FINALLY finishes building his gun.

I guess no one has ever told these people that you can buy guns in all kinds of places. Even special guns with illegal things can be bought for the right price, usually from a guy named Dr. Massacre. You don't have to go to Italy and hide in a small town from all the Swedes to get an illegal gun. It just seems like an awful lot of extra work to me.

So George meets the mysterious woman who talks out of the side of her mouth and gives her the gun. They meet in the woods, down by the river.

The mysterious woman brings her own target. It is a brass flower. She takes the gun and shoots that freakin flower, just a hair away from the dead center. She tells George it needs an adjustment and she'll meet him after he's adjusted it.

What is this gun for and why does it have to be built by George in a remote town in Italy and why does this beautiful woman need to meet him by the river to shoot it and why does it need to be so specific that it can hit a brass flower target dead center and why are there Swedes after George, are all answers I do not know. But I can tell you this, in a silent movie theater peanut M&M wrappers sound like thunder.

In the meantime, George has fallen in love with the prostitute. How do I know this?

Because for the first time in the movie, he smiled. At the prostitute.

And he realizes he wants to quit his life of whatever it is that he does, a life of building guns in Italy and drinking coffee and looking for Swedes. Why he does any of these things. I do not know.

He tells the craggy face guy over the pay phone, "I'm Done" using up the last of his 8 words. Instead of sighing, the craggy face guy is stunned into silence. Something I'm very familiar with at this time. Silence, that is. And then the torture guy tells him "Fine." They get off the phone and you see the craggy face man make another phone call where he says, "Here's what you need to do."

This was about the biggest conversation in the whole movie. And I still had no idea what was happening.

George then brings the gun to the side mouth talking lady and I'll give you one big guess where they meet.

If you guessed coffee shop, you would be correct!

George gives her the gun, she gives George a wad of cash and away they go their separate ways.

But then it shows the woman in her car and the craggy face torture man is calling her and asking her if she took care of George and she's all, "Not yet. But I'm following him."

So, at this point I'm done with the sighing and I'm actually starting to laugh behind my hand, so as not to disturb the 2 other movie goers. I am laughing at the ridiculousness of this movie and that someone actually thought this would be a good idea.

I could see them pitching it to George who was also the producer.

"So George, in this movie, you're not going to talk. You're just going to converse . . . through your face. And this is your chance to show off your Italian when you order coffee and cheese. And also, we're going to focus this movie on you driving, walking, drinking coffee and building one gun, that's it. You've heard of action movies? This is the inaction movie."

So, George is driving to meet his girlfriend prostitute at the local Mary statue procession. The Italians love to have parades around their statues of Mary. And I can say that, because I'm a Catholic.

He meets up with his very beautiful girlfriend prostitute, (cause that's realistic) at the procession and FINALLY you see there are other people living in this town.

They must have only had enough in the budget for one day of filming with extras.

And George is smiling and he's kissing his girl because he's done with drop offs and Swedes and gun building. I guess. And he says, "Come away with me." Ahem. Pretty Woman.

And of course, she says yes. She's a freakin' prostitute and George Clooney has just asked her to go away with him. Duh.

I'd be all, "Give me 45 seconds. Or is that too long? Let me just go pack my blow dryer. Don't you go anywhere George Clooney."

And as he's standing in the middle of the street, making out with his girl because evidently he is no longer concerned with Swedes or anyone else and he doesn't have a care in the world, the mystery woman appears balanced on the edge of a building with the gun George Clooney built with his own hands.

And she's got the back of his head, JFK style, right in the center of her scope.

All of a sudden, a shot rings out.

But, it's not George. It's the mystery woman who's been shot as she tumbles off her perch onto the street below.

George Clooney looks up just in time to see her fall off the roof and he turns to the prostitute and yells at her to meet him in the woods, down by the river.

He has not only taken the mystery woman to the woods, he has also taken the prostitute there, although he could not relax either time, he was too busy emoting.

He then runs over to the woman who has most of her face shot off and asks her who ordered her to do this.

And the thing is, even with a shot off face, she's still living and she answers him in a garble.

I did not understand her garble nor did I care at this point, but evidently George did, because he turned right at that moment knowing torture man would be right behind him, with a gun.

And in a hail of bullets, George kills the torture guy.

Addendum: My blog friend, 12 Days Old, pointed it out to me that in the synopsis online, the gun is set up by George Clooney to shoot backwards. I read this post to my Hubby who stopped me at this point to say, that indeed, George Clooney, did rig the gun to shoot backwards.

I guess I wasn't paying enough attention in the gun building scenes. Can you blame me?

And I am still as in the dark as when the movie started.

And the next scene shows George driving and driving and driving and he's emoting more than he ever has, putting on his ultra somber face and it is, at this moment, I can no longer hold it in and I burst out in laughter at the ridiculousness of this movie and George and his awful emoting.

And as I am cracking up, I get my hubby to start laughing but suddenly I realize George is not emoting somberness.

He is showing us his "in pain" look which looks exactly like his somber look except he is starting to slump over the steering wheel.

And as he is driving, driving, driving, slumping and veering all over the road, he presses his hand to his stomach. He brings his hand up and there's a profuse amount of blood. And now he slumps even more and his face is growing gray.

And here's where I was all, "You're just realizing now, after driving and driving that you are critically injured, Mr. George Clooney? What about the hemorrhaging? What about the crippling pain that comes with getting shot?"

For the record, I have never been shot. I would just assume it would be painful to have a bullet in the gut, most likely in a vital place from the looks of the blood and his gray pallor and his painful, tired look and the fact that he is losing consciousness.

So, George is drifting in and out of consciousness from his just discovered critical bullet wound.

But he is still driving and driving to his credit.

And the next thing you know, his car is careening down the dirt path to the meeting place in the woods.

And the prostitute is standing by the river and she sees him and starts running to the car.

And I'm all, "Oh great, he's going to freakin' run her over! This movie is shitastorous!"

But instead he stops right in front of her and she's looking at him because she knows something's wrong with the way he's gray and slumped over and she starts to yell and George puts his bloody hand up to the windshield and you hear that long drawn out car horn that only means one thing in movies.

And then . . .

It was the end.

The one moviegoer behind us, put it perfectly when they announced: "Are you kidding me? This is a joke, right?"

And it seems the joke was on us. The joke was on the 19 dollars we spent and the 105 minutes of my life wasted.

So sorry to spoil the ending for you. But trust me, this post, as awful as it was, was better than watching that movie.

I think I would have been better off sneaking into the theater next door and watching this.

At least, there was, you know, noise coming from that theater.

I'll be back to vacation tales next week and if you haven't heard from me, I'm a bit behind, but I'll catch up with you. Don't you worry.

Today's Definite Download: "Highway To Hell" by AC DC for Mr. George Clooney. George, this line is for you:

"I'm on the highway to hell and I'm going dowwwwn."

Because that's how you made me feel for 105 minutes.

A Slumber Party Every Day

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

I'm interrupting my scintillating vacation pictures for a special "June Looks In Your Drawers Post".

If you've been with me awhile, you know I adore the blog, Bye Bye Pie. I found June Gardens and her blog a while back when she was nominated for Funniest Blog at the Luxe Awards, which is like the Oscars for blogs. And let me tell you, that girl is fun-fun-funny.

It is the first place I go to in the morning, besides the yard for Moronica and Mornoni's morning constitution. After the morning business, I rush over to BBP to see what all my friends are up to.

See, June's blog is a very special place. It's like an interactive blog. It is an ongoing dialogue all day long between June and the commenters. And I'm not sure dialogue would be the correct term here, it's more like what goes on at a 12-year-old's slumber party, after the mom has gone to bed. We're a tight bunch over there. We even watched the Academy Awards together on Juney's blog.

Every Wednesday, June has "Pieces of Wisdom" where she asks us a question on Tuesday and on Wednesday we all give her our answers. For example, there was the time she wanted to know what we ate in a day or the time she wanted to know how we managed to save money. I think my answer was buy shoes. It might not save money, but it sure can make a girl happy!

This Tuesday, she shook things up a bit. She told us how her husband Marvin is a Snooper McSnoopypants, when he goes to the bathroom at other people's houses, checking medicine cabinets and the like and so she wanted us to send her pictures of our medicine cabinets, so Marvin could get his snoop on.

And since I am always the first one to ring the doorbell and run or whatever fun there is to be found, I sent her my pictures.

Now, here's another reason I love June. She is a hypochondriac just like me and this was my chance to show her how hypochondriaclly (not a word, but I like it), united we are.

I don't have a medicine cabinet. I have a medicine closet. That's right.

And because my closet is so big, I sent her 2 pictures of 2 different shelves.

The first picture is on her blog today, here. It's the last picture of the bunch. Well, duh, I mean, she says, "Here's Joann's picture." Anyway, I put a special something in the picture for Marvin to reward him for his snooping and also for Hulk who is part of my commenting family over there because I have a feeling the gigantic Hulk likes pink.

All the boxes of perfume samples in the picture are from my sister who works for a perfume company and gives us all kinds of free smells. We have so many perfumes, the dogs even have their own scents. We are living life large, folks, over here. Our dogs have their own signature perfumes.

Anyway, I sent in two pictures, but June couldn't get my other one up, something about my iPhone and upside down, I don't know. All I know is she wanted me to put it on my blog today. And I do what June says because she's the head girl at the slumber party.

So, here's my second pic:

And here's where I show June what a super hypochondriac I am.

Not one, but two, two blood pressure monitors. Because, you never know when in the midst of a blood pressure reading, your monitor will cut out on you and you need that backup to ensure you're not stroking out.

And please ignore the EMPTY SOAP DISPENSER that one of my lazy Dung Beetles put back on the shelf instead of, I don't know, walking the three steps to the trash can.

I keep it real here, folks.

And that thing hanging off the shelf, is a pretty pink gel mask. Something to reduce my puffiness when I'm checking my stroke levels with my blood pressure cuffs. On both arms.

Check out June's blog and all the fun pictures she's got up today. And if you feel like joining us, we welcome you with open arms. One of my commenters who is also named JoAnn, (different spelling) joined us over there. And so now, I am called Original Joann and she is Regular Joann.

And by the way, JoAnn has a blog called Ostriches Look Funny which has absolutely nothing to do with ostriches. So if you're an ostrich lover, don't get all excited. There are no ostriches there, just JoAnn's writing which is way better than an ostrich. JoAnn is a writer so full of grace, her words oftentimes take my breath away. She is incredibly gifted and she just blogs, but I've been trying to coax her into writing something big, because she is that good.

Unfortunately, she is on hiatus because of a move that has left her without Internet. I miss her and her magnificent words, but she will be back. Check for her on my side bar. She is amazing.

If you come over to Bye Bye Pie, there are only a few rules. You must love animals and hate Rush, (the band).

So, head on over to June's blog now and check out my photo and in my typical fashion, I'm probably over sharing a bit much . . . as usual.

No download today. I've got blog comments I'm backed up on and a critique partner's manuscript calling my name.

Now, shoo, get on over to June's and don't forget your jammies and Strawberry Shortcake sleeping bag.

My Hips Don't Lie— Whatever The Hell That Means

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

First and foremost, thank you so much for all the love and birthday wishes. My Facebook was overflowing with such kind messages and I was just all, "Awww, you guys!" And as for you Noelle, you lovely, lovely girl, thank you so much for your card. Your sweetness astounds me on a regular basis.

My birthday was splendid. My college girl came home and surprised me and my girls had flowers and my Hubby had sparkly things. And my Hubby bought me some Yankee candles which is hilarious because the day before I'd gotten a little peeved at him. You see, we had a candle fight. I was lighting candles because guests were coming over and I pulled out a candle from my bathroom and lit it in the kitchen and he was all, "You shouldn't light that. It's a candle meant for the bathroom and it cost me 40 bucks."

Okay, first of all, he broke the number one rule in our house: Don't ever tell me what to do. Number two: What the hell is a bathroom candle? There are no candle rules about candles and room designation! And number three: It was really about the 40 bucks. So, because he decided to spend 40 dollars on a candle, should I just admire it like a museum piece and keep it unlit? It ended badly with me stomping off without lighting the candle. So, the candles were a great touch. It made me laugh and he likes to make me laugh.

Enough about birthdays.

Today, we will begin the saga called The Vacation Adventures.

We'll do this in parts. Lots and lots of parts since I have so much to tell you, Internet.

So, kick back, grab yourself a beverage and get ready for a toxic amount of vacation stories.

We started our trip in Sonoma and Napa.

And for those of you who've never been to the wine country. I'll give you a quick lesson on how it works:

Wineries have tasting rooms where the public can go and sample their various wines and vintages. There is usually a small fee involved and for that fee, you get just a taste's worth of whatever wines they are sampling on that day. There are usually 2 lists to choose from, the regular and the reserves. It is my wine loving hubby's favorite way to discover new wine treasures. This is 2 of my sisters, who went along for the wine trip, and me at one of our favorite wineries called Ridge.

We're wine club members at Ridge.

You can become a wine club member at any of your favorite wineries, where you receive shipments of different types and vintages several times a year.

We have a lot of wine club memberships.

We have so many that my UPS man knows my schedule by heart so that our precious wines are never left in an overheated UPS facility overnight.

And when you are a wine club member, you are treated like the finest guest of the winery.

There is also an unwritten rule in the wine country and that is once a wine host detects a real wine connoisseur, someone who is there for their love of wine, verses making wine country a day-long happy hour, the pours become more generous, reserve wines not on the list are pulled out and there is usually great conversations over the mutual love of the grape.

Now, I know a lot about wine.

But I look like a white zinfandel box drinker next to my husband who says things like, "This has much less residual sugar than your 07 Zin." And the wine host will point at him and say, "Exactly."

And I'm just nodding along acting like, "Of COURSE it has less residual sugar" but in my head I'm all, "The hell?"

One of our favorite wineries is Charles Krug Winery.

Here's where your eyes are going to roll back in your head as I go double barreled oenophile on you.

Charles Krug is the oldest winery in Napa Valley. It is owned by Peter Mondavi and his family.

If that name doesn't ring a bell to you, well allow me to ding that bell for you.

Peter Mondavi had a brother named Robert. Now is the bell clanging? Robert and Peter ran the winery together until a disagreement many years ago caused Robert to leave the winery. Robert wanted to take a more ambitious route with the winery, aggressively promoting little known Napa wines. Peter was more content to just make wine, keeping their family run winery to a small, conservative business.

Arguments led to fists between the brothers and Robert walked away from the winery, choosing to start up Robert Mondavi winery.

Now you might say, well it certainly looks like Robert was right.

But...

Charles Krug wine is splendor in a glass. It is utter perfection.

And no offense to Mr. Robert Mondavi, but his winery is best known for white zinfandel and lower quality, mass marketed wines. I will point out he has some amazing wines and various brands in his stock, Opus One comes to mind . . .

But Charles Krug focused on doing one good thing.

And he did it sublimely.

It's all about the attention to the details.

And I am not disrespecting Mr. Robert Mondavi in any way, I will say it is because of him that Napa Valley is what it is today. He was a tireless promoter when it came to California wines. It is why the world now holds California wines to the same esteemed standard as its French counterparts.

A few years back, Peter and Robert reconciled. Thankfully. Not too long after, Robert Mondavi passed away and the entire wine country mourned this great man.

Peter on the other hand is well into his 90's and still remarkably running Charles Krug winery. His house sits on the winery grounds and he is an active overseer of his amazing winery.

We walked into Charles Krug and were immediately heralded by our friends there because, of course, we are wine club members. Our wine host for the day remarked that we'd missed Mr. Mondavi by seconds.

My heart fluttered for my hubby. For him, meeting the legendary Peter Mondavi would be like me meeting Bono.

Well . . . actually, not really. I don't think my hubby would want to make out with Mr Mondavi, until his face was tender and raw from Mr. Mondavi's stubble.

But you get the point.

Our wine host told us a story of Peter Mondavi and his attention to detail.

The wine host said he'd brought the recycling out to the bin the week before and he noticed Mr. Mondavi sitting some yards away in his golf cart. He waved and shouted to him, but the 90 something year old man didn't move. He looked closer and realized Mr. Mondavi was slumped over. He called to him again and when he didn't move, he dropped his bin ready to run back inside and get help.

The clatter of the bin caused Mr. Mondavi to sit up and turn towards the noise. When he saw the wine host he drove his golf cart over to him and greeted him and then Mr. Mondavi informed the wine host that the landscape in that one corner of the winery had some dry spots and a bit of overgrowth and that just wouldn't do. And he held out his notebook, showing the wine host his notes on all the little places of his beloved grounds that he'd found needed care. He'd been bent over taking copious notes.

The wine host said the next day, the grounds were back to their impeccable state.

All the big and little details. It's why his wine is like velvet on your tongue.

I asked if there was a chance Mr. Mondavi was still around the winery. And our wine host said, "Well, here comes his assistant now. Let me ask."

I was so excited. This was my Hubby's chance to meet one of the biggest wine legends in the world.

Our genial host brought over the assistant who sadly informed us that Mr. Mondavi was not available since he was up at his house waiting for the Serta Mattress people to get there.

She told us with a smile playing about her face that Mr. Mondavi was no longer satisfied with his mattress he'd bought in 2002. And since his mattress had a lifetime guarantee, he had ordered the Serta people to come to his house with a new replacement mattress.

She smiled knowingly as she said, "He has his original receipt."

Of course he did.

I would not have expected any less.

Sadly, my Hubby didn't get to meet one of the rock stars of the wine world.

But . . . our trip had just begun.

I just want to add one more thing today.

We went to plenty of wineries on our trip, but I wanted to post a picture of one of our most gracious wine hosts.

Norm at Robert Young Winery took such great care of us and no, not Robert Young of Father Knows Best. Just Robert Young, originally solely a grape grower, but now producer of some extraordinary Cabernet Sauvignons.

Norm led us away from the crowd and gave us a private tasting in their distillery, because of course, we are a member of their wine club. After we'd had a few samples, Norm filled our glasses with some of that delicious Cab and led us out to their beautiful patio on a crisp, clear skied day where he shared his Milk Duds with us.

And let me tell you, Milk Duds pair splendidly with Cabernet. The other man in the picture next to my sister, is my brother-in-law who will be an integral part of my next post. And yes, our teeth are blue. Plan on having blue teeth the entire time if you ever go to the Wine Country.

Norm then gave us a tour of their wine cave. And no, I am not double dipping there. I am holding my hubby's wine, so he could wander around, in a state of nirvana, snapping pictures in the cave.

And on a final note there's this.

Bella Vineyards is another one of our faves. And I know you'll find this hard to believe, but we are wine club members. They also have a great wine cave and fabulous grounds where they encourage people to congregate and enjoy the day. There is always live music playing, Adirondack chairs dot the lawn and as we walked across the beautiful yard, my sister discovered some hula hoops. My sisters and I all grabbed one and that is when we discovered that my sister Beth, my beautiful, talented, almost 12 years younger than me sister, in the turquoise dress, hula hoops like this:

And this:

This clip is a must, because it is like watching Elaine from Seinfeld during her jerky dance, because it is only like 10 seconds long and I promise this will keep a smile on your face the whole day long. And Beth has given me her blessing to use this, because even she finds it snorty fabulous. Oh and disregard, my brother-in-law's comment. He meant nothing offensive by it. It's just wine talking.

What I am trying to say at the end of the clip, is that hula hooping is a very slight, precise movement and it's all in the hips. It is so subtle and yet so defined.

And it made me think: Hula Hooping is a lot like wine making, actually. It's all in the details.

Hips and grapes. Yeah.

Today's Definite Download: Today is all about a dedication. My dear blog friend, Cheeseboy, who makes me snort just about every dang day, shares my same taste in music.

Mumford and Sons' "Lion Man" is for you, Cheese. Because we both love this group. But mostly because Cheeseboy is a maniac and he does something crazy, (dumpster diving) every time he gets 100 more followers. And if you go here, Cheeseboy waxed his arm hair recently when he reached the big 400.

Now, Cheeseboy is one, hairy guy and this video is just good as watching my sister flail around with a hula hoop. When his wife begins the waxing, Cheeseboy tries to man up with just a few whimpers, but within a few seconds, Cheeseboy is letting out his best primal scream, albeit a manly one, but his "YOOOOOWWWW!" goes on for an eternity.

Cheese—"Lion Man" because I love this song as do you, but also because you are one big Cheeseboy lion with your hairy mane and your giant ~~shriek~~ roar.

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