Writers on the Block

I was on a writing course last week. Armed with pen and paper, I entered the small classroom. My anal retentiveness had kicked in and I realized I was twenty minutes early. But no worry, the teacher was already there and I'm the queen of useless chit-chat so the time went by quickly.

For a course that ran from ten to one each day, I expected a few older women - perhaps a couple of yummy-mummies. Nope, I was the youngest one there. The women's ages ranged from late forties to mid seventies. I suddenly felt inadequate and then a little down, I'm not far off from my forties so there wasn't that much of an age difference after all!

Expecting a room of budding or published novelists, I was surprised to hear that a couple were writing memoirs, many had an idea but not sure where to start and some just had chapters floating around, but nothing connecting them. An air of slight smugness surrounded me. I had written a few short stories and finished my first novel in draft, currently halfway through the second. Yet I haven't had the courage to get an editor to look at it. Maybe spending the week with these experienced women may help.

As the week progressed, the lecturer Jane Katims gave us exercises and prompts to get our creative juices flowing. And wow did they help. I knew my first novel needed some improvement but wasn't sure where to go. After day three of the course, I saw a myriad of ways to add some 'oompf' to the story. Thursday night was student reading night and I read a short piece entitled 'Home Depot' - all about a couple having an argument in a truck. Compliments from my fellow classmates and peers flew and I became cocooned in a world where people actually liked what I wrote.

I awoke on the Friday to find three presents waiting for me. My constant support, Hubby, gave me three notepads, a box of pens and the Chicago Manual of Style. I felt even more energized to write and get published - there's nothing like writing on the first page of a new notebook.

By the time the week ended I had met a wonderful set of writers; the woman whose memoirs focused on her mother's mental illness, another with a charismatic character called Harry and one whose young pianist Eva, admired a music teacher who was a holocaust survivor. I sincerely hope they find the courage to finish and publish; for they certainly have given that to me.

Another Year Granted

I been a bit lackadaisical with my posts, it's amazing how much time reading takes up. But moving on...some good news that I should have shared a while back - Hubby and I have been granted a year's extension on our visa - hooray. And it was appropriate/ironic timing that we found out/got it confirmed a couple of weeks before July 4th. 

Let me tell you it was a dire few months until we got the confirmation. We spoke to HR...okay Hubby spoke to HR and found out that the head honcho left, leaving little notes (ain't that always the case?!) and the new HR lady was wondering why the company paid for me. Cue soapbox...Why pay for me? Er maybe because I'm the wife...?! As much as Hubby would relish the odd days just to lounge around play Gears and eat pizza all day...he'd miss me! (Wouldn't he?) Do they not know I'm the epitome of a 1950s housewife - who will do his laundry? make his beloved lasagna? Okay, I know Hubby can manage a lot of things on his own...and heck why am I justifying myself? I'm his wife, reason enough.

Stepping off the soapbox, they eventually said 'yeah go on then,' and we're happy.

We like it out here and although next year we have to move from Cambridge (we're after a two bed apartment) I'm looking forward to another twelve months of the constant yet changing, sometimes extreme weather, interrupted sleep by the street cleaning crew, moving out the way of people who don't say thank you (for doing so), Starbucks - the place where everyone knows your name...

And for all my American family and friends there's only one thing to say - 'the British are coming, the British are coming'...

The Quiet Carriage

Heading back home from NY recently, Hubby and I clambered aboard the Amtrak train at New Haven into the "quiet car". Great...it's one of those carriages that you know about and long to be in when you hear the chatter of some rowdy gang of teenagers or the businessman behind you bitching about the latest presentation that he had to deliver on time. Yet when you get there suddenly the need to speak rather loudly is overwhelming.

However, this time I was fine with it - I was knackered and needed to kip. As I sat there shifting trying to get comfortable, Hubby came back with lunch. I cringed as I tore apart the cellophane surrounding the sandwich cursing the makers as the crinkle and crunching seemed to reverberate around the carriage.

Lunch eaten I eventually drifted off to the lullaby of rumbling train-tracks. Only to be awoken by the rather loud announcement of the train arriving at a station. Shouldn't there be a volume for the quiet carriage? As I settled back into the seat chasing sleep again, the clickety-clack of knitting needles was heard behind me. Boy are knitting needles loud. At first I was impressed by the speed of this anonymous knitter but after a few moments thought - should they now put on the notice of quiet talking only and no cell phones also no knitting, just crochet after all that only requires one needle?

As we approached Boston South Station, the rustling and movement of the carriage became marginally louder as people gathered their belongings together, yet they still obeyed the rule of hushed tones. It wasn't until the train came to a complete halt at Boston that I spoke at a normal volume. By which time two women were discussing a lost phone which one of them had put on vibrate....good luck finding that one love...ah one the perils of sitting in the quiet zone!

The Summer Time Clutch

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"If you're fond of sand dunes and salty air," then you may also be fond of or at the very least familiar with the 'summer time clutch'.

No it's not a new dance wave that will replace the macarena (can anything?), no I'm talking about the bevy of women who normally balk at the idea of wearing anything below the calf muscle who will happily don a maxi dress because its sunny out.

Suddenly, you can't turn a corner without bumping into a pretty lass with Audrey Hepburn glasses, sun-kissed skin and a skinny iced-coffee in one hand, whilst the other hand is grasping a handful of material as they walk along in their designer flip-flops slapping against the pavement.

I look at these sometimes beautiful Bostonian women and want to stop them and ask, 'if its that long, why don't you take it up another cm or so, you'll have a hand free then? Or at least a wear a wedge? Either way I guarantee my love you won't be sweeping the floor and/or taking half of the dust home with you'.

Am I being a tad too cynical or should I just admit that I'm jealous? I know that if I wore said piece of clothing, I'd look more like Homer Simpson when he wore the 'tent dress' only with make-up on. Ah well, I suppose I can forgive the 'maxi-dress clutch' as summer lasts only a few short months. Perhaps I'll focus my attention on men in shorts; ah yes the knobbly knees, way too hairy legs...then again maybe not...

American Idol - Season 11

Tomorrow are the results and I really hope Philip wins. Oh and in case you missed this season, I'll give you a rundown:

A 100,000+ people waited in football stadiums, shopping malls, or the black hills of Dakota to strut their stuff - or sing. Some got so nervous they just squeaked in front of the judges, some made complete fools of themselves i.e. wearing odd outfits or very little and others well...they should have just stuck to singing in the shower. Guaranteed there was crying...a lot of crying.

Hollywood week - where the diva's and the drama queens emerged as well as some illness tormenting the larynx.  The groups bickered and fought, forgot the words, created amazing harmonies and then they got thrown into four rooms. Randy, Jennifer and Steven walked in to make or break their dreams. Guaranteed there was crying...a lot of crying.

Another set of elimination rounds where some who were lackluster shone and those that were great had an off day, but guaranteed there was crying...a lot of crying. The final twenty-four got downsized to the 'Top Twelve'.

And it's at this point I actually start to watch the show seriously. If I happen to catch the other build-up shows so be it, but I couldn't be bothered to watch sometimes cringe-worthy singing and listening to 50 odd versions of Adele's 'Someone Like You', Christina's 'You are Beautiful' and/or Donny Hathaway's 'Song for You'. Some argue it's the best part of the show; I can take it or leave it.

Now every week, I'll watch quietly and make my criticism's loudly (at the beginning of what the judges are wearing, and at the end about the singing) - to Hubby - who at the same time over the last couple of months has done the washing up to avoid having to watch AI. Hey, at least the washing's done. Result shows do my pressure no good. I often end up yelling at the TV about who's in the bottom three and then make predictions of who will go home. Normally if I say 'Bob's going home', 'Ted' will be the one singing his final song. Then I'll pipe up saying, 'yeah thought as much, he wasn't as good...' I've never claimed to be Mystic Meg...

Last week's top three was as predicted (by fellow AI watchers, not me I hasten to add) but we were all shocked when Joshua got booted off. Then I started in with the sage sayings of 'he'll be fine', 'he'll be another Jennifer Hudson' blah, blah...so I've voted and voted....and voted for Philip Phillips. If he doesn't win, I always knew Jessica would.

Too Much Reality

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A news report on CNN stated that a man was suing the producers of 'The Bachelor' because they didn't have a black guy as a bachelor, or he wasn't chosen to be the bachelor because he was black...whatever, who cares.

Let's not make this a race thing; you're bitchin' 'cause you're making a point that all races are not represented on the show or is your need to be famous that important that you have throw the race card in there? Seriously, regardless of your color, you're telling me that you're happy to subject yourself to a nation passing judgement on your love life. Mate, it's a tough enough job to meet someone who gets you - but to do it on national TV?

Hubby and I have spent many a night flicking from one 'reality' program to the next just to watch something that isn't 'reality'! No kidding, the choice includes:

Beverley Hills Wives
Mob Wives
Basketball Wives
Momma's Boys
Auction Hunters (I actually like and watch this one)
Sons of Guns (another one that I'll watch)
American Pickers
Sweet Home Alabama
Storage Wars
Texas Storage Wars ('cause opening a storage unit in another state is SO different)
Toddlar's & Tiara's
Dance Mom's
Gun Smiths
Jersey Shore
Teen Mom...

I could go on but quite frankly, I don't care about 'real' people anymore - their ups and down's, their many conversations of 'no she didn't' or 'why get married, mom cooks for me...'

Hubby quite rightly said, 'I just want to watch some fiction.' When did light entertainment suddenly turn in to lets follow a bunch of people to see what they do everyday. Sorry, really not bothered. I never bought into the whole Big Brother thing and all these shows are bugging me (can you tell?). Please bring back the days of canned laughter, stage right exits and The Des O'Connor Show...

Grand National Tragedy

The Grand National for many a year has been my favorite race.

I used to beg my dad to make a bet for me when I couldn't go in to the bookies myself. As I got older, the thought of walking into a place filled with aging men, leaning on counters staring blankly at TV screens, betting slips strewn around their feet, a cigarette hanging from their mouth (before the smoking inside a public place ban), the tinge of stale beer clinging to the smoky air as their eyes swiveled to watch you approach the till, well, just didn't appeal - surprisingly!

But living next door to William Hill (we owned a sweet shop) meant that I knew everyone who hailed that place as their 'temple', so my fears and mild embarrassment soon abated.

I would read with a certain amount of frenzy the pages on Saturday morning of the race about the latest odds, the kind of ground (good, soft), the age of the horse, if the horse liked jumping fences...no more did I just rely on 'ah, he's wearing number 6, yeah I'll go for that one' or 'that name sounds good,' oh no, I did my research.

Last year I placed my bets online praising modern technology for once and this year, was no different. Unfortunately, I didn't win as I have done practically every year that I've placed a bet; each horse I backed fell. Worse still, two had to be put down - again. And despite Aintree making some improvements, the fences are still too high, there are too many horses racing and I think this may be my final year of betting.

As much as I love the majesty of this fine sport, I love the animals too. And I know there are those who say if a horse doesn't want to jump he won't, yet I can't help but feel that I've placed a bet on the death of these horses. Yes, that does sound a tad over dramatic, but that's how I'm feeling right now.

And who knows, next year as April approaches, and they've made the course really safe, I may well glance a causal eye over the form and make an imaginary bet.