Operation Mini-Skirt Status: -38 lbs.
I was bemoaning the fact that I've not written a decent word of fiction since I returned from the U.K. I was whinging via email to poor Jude, and as soon as I pressed send, I also realised that I've not picked up a decent book since I've returned, so it's my own damn fault. Mental note. Get thee to a bookstore. Pick up something new and brilliant. Or else, re-read the classics. Now that I think of it, I've not looked at Steinbeck in so long, it's unforgivable. And if there's anyone's work that truly inspires greatness from my little mind, it's his. Oh, and Salinger. But I get a little crazier everytime I read Salinger. He provides me with a wonderful mix of seemingly harmless letters that turn themselves into raw and pungent phrases which somehow permeates my brain and elicits something I can be, well, proud of. Somehow, every time I bite into Franny and Zooey, it's absolutely necessary to follow it up with the mad rush of smoking pencil on the nearest scrap of paper. Is that healthy? Probably not. I should be able to produce without the help of The Greatness of J.D., but then, weren't most of the great writers of our times raging alcoholics? At least my liver still functions. We get our help from different areas, I guess... Just to be safe though, as soon as I get off this damn diet, I'm going to start having after-work martinis....
* * *
The party last night.
Huh. Well. I wasn't roasted and served alongside the canapés. I was made to feel welcome into what is truly a large and beautiful home. I also learned a few things.
Big Scary Piranha is not as big and scary as I originally thought. That doesn't mean he's completely harmless, but I'm not quite so afraid to swim in his waters anymore. Yes, he can be dominating, and petulant if he doesn't get his way, but he's human, and remembering that goes a long way. You'd be surprised at how easy it is to forget that at the end of the day, even Big Scary Piranhas have to go home and make their own martinis.
So now, instead of scurrying by, hoping not to get noticed by His Highness, I just might venture a smile. Maybe.
Oh, and of course, it was a karaoke party last night. Good Lord, I sang! I SANG! See, now, I'm the first to admit that my voice is so flat, you can use it to cover your floors. But they did something with the levels or the sound or, I don't know, the volume maybe? Anyway, they did something so that no matter how bad you are, it's still not that bad! I was up at the beginning of the evening with an off-key but lively version of Can't Take My Eyes Off Of You. I also thoroughly destroyed one of my favourite songs by performing a duet with a fabulous singer. He did Neil, and I did Barbra, and together, we proved that even though You Don't Bring Me Flowers Anymore, I probably don't deserve them anyway! I shared To Sir, With Love with another great voice, who thankfully carried the song. Near the end of the evening, with great joy, I realised that one of my absolute, howl-in-the-shower, sing my lungs out, hip-bumping favourites was available, and gleefully requested it. That's when the accumulated guests were treated to the complete song and dance! number, complete with well-placed bottom wiggles and hip thrusts, a Peggy Lee standard of great standing... your own Mare-Ingenii tore the hell out of Big Spender.
(You know, at this point, I don't care what the truth is. It coulda happened! Maybe it did, maybe it didn't... whatever it was, it was damn fun!)
And now, another day is starting, to be followed by another weekend. Going dancing tomorrow night. You should do the same. Getting your groove on is good for the soul.
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