Smash Script

Short bursts of brilliance

Sun, 12 Sep 2010 10:27:00 -0500

I wrote the post below about a year ago on the day I decided to start training for a half marathon. My friends know that this short-lived wave of determination and productivity came to a crashing halt upon the unfortunate breaking of my eff-ing leg. I managed to fracture my tibia while running around Lake Normandale, and spent the next four weeks lumbering around on crutches (which I now refer to as “death sticks”). In fact, this year has been filled with a parade of tried and failed attempts at “doing something new” which resulted in moderate to severe injury to my physical person. I find this both hilarious and depressing. There was the “I’m going to be a cute snow bunny and conquer learning to snowboard” phase, which resulted in a cracked sacrum (just above the tailbone, for those who are not anatomy majors) and my not being able to bend at the waist without tearing up for several weeks. There was the “death by kayak” incident in which I fancied myself an expert rower moving gracefully through the Gulf of Mexico. One near concussion and subdural hematoma later, I humbly dragged myself out of the ocean. Said hematoma is still not officially healed nearly six months later – weird? You be the judge. Notwithstanding the aforementioned broken leg, my personal favorite was the loss of my right eardrum due to an unfortunate incident with a Q-Tip. This by far wins the prize as the most painful injury of the year. Just a split second after the boyfriend innocently opened the bathroom door to ask me if I would like to eat a cheddar brat for lunch (yes, please), I fell to my knees and nearly blacked out. “Pain beyond the world,” this moment where blinding pain and immediate deafness collide, has been described best by Stephen King when he endured a similar fate. Indeed. I’m sure there are more painful things in the world, and I am very grateful to not have met them yet. Although I’m sure they are lurking hot on my trail given my track record. Yet, despite the mounting evidence that karma may have a beef with me, I really have never been happier in my life. Go figure.

One of my girlfriends once received a fantastic e-mail from a potential suitor in which he was explaining his forwardness in asking her out after just seeing her photo - “Life is too short to lack balls..” Awesome. That hilarious phrase has stuck with me and could possibly be part of the reason I seem to keep getting in over my head. Perhaps the universe is telling me to tone down the ballsiness, just a bit - just for a while.

So I have decided to go back to a different type of endeavor that, please God, cannot result in any foreseeable injury. Climb Mt. Everest? Run a marathon? Me thinks not, sweet girl. Endurance is not your game. Let’s settle for a few short bursts of brilliance, and see if we can turn a dazzling phrase or two, shall we? Now the trick will be to figure out what to write about. I have always been a bookworm and had a lot of time to read during my days of being laid up. The more books I consume, the more inspired and discouraged I get. Is there anything left that hasn’t been written about? All of my trials and tribulations – all of my best shit - seems to already be on paper in some form or another. To highlight a few: 1) Hideous divorce followed by quest to reclaim and rejuvenate life – Elizabeth Gilbert pretty much cornered the market on that one and put a cherry on top by having Julia Roberts play her in Eat Pray Love. Nice work ma’am. 2) The unbearable heartache and persisting love that comes with having a sibling with a serious illness and disability. I could write volumes about the amazing being that is my brother. Unfortunately, these themes have been obligingly covered (and made into a movie) by Jodi Picoult in My Sister’s Keeper, along with several other wonderful books (oh the angst of it all!). 3) My hilarious eardrum incident already described in brilliant detail by Stephen King – well done sir. 4) Even my foul mouthed snarkiness has already been done better by another MN writer, Diablo Cody. If only I’d had the balls to be a stripper 10 years ago when I had a wash board stomach (strictly for writing material, of course). 5) And my gigantic, enmeshed, passive aggressive, yet loving and well intentioned family? Well I could swear Jonathan Franzen may have moved into my parents’ basement while writing part of that amazing book, The Corrections, (my favorite). All of my blunders in general (like the time I got hit by an Isuzu Rodeo while running on the River Road - long story) are a bit Bridget Jones-esque, and I’m quite sure the general population could not stomach another floundering thirty something (oh Christ, she was probably in her 20’s). Take away the British accent and it’s a pretty hard sell.

I am aware that because I wasted my formative years on a popularity quest, my college years on drinking, my 20’s (the cutest and most vibrant decade of my life) on a salty, depressing, juvenile marriage – that I am a little late to the party of putting pen to paper. Sure I can turn a phrase with some manner of witty vocab – man do I love a good bit of phraseology. A colorful well played sentence can really put a smile on my face. I love words – I love when they are well chosen and surprising and poignant and thoughtful. I can get lost in words and live there for days. But mine are short bursts – stunted. Where is the story? It’s like I’m writing snappy jingles instead of an overture. Give me characters, give me plot and conflict! I can flourish up the in betweens just fine.

Yet the universe calls, the mind churns, the pen moves. Where? I have no idea. Let’s find the point and find it fast. It’s just on the tip of my cloudy cortex trying to find its way out. Short bursts of brilliance? For now - yes, please I’ll take it.

A little something I wrote last year

Sat, 11 Sep 2010 18:46:00 -0500

Oct 31, 2009

It’s Halloween. An unusually sunny fall day in Minneapolis. The kind of day that deceives you into thinking you should put on that cute tank top to squeeze the last enjoyable bits of nice weather out of the year, only to feel the sting of the 48 degree wind across your frozen nips when you step outside. I furrow my brow into the now automatic crease that has become a fixture on my 32 year old face, and demand my inner self to answer the same question for the thousandth time, “Why the fuck do I live here?” I hurl myself into the front seat of my Jetta and turn on the seat warmers (God, I love this new car). I point her begrudgingly toward the gym with the intention of doing what needs to be done. And by that I mean, waging some small resistance against the hints of sag and chub that have begun to settle in over my once very petite frame. Given the volume of beer that I have taken to processing lately, it all seems a bit futile, but for now I will dutifully give it a whirl anyway.

On my way home from the gym my muscles are already complaining and aching, further accentuating the fact that I have not used them in a while. As I drive past lake that is nearest my house, more suckers have gotten too excited about the sunshine and are wrapping their sleeveless arms around themselves as they make their way around the walking path. A few are even getting a jump on the evening’s festivities and are already sporting cat ears and witches hats. Calm down people, it’s not even noon. I will say there are a good number of Minnesotans who are just really go getters. They are a hearty stock, with annoyingly positive attitudes and don’t let any kind of weather stop them from schlepping themselves outside to enjoy what nature has to offer. I would unfortunately not put myself in this category, hence my visit to the gym instead of hitting the lake trail. I’m kind of a puss about the weather, but I usually blame it on the fact that I was not born here and I waited until college to make my debut in the Great White North. That kind of all weather gumption can only be genetically passed down to those who are born and bred in this cruel tundra. I have named this lake number 83. I don’t know why, but since MN has over 10,000 lakes, I liked the idea of knowing where my lake stood in the line up. I decide to pull into the parking lot of #83 and take in the scenery for a minute. It is here, as I watch the stream of speed walkers and stroller pushers parade past my windshield, that I begin to try to puzzle out what has been bothering me. I glaze over and slip deeply into my inner thoughts. I’m close to something good.

I’m not sure if I figured anything out except that I have decided that today is Day 1. Day 1 of trying to make some shit happen. Until now, I didn’t have a whole lot of motivation to address whatever was creating the bubbling undercurrent of my quiet discontent. I think I was spurred into action by the slow smoldering fear that my insanely cute boyfriend was beginning to perceive me as a lazy fuck. OK, so that is really just pure vanity. I mean laziness is not exactly sexy. But that was just the initial jolt, and one that I needed. After a few days of pondering his proposal (no, not the big proposal – we seem to have a blockage there folks, more on that later) I am starting to gather up and put into place some of the pieces of what I needed to try to do, but there is still more to figure out. Perhaps I need a few more nights of solitary heavy drinking to puzzle those out. I’m telling you, drinking alone is good for the soul every now and then. I once nearly unlocked the keys to the universe while sitting at Gluek’s bar alone on a Thursday night. It was a rare clarity brought on by Jim Beam and water that I have been striving to replicate ever since.

So what’s the big doings? First, a little background. I live with a boy (OK, he is 35 and very manly) who is a go getter in every sense of the word. A “doer” if you will. He owns a successful business, is a creative genius, a fantastic musician, drives a motorcycle, and among the many other wondrous things about him, the man can make me laugh like no other. He has that perfect kind of wit that is both biting and intelligent, yet never overtried. I would describe him as a perfect marry of the boy who grew up on a farm, then found his real talent in the city. He is mechanical and stylish at the same time. He is in a word - “impressive.” We have been dating for 3 years and he is quite honestly one of the greatest things that I have had the pleasure to stumble across in this thing called life. I think he is drawn to the fact that I can make him laugh his ass off and I am as a rule, pretty easy going with all things related to his manhood and his independence in general. Other than that, I would just say that I was hit by the luck truck, and for now mine is not to question God’s plan.

And the girl? Well she is cute, but not as cute as she used to be. I’ve endured a fair amount of what I like to call mello-trauma, which has taken a slight toll on the buoyancy of my youth. I’ve been noticing that the hints of lines on my face betray my jaded inner psyche with increasing frequency. I’m 32 and I fall into the sweetly sickening category of divorcee. Ha! The word seems ridiculous and hardly does the situation justice. I should be referred to as a girl who at 23, stupidly (very stupidly) married the boy who was the life of the party and then escaped by the seat of her pants, with a mountain of debt and regret, after said boy obligingly turned into a full blown drug addict. I will decidedly not waste this pretty font or any more time on this mess of a human being, who I suppose, since I was raised Catholic, I must still refer to as one of God’s creatures. Let’s suffice it to say that I was 9 weeks pregnant when I discovered for the first time the little darling hoovering cocaine through a rolled dollar bill in the garage of our delightfully suburban townhome. I ended up having a miscarriage a few weeks later, which was a very sad but blissful blessing. I then, after a litany of codependence speak and various sham like attempts at rehab, started the long haggard road to divorce and finally sealed the deal right after I turned 29. The lovely dear’s last words to me were, and I quote: “go fuck yourself you fucking cunt.” Sent via text message thank you very much. I only mention all of this to help justify the slightly biting, jaded and cynical tone that may or may not tend to permeate the pages to follow.

Let me be clear. Despite a bit of a rough go in my 20’s, I really don’t have a God damn thing to complain about. I am healthy, aside from an unfortunate incident with a Q-tip this summer that resulted in a giant rupture in my ear drum, and some measure of residual deafness (you can’t make this shit up). I am educated and have the degree to prove it. I have great friends and as I mentioned, a great guy who loves me like crazy. I often laugh until my face hurts. By all accounts, life is good, real good. In fact, so good that my sister has become less and less shy about letting me know how good I have it, and that she wouldn’t mind if I would just shut the fuck up about my life in general. Noted.

But still, I feel compelled to say more and to write more. A kind of therapeutic throwing up on the page. Feel free to skim, or not to tune in at all - this is mostly about me making friends with my demons, and embracing the dark passenger that still visits me, more often than I would like, in my deepest sleep. Oh, and it’s about me becoming a writer. See you soon.

"Hope won’t weigh you down"

Sun, 05 Sep 2010 12:38:46 -0500

“Hope won’t weigh you down”

- Halloween Alaska

Italy is good for the soul

Fri, 27 Aug 2010 10:10:00 -0500

Italy is good for the soul