Dispatches from the City of Angels
I'm a writer and humorist living in and writing about Los Angeles. You can catch my novel LOSING CLEMENTINE out March 6 from William Morrow. In the meantime, feel free to poke around. Over at my website you can find even more blog entries than I could fit here, as well as a few other ramblings. Enjoy and come back often.
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"Taint what a horse looks like, it’s what a horse be." - A Hat Full of Sky by Terry Pratchett
"Trying to take it easy after you've finished a manuscript is like trying to take it easy when you have a grease fire on a kitchen stove." - Jan Burke
"Put on your big girl panties, and deal with it." - Mom
"How you do anything is how you do everything."
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He's hot, hot, hot
It started with a librarian in Texas several years ago, a lovely woman more than old enough to be my mother.
Her: "Wow, your husband is really handsome."
Me: "Um...er...yeah...well, yes. Thank you."
Now, I've ALWAYS thought my husband was handsome. He is, after all, my husband, and a base level of attraction is a prerequisite. What I have not, over the past thirteen years of our relationship, been prepared for is the number of other women who would suddenly discover this, a veritable flood of Holly-come-latelies. Frankly, I'm becoming concerned.
Loyal blog readers may have noticed that my dear groom takes a fair bit of good-natured ribbing on my part. The Curious Incident of the Eclairs in the Nighttime springs to mind. (See my website, www.ahream.com. Click on "blog" and then "The funniest dang thing I've ever seen.")
It would be fair to say he's a little goofy. It would also be fair to say he's hot. Unequivocally and undeniably hot. And it's causing me no small amount of grief. I just wasn't prepared. It turns out he's one of those people who actually get better looking with a few years on the calendar and a few lines around the eyes. I've spent a goodly amount of time wishing bad things on just those kind of people, all the while unaware one had slipped into the house entirely undetected.
It was last year when the wheels really came off the wagon.
My mother: "He's very good looking, you know."
Me: "Mom!"
Mom: "Well, he is."
Me: "MOM!"
Jesus.
Yes, okay, he has eyes a color of blue the Crayola people should work on reproducing. And yes, several years of devout gym-going have produced shoulders that stubbornly refuse to fit neatly into any dress shirt made by man. And then there are the dimples. But by God, they're MY dimples!
Last night, yet another lovely lady broached what is fast becoming the number one topic of conversation in my life, and despite the innocent nature of the compliment, I was irrationally seized by the sudden need to drive stakes into the ground surrounding him and run several hundred rows of razor wire around them. It's possible I growled. There may have been spitting.
A new sheet of paper has gone up on our refrigerator. "Husband Rule #1: No leaving the house. Husband Rule #2: No leaving the house. Husband Rule #3: See rules 1 and 2."
I have to go buy razor wire.
Her: "Wow, your husband is really handsome."
Me: "Um...er...yeah...well, yes. Thank you."
Now, I've ALWAYS thought my husband was handsome. He is, after all, my husband, and a base level of attraction is a prerequisite. What I have not, over the past thirteen years of our relationship, been prepared for is the number of other women who would suddenly discover this, a veritable flood of Holly-come-latelies. Frankly, I'm becoming concerned.
Loyal blog readers may have noticed that my dear groom takes a fair bit of good-natured ribbing on my part. The Curious Incident of the Eclairs in the Nighttime springs to mind. (See my website, www.ahream.com. Click on "blog" and then "The funniest dang thing I've ever seen.")
It would be fair to say he's a little goofy. It would also be fair to say he's hot. Unequivocally and undeniably hot. And it's causing me no small amount of grief. I just wasn't prepared. It turns out he's one of those people who actually get better looking with a few years on the calendar and a few lines around the eyes. I've spent a goodly amount of time wishing bad things on just those kind of people, all the while unaware one had slipped into the house entirely undetected.
It was last year when the wheels really came off the wagon.
My mother: "He's very good looking, you know."
Me: "Mom!"
Mom: "Well, he is."
Me: "MOM!"
Jesus.
Yes, okay, he has eyes a color of blue the Crayola people should work on reproducing. And yes, several years of devout gym-going have produced shoulders that stubbornly refuse to fit neatly into any dress shirt made by man. And then there are the dimples. But by God, they're MY dimples!
Last night, yet another lovely lady broached what is fast becoming the number one topic of conversation in my life, and despite the innocent nature of the compliment, I was irrationally seized by the sudden need to drive stakes into the ground surrounding him and run several hundred rows of razor wire around them. It's possible I growled. There may have been spitting.
A new sheet of paper has gone up on our refrigerator. "Husband Rule #1: No leaving the house. Husband Rule #2: No leaving the house. Husband Rule #3: See rules 1 and 2."
I have to go buy razor wire.
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