If The Voice Existed for Writers what would we call it?

My husband and I are big television fans. I don’t really care what they say about it being an awful medium. That it’s dumb and watching too much of it is the sign of a lazy person, or whatever because I try not to listen to “they” most of the time if you know what I mean.

I think you do.

With our love for television we’re bound to have at least one or two reality shows on the list. “Don’t judge me monkey”, I’m not going to apologize for enjoying them. And I do enjoy them with limited commercial interruptions due to the beauty of DVR.

Guilty pleasures abound from Project Runway (Are you serious, you idiots got rid of Gunner? Ugh. I hope all the judges are wearing flowers next week in honor of the boring as hell one trick pony they held onto instead of the guy who actually seemed to want to be there. Whatevs.) to America’s Got Talent (However, yeah, Sharon, it’s our last show too because really “America”? You gave the $1,000,000 to flipping dogs over Tom Cotter – the most hilarious comic I’ve seen to grace a stage since Carlin. You just robbed that guy of what he was rightfully due. Consider yourself Idoled AGT - two fewer viewers next season.) Bath Crashers, Biggest Loser and the list goes on and on.

But the thing about those shows that draws me in isn’t the drama or backstabbing, what I love about them are the final products we get to see. Rooms that delight all the senses, models in the making, everyday dudes who develop into superstars, people who transform their entire lives starting with losing weight, the coolest couture, and comics that I now plan to internet stalk until he’s in my area and I can see the guy live. Yeah I’m lookin’ at you Cotter. Freaking robbed I tell ya.

But I digress…

My real question and/or point in all of this is that just about anything and everything has a reality show these days – clothes, voices, odd-balls, roller derby – but there’s nothing for Writers. WTF? How is that fair? Even actors get shows just for existing as an Actor. I’m lookin’ at you Matt LeBlanc. So where’s reality for Writers?

It could have a kick ass tag line like “Will she love him or kill him?” and feature newbies, Indies, seasoned pros or whoever else wants to guest star to whip up controversy. We’d get a quick and easy theme song like the one The Voice has – “This is The Voice!” – but with a twist tailored specifically to us – “This is the Prose!”

Perfect!

Yeah, yeah I know.

Truth is that the concept is pretty silly. I mean who wants to sit around watching a bunch of Writers click away on their keyboard in silence? Doesn’t exactly make for compelling television I guess.

At least on a show like Project Runway the designers can stand around chatting with each other while they sew or fit their garments. The drama builds through scenes when designers are chatting. But have you ever tried to have a conversation and write at the same time? Not easy.

So I guess Writers will need to continue to apply the tried and true method for instant fame after all – work your ass off for years and possibly still never become a household name or twitter hash tag.

Because, really? Instant fame? Pfft. Writers know what everyone on reality television knows. There is no such thing as overnight success regardless if you make it to television or not. Winning it all comes from decades of hard work and dedication to perfecting what you do.

Just ask Tom Cotter.

Because as far as I’m concerned, he won.

Bostonese for the Tourist

Sure I may live in the middle of nowhere now (yes that’s a joke) but at one time, for many years of my life, I grew in the city of Boston. We don’t get the distinction of being called “The City” as any New Yorker knows, but as any Townie knows, we’re “The” Town.

We’re so much “The” Town that we still call it Town if we grew up with Grandparents who were first generation.

No, Ma (Nomar!) I’m goin’ inta’ Town. Get Bobby ta help ya.

They’re a dying breed as more and more people flood The Town as newbies every year. And who could blame them? I mean, talk about per capita number of insanely great schools. But only the wicked hardy folk can make it through a wintah in Winter Hill if ya know what I mean. Yeah, I mean the literal season of winter. That shit is rough.

We’re the ones with the accent. I mean, too many famous people live in New York so there’s really no accent anymore. Right? I really have no clue if that’s true at all because I don’t live there now, nor have I ever lived there. Not to mention, nor do I ever plan to. Ugh, shudder, no. Way too much ‘overwhelming-ness of everything’ in Manhattan for me to handle. Even Boston was too much at times.

So last summer I guess you could say I put that “whole town in my reAH view” when Matt and I moved to Phoenix.

Yeah, I like metro Phoenix. You get all of the New York food, attitude, nightlife, fashion, sports (though the Coyotes are much more Boston in the loyalty style of the fan base and YES there is a fan base for hockey in the desert). But you don’t have to deal with any of the drama of the subways, smell of trash wafting to the sky, honking/ambulance sirens at all times, number of people crammed together in such a small space.

But not too many people came here from Boston. At least not that I’ve found just yet. I guess all us Irish think the sun will melt us or something. Well I haven’t fallen into a puddle of goo yet. Plus, I know it might be a big secret we transplant types aren’t supposed to reveal but my skin has never looked better and I’ve never felt healthier since I’ve lived here. Especially mentally. We get sky here. And sunshine. And just like the northeast we have 3 months of really extreme weather.

Only difference is we need cooling as opposed to heat. And the good news there is that cooling is way cheaper to pay for than heat. Plus there are pools to cool off in. Plus, there are lakes to cool off in too. And mountains. And the coast is only three hours away if you go to Mexico.

So anyway, because I’m one of very few Boston newbies in Phoenix of course I’m going to tell everyone how wicked pissa The Town is right? Because I want them to go and check it out if they haven’t already. See the sights, meet the Townies, eat the food, get a hug from Gramma on the way out the door. Oh & honey, grab her a beer on the way past the fridge before you go, would ya’?

You’re a doll.

Are You 55 or Wiser?

About three months ago I decided to stop coloring my hair. I also started growing it out. There were quite a few reasons for both decisions. First, I was somewhat tired of putting the chemicals on my person. Also, it seemed like a waste of never ending money going down the literal drain. As far as growing it out, well, that is more for personal comfort than anything else. If I want to have it off my neck I’ll be able to pull it back but the option of leaving it down is also appealing. With a chin length bob it’ll still be short but easier to do stuff with.

I drink copious gallons of water every week living in the desert and let me tell you, the hydration is great for my hair even if there are way more grays than I’d like to see sprouting out at age thirty-nine. The water here is hard though so I’ve had to adjust to a more scalp friendly conditioner. That’s okay, I like the apple smell and my hair feels soft.

This morning I went out and got myself a haircut. I told her that I was looking to grow it out to one length and she was fantastic with listening. She did a stack cut in the back to make it look kind of cute and hip. With longer bits in the front on the sides the cut kind of has a youthful edge and I love it. Just getting those mullet-esque pieces off my neck alone made me look lighter, fresher.

With my monthly Scottsdale Society of Women Writers meeting coming up tomorrow night I was looking forward to showing off my new cut but the clothing in my closet is somewhat lacking. I only have a couple dresses that fit me right. And most of my business type outfits are geared toward cooler weather. So after I came home and showered off the hair, I decided to peruse the selection at my local Goodwill Store and see if there might be something cute I could wear to the meeting.

Goodwill is one of my favorite stores to thrift shop in because I never fail to find something brand new, tags still on, that costs half the price (or less) of what it did in the original store it came from. Today was no exception only instead of one item I found two dresses, one pair of shorts, and two tops to match. One dress will be perfect at the meeting. It’s summery white linen with yellow, green and blue flowers dotting the fabric. The dress is soft and feminine and it looks pretty on me which I tend to struggle with most of the time.

While I was pawing through the tops one of my favorite old school club days songs came on. Pick on me if you like but “Dancing Queen” never failed to get me on the floor. Its slower and always a good one at weddings or to get all the girls together to shake some booty. Hey don’t judge me, I was clubbing eighteen years ago. And plus it wasn’t like I was in the clubs when the song first came out or anything.

Anyway, as soon as the familiar intro began I smiled. The song takes me back to specific days in the past; days I’m happy to leave in the past but still great times in my life. I flipped through a handful of tops that would have made an appearance at said clubs back in the day. Clothes I know I have no business wearing anymore. With those tops still on the rack I continued on.

I spent about an hour in the store trying things on and when I was done I headed for the open register. There was a taller kid, I’d guess about eighteen, working the register. I felt the irony that his mom was probably pushing him out into the world as I was applying mascara that would inevitably make its way halfway down my face before the night was over. We exchanged the usual pleasantries:

“Hi how are you today ma’am?”

“I’m fantastic thanks, how are you?”

“I’d be better if I got more than one hour of sleep last night.”

“Oh bummer.”

“Yeah, up ‘til about three in the morning.”

“Wow, I’m usually asleep for five hours by three in the morning.” I said and smiled.

I let the ma’am slide because in reality I could be this kid’s mother so it didn’t really bother me. Plus I always think it’s more polite than calling me lady or miss. I glanced down at the counter and started reading. There’s a charity donation going on and when he asked me the next thing I thought that’s what he was referring to so I said no thanks. He continued to stare at me for a second so I asked ‘wait, what?’ and he repeated:

“Are you fifty-five or wiser?”

I literally blinked for a full second and stared at the kid. Now don’t get me wrong, I know maybe I look more my age these days with the sporadic gray hairs and couple extra pounds around the mid-section but for goodness sake I’m not sitting home waiting for my AARP card or anything. Like I said, I could be the kid’s mother. Not his grandmother.

“Um, no.”

He proceeded to ring up my purchase, I paid him and thanked him then headed out to the car.  As I pulled away all I could think was that maybe it’s time to look into henna. And go dancing.