The Return of Pandemonic

I can hardly believe it has been three years since I posted as Pandemonic. However, lest you think I have been lazy, incarcerated, or perhaps both, my real life person has been busy writing novels. Also busy working in the Real Life business, but that’s boring.

So far, I have completed three novels, self-published one, and am in the process of editing the other two. Also working on finishing a fourth. So I have been very busy. I’ve also been blogging in my real name.

So why would I come back to the Pandemonic blog?

In a word, anonymity. I love that while here, I am a nameless, faceless pandemonic person. My other blog features my real name. There I feel as though I can’t quite cut loose as myself. You always have to worry about stepping on someone’s toes. If you can say one thing about the modern man, most of us are too sensitive to take a joke, and too closed minded to look at things from varying perspectives.

This is why Pandemonic’s Time and Space was started: as a way to vent and bitch and moan and be politically incorrect without suffering the slings of Internet trolls. Been there, done that, and I can tell you, it’s no fun.

I nearly forgot the password and the email address I had used to launch this area of WordPress. But…obviously not. Perhaps I am not getting as old as I thought I was.

Anywhooo…I will be changing around the look of the blog. I feel a bigger need for anonymity.

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Euphoria and the Real World

As I was taking my shower today, I thought about a few things. (You must know I was taking my shower, because many times I sing and few times I think. There’s something about the scent of sandalwood that causes my mind to synapse.)

One thing I thought of was euphoria.

The event that came to mind was when my youngest, darling Ms. MiniD was born. I had spent twelve hours in labor and was really proud of myself for my counting abilities. Mr. D Jr. was born by emergency C-section meaning I was heavily drugged and missed the entire show. Mr. D also missed the birth of D Jr, because as he was getting ready and putting on his scrubs to go into the operating room all pristine and pure, he put the hat on his feet and his footie on his head. The doctor took one look and told him to wait outside.

Ms. MiniD’s birth, however, was splendid by comparison. I was counting to a song which vanished from my memory as soon as she squirted out. I was so involved in counting that I didn’t notice anything else, including my husband. The baby had crowned and the doctor, who had a cheesecake waiting for her in another room, admonished me to push. I wasn’t ready, so I held her in. Besides, I was going for midnight, when I would have two whole days in the hospital instead of one day. Insurance, you know.

Ms. MiniD ruined that for me by bursting forth eighteen minutes early. Mr. D placated my ire by bringing me steak and lobster take out the next day.

What does this have to do with euphoria? Well, euphoria kept me counting. Lamaze was going well.

Euphoria also caused my husband to say just moments after Ms. MiniD was placed on my stomach, “Let’s do this again!” Mind you, she was still covered in goo and slimy. The doctor took one look at him and then at me and shook her head.

Of course, he doesn’t remember saying that. He was in the rapture of the moment.

Love often makes one euphoric. For women, it causes them to remember. I can remember the day I met Mr. D. It was October 29, 1983. I also vividly remember our first date which was January 13, 1984. There’s something about a red rose hand delivered in a raging snowstorm that sticks in the memory banks.

I can see why some people fall in love with being in love. There’s something seductive and addicting to the euphoric state. It’s a lot like falling out of an airplane. I imagine it might be like shooting up heroin.

I’m imagining there’s a bit of euphoria in the Mr. D Jr house these days, he and the wife being married and all. (Boy, does that feel funny to call her “the wife.” That’s what my husband used to call me. Now he doesn’t call me anything. He doesn’t have to.) Mr. & Mrs. D Jr have always been a mushy pair.

I suppose Ms. MiniD is euphoric being back in SoCal. If I were in California, I’d be happy too. It would mean I somehow came into a pile of money and could afford to live there. I’m still stuck in the Tundra so it’s a pipe dream and my happiness level is a little low.

Come to think of it, when you get older, euphoria is not a waste a time but it’s just so unnecessary. I can’t remember the last time I felt that way. Well, yes I can.

🙂

And Now For Something Silly…

Okay, I know I’ve been entirely too morose lately. Blame it on economics, SAD and an extended winter.

My next novel is already cranking. It’s a bona fide chick-lit piece, and I’m trying to use all of the concepts I learned during the recent writers’ conference I attended. It’s light, it’s funny (I hope), and it’s a diversion that I am counting on changing my mood.

So I will share with you today the first couple of paragraphs.

Chapter 1

If you think I wanted to come back to the imagined warm embrace of the family home, you don’t know me at all. To return as a grown adult, contrite and groveling, tail between my legs, and hat in hand looking for a soft place to land? Oh, no, no, no. That’s not the life for me. I left this burg fifteen years ago for the sole purpose of avoiding my mother’s utterance of those death knell words “I told you so.” Making my escape from the confines of small-town living in Royal Oak and turning my back on its soul-sucking heartache was my life’s crowning achievement. The operative word is ‘was.’ My unblemished record of success now sports the big, fat ugly zit of failure.

My mother, the infamous Diana Ventimiglia, took an uncanny skill for inflicting guilt and formed a lifelong career out of “I told you so.” The “I told you so” business is so lucrative, it’s afforded her a fat retirement account. I’m sure she even gives herself periodic bonuses for outstanding performance in “I told you so.” If she ever retires as Jewish mama wannabe, which will be now… let’s see, never? perhaps I’ll find peace in my heart. By that time, there’ll be a colony on Mars, the budget will be balanced with plenty of zeros in the black and thousands of years of Middle Eastern conflict will be but an unpleasant afterthought, too. Oh, yes. And don’t forget; donkeys will fly.

I think I will go and do something creative now.

Chaotic Updates

1. The lady from the business card place finally emailed. She was called out of the country for a week, but has promised that my order is placed and will be forwarded posthaste to my son in San Francisco. She also implied there would be a little token enclosed for my tearing my hair out. I hope it’s a wig.

2. I finally hooked up with my attorney. He was in LA, then he was backed up with work when he arrived here on Monday. A vigorous volley of phone tag then ensued. Finally, I called his cell this morning, and he answered it! We had a nice chat, and he was quite helpful about my legal loose ends regarding the end of my book. As luck would have it, his firm has an entertainment lawyer. One of his clients is Elmore Leonard. He offered to read my chicky-book. I asked him “how much” and he said complimentary. I asked, are you sure? It’s a chick book, and he said yes.

3. Cosmetics. A boatload of them came in the mail today. Hallelujah. I hope I remember how to use them.

4. The ending. It’s drawing near. I think I’m a chapter and a half away. This means I should be typing those magic words “The End” by dusk on Sunday.

5. My cheerleaders have been busy cheering and urging (egging?) me on. I am grateful for it, because there were times I might have jumped under the covers and said “screw this noise” – actually, there were a couple of dozen times I’ve felt that way in the last 72 hours alone. So, keep nagging, cajoling, goading, pushing, harassing, bullying, coaxing, hounding, needling, badgering, bothering, spurring, hassling, heckling, riding, nudging, pleading, provoking and poking me along. (Can you tell my Thesaurus and I are close friends?) I need it.

Anyway, things are falling into place.

There is a God, and she is great… 🙂

The Chicken Begins Running With Her Head Off

In eight days, I will be in San Francisco, in advance of a writers’ conference I signed up for last year.

I had good intentions. I paid for the conference back in March. I paid for my plane ticket back in September. I have lined up a rental car using gift certificates, so that’s taken care of. I even have my son dropping me off at the hotel location, because it’s in a very congested and chi-chi area of downtown and parking is $80 a day.

I have toiled at my novel full steam since the first of November. I’ve somehow managed to add an additional 100,000 words since then. There are three, maybe four more chapters to go. I’ve been good, even though I’ve done other things, like work, eat, play the violin, make jewelry, etc. There was the holiday and the extended stay of Ms. MiniD, always a disruptive influence. I’ve even had time to be sick.

Now comes crunch time, and I feel like a chicken with her head cut off.

I have been working with an online business card company that specializes in authors. I had trouble sending in my photograph (actually, the real trouble came finding one that doesn’t make me look like a serial killer) and my emails kept bouncing back. It’s been ten days, and so far no word. In a panic, I emailed again on Saturday. Nothing.

I still need to get with an attorney so I can wrap up the novel. That’s because an attorney plays a prominent part in the ending. I have emailed our business attorney, hoping for some free input. The guy is nice, but he’s one of those super-slick shyster dudes, and his office, in a very trendy neighborhood, likely has a high lease. However, I feel comfortable with him, so I even promised to pay. Hopefully, he’ll be like my other advisors and will take a mention in the beginning of the book instead.

Finally, I have new clothes and have been exercising like a fiend to fit into my old ones. Some writer who sends me newsletters suggested I get a smokin’ hot red dress. I don’t want to look like a hooker, so I bought some red cashmere sweaters instead. After my daughter returned to school (that was the longest six weeks of my life), I found out she raided my bathroom and all my cosmetics are GONE. (I might slap on some make up once in a blue friggin’ moon, so I expect it all to be there when I need it.)

I hope I don’t look like a boob. There’s always the possibility I might laugh too hard, look needy, or become unexpectedly mute.

GAH!

Oh, My God. This is My Book?

Thank you to BibioMom. Now I know the truth.



You’re Lolita!
by Vladimir Nabokov
Considered by most to be depraved and immoral, you are obsessed with
sex. What really tantalizes you is that which deviates from societal standards in every
way, though you admit that this probably isn’t the best and you’re not sure what causes
this desire. Nonetheless, you’ve done some pretty nefarious things in your life, and
probably gotten caught for them. The names have been changed, but the problems are real.
Please stay away from children.


Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

My Book

Throwing Off the Monkey on the Laziness Back

There must be something wrong with me.

Every so often, I get into something and it takes over my entire life. You will probably recall my foray into the world of beads. For a long time, I could be found in the “bead room” aka my son’s old room (he’s never coming back, so I figured, why waste the space?), playing with wire and glass. I began to frequent the local Michaels and Joann Fabrics looking for pieces. I’d walk in searching for a clasp and walk out with $50 worth of glitter. I also went to every bead show within 50 miles of home. Even some of my WordPress “friends” turned me onto more places where I could buy beads. This is much like giving an alcoholic a fine wine “just for a taste.”

My fascination with creating jewelry went on for weeks. My trip to California back in October ended my bead craze. I had purchased some interesting beads from a little store in the Castro, and when I came back to the bead room and deposited them into my little trays, they beckoned me, all shiny and glimmering in the late afternoon sun. However, my muse had mysteriously vanished and I had no idea what to do with all the glass hearts I had purchased.  So now I am stuck with many hundreds of dollars worth of beads and no muse.

Next came NaNoWriMo, and I’m glad that obsession overtook me, because now I am more than 2/3 finished with the novel. Of course, once I achieved the magic goal of 50K words, my muse again left me all alone with Mr. Laziness, damn her. I’ve worked on the book only sporadically since the first of December.

People who know me here probably know me from a different web site located in the far reaches of the internet. I spent a lot of time in that place, and it wasn’t just for the bonanza of gift cards that I received just for being there. (Although I must say, that was a nice bonus.) I really liked the people there. There was a lot of witty repartee going on, some drama, and some of the most interesting writing from some of the most twisted minds around. I found My Internet Boyfriend there, and we’ve been friends ever since. But the place was uber addicting, a huge time-sucking venture. I found that I had to log in, even when times were tough and some people were acting troll-like and mean.

When I cut myself off from that place, I had to do it with a complicated suicide event that spanned several months. Even after I said my final goodbye and signed off, I signed back in a couple of times as one of my alters, just to read my favorite peeps. However, I’ve been good since then and not signed on as anyone since last March or so.

And now I move on to the current addiction-du-jour. I hate to admit it, but it’s Facebook.

Once used solely as an instrument in stalking my children, Facebook has, in the past several weeks, been enormously fun and addicting. This is likely because several of the peeps from the original web site have discovered Facebook and came out from the cold. It’s nice to see my old friends again. I’ve missed a certain craziness from that “other” place. It was humorous, and I needed some fun injections into an otherwise dreary life.

If you aren’t on Facebook, you should be warned that there are several game applications that you can add to your profile. I discovered a couple of word games on Facebook that are so addicting, I find it hard to tear myself away. (When I was younger, you could give me a dictionary or a volume of encyclopedia and I’d be in heaven for hours. I like words.) I couldn’t really play some of the games on there that MIB or other friends liked, such as Knighthood and the like. I just couldn’t get it. Playing with my imaginary cat also lost its appeal after a week or so. (I believe my cyber kitty Matty is now dead, or close to it. I haven’t checked on him in weeks. He’s got to be both hungry and thirsty.) Kanji Box is helpful, because I’m attempting to learn Japanese, so I’m looking at that game as an educational tool.

No. That’s just an excuse.

The Little Cat says I spend too much time there, and I have to agree, albeit sheepishly. Granted, the time spent on the dreaded FB is the same as during my work hours at my real job, but still, I could be doing something productive, instead of chasing my tail around trying to beat Kathleen‘s high score in Scramble. (Damn her, she’s a freaking machine!)

So anyway, this week, I’m not signing into Facebook.

That’s the only way I can get that damnedable monkey off my back.