Movie Review: Zombieland

As many of you may know, I'm not much of a girl for horror movies. They scare me much more than just a little. (Because I believe them, but that's a whole 'nother blog in and of itself.)

So it came as something of a shock to my husband when I asked, nay demanded, to see 'Zombieland' this weekend. Because I did so demand. Loudly and with great insistence.

You see, 'Zombieland' isn't so much a horror movie as it is an action comedy. And I love me some action and comedy. And 'Zombieland' did not disappoint. Point blank, I loved this movie.

First off, let me say that the trailers actually do this movie justice. They show you exactly what it is without revealing all the big moments or all the belly laughs. If you like the trailer, you'll love the movie.

Next is the cast. No one does 'wacked out, good ol' boy with more savvy than you realize' better than Woody Harrelson. This may be my favorite role of his, ever. The rest of the cast are great, too. And there's a surprise cameo that a room full of zombies couldn't get me to 'spoil', but it's both perfect and hilarious. Easily the best cameo since Billy Zane, that cool dude, announced it was a walk-off. (Waves to other 'Zoolander' fans out there. I guess I like 'Z' movies.)

The storyline is presented in a fresh and funny way, and the stunts are way cool. I'm sure the movie's making some kind of social commentary, but I didn't bother to try to find it or figure it out -- it was enough fun that I didn't have to.

Now, for the zombies. They're gross and scary while managing to be funny at the same time. I consider that a hard trick to pull off. Someone compared this movie to 'An American Werewolf in London', but I think 'Zombieland' is far better. I hated AAWIL, for starters, and I loved 'Zombieland'. I also think 'Zombieland' has a real chance of standing the test of time without becoming hilariously dated. Time, of course, will tell, but my money's always on the funny.

Even my husband, Mr. Contrary, enjoyed it. He said he didn't feel the need to see it again, but he really liked it in the theater.

Well, when it comes out on DVD, he doesn't have to watch it with me, now, does he?

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Young Writer Scholarship Opportunity

An agent friend of mine has a great scholarship opportunity that I'd like to publicize. It's centered around the Society of Southwestern Author's conference in Tucson at the end of September, 2009, however you don't have to be a Tucson resident to apply or win, you just need to be able to get to Tucson and attend the conference.

Details below...

*****
I would like to introduce a scholarship opportunity to a high school-aged young writer in the Tucson area for the Wrangling with Writing Conference in September 2009. First, let me tell you a little about our program, so you have an idea about the organization that is offering this opportunity.

I am the president and founder of Capitol City Young Writers (CCYW), a national non-profit organization dedicated to the education and inspiration of young writers. CCYW’s goal is to educate members on the art and craft of writing and to provide opportunities for young writers to pursue their writing and literary dreams.

CCYW provides career exploration, writing workshops, scholarships, internships and leadership opportunities. Members discover the skills necessary to enter literary related careers such as editing, journalism or broadcast radio. From fiction and non-fiction, to poetry, screenwriting, songwriting and broadcast radio, students are supported through workshops bringing professionals and mentors together in local communities through online tutorials, annual conferences, a youth run literary journal, writing and audio competitions, and mentoring.

Because I believe in the power of community, I attempt to bring as many opportunities to local young writers in the form of scholarships to local writers’ conferences. The Society of Southwestern Authors has provided CCYW with two scholarships to their writers’ conference from September 25th-27th. The scholarship provides tuition only and not the cost of travel, lodging or meals. Scholarships are open to high school students only and a parent must accompany the member. Scholarships are only available to CCYW members. For more information about the conference, please visit http://ssa-az.org/.

For more information about the organization or membership, please visit the CCYW website, www.capitolcityyoungwriters.com.

Feel free to contact me with any questions.

Thank you,
Verna Dreisbach

Founder and President of CCYW
verna@capitolcityyoungwriters.com
*****
Verna's the greatest and the CCYW is a wonderful organization, and I encourage anyone who fits the requirements to try for this scholarship.

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My Personal Farewell to General Motors

Over the course of my life, I've owned more than one GM product and driven many more than I've owned. And it's not nice to kick a corporation when they're down and all, but I'm going to anyway. GM? We are through. Sure, I may one day get a Corvette, but it'll be a vintage Corvette and you won't have anything to do with it by that time. And, as for your flagship brand, I have this to say -- Cadillac sucks.

You may ask, why the GM animosity all of a sudden? And, really, it wasn't always like this between me and GM. My first car was a used 1970 Chevy 4-door Impala. Seated 12 on the inside and 6 in the trunk. I loved that car. It was like my own personal tank. I hit things, but I never knew about it. The things I hit knew, but you never felt so much as a shimmy inside.

So, I had a predisposition to GM cars young. Not that it stopped me from buying other cars. The first two cars I bought with my own money were Mazdas, which I drove until they died. After those, however, I wasn't able to find a car that would last. Then we got the Lexus and the true joys of car ownership were explained to me.

My Lexus IS300 is the greatest car ever made. Turns on a dime (still), handles like a dream (still), very few problems with it (still), and Lexus service is the best in the world (still and always). So, I now compare everything to Lexus quality. If it doesn't match up, I'm not a happy girl.

A year or so after we got the Lexus, we needed to trade in our then-current SUV for one that, hopefully, wouldn't have constant front-end problems. Enter Cadillac. I love the newer styling of the Cadillac RX series, and really wanted the SRX, a mid-sized SUV. So, we got one. And I loved it. For one whole day.

We started having problems with it on, I swear to God, the second day of ownership. And the realization that nothing matters more at a car dealership than the Service Department was brought home to me in sharp relief. Because everything that went wrong with the Cadillac became a huge issue due to the lack of cohesion or interest on the parts of the Service, Parts and Scheduling Departments at our dealership. (Lund Cadillac, for those in the Greater Phoenix Metro Area who want to avoid buying from the worst dealership in the world.)

Any time I brought the car in for service, it took 3 times longer than estimated, the service was done wrong, and they managed to break something else while 'fixing' the original problem. I wish I was making this up to be funny, but I'm not. The car itself drives, handles, and brakes wonderfully. It feels great inside. All's super until you notice that your rear view mirror casing has fallen off in your hand...again. Parts fall off this beast like it's a leprous zombie. And don't start me on the stereo/CD system...which has been replaced an amazing, I kid you not, 11 times and counting.

Things came to a head these last few months. My service agent advised me that my factory warranty had expired the month prior. As in, he let me know a month after expiration, not a month before. (For comparison, Lexus advised me a year prior to my extended warranty's coming expiration and worked with me to determine when I should re-extend, so that there will be no blip in coverage.) Meaning that all the repairs for all the stuff that falls off on a regular basis will no longer be covered even though we have an extended warranty. And then he shared that services heretofore free -- like loaner cars when my SRX is in for its 3 times too long repairs -- would now be charged. Services that were part of the reason you bought a Cadillac in the first place.

When I complained, my service guy reminded me that, well, things are bad all over. Oh, really? Gosh, I hadn't noticed. I sure don't notice at Lexus. My service level hasn't gone down one whit over there.

So, I whined and I pleaded and whined some more. I wanted to get rid of the Cadillac and get something else. Seeing as we have 3 large dogs, we have to have something that can carry them easily. So, my husband searched around and we determined that we would see how we liked the Scion xB.

Guess what? We like it a whole lot.

In fact, we liked it so much, that we traded in the Cadillac and got a Scion. A limited edition Scion. In red (which is this year's limited edition color).

We still haven't seen the car in person. "Our" car arrived in the port at Long Beach on Saturday morning and we bought it Saturday afternoon. (Oh, and SNAP to anyone else who wanted it -- we got it first, nyah, nyah, nyah.) So we're still in the Cadillac, but only until our Scion arrives and gets all its fancy upgrades that we added on (hey, if you're gonna play...PLAY).

I have absolutely no buyer's remorse, either. I have buyer's longing -- I can't wait to shove the Cadillac into my Scion dealer's hands and never have to deal with it or any Cadillac dealer ever again, and then drive off in my smokin', new, bright red, lowered, fancied up, blacked out, stylin' Scion xB.

So, GM -- so long, farewell, auf weidersein, goodbye. And Scion -- here's to start of a new and beautiful friendship.

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Torture Techniques for Writers

I'm one of those writers who works just fine in noise. And chaos. I'm great with chaos. So, I can pretty much write anywhere, any time. Silence I'm not so fond of, though. I hear things, distracting things, if it's all quiet. So, I work and write with music in the background. Rock music, for preference.

I also find music particularly inspiring. The right artist, album, or song can rev me for hours, sometimes days or even weeks. I have wide, eclectic tastes in music, so I have a huge music library to choose from. (Trust me, we're talking Empire Records/High Fidelity huge. Combined.)

This is great for me, because it means I can always get in the writing groove merely by turning on the iPod or stereo. It's not so great for my husband. Because he doesn't have the same deep and wide and eclectic musical tastes as I do. So he gets to listen to music he usually hates pretty much 24/7.

But, there's more. When I get on a one song kick, I will listen to that, and only that, for hours, usually days. Weeks isn't unheard of. Yes, you read that right -- one song, over and over and over again, ad infinitum.

The husband shared that this is not only a military torture technique, but apparently a really successful one. One song, played loud, over and over again, nonstop. It's working, making the enemy crack, and is considered a horrific thing to do to a person. To him, my musical listening habits sound like cause for Amnesty International to come and have a chat with his wife about her cruel and unusual punishments.

To me this sounds like I should get away from it all at Guantanamo Bay. A little R&R in a private room with a view, someone else slopping up the gruel, no worries about housecleaning, that one special song on repeat -- I'd have a novel done in like a week.

Years of sports-related injuries have also upped my pain tolerance. I pay money for people to hurt me in order to feel better when they stop. Clearly, I'm missing my true calling.

Ergo, I offer myself up to the State Department. I'll volunteer to go out for some super secret mission. They can rest easy with the knowledge that, if captured, I'll never crack.

Until then, it's time to get some writing done. For some reason, "I'm a Terrible Person" by Rooney is calling my name. Cannot imagine why.

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How I Met My Mother

My first introduction to the woman who would become my de facto mother was at tax time. I don’t deal well with forms -- which is a story for another time, another blog, and, potentially, another writer -- this is a humor column, after all, not Oprah’s couch.

We’d bought a house and had no idea of what to do to ensure Uncle Sam didn’t just take it right back from us, so we called our realtor, who is also a good friend, and said, “Helen, what do we do?”

Helen, God love her, always knows what to do.

She sent us to Mary, who is a C.P.A. and who also conveniently lived not 5 minutes from us. We’re on one side of the mall, she’s on the other.

So, we made our appointment and trundled over. The hubs was calm and normal, the chicklet was busy doing her homework. And I was in the fetal position. Quite the impressive first meeting.

A couple of weeks later, hubs and Mary were talking and he discovered she and I shared mutual interests in a couple of TV shows and the Old West. So, she and I started chatting about it on email, and all of a sudden, she realizes I’m a normal person. So, we started hanging out, since we lived close and both like to eat, drink and be merry, yet have husbands that go to bed at 9pm.

A few months after this, it was business trip time. The hubs was on his own trip, the chicklet was taken care of, but I needed a ride to the airport. This was before 9-11, so you could still go to the gate with your departing party. Since Mary was driving me there, I suggested she come in, I’d buy us Starbucks, and we could continue talking (something we both excel at) while waiting for my plane to board.

We were in the security line when it happened. The very nice, elderly black lady doing my security was listening to us riff and yuck it up as I opened my Thinkpad and turned it on to prove it wasn’t a bomb. In fact, back in these simpler days, we were riffing that maybe it WAS a bomb and maybe I WAS a terrorist. Good times…good times. Try that now and see what happens to you.

Anyway, as we got off a particularly funny set of ripostes, the lady said, “Oh, it’s so nice to see a mother and daughter so close.” I guess Mary insinuating I was a terrorist fit this lady’s definition of ‘close’.

Mary is older than me, but not THAT much older. I laughed and shared that Mary wasn’t my mother. Which upset the security lady. A lot. “I don’t think you should be embarrassed by it! I think it’s wonderful!”

Mary explained that, no, we were just good friends. Which continued to upset the security lady. A lot. “In this day and age, it’s such a beautiful thing, a mother and daughter so close and such good friends! You shouldn’t be denying it, you should be embracing it!” I thought she was going to cry. Literally. And if she cried, would that not mean other security personnel might take a more personal interest?

So, to keep the peace, I said, “Yes, you’re right, she’s my mom.” Instant relief from the security lady, no special bag searches for me, and we trundled off. As we got out of security earshot, Mary said, “Yes. You’re the illegitimate daughter gave up for adoption because I was only thirteen.”

Her mistake.

Because I latched onto that one, and we riffed on it the entire time we waited for the plane. By the time I boarded, she WAS my mom. I call her Mumsy, at least as often as I call her Mary. The chicklet calls her GrandMumsy at least as often. She and my “Daddy” are great parents -- there when you need them, never digging in your business otherwise, fun to hang out with.

But Mumsy got the better deal. She adopted a full grown adult with a good job and marriage, complete with pre-housebroken grandchild. She reaps the benefits of a son-in-law who is happy to come over and help do things, tech support from both of us, and the joys of a grandchild, without ever having gone through the icky parts of parenting.

And, she scores Mother’s Day gifts, too.

This year, I'm giving her a blog.

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Spring Cleaning (Or, What's WRONG With Me?)

As those who know me, even a little, know well, I'm not much of a girl for housecleaning. It bores me more than just a little. It's exhausting, painful, and -- since we live in the dustiest city this side of Calcutta -- fruitless. A continuous loop of 'lift, clean, set down, lift, clean, set down'. We also have three dogs and two cats and they're anti the idea of keeping the house neat and tidy.

Oh sure, the house is cleaner than I probably make it sound, for which, 99% of the time, the kudos go to my husband. But not this week.

No, this week, I've been doing the cleaning. And I have only one thing to say: God alone knows why.

Wait. Two things: Please, God, somebody stop me!

For reasons I still can't comprehend but am blaming on Spring (as if we even have Spring here -- it's more like three weeks where it's not really cold and not horrifyingly hot) I got the urge to clean. And not just any clean. No, really clean. Clean clean.

I have a bad back, and so this kind of cleaning is not to be undertaken lightly. Or all at once. Or it's extra quality time with the chiropractor. So, I've been working through, room by room. But not all parts of the rooms. Just the lower parts.

You read that right. From about knee height down, my house is sparkling. Higher than that? Well, it's...about the same as it always is.

I have no idea why I care so much about the floors and the baseboards and the corners and all. I just do. If I were pregnant (which, thankfully, I am not), I'd say I was 'nesting'. If we had company coming, I'd say it was to impress them. But our company left already and she was nice and we didn't have to impress her. Nor, let me stress, was her presence the reason for the cleaning season. She left the guestroom a lot neater than when she arrived. (Someone has to be neat around here. Sure, it was a visitor, but that counts, right?) I haven't killed anyone, so I'm not having a Lizzie Borden or Lady Macbeth complex of any kind (look it up), nor am I trying to get rid of evidence.

No, there's no obvious reason for this -- I can call it nothing else -- cleaning frenzy. It's just there. Telling me that, as soon as the floors of the remaining rooms are done, we're going to work on the walls. And then, perhaps, the ceilings. And then, if I'm not dead -- we'll start straightening things, finding a place for everything and putting everything in its place. So that this will be the best Spring Cleaning EVER in the HISTORY OF THE WORLD. Or at least the history of me.

Summer cannot get here fast enough.

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Dangers of the Interwebs

I'm experiencing technical difficulties.

I got a new phone and have to move my address book and calendar from the old system to the new one. Suffice to say, this is never as easy as the manuals make it sound. But, no worries, I was able to (somewhat) move things from the old system to Yahoo, and then from Yahoo to the new system.

Sure, I had to do a lot manually, but not nearly as much as every other option was providing. So, it was the right choice. I hope.

At first, all seemed well. I was able to move my (huge) address book into my new phone (and there was much rejoicing). I was able to move the calendar, too (even more rejoicing). All was swell.

And then I tried to sync back. (And there was much gnashing of teeth and rending of hair and garments.)

Good freaking lord, is all I have to say.

First off, and this will surprise exactly no one, I'm sure, the website help sent me to live support and live support...wait for it...was exactly no help at all! Yes, it was, as always, the No Help Desk.

I tried to get to Level 3 Support, but the guy on the Level 1 Support wasn't having any of it. I'm sure he believes he's truly Level 3 quality and the boss just sells him short. (Trust me, the boss is right.) Basically, the first thing they always want to do is wipe your entire device or system, to start from scratch, and, after 15 minutes of my explaining and re-explaining the situation, my tech guy didn't stray from that standard game plan. Isn't that keen. It means that all you have you likely lose, and being an old hand at technological problems, I personally know there's always other options to try first.

So, I tried them. A lot. Bottom line, after 8 hours (this was my full time job yesterday), is that something's corrupted somewhere in the address book, probably on the Yahoo side, and I have no freaking idea of where or why, because it wasn't corrupted until I tried to send from the device side. I have no one to talk to about it, either, since Mr. Tech Level 1 was supposed to call me back and never did. Not that I was exactly pining for his call. We didn't click on that first date and I'm not hoping for another. Nice to know he feels the same.

Again surprising no one, the phone people's websites say it's software and the software people's websites say it's the phone or the phone's software and ne'er the two shall meet nor help. So, I'm syncing everything else and calling it good for a while.

Adding insult to injury, this process somehow wiped half of my Yahoo Buddy list. Now, as is well known, I live for instant messaging. I've been doing it since the first ones sprouted lo these many moons ago. And now half of my list is gone.

Wasn't too bad to figure out most of who I lost, though it's harder when you can't remember someone's clever screen name. (Note to clever screen name friends: If you didn't get an add notice from me, send me an IM, just to be safe. Or, you know, go hang with Mr. Tech Level 1 and diss me.) However, I remember my mom's. And so I sent her an add request pronto. Which she refused.

Why? Because she was afraid someone had stolen my identity and, as part of their nefarious takeover plan, they were going to try to get her to add them, disguised as me, onto her Buddy list and then infiltrate her computer and then, clearly, the world. This is a woman networked to absolutely no one, computer-wise, but she was sure this was the next Nigerian email scam. Hey, now you know where the writer's imagination comes from.

I've straightened her out, and all is well. At least until the next time I try to use my phone. And if you send me a mere $50,000 when you add me onto your Buddy list, I will, in return, ensure that you receive $100,000,000 from this account that's sitting here in my computer, needing a trustworthy soul such as yourself to claim it.

I am most sincerely and trustworthily yours,
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