Screenwriting Dream Reported Stolen

Horrible, devastating news: Kristen Wiig’s Bridesmaids premiered at the SXSW Film Festival a few weeks ago, and from what I can tell, the reviews are mostly positive.  The film is being touted as “the female version of The Hangover” and “the first genuine female comedy.”

Um, no, actually, I wrote a genuine female comedy three years ago.  And adding salt to the wound, it was full of irreverent wedding humor.  Blerg!  This should've been my moment!  It just goes to show that if you never give up, someone will eventually achieve your goals.  I just wish it had been me.

I was warned that this might happen.  To quote my screenwriting teacher, “If you write a script that is even remotely mainstream, you can count on someone else coming up with the same premise, and that someone might have better connections.”  As an unproduced screenwriter, it’s safer to go with a truly bizarre premise that no one else would ever think of.  For example, "a depressed man believes that his beaver puppet is real" – now starring Mel Gibson!  But wait, that plot sounds remarkably similar to the plot of Lars and the Real Girl.  Okay, so there are no new ideas, only slightly less common ones.

In related news, I learned that the big-shot studio executive who I met with in October is now working for a different company.  Apparently, he switched jobs shortly after meeting me, which means that he probably never received my follow-up email.  Now that I have his new work address, I’m toying with the idea of sending him this letter...

Dear Mr. Studio Executive,

I am writing to bring your attention to a tragic oversight.  Last October, I pitched you my very funny anti-wedding comedy, and you loved it!  Boy, did you love it!  You could hardly contain your excitement.  You said that I could very well be the next Diablo Cody and that you desperately wanted to follow-up with me.  Your intentions could not have been clearer.  You used the word “definitely” not once, but twice!

Unfortunately, you then switched jobs (congrats, by the way) and in all the chaos, I suspect that you misplaced my contact information.  No doubt, you’ve been cursing yourself ever since and have been trying in vain to track me down.  I can just imagine you seething with frustration and berating your assistant, “That tall blonde girl – the funny one with the great ideas – you have to find her! ... I don’t care how!  Knock on random doors if you have to!”

Well, call off the search.  Here I am, ready and willing to send over my script.  I’m not going to lie, it’s been a difficult six months.  My optimism was starting to wane.  Before I heard about your ill-timed job switch, I was almost convinced that you were blowing me off.  Lucky for you, I’ve decided not to hold a grudge.  Everyone makes mistakes.  So let’s put this little mishap behind us and get on with my six-figure development deal.

Sincerely,
Jami

If the letter thing doesn't work out, I'm afraid it might be time to move on.  So many impractical dreams, so little time...

Once Upon a Time, There Was a Purple Unicorn ...

My fiction writing class is officially half over.  In the past when I’ve taken workshop-style writing classes, I’ve always managed to establish myself as the star pupil by this point, mostly because I have a lot of free time to devote to polishing and perfecting the assignments.  Unfortunately, this is not your typical workshop-style class.  Most of the writing is done during class, through various creative exercises.  We're expected to write hastily and carelessly for five minutes and then share whatever we've scribbled down.

Personally, I would rather parade around the classroom stark naked than read my unfinished, unrevised writing aloud.  First drafts aren’t meant to be shared; they’re meant to be burned and destroyed.  Even my blog entries are rewritten and painstakingly edited, hence the long gap between posts – and you thought I was just lazy!

The other students seem perfectly comfortable sharing their unedited writing.  There are a surprising number of improv performers in the class – including the teacher, who performs fully improvised musicals (there isn't enough alcohol in the world to get me up on that stage).  I never would’ve guessed that I’d be the only introvert in a writing class.  I’m basically a spectator.  When it comes time to share, I keep my head down and avoid eye contact with the instructor at all costs.

During the exercises, I rarely produce more than a few scattered notes.  Unlike my classmates – who type at a furious, almost maniacal pace without ever stopping – I feel compelled to plan everything out before I write a single sentence.  I’m usually still in the brainstorming phase when the instructor announces, “Pencils down."  Then I sit in disbelief and listen to my classmates share entire stories, with beginnings and middles and ends – and they're not always terrible.

I even struggle with stream of consciousness, the simplest of exercises.  The teacher will ask us to write down a chain of word associations starting with the word "purple."  The idea is to keep going no matter what, but I can’t seem to make it past three words.  Here's a sample of my best work:

Purple.  Eggplant.  Marinara ...  No wait, I don’t like that.  I’m just hungry.

Purple.  Unicorn.  Rainbow Brite ...  Um, yeah, that’s a dead end.  I haven’t seen that show in years.

Purple ....  You know what?  Purple sucks.  It’s by far the least inspiring color.

Yellow.  Banana.  Monkey ...  Oh my God, how predictable.  I hate it.  I hate yellow.

It has occurred to me that my problem might be a lack of creativity.  It does run in my family.  My mother took an aptitude test in the tenth grade, and her creativity score fell into the 4th percentile.  The guidance counselor said it was the lowest score she’d ever seen.  My mother’s achievement score, on the other hand, fell into the 99th percentile.  Come to think of it, that explains a lot.  I might not be able to write spontaneous stories about purple unicorns, but when it comes to achieving good writing, I’ll always pull through ... eventually.

Festivals Galore!

It’s that time of year again in Austin, when the weather is perfect and every weekend brings a festival of some sort.  Today, the celebration is threefold as Saint Patrick’s Day coincides with both South by Southwest and the Austin Rodeo.  I’m not sure whether to wear green, dress like a hipster, or don my cowboy hat.

The music portion of South by Southwest is already in full swing with 2,000 bands performing around downtown Austin in the span of four days – and those are only the official shows.  Every venue in the city is throwing some kind of party.  The dentist office around the corner from me is hosting a three-day event called "Mouth by Mouthwest" with twenty bands and a full bar (but don’t worry, the on-call dentists are limiting themselves to two drinks apiece).

Because I live in downtown Austin, I can hear the music and the screaming crowds from inside my apartment.  All.  Day.  Long.  How am I supposed to concentrate on writing when there’s a party raging outside my window?  Ever since I broke my leg in the ninth grade and had to be homeschooled for a few months, I have a fear of missing out on fun things.  If it were up to me, I’d be out in the street, drinking green beer and listening to that indie chick who plays the ukulele and sings African chants, but my husband likes to remind me that it’s Thursday and “at least one of us has to work.”

If it was a one-time thing he’d probably humor me, but Austin loves to celebrate and hardly ever takes a day off.  I don’t even set my alarm anymore; I just rely on the daily parades to wake me up.  Nothing infuriates my husband more than a parade.  He’ll go out on the balcony and start waving his fists around while yelling, “Another parade?!  Don’t you people ever stop?!  What’s wrong with you?!  For the love of God, put down your trombones and go home!”

I expect parades and live music on Saint Patrick’s Day, Fat Tuesday, and Cinco de Mayo.  Texas Independence Day?  Why not!  A day to celebrate ice cream?  Sure!  But what about hot sauce?  Reggae music?  Urban music?  Celtic music?  Bluegrass music?  Let’s not forget about Jugglefest.  Or Fantastic Fest.  Or Fun Fun Fun Fest.  There’s the Gypsy Picnic Festival, the Louisiana Swamp Thing Festival, the Old Pecan Street Festival, the Sherwood Forest Faire, the Zilker Kite Festival, Batstravaganza, Batfest (yes, it’s different), The Dragon Boat Festival, The Rattlesnake Sacking Festival…

And then there are the weird ones, like No Pants Day.  Or the 13th Annual Mighty Texas Dog Walk, where Austinites and their dogs attempt to break the Guinness World Record for “Largest Dog Walk.”   Austin has been celebrating Eeyore’s birthday (yes, that Eeyore) since the 1960s with drum circles and a maypole. The Keep Austin Weird Festival includes a costumed 5K run with a pit stop at an ice cream shop; its tagline is “the slowest 5K you’ll ever run.”  My personal favorite is the Hairy Man Festival, which features a petting zoo, karaoke, and, of course, the Hairiest Man Contest.  I still have yet to check out the No Idea Festival, which is entirely unplanned and improvised.  (Yes, these are all real events.)

With so many festivals, it’s amazing that partygoers manage to keep them all straight.  The Republic of Texas Biker Rally and the Austin Gay Pride Parade are held in the same location on back-to-back weekends.  Imagine mixing up those Saturdays.  It probably wouldn’t take you very long to figure out your mistake.

Well, time to give up for the day and join the party.  Happy Festivaling!

Sarcastic 30-Year-Old Female Seeks Bestest Writing Buddy

Are you a woman between the ages of 22 and 40 with a passion for writing, a dry sense of humor, and plenty of free time?  Do you live within 10 minutes of downtown Austin?  Do you enjoy mocking others over a cup of coffee or many beers?  If so, I would like to invite you to audition for the role of my best friend / writing companion.

For several weeks now, I’ve been scouring the Austin writing scene for such a person, attending various creative writing Meetups and critique groups.  I can’t even begin to tell you how much bad writing I’ve subjected myself to on this quest for friendship.  And I mean really bad.  The general rule when critiquing someone else’s work is that you’re supposed to offer at least one positive comment; this is an area in which I struggle.  I’ll end up saying something like, “Well, I thought your avoidance of plot was really innovative. The main character didn’t actually do anything.  It was like we were trapped inside her head, listening to whatever random, pointless thoughts she was having.  So, um, great job!”  In my experience, comments such as this one rarely spark lasting friendships.

I've also noticed that the other writers who attend these groups are either much younger or much older than I am.  It's as if all of the thirty-year-olds have retreated from the social scene to play house and make babies.  On Facebook, my friends’ smiling faces have all been replaced by pictures of big-eyed, drooling infants.  Meanwhile, I’m left socializing with older retired ladies and college girls with fake IDs.

Last week, I went to my first fiction writing class, where the teacher kicked things off with a guided visualization.  She had us close our eyes and said weird stuff like “Listen to yourself breathe” and “Your hands are getting heavy” and “Let everything go white.”  I took the opportunity to blatantly stare at my fellow classmates, sizing them up and trying to decide who might be good friend material.  There was only one girl who I thought had potential.  She had bright pink hair and the only thing she said all night was “Go @#$% yourself,” but she didn’t say it to anyone in particular – it was part of a creative exercise.  Anyway, she didn’t show up to this week’s class, so it looks like I’m back to square one.

Publication #2: Underwired Magazine

I’m happy to report that one of my personal essays was published in this month’s issue of Underwired magazine.  You won’t be able to get your hands on a physical copy unless you happen to live in Louisville or southern Indiana, but don’t despair.  Here is the complete essay as published in Underwired…

IT’S VERY, UM, YOU 

I refuse to wear a dress unless the situation demands it. It’s not that I’m a tomboy or a feminist; it’s just that dresses don’t suit me – much like red lipstick, bangs, and 9-to-5 office jobs. At any given time, there are two, maybe three dresses hanging in my closet. I will typically wear the same dress over and over again to countless consecutive weddings until it literally falls apart at the seams and I’m forced to buy a new one. When shopping for a new dress, I’m not looking for the latest fashion trends; I’m looking for a dress that will stand the test of time – one that I can wear year after year after year, hopefully without anyone noticing.

When I got engaged, I realized that I was going to have to break tradition and attempt to be fashionable. When you’re the bride, there’s no hiding a frumpy dress under a pashmina shawl. Knowing that I would be the center of attention on my wedding day, I obviously wanted to look good. That being said, I didn’t have any fairy-tale expectations about my wedding dress. When I went to the bridal salon, I knew going in that I wouldn’t be one of those women who fall instantly and irrevocably in love with a dress, gasping and smiling and sobbing into a Kleenex while someone places a veil on their head. I was willing to settle for a dress that wasn’t a total disaster.

When the bridal consultant asked me to describe my perfect wedding dress, the first thing that came to mind was “sparkly.” My day-to-day wardrobe has always been rather drab and boring, so I tend to equate dressing up with being covered in glitter. The next thing I knew, I was slipping into a dress that could only be described as “sparkly.” The entire gown, from the strapless neckline down to the end of the cathedral-length train, was heavily adorned with silver embroidery and crystal beading. When I first saw myself in the dress – twinkling like a giant disco ball under the dressing room spotlights – I couldn’t help but think I looked pretty.

My accompanying friend, who prefers classic, simple designs, grimaced when she saw me in the bedazzled dress. “It’s very, um, you?” she offered. That was all the validation I needed. I put down a hefty deposit, went home, and warned my husband-to- be that he should be prepared to shield his eyes at the sight of me coming down the aisle. Self-deprecating humor is really the best way to deal with buyer’s remorse; it helps lower expectations.

After months of joking about my “garish gown” with its “25,000 imported Italian twinkle-beads,” my husband was pleasantly surprised upon seeing me in the dress. I have no idea what anyone else thought – telling the bride she looks beautiful is mandatory – but as I stood at the altar, shimmering and glistening in the candlelight, I decided that I had made the right choice.

When my husband and I got back from our honeymoon, I had my dress cleaned and preserved. I felt like I should keep it, although I had no idea what for. For three years, it’s been buried in the back of my closet, along with my violin and my scuba diving equipment. Every once in awhile, I’ll dig it out and sit cross-legged in front of the presentation box, peering through the thick plastic window. The once-sparkly bodice appears dull and muted, trapped inside its coffin-like box. I feel an overwhelming urge to rip open the cardboard and let the cathedral-length train spill out everywhere. Oh, to see those sparkles sparkle again! But then, what would I do with it?

The obvious choice would be to wear it again. Unfortunately, it required dozens of excruciating workouts and tasteless salads to fit into it the first time. I was at my goal weight for all of twenty minutes during the wedding ceremony before I gorged myself on shrimp cocktail and spring rolls and truffled prosciutto popovers.

Even if I did manage to zip up my wedding gown again, where exactly would I go dressed like a disco ball? Perhaps if I had chosen a simpler style, I could have re-worn my dress to a black and white charity gala, but as it is, I would surely be recognized as a recycled bride. I suppose I wouldn’t have to go anywhere. I have a friend who often wears her wedding dress when she’s at home alone. She’s one of the happiest newlyweds I know, having finally achieved her lifelong goal of marrying a Jewish doctor. I can easily imagine her skipping around the living room in her wedding dress and veil, introducing herself to various pieces of furniture. “Hello, I’m Mrs. Herskowitz. And this,” she says while indicating the coat rack, “is my husband, Doctor Herskowitz.” It’s an entertaining idea, but being accident prone, I probably shouldn’t attempt to maneuver around my apartment with such a long train. Knowing me, I’d get tangled up on a chair and go face first into the coffee table.

If I’m not going to wear my dress, another possibility is to use the fabric to construct something more useful, like a beaded quilt or a decorative pillow. I made a pillow once, fifteen years ago, in my Home Economics class. It was supposed to resemble a hamburger. I sewed the pickles on crooked, but otherwise it turned out okay. Of course, when you’re working with fabric of great sentimental value, there’s a lot of added pressure; I’m just not sure I could handle it.

Part of me feels obligated to leave my wedding dress in the box for another twenty or thirty years in case my future daughter wants to wear it. But, really, the odds of it working out are astronomically small. Assuming that I even have a daughter and that she even wants to get married, I’m guessing that my dress will be too conservative for her. “But, Mom, that old thing doesn’t even show any leg!” I was only in elementary school when I rejected the idea of wearing my mother’s old wedding dress, with its long sleeves and high lace collar. She eventually donated the dress to Goodwill.

That is, of course, another option, and probably the best one. There are several reputable organizations that re-sell wedding dresses at a lower cost and then donate the proceeds to a worthy cause. While I like the idea of the money going to charity, the thing that I find most appealing about donating my wedding dress is imagining the woman who would buy it. She’s probably someone who couldn’t afford it otherwise; someone with a soft spot for sequins and rhinestones; someone who would see my glittery dress out of the corner of her eye and wouldn’t be able to resist picking it up and taking it home with her; someone who would love it as much as I do.

Love & Adventure in the Caribbean

I’m currently on vacation in Turks and Caicos.  I desperately needed to come to this remote Caribbean island in order to escape the stress of being at home all day, every day with nothing to do.

Interesting fact: This particular island served as the lair for two notorious female pirates during the 1700s.   I was hoping that the resort would offer some kind of pirate class where I could drink rum and wear an eye patch and learn valuable skills like fencing and picking locks and winning bar fights.  But sadly, the activities seem to revolve entirely around health and wellness.  Think raw food, yoga, meditation, and holistic spa services.  For a not-so-small fee, I can have someone pour a steady stream of hot oil over my forehead.  Sounds like a barrel of fun!

So far, our most adventurous activity has been trapping cockroaches in our hotel room.  I naively assumed that such a fancy resort would be able to afford an exterminator, so it came as quite a shock to find myself standing on top of the bathtub in bare feet in the middle of the night, yelling for my husband to wake up and come save me from giant marauding insects.  He did eventually come to my rescue, armed with running shoes and an overturned trash can – ideal for trapping oversized bugs.  If that’s not true love, I don’t know what is.  I really couldn’t have asked for a more romantic way to celebrate our third wedding anniversary.

The trash can approach worked pretty well until we ran out of trash cans.  At that point, we decided to complain and demand a new room.  The manager apologized and gave us a nice upgrade, so we’re trying not to hold a grudge.  We even left a note behind on each of the overturned trash cans that read “Attention: Giant Cockroach Trapped Underneath” so as not to startle the housekeeper.

Tomorrow we head back home, and I have to say I’ll be happy to get back.  Nothing makes me appreciate being stuck at home all day more than being somewhere else.

I Heart Kale

This morning I whipped up some raw kale-celery juice, and while I was praising myself for drinking it, it occurred to me that maybe I should become a registered dietician and give nutritional advice for a living.  With my quasi-photographic memory, I could be a walking, talking nutritional database.  Since becoming vegan, I’ve had to be careful to avoid deficiencies, so I already know a lot about healthy foods.  You want to know about complete proteins?  Essential fatty acids? Which foods contain the most zinc?  Piece of cake!  And I mean that literally – dark chocolate is packed full of zinc.

I remember seeing dietician on the list of Best Careers for 2011.  I can’t recall why I nixed the idea. Probably because it’s a people-person job, thus rendering me unqualified.  Still, whenever I see those obese people on TV who are clueless about nutrition, I feel a strange urge to help them.  It makes me really sad when the heavy kids are unable to correctly identify a tomato or a carrot or a potato.  I saw one forty-year-old woman who had never eaten fruit before – she was terrified to eat a raspberry.

I think I’d make a good role model because my “dieting” isn’t the result of a poor body image.  I don’t eat vegetables because I’m desperate to be a size zero.  I have much loftier motivations: an intense and debilitating fear of death.  My hope is that by drinking raw kale juice, I’ll live forever.

Given that I’m not a size zero, I figure I’d be more relatable.  No one wants to take dietary advice from someone who appears to be slowly starving to death.  How can someone who clearly hasn’t eaten a sandwich in the last five years possibly understand your cravings and temptations?  Me, on the other hand, I’d be more like Oprah, who recently confessed to eating 30 pounds of macaroni and cheese in a fit of depression – and people love her for it!

Because I’ve struggled myself, I can offer specialized advice on how to overcome dieting pitfalls.  For example, if you’re going out to the bars, it’s imperative to appoint a designated diet enforcer (i.e. someone who will smack the greasy food out of your mouth at two in the morning).   Better yet, find a late-night drunk food that you enjoy and that’s not as damaging to your health.  I knew this girl in college who would always eat canned chickpeas while the rest of us were eating gyros and pizza in the middle of the night.   It was a well-formed habit for her.   She had completely convinced herself that chickpeas were what she wanted to be eating.  She carried around a can in her purse at all times.   It was truly inspiring.

I’ve been giving unsolicited nutritional advice to my dad for years.  I'll pull out an armful of Jimmy Dean biscuit sandwiches from his freezer and with a raised eyebrow I'll say, "Dad, did you know that there are 10 grams of saturated fat in each one of these?"  He doesn't always appreciate my helpful advice, but I did get him to like brussels sprouts, and I didn't even have to douse them in Cheez Whiz.  It'll take another ten years of nagging before I'll be able to get him to drink raw kale juice, but lucky for him, I can be very persistent.  My clients are gonna love me.

Happy Valentine's Day / Flu Season!

It’s been a rough week.  My husband and I have both been battling some sort of mutant cold virus.  We’ve been whining back and forth for seven straight days – I’m exhausted.  To make matters worse, my fancy new laptop suffered a meltdown after only two months of use (I must’ve been writing something furious!) and is in the shop for repairs.  So, I hope you’re not expecting too much from this blog post.  You’re bound to be disappointed.

As it happens, my husband makes a similar disclaimer before every Valentine’s Day.  He hates the idea of having to show his love on a particular day by standing in line for overpriced flowers and dining at crowded restaurants.  He’d much rather get me a gift when he doesn’t have to.  Once he bought me an iPod for no reason and left it on top of the vacuum cleaner where I would be sure to find it, so I know he's capable of being romantic.  But when it comes to Valentine’s Day, I’ve learned not to get my hopes up.

The first year we were dating, he bought me a Valentine’s Day card but never actually gave it to me.  I found it six months later when I was helping him move.  The year after that, he bought me a single, half-dead rose from a homeless guy outside of Grand Central, thus avoiding the long line at the florist.  I must’ve given him a hard time about it, because the following year he went out and bought me a dozen red roses – on February 13th of course.  I took a picture so that on future Valentine’s Days, I could just look at the photo.

After we got married, we started a tradition of not being together on Valentine’s Day.  Two years ago, he went on a ski trip with co-workers.  Last year, I went on a girls’ trip to Nashville.  This year, he’s playing in a hockey game, although I do get to see him during the day.  This morning I told him “Happy Valentine’s Day” between sneezes, and in return, he handed me the Kleenex box.  While he’s playing hockey tonight, I’ll be at home alone watching The Bachelor.  And, actually, after the week I’ve had, I can’t think of anything I’d rather be doing.

Executive Household Manager

The other day, I went to the doctor and had to fill out a bunch of forms, one of which asked for my current occupation.  Hmm, tough question.  After some deep contemplation, I decided on “freelance writer / executive household manager.”  I purposely avoided using the term “housewife” – it makes me think of a 1950s subservient woman whose sole purpose is to fetch her husband's slippers and wait on him hand and foot, and that is definitely not part of my job description.

I consider marriage to be more of a partnership, and since my husband has a more demanding work schedule, it’s only fair that I take on more of the responsibilities outside of work: cooking, cleaning, shopping, running errands, making travel reservations, managing our social calendar, etc.  But I want him to remember that I’m performing these tasks because I want to contribute, not because they’re expected of me.  If I feel that he's grown too accustomed to home-cooked meals, I make it a point to disappoint him; the next time he’s hungry, I’ll hand him something freezer-burned and completely unrecognizable and say, “Here, heat it up yourself.”  Then if I choose to cook dinner the following night, he appreciates it more.

One might think that these non-work related tasks are trivial and not stressful, but you’d be mistaken.  It can be downright challenging to plan a vacation when you’re both cheap and have a taste for luxury.  And considering that my husband and I are both reclusive misanthropes, creating a social life for the two of us requires some serious effort.  Finding couple friends, arranging events, convincing my husband to show up… it’s no easy task.

Grocery shopping might sound easy, but it can be incredibly frustrating and time-consuming, especially when you take into account my husband’s phobia of running out of things.  As soon as the mustard bottle gets to be one-third empty, he gets all panicky and starts to cut down on the amount of mustard he uses, rationing it out as though he’s trapped on a deserted island and the mustard is the only thing keeping him alive.  He’ll look at me with fear in his eyes and say, “But what if I want a hot dog and there isn’t enough mustard?  You have to go get more mustard!”  In order to avoid such a scene, I have to constantly monitor the status of all of our food items, which come from three different grocery stores.

It's a struggle, yes.  But by efficiently running our household, I alleviate my husband’s stress, thereby allowing him to be a work superstar.  I seriously doubt that he would be as successful as he is without a lifetime supply of his favorite super-soft socks – made from 100% viscose – that shed black lint all over the carpet.

For the most part, I don’t mind being in charge of our non-working life.  Like most women, I’m a natural multi-tasker, I’m organized, and I like things done a certain way.  My husband, on the other hand, has a strong aversion to planning and the minutiae of daily tasks.  He handles the stress of his job remarkably well, but if you ask him to organize a Saturday night out, he’ll completely fall apart.

When we got engaged, he was more afraid of the wedding planning than of the actual wedding, but I was completely in my element.  Obviously I put myself in charge, although I did make the occasional attempt to delegate.  In the beginning, I emailed him an incredibly detailed to-do list, full of links and suggestions and timelines, and he replied with the following email:

Subject: COULD NOT DELIVER: RE: Wedding To-do list

Your message could not be delivered. The recipient's mail server was unavailable or busy, or perhaps he doesn't like responsibility.

I don’t mean to say that he never helps me with anything.  He totally does.  Sometimes it requires a little arm-twisting, but other times he does it on his own accord.  Like the other day when I was planning a trip for our third wedding anniversary, he actually volunteered to book the flights.  When he was done, he forwarded me the flight confirmation and pointed out what great times and seats he managed to get.  I was totally impressed… until I realized that he had booked the wrong destination.  “Um, honey, we’re going to Turks & Caicos, not Grand Cayman.”  Now, see, I would never make that mistake, but I guess that’s why I’m the executive household manager.

New Year's Resolution = Epic Fail

Well, it’s February.  My television boycott is officially over, but in all honesty, it ended some time ago.  I did really well for the first week, and then I had one little moment of weakness, followed by many more moments of weakness – cheating is a slippery slope.  The funny thing is, rather than admit defeat, I've been changing the rules to accommodate my missteps.  In the past week or so, the rule amendments have really piled up.  Here are just a few of them…

• I’m allowed to have the television on while I’m cooking dinner because I can barely see it from the kitchen.
• I’m allowed to watch television if I’ve been drinking alcohol because I wouldn’t be productive anyway.
• I’m allowed to watch television while I’m in the gym, working out.  I deserve it!
• I’m allowed to watch television while I’m in the gym, not working out, as long as I've worked out recently.
• I’m allowed to watch previously recorded shows that I was planning to watch in February because I'm not actually watching more television than I would otherwise.  It’s just a “now or later” issue.
• For my own safety, I’m allowed to watch television when it’s really windy outside, in case the local weather service issues a tornado warning.

I know I’m just lying to myself, but I can be so convincing.

Anyway, just because I failed miserably at this 30-day trial doesn’t mean that I’m abandoning the idea of giving up television.  If I can’t go cold turkey, I’ll just have to do it gradually.  Oh, if only I could chew a piece of gum or slap on a patch and feel sufficiently entertained!

The other day, I was reading David Sedaris’ essay about when he quit smoking by moving to Japan, and it occurred to me that moving to Japan might also help me give up television.  Sure, TVs are everywhere in Japan, but I wouldn’t understand a word of it!  Plus, Japanese programming consists mainly of anime, science fiction, and variety shows, none of which I am even remotely interested in.  My husband would probably put up some resistance – he went to Tokyo years ago and had a bad experience with “fish bread” – but I bet if I played up the whole “addiction” thing, I could convince him to go.  And if my addiction proves to be overpowering and I learn Japanese just so that I can watch television, well, then at least I will have acquired a new skill.  冒険が始まるようにしなさい!