True Romance

I haven't wanted to write because I don't want to jinx it.  And you know I'm not really sure what the rules are about writing from the middle of a potentially amazing story you're in the process of living.  Whether it's annoying or inconsiderate or tactless or unnecessary or uninteresting to anyone else (aka the 8 - 30 or so who make up my blog and website's audience and would/will read this).

I mean I've gotten a kick out of telling people the story in the past three weeks.  How my bambina sorella and I had a 15 hour layover in Brussels on our way back from crashing my sorellina's spring break trip in Rome, so we booked a hotel in the Grand Place and took in some sights before settling back at the first bar we noticed in the cab from the airport to our hotel that night around 8 when we got in to Belgium.

We probably spent from 9:30pm to 12:30am in the company of our new friend.  I'd asked if he knew we were American when he heard us talk or when he'd seen that my sis was wearing a flannel shirt.  Actually, he said, at first he'd thought we may be locals.

Our blonde hair had garnered some funny pick up lines the day before in Rome ("i like your curly hair...happy women's day... love me tonight?") and a couple hours earlier as we were deciding between chocolate, waffles and french fries for our traditional Belgium street meal ("hello...can i kidnap you for 24 hours?  you can kidnap me," and of course you need to imagine that first series in an Italian accent and this second one in a Flemish accent), but in Belgium, which is like the DC of Europe - a verifiable international hub - based on the languages we were approached with we were seemingly passing as French, Irish, German, and apparently even Belgian. 

Anyway what's funny is what propelled me to book the tix for my littlest sis and me.   My netflix queue is stacked with movies that were a big deal on average seven years ago.  What was I so busy doing seven years ago I wonder that I missed so many movies I'd meant to see?  Theatre I suppose.  I did 14 shows in the two years I spent living in Boston after college.  So I didn't really have many nights and weekends free to take in films.

But now, I have and use netflix, so I'm slowly but surely catching up on pop culture.  And I rented PS, I Love You with Hillary Swank and Gerard Butler, who plays Irish but is a Scott, I believe. And I'll be damned if that movie didn't just smack me in the face with a reminder of how romantic Ireland is/was.

I decided as the credits started to roll, that, fine that was it, I would book my flight and my sister's.  Cause we had to run to Rome.  Even if just for a few days.  A ROMANtic get away.  Literally.  It would be a trip all about sisterhood and spontaneity, connecting with our Italian roots, and reveling in the fun that would be getting to go out to the discotecas together and seeing sights and speaking in our pigeon Italian.  A rejuvenating jaunt, and really just a fun little adventure.  It would be romantic even if we were all single right now and unlikely to have the time or the where-withal to pick up any Italian Stallions or ride on the back of mopeds with them to Tuscany, because what is more romantic than Europe?  All of the history, the art, the sounds that roll around in peoples' mouths as they speak those languages or as they speak English in their endearing accents be them Italian, Flemish, Irish... Southern...

That's the thing, I heard the southern accent amidst the international cacophony we were surrounded by at Churchills - the English Pub we settled on having a pint or two and eating our french fries with curry ketchup at.  And maybe it's faded from what it once was, but it was warm like a hug and low in timber like the motor of a tractor, a discernible drawl.

And then I took my coat off and in a game changing gesture decided to hang it behind me instead of putting it with my purse on the open chair to my right.

And then there was this quick exchange of eye contact.  And we were off.  And three hours later it was so cute that my bambina sorella was asking whether she should leave me alone, because of course no, I told her, there was no way I was ditching her for a dude effectively leaving her alone at 18 in a city where they speak French and Flemish, but if the connection counted, it'd find a way to work itself out. And I just had a feeling, less from the 3 hour convo and more from that momentary eye contact exchange that it counted.

I can think of 3 times in my life when I've had those exchanges.  And they've all been so crazy!  So telling.  So unique and so charged.  And I wish I were a writer with the words to fully summarize all that went on in the instances of those exchanges.  Cause if I were, I bet I'd already have a literary agent - ha - but suffice it to say, they lead to true romance.  And prove that Wall-E was write to harp on good old Cornelius Hack's hindsight.  Who knows what will happen, one day at a time and all that, I'm hardly waiting for a princess styled happy ending but I've definitely been reminded of how these two have really got it figured out:

The Curly Diaries

I recently had an encounter with a woman sales clerk - gosh for the life of me I cannot remember where, somewhere like a bodega, or a gas station convenience store - and the woman, who was otherwise gruff in our small exchange (what was I buying?  twizzlers for the road trip I took with my co-worker a week or so ago? beats me...) cheered up some just before I walked away from the transaction.

"You know who you remind me of?" she asked.

"Who?" I replied.

"That girl from the Carrie Diaries - have you seen that new show?"

And I replied that I had not, but thanked her for saying so because that girl was easily 10 years my junior, and she said, "yeah the curly hair.  So cute."  Which was so sweet of her.

Anyway - I am working on a sketch show.  I don't want to say begrudgingly but rather hesitantly as I have not studied this form of comedy yet and I'm wary of trying things I don't feel like I've got at least a minimal mastery of, but I am working on it none the less and decided to hammer out two sketches today before my musical improv show this evening, and moved from my desk to my bed to write and realized I've got 




















by my bedside for two reasons: first because I'm going to watch the show start to finish, it's just a matter of picking a day to start that process.  And second because my inspiration for the year is Carrie Bradshaw.  Curly blonde convinced she can go the distance, with her sassy bob and her wit and whatnot.

I am pretty sure the sketches I wrote both suck.  Perhaps even more than this blog post does, but I'll tell you what, I'm proud I made myself write them.  Because I read Amy Poehler's tips for making it in show business in Entertainment Weekly's "Women Who Run TV" feature a few hours ago on the precor machine at the gym, and one of them was more or less to just keep writing even if some of what you write at first is bad. 

And check out what EW on line did:

Pretty fun / funny right?  Love this idea of Amy Poehler having a theoretical vision board, cause she is on my actual one.

WriterNaugs out.

Old people love me

Maybe it's my old soul that draws them in. They can tell I'm beyond my years.

Maybe it's the curly hair.

Something about curly hair says classic, timeless. Since the dawn of time people have been battling their botticelli locks (as they're deemed by the experts at Devachan).

I love that they love me though.

There's nothing sweeter than an elderly woman dressed all in old-world Greece style black skirt and sweater and straw hat, stopping by my table in Starbucks to say thank you again for making sure no one sat at the table she had procured for herself.

Delight.