Holiday Recapitation

Just a few thoughts off the top of my head on what the holidays meant to me and my family this year. This past November, my cousins and I travelled to his shedelicious abode where we ate, drank and became merry. It was absolutely fabulous. On our way to the upper peninsula, we stared out of the car and watched a women peek through a window at Bev's Supper Club. Come to find out, Karen Black was quite upset that we missed her performance, "Hey, Don't Drive Away, Please Come Black." Her "one women show" is never complete without the paraphrase, "Nobody is flying the plane." I am told that she sits and waits for us. For a moment, we think about purchasing tickets for her next performance. Next time Karen. We had a glorious dinner under the stars and we danced (in our heads) like gnomes in candle light.

Kristmas at Kell and Dave's is never without joy. Got together for raw sausage balls, Willy Wonka and The Kolaczki Factory cookies and Tacos. Eve at its finest! Can't complain about the door prizes for our Wii Bowling tournament. Fondue set, a wok and a grill! Did I mention the bottle of Brandy?
On an end note, today is my mom's birthday. This classic Italian/Finnish Rizzwold fiesta ended with Tai food and birthday cake! Oh, must not forget how much the cat loves my mom's Christmas tree icicles and regurgitates them all over her house. That is the last photo of the day. Mom bending down, sweeping the floor (with her hands) and I think putting the cat puke icies back on the tree! Happy Birthday you senile women. Oh the joys. I am truly blessed.

Merry Christmas Kids And Stay Out Of The Tetanus Room!

When you have four kids, it is impossible to hide the Christmas gifts in your closet, under your bed or in your sock drawer. They are sneaky, mischievous creatures, sniffing around and spotting things out of place. A squirrel finding his nut buried deeper than an amaryllis bulb, a mother helplessly searching for her glasses so that she can find her way to the bathroom without holding on to the walls, a man searching for his car keys only to find glimpses of silver sparkling in the bottom of the toilet bowl and grandma searching for her long lost bottle of Riesling only to find it in the hands of the blind mother who never did find her glasses. Could I run on a bit more? These are minor nuisances that are easily corrected and everything eventually will fall into place. But, there is still the chance of little tiny hands harvesting Christmas wrapping paper, plucking and tossing and smiling at all of the goodies that Santa dropped off a tad bit early. So, for this reason, we decide to quarantine gifts inside the man garage where the infestation of tetanus runs as rampant as newborn bunnies on Easter and tales of old Kris Kringle are replaced by the lockjaw boy who at one time, was sticking his nose in his daddy's man garage business where gifts were hidden under big piles of rusty soaked wood pieces. Will this get their attention? Every once in a while we will tell them to hush little babies and take a moment to hear the rusty rattles of the ghost of Christmas Tetanus Past. Stay out children, stay out!

The Hills Have Eyes

Oh man. Last night my brother and I were on chat. I could not go to bed after our conversation because the laughter would not ease up. I had to divert my mind to something a bit more calming, like bubble baths and dim lights, snuggle fabric softener, kittens, cowboys. Anything other than Henry Hill.
OK. I love FB. Not fat bastard. Face Book. It really has given me a place to call home, second home, or second flat in the city. I explained to you (me) that I got involved with this writers group. So many LA people on board. Much talent I am sure. I am not familiar with many, but that does not matter. We are all just wanting to share our adventures. If Scorsese himself was on the discussion board, I would just chuckle and move on to the Party without another thought. He is a writer. I would not, even in the slightest, get obnoxious. It is not my style. He is just a talented person who I look up to. Only the greatest director of all freakin time.
I get a friend request from a man who happens to be a part of this writers group. He was probably putting in requests for many of the faces who belong on the discussion board. I just happen to be one of them. I am always glad to network and find new and interesting people. We all know how FB works. Once we are accepted, we can browse through their list of friends and their whole FB page. I believe even before acceptance we can browse through the friend list. Out of 600 friends, one gets a second glance.
Henry "the fuck is that" Hill. Henry Hill, Henry Hill, Henry Hill. Why does that name sound familiar? Since I have a mutual friend with Henry Hill, I am able to click on his FB page and browse his wall. As soon as I saw the link to his "Good Fellas" art work offered on EBay, the Ahhh moment hit and my interest in Mr. Hill peaked. While I do not condone that "gangster" type of behavior or try and glorify it, I can only be curious as to what Henry Hill has been up to? A painter, a writer, a friend, a boyfriend. He is out of witness protection and I am now witnessing HIS Face Book page. I am also feeling a little apprehension because I am not his friend. I did not want to violate his privacy but had to take a peek at his photo page. A couple of photos of him and one in particular, a Mr. Raymond Liotta. I click on Liotta's link and I get to his FB.
The plot thickens.... LOL. It is still a tad bit soupy. When I click on Ray Liotta, I really feel that I am intruding. Seriously, I am not a friend of his either. Davey pops up on chat."Hey Dave, I was on Ray Liottas FB. I do not know how I got there?" "What?" I somehow got to his FB through Hill. We are both laughing our asses off and I tell him to hold on so that I can link back to Raymond. One moment. I go to Mr. Hill's wall and click onto his photo page. Guess the freak what. That photo is gone. I tell Davey and ask him if there are FB police? "Don't say another word" he says. I now have my brother paranoid. I do not want to be known as a stalker to the "stars" and neither did Dave. For a brief moment, I think he was a afraid we would get wacked. For a split second, I too was afraid and I closed the Book. The Hills have eyes.

Park Them Boats At The Doc!

Babe, I have neglected you. You have been tossed into mediocre madness, forsaken. Left for dead. Uncontrollable rotting, like a sink full of dishes. It is my sole duty to make sure that I have this dance with you at least once a week..........I am playing the infidelity card and its name is Face Book. But at last, we meet again. Here I am, dance little fingers, dance.
Ahhhh. New love. Face Book has showed me the way to the next whiskey bar and its name is Writers Doc Party. I have only begun to drink, just a couple of drinks. I am pretty buzzed so I have decided to go for shots! I have noticed that egos are left behind and some really, truly inspiring talent gives me a peak into the industry. There are roughly 3000 members of publishers, reporters, writers and producers who come together in a sort of panel discussion on their passion for writing. Who am I? I am just a fly on the wall enjoying these discussions, asking questions that come to mind and getting wonderful feedback. I am no where near their accomplishments, but I am at the point of no return. I will learn from this group. In such a short time, I have realized the importance of social networking, a tiny bit about this industry, and how grateful I am to be apart of this lovely intimate gathering.
Thanks Writers Doc Party for inviting me into your genuine haven.

A Jewison Kind of Weekend

There are nails in my backyard. Orion stepped on a nail while wearing a shoe. The emergency room welcomed another McCurdy to its headquarters, with open arms i might say. My surgery is over. Incision is healing nicely but not soon enough. Textbroker is broke. There aren't any articles for me to write today unless I can crank out a 400 word bit on why we want to visit Vietnam. Ask my father to write that one. He'll tell you about the jungle rot. I am sure it is a lovely place.
So today's blog is all about rambling, gambling, cardiovascular finger exercising, mind-altering stimulation so that I can lift the lazy fog from my brain. It is very hard to get back to writing when you take a vacation. Bare with me (talking to myself) while I reignite the passion for my blog. Tomorrow I will have a subject that matters, a topic to destroy and a feeble attempt at assembling paragraph obscenities?
Off topic. I am thinking about starting a blog on cinema. Brother and I were raised on this particular subject. He is now working in the field of dreams and I would love to have a blog just on the films that inspired us, him. From Friedkin's Exorcist to Scorsese's Goodfellas, to an "unknown young director" my dad was dying for us to study. Just a guy named Quentin with a movie called Reservoir Dogs. Not a big deal. We were movie majestics. Creatures of Friday night habit. Had a small drug problem known as Little Caesars. We invited into our home a cop named Serpico, a priest named Karras and a struggling parolee trying to make his way to Straight Times. We did not all agree on the choice of movies. Dad can't stand my love for Todd Hayes and his Velvet Goldmine or all the bad B horror flicks that my mom so dearly loved. I got the best of both worlds, B horror and the sophistication of un cineaste! I remember going to my husband's parents house with two rented movies. We must have been around 19 and in one hand I held Norman Jewison's Jesus Christ Superstar and in the other was pre- Lord of the Rings King Peter Jackson, and his masterpiece, Dead Alive. Yes, we watched them both and the whole time I had the biggest grin on my face as if I was kid in a candy shop, oblivious to the reactions of my future in laws. I believe the next night I brought over And Justice For All. Must have been a Jewison kind of weekend. That's entertainment. I am passing down the love alright. Down to the McCurdy generation, but not so severe. My McCurdy children cannot stand horror. I am by myself with the Friedkins, Cravens, Carpenters. Even the Rob Zombies. What I can do is begin their cinema resumes starting with the Coppolas, De Palmas and Polanskis, right?
So to end this madness, surgery went well, did not write for Textbroker today, and The Panic in Needle Park is in my backyard!

Here Today, Gone Tomorrow

I had my consultation yesterday, a brief overview of the "Sistruck Procedure." I am not fretful of the surgery, just the anesthesia. I would rather get there and someone taser me in the back. Knock me out unknowingly then give me the drug. Clunk me over the head with a small hammer. Ask me about my day and sneak like a thief. Pick pocket me, jab me with medicine, just don't tell me I am going under! Anticipation is the worst. All in all, I am told that being under is a happening place to be. And there are others that will greet me in my Twilight? What is so happening? What chariot awaits? Carol Amy, don't go to the light!
I will be sleeping beauty, quietly lying, stretched and sound, and in my best Henry The Eighth impersonation, "off with my lump." In reality, I should be singing the glorious praises of "my lump, my lump, my lovely lady lump." She will not be missed. There will be a biopsy done which is protocol. If they come back with the "C" word, which we all know is, "Could this be your twin?", I will be highly upset! There better not be teeth and bones in this fluid filled freak of nature. It will be long gone and replaced by a scar that hopefully does not resemble Young Frankenstein. I was told that it is such a small scar. The creases of my neck will hide any line. Yeah, when I am eighty. There is also an 8-10 percent chance of it reoccurring. If that happens I will be having a "Car Trunk Procedure."
My friendly neighbors are offering food. I hope they know what they are getting into with four kids and two adults. Bless their hearts though! One is even getting me a scarf. Somehow I see glimpses of Grey Gardens.
I am going to have the best sleep of my life, according to many. I am afraid, I will admit, but I know that the doctor and nurse will watch over me. Just make sure, good doctor, to bring me back. I have laundry to do!

This Thing Called Blog

Yes, I thought Sawing Blogs was a catchy title and a little silly. The votes are split on that one. What I am trying to do is find my blog in this world. I do a search and it does not come up with the current title. I have spun this web and still, can not find it. I can find my old blog name. Should I change this name too? Is third time the charm? I've got to contemplate. There are too many bleepin Sawing Blogs out there! Kellblogs Rice Crispies. Lincoln Blogs. Blog In. What About Blog. And So Blog. Is there Box People?
Box People. From the creative minds of babes comes the ultimate square family. My daughter and her friends are never bored. They are not smoking Marlboro Reds at the pavilion. They are not dressing up in their mothers clothes, painting face and strolling the streets of Forest Park. They are not calling boys, spinning the bottles or sneaking sips of whisky. They are using their brilliant minds and coming up with ingenious, innate forms of entertainment. They are producing the next Nick Jr., the next children's book, the next Mattel toy. They are introducing us to the world of Box People!
There is momma and daddy box, brother and sister box, cat and dog box and let us not forget Grampa box. He's pretty hip to be square. He can compute, in his block head, square roots like nobodies business. He uses a crane to walk. Family time consists of stacking each other up and knocking each other down.
"What do squares do?", my son asks. Squares are rocks. They are strong, independent quadrilaterals. They give us a heads up on the size capacity of ones habitat and they absolutely love to climb to infinite levels of grandeur. "And what do blogs do"?
What do blogs do? If I can only catch a glimpse of these little girls' minds. I can probably come up with a better name for my blog, and an explanation for my son, about this thing, called blog.