Monday, October 01, 2007

Roses, Copyright Infringement and June Cleaver.

Who needs the Eiffel Tower when you’ve got the TTC?

There was a man at the top of the escalator in the subway. He was alone, waiting for someone. He held a single red rose.

My imagination went into full-on epic-romance mode, casting Richard Gere and Debra Winger in the story of this man’s life. Was there about to be a passionate reunion? Would he scoop her up and carry her out of the station? Or was he waiting for a mysterious stranger? Was it a Sleepless in Seattle moment, two people in love who are about to meet face-to-face for the first time? Or maybe it’s more You’ve Got Mail. Note to self: Fire Richard Gere and call Tom Hanks.

Later, as I sat on the subway, I saw a woman sitting by herself. She was carrying a white rose.

I’d like to retire. Tomorrow.

I gave myself a five-day weekend (which helps to explain my absence from this blog and all things technological). It was much needed. I needed a break from my life. At one point on Thursday, I was lamenting that I’m full of concepts, but lacking in plot details. I have so many openings for novels and screenplays in my head, but I have no idea how to develop them.

Fortunately, I have a brother with a ridiculous brain full of random stories, culinary innovations (none of which he would actually be able to produce -- or choose to consume), inventions and new words. So he took one of my ideas and ran with it. And kept running. Somehow a small drama about my favorite mystery neighbor (“Boy Behind the Wall” to those who love him) became Die Hard 5. I kid you not.

Later this weekend, I was at my grandma’s, chatting with my 12-year-old cousin who wants to be a writer. And I told her about my idea. And she stole it. She thinks we’re in some sort of race to write the same story. I have a feeling hers will have aliens and dragons in it. All the same, I hope hers falls flat. I wouldn’t want to have to sue a 12-year-old over the rights to my story. It might make Thanksgiving a little awkward.

There’s a cow in my sugar.

I have now contributed to the steaming of one fabulous Christmas pudding. For those of you who don’t enjoy ingredient spoilers, stop reading now. For the rest of you, prepare yourselves. There are potatoes and beef suet in Christmas pudding. Yes, the very pudding that’s full of figs and raisins and candied fruit peel has major animal fat in it. I felt like I was in a Friends episode, channeling Rachel, accidentally layering beef and peas into my trifle. But I shall eat it anyway. And enjoy it immensely. And tell all my little cousins how gross it is so I can have more. And eventually, I’ll take over this part of my family’s Christmas tradition, slightly obsessing over the Leave it to Beaver Christmas I shall impose on the ones I love.

Speaking of food, I should go make tomorrow’s lunch. Shoot. Now I’m signing off as if this is an email, not a blog. I suppose I could go further and treat this as a phone conversation with family.

I love you. Good night.

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