We are in the midst of an arctic cold snap here in Hot-Lanta. The high temps all this week are predicted to be in the 30's and we have a 40% chance of SNOW on Thursday.
I had to run errands and go to the grocery store today, and it was a pretty lackluster day. Mother's computer had to be fixed. The kids had to do laundry. I made them get backpacks ready for tomorrow.
I had some drama with Alesia but I can't blog about it. We got it resolved, I am pretty sure.
I have managed to get a little bit of writing done.
Years ago I wrote a comedic screenplay called The Theory of Hip Movement. I am trying to turn it into a book. I don't know if anyone will find it remotely interesting or want to read it. So I wrote the first chapter and it's below. It's not long in Word, though it looks lengthy here. I'd be grateful if you'd read it and simply answer 2 questions for me either in a comment or email.
1) Do you like the main character, Lucy?
2) Do you think it's interesting enough to want to read more?!
The Theory of Hip Movement
Chapter One
Lucy Beall stood at the window of the bride’s room at St. Phillips Cathedral wearing nothing but a bra and slip, and watched a multi-colored hot air balloon sail across the sky, the couple in it dressed in black tee shirts, waving. She wanted to wave back, but suddenly the balloon with two people going far away seemed like a bad omen.
Lucy closed her eyes and repeated her mantra for the day: I am twenty-eight years old. I love Alan. It’s time. I’m not getting any younger.
“Lucy!” her mother shrieked behind her. “You’re not dressed! The wedding starts in thirty minutes have you LOST YOUR MIND?!”
Lucy sighed heavily and looked over at the gorgeous white silk Vera Wang dress hanging near the door. “You ordered a size 4, Mother. I am a size 8. It doesn’t fit.”
Eleanor, dressed head to toe in a grey Chanel suit and looking much like a cross between Dolly Parton and Catherine Deneuve, was having none of it. “You’re a size 6. I TOLD you to lay off the chili cheese fries and Red Stripes! I don’t know how you keep from being hawg fat but you ARE going to squeeze into the dress young lady. I brought the corset!”
Eleanor pulled out a corset that would’ve fit Scarlet O’Hara before pregnancy and shook it at her daughter. The laces jumped in the air and emitted a foul smell, of old Talcum powder and desperation.
Lucy pulled herself up to her full five foot three and glared at Eleanor, who was just over 5’4 in heels. “I am NOT wearing that instrument of torture. I knew you’d pull something like this, Mother. I brought another dress.”
Lucy nodded to the lacy old-fashioned dress hanging on the opposite wall. The three bridesmaids stopped chattering and stood silently, like witnesses to a gunfight in the old west.
Eleanor approached the alternative dress, squinting, too vain to fish around for her glasses. As she stared, a look of disgust spread across her face. “That was Great Granny Beall’s dress. It’s too old. You’ll rip it.”
“No, I won’t!” Lucy retorted. “I had it restored. Caroline!”
Her best friend Caroline grabbed the older dress and flew to Lucy’s side. The dress slid easily over hear head and Caroline started fastening the buttons in the back.
“See?! It’s beautiful. And it FITS,” Lucy told her mother triumphantly.
Eleanor reached over to an elaborate Louis Vuitton overnight bag filled with makeup and hair products and pulled out a thermos.
Caroline muttered, almost to herself, “Oh my God. She’s starting on the martinis before 5 p.m. This is bad.”
Lucy shot her a look and stepped over to her mother’s side.
“Look, Mama, I know you wanted me in the Wang, but I love this dress, and Granny Beall told me once she wanted me to wear it when I got married.”
Eleanor sighed. “By the time you knew Granny she had hardening of the arteries. She told me I looked like Glinda the Good Witch from the Wizard of Oz. She told your brother he had the face of a sheepdog. She mistook the yard man for FDR. She was always saying crazy things.”
Caroline, who had walked over to the window to check out the weather, gasped. The bride’s room window faced a small courtyard and Alan, the groom, was outside in the courtyard quietly vomiting into a hydrangea bush.
Eleanor heard the gasp and saw Caroline’s face. She was the first to reach the window. Lucy was right behind her.
“Yikes. He looks like he just ate a meatball sub and a ton of dill pickles!” exclaimed Lucy, who liked to describe icky things accurately.
A knock sounded at the door. Thad Beall pushed the door open a crack, “Are y’all decent?! I’m trying to find Mama.”
Eleanor hurried to the door. “Get OUT! I have a job for you!” she hissed. She shot Caroline a reproachful look and went out the door.
Lucy again looked out at Alan, who was now white-faced and leaning heavily on his best friend Will’s side.
This was not going as planned. Not at all.




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