Saturday Rambles

It was a good day. I dunno. I felt like telling someone.

I blog about thrift-store clowns and old meatloaf recipes more than I blog about my life, which I guess is weird. I don’t know. Is it? I don’t really know what I’m doing with this blog half the time. Most of the time it’s just that something random makes me snort-laugh and I write up a post and hit publish, hoping at least three or four other people share my weird sense of humor and know who Princess Mombi is. Then I see what all these other awesome writers are blogging about, and every so often I’m like damn, I should be posting personal essays and mapping My Writing Journey and crafting impassioned listicles like 26 WAYS TO STOP SURFING PINTEREST FOR BACON CUPCAKE RECIPES AND START WRITING ALL THE WORDS BECAUSE SHIT, SON, YOU’RE NOT GETTING ANY YOUNGER.

I could give it a shot. I’d be full of crap, though, because I’m a weirdo and a procrastinator and a guilty midnight surfer of the Daily Mail, and it’s an actual miracle that I a.) published a book at all, and b.) have a WIP with more than 50K words I don’t want to print out and snip into failure snowflakes. (Yet.) I pretty much do everything you’re not supposed to do when you draft. I write slowly and deliberately. I take frequent and unearned breaks to hoover up Goldfish crackers and noodle on Twitter and hop on ONTD to find out why Marina Abramovic is covering James Franco with gold. Not only do I fail to silence my internal editor, I also make her a pot of Earl Grey and set out some lavender tea cookies on the good-good china.

I have nothing but very bad, very naughty writing advice to give. But I don’t want to get too same-old, same-old on the blog here, so I’d like to mix things up a little. Maybe get more personal sometimes. Is that good for you? (I’m hoping this is erring more on the side of “charming candor” than “neurotic nattering.”)

Anyway. Here’s a recipe for a really good Saturday, based on hours of experimental research.

Two classic underrated 80s albums, played at considerable volume. (It was this one and the Bangles:)

One observatory trip to peer through a giant hundred-year-old telescope under the guidance of a lovely, slightly wizened scientist who is straight out of Central Casting and knows more about meteors than you know about your entire family:

Approximately 3,438 incredible costume sightings, because it’s Otakon weekend at the Baltimore Convention Center and the cosplayers are out in force.

Throng of princesses spotted outside Johnny Rockets, dispelling the notion that they eat only sugared air and finger sandwiches:

Not too much rattles my daughter, but the scarecrow on the far right had her discreetly ducking behind me and clutching my jeans:

Five minutes by the harbor fountain, because it’s August and it’s Baltimore and you’re never going to be six (or twenty-six, or thirty-six) ever again:

Two minutes on the concrete smiles (readers of How to Repair a Mechanical Heart might remember these from the chapter on the Baltimore fan convention):

And finally, if you’re not too tired, 3 tickets to:

You will see your childhood SpinArt rendered in undulating neon, and also Viking longships and vibrating feathers and Dumbledore holding a cage that spits flowers. And they’ll play Stairway and your brain will trick itself into thinking it’s having deep thoughts about your place in the universe and the dim possibilities of life after death, and you’ll feel so, so high, and then your six-year-old will tap you and say “he has a weird voice,” and you’ll all laugh, and you’ll totally want to come back next week for Laser Pink Floyd.

How’s your weekend been? And any thoughts about what you’d like to see more of on this blog? More cover reveals/interviews/book reviews? More stuff about this book I’m purportedly writing? More flea market finds and ads that make us all glad it’s not 1963 anymore? Give me a shout and let me know!

xoxo