Dee Savoy » the secret life of dee

Now I’ve finally done it

writerds — Tue, 28 Oct 2008 17:14:54 +0000

I’m sitting here watching The View and an interview with the actor who plays Dick Cheney in the new movie W. I’m also thinking about the most pervasive question I get as an author: where do you get your ideas. Now I know you are wondering how exactly these two things intersect, so I’ll tell you.

Many, many, (many to the tenth power) years ago, I was young, adventuresome and caught in a downpour trying to get from Vineyard Haven where my cousin and I had gone to swim back to Oak Bluffs where we were staying (this is Martha’s Vineyard folks). We had walked there but now we were soaked. So my cousin decides what we really need to do is hitchhike the rest of the way.

Now, a few years back, when we were teenagers we’d hitchhiked as a group. Our caveat was that we we only allowed to accept rides from little old ladies. Yeah, we followed that. But on this particular day I was convinced that no one was going to stop for two soaking wet women but an ax murderer with a gun under his seat. You can see that at an early age I had a flair for murderous fantasy.

Still I wasn’t too worried since not a soul stopped for us . . . until a lone car slows and eventually stops in front of us. The first thing I notice as we approach the car is that there is a baby seat in the back. So okay, how bad could he be if he’s got a back seat stuffed with baby toys? Still, as the two of us squeeze into the front seat, I tell my cousin to get in first since this was her idea. If this guy starts anything I’m throwing myself from the car.

So we’re finally in and I’m so squished I can’t see who’s driving. I can only hear his voice, which sounds oddly familiar. He’s telling us about how he only stopped for us because he was lost and he was hoping we could tell him how to get back to where he was staying.

And it hits me who the voice belongs to. I can’t see him, so I have to ask. “I may be completely crazy, but are you Richard Dreyfuss?” He laughs and says, “Yeah, and my hobby is picking up strange women in the rain.” My cousin elbows me and tells me she was trying to play it cool. Oh, well.

Well, we show him where to go, then he drops us off at our B&B (The Pequot, by the way, only two blocks). We try to tell him how to get back to where he’s staying. From the befuddled look he gave us we figured he’d be looking for some other drenched folks for further instruction.

The funny thing is, this happened a couple of years after Jaws was filmed on the island. So it couldn’t have been his first time there.

But THAT is where I got the idea for my hero Jarad Naughton’s faulty sense of direction in Spellbound.

And, yes, I did climb the mountainside at Gay Head on a dare. What the hell was I thinking?!?

Posted in entertainment, family, fun stuff, my work, romance, secret life of dee, the secret life of dee Tagged: hitch hiking, Jaws, martha's viineyard, my writing, oak bluffs, richard dreyfuss, spellbound, vacation

Wouldn’t you know I’d get a red one

writerds — Mon, 07 Jul 2008 15:22:42 +0000

Lord knows I love a good personality quiz. This one was sent to me by my baby sis. Hope you enjoy it!

I’m a Dodge Viper!

You’re all about raw power. You’re tough, you’re loud, and you don’t take crap from anyone. Leave finesse to the other cars, the ones eating your dust.

Take the Which Sports Car Are You? quiz.

What’s a girl, I mean, a woman to do?

writerds — Sun, 01 Jun 2008 21:23:00 +0000

Those who know me know I’m not to big on forwards that get passed endlessly around the blogosphere, but I got sent one today that reached me. My sister sent it to me and asked me to share it with my daughter. I did that and decided to share it with you, too. Hope you like it.

Girls and Women

Girls want to control the man in their life.

Grown women know that if he’s truly hers, he doesn’t need controlling.

Girls check you for not calling them.

Grown women are too busy to realize you hadn’t.

Girls are afraid to be alone.

Grown women revel in it using it as a time for personal growth.

Girls ignore the good guys.

Grown women ignore the bad guys.

Girls make you come home.

Grown women make you want to come home.

Girls leave their schedule wide-open and wait for a guy to call and make plans.

Grown women make their own plans and nicely tell the guy to get in where he fits.

Girls worry about not being pretty and/or good enough for their man.

Grown women know that they are pretty and/or good enough for any man.

Girls try to monopolize all their man’s time (i.e., don’t want him hanging with his friends).

Grown women realize that a lil’ bit of space makes the ‘together time’ even more special-and goes to kick it with her own friends.

Girls think a guy crying is weak.

Grown women offer their shoulder and a tissue.

Girls want to be spoiled and ‘tell’ their man so.

Grown women ’show’ him and make him comfortable enough to reciprocate without fear of losing his ‘manhood’.

Girls get hurt by one man and make all men pay for it.

Grown women know that was just one man.

Girls fall in love and chase aimlessly after the object of their affection, ignoring all ’signs’.

Grown women know that sometimes the one you love, don’t always love you back-and move on, without bitterness.

Girls will read this and get an attitude.

Grown women will read this and pass it on to other Grown women and their male friends

Happy Mother’s Day

writerds — Mon, 12 May 2008 03:19:00 +0000

That’s all. I don’t really have more to say than that. If you’re a mom, enjoy your day. If you’re a kid, make your mom feel special. If you’re a mom and a kid, like me, enjoy having three generations together.

Just in case you’re having a hard time accomplishing this, here’s something my cousin sent me.

Before I was a Mom

I never tripped over toys or forgot words to a lullaby.

I didn’t worry whether or not my plants were poisonous.

I never thought about immunizations.

Before I was a Mom -

I had never been puked on.

Pooped on.

Chewed on.

Peed on.

I had complete control of my mind and my thoughts.

I slept all night.

Before I was a Mom

I never held down a screaming child so doctors could do tests.

Or give shots.

I never looked into teary eyes and cried.

I never got gloriously happy over a simple grin.

I never sat up late hours at night watching a baby sleep.

Before I was a Mom

I never held a sleeping baby just because I didn’t want to put him
down.

I never felt my heart break into a million pieces when I couldn’t
stop the hurt.

I never knew that something so small could affect my life so much.

I never knew that I could love someone so much.

I never knew I would love being a Mom.

Before I was a Mom -

I didn’t know the feeling of having my heart outside my body.

I didn’t know how special it could feel to feed a hungry baby.

I didn’t know that bond between a mother and her child.

I didn’t know that something so small could make me feel so important
and happy.

Before I was a Mom -

I had never gotten up in the middle of the night every 10 minutes to
make sure all was okay.

I had never known the warmth, the joy, the love, the heartache,

the wonderment or the satisfaction of being a Mom.

I didn’t know I was capable of feeling so much, before I was a Mom.

HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY!!

(Didn’t I say that already?)

Read Us the Book that Makes You Cry

writerds — Tue, 06 May 2008 19:38:00 +0000

Recently, we had an addition to our family. My younger sister and her husband adopted a baby girl, Christiane. So, of course we have to have the baby shower and of course, the author and kindergarten teacher in me demands that the new baby must have a book. My choice–Love You Forever by Robert Munsch. I don’t know an adult who can get through this book with a dry eye. In fact, when I was in Barnes and Noble looking for it, another woman, obviously a mother by the child glued to her hip, said, “Oh my children love that book. They say, read us the book that makes you cry.” That’s what I did. I read the story to my mother and sister in the store and the three of us ended up weeping like lunatics in the aisle. Is there anything as cathartic as a public, communal tearfest? I don’t think so.

Anyhoo, I was quite proud of myself presenting my new niece and her parents with a worthy tome–until I read this article in PW. Apparently there are some folks who find the book creepy and detestable. I never would have guessed, despite the mother in the story baring a striking resemblance to Shirley MacLaine’s character in Terms of Endearment (emotionally anyway). There are some who suggest that Munsch wrote the book as satire, but that strikes me as the protest of one guilty of mawkishness and lavish sentiment, and well, you’ve got to tell them something.

Oh, well. I’ll go on loving it and you can judge for your own self, but next time I feel the need to indulge, I’ll stay out of Barnes and Noble.

That’s a spicy meat (no ball)

writerds — Thu, 17 Apr 2008 00:34:00 +0000

I have been a long time hater of Spam, since it was that mystery meat that came in the blue can. You see I volunteered one summer at my high school (back in the Stone Age) in a project called Project Hands. It was a camp for deaf kids (way back then I could sign) and therefore underfunded. We had Spam almost every day for lunch. Eventually we got to the point of making up a Dr Seuss-esque rhyme to amuse ourselves (That Spam in can, That Spam in can. I do not like that Spam in can).

What is Spam exactly? I am told it is spiced ham. Spiced ham? I want to know exactly which spice this is to keep it out of the rest of my food.

That being said, the mail variety of Spam has never bothered me too much. It’s too easy to click the delete button. But what’s with this new spate of spam that’s subject line is completely made up of Chinese or Japanese kanji? How am I supposed to know if it’s coming from the Australian Lottery or Mrs Ubinga, the wife of the deposed leader of Upper Volta, or wherever, if it isn’t writen in English? At least those emails amuse me and I open them once in a while. Does anyone really think I’m going to open stuff I can’t understand? I just can’t see the logic of it.

Anyway, I’ve procrastinated enough for today. Back to work.

Stand by your woman?

writerds — Thu, 10 Apr 2008 16:55:00 +0000

I happened to be looking at presidential news this morning when I happened on a certain posting at CNN titled why have so many democrats changed their minds. Before we get any further, let me say that I am a registered independent voter, mostly because I refuse for any political party or other entity to assume I’m on their side. If you want my vote, you have to earn it. But when I looked at the big three candidates that hat their fedoras in the ring at the beginning of the primaries, I could have lived with any one of them. That said, I also had the black woman’s dilemma: with the first real opportunity to vote for a black or a woman, which, if either, do you favor.

Now, you know me. I’m all about the girls. I’ve been waiting for a woman to vote for. But it is also true that as Obama’s star has risen, Hillary’s has fallen. Unfortunately, I do think it has to do with gender, but maybe not in the way you think.

Behind every great man, there is a great woman. I think that’s a truism none of us would dispute, even though some great men get saddled with stinkers. Conversely, behind every great woman there seems to be either a dead, impaired or non-existent husband.

Would Marie Curie have risen to prominence if her husband hadn’t killed himse

lf early from too much of his own product (radiation). Would Eleanor Roosevelt have gained renown far and wide if she hadn’t been her husband’s legs? Can someone tell me where Condi’s man is?

Okay, I’m being facetious here, but as women have found their place in public and private life, their ambitions are more often derailed by their husband’s missteps than their own. Case in point: Geraldine Ferraro, who recently was much maligned for a comment that is absolutely true–with the mood the country is in, Obama is the perfect candidate to stand for both change and conciliation. Granted, she could have done a better job of articulating that, but I admire her gumption for standing by what she said. Anyhoo, back when she was a vice-presidential candidate, she caught flack for her husband’s (supposedly) shady deals.

The same happened a couple of years ago to Jeanine Pirro when she was running for Attorney General of New York, Eliot Spitzer’s old job. Concerns about her husband’s dirty dealings nearly cost her her job. Then when it came to light that she might have crossed the line in trying to spy on dear Albert, it cost her the race. True, she should have picked a better snooping buddy than disgraced former police commissioner Bernard Kerik, but sometimes a girl’s got to go with what she’s got.

Now, there’s Hillary, who was doing a lot better before Bill opened his big fat one (and before the pair made Obama’s race an issue, in my opinion). The more he talks, the worse she does. In my opinion, that’s a shame, but apparently more than a little bit typical.

So my question is, when are most men going to catch a clue when it comes to standing by their women the way women have stood by men since the beginning of time? I’m not trying to bash guys here. They don’t know unless we teach them. So maybe I should have titled this post, mama’s don’t let your babies grow up to be pains in the asses. (see yesterday’s post to find out why that’s mildly amusing.)

Moses dead at 83

writerds — Sun, 06 Apr 2008 19:51:00 +0000

No, not the real Moses, but the one I remember from my youth. Charton Heston splashed boldly on the big screen by Cecil B. DeMille. I was raised in a house that loved religious stories, even if we didn’t believe in them religiously. So The Ten Commandments, The Robe, The Greatest Story Every Told and eventually Jesus Christ Superstar (we played that soundtrack to death, but only when Grandma wasn’t around to decry the sacrilege) were staples in our house.

Heston was also Ben Hur, Thomas Jefferson, Cardinal Richelieu and Robert Thorn, police detective in Soylent Green. He starred in Airport, Antony and Cleopatra, Gray Lady Down and Earthquake. the first two Planet of the Apes movies.

Heston always played the heroic figure, the big man, even if the man wasn’t completely noble. He was the ultimate romance hero–at least on film. In real life he had that NRA thing going on, and well, that I could have missed. As far as I know, the cause of his death hasn’t been released and I’m sure hoping it had nothing to do with guns. That big a fan of irony I am not.

Next time, keep me occupied

writerds — Thu, 03 Apr 2008 00:33:00 +0000

Killing time in Barnes and Noble today, I was looking through the self help aisles when I stumbled onto this title:
That’s right. Sex for DUMMIES, written by none other than world renown sexpert Dr. Ruth. I became afraid, very afraid. I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m not sure I want to encourage dummies to have sex. I mean, there’s a reason people say stupid people shouldn’t breed. Think how much better off we’d be if George I and Barbara had been a little better at birth control.

Seriously though, the first time I heard Dr. Ruth speak it was while I was flipping channels on the radio. I thought I’d happened on a Gilda Radner Baba Wawa sketch. God, I miss Gilda Radner.

Actually, I like Dr Ruth. Despite the fact that I can’t decipher a word she says, she’s the only nationally known figure who’s shorter than I am. Now that’s saying something.

Erin Go Braindead

writerds — Mon, 17 Mar 2008 18:36:00 +0000

That’s the only excuse why I got only four out of ten right on this quiz. No, I’m not Irish–not even black Irish–but my first name is: Deirdre. Depending on where you look it up, it means the troubler, mother of sorrows, and a few other disturbing meanings (thanks, Ma).

Seriously, I’ve always loved my name. Google the name Deirdre and my website will come up sixth on the list.

Here’s the story of the name Deirdre that I grew up with as a kid:

The most beautiful woman in ancient Ireland, Deirdre was bethrothed to the High King Conchobhar Mac Nessa but she fell in love with his nephew Naoise. Deirdre and Naoise eloped to Scotland where they lived a blissful exile for many years. By offering forgiveness, Conchobhar tricked them into returning to Ulster where Naoise was slain by the jealous Conchobhar. Deirdre threw herself from Conchobhar’s chariot rather than live with the man who had caused Naoise’s death. It was said that her grave was near to Naoise’s and that a yew tree grew from each plot. The yew trees grew toward one another till their branches intertwined, joining the two lovers even after death.

Years later, when my sister was buying a house, her Irish real estate agent informed me that the true Deirdre was a nun who got herself beheaded for her trouble. If it’s all the same to everyone else, I’ll keep the version where I get to be the pretty, pretty princess, thank you.

To all those Irish lads and lassies, whether it’s for today or always. Happy St. Patrick’s Day.