I'm sick (just a tiny summer bug courtesy of my immune deficient brother) and when I'm sick, I like to write. But lately when I develop the urge to write, I usually have nothing to write about. Or a desire to brainstorm anything new. Those are actually lies as my current life is far more sophisticated than ever before albeit a bit laid-back and mellow. Is that a contradictory statement? Also, the second lie being that I have written a bit of fiction here and there, but I've become a lot more critical of myself and, dare I say it, a bit shy? Yes, this is coming from the same girl that wore a short skirt yesterday (the kind that is loose and bounces around) knowing very well the chances of it blowing upwards while waiting for the subway were extremely high. The rationale behind this daring move was not to satisfy my inner slut, but rather due to the fact that I know my days of being able to wear such a skirt without grossing anyone out are quickly declining. What Not to Wear pegs this at 35, I believe. The British say 28 though. That is a bit young, I think. My legs still have a bit more mileage left in them. I might even continue to rock the mini-skirt until well into my 50s. My mom looks damn good in her cute little golf skirts. Perhaps this everlasting good legs gene has been passed down to me. Preferably in place of the high cholesterol gene. And the "golf makes me giddy with excitement" gene since I never ever want to be caught yelling "Oh, ohhhh, OHHHHH!" which such passion at the television screen during a golf match. I've never seen someone so euphoric over something so small going into a hole.

Wait, a second.

Oh, yes, you better believe I just went there.

I decided to look into getting Bravery published. If not for anything but to have polished illustrated copies to give to those around me (I know that isn't a valid reason, but don't spill the beans). Anything extra is a bonus. I know of someone very artistically talented that said he'd be willing to give the illustrations a shot, but since he is the cousin of my better half, I'm a bit uneasy about the prospect. What if it doesn't turn out as I envision? Could be a sticky situation at Christmas dinner. I envision glazed Christmas ham being thrown at my face. Or mistletoe suddenly appearing over my head when I am conversing with grandma. Those very well may happen anyway though. My father worked with a fellow teacher (art teacher) that left teaching to pursue illustrating children's books. Apparently she is quite good. This is my other option. Apparently she is also quite old and no longer illustrating anymore.

The process is proving much more difficult than I originally thought. For some reason, I thought I could use Google and come across a magic button that said PUBLISH! and BOOM. Done. Luckily (my surprisingly excited) father has been helping me out. It just so happens that the person we were going to contact, my godfather, is recovering from surgery to remove a portion of his cancerous colon. Ironic, I suppose.

In other earth shattering news, the phone is ringing off the hook with prank calls. Or so we think. Truth is, my dad is quite deaf (too stubborn to admit it) and most of the time he can't even hear the person on the other end. So the current situation might very well be my grandfather calling for the tenth time yelling in Italian dialect for us hanging up on him nine times prior. Now this poses two problems: my dad cannot hear him and, even if he could, he wouldn't understand him anyway.

I told you my life had become very sophisticated. Don't be too jealous now. In fact, I am going to pour myself a glass of expensive wine and eat some processed cheese. All while listening to some jazz and braving the steps downstairs with a gorgeous pair of heels. I'll let you decipher which of those is truth and which is not.

One hint: the processed cheese part is absolutely not a lie.

Sophistication.

To the max.

Boo-ya.