Other Pages

I am was a radio announcer

2012-02-15T18:21:00.003-06:00

Man, is this ever true! Thanks to my super friend Christopher L Webster for sending this my way.

Um, January? Where'd you go?

2012-02-05T14:43:00.004-06:00

I had just flat-out forgotten how time consuming it is to write full-time! I sit down at the computer and before I know it, four hours have passed. When this happens two or three times a day, it makes the month fly by without me realizing it. That's what happened to January.

Add to all this time writing the responsibility of caring for a new puppy who must be taken outside every two hours, and it doesn't leave time for much else.

Gratuitous shot of Holly. Isn't she precious?

On top of all that, Holly's been sick. Poor little thing had some sort of viral infection which has made the going outside thing even more urgent than normal. I finally had to leave her at the vet's on Friday morning, feeling like the world's biggest heel when she turned those sad, brown eyes on me, accusing me of abandoning her to indignity and torture. Oh, I hope she can come home tomorrow, because the house is just too quiet now.

I've been able to use that quietness to my advantage, though. Especially yesterday. Husband and Youngest Daughter took off for Memphis so the kiddo could buy herself a new car. (Remember her poor Avenger? Yeah.) With no puppy and no humans to care for (the cats, by the way, like it best when I leave them alone) I engaged in a writing marathon, finishing The Book. Yep, I typed "The End" and was pretty darned pleased with myself. Of course, it's far from over, but I feel a real sense of accomplishment. Not only have I finished it, I've got it the way I want it again.

Now we'll see how fast February flies by!

My birthday came early!

2012-01-14T21:37:00.005-06:00

Even though my birthday isn't until Wednesday, I seem to have most of my gifts already. I could get used to this! Younger Daughter gave me a DVD set of "North and South," and getting Patrick Swayze at his young, sexy, most Southern self to watch over and over again! is pretty darn wonderful.

My birthday gift from Husband, though, is right up there in the upper tier of the Birthday Gift Hall of Fame. This what he got me:
Is this not the cutest little girl ever? Her name is Holly, and we've adopted her from the Independence County Humane Society in Batesville, Arkansas. (One of my favorite cousins remarked upon hearing this, "You drove clear to Batesville for a puppy?" Well, yes. It may be a 200-mile round trip, but adopting this little dog was worth it.) She's a Lhasa Apso-Shih Tzu mix, one of a litter of five. I think all of them have been adopted, and I know her mother was adopted today. I know this because we drove clear to Batesville today to spend some time with Holly since we can't bring her home just yet.

The Independence County Humane Society has a firm rule that no pet can leave the shelter unless it has been spayed or neutered. I admire this policy, even though it means Holly can't come home with us for about two more weeks. We would have Holly spayed in any case, but so many people don't, or won't, and those puppies and kittens that result will probably end up in the shelter, or running loose. This is unacceptable, and it's one of the reasons we knew our puppy would come from a shelter.

Needless to say, we enjoyed our visit with the newest member of our family. Our cats, however, were quite put out when we arrived back home smelling of eau-de-puppy. There will be some big adjustments around here when Holly arrives!

But so far I'm pretty stoked about my birthday, even though it's a "milestone" birthday. Ah, whatever. Age is just a state of mind, and I have Patrick Swayze AND a new puppy!

What about the book?

2012-01-13T21:07:00.003-06:00

I know. I've been blogging about pretty much everything except The Book lately. (And tomorrow I'll be putting up pictures of my new puppy, Holly, so you will so want to check back in for that since she's the cutest puppy ever!)

Since kitchen remodels, slow cooker recipes and writing don't seem to mix very well I've started a new blog devoted totally to writing; my own writing, things I've learned about writing, writing advice I've taken, and so on and so on and so on. The new blog is called Pages, which seemed sensible as this one's called Other Pages.

So for all things writerly, go there. And come back here for more random stuff I come up with and cute puppy pics!

Given enough spray paint I could rule the world

2012-01-09T16:54:00.008-06:00

Or at least make it look a little better. Thanks to ideas I've found on Pinterest I've been refurbishing some things around here. Nothing too drastic, mind you, since I am, in theory, still remodeling an entire kitchen, although said remodeling was postponed during the whole holiday rush and I've not yet gotten back into the sanding and painting groove. No, my recent refurbishing has involved things I've had lying around forever and never really found much use for. Like this little item:
Actually, it's not all that little, but you know what I mean. Years ago I was in a little gift shop with my step-mother when I spotted this...this...honestly, I have no idea what it is, but it was priced half off so I bought it. I had thought it might look nice hanging above the rather large archway between the living room and kitchen, but when I got it home I realized it was much, much too big to fit. Plus, it weighs about ten pounds since it's made of wrought iron and I had horrible visions of it plummeting off the wall and on to some unsuspecting person's head as they went into the kitchen for a glass of ice water. Since then it's been leaning against various walls around the house until I could figure out what in the world to do with it.

Lately, though, I'd been eyeing it with disfavor and actually had some thoughts of trying to foist it off on someone else. After all, I was tired of lugging it from one spot to the next, and I hated the color - that off-white that just looks dirty, and those artfully scuffed spots that are supposed to make it look like it's been around and well-used for eons, a look I am totally over. And then I found this:
The perfect turquoise! (Although Krylon calls it "Blue Ocean Breeze.") I love turquoise, so much so that I even considered painting Steve that color. Steve escaped, but the wrought iron whatever-it-is didn't.

First I cleaned it up and gave it a coat of primer.
I did this on the back porch with the help of three feral cats who were more interested in the spray can of primer than they are in feeding time. In fact, one cat narrowly missed having her fur highlighted when she jumped onto my work surface just as I was pressing the spray button.

After the primer dried I brought out the turquoise and gave it a good coat. Just one coat did it, and I love the way it turned out!
All the little decorative bits show up so much better now, and it's all shiny and fresh. I've decided to mount it on the wall above the refrigerator when Husband can figure out some way to get it to stay up there without falling and pulling out huge chunks of the wall on the way down.

I still have most of a can of turquoise spray paint left and am looking around for something else to brighten up. Today I spied a fancy-schmancy mantle clock I've had for a long time but no longer use since it has an antiquey gold finish. I think it might look really nice painted glossy turquoise! I'll let you know how it turns out.

A fowl post

2012-01-03T22:30:00.003-06:00

After an intense search I've finally found a rooster for my kitchen. (And can we all agree that I need to get more of a life since this search did, indeed, qualify as "intense"?) Anyway, here he is:

Thanks to an innocent question from S.A. Hussey, he even has a name -- Steve. I dunno, it just popped into my head when she asked what his name is, but I think it suits him, don't you?

In an earlier post (yes, I've actually posted about this before) I indicated that if I ever found a rooster I liked, I would paint it turquoise. Steve, however, has changed all that. Well, Steve and the ceramic turquoise rooster I also found today but didn't buy because it was ugly. Besides, I like the way Steve looks, so he's safe from the spray can of turquoise paint I also bought today.

This turned out well

2011-12-30T15:36:00.005-06:00

Husband's contribution to this year's Christmas decor!
It's been a pretty good year around here, even with the curveballs we've been thrown. Husband was "let go" from his job in September, but before we could really start to panic he was called into the boss's office and un-fired. Never heard of that happening before, but man! I'm glad it did! We paid off our mortgage (still doing the happy dance over that one!) and are busy remodeling pretty much every inch of the house. Little Brother and his long-time girlfriend finally jumped the broom in June, only to find out the same week that she had lung cancer. Today, though, they were told it appears the cancer is gone. I can't begin to tell you the levels of happiness and relief all of us are feeling right now. I honestly don't know whether to laugh with glee or cry with thanksgiving!

And I've begun to dip a tentative toe back into my writing, something I've not done in longer than I care to admit. After murdering the book in more ways than a serial killer I just threw up my hands and let it go. Even the thought of looking at my story depressed me. It just disgusted me that I'd had what I considered a neat little story that I turned into nothing more than a hot mess I hated. But recently I've remembered the joy I had when I first started writing it, the sense of accomplishment I felt when I actually finished the first draft and the excitement of bringing these characters to life. So I'm starting over with it, and this time I'm not only doing it my way, but I'm leaving it my way. Oh, sure; I'm going to re-write, revise and polish it, but I will not change the story, the plot, the motivation of the characters or any of the other stupid things I did before. Time will tell, but at least this time I believe I'll be using that time wisely.

So as 2011 bows out on a high note from my sister-in-law's doctors, 2012 will be coming in on a high note of its own with my renewed commitment to do again what I love.

Here's hoping all of you have an equally happy and productive new year!

Merry Christmas, y'all!

2011-12-24T22:40:00.003-06:00

We're all ready for Christmas here in Hooterville and Younger Daughter's birthday. Yes, she was born on Christmas morning 25 years ago, and don't look at me like that; it wasn't my fault. She was due November 8 and can we say I was running a little low on Christmas spirit that year? That is I was running low until 3:04 a.m. on the best Christmas I've ever had.

So Merry Christmas to all of you and Happy birthday to my daughter! Hope y'all have as wonderful a day as we plan to have here in Razorback country!

Vindicated!

2011-12-12T18:24:00.003-06:00

I suppose I'll have to change my profile information to the right since I apparently do know how to properly use commas:

And I didn't even study at Oxford. Although I have been to Oxford, Mississippi a time or two. Guess that's where I got it.

I have primer in my hair

2011-11-15T10:26:00.013-06:00

Throughout this long, seemingly never-ending kitchen remodel I've done very well at keeping my hair out of the way while painting. I swore years ago that I was never going to cut my hair again and I haven't, except for one or two (very) small trims, and it's very long now and apt to swing all over the place when I turn my head. Tying it back in a ponytail or bundling it all into a bun when I paint has so far kept it from turning Stonemason Gray or Ultra White. Until now.

While trolling through Pinterest I came across some amazing kitchen pantry remodels and was immediately inspired to do my own. I already have all the paint and supplies on hand, and my pantry was in dire need of a major overhaul. Also, the majority of the pantry remodels I read about indicated they were done in one day! Easy, right? Wrong. I think these remodelers were lying like rugs, or else they don't live in 60 year old houses that fight to the death to keep any remodeling from happening. It took me four days from start to finish to complete my pantry remodel, but it was worth it!
Yeah, we still haven't got the light switch changed. Working on it!

I did not take a "before" photo of my pantry because, let's face it, who wants to see a picture of someone's jumbled, disorganized space? And the words "jumbled" and "disorganized" don't even begin to describe what my pantry looked like prior to this makeover. It took me almost a full day to get everything out of there. When I was finished, my entire kitchen island was covered with stuff and I had to set up two card tables to handle the overflow. Then I attacked the shelves. When we moved into this house 10 years ago I cleaned the contact paper-covered shelves and stapled on some wallpaper I had left over from our previous home. About a year ago I ripped off the wallpaper, but the contact paper remained. Time to get it out of there because it was early-1970s ugly -- green, yellow and orange flowers. Unfortunately, that was only the top layer. I uncovered tons of contact paper, some of it dating back to prehistoric times, each layer uglier than the last. And I must give a shout-out to the manufacturers of the earliest layer, because the adhesive they used could have held together the space shuttle. Once I'd wrestled off all the contact paper it was time to prime.

I've been using good old Kilz primer, but this time I switched to Zinzer 1-2-3. Sorry, Kilz, but they have you beat. This stuff went on much more smoothly and covered much better, and the best part is I didn't have to sand anything! Be still my heart!

I primed every square inch of the pantry, even the ceiling, and managed to get a nice coat of Zinzer in my dark brown hair, even though I'd pinned my hair up out of the way. That's what comes from working in a small, confined space, I guess. (Most of it came out when I washed my hair, but some of it is still there, giving me a Bon Jovi kind of look going. I hope it comes out eventually!)

After letting the primer cure overnight I started in with the wall paint. I used the same Valspar Stonemason Gray I used for the kitchen walls. I probably should have used two coats, but I didn't. I still think it turned out okay.
Sorry about the poor picture quality here. I'd mislaid my camera and had to take this with my iPhone.

Then I painted the shelves, ceiling and trim the same Valspar Ultra White I used for the rest of the kitchen, let it dry thoroughly, and then reorganized all that stuff that had spent three days cluttering up my island and card tables. I also tossed out a lot of junk that had been roosting on the top shelf, like two shoeboxes full of apple-themed Christmas ornaments (from like 8 years ago!) and plastic containers I bought at Dollar Tree that turned out not to be airtight. And I was finished!

Then I made a run to the market because my shelves were kind of bare.

Well, I'm almost finished. The floor is just the sub-floor right now, but Husband has promised to get the tile in there this week, and he's going to also tile the walls under the lowest shelf since they take a lot of abuse from the trash can. It's a lot easier to wipe up splashes and spills from tile than from paint, right? But other than that I have a clean, organized and pretty pantry. And Zinzer-highlighted hair.

340

2011-11-02T22:30:00.002-05:00

It appears this my 340th post to this blog. I can't believe I've blethered on enough for 340 posts, but I thought I should mark the occasion in some way. Unfortunately the Four Seasons in Malibu was already booked for today so I had to cancel the big party for all of us. Instead I thought I'd share something I saw this week that made me laugh, because we all need more laughter, right?

I'm going to be published!

2011-10-21T12:26:00.002-05:00

Before we all wet ourselves with excitement, let me clarify. It's not one of my books being published (yet.) But it will be something I wrote. (Actually, it will be something I'm going to write since I haven't exactly written it yet.)

The last media company for which I worked full time has a publishing branch that puts out a super-nice local magazine. They go all out on this book each month with high-quality paper, glossy photos and one of the best layouts I've seen in a local publication. (Their use of white space is amazing!) At this particular time, though, they're short on writers, which is where I come in.

The publisher of this magazine is a friend of mine, so I called her when Younger Daughter's place of employment raised over $27,000 in one month for St. Jude Children's Research Hospital, the second-highest amount raised in the United States. Not bad for a restaurant located in Hooterville, am I right? During our conversation my friend said she'd take a photograph of some of the employees with a quick blurb about their fund-raising efforts but said she'd run an entire piece if I'd write it. At the time I just kind of laughed it off since I didn't realize she was serious.

This morning the photograph was taken and when the subject of the article came up Younger Daughter volunteered me as the one who would write it. My friend agreed and so now I'm going to write an article that will be published.

I think any writer will tell you that being published anywhere is pretty darn exciting! I'll admit that when Younger Daughter told me I'd be writing an article I was flabbergasted. After all, I've never written anything like this before. But then that fizz of anticipation took hold and now I'm raring to go! I've put together a list of people to interview, background information I'll need to get and an idea of what kinds of photographs I want to submit with the article.

Plus, when I do start querying agents for my first book (and don't ask when I'm going to do that; it's a long story) it'll be really great to be able to say I've had something published!

So I'd better quit writing this blog and get to work on writing that article because this time I have an actual deadline.

This is so cool.

Amazing what you can find when searching for roosters

2011-10-19T14:16:00.002-05:00

I still haven't found the perfect rooster for my kitchen, but I have found a lot of interesting rooster-related tidbits on the internet during my search.

One such tidbit from The Bloggess had me laughing so hard that I snorted in an unladylike fashion, but I didn't care because it was the funniest thing I've read in a long, long time. I only hope my own rooster makes me laugh like that!

Just looking for an honest rooster

2011-10-17T19:55:00.004-05:00

For some reason, one unknown even to me, I've decided I need a rooster in my kitchen. Not a real rooster, mind you, because our cat Quinn attacks and eats anything associated with the word "chicken," and because roosters are, you know, stinky.

No, I want a rooster sculpture. Not because I'm going for a barnyard decor or because roosters are supposed to bring good luck. I just want one and I intend to paint it turquoise.

Don't ask where this came from, because I've no idea. But I've been on the hunt for a rooster for the past couple of weeks and I'm getting nowhere. After clicking on dozens of useless links I finally found a photograph of what I'm looking for:

Needless to say I don't care what colors are painted on it since it'll end up turquoise.

I haven't been to the flea markets yet, but that's probably where I'll be able to find my rooster. I just hope I still want one after I go to all the trouble of hunting one down and painting it.

OK, so it's not the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, but I'm proud of it

2011-10-12T16:17:00.013-05:00

I don't like to paint. I like the results but the actual painting is something I procrastinate over for...well, years. To be perfectly honest, it's not the painting I dislike as much as the everlasting preparation because you can't just open a can of paint and slap a coat on whatever it is you're trying to update. Well, I guess you could do that, but the results wouldn't be pretty.

A year ago we painted our front door. It turned out great:

but it was a huge chore because the door had been neglected for almost 60 years. It took a LOT of sanding, a TON of primer and more paint than I'd have thought possible. During this process we only had the storm door between us and the world, and my kitchen wasn't usuable due to the fact that the island was employed as a sawhorse for the door. But we prevailed and had it done in one exhausting day in which nothing else was accomplished. Every time I'd think about painting something else I'd remember The Door and just put it off. But recently I decided I had to do some updating around here. After all, we now own the house free and clear and since it's all ours it's time to truly make it our own by putting our (and by "our" I mean "my") stamp on it. So I started with the kitchen.

Actually, we started with the kitchen about three years ago by putting down a new floor, removing a useless breakfast bar from the wall, turning it around and making it a nice big center island, and buying a new stove. And there we stopped because the next step was painting and I don't like to paint.

It's not as if I liked the way the kitchen looked. I didn't. There was some hideous wallpaper on the walls and all of the woodwork (with the exception of the cabinets) had never been painted, just stained a really ugly shade of orange and covered with about 9,000 coats of varnish. I knew some heavy-duty preparation was in order before any of that could be changed. And even though the cabinets are from the 80s and not all that old and are excellent quality, they're a really unattractive color. Maple, maybe. Whatever it is had a strong yellow undertone and yellow is not in my decorating vocabulary. I must have brought home hundreds of paint chips over the years trying to find a color that coordinated with these cabinets, but nothing ever worked. Lately I've been drawn to putting grey paint on the walls, but the paint chips told me it would never work with those cabinets. And then it happened.

Younger Daughter looked at the paint chips I had affixed to the walls, liked what she saw and offered to help me if I wanted to paint the cabinets. And a plan was born. The kitchen, however, is fighting back.

It started out well. Here's the kitchen before we started:

Sad walls (we'd already removed the wallpaper when I took these pictures), no baseboard on the wall where the island used to be, ugly woodwork, and a ceiling in need of attention since we had to remove some cabinets when the refrigerator wouldn't fit under them. So one rainy day Younger Daughter and I opened a can of Valspar Stonemason Gray paint, and two coats later we had this:

At first I was horrified; I'd bought grey paint and ended up with...blue?? But I quickly realized it was that horrid varnish on the woodwork that made the paint appear blue, so I lugged home some primer and a gallon of Valspar Ultra White paint and got to work. I started with the doors to the pantry and broom closet. They did not go quietly. After sanding the pantry door and applying one coat of primer I ended up with this:

When it was all over (and it took an entire week) the doors and trim took three coats of primer and three coats of paint. I think it was worth it, though.

(Ignore the light switch. All the switches and electrical outlets are being changed from that awful off-white to bright, crisp white and we've not reached this part of the room yet.)

Yesterday I started the window in the breakfast nook area. Since the house is 60 years old there have been quite a few window treatments used on this window during the years. Quite a few:

Luckily I had a lot of wood filler:

The primer went on yesterday, and to my delight it only took two coats. Today I applied two coats of paint and the window was finished:

The window went so well that I'm actually looking forward to tackling that big bank of windows over the sink. I think it's because I didn't sweat the preparation this time. I thought about buying some painter's tape and covering the windows with newspaper, but I hate that tape. It never goes on the way it's supposed to and drives me nuts. Besides, it would have cost about $18 to buy tape, including those little corner pieces, or I could spend $5 on this:

So I bought the scraper and painted the glass along with the frame. (If you're the least bit anal about "proper painting procedures" you'll want to turn away now.)

The scraper did its job, though, and I didn't have to tape or cover anything. Now that's the type of preparation I can handle!

So after the big bank of windows comes the ceiling, and Husband will have to be called in to help with that. Hopefully it won't take too long and then Younger Daughter and I can begin painting the cabinets. The other day I took a count and found I have 36 cabinet doors and 15 drawers. Some preparation will have to be done, but it consists of buying a paint power sprayer. I can't wait to try that baby out!

Yes, I pin and I'm proud!

2011-10-11T21:32:00.002-05:00

For several months I've been hearing about Pinterest. Of course, that's all I was doing -- hearing about it. I didn't know anything about it other than people "pinned" things they liked, and that meant I didn't know anything about it. Since that's all I "knew," I decided I had no interest in Pinterest. (Yeah, I just made that up. And I'm sorry.)

But a month ago I noticed my daughter and one of her incredibly super friends talking on Facebook about something they'd seen on Pinterest, and that piqued my curiosity. And so I caved and asked one of them to send me an invite. (Yes, you have to be invited to Pinterest and that's one of the initial reasons I decided I had no interest in it.) So one of them invited me, I created an account and stayed glued to my computer for about 48 straight hours.

Pinterest is like a Favorites list you'll actually use. You know how it is; you see something on the web you want to save, you add it to your favorites or bookmark it, and it immediately becomes just another line of text and after a time you can't remember why you added that link to your favorites. With Pinterest you remember because there's a nice visual aid and a link back to the original post. It's addictive in that link leads to link leads to link and before you know it you've created about 20 pin boards filled with fun and wonderful things!

There's a learning curve, to be sure. In those first heady days of pinning I repinned a few things from my friends that looked really great in the pictures. After I'd calmed down a bit I actually went to the websites the really great-looking things came from and found several that weren't so great when I realized how much work went into them, including a tasty-looking dish that turned out to have a recipe only a bio-chemist could decipher, a lovely tufted DIY headboard that in reality would cost more to DIY than it would to just go out and buy one, and an easy-looking wall art grouping that required an expensive kit to create. So now I make sure I check out the original post before repinning something my friends have pinned.

I've found Pinterest to be much more useful to me than my previously crowded and unused Favorites list, and am actually in the process of making some of those recipes, creating some of those DIY projects, reading some of those books and listening to some of that music I've found. And now when I see something on the web that I like and want to remember I can just pin it and actually remember why I liked it.

Cool.

A message from Offred

2011-09-09T10:09:00.004-05:00

Earlier this week I spent about five hours with no internet or cell phone service after a construction worker cut through a fiber-optic cable. Land line phones were also out for a brief period until the Department of Emergency Management managed to get those working somehow so we'd have 911 service, but even then we could not make calls out of our city limits. So for five hours Hooterville was more cut off from the world than usual.

I was astounded by how unprepared we were for such an occurrence. Debit cards couldn't be used and the ATMs wouldn't work, so no one had money. The banks closed their doors since they operate by computer and internet and had no way to access anyone's account. Those who had given up their land-line phones and use only cell phones were completely cut off. Even with a land-line, not only could we not call outside the city limits, we couldn't receive outside calls. (Older Daughter in Memphis spent five hours trying to contact any of us, her worry level increasing with each hour, but we had no way to contact her to let her know what was going on.) And none of us had any idea why we had no internet or phone service since our usual means of communicating the news was out of order. Of course, once the cable was repaired, everything went back to what passes as normal around here and everyone promptly forgot about it. But not me.

I think it's time that everyone take some time and read The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood. Yes, I know there's a movie, but this is a sterling example of "Don't judge a book by its movie."

If you've never read the book, here's a brief (a VERY brief) synopsis. The story is told by a woman whose name we never know. Her identity has been stripped from her as a result of a government takeover by a rigid fundamentalist sect, and she's known only as Offred. Fred is the man who essentially owns her for the purpose of reproduction, and since she is "of Fred," she's called Offred. This sect was able to take over a large portion of the country because every kind of business was transacted by computers. After the sect did away with the existing government, blaming it on "terrorists," they froze everyone's bank accounts, making it impossible for anyone to leave since no one carried something as archaic as actual currency, and thus were able to enact their own form of government with little problem. Taking over the computer system left the citizens completely helpless with no recourse possible.

Darlings, this book scared the crap outta me. I read it years and years ago, but I still make sure I have cash on hand at all times for emergencies. Our brief "interruption of service" earlier this week just played up how easy it would be for Offred's situation to become ours. Next time it might not be a cut fiber-optic line.

Read the book. Read it now. And then think about removing control of your life from the internet in certain areas. For me, a little inconvenience is worth it.

Our house is a very, very, very fine house

2011-09-08T13:01:00.001-05:00

Finally! We paid off our mortgage today, came home and burned the mortgage papers:

It was a very satisfactory fire, but I don't think we'll really feel like people who don't have a mortgage until next month when we don't have to pay the mortgage.

Let's try this again, shall we?

2011-08-27T15:49:00.002-05:00

This is my first blog post from my new laptop, a brave little machine that's probably destined to die within a year given my track record. It's a sweet little laptop, an HP of some sort, and I like it a lot, with a few exceptions. It runs Windows 7 which we've already established that I hate, and it also runs IE9 which is the culprit in the destruction of my old laptop. The keyboard also seems to have an attitude since touching the "enter" key occasionally navigates me away from what I'm doing and takes me back four or five screens. I think I'm going to have to lay down the law about that soon. Otherwise I like it. Good thing, too, since approximately three hours after I got home with this laptop my Computer Guru phoned to tell me my old one was dead. He'd worked on it for a solid week and finally made the decision to restore the factory settings, but the computer refused to be healed. I think I'll start a display of computers I've destroyed and apply for a federal grant to express my artistic tendencies in that area. So far I think I have enough dead electronics to fill a small municipal park somewhere.

We were able to retrieve all my documents, photos, music, etc. from my old laptop before its eventual demise, an exercise that left me indecently relieved since I hadn't quite gotten around to putting everything on that new flash drive I had to buy after I lost my old one. I intend to purchase yet another flash drive and back up everything to both on a daily, if not hourly, basis from now on. I think I've learned my lesson by now.

It's very nice to have a full-sized screen again, too. Just after my old laptop started up with that WinSxS error thing Husband had to go back to Indiana and, of course, his laptop went with him. This left me with nothing but my iPhone and Younger Daughter's decrepit Toshiba to keep me connected. Suffice it to say the Toshiba is nothing but a big, raging piece of crap that moves at the speed of snail, so I didn't even attempt to use it. This left the iPhone. I used it for several days but finally gave it up when my eyes began to hurt so bad they threatened to hurl themselves from my head and find some other head to inhabit. Little bitty screen, you know; fine for quick forays into the world wide web, but horrible for anything that takes more than a 140 character Tweet.

And so the countdown begins. We'll see how long this pretty little laptop survives.

UPDATE: The moment I finished typing the above, the cursor for the mouse disappeared, forcing to me to use an external device. This does not bode well, does it?

Operators are standing by

2011-08-12T10:06:00.002-05:00

Last night I got caught up watching an infomercial for one of those 1,000 CD compilations, and darlings, it's a good thing I didn't have a credit card handy or I'd be stuck paying $29.95 a month for the rest of my life.

Most of the songs on this set would probably fall into the Dirty Little Secrets category. I mean, John Denver's music is included and not many people run around proclaiming he's their favorite music artist these days. But when a snippet of Sunshine On My Shoulders aired during this broadcast it immediately took me back to the time when that song was on the radio all the time. For me it was summer in Texas and my very best friends forEVER were Maureen and Lydia and Maureen had a huge crush on John Denver. (I've lost touch with Maureen over the years and I'm hoping that revelation might just be the thing to bring her out of hiding!) Although having sunshine on my shoulders these days just makes me wonder if I've applied enough SPF, back then it meant good times with good friends, and I realized I'd like to hear that song again from time to time.

The majority of the songs on this compilation took me back to times I loved, made me remember people I haven't seen in decades and made me feel good the way I felt back then. I don't own very many of those songs, and I'd like to. I want the chance to go back in time whenever I want and recapture those feelings and memories.

Now, I'm not saying I cared for ALL of those songs. That one by England Dan and John Ford Coley still makes my skin crawl, and there were several songs by a certain artist that everyone in the whole world loves except me. The inclusion of these is the reason I didn't get off my rear end and get a credit card. Just the snippets of these songs brought me right out of my good mood and had me making faces at the television screen. I can't imagine having to endure hearing the entire tune.

So I'll do what the spokesperson said I'd have to do if I didn't own this compilation -- spend hundreds of hours and hundreds of dollars finding and buying these songs. It'll be worth it not to have to rush for the "skip" button. And iTunes is right at my fingertips!

You thought I was kidding, didn't you?

2011-08-10T00:41:00.003-05:00

In the past I've detailed the problems I have with computers. There have been many problems. Many, many problems. I know some of the people with whom I correspond have to have been thinking at some point that I'm either making up excuses for being inaccessible or that I must be taking hammers to my electronics. Nope. The thing is, computers hate me. They must, or I wouldn't be using Husband's new laptop right now while mine is sitting over in the corner in disgrace with a blank screen.

I downloaded a newer version of Internet Explorer today. (And don't tell me about Firefox, okay? I used it at one time and didn't like it at all, thank you.) I went to the official Microsoft website, double and triple checked that I was, indeed, using Vista 64-bit and double and triple checked what I was doing before starting the download.

It righteously screwed up my computer. Of course it did.

Turning on the computer gets me nothing but an error box containing mystifying numbers and letters that mean nothing to me. Above the error message is some sort of subject line that contains the words "Bad Image." No kidding, jack. It also informs me my new download "isn't designed to run with Windows." Say what?? Then why was it on the flippin' Microsoft website, I ask? Then I get a blank screen with the poor little cursor arrow waiting on some type of instructions from me, instructions I'm unable to give since I see nothing but, you know, a blank screen.

I emailed Computer Guru from my iPhone (which I'm almost afraid to use since computers hate me and it's really just a handheld computer) and received a reply that read in part, "IE9 blows." Truer words have never been spoken.

Unfortunately I can't uninstall that piece of crap since I can't get into my computer until Computer Guru emails me some kind of detailed instructions. If I ever get my computer up and running again I'm considering going back to DOS, or Windows 3.1. Or sending up smoke signals. Because this laptop I'm on now runs Windows 7 which also, in the immortal words of Computer Guru, "blows."

I'm beginning to hate computers as much as they hate me.

Clowns, florists feeling the pinch

2011-08-01T09:15:00.002-05:00

Over the weekend Zara Phillips, daughter of England's Princess Anne, was married, and once again clowns and florists across Great Britain have seen their stocks depleted as wedding guests searched for headwear.

Major British circuses had to be canceled after the nuptials of Prince William and Kate Middleton, owing to the fascination young royals and their friends have with clown hats. Professional clowns refused to perform without proper clown headgear, all of which was snapped up by guests of the royal couple. Suppliers had just restocked their wares when Zara Phillips' guests rushed in once again and cleared the shelves. It's not known when the circus industry in the UK will be able to resume operations since there are quite a few single royals left, and weddings could occur at any time.

Florists, too, are scrambling to find replacements for their depleted stock since older royals have been snatching up the ribbons and filler from floral arrangements and plopping them on their heads. Several older wedding guests who were unable to find these items due to the rush were seen removing ribbons and filler from the wedding flowers just before the ceremony. It's reported Zara Phillips' bouquet was under heavy guard until just before she walked down the aisle to prevent it being used as a hat.

Insiders believe the rash of ridiculous hats is an effort to force the Queen to rescind the edict that royals must wear hats to certain occasions. She could not be reached for comment, however, as she was frantically searching floral arrangements in Buckingham Palace to complete her outfit for the day.

What's next? We can't be certain, but one young royal was seen rhapsodizing over a padded toilet seat after receiving an invitation to a formal event. Stay tuned.

You animal, you!

2011-07-26T13:17:00.003-05:00

When I go out to feed the cats, they're always waiting on me. Their internal clocks are set for both morning and evening feedings, and they always know what time to gather round the ol' feeding dish. They're not the only ones, though, who wait for feeding time.

These guys are always front and center, too. I usually run them off:

But they never go far.

Back up there, hoss

2011-07-14T16:58:00.002-05:00

I've heard that an organized, clean desk is the sign of an ordered mind. I've also heard it's the sign of a boring person. In either case, it's clear I'm neither boring nor ordered, because my desk always looks like an F5 tornado just whipped across it. Right now my desk holds two computers, a printer that hasn't had ink for over a year, a router, the internet receiver-thingie, three speakers, a set of battery-operated windchimes, a lamp, three framed photographs, a Chili's to-go cup that held ice water, a fresh glass of ice water on a coaster, the box my iPhone came in, a pad of paper, five sticky notes (three of which are now indecipherable), an order form for Iris rhizomes, two pens (one of which doesn't work), a pencil, my watch with a dead battery, a ponytail holder, a camera, a bowl filled with quarters, a USB 10-key pad for the laptop, a can of compressed air, and the webcam that's facing the wall. I'm kind of proud of it because I just cleaned it off yesterday. What isn't on my desk, though, is my flash drive.

I was being very good about backing everything up onto the flash drive, especially since my laptop's screen problems haven't gone away and the big computer is...well, it's old and more than ready to retire. I had a special place where the flash drive was kept and was very consistent about putting it there when I had finished with it. It isn't there now and I've no idea what happened to it.

One of Husband's cousins emailed me some photos of my mother-in-law's grandparents when they were teenagers. I knew she would love to have copies of these since her grandparents raised her after her mother died when she was very young. So I put these photos on the flash drive, took it to the store and had prints made since Mother-in-law doesn't own anything even remotely resembling a computer. I haven't seen the flash drive since. I know I didn't leave it in the store because I distinctly remember holding it as we left. I've searched high and low since then, though, and I can't find it. (Side note: If you ever want to see a look of pure bafflement, catch your husband as he's walking out the door and say, "Do you remember which handbag I carried to your mother's birthday dinner?")

So I guess I'm going to have to buy another, whereupon the first one will magically appear the moment I walk in the door with the new one. Then I'll have two, which isn't a bad thing. I should probably work on that ordered mind thing, though, since it looks like I need back up for my back up.

Seeking treasure in the flea market

2011-07-14T11:37:00.004-05:00

Younger Daughter and I went record shopping yesterday. It had been a while since I added anything to my collection of LPs and I was on the prowl for some bargains. This is what I bought:

Four dollars each. I love it! The cover of CSNY is a little scuffed, but the vinyl is in perfect condition. The Firm is pristine in every way.

A funny thing happened after, though. We stopped to have an early dinner on our way home, and just after we'd ordered I remembered the records we'd left in the car. So used to CDs I'd completely forgotten you can't leave vinyl records in the car in the middle of summer. I ran out and rescued them before they could turn into pieces of abstract art. What was really funny, though, is the bewildered look on my daughter's face as I raced out of the restaurant. Poor kid had no idea that vinyl would warp. Ah, the care and maintenence of record albums. It's worth it, though.

And the livin' is easy

2011-07-12T10:48:00.001-05:00

Summer in the South, y'all.

Come over to the dark side. We have apps.

2011-07-11T19:19:00.002-05:00

I finally caved and bought an iPhone. I've had it about six hours now and I've already almost drained the battery. I suppose I'm now an inductee into the Loser Hall of Fame, because I just love this phone!

I thought I was happy with my Blackberry Curve, but I know now that was just a cruel illusion. Darlings, I now have apps, lots and lots of apps that do all kinds of things, both helpful and utterly useless. There's the Facebook app, the Twitter app, the Skype app and the iMail app for gmail that keeps me abreast of everything everyone else is doing. Then there's Pandora, Photo Shop and Flixter for entertainment. Three weather apps, including one from the local television station will keep me apprised of any weather events headed my way. And we can't forget Songify, Angry Birds and Action Potato for amusing ways to completely waste a few hours. And this is all in the first six hours!

Oh, yeah, and I've called some people, too.

I've gone over to the dark side and I like it.

Indiana wants me; Lord, I can't go back there

2011-07-08T17:34:00.002-05:00

Before we begin, just let me state with all sincerity that I have nothing against Indiana. I've never been there, but I have friends who live there and they are all fine, upstanding, wonderful people. Indiana is a fine state, and none of this is its fault. (I should also add here that I have nothing against Husband's employer since it's this company that makes it possible for me not to have to work so I can instead spend all day ~~shopping for shoes~~ staring at a computer screen until little drops of blood form on my forehead as I try to get ideas out of my head and onto MS Word. No, I have nothing against them, but this is all their fault.)

You see, on Sunday my husband will be headed back to Indiana on business. And when I say "back to Indiana" it's because he's been there more than he's been here the past two-and-a-half months. When he received his latest promotion I understood that there would be some travel involved. I did not, however, understand that this travel would be almost constant. I keep having to refer to photos on my cell phone to remember what he looks like, and worse, I keep getting used to having the whole bed to myself and have to go through a period of readjustment when he comes home and hogs all the covers and pillows...I mean, sleeps on his side of the bed.

I do have to say I'm indecently relieved they haven't suggested he actually move there. As I said earlier, Indiana is a fine state, but they have SNOW there. Yes, we do get snow here (curses!) but in Indiana they get SNOW, which in capital letters means the type of wintry weather that turns Southerners like me into ~~bitches~~ popsicles. It's nice and hot here right now in Hooterville with predicted highs of 100 next week, just the way I like it.

So, Indiana, take good care of my husband (I'm sure you know who he is by now since he's there every other week) and send him home soon. The photos on my cell phone are getting outdated.

I forgot to give this one a title -- read on and you'll see why...

2011-07-06T22:12:00.005-05:00

One of my blog readers (how I do love you all, even if I don't know you. I'm sure I'd love you even more if we were to ever meet, though.) pointed out -- with some aspersion, I might add -- that I haven't posted since March. I don't have an excuse, really, other than I live in Hooterville and nothing much happens around here. On top of that, my muse evidently died and his/her replacement was on holiday in some remote location with no cell phone reception, and I haven't done anything I considered blog-worthy.

I did go to see a cardiologist. Does that count? When I say I went to "see" a cardiologist it was at the behest of my regular doctor. I mean, I didn't just drop by the office of the local cardiologist and peer at him or anything. In a never-ending quest to find out the cause of my recurrent pain (the cause of which will, in my opinion, never be found so I've given up on it and decided to suck it up and just live with it), my doc decided I needed to get checked out by some specialists. This course of action began and ended with the cardiologist.

Now, all medical procedures are time-consuming, expensive and mostly uncomfortable. This was no exception. Well, except for the initial consultation where the doctor and his nurse asked me questions about the medical history of everyone I've ever been related to. That was only time-consuming and expensive. The follow up visit, comprising a stress test and blood work is where the uncomfortable part comes in. My late father's description of stress tests had kept me from ever seeking to experience one myself. Especially since my father had a massive heart attack that none of his doctors saw coming and eventually died from congenital heart failure. Kind of made the stress tests useless in my opinion. But they scheduled one for me anyway so I decided to go ahead and do it and hope I didn't die. I didn't die, but I thought I was going to. Not from the stress test, but from the not having anything to eat or drink the morning of the test. Skipping breakfast I could deal with; it was not having coffee that almost killed me. Husband took the morning off from work and drove me to my appointment. I carried with me a pair of running shoes for my time on the treadmill and a thermal mug full of hot Starbucks Breakfast Blend. Husband was left in custody of the coffee (with strict instructions not to drink it) and I took the shoes with me to my test.

All in all, it wasn't bad. I'm not saying I enjoyed the treadmill, nor do I ever want to do it again, but it wasn't bad. The lying on the table afterward while watching my heart valves on the little screen was pretty darn interesting, though. After they drew about 16 pints of blood from my arm (it seemed like it was 16 pints anyway) they let me go and I headed straight for the coffee. Drank it all, too.

Several days later I received a phone call from the cardiologist's office saying I was being prescribed medication for my cholesterol. This wasn't good news as it meant I would probably have to also go on what Husband calls the If-It-Tastes-Good-Spit-It-Out diet. I had the prescription filled and proceeded to take it for the next two weeks while not changing my diet in the slightest. He didn't say I had to, after all. But when the medication caused side-effects (ever had a rubber band wrapped around your lower leg? Yeah, it felt like that.) I stopped taking it and went to my regular doctor to see what the deal was. He frowned over my charts and sent me back to the lab for more blood work. Forty-five minutes later my doctor told me my cholesterol level was a very respectible 172. I'd never needed that medication in the first place. Since I have no cholesterol problems and my heart is perfectly fine, I'm done with the poking and prodding.

See why I haven't blogged lately?

Gimme dat thing

2011-03-13T12:43:00.002-05:00

It's funny how a fleeting scent can bring back a flood of memories, bringing to mind things you didn't even know you remembered. But that's what happened to me yesterday.

The temperature was nearing the 70-degree mark and a balmy breeze was blowing, so I opened a couple of windows so I could enjoy it inside while I was working. For a quick moment the air had a tantalizing aroma, the smell of fresh growing things mixed with something rather appetizing. It immediately made me think of car trips taken with my parents and younger brother, heading out to visit family on our school spring break. The breeze yesterday had the same aroma as those spring days when we'd stop at little drive-in restaurants in little towns tucked away on some forgotten highway. The spring air would be full of the smells of cheeseburgers, fries (onion rings for my mom) and milkshakes. The moment I smelled it yesterday I felt young, content, comfortable.

Then I remembered this one time when the little restaurant had picnic tables set up for those who wanted to get out the car for a while. Our little family sat at one of the tables eating our burgers when a teenaged boy sat down at a neighboring table. His transistor radio broadcast the tinny sound of "Gimme Dat Thing." (I think it was by the Pipkins, but I'm too lazy to go searching for it.) I remember the song, though, and I also remember my mom wasn't too impressed with it. Dad, however, seemed to like it. "It's not bad," he told Mom. "It gets straight to the point, doesn't it?"

Now, you have to understand that both my parents were death on rock 'n roll. (Rather ironic that two of their children worked as rock 'n roll radio announcers, and the third is a heavy-metal fan.) So for my father to express appreciation of any song that merely smacked of rock was a big deal. I think this is the main reason this memory has been stored all this time in my brain. I don't remember Dad ever doing more than tolerating rock music after that (until he reached his 60s and developed a taste for Crosby, Stills & Nash.) But on that day he liked that song.

Whatever combination of scents came together to recreate that springtime drive-in restaurant smell dredged up a good memory, and for a moment I was sitting again at that picnic table, the taste of a chocolate milkshake in my mouth and the sounds of "Gimme Dat Thing" in my ears.

How to get a data plan without trying

2011-03-05T13:37:00.002-06:00

Do what I did -- put your SIM card in a smartphone.

My trusty LG Vue finally gave up the ghost this week, breaking my heart in the process. I loved the touch screen, I loved the QWERTY keyboard, I loved pretty much everything about it but it evidently didn't love me. For about six months it has refused to keep a charge for more than twelve hours at a time, and this week it decided it didn't need no stinkin' charges. Turn it on, it goes right back off. So there I was in need of phone when Younger Daughter says, "You can use the Blackberry." After all, it was just lying there doing nothing since she started using a Palm something-or-other. So I charged the Blackberry and popped my SIM card in it, ready to roll. (After an intensive How-To session with Younger Daughter, I might add.)

The next morning I received two text messages from my wireless provider. One was a "Welcome to AT&T!" message that confused the crap outta me. I mean, we've been with AT&T since 2004. Were they just now getting around to welcoming me? The second message cleared things up; they'd put my number on "an appropriate data plan."

See, I haven't jumped onto the "let's use the phone for everything except phone calls" bandwagon. I've sent the odd text now and again, but that was it. Although I'd been tempted by the iPhone, I just couldn't reconcile spending so much every month so I could check my Facebook news feed from my phone. But now I can because I put my SIM card in a smartphone. I see why they do this. With all the features available on these phones it's hard not to use them, and if you use them without a data plan you end up with a bill roughly the equivalent of the national debt. So they put you on a plan automatically so you don't get yourself into trouble.

Unfortunately, I'm now hooked. I can check the weather -- FROM MY PHONE! I can send photos -- FROM MY PHONE! I can call up Google Maps if I get lost -- FROM MY PHONE! And, yes, I can check Facebook. My upgrade comes around in July so I intend to have Older Daughter and Son-In-Law demonstrate their iPhones for me later this month when we go to visit them. All of a sudden, surfing the web isn't enough. I want apps! Hey, I have a data plan and I'm not afraid to use it.

Like a pogo stick on acid

2011-03-03T14:59:00.004-06:00

Younger Daughter drives a Dodge Avenger. Correction; Younger Daughter used to drive a Dodge Avenger until she neglected to have the oil changed or do any regular maintenence on it whatsoever. Despite what the self-proclaimed "mechanic" who didn't seem to do anything except make sure the bar at the Chili's on Perkins in Memphis didn't go anywhere without him said (he said Dodge Avengers are crap) it was a great little car, not crap. Oh, yes; it's had its problems, like the time Older Daughter drove it in front of an oncoming truck.

But with the addition of what was supposed to be a temporary hood and front bumper, all was well. And then she moved to Memphis.

Not for nothing do Memphians buy lifetime front-end alignment packages from their local tire stores. With all the traffic there, the potholes are constant and pop up overnight, causing drivers to swear like sailors when they hit a hole that wasn't there yesterday. Younger Daughter, not having funds for front-end alignment, immediately started having tire problems, including a flat at 2:00 in the morning. In Memphis. I still shudder when I think about it. What with buying tires all the time, the oil was let go, the antifreeze was ignored, and the Check Engine light shone brightly from the dash continually until the car gave up and quit. In a textbook example of closing the barn door after the horse escaped, Younger Daughter had the oil changed. The car chuckled weakly and refused to run again.

In October, Older Daughter managed to get the thing started and drove it to her house where it sat until it collected a traffic ticket for facing the wrong way on the street. The car then took up residence in the driveway where it stayed until Husband and I hauled it (and Younger Daughter) back to Hooterville in December. The car showed its displeasure by flinging its spoiler off the back somewhere on I-40. We had no idea this had happened until we got home. Oops.

Now, say what you will about Hooterville, but diners here know how to tip a waitress for good service, and Younger Daughter has been raking in the dough for three months now. It's time to get the car fixed. A new battery has been installed and Younger Daughter poured a bottle of Heet into the gas tank this morning in preparation for a test run. (After all, that half tank of gas has been sitting there since about July.) I stood well back when she started it up since it belched enough black smoke to cause a Dragon Alert when Husband drove it up on the car hauler in December. But today the engine turned right over and we were ready to go!

Younger Daughter babied it out of the driveway and started driving around our street. Since it goes nowhere but in a circle, we figured it was safe enough as we wouldn't have to get out on the highway, and if the car died it would coast back down the hill enough to get us back to the driveway. It started out well; at least until we started up the hill. Ever had a car engine run rough? You just think you have. Before we knew it, we were bouncing around like the car was a pogo stick on acid. Younger Daughter advanced the opinion that one of the tires was flat. I assumed all four of them were.

Back in the driveway with the car idling, the tires were checked and found to be inflated. Man, that is one rough engine.

So tomorrow Younger Daughter will brave a trip to the revenue office for new tags and then take the poor car to have a radiator flush and get new spark plugs and a new fuel filter installed. Then it's off to buy new tires. Husband has declared this will fix all the problems. Except for the door handles. Did I mention both of them broke off while Younger Daughter lived in Memphis? Man, those are some deep potholes.

Whose fault is that?

2011-02-28T12:51:00.002-06:00

As I may have mentioned, I live on the New Madrid fault line. This is the fault line that caused? supported? made possible? (whatever) the earthquake that that was so violent the Mississippi River ran backward for three days. Of course, that was 200 years ago, but doom is always predicted for this region. There's always some seismic activity going on around here, but we rarely feel any of it. Last night, though, some of my friends claim to have felt an earthquake. I think they're losing it.

Oh, there WAS an earthquake, but it was 160 miles away, and it registered a 4.7 on the Richter Scale. At the time it occurred (11:00 p.m.) we were getting wind gusts at around 50 mph and I figure any shaking felt was from that. It just amazes me, though, how people want to jump on the Disaster Bandwagon when they get a whiff of something like that. You know, you've probably heard things like, "Oh, I felt that earthquake! It knocked pictures off the wall!" or "Wasn't that auto accident tragic? I was friends with one of the people who died." When in reality photos weren't knocked off the wall at the quake's epicenter, much less 160 miles away, and the victim of the accident was someone they met once when they were both called for jury duty. Oh well, I'll move on. It's just a pet peeve of mine.

I am left wondering, however, where that earthquake came from. All the maps I've seen (and living here I've seen a bunch) don't show Greenbrier, the little town at the quake's epicenter, on the fault line. Has the New Madrid fault line moved west? Has it opened a branch office in the central part of the state? Did it give birth to another fault line who was discouraged at the lack of noticable tremors in this area? Can you tell I have way too much time on my hands?

Whatever the case, we have bottled water on hand and enough Reese's Peanut Butter Eggs to see us through a week or two if the Big One hits here. No matter whose fault (line) it is.

Buffering's evil twin

2011-02-17T14:42:00.002-06:00

Husband and I finally broke down and bought a Wii. We'd thought about it before, but none of the games really appealed to us; we're not into pretending to steal cars, deal drugs, kill prostitutes and have shoot-outs with law enforcement, nor do we care about Lego Star Wars, Lego Indiana Jones, Lego Harry Potter, or anything Lego. But recently Older Daughter told us we can now buy Wii versions of classic games (read: simple games we can actually play). Combined with the Netflix instant view, this new development sent us to the store and home again in possession of new black Wii.

After discovering that our fairly new television does not have enough little hook up thingies for both our DVD player and the Wii, we unhooked the DVD player and started trying to figure out the Wii. It didn't take me long to get the internet connected and Netflix channel downloaded, so I was set to watch movies and television programs on instant view. This worked out well for me yesterday since I was sick all day. I quite enjoyed lying on the sofa and watching "re-runs" of old television shows. When Older Daughter and Son-in-Law first started using instant view, they were discouraged by how long it took for their movies, etc. to load. In fact, Son-in-Law started a list of things to do while waiting for the movies to be "retrieved." His list included: Get dressed, drive to Blockbuster, browse, wait in line, rent movie, drive home, watch half of rented movie before instant view had finished "retrieiving." I had no such wait yesterday, though. Those babies just popped up there in a flash. But last night I finally met Retrieving, Buffering's evil twin.

I quit watching things on You Tube because of the buffering. I don't have a lot of patience anyway, and having my viewing interrupted so the thing could buffer irritated me to the point of just giving up on the whole thing. It's not like I have a dial-up connection, so what's with all the buffering? And the retrieving on instant view is the same. It didn't bother me too much when it took a bit to "retrieve" the program at the beginning, but when it stopped to "retrieve" right in the middle of it, that ticked me off. And I've had to unhook my DVD player for this? Now I can't watch the ones that come in the mail, the ones that don't have to be retrieved from anywhere other than the mailbox. *sigh*

Maybe when we order some of those classic games, I'll like the thing better. After all, I've never rescued the whatever it is I'm supposed to rescue in Legend of Zelda. I'm hoping better graphics will help me along in that department. As long as it doesn't stop to retrieve anything.

No, wait!

2011-02-09T10:42:00.004-06:00

The local television station has a "Panic-o-meter" they run (tongue-in-cheek) when wintry weather is expected. Last night they raised the level from "Get bread and milk" to "Get out the sled." I figure today it'll go to "Complete Pandemonium."

The snow we received Monday was thick, wet, heavy snow; good for snowman building and easy for the snowplows to shove off the roads. Most of it melted yesterday, just in time for today's "weather event." (Event? Really?) For a week now the local weather guy has been going on about this approaching storm, but the predictions have varied wildly from day to day. "We're expecting about 1 to 2 inches!" he said last week. "At least 3 inches!" he said over the weekend. Yesterday at 5:00 he changed it to "around 4 inches possible," but on the 10:00 newscast he said we "might get a dusting." I fully expected him to interrupt the newscast later on with, "No, wait! We're going to get six feet of snow!" In fact, I was watching a national weather forecasting channel about an hour ago when the local forecast was aired. While the main screen predicted 1 to 3 inches for our area, a crawl along the bottom was warning of accumulations from 4 to 8 inches.

You know what? They have no idea what it's going to do outside.

It's been snowing all morning and shows no sign of letting up any time soon. This snow is different from the crap we got on Monday, too. It's dry snow, which means it turns immediately to ice the moment it's stepped on or driven over, which means every road in Hooterville and the surrounding area are now skating rinks for automobiles.

The snowplows have been by several times today in an effort to keep the highway passable. I get a kick out of watching them. They come in pairs, the truck in the left lane slightly ahead of the one in the right lane. And they both travel at about 65 miles per hour, like they think they're running at Talladega, slinging ice and snow in every direction. Now, I don't claim to know the most efficient means of clearing the roads of winter precipitation, but it seems they'd do a better job of it if they'd slow down a little. But no; every time they come back by they seem to have gained a little more speed.

It's clear we've passed the "dusting" stage and are well on our way to "inches." How many remains to be seen. But I'm holding out hope the weekend forecast is correct; they're calling for temperatures in the low 60s by Saturday. That's weather I can live with.

Nanook says, "Heeeeyyyy!"

2011-02-04T17:03:00.003-06:00

I would have said "Mighty Quinn the Eskimo says 'Heeeeyyyy!'" But that's our cat's name (no, really) and she'd never say, "Heeeyyy!" She'd say, "What are you lookin' at?"

After seeing photos from my friends in Massachusetts and Chicago, I feel a little odd grousing about the snow flurries outside my window. But for this part of the country, those flurries and that 2" of accumulation the local weather guy is gleefully predicting is equal to the almost two feet my Chicago friends received the other day. One of the reasons I love living in the south is that it isn't supposed to snow here. We're not prepared for it, we don't know how to drive on it (nor do we wish to learn since we're NOT SUPPOSED TO GET SNOW) and any amount of accumulation shuts down the businesses in entire counties.

Evidently mother nature is bi-polar and has neglected her medication lately, because we've received more than our share of snow this winter. I'm just going to lay low and ride it out by refusing to leave the house until it's all gone and looking at properties for sale in Hawaii. It seems to be the only place that doesn't have to deal with snow.

He needed killin', Your Honor

2011-01-10T11:35:00.004-06:00

No matter how boring you might consider your family, if you dig back far enough you're bound to find some interesting tidbits of info that will give your child a leg up in the "my family can beat up your family" playground wars.

Several years ago I discovered a multiple-great grandfather of Husband's was murdered in Butte County, California in the early 1880s, but I could never find the particulars. While trying to sort out some of my genealogy files this weekend, though, I googled the ancestor's name and discovered one of Husband's distant cousins had gathered together all the information he could find on the murder and put it in a PDF file. Not only did I finally find out exactly what happened in Butte County, California, I discovered that news reporting hasn't changed one whit in over 100 years.

The issue of 5 August 1882 of The Weekly Butte Record screamed the following headline: "FOUND MURDERED - A Brutal and Sickening Killing at Hog Hollow - An Aged Man's Death; Where Suspicion Meets; Life Battered Out With Rocks". The article begins, "Not a little excitement was created on the streets this morning by the announcement that Shadrick Jones, a respected rancher who had been living at Hog Hollow, on Pine Creek, had been murdered." The article goes on to say the "old man" (he was all of 65) was last seen in the company of his son-in-law, James Parker; the two men were under the influence of alcohol when they left town in Jones' wagon; a neighbor passed by them as they traveled home and Jones begged the neighbor to drive him home and not leave him alone with Parker; and the next morning Jones was found dead the bed of his wagon and Parker was nowhere to be found. The newspaper said the murder of Jones, "a hard worker," was "a cruel and heartless one, and nothing sadder has ever been done in this community."

On 7 August 1882 The Chico Enterprise reported that Parker had told a former employer that "he would have to kill the old man sometime." An inquest had been held and the jury's verdict was "the deceased came to his death by being beaten about the head and shoulders with some heavy instrument. And we furthermore believe that none other than Parker to be the person that committed the crime."

The Daily Alta in San Francisco reported, "The jury brought in a verdict of murder at the hands of one James Parker. The murderer is still at large, and being acquainted with the mountain trails, it will be a difficult matter to find him." But The Chico Enterprise said Parker "knows nothing about the mountains excepting the road he has taken, while those who are after him are well acquainted with every trail and road. We are in hopes to be able to publish an account of his capture soon."

On 11 August, The Chico Enterprise got a scoop from James Parker's wife who told a reporter, "her husband has not been home since the night of the murder, when he came to the house soon after eight o'clock, and asked her if she had been uneasy about him. She remarked that she had been and feared something had happened. He then said something had happened--he had quarreled with Jones, and that he had killed him.
"He said Jones had attempted to strike him over the head with the but end of his blacksnake, when he, to defend himself, picked up a board which was in the wagon, and struck him over the head with it, and then pounded and stamped him until he knew he was dead." The paper went on to call Parker "AN OUTCAST ON THE FACE OF THE EARTH, With Cain's mark on his forehead."

On 18 August Parker was arrested at home, The Chico Enterprise reporting he was found shaving his moustache and beard to disguise himself. He was arrested without incident, but did state he'd only hit his father-in-law once with a board after "the old man" knocked Parker's hat off with the butt of a whip. The Weekly Butte Record of 19 August also reported the arrest of "the brutal Parker," adding "He then showed great fear, turning pale and trembling as though he had the ague."

Evidently the community was fired up about what had happened, and The Weekly Butte Record was taking a hit. They printed the following to try to repair their reputation: The Weekly Butte Record, August 19, 1882
"No sympathy for Parker."
"Our morning contemporary advanced a hint this morning that the RECORD was endeavoring to create sympathy for James Parker, the man charged with murdering his father-in-law the other night at Hog Hollow. Not so. This paper denounced the crime as a most brutal murder, and is yet of that opinion. The other day we published, as a matter of news, the confession that Parker made to his wife about the murder. In the confession the murderer gave his wife to understand that the deed was done in self defense, and we published it as near correct as it could be had."

On 26 August Parker appeared in court for the first time. The Weekly Butte Record wasn't impressed with Mr. Parker: "He is pale and sickly looking, and of a small stature. He is a man of some intelligence but not a person who would be called "bright." His terrible experience of being exposed to the cold in the mountains, and going for days without food and water, has caused a great shock to his system, and, unless he has the best of care, a long spell of sickness may follow."

On 29 August some men from Iron County, Missouri (where Shadrach Jones once lived) took it upon themselves to send a poorly-spelled "Certificate of Character" to the court in California:

"State of Missouri
County of Iron August 29th 1882
Serticate of Carrector
We the undersigned citizens of said County and State will State that we was acquainted with Shedrick Jones and James Parker while they was citizens of this County and will Say that the Said Sherdrick Jones was a Man that was in a habit of drinking and while intoxacated was Disopated and Quarlsom he alwas carried a Revolver and on the least provaction would [unkown]

"We will State that the Said Jones was considerd very Trubblesom when drunk and that was allways when he could get the Whisky that he was not under a Good carrector when he left her [unknown] for sober habbits or for Honesty quietness. We will further State we Believe that out side of his Relations he had no friends in this County or ajoining Counties where he was known when he left hear.

"Now as for James Parker we will say that we never heard of him being Disopated or Quarlsom never new of him geting drunk and Rasing fussis with any person and if he ever carried a Revolver or Conseald Weapons of of any Kind Cind We never new or heard of it he was considered a Sober Quiet peasebull man in this Country. We never new or heard of him having a fray or fuss with any person."

And so the tide began to turn as the newspapers then started to portray Jones and Parker in a new light, especially since the Jones and Parker women had been left in poor circumstances: "Nearly ever since the murder Mr. Simmonds and numerous other generous and kind-hearted people have kept the wolf from the door of the two families, who are now living together at the Parker place. They have given them meat, flour and vegetables, and have also sent them clothing of which they were sadly in need when our cool Autumn nights set in. The residents of Hog Hollow are not rich by any means, but some of them manage to eke out a fair living in that rough region. They are generous and willing to help those in need, but they cannot long afford to carry an extra burden upon their shoulders and hope soon to be relieved of their pensioners. Mr. Simmonds took a lot of food and clothing to the destitute persons yesterday, having purchased the outfit with money donated for the purpose. Mrs. Parker has not been in her right mind since her husband killed her father, and at times has been raving crazy....The murderer has entirely recovered from his thrilling experience in the mountains; but he is naturally of a weak constitution and has a sickly look about him that does not promise him a long life. Mrs. Parker returned from Oroville to-day with her youngest child but will return tothe county seat in October to attend her husband's trial. She called upon the Supervisor of this district to-day seeking aid, and was given orders for enough food and clothing to last the two families a month."

On 18th August James Parker was found guilty of manslaughter and sentenced to San Quentin for ten years. On 30 March 1883 he applied to the Governor of California for a pardon. The residents of Butte County were evidently tired of having to support the Parker and Jones families and immediately threw their support behind Parker, signing a petition on his behalf which was attached to Parker's application for pardon. Among those signing were the Judge who sentenced him and all the jurors who convicted him, along with what appears to be every man in Butte County.

On 18 May, Jones' widow, Jane, swore out a statement saying Jones had threatened to kill Parker on the day of the murder. Why she didn't tell anyone this prior to having to live off the charity of her neighbors wasn't revealed.

On 5 June the District Attorney joined the chorus of those wishing his release, and sent a letter to the Governor stating he had no objection to a pardon.

And on 23 November 1883 Governor George Stoneman issued an executive pardon.

In the space of a year Shadrach Jones went from being "a respected rancher" and "a hard worker" to "a quarrelsome drunk" who "had no friends." Parker went from being "brutal" and "an outcast on the face of the earth" to "pale and sickly" and a "quiet, peaceable and orderly citizen." (This last from the man who discovered the body and led the hunt for Parker!)

Whatever the case, Shadrach Jones was killed by his son-in-law because he knocked the younger man's hat off his head, an interesting family story to pass down.

Shadrach Jones

Bye Bye Birdie

2011-01-04T11:24:00.002-06:00

The new year got off to an odd start near where I live, with thousands of dead blackbirds falling from the sky. Apparently the birds were frightened by something and took off in the dead of night, crashing into each other with force, dying in mid-air, and falling all over the town of Beebe. No one is sure what scared the birds; maybe fireworks, maybe the storms moving across the area, or maybe the small earthquake that no one but animals felt. But die and fall the birds did.

I understand the national news media (and I use that term loosely) has picked up the story, and I'm just hoping they don't find the clip the local television station used of the yahoo who exclaimed, "It wuz jist like a Albert Hitchcock movie!" Have mercy. Comedian Jeff Foxworthy once commented on news outlets seemingly searching out the biggest yahoos they could find to interview -- women wearing muu-muus and men's slippers, or fellows in overalls with no shirt. But I think it's because those are the only people willing to appear on the news. Normal sane people run the other way when they see a news crew. And so we're left listening to the commentary of the "Albert" Hitchcock fan, the impression being that we're all like that. Again, have mercy.

But the birds are only part of the story. Officials are also trying to find out why hundreds of thousands of fish died about the same time in the Arkansas River. Can't blame the fireworks for that, but they think it may be related to the earthquake. Whatever the cause, The Natural State is starting off 2011 in an unnatural way.

Permission granted

2011-01-01T12:50:00.002-06:00

My mind is usually hopping around like a flea on acid, trying to perfect the plots of three books, wondering if I have new email, thinking about what to prepare for dinner that's different to what we normally have, what color to paint the kitchen, what color to paint the living room, etc. etc. etc. This leaves me totally distracted and confused and, as a result, I'm always about ten steps behind on getting any one of these things accomplished. It also makes me feel as if I'm failing at...well, pretty much everything.

When the month of December began, I had to make a decision. I knew it was going to be busy with all the holiday preparations. And then Youngest Daughter told us she was going to move back home for a while. Her car had died and needed costly repairs, and her hours at work had been cut to the point she had to scrape to make her student loan payments; there was no way she could afford to have the car fixed. Plus, without transportation, getting to and from those measly work hours was next to impossible and put a huge burden on everyone she knew. So she decided to come home, regroup and start over. That was cool, but I knew it would change whatever half-assed schedule I'd had going. Around that same time the first invitation to a holiday dinner with some of Husband's co-workers was tendered, and I braced for the onslaught. It all started to press in on me, and I knew I had to make some kind of a decision. So I did.

I gave myself permission to drop out. I backed up all three manuscripts onto a flash drive and told myself the world would not come to an end if I didn't write one single bleedin' word on them. Then I put the flash drive away. I also avoided the computer, doing infrequent email checks and rarely logging onto Facebook. I didn't check in with any of the blogs I regularly read. I forgot about interior decoration and decided that my yucky orange walls could stay that way for a while longer. Younger Daughter helped me raid my closet and put together appropriate Wife-Of-A-Boss party attire. And then I relaxed.

I wrapped gifts, I baked cookies, I re-read all my favorite books, and I watched a lot of movies. I made nice with the wives of Husband's business associates and made a couple of leisurely trips to the mall. And I didn't worry about all those things I thought I needed to do.

It was totally rejuvenating! I rediscovered the joy of just sitting down with a beloved book and not worrying about writing my own. I watched the movies without stressing because I hadn't written an email in a week. I didn't worry about checking the status updates of my friends because if it was anything important they would call. Letting go of those outside pressures gave me time to remember how to have fun.

And even better, when thoughts of my books started creeping back into my head it was without the "Oh-My-God-I-Have-To-Finish-This!" panic that usually accompanies them. I realized that I don't have to write/revise a certain number of words each day. That works for some people, but it messes me up in a huge way. I could now look at those books and feel anticipation in getting back to them and not the dread I'd felt before.

So now it's time to start picking up those threads I let go. But I don't intend to try to hold them all in my hand at the same time. I've come to value the peace I found in not running around trying to do twenty things at the same time. If I don't check my email I won't worry that I'm missing something vital and interesting. It'll be there tomorrow. The Second and Third Books will still be there after The Book is complete. It's one book at a time for me from now on, and if I don't write anything for a couple of days it's no big deal. It'll get done, and at a pace that's good for me.

At first I felt selfish for just dropping out. But it was what I needed, and I don't feel guilty for it. I think it's really going to be a happy new year.

Oh, and did I mention....

2010-11-19T11:26:00.004-06:00

....that I've slashed and burned the entire second part of The Book? Yup. Tore that sucker right out of there and relegated it to the Discard File. Whew. Though it sounds extreme, it wasn't really a hard decision at all.

Here's the deal: During this exhaustive and frustrating editing stage (which has gone on way too long!) I immersed myself in reading agent blogs, author blogs, publishing blogs, etc., trying to figure out what I was doing wrong. Because I was obviously doing something wrong since The Book was being edited (a LOT) and kept going nowhere. Now, if you've ever read more than one of those types of blogs you already know that there is a ton of contradicting advice being offered. No two agents (or authors or publishers) want the same thing. Each individual has his or her own way of doing things and I was trying to follow all of their tips and hints. It got to where I literally could not see the forest (my Book) for the trees (conflicting advice.) Since I was bombarding myself with all of this and trying so hard to get it right, The Book ended up as a Really Hot Mess of Blah. And while that's a great name for a band, it isn't the goal of any author, myself included. So I sank into a dark pit of despair (how's THAT for purple prose, readers?) and, yes, I admit, pretty much gave up on The Book. Then I saw a shining light at the end of the tunnel that was, for once, not the light of an oncoming train.

It was a comment left on a critique site by an anonymous guy on my synopsis. In a few simple, encouraging sentences he let me know that while my story was engaging, there was just too much going on. He gently pointed out that it appeared I had two different stories happening when one would suffice for this book. His comments really resonated with me and I knew he was onto something there. So I went back and re-read the whole book. And he was right. I'd reached the real end of The Book somewhere around the middle, but instead of quitting, I kept going, giving the characters a whole new set of conflicts to unravel. Well, no wonder I had so much trouble with word count! And no wonder those deep edits I'd done left The Book feeling unfinished and lacking! Instead of trying to resolve two books in one, I needed to get rid of the second half and concentrate of the first. And so I did.

I guess I'll never know who this guy was or why he commented on a synopsis that was a genre he usually didn't read, but he saved my book for me. And my sanity. So here's to you, Anonymous Guy! Your thoughtful critique, helpful comments and encouraging words made all the difference for me. You have my gratitude.

Don't look at me!

2010-11-18T12:06:00.003-06:00

There's a window in my bathroom that has become the bane of my existence. It's always been an annoyance, but yesterday is when it achieved bane status.

Our house was built in 1952 and this window is obviously an original. You know; wooden frame, non-standard size, narrow panes of glass, no sill to speak of, etc. It's just above the bathtub which means taking a shower exposes you in all your naked glory to anyone standing in the side yard. (Why anyone would be standing in the side yard is another matter, but I digress.) Over the years various residents of the house have tried several different ways of blocking the view from this window. I can tell from the myriad holes in the tub surround that there have been about 4,392 sizes of curtains hung there as well as at least four sizes of mini-blinds. Since we've lived here we've made do with a mini-blind, but it left a lot to be desired.

First of all, mini-blinds do not react well to being repeatedly splashed with water since it tends to weaken the cords holding the blind together. Secondly, mini-blinds are not mildew resistant. And, thirdly, no one manufactures a mini-blind to fit this window. So yesterday I decided to install a privacy film on the panes. You know, that stuff that looks like frosted glass but really isn't? It lets the light in but peeping toms creeping into our side yard can't see through it. Sounded like the perfect solution, so off I went to Lowes.

Man, do they have a lot of window film! Aisle 6 contained an overwhelming selection of styles and options that made me fairly giddy. Upon further inspection, though, the majority of these films weren't made for privacy but for decorative purposes only. In fact, only two of the many boxes on Aisle 6 were labled "Privacy Film." One was called "rice paper," and it was, let's be honest here, the ugliest thing I've seen in a long time. The other was the frosted glass-looking stuff I'd originally intended to buy before I was distracted by all the pretty decorative stuff. Unfortunately, the frosted glass stuff was only available in a box the size of Manhattan with enough film to completely wrap a four-story building. Since I only need to cover four 31" x 7" panes of glass this was a bit of an overkill. I stood there in the aisle, my eyes darting back and forth between this behemoth roll of film and the pretty decorative one called "mosaic glass" that was the perfect color for my bathroom but didn't guarantee no one would accidently catch a glimpse of me in my birthday suit. I finally decided to go with the frosted glass, hoping I could figure out some kind of crafty way to use the rest of the roll. (Ha.) I looked over the basic installation instructions on the box and was reassured it looked easy to do. Besides, I see them do this stuff on HGTV all time and they just slap it up there and move on.

After I got the stuff home I opened the box and discovered the roll of film was held together with a sticker with the tensile strength of a battleship. Not only was it stuck on there for the duration, it made the pieces of film it was adhered to unusable. I finally pried enough of it apart to unroll the film only to find a poster-board sized piece of paper furled around the film. These were the REAL instructions. (I'm guessing the ones on the outside of the box are only there to get suckers like me to buy it in the first place. "Hey! I can do this! This will be easy!" Hey! No, you can't, and no it won't.) The first part of these instructions read, "Start with a clean window." Well, crap. Trust this stupid film not to be content with Windex and a paper towel cleaning. No, they want soap and hot water clean. Besides Merry Maids, who does that? But, hey, I guess I can wash a window. Once I'd gotten past the clean window part, it went downhill. Fast. I quickly came to the realization that more than one person is needed to install this stuff, and one of those people needs to have an abnormal amount of hands. Plus, it kept talking about something called "Application Spray." Nothing on the outside of the box mentioned anything about "Application Spray," so naturally I had none of that on hand. Was I supposed to go back to the store and buy it? Forget that. Maybe I could substitute something else. After a round with Google I discovered I could substitute a mixture of no-tears baby shampoo and water for the spray. But since I don't have a baby, I have no baby shampoo on hand, either.

As I sat there surrounded by a roll of window film that stretched halfway across the living room, complicated instructions with hidden purchases involved and tiny bits of torn sticker, my mind kept going back to that mosaic glass pattern I didn't buy. If I (and by "I" I mean "Husband and me") was going to go to all the trouble of installing window film, I'd rather it be something I really liked as opposed to something I just settled for. Besides, the mosaic pattern would provide more than enough privacy. It's not like I'm trying to block the view from a picture window, just a few panes of glass; and if some idiot is standing in my side yard without my knowledge, they deserved to have their retinas burned out by whatever they may see.

I'm going to haul the frosted film back to Lowes today and see if they'll take it back, even with a shredded sticker. Then I'm going to buy the mosaic film and bully Husband into helping me install it.

Who'd have thought it would be so complicated just to get a bit of privacy in the bath?

I leave no fingerprints

2010-11-05T16:49:00.005-05:00

Last week I closed the door to the basement and the clock on living room wall fell to the floor. I admit it -- I did shut the door with a little more force than was necessary, but I still don't think it was in the slamming range of force. In any case, some of the decorative...er..."stuff" around the clock broke off. Luckily, it wasn't shattered, but fell off in large chunks. Fixable, right? All I needed was some kind of super glue. That was the plan, anyway.

Yeah. Don't ever buy Loctite Super Glue. The only thing it sticks to is human skin.

Hey, it sounded good. Loctite! I'd stick the pieces of the clock back on and they'd be Locked! Tight! And then I'd know what time it was without having to squint at the display on the phone. Ha. Instead of locking anything, this particular brand of glue seemed to make the pieces repel each other like placing two like poles of magnets together. And this stuff was so runny I ended up with a coating of it over my fingertips. I did have the presence of mind not to stick my fingers to each other, but I'm still left with weirdly smooth skin. I could probably pull off a bank heist or something and leave no prints behind. Not even that hot Nick on CSI could identify me!

And just so you'll know -- not only does the Loctite not "loc" anything, "tite" or otherwise, but the directions on the package for removing this product from your skin are also worthless. The manufacturers suggest using cooking oil for removal. Now I have smooth oily fingertips. Time to pull out the fingernail polish remover.

So there the pieces of the clock sit on the bar, unstuck to anything. And all those other broken things I'd planned to repair are also still broken. Once my fingers are free of this coating of glue and oil I think I'll just go buy another clock.

Late to the party, but still had a blast!

2010-11-03T10:36:00.002-05:00

Yes, I realize The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins was published in 2008, but I just got around to reading it on Friday. I knew it was a huge hit, but there were several things that caused me to pass it by on the shelves.

First of all, it's a dystopian novel, and that's one of the two genres I just don't care for. (Steampunk is the other, and I think the name itself has a lot to do with that. It just seems like it should be the description for something with a foul odor; "It was so steampunk in there I thought I was going to be sick.") And don't jump my butt about it; I'm not saying these genres are "bad" or "wrong" or anything like that. They're just not my bag, just like romance novels aren't everyone's preference. Live and let live. Or, more accurately, read and let read. I've attempted to read quite a few dystopian books but got bored with what seemed to me were tedious explanations of the world in which the characters lived, descriptions that went on and on and on with every tiny detail spelled out with excruciating exactness. Plus, I find them to be a little preachy. So when I read the back-cover blurb for The Hunger Games I shrugged and put it back on the shelf.

Second on my list of reasons for not reading the book was that it's YA. With the exception of Stephenie Meyers' Twilight series and J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter books, I'm not a fan of YA. (And why should I be? I'm well over 40 and not the target reader, right?) However, by the time Ms. Rowling hit her fourth book, the only thing YA about it were the ages of the main characters. And as much as I enjoyed the Twilight books, I still had the urge to smack Bella upside the head with a two-by-four every other page. So I realize that YA isn't written for me as a reader, so I wasn't interested in The Hunger Games.

Thirdly, it's written in first person present. Don't ask me why, but this turns me right off.

And reason four: it's a skinny book. 'Nuff said.

On Friday, though, I was trolling the shelves looking for something new to read, like I do every couple of days. This time was different because I was on the phone with Older Daughter who pretty much demanded that I buy and read Ms. Collins' book. I laid out all my reasons for not doing so, but Older Daughter brushed them all aside. She told me if I didn't like The Hunger Games she'd be very much surprised. Since she knows my likes and dislikes pretty well I decided to give it whirl. Plus, the book was only $6.00 so it wasn't a huge investment on my part. (Older Daughter also told me if I didn't like the book I could give it to her since the copy she had was from the library. This made me a tad suspicious -- was she just trying to get me to buy it so I could put it down in disgust and she would then be the owner of a brand new copy? -- but I caved and bought it.)

To my surprise and delight, I really, really liked this book. Since it was a skinny book it only took me about three hours to read it from cover to cover, but the writing was concise, fast-paced and interesting as all get out! Yes, the character's names were some of those oddball names I usually find in this genre, but not so convoluted I couldn't pronounce them. Yes, they lived in a world totally different, but the author showed this world instead of telling about it. I was able to grasp the workings of this government by the reactions of the characters and not by being force-fed an info dump of words. And yes, it's first person present, but the writing was so well done I'd stopped noticing it by the third page. The backstory was woven in so seamlessly that I was never taken out of the story, and the plot was terrific. I'd been skeptical; it sounded a lot like Stephen King's (or Richard Bachman's, actually) The Long Walk when Older Daughter gave me a run-down of what the book was about, but Ms. Collins gave it whole new twist that kept me turning the pages.

I must admit the ending brought me up short. The Hunger Games is part of a triology (the other two books being Catching Fire and Mockingjay), and it ends abruptly so the next book can begin. That didn't bother me, though, because it is part of a series. Will I read the other two books? Nah. I've done some research on them and don't find myself taken by the way the story unfolds. That doesn't diminish my liking the first book, though. It was a great read, and Ms. Collins has my admiration for crafting a book that appealed not only to her target audience, but to me, as well.

If you've not read The Hunger Games (for whatever reason), I urge you to do so. I don't think you'll be disappointed.

Who offended Sir Paul?

2010-11-02T12:59:00.006-05:00

When Older Daughter was in high school and college, she and Husband had an annual Daddy-Daughter day where they'd go to St. Louis and take in a Cardinals baseball game. On one of these trips they arrived so early they had time to walk down to Union Station and do some shopping. Older Daughter ended up with Cardinals baseball cards, and Husband bought me a set of Beatles nesting dolls. Some time later Older Daughter confided that these dolls had cost a small fortune, so I've been very careful with them since then. They currently reside in one of the glass-fronted cabinets that flank our entertainment center. One day last week, however, I noticed something odd:

Sir Paul had evidently become offended in some way and had turned his back on the world, so to speak. Although I can't be sure just what occured, I have a feeling the Paul doll my friend Donna gave me in high school might have taunted the Nesting Paul. Paul Doll has no room to talk, though, since he's a pretty scary looking dude:

Seriously; I could put this thing out for Halloween and win one of those scary house contests hands down!

Anyway, I turned Nesting Paul back around:

(I also showed him the above photo of Paul Doll so he can taunt back from now on.)

And while I was in the cabinet I decided to take a snap of some of my Jimmy Page things on the next shelf:

Honestly, I could fill up all the shelves in both cabinets with this stuff, but I've restricted myself to what you see here. Hm. Maybe Nesting Paul wasn't upset with Paul Doll after all, but feeling inferior to Jimmy. Sorry, Paul. Nothing I can do about that.

Come on in

2010-10-26T10:05:00.004-05:00

One front door in Fabulous Red.

I was awakened this morning by a real, live storm that dumped some rain on the parched ground and blew the cover off my car. At first I thought the cover might have ended up in the next county, but it got wet before it blew out of the yard. I should go out and pick it up so it can dry, but I don't think that's going to happen. I'm not sure if it's because I got up before daybreak or if it's the change in the weather, but I freakin' hurt. It feels as if a railroad spike is being driven into my upper arm. Repeatedly. (And no; I don't know how a railroad spike being driven into an arm really feels, but I think I have a pretty good idea right now.) Something tells me it's time to finally open that box of pain patches I bought but haven't used. For some reason I've been very resistant to the idea of putting one on. Maybe my subconscious is stopping me because if I'm pain free then there's no reason to put off the mopping the kitchen floor needs. And wielding a mop is my least favorite household chore.

It's funny that I hate to mop so much when Older Daughter loves it. No, I mean she really loves to mop the floors. (Of course this didn't come out in her until after she'd moved out of our house.) On the flip side, she hates folding clothes and I could do that all day and not get bothered a bit. In fact, I like doing it. There's just something so satisfying about taking those clothes warm from the dryer and folding them just so. Unfortunately, that having things "just so" is what's causing me problems with The Book. I can't stop editing.

Every time I read through the manuscript I find something else that needs to be fixed. It's got me worried; I mean, is it that bad? I dunno. Maybe I'll slap a pain patch on The Book, too. Couldn't hurt.

A little rain must fall

2010-10-24T11:29:00.002-05:00

But not here. I was looking forward to today because the weather personages had all indicated we were going to have thunderstorms. This was good news for several reasons, the main one being that is hasn't rained here since 2008. (At least, it seems that long.) Too, I love a good thunderstorm as long as it doesn't get severe, sending me sprinting for the basement where I cower in fear as the tornado sirens wail. A good, rip-roaring thunderstorm with no tornadoes, though, is nice. It's rather cozy to sit in a comfortable chair, hearing the thunder boom and the rain on the roof, watching the show through the window. But it's not raining. Not even a drop. Hey, I'll forgo the thunder and lightning if we can just get some moisture around here.

An end to the drought would have been the perfect ending to the weekend, and a perfect follow up to yesterday which was utterly spectacular. First of all, we got the front door painted and it looks wonderful. Unfortunately, the hardward we bought doesn't fit the door, so it's still in the bag and the old ugly hardware is back on the door. Husband tells me he can install the new stuff after he buys some kind of special saw. The thought of getting another new power tool has sent him over the moon. I, too, am over the moon because he totally surprised me last night with an anniversary ring!

When we married, an engagement ring was not in the budget. This didn't bother me since I assumed he'd get me one eventually. I guess since I didn't stamp my feet and have fits about it he thought it wasn't something I really wanted. And instead of telling him I did want an engagement ring, I kept quiet. I did, however, confide in our daughters who began dropping hints to their father last year. They told him our 25th anniversary would be a wonderful time to finally give me a ring to go with my wedding band. He resisted at first, saying I'd never expressed a desire for one, but they persevered, their hints slowly progressing into badgering. So Husband finally listened to them. Since we have been married for 25 years, he got an anniversary ring instead of an engagement ring, and it's just beautiful! It has to be sized, though, so I won't have it back for about two weeks, but that's okay. I can use the time to practice gesturing with my left hand so everyone will notice all the glittering going on above my wedding band.

So, yes; yesterday was pretty much wonderful. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go outside and do a rain dance I looked up on the internet.

Procrastinators of the world, unite --- tomorrow

2010-10-19T16:03:00.004-05:00

I could stay in Lowe's all day and never get bored. Discouraged, yes; bored, never. Husband and I have decided to paint our front door so we've been to Lowe's a couple of times in the past several days for supplies. I think we purposely forget items on each trip just so we can go back. Today I went by myself to buy the actual paint (it's called Fabulous Red, and isn't that a nifty name? My door will so rock!) and got distracted by all the other things in the store. Except the lumber. I don't suppose I have enough vision to imagine what those boards could become. I need the finished product to spark my home renovation dreams, and that's where the discouraging part of my Lowe's visits comes in. Every time I go there I see something I'd like to add to our home, but then I realize we'll actually have to do those projects, and let's face it -- Husband and I are major procrastinators when it comes to physical labor. He's had to do enough of it in his previous jobs, and I just don't like doing things I could pay someone else to do. Our front door is a good case in point.

With the purchase of the paint today we now have everything we need to do the job. If it gets done before Thanksgiving I'll be surprised. Last week we bought a sander. Husband was overjoyed to have another power tool in the house and he immediately took it out of the box, hooked it up and sanded the top half of the door. Then he quit. He said he "just wanted to see how the sander works." From the sad appearance of the door I'd say it works pretty darn well. Husband says we need to take the door off the hinges and lay it flat to really "do it right," and I can see where that would be the case. Of course the door is still on the hinges, half sanded. I've made a careful study of those hinges and have come to the conclusion there's no way I'd ever be able to get that door down by myself. Since Husband leaves the house for work each morning before daylight, having him take it down isn't an option. By the time he returns home in the evening it's too late to do it since the primer and paint wouldn't dry in time for us to put the door back up for overnight. And leaving it down all night isn't gonna happen. Maybe this weekend.

Last weekend we couldn't do it because we were busy celebrating our 25th wedding anniversary. This has really given me pause because silver wedding anniversaries are something old people have. And let me tell you right here and now I am not old! We had to change our plans a bit because the restaurant we'd planned to go to was the scene of an attempted armed robbery earlier in the week. Kind of puts you off wanting to eat there, am I right? Especially since the would-be robbers didn't know there was an off-duty police officer dining there at the time and he wasn't afraid to pull out his weapon and fire off a few rounds. One of the crooks is still in The Med in critical condition and I'll bet he thinks again before trying to hold up a restaurant. Or maybe not; most crooks don't have enough brain cells to reason that out. I guess that's why they're crooks. Anyway. Husband and I avoided the scene of the crime and ended up at an Italian place where the food tasted wonderful but ended up making me sick as a dog. I may not be old, but I sure felt that way after we got home. Nice way to spend an anniversary.

On a more positive note, rewrite #684,943,837 is almost completed. I've pretty much rewritten the entire book and it was an exhausting process. I'm pleased with it, but now I've got to go back and edit it since I didn't bother too much with that while the creative juices were flowing. I'll probably have to put that off until the front door gets a few coats of Fabulous Red. Or maybe not; I want to have the editing done before I really do get old.

Good deeds

2010-10-05T13:02:00.003-05:00

If you eat at a Chili's Grill & Bar Restaurant during the month of September, you're bound to notice the paper chilis that have been colored by customers and hung all over the walls. The servers at Chili's sell these paper chilis to raise money for St. Jude's Children's Research Hospital. It's amazing the amount of money that Chili's raises each year for this wonderful hospital, even designating one day during September where every single dollar they make that day goes directly to St. Jude's.

Some of the Chili's employees go above and beyond the paper chilis, and my Youngest Daughter is one of them. This year she took the Chili's T-shirts (which they also sell) and decorated them, then sold them to customers. Her biggest sellers were the shirts that had a Memphis Tigers theme (she does live and work in Memphis, after all) but she also did customized shirts, like the one she did for me. The shirts start out like this:

And Youngest Daughter turned mine into this:

And best of all, the money I paid for the shirt went to support St. Jude's.

If you're looking for a charity to support, I urge you to click the link above and check out St. Jude's. They never turn a patient away, ever, no matter the family's ability to pay. And they can always use donations.

Cold-hearted bosses

2010-10-04T12:53:00.002-05:00

I'm probably going to hunt down and slap the next person who posts on Facebook about how they just love these "cool, crisp mornings!" (Exclamation point theirs) Cool and crisp my aunt Fanny; it's flippin' cold. This means, of course, that I've entered my annual state of mourning for spring, summer, and life in general.

I've never liked winter - ever! (exclamation point mine) - and the only thing autumn means to me is that winter is on its way. I find it depressing when the leaves change colors because it just means they're dying, and I don't find death attractive. Give me those 100+ degree temperatures; bring on the humidity. Just keep cold weather with its ice, snow and death away from me. I think this dislike of all things fall and winter related (except the clothes, which are just divine!) was instilled in me at birth. I was born in January, and I must have some repressed memory of being taken home from the hospital and getting a blast of arctic air in my face before my mother could pull the blanket around my head.

Now that I'm getting up before the crack of noon each day I'm experiencing first-hand the frigid temperatures of a fall morning. It was still in the 40s today when I went out to get the mail and as I trudged out to the mailbox I remembered how it seemed every boss I've ever worked for has just adored that type of morning.

There was Jim who would buzz me on the intercom from the Black Hole of Calcutta that was his office, asking me to play James Taylor's "Country Road." He would ask by crooning that part of the song that rhapsodizes about frost on the pumpkin and hay in the barn, lyrics that made me shudder with loathing. The man loved winter; we could only get him to emerge from his office by A) telling him there was money in the lobby, or B) telling him it was snowing.

Next there was Monty who would stand in front of the radio station on autumn mornings, stretching out his arms, inhaling the frost and exclaim how much he'd been looking forward to that kind of weather.

The next boss was Brian, who would do the exact same thing Monty did. Interestingly enough, he always stood in the same spot Monty had stood.

Was it because they were men, or was it because they worked in radio? Or was it a combination of the two that made them yearn for the death of all nature that is autumn and winter? I dunno, but there sure seemed to be a pattern there.

So now I'm digging in to wait it out. Maybe I'll get some writing done. That's the only good part of being stuck inside all winter long.

And now for something completely different

2010-09-25T11:21:00.002-05:00

This blog is coming to you today from the Land of the Sleep-Deprived. After almost fifteen years of living by Husband's work schedule (3:30 p.m. - midnight) it's hard to adjust to getting up before 8:00. (He has to get up much earlier, since he has to be at work at 7:00, but there's no way I'm getting out of bed when it's still dark out.)

Husband began his new job Monday morning. I stumbled out of bed about 8:30 and started to drink my way through a pot of coffee. (Yes, yes; I know I'm not supposed to have more than two cups, but what my doctor doesn't know won't hurt him. And if it hurts me then it's my problem.) When Husband came pulling into the driveway at 9:30 I was confused. That wasn't his lunch break, was it? No, he was home to pack. Yes, he'd only been on the job for two hours before they were sending him off on a business trip. So off he went. I didn't sleep well when he was gone, but I never do. Our house is old and it tends to creak and pop a lot. When Husband isn't here at night all those sounds seem very magnified to me, so I woke up every time it happened. I contined getting up at 8:00, though, so by the time he got back home I was kind of just stumbling around like a zombie.

He wasn't much better. He comes home from work about 5:00 or so, snatches a pillow from the bed and crashes on the couch. I hope we get used to these new hours soon because right now it's pretty boring. On the upside, he's not working this weekend (weekends off work! What a concept!) so maybe we can actually, you know, communicate in more than yawns and unintelligible grunts.

On second thought, that's not going to happen because it's football season. As I type this Husband is giving the television remote a workout as he goes from channel to channel, watching about forty college games at the same time. Later this afternoon "our" team (who is ranked at #10, I might add!) will be playing the nation's #1 team (but they're only #1 because they've only played teams from elementary schools) and I know better than to interrupt a rabid Razorbacks fan during a game, a lesson I learned well at the knee of my father. So it appears communication is out. I think I might take a nap.

Maleficent chills out

2010-09-17T17:19:00.002-05:00

You remember Maleficent, don't you? Disney's Best. Villian. Ever.

Unfortunately, my home looked a lot like that battle scene after Husband and I brought home Older Daughter's cat, with the cat playing (to perfection, I might add) the role of Maleficent.

Several months ago Older Daughter and Son-in-Law decided their family was ready for a cat. We just happened to have kittens on hand, so Daughter and the children came up for the day, selected a sweet little smoky gray kitten, popped her in a cat carrier, and took her home to Memphis. Let's just say the cat and the children didn't get on. Daughter finally got tired of her kids' legs looking like the losers in a fight with a blackberry bush, and informed me the cat would be filling out change of address cards in preparation for her return to Hooterville.

So while we were in Memphis for the granddaughter's birthday party, the cat was put back into the carrier and we brought her home with us. The trip was uneventful. Sure, she meowed a bit when we first started out (Husband suggested she was singing along with Heart's Red Velvet Car CD) but she soon settled down. When we reached home I lifted the carrier from the car, she meowed, and we went inside where she promptly lost her ever lovin' mind. I'm serious; we could've dropped by the Memphis Zoo, picked up a cougar from Cat Country, driven it home and would have had the exact same scenario. After we removed the top of the carrier, she stayed in it for three solid hours, snarling at everything within sight.

I should have known; this is the same cat who chased me from a house in June. We had decided she was spooked by my swishy skirt on that day, but I can guarantee you that neither Husband nor I were wearing swishy anythings when we brought Maleficent home with us. She growled, she hissed, she chased us; she did everything but arm herself with guns to keep us on guard. Our slightest movements set her off and we began to seriously consider trying to bundle her back into the carrier and foisting her off on the vet. We probably would have done it, too, if we hadn't been scared of losing several limbs in the attempt.

It's been a little over a week now and she's finally calmed down. In fact, she's turned into a loving little cat with a big purr. I've stopped calling her Maleficent; she growled at me everytime I said it anyway.

At least I know I'm safe when Husband is away from home. I'll just sic the cat on them.

Bad Request

2010-09-16T13:09:00.002-05:00

Okay. So yesterday I spent quite of bit of time blogging about what all has been going on here in Hooterville that caused Husband and me such stress, and the wonderful outcome. But when I tried to publish the post, a screen popped up with the words "Bad Request." Um, what? This is something new. I much prefer the old "Error" to "Bad Request." "Bad Request" makes me feel like a small child being scolded for doing something perfectly normal but that irritates adults. I didn't do anything "bad" but was scolded anyway.

Of course the post was lost, so here's the abbreviated version: The company where Husband is employed was sold last month which sent us into the Land of Uncertainty. Would he lose his job? Would we lose our insurance? Could he retire even though he's not yet 60? If we cashed in the 401k would we still have anything to live on when he's in his 70s? It's very unsettling to have your carefully planned out future suddenly yanked out from under you, and we spent a month wondering just what we were going to do. But last week Husband was given a huge (and I'm talkin' HUGE) promotion! Best of all, his incentives (including insurance which he gets to keep after retirement!) remain the same, and he'll now be working DAYS! He's worked nights since our girls were little, and I can't remember what it's like to live like normal people. You know, going out to dinner without having to rush through the meal so he can get back to work, or attending one of the kid's sporting events, or staying home and grilling out without having to freakin' schedule it.

So that's why I've been absent -- I've been totally freaking out, worrying about where we would live, how we would live, and so on. Luckily, it all worked out and worked out very well, so now I can take a deep breath and get on with life. I don't think that's "bad" at all.

A great big huge sigh of relief

2010-09-12T14:10:00.002-05:00

The sound of crickets chriping here on ye olde blog has been deafening lately, I know; but blogging has been the last thing on my mind for quite a while. A very, very stressful situation pushed everything - and I do mean everything - to the back burner, but things have now been resolved and in a truly positive way. I'm not at liberty to reveal anything just yet, but watch this space in the upcoming week when I can finally say something.

I wanted y'all to know I haven't dropped off the face of the earth!

We are currently experiencing technical difficulties

2010-08-16T11:45:00.003-05:00

You know how irritating it is when you put something away in a "safe" place but then totally forget where you put it? Yeah, I can't find any of the warranty information for my laptop. In fact, I can't find anything that came with my laptop, except the box. For that matter, any and all paperwork pertaining to either computer is MIA. And that's not good since both machines are being ornery.

The screen on my laptop is now fading in and out and jumping around so much that it's almost impossible to use. (By some stroke of luck I've been able to stabilize it at this moment, and so took the opportunity to update my blog!) I did manage to dash off an email the other night, but other than that I've not been able to use the laptop. I'd use the desktop computer, but it's having issues and won't work. Again. I'm going to christen it The Hunk O' Junk and have done with the thing.

As irritating and frustrating as it's been not having the internets to play on, the not being able to write has been the worst! I've been jotting down notes for The Third Book using - what do they call it? Oh, yeah! Pen and paper! Since I've not actually started writing the manuscript yet, writing the notes in longhand is fine for that book. But the revisions on The Book and The Second Book have come to a screeching halt since they're trapped on the laptop's hard drive. Well, they're also on a flash drive, but you need, y'know, a computer for that, and that leaves me outta luck.

The Computer Guru told me to bring the desktop round so he can fix it, and now that the temperature outside is under 100 degrees, I'll do it. I was afraid to take the computer outside prior to now because I was afraid the thing would melt. The Guru has informed me, though, that the laptop is on its own because he says they're more trouble than they're worth to repair. I'm pretty sure it's a connection issue because beating the living crap out of it usually brings the screen into focus for a moment or two. Yelling at it seems to work on occasion, too. However, nothing works for long, and the screen fades to squiggles just when I get on a roll. This means I'm interrupted just when I get to

(Fade to black)

I'm Gonna Crawl

2010-08-09T13:18:00.002-05:00

Holy heating pad, Batman, my back hurts. I've somehow managed to perform what's commonly called "throwing it out of whack." I've never given a lot of thought to what, exactly, whack is, but I can tell you right now I wish I had it back. (Back. Get it? Yeah, I know.)

The thing is, I don't know how I did it. I didn't go out dancing and get over-zealous busting a move. I didn't lift anything heavy. I didn't twist in an unnatural manner. In other words, I didn't do anything out of the ordinary, but I still have a sore back that has resulted in my hobbling around the house like someone's great-great-granny, which I am most assuredly not. I'm not to the point of crawling along the floor yet, but I can see where it might be an option if this gets any worse.

The upside to this is that my back feels pretty much fine as long as I don't stand up. The downside to this is that my back feels pretty much fine as long as I don't stand up. After all, standing up is an integral part of getting from Point A to Point B, so remaining in a sitting or reclining position at all times is out of the question.

Having a sore back has made me - how shall I put this? - a little testy. It's very frustrating when any little movement brings on a sharp twinge of intense pain, and it's irritating when what should be a simple chore turns into a long, drawn-out affair since I'm unable to move except at the speed of snail.

Husband has been very solicitous, rubbing all types of creams purporting to relax muscles and relieve pain into my lower back. It's not his fault that every single one of those creams have card-carrying liars working for their advertising departments. Husband also took over all the cooking this weekend (which, by the way, he had off work, a miracle in itself) so he has been spared all my snarling and griping. The cats haven't been so lucky. Although they've been no more annoying than usual, I've been unable to rush across a room to swat at them with a rolled-up newspaper with my normal speed when they do something they're not supposed to do, and they've figured it out. So when I spot one of them jumping on the kitchen counter, I snap at them instead of swatting them. They know I'm not going to be able to get to them in time, so they just look at me smugly (yes, cats can look smug) and wait until I'm almost there before jumping down and racing off down the hall. I'm pretty sure they just do it to watch me hobble toward them and then sit around laughing with each other.

So here I sit killing time with the computer when I really need to be in the kitchen. You see, even though Husband did all the cooking this weekend, he's afflicted with an ailment of his own that obviously renders him incapable of loading a dishwasher. (I think it's related to whatever keeps him from closing a cupboard door.) This means the kitchen sink is piled high with dishes, pots and pans, and these are inticements to the cats to jump up there and see if there is any stray food left in them. I do have a plan to pile a barstool with pillows and drag it over to the sink. If it works, I'm going to patent it and sell it because sitting down while doing dishes is something that sounds good even if one's back is still in whack.

I'm nailing the furniture to the floor

2010-07-31T23:43:00.006-05:00

Estrogen-induced madness is the only explanation I can come up with for rearranging the furniture. Men don't seem to have that problem. As long as they have a table on which to place their drinks and an unobstructed view of the television they don't seem to care about the placement of the rest of the furniture. At least, the men I know are like that. But we chicks just can't seem to leave well enough alone.

I engaged in a bout of living room rearrangment this week because nothing had been moved in almost two years. Something inside me snapped, and before I knew it I was pushing the piano into the hall (I have a ridiculously large hallway; more like a landing strip for a wide-body 747, so there's plenty of room for a piano), shoving the sofa around and dragging the rest of the chairs and all the tables into new (and mostly unsatisfying) configurations. I was thwarted over and over again by the shape of the room. It's kind of like a bowling alley, except without bowling pins, black lights and stinky shoes. But it is long and narrow with two sets of double windows and a huge arched doorway that leads into the kitchen. We've lived here nine years and not once have I been satisfied with the way the furniture in this room was arranged. Until now.

Oh, yes; I prevailed, but I almost killed myself in the process. (That piano is heavy!) But the furniture is now in a pleasing arrangement, the desktop computer and my laptop both have plenty of electrical outlets handy, and Husband has a table and a clear shot to the TV. I've even got most of the artwork back up on the walls, so all is good. With everything (mostly) back in place, I hereby solemnly swear I'm not going to do this again. For at least two years, anyway.

While shoving some amazingly heavy and unwieldy things around the house I had a lot of time to think, and what I thought about (other than how stupid I was being) was The Book. I'd left it to sit for quite some time while working on The Second Book, but something about physical labor seemed to trigger that dormant brain cell I needed to figure out how to rein in the word count but still keep the story intact. With that part of my mind working again, I figured the whole thing out and so have been writing like a fiend. I'm optimistic that by the end of August I'll be able to turn out something I don't want to pitch off the I-40 bridge. Hey, if I rearrange my bedroom furniture I might be able to finish The Second Book, too! On second thought...nah.

I think another brain cell was triggered during this process, though, and this one has me worried. See, a friend managed to get the song "Knock on Wood" stuck in my head, and while I don't hate the song, it's not my favorite. So I decided to get rid of that particular earworm by rocking out to Led Zep's "Bring it on Home." Over and over and over while I was moving furniture. (Nothing like some Jimmy Page and heavy lifting to get rid of annoying thoughts, not to mention annoying songs.) But something odd happened overnight after overdosing on Zeppelin. I woke up with Donovan's "Jennifer Juniper" stuck in my head.

I blame the piano.

They may sound like crap, but they have good taste

2010-07-25T18:23:00.002-05:00

I'm never going to complain about those crappy speakers in my car again. Come to think of it, they're probably not bad speakers given the fact that the stereo itself is an Alpine; but they've been blown at some point and the sound isn't that wonderful. In fact, sometimes it's downright awful. They were this way when I bought the car and I've never gotten around to replacing them. Honestly, it's never been much of a priority, something that would drive my younger brother right round the bend. He built his first stereo (including speakers) at about age four, and I swear the sound reached the moon, a fact the astronauts undoubtedly appreciated.

Anyway.

I've been threatening to get new speakers for a while now, but after today I've resolved to leave them the way they are. Before taking a quick jaunt to the store yesterday I put Led Zeppelin's second album in the CD player, cranked it up, and took off. When the fourth track ("Thank You") was playing, something wonderful happened. The song got to the "little drops of rain" part and all of a sudden Percy's voice was all but gone, leaving me with the music and Jimmy's harmony vocals. I almost drove up a tree. I backtracked the disc to that very spot, and what do you know? Same thing. Jimmy singing. (Didn't work so well with "Whole Lotta Love", though, but that's okay.) I won't tell you how many times I listened to "Thank You," but I'll bet I set some kind of record.

Today I decided to change discs and gave Jeff Beck's Truth a run. I think my car is a Jeff fan because the volume, which had been perfectly fine for the Zeppelin CD, was moon-landing strength for Truth. I found this out when "Shapes of Things" blew me into the back seat.

I'm so proud of my pitiful speakers. They seem to want nothing more than to make me happy.

Still waiting on the Jetsons

2010-07-23T13:23:00.003-05:00

It's just a crying shame technology hasn't been able to keep up with cartoons, isn't it? I mean, we're in the 21st century now, so where's all that cool stuff we used to see on the Jetson's?

I don't think I'd try those flying cars, though, not after driving in Memphis. If people are unable to stay between clearly marked lines on a road, there's no way they'd be able to stay in unmarked lanes in the air. And if you crash up there then you get to plummet to the ground. In the immortal words of Butch Cassidy, "Hell, the fall will kill ya!"

Other than engaging in lively bouts of bumper cars mid-air, I'd like to have those other conveniences the Jetsons enjoyed. Of course, when I was a little girl I just wanted to grow up to be Judy Jetson because, A) she looked like Barbie, and B) she seemed to do nothing but date cute space guys. But now I find myself looking fondly back at Jane. (There used to be a band in Memphis called Jane, His Wife which I thought was a cool name for a rock band.) All Jane had to do was push a couple of buttons and dinner was prepared, the kitchen was cleared, and that Hazel on wheels they had took care of everything else. (The downside to this was being married to George. Even as I child I realized that ol' George needed to grow a set and stop whining. Astro had more sense.)

My Where-Are-The-Jetsons questions came this morning when I started wishing my coffee maker could fetch and carry. I woke with a pounding headache that hadn't abated much after my first cup of coffee, and I dreaded having to get up and get a second cup because it would jar my head. How nice it would be (I thought through the blinding pain) if my coffee maker not only made coffee, but delivered it to me, as well. All I wanted was one more cup. And two Aleve caplets.

I've cut down my coffee consumption drastically in the past several months because my doctor told me to. Of course, I argued with him about it (aided and abetted by Husband who told the doctor, "I have to live with her!") I pointed out that the only caffeine I had all day long was my morning coffee. "How much do you drink?" he wanted to know. My answer of "Just one pot" had him frowning and shaking his head and demanding I cut down. So I did. I've gone from a whole pot to just two cups and it hasn't been as bad as I thought it would be. In fact, I feel a lot better because of it, but it does seem that those two cups take longer to get my engine going. Hence my reluctance to get up and refill my coffee mug this morning.

So I think it's high time that those who are technologically minded stop reinventing computers so fast that the darn things become obsolete fifteen minutes after you purchase one and start working on those handy-dandy little buttons Jane Jetson had at her disposal. They can start with coffee makers.

The appetizers will be charcoal briquettes

2010-07-19T19:40:00.003-05:00

I had one of "those" nights in the kitchen. You know the kind I'm talking about -- where halfway through the meal preparation you're digging the fire extinguisher out of the pantry and wondering if it's too late to call Papa John's. (It was.)

All husbands must be familiar with this sort of night when the wife slaps a plate down in front of him and snarls, "Just eat it." And he does, all the while reassuring her that everything is really good. Bless his heart.

I didn't have to resort to actually using the fire extinguisher, but it was a near thing. Let me ask you; have you ever flambéed eggs you're trying to hard boil? It can be done. Just use tongs to grab a piece of meat sautéing in another pan (and quickly turning into a charcoal briquette) and pass it over the burner the eggs are on. Whoosh!

For some reason the hobs on my stove decided all those little temperature indicators like "high," "medium," and "low" were no longer necessary. I had two temperatures to choose from tonight - "off" and "on." "On" was charcoal briquette and "off" was Call Papa John's. (Come to think of it, that was the definition of "on," too.) Unfortunately, I didn't realize this until it was too late to do anything but try and soldier through.

I did manage to salvage enough for a decent meal (thank God for that salad!) but by that time my appetite was gone. Husband enjoyed it (at least he's smart enough to say he did) and I'll get some salad later. Maybe. After the smoke clears.

What happens afterward

2010-07-17T15:24:00.005-05:00

Here in the South (and possibly other parts of the country, but I have no experience on which to judge) the aftermath of a funeral means encountering enough food to keep a third-world country comfortably fed for at least a month. Today was no exception and I'm sitting here in misery because I can't turn down homecooked food prepared by Southern women. And that includes the twelve different types of dessert.

Yes, I've lost another uncle. Since I'm part of the second generation of grandchildren, all my remaining aunts and uncles are in their late 80s and early 90s so this is not unexpected. The only good thing about the situation is getting to see members of my extended family that I otherwise wouldn't see. I just wish it wasn't at funerals.

Today I looked around at a house that was literally bursting at the seams with people, and I was related to 99.9% of them. They ranged in age from my 91-year-old aunt to Peyton who is 16 months old. And every age group in between was well-represented. We had family there from Georgia, Texas, Arizona, Tennessee, North Carolina (I think) and quite possibly other places (there were so many people present I didn't get around to talking to all of them.) And there we all were playing catch-up while chowing down on spiral sliced ham, roast beef marinated in what was undoubtedly the most delicious sauce on earth, lasagna, every vegetable known to mankind and prepared every way possible, salads, honest-to-God yeast rolls, and, of course, those twelve desserts, including a strawberry cake that should have its own category for "good."

I was struck with envy several times during the course of the day. First was my cousin Rebecca who is truly the most gorgeous woman on the planet, I kid you not. If I ever start wondering where my beauty genes went, I'll know she got all of them. She's breath-taking as well as being one of the nicest people you'd ever want to meet. Then I had a long conversation with my cousin Kim who just returned from her vacation in Europe where she visited most of the places I've always wanted to visit. Then I spoke with my cousin Umair and asked about his brother, Hasnan, and found out Hasnan is moving to England to continue his medical studies. England! Lucky guy!

Of course, there were some really funny things overheard today, including this exchange at the cemetery:

David: Jackie, it's so good to see you! I've always thought you were one of the prettiest cousins.
Jackie: Why thank you, David!
David: But you're starting to get old.
Jackie: What?!
Husband: Sounds like we're about to have another funeral.

Naturally, there were quite a few memories called up. The family gathering took place at my uncle and aunt's farm where all of us, no matter which generation we were part of, spent a large chunk of our vacations and where some of our best childhood memories were made and we enjoyed sharing them with each other.

I think my uncle would have enjoyed seeing the house filled with his family celebrating his life. I know I did.

The bayou Shangri La

2010-07-16T12:24:00.006-05:00

When I was a teenager in Gulfport, Mississippi, one of my best friends lived about fifteen miles away in the small town of Bay St. Louis. Before I got my driver's license I was shuttled by my parents to and from Melody's house across the bridge which spans the Bay of St. Louis. And every time we went across this bridge, I'd look across the bay to see what appeared to be a faded pink castle dominating the landscape. Even though it was clear to even the most casual observer and even from that distance the place was deserted, it was still magnificent, and I was intrigued. All I could ever find out, though, was that it had been a hotel at one time and later a monastery. No one seemed that interested in it; especially not my parents who could see no reason to get any closer to it than the Bay Bridge.

After I got my license I determined to find my way to this castle on the bay and loaded up my friends in my mom's big LTD and set out to do so. Though we all had a general idea of where it should be, we had no firm directions and drove out the old highway that had been the main thoroughfare between St. Augustine, Florida and New Orleans before the Bay Bridge was constructed. After going past an obscene amount of land belonging to the Du Pont corporation, we saw two huge brick pillars flanking a narrow, overgrown road. The brick was faintly pink, like the building we sought, so down the road we went. Did I say it was overgrown? You'd better believe it; grass grew through cracks in what pavement remained, and there were pot holes large enough to park the LTD in. But we pushed on, risking broken axles and parental anger, and were rewarded when the jungle-like greenery parted and we beheld the former Pine Hills Hotel.

If it had appeared magnificent from a distance, it was even more so up close. Seven stories of pink stucco with huge windows (mostly still intact) rearing up through the overgrown vegetation. At that time it had been completely abandoned for ten years, but relatively little vandalism had taken place, something that astounds me now. There was, however, a hole knocked into the stucco near the foundation over which someone had painted in lovely copperplate script: Abandon hope, ye who enter here. Not a message conducive to encouraging much exploration! We didn't go in the structure (not because of the elegantly painted warning, but because our mamas had raised us better than that) but we did swarm over the grounds and down to the bay, just having a look around.

Over the next few years I went back to Pine Hills several times. I can't tell you what drew me to that grand old hotel, but I never resisted that pull. At that time I didn't know the name of the hotel (or of the monastery, for that matter. It was Our Lady of the Snows, by the way; an odd name for a monastery where little to no snow ever fell) but my friends and I would marvel over the architecture and wonder about the people who had built it, and what kinds of people vacationed there. After I graduated high school, I left the Gulf Coast and pretty much forgot about the big pink building.

One day in 1981 when I was living in a small town in south Alabama, my friend Maureen came to visit from Texas. One night we began discussing places we'd been that purported to be haunted, and I remembered the old hotel on the Bay of St. Louis. (Of course it was rumored to haunted! Places like that always are.) The next morning we got up early, jumped in my car and headed for Miss'ssippi. We arrived about mid-morning on an overcast day. We hadn't been there two minutes when a somewhat portly, bald man (who was, nevertheless, dressed rather elegantly) emerged from the building. In a proper British accent he introduced himself as the caretaker. (To this day I don't remember if he told us his name or not.) We assured him we weren't there to make mischief, but that I'd only wanted to show my friend this lovely old building that had intrigued me for so long. Hearing this, he offered to show us around. We looked him up and down and decided the two of us could take him if he tried anything untoward, and accepted his offer.

At last I was inside! Even after so many years of neglect, it was beautiful with mosaic tiled floors, carved beam ceilings, and a feeling of opulence. I was telling my friend Stephanie about it earlier this week, and I said I'd never been upstairs. But after we'd talked, a few synapses fired and I realized I had been on the upper floors; the caretaker took us up to show us some of the rooms. In fact, it was in one of those upper floor hallways that Maureen grabbed my sleeve and yanked me back. "Why," she asked, "does he keep quoting Aleister Crowley?" "I dunno," I replied. "Maybe because he looks just like Crowley?" Maureen's eyes bugged out. "Crap! He does, doesn't he?" And so we immediatley christened him "Al." Just between ourselves, of course, and not to his face; that would have been rude. (Looking back, though, I think he probably would have been tickled if we'd called him Al.)

We hurried down the hallway to where he waited and continued our tour. It was in front of the hotel on the slope leading down to the bay where Maureen finally had enough and started quoting Crowley back to the man. He was delighted, to say the least, to realize we knew what he'd been doing all that time, and we engaged in a lively discussion about Crowley's works as we walked around the property.

We went back inside for one last look around. I'm glad we did, because it was the last time I was ever there. I'll never forget the beautiful tiles on the facing of each stair riser; the enormous fireplace; the painted wood panels on the ceiling; and the tall French windows looking toward the bay.

(A bit more about the caretaker: He intriuged me enough to make a phone call to my friend Melody's father who said he knew the caretaker. He scoffed when I mentioned the man's British accent, saying he was a local boy, rather young, name of [insert good-ol'-boy name here as I've forgotten what he said]. Of course, the caretaker he knew could very well have moved on without his knowing and the British chap hired in his place. But it was still strange enough to make Maureen and me wonder if we'd had some kind of "encounter." Who knows?)

The Pine Hills Hotel is gone now, a victim of corporate greed. (This particular corporation was determined to destroy this grand old building for no good reason anyone can determine, saying it was structurally unsound. But when they finally got permission to swing the wrecking ball, it bounced off the wall. They tried it three times and couldn't make a dent. Blew that whole "structurally unsound" theory into the water. It took them months to demolish the building, which seemed to resist their efforts at every turn, and I hope it cost them a ton of money. Jerks.)

I'm glad I took the time to find it and explore during my teenage years, and I'm beyond glad that Maureen and I ran into "Al" that day. If it hadn't been for him I'd never have ventured into the building on my own.

It was a grand place, and even though it's gone, I'll never forget it.

(Besides the link above, you can find more about Pine Hills here and here.)

Make your momma proud now, boy

2010-07-11T16:06:00.002-05:00

I've mentioned before that song lyrics tend to go in one ear and out the other with me. (Sorry, lyricists.) Whenever I hear a new song I like, the title of said song had better pop up on a screen or a radio announcer had better tell me what it is, or I won't be able to identify it. If I tell someone, "I heard the best song the other day, but I don't know what it was or who it was by," they'll invariably say, "What were the words to the song?" And they'll get a blank look from me in reply along with an attempt to hum the melody. That's their cue to give me a blank look. It took years - yes, years! - before I knew that song I heard on the radio and liked was Man in a Box by Alice in Chains. I still don't know any of the words to it, though (and my daughter tells me I don't want to as it's one of those "Hey! Look at us! We're controversial!" songs) but I love the music.

Today during my run to the store for more bottled water (I don't want to talk about it) I heard Shinedown's rendition of Simple Man. Now, I've always rather liked that song, but today I realized it's because I've never really paid any attention to the lyrics. The longer I listened the more incredulous I became. I just can't picture a mother sitting her son down and saying, in effect, "Aim low, Junior. You're never going to amount to much, so don't get your hopes up. Be simple and make your momma proud." Huh. I never uttered such inanities to my children, and they're both extraordinary individuals.

I'm going back to ignoring song lyrics (except for the odd repetitive chorus or something) and humming along with the music.

The Ancient Mariner knew what he was talking about

2010-07-10T20:36:00.003-05:00

The water line running from the water main to our house has a real attitude problem. We've had all kinds of leaks from this line since we moved into this house eight (or was it nine? I can't remember) years ago, resulting in hiring plumbers, Husband periodically digging up the yard to track down yet another leak, and two basement floods. It's at it yet again and as a result, we have no running water. Oh, we could have water at the turn of a faucet, but if we were to turn the main switch (or whatever it is) back on, most of the water would just leak out deep into the yard, leaving us with a thin trickle from the tap but paying for much more. Water water everywhere, nor any drop to drink.

So for the past day and a half I've been feeling all Laura Ingalls Wilder. That is, if the Ingalls' had cable TV and computers. And electricity. But you get my point. I stocked up on a case of bottled water and purchased four of those gallon jugs of spring water and a bag of ice, but you try showering with a 16-oz. bottle of "natural" spring water. It leaves a lot to be desired.

Of course this leak would occur on the next-to-last day of Husband's vacation. It couldn't have happened on Monday when he'd have had an entire week to repair it. Oh, no. So there he is trying to complete a week's worth of plumbing repairs in two days. And he's determined to repair it for good this time, too.

After he decided to just replace every bit of line from the water main to the house, he went out and rented something called a trencher which, I'm given to understand, digs trenches. Unfortunately this means we'll have a trench right across our driveway (of course) so the car and truck have been banished to the parking lot of the out-of-business bookstore next door. Husband's main objective today was to bypass the water line (and the leak) and run water from the main above-ground to the house. He worked all day on this, digging up the majority of the side yard and laying some kind of hose thing. Of course, the big huge leak appears to be in the twelve square inches of yard he didn't dig up. Yep. Evidently the leak is right next to the house instead of where it's always been before.

So he'll be back out there tomorrow, digging and splicing just so we can do mundane things like dishes and laundry. (My mother-in-law's house has become our showering station, in case you were concerned.)

There is an upside to all this, though. Since it's impossible to wash the dishes (and don't give me all that about heating up water on the stove, etc. Never gonna happen) that means I don't have to cook. If only restaurants handed out free jugs of water with each meal.

The Saturday that never ends

2010-07-09T10:26:00.003-05:00

Ah, Saturday! From the day I started school at age five I've looked forward to Saturday. No teachers, no regimented schedule, a free day to do whatever I wanted (within acceptable parental-issued parameters, that is.) When I hit my teens I lost my lazy Saturdays since I worked every weekend. This trend continued for a long time since radio is a 24/7 industry and the low man on the totem pole gets stuck working those long, boring weekend shifts. But finally - FINALLY! - I reached the level of a five-day-a-week show and had the seniority to refuse to do remote broadcasts, and I got my lazy Saturdays back. Ah, the freedom to sleep late, to veg out and not worry about work-related things!

When I left the working world behind, I still looked forward to Saturdays because Husband would be home and we could jump in the car and take off for wherever. Lately, though, that Saturday feeling has been absent in our home. Husband sat down and went over his work schedule for the months of May and June and realized he'd only had eight days off during those two months. It became such a novelty to actually have him not rushing off to work on those days that the Saturday feeling didn't kick in. But now after having had Husband home on vacation for an entire week, Saturday has come roaring back with a vengeance.

Although it's been great having him around, this past week has turned into a Saturday that never ends. I'm getting antsy because I keep tripping over him at times he's usually not here. I didn't know I had any kind of schedule, but apparently I do because I've not been able to get anything done since the presence of another person in the house throws me off. For some reason I find it impossible to write when Husband is home. I'm sure it's because my concentration is shot. Too, his computer is right behind my chair and even though I know he isn't reading over my shoulder or anything, it's really unnerving knowing he's back there.

And can we talk about the television? I swear the thing hasn't been turned off for five consecutive minutes since his first day off which was, funnily enough, Saturday. My mother-in-law warned me about this when I married him, telling me that from the moment they acquired their first TV set he's been fascinated by it. The man will turn on the television and go outside to do yard work or something. I come along behind him and turn it off. Then he comes in and looks all shocked, saying "I was watching that!" I swear to you I've had dreams this week which feature the ESPN anchors and the guys from CNBC. It's driving me mad. I'd unhook the cable, but I'm afraid Husband's head would explode.

The amount of laundry has decreased this week since he's not had any work clothes to wash, but the dishwasher has been getting a workout. How can such a skinny man eat so much? The upside to this is that he's been doing the majority of the cooking this week, reinforcing my belief that life is so much better when I don't have to cook. Now if I could just get him to load the dishwasher when he's finished...

Everything will go back to what passes for normal on Monday, and I'm sure I'll go through Husband withdrawal for a few days. I'm also sure he'll go back to working a seven day week for a while, too, which is totally unfair. While an entire week of Saturdays is too much, it would be nice to have that one lazy day each week to look forward to.

Attack cat!

2010-06-30T20:54:00.002-05:00

Something happened to me yesterday that's never happened before. I was run out of a house - not once, but twice! - by a cat. And not even a cat, but a kitten. And when I say I was run out of the house, that's exactly what I mean. I had to go outside and close the door behind me or risk having my ankles and legs shredded to bloody ribbons.

About six weeks ago Older Daughter and her children visited us, and when they left they took home a fuzzy grey kitten. We'd just called her Cat, but they rechristened her Callie, and she became a part of their family immediately. In the time she's lived with them, she's met all of their friends, the children of their friends, and assorted relatives, and she's gotten along fine - even great - with all of them. Fast-forward to yesterday.

I arrived at Daughter's house, walked in from the garage, greeted everyone, and made my way into the kitchen. The kitten was lying in the living room floor, and as I passed by I said, "Hi, Callie." I don't think she took it the way it was intended. When I returned to the living room all her fur stood on end, she arched her back and started yowling. At first we all thought it was amusing. "Oh, look at Callie! She's scared of Mom!" Then we saw that her eyes were glowing red and there were horns growing out the top of her head. She wasn't running and hiding, either. Oh, no; she was freakin' advancing on me! I sidled past the couch and hurried back out into the garage before she could reach me. It took them some time to calm her down enough to where they could touch her and banish her to the master bedroom. Later that afternoon I left and went to Youngest Daughter's apartment for several hours. When we returned to Older Daughter's we entered through the front door and Lucifer...I mean Callie charged me! No, she literally ran across the room toward me with murder in her eye! Older Daughter yelled, "Get out!" and I didn't need telling twice. I rushed back out to the front porch and started getting seriously annoyed. I raised that ball of mangy fur, kept her fed and watered and happy, and found a good home for her, and this is how she repaid me?

Wondering if it was safe to go back in, I peeked through the leaded glass panes on the front door. Big mistake. The Cat From Hell saw me looking in and charged the front door! Needless to say, I spent the night at Younger Daughter's apartment.

When I cautiously sidled into Older's Daughter's house this morning, I found they'd already locked the ungrateful little witch in the bedroom, so I don't know if she still hates me or not. Honestly, we think she was scared of the long gauzy skirt I wore yesterday. Idiot animal. For Christmas I'm going to get the kids a big dog. So there.

Don't bite me

2010-06-28T19:47:00.007-05:00

In addition to writing books I love to read them. Unfortunately, there's not a bookstore here in Hooterville, not even one for used books, so I have to make do with the selection at Wal-Mart. Yeah, yeah, yeah there are all sorts of online booksellers, but if I want something new to read right now they're completely worthless. I mean, I wanna read it now, not next week (plus shipping.) So there I found myself in the book aisle at Wally World wondering when people are going to get over these vampires already!

Hey, I admit it - I liked the Twilight series (that is when I remembered Ms. Meyers' target demographic was angsty teenagers - which I haven't been for quite some time - who wouldn't be itching to slap Bella every six pages the way I was.) But one of the reasons I liked it was because it was fresh and new and unique. No one had done hot vampires since Anne Rice, and even then Stephenie Meyers had a completely new take on the subject. That's why her books sold so well. But now everyone is writing about vampires, and it's neither new, fresh or unique. It's been done to undeath already. While standing there buffeted by shoppers looking for dog toys (which are on the same aisle as books and magazines, can you believe it?) I couldn't find many books that didn't have fangs or dripping blood on the cover. And that's in every genre, folks, except westerns. Since I have a bookcase bursting with about nine gazillion Louis L'Amour books that belonged to my father, I didn't see the need of buying a western. Especially since I've not read any of the L'Amour books yet.

Still, I wanted something new to read. So I took a couple of books from the shelves and gave them a quick scan. Maybe it was just a bad luck of the draw, but all the books I looked at didn't tempt me a bit. Most of them read like the author just threw a vampire in as the main character because that's what publishers are buying whether we want to read them or not. There was a series of books by one author that looked likely, and the back cover blurbs were rather exciting. After looking through a couple, though, I found the writing isn't my cuppa. Maybe if I was nine or if I'd had a lobotomy, but I'm neither of those things. (The bad part about it is those books weren't written for what's termed Young Adult. That's what made them so much worse.) So I left without buying anything.

I'm off to Memphis tomorrow and I fully intend to visit a real bookstore that offers more than pro forma vampires. That is if anyone is publishing such a thing these days.

Who rules the house? The computer does, that's who.

2010-06-23T09:12:00.004-05:00

I've never been afraid of computers. Some people are, you know. I think we've all known someone who approaches a computer the way they would a rabid skunk. There's that distrustful glare at the monitor as if it's going to suddenly jump off the table at them and wrap itself around their head. And when it's time to use the keyboard they jab stiff fingers at the keys, jerking their hands back like they're avoiding razor-sharp teeth. I had a co-worker once who was absolutely petrified by the thought of using a computer. She was an savvy account executive who really could sell ice to Eskimos in January and turn a profit doing it, but the thought of using a computer paralyzed her. When the radio station sold, the new owners made it clear she was going to have to use one, though, so she took a deep breath and resolved to learn. We had a super nice computer guy come around to install the new computers for the sales department and when he learned of this woman's fear he set up an older unit for her to practice on. It wasn't connected to the internet and had only a few basic programs; Windows, MSWord, Solitaire and a few others. "Play with it and get used to it," he advised her. "You can't hurt it." We still don't know what she did to it, but the computer guy ended up having to wipe the hard drive. Eventually she did learn to use a computer, and the last time I saw her she was bopping around with a MacBook under her arm.

But computers have never bothered me. Maybe it's because the first job I ever got in radio was because of computers. Back in the early 80s when radio stations all began switching over to automation an announcer for a #1 ranked rock station arrived at work, saw the computers being installed, and walked right back out again. I applied for a job there about five minutes later and was hired on the spot. I didn't care if the station was automated. I'd have worked with rabid skunks if I'd had to as long as I had a job in radio.

Although I did work at stations where we used actual records, the majority of my jobs involved some kind of computerized programming. I never minded the computers; they were just tools that meant the songs were ready to go at the touch of a button, to say nothing of making producing a commercial much, MUCH easier. My attitude was never that the computers ran my show; I ran the show and I controlled the computer, making it do what I wanted it to do. As the years passed the computers became more complex, but I always jumped in with both feet, figuring out how to make them work for me. I always held the upper hand with the computers at work.

The computers at home, though, have me figured out. They realized early on that I didn't give two hoots if the computers at work crashed. We always had some kind of back-up system we could use, even if it was playing CDs. And reprogramming the things always meant overtime pay. But my home computers hold things I want to keep, things that are important to me, and they know they can throw my life into instant chaos with the least little blip. And, oh, how they blip. Motherboards crash. Ethernet cards get fried. Viruses sneak past McAfee (and the other 900 safety devices we have installed). And laptop screens start flickering.

Yes, my laptop is about to give up the ghost. I haven't had it that long, and I look at people who have been using a faithful laptop for years and years and wonder how they do it! How are they still able to use the computer they've owned for four years and my two-year-old model has a screen that is about to go kaput? I've been good to it, I've babied it, I've loved it. And I've only dropped it once and that was totally an accident. It's not returning the love, though, and I spend my time on it with a flash drive plugged into a USB port, backing things onto it every fifteen minutes so I can go back to the desktop model when the screen goes black for the last time.

The moral of this long story? You must show fear. Computers want the upper hand and they'll do anything to get it. Show fear. It's the only way.

Daddies

2010-06-20T11:34:00.006-05:00

It's Father's Day here in the U.S. and I've shown my appreciation to Husband for fathering my two little angels by giving him three new shirts. He seems to like them, so all's well.

He deserves more than shirts for putting up with me when I was pregnant with his children. In fact, he deserves a medal, a statue on the courthouse lawn and retroactive combat pay. I love my girls, but I did not like carrying them for those nine months, an attitude that was passed down to Oldest Daughter. Neither of us can understand a woman who coos, "Oh, I just love being pregnant." No, Daughter and I are united in our dislike of pregnancy-induced nausea, mood swings, insane food cravings, being kicked and pummeled from inside on the few occasions you finally find a comfortable position, and we won't even talk about stretch marks. Both of us were, without doubt, the happiest mothers in the maternity ward, not just because we had our sweet little babies, but because we were no longer pregnant. I'm sure both Husband and Son-in-Law were indecently relieved when each of us decided two children were enough. I'm really glad Husband's ex-wife provided him with a son or I might have felt obliged to keep trying for a boy. I don't think any of us would have survived it.

And now, since this is my blog and I can do whatever I want with it, I give you some Daddy pics:

That's Husband and the son I didn't have to be pregnant with.

Husband wondering just why a kid would want to play with that anyway. (And we won't even talk about my 80s hair, right?)

My daddy and me when I was 9 days old. Again, no smart comments about my hair. I was too young to protest the whole Kewpie-doll look.

Happy Father's Day to all the sweet daddies!

Why so depressed?

2010-06-16T16:56:00.004-05:00

The music player has been on "shuffle" all day and as a result I'm feeling a little schizophrenic. The nice way of describing my music library would be to say it's eclectic. But after hearing some really jarring combinations today I think I'm just wierd.

To be fair to myself, some of this isn't my music at all, but stuff Older Daughter downloaded. I find myself wondering how she and Son-in-law are so perpetually cheerful if this is what they listen to all the time. Being bombarded with 10 Years, Crossfade, Linkin Park, Taking Back Sunday, Seether and Staind all day has me wondering if we all oughtn't just get it over with and go out and kill ourselves right now. I've really enjoyed the music, but the majority of those lyrics make those emo kids who seem to always infest the mall look like little rays of happy sunshine. Just a moment ago when Without You by Nilsson began playing I found it downright uplifting after all the angst of those other songs.

My shuffle function must be depressed today is all I can say. There's so much music there that Daughter's music ought to only play once every six months or so. But I can count on my fingers the number of tunes I've heard off the records I downloaded. Two Zeppelin tunes, a Tommy James & the Shondells, a Derek & the Dominoes, and two by Evanescence (back-to-back, I might add.) And the Nilsson. Oh, and a David Bowie. But I didn't even know I had any Bowie. Must be Daughter's, so that doesn't count.

As I've been typing this, I've heard gloom and doom from Staind, Linkin Park and now 10 Years. Enough. I'm turning it off before you see my neighbors on the news saying, "But she always seemed so nice!" If Raising Sand was on there, you would have seen them already.

This one is nasty

2010-06-12T15:04:00.004-05:00

No, not this blog post, but the computer virus Husband downloaded onto my laptop. (He's been banished from ever getting near it again in this lifetime and half of the next, and is on probation from his desktop computer, as well. After he replaces the ethernet card on it that is.) I just got my laptop back from my computer guru who declares this is the "nastiest virus he's ever seen." It's also a new one, so keep your eyes peeled for anything called Protection Center.

Evidently it looks just like the Windows Security Center on your computer when it pops up (getting past McAfee, and I'd like to have a word or two with them about that...) and informs you your security is off. Would you like to turn it back on?

Now, if it had been me on the receiving end of this little pop up, I'd have just X'd out of it and scurried to my control panel to check things out for myself. Others in the house are more trusting than I and chose to click "Yes." Bad idea. When "Yes" is clicked then your Windows Security Center really does get turned off and the virus downloads. If you don't have any virus protection on your computer you're sunk and might as well give it up and go buy a new computer. Luckily I do have McAfee and it does stop this virus from running after it downloads. My computer wouldn't boot up, but kept telling me my Windows Security Center was off and that I must uninstall McAfee to fix it.

Baloney.

I wasn't about to uninstall McAfee, and the computer's insistence that I do so raised all kinds of red flags. So I took it to the computer guru. It took him several days to track down and kill all components of this virus, and he kept muttering words like "insidious" and "nasty." When he gave me the clean laptop back, he shook his head and said, "This one was really bad."

So be on the lookout for the stupid thing and always utilize that nice red X on pop ups. It's a heck of a lot easier to go check things out for yourself rather than take the word of anything your computer might seem to tell you.

I have such a crush on David Bromstad

2010-06-09T20:56:00.002-05:00

I've been on an HGTV kick lately. I don't know why, since the home decorating gene is not one that runs in my family. Oh, I try, but it never seems to come together the way it should. I keep hoping some of those ideas I see on HGTV will rub off on me. (Ha.) My first act after winning Powerball (ha again) will be to hire David Bromstad to come and decorate the whole house. It'll be a win-win all the way around; I'll get the house beautifully decorated, I can ogle David when he takes his shirt off and Husband won't be threatened by said ogling the way he is when I melt into a river of molten heat at the mere mention of Jimmy Page.

(Pause for me to melt......Okay, I'm back.)

I'm still in pause mode, however, with The Book. I think I must have a major case of Deer-In-The-Headlights Syndrome. I've tweaked my query letter, but I've not sent it out. In addition, I'm not doing much writing. On anything. At all. I'm trying, but it just ain't happening. Maybe something will give me a swift kick soon and I'll get back at it. These puny 200 words a day are getting me all depressed.

And speaking of depressed, that concert I said I'd rather mop the kitchen floor than go see that brought out Miss Thang's trolls? I was so right. The concert occurred recently and those in attendance were up in arms and demanding a refund. The venue usually has cameras stationed all around the stage that broadcast close-ups from the show on these huge honkin' video screens so those not sitting within spitting distance of the stage can see. But Miss Thang refused to allow this, so only those in the front row were able to see anything. However, Miss Thang made the venue change the seating arrangements so the front row was way, way back, meaning the front row ended up in the cheap seats. No one could see anything. The venue has apologized profusely and has promised that this sort of thing "will never happen again." The comments on Facebook have been priceless, and I don't think Miss Thang will be welcomed back to town ever again. That sound you hear is me laughing my butt off.

What passes for normal

2010-05-26T09:11:00.003-05:00

So I actually got some sleep last night. Seems Crazy Fired Person admitted to doing the things he did (except for the whole diesel tank thing) and has been charged. He's also unable to make bail so we've all started to relax. General Supervisor gets his entire office steam-cleaned and all new office furniture, and Husband is just relieved his own office was sitting there with all the lights on and not conducive to poo-slinging so he doesn't have to start over from scratch in the office department.

As for me, I've stopped having adrenaline dumps at the sound of motorcycles, and am just sitting here waiting for Jason to call back so I can go record a television commercial. I also intend to work on The Second Book this afternoon, or maybe make more notes on The Really Extraordinary Idea I had for another book. However, that may not happen as I've contracted a nasty case of the I-Don't-Wannas. I've been suffering from that since I got The Book down to an "acceptable" word count and realized it reads like Gone with the Wind without the Civil War. Yes, there are words on the page, but the story itself is missing. It's all very frustrating and has affected my writing. Can I just say it again? I really dislike skinny books. Reading a skinny book is like being screwed without being kissed. Give me a BIG book I can have a full-blown affair with; one I anticipate curling up in bed with at night and losing myself in. One that takes more than one evening to read. *sigh*

Another reason I have the I-Don't-Wannas is because my music listening has been severely curtailed. I don't own a CD player because the speakers on my desktop computer have always been so incredibly wonderful I haven't needed any other music player. But they finally bit the dust a couple of weeks ago. Yep, they've gone from blasting out music with crystal-clear clarity and a bass line you could hear from space to just scratching out a tinny little stream of sound. The speakers on my laptop were always laughable, but now one of them has stopped working. And while the speakers on the turntable are beyond excellent, the turntable itself has decided to start running fast, making whatever I listen to sound a bit like Alvin and the Chipmunks on heroin. (You'd think there would be an adjustment somewhere on that thing, but if there is I haven't found it!) So here I sit in silence, finding myself wondering how bad the music would sound if I played the CDs in the DVD player and ran the sound through the television. Yes, I'm desperate.

I would go out and buy new speakers, but there are other things that demand my money first. Mainly a new mattress for the bed. Husband and I have had our fill of waking every morning feeling as if we bedded down for the night on sheet-covered boulders. We've been researching new mattresses and think we may have found one we'd like. We've avoided anything that offers a 90-day "trial period," because, really, that's just gross. What if a company sent us a mattress someone had tested for 90 days and passed on? The thought makes my skin crawl. Seriously...what do people do when they sleep? They drool, they sweat, they fart, and possibly other objectionable things I don't even want to know about. I've no desire to lay myself down on the recipient of their nighttime disgustingness. So Husband and I are going for fresh, new, never been drooled on mattresses. Here's hoping we make a decision soon, because maybe if I get a good night's sleep those I-Don't-Wannas will start to leave.

Jason just phoned, so I'm off to record the very thing that will interrupt your viewing pleasure during Season Finale week. Perhaps I'll take the money I make today and put it toward new speakers.

Book him, Danno

2010-05-25T14:07:00.002-05:00

I wouldn't have Husband's job for anything. Not only is it a hot, dirty, brutal job, he has to deal with Crazy People on a daily basis. For example...

One of his employees recently began exhibiting erratic behavior, and Husband noticed this Crazy Person was losing a lot of weight suddenly. What would you think? Yes, Husband did, too. So he went to General Supervisor and suggested they have Crazy Person tested for drugs. General Supervisor was reluctant to do this since most times a Crazy Person is singled out for a random drug test they start pointing fingers at anyone within reach, and before you know it an entire department is shut down while the employees are at the hospital peeing in cups, the result being everyone is clean except Crazy Person, but it's just cost the company a lot of money and lost time. So Husband just lifted an eyebrow and resolved to keep a close eye on Crazy Person. Soon enough, Crazy Person began falsifying records, and on Sunday night Husband fired him. Later that night "someone" attempted to blow up a large diesel tank that powers the backup for the sprinkler system. This "someone" did this by wrapping a magazine around a can of spray paint, setting the magazine on fire, and shoving the whole thing through a vent in the blockhouse surrounding the diesel tank, hoping the fumes would ignite. Have you ever tried to burn a magazine? It's too dense to burn, and just smolders and smokes. And that's what this one did. A member of the maintenence crew saw the smoke and alerted the authorities. No harm was done, but before it was over there were policemen, firemen, company officials and various and sundry gawkers. There was no proof as to who did it, but they all had a pretty good idea. So everyone went to full alert. Or so you'd think.

Last night Husband was notified by an employee that Crazy Fired Person was in the building and had been in General Supervisor's office. (General Supervisor, by the way, had been gone for hours when this happened.) Husband took a quick look around and spotted Crazy Fired Person who explained he'd left his cap in the office when he was fired and had just come back to retrieve it. Husband didn't care if the man had left his first-born child in the office; he wasn't supposed to be anywhere near the building, especially in light of what had occured the night before. He escorted Crazy Fired Person out of the building and then asked the security guard why the guy had been allowed access. The guard admitted he didn't "bother" to check to see if people entering the building had badges if they came in a large group. (There's probably a former security guard looking for a job today, by the way.) So Husband goes back to check General Supervisor's office to see what damage had been done. He knew the minute he opened the door and the odor hit him in the face.

Crazy Fired Person had taken the opportunity to smear...er...feces over anything he could find - not just the surfaces such as desks, chairs and computers, but he also opened the desk drawers and spread the joy around in there as well. After slamming the door and engaging in a long and satisfying bout of cursing (he said he thinks he made up new epithets and wishes he could remember them as they were really good!) Husband called 9-1-1 and dashed outside to check on his truck. After all, the security guard obviously hadn't been paying attention. Luckily, the truck was fine; but Husband had to stay late for the police and to write reports and cuss some more.

After I heard this story, I had only one question: Does Crazy Fired Person know where we live??? Husband said, no, he didn't think so, and went on to berate the non-action of the security guard some more, wondering how the man could just let Crazy Fired Person roar off on his motorcycle without a word. I sat up so fast a pillow fell from the bed. "Motorcycle????" Well, that explained the strange motorcycle that had pulled up in our driveway earlier, stayed only long enough for me to jerk open the door and peer outside before it quickly backed up and sped away. This is when I got angry.

That twit had the termerity to come to my house! I began to doubt the wisdom of not having any ammunition for the rifle my father-in-law had bequeathed to Husband. I mean, all I have here is a pellet gun. (Although on futher reflection, I assume a pellet fired at someone's testicles at close range might take the fight out them. Yes, my mind moves in devious ways sometimes.)

Needless to say, we spent a rather sleepless night and spent this morning starting at the sound of any motorcycle on the highway outside. We finally received word that Crazy Fired Person is now in jail. I don't find that a complete relief, though. If he manages to make bail, I doubt his incarceration will improve his temper any. So here I sit with the phone next to me, my fingers poised to punch in 9-1-1, and my father-in-law's rifle within easy reach. Yes, it's not loaded, but Crazy Fired Person won't know that. And I can always fire a pellet into his nuts.

Wild thing, you make my heart sing

2010-05-24T16:11:00.002-05:00

There was a doe (a deer, a female deer) in my back yard this morning. In all the time we've lived here we've not seen one so close to the house, and Husband and I spent quite a few moments standing at the back door watching her. She stood there in the sunshine looking around with her soft brown eyes before she turned and daintily picked her way into the woods behind our property and vanished amongst the trees. I thought about taking a picture, but if I'd opened the door she would have been gone like a shot, and I didn't want to scare her. So no picture, but a nice memory.

Deer are the kind of wildlife I don't mind seeing in my yard. Raccoons are another matter entirely. We've put up with the little pests because, A) there's not a lot you can do to get rid of them, and B) they do have cute little faces. All that changed last week, though, and I'm now determined to get rid of the little buggars once and for all.

Our area is home to quite a few feral cats. We, along with our next door neighbors, put out dry cat food for them because we feel sorry for them. After all, it's not like they asked to be born and abandoned. Too, even though our house is surrounded by woods on two sides, we have no mice or snakes in the yard, and that's thanks to the cats. They also do wonders in keeping the lizard population under control. (More about that later.) Unfortunately, feeding the feral cats means we also end up feeding raccoons. One of the cats decided our back porch was prime nursery real estate, and she had a litter of kittens there. Last week I heard the most awful sounds coming from the porch; cats yowling, growling, and a kitten screaming. I got there just in time to see a huge raccoon making its way off the porch with a kitten in its jaws. Grabbing a shovel that was leaning next to the door, I caught up with it at the bottom of the steps and swung the shovel blade side in. Caught the little creep in the back hip, too, and I hope it hurt. The raccoon dropped the kitten and scurried off into the woods. Luckily, the raccoon's teeth hadn't pierced the kitten's skin, and it was unhurt. I carried it back to the porch where the mother cat was going berserk. Back inside I shot off an email to Husband at work, demanding he do something about those furry idiots before they tried to turn any more kittens into McNuggets. Well, he did. He bought a pellet gun.

Oh, calm down. It's a plastic gun that shoots blunt-tipped pellets; not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to give 'em a pop that stings like the dickens. The first time I shot it I hit the empty plastic bottle I was aiming at dead on, and strutted around feeling all Annie Oakely for a couple of hours. Since then I've dinged two raccoons in the butt and watched with satisfaction as they headed for the woods at top speed. My only problem is that I can't pump the gun as the mechanism is really stiff, so Husband has to leave it all primed and ready with the safety on before he goes to work. This gives me exactly one shot per day; the rest of the time I have to rely on the shovel. I've not had to resort to that, though, as the raccoons seem to have gotten the idea. While we used to have a veritable herd of the critters creeping toward the house at dusk, this past week we've only seen two or three. They're probably all at the neighbor's, for which I apologize. But I don't particularly care where the raccoons go as long as they go away from me.

I promised to tell you about the lizards earlier. I'm not a big fan of lizards; in fact, I'm not a big fan of anything slithery. When a lizard invaded my house last year I could actually feel my hair turning grey until I knew the lizard was gone. But I would much have preferred that small creature to the prehistoric monster I discovered on the back porch last week, post-raccoon. I stepped out the back door to cross the yard and check on my blackberry vines and to gather numerous ticks on my legs. (Yes, they're worse than ever this year.) A strange sound made me pause and look around, and I spied one of the kittens apparently wrestling with something. I prodded the kitten aside with the toe of my sneaker and immediately lost my mind. This tiny little kitten was in possession of what appeared to be an iguana. Okay, maybe a baby iguana, but it was a heck of a lot bigger than your ordinary lizard. From the tip of its, er, snout to the end of its tail was about a foot, and its circumfrence at its widest point was about two inches. Luckily, it was deader than hell (I assume the mother cat killed it and brought it to her babies), and a good thing, too, or I would have really gone insane. I would not only have run inside, but I'd have kept going. No, seriously; I would have moved houses. I'd have grabbed my Jimmy Page "action figure" and my grandfather's pocket watch and quit the area for good. When Husband came home for supper I made him reconnaissance the porch, but he found no trace of the disgusting thing. The mother cat probably took it away, having had her laugh for the day. Or else they ate it. Ew. If I never see another of those things I'll die happy.

Here's hoping we stick to deer and nothing else for the rest of the summer.

You have to stop somewhere

2010-05-07T14:46:00.002-05:00

Yes, dear readers, you read it here first - like two months ago. And a month before that. And three weeks before that. And so on. But The Book is done. At least, it's as "done" as I can do it alone. After a truly agonizing time of cutting words, chapters, scenes, etc., the word count is finally something that won't make an agent reject my query out of hand, and I'm almost ready to start submitting. I'm going to let the manuscript sit for a few days before I go back and read it in its entirety to make sure all this cutting and slashing hasn't left patchy spots.

I've lost count of how many revisions and edits The Book has gone through since I revised as I wrote, revised after I wrote, revised while I was revising, and revised while I edited. (I also edited while I was revising, just to keep things interesting.) Is it 100% perfect now? Probably not, but barring any patchy spots I may come across it's as close to 100% as I can make it without a professional agent and editor turn his/her keen eye to it.

Because, seriously, you have to stop somewhere. There comes a point where you have to say, "I've done the very best I can." I've reached that point. I think if I go back and start messing with it again I'm going to ruin it. And I've worked too hard on it to screw it up by trying to make it completely perfect. Because you know what? Not everyone is going to like it no matter what I do to it. It either won't be the genre they like to read, they won't like the setting, the time period, the industry in which the characters work, the sex, whatever. And I'm fine with that. I'm not out to have everyone in the whole world love this book. I just want to give enjoyment to those who like this sort of story.

Unlike the other times I "finished" The Book, this time I feel good about it. And feeling that way means this time I'm really "done."

What is it with my family and graduations?

2010-05-01T14:47:00.003-05:00

My son-in-law received his Master's Degree in Counseling this morning! We're all so proud of him! The day did, however, follow a trend - really crappy weather for graduation.

Both my daughters graduated during torrential rainstorms. When Son-in-law received his Bachelor's Degree the fog was so thick you could actually cut it with a knife. When Youngest Daughter received her Associate's Degree there were tornadoes and power outages. Today was no different.

We arose at the crack of dawn and drove through monsoons to reach Memphis, only to find it flooded. No, I mean that. Traffic was backed up for miles on both bridges because once you got across them there was nowhere to go except swimming. After being stuck on the bridge for-freakin'-ever, Husband bypassed the rest of the interstate and drove through some "questionable" neighborhoods to get us to downtown Memphis. After several detours to avoid flooded streets, we found Beale Street and made our way to Union Avenue. The only problem was finding a way off Union. Every street we wanted to take to get us to East Memphis was flooded. We were forced to drive way off our route, but we finally made it to the Grad School and were only 10 minutes late for the ceremony. We were there for the most important part - when Son-in-law received his diploma. Congratulations, Sean!

We did find ourselves in a very interesting situation on the way there. There we sat on the bridge (and we also found out its official name is the Memphis-Arkansas Bridge - there's a very old sign that says so but we've always blown by it so fast we've never seen it before today; most people just call it the I-55 Bridge, or its more common name, The Old Bridge.) at a stand-still in traffic, and the wind was blowing and gusting so hard we could actually feel the bridge shudder and sway and see the Mississippi River churning and rolling beneath us, and the flippin' tornado sirens came on. Seriously, what are you gonna do? We just looked at each other and laughed, especially when the serious-sounding radio announcer advised us we should get in our "safe place." We could either jump off the bridge into the river a mile below us, or run out amongst the eighteen-wheelers that were all attempting to get into the right-hand lane like they didn't know they were going to have to do that miles before they got to that point. So we just sat there waiting to be blown to Oz. Which we weren't.

There is one bright spot to all this foul rain; I don't feel so bad that I missed seeing Jeff Beck last night at the Beale Street Music Festival. Although I really wanted to see his show, I can't bring myself to go to Tom Lee Park during Memphis in May. There are just too many idiots at the Music Festival for me, so I stay home. But Jeff Beck really tempted me to brave the inebriated crowds, the lack of parking, and the insanely inflated ticket prices. But since there was lightning crackling all over river last night, I wouldn't have gone anyway, so I feel better about having missed him. (Note to Jeff: Next time try the Fed Ex Forum. The parking's still atrocious, but at least it's inside.)

Granddaughter is scheduled to graduate from pre-school in a couple of weeks (no, really; with caps and gowns and everything!) and I can almost guarantee the weather that day will be utterly vile. It's a given.

Who breathed on me?

2010-04-29T09:26:00.003-05:00

When I wake up early there's usually an outside force involved. Husband works really odd hours, and we don't keep to the normal world's schedule, meaning we "sleep late" by everyone else's standards. So if I'm up before 9:00 it means some fool with a loud vehicle drove next to the house, or the phone rang with a politician campaigning on the other end (and I refuse to vote for anyone who uses the telephone as a campaign tool), or one of the cats knocked that huge stainless steel bowl off the refrigerator resulting in a sound that could have come straight out of a Stephen King movie. Or I'm sick.

I've been up since 7:30 (who knew so much went on at such an ungodly hour?? Between the traffic and the birds, it's a wonder I'm not awakened at 7:30 every morning!) wondering what I ate last night that makes my stomach feel so...well, icky. But Husband is now awake and going about his usual morning rounds with no digestive upset and we ate the same things last night. So that must mean that when I dashed to the store to pick up some necessities someone with an upset stomach was in there and breathed on me, passing along their icky germs.

Why do sick people feel the need to get out in public to spread the love? I mean, don't they have family or friends who can run these errands for them? Maybe the Unibomber had no one to pick up a bottle of Pepto-Bismol for him, but most sick people have someone to call upon. And even if their friends are complete tools and won't lift a finger to help, pharmacies deliver stuff. No, really. I live in freakin' Hooterville, and even our pharmacies will put medications in a bag, drive it to your house, hand it over and accept a check in return, allowing you to stay in and not breathe your sick germs all over heretofore healthy people.

In the interest of fairness, I realize there are some employers who really don't care if you're actually dying as long as you show up for work. To express your appreciation of their stick-to-it work ethic, you should give him/her a big hug and a large kiss on the cheek, making sure you breathe directly into his/her face. I once worked for a man like that, and I took care to cough violently in his vicinity each and every time he came near, the result of which was that he caught my flu. My co-workers were proud of me, giving me thumbs up from the next room while spraying Lysol on everything I'd touched. I must point out, though, that I did not go shopping while I was sick, unlike that idiot that breathed on me last night.

So I'll be staying home today, and Husband will communicate with me from another room, not wanting to catch whatever it is I've picked up. The only way I'd leave the house is if I knew for sure who passed this stomach bug to me, and then I'd make sure to find them and give it right back.

Ugh.

Dinner with the motorcycle gang

2010-04-24T18:28:00.002-05:00

When it comes to dining out here in Hooterville, there aren't a lot of choices. You can grab just about any kind of drive-through burger or taco you want, but when it comes to sitting down and having a server bring the meal round to the table it's quite limited. We have a very substandard italian restaurant (and I use the term "italian" very loosely), a Japanese place with no parking, two or three Chinese buffets, nine thousand Mexican restaurants (I'm not exaggerating), a small place downtown that tries to be pretentious but fails as they proclaim the "hamburger steak" to be their signature dish, and Chili's. Needless to say, Chili's is packed round the clock.

The wait wasn't too terribly long tonight, however, and we were seated with our drinks before us within thirty minutes. As we ate, we noticed the noise level in the restaurant was getting rather loud. It's always noisy there, but tonight there was more than the usual loud laughter, shouting and general carrying on. When our waitress finally returned from her extended break and remembered we were still sitting there, we paid our bill and prepared to leave. That's when we discovered that one entire side of the restaurant was filled with a motorcycle gang all wearing their colors and having a fine old time. Don't get me wrong - they weren't doing anything objectionable; it's just I don't remember the last time I saw so many riders in one place. I wish I'd known they were there sooner. I'd have asked one of them to track our waitress down and growl at her for ignoring us. If there's any draught beer or margaritas left at Chili's when they close, I'll be surprised.

No, the motorcycle gang wasn't objectionable in the least. The politician was. Unlike most states, Arkansas counties don't have a board of commissioners. We have what's called a Quorum Court led by a County Judge. (I used to work with a guy who deplored the term Quorum Court, and every time I hear it I remember him cursing about it under his breath.) Our particular little slice of heaven was once under the thumb of a County Judge who held the position for about 128 years and can't get over the fact he's been defeated in every election for the past 16 years. He is, true to form, annoying everyone again this year by running for office, and tonight he was in the restaurant campaigning and passing out his little cards. He about dropped dead in his tracks when Husband refused to take one. At least he didn't offer me one, because I'd have told him we aren't interested in having the county government run the way he did it in the 1970s. But I didn't expect him to give me one, anyway. He doesn't like me and hasn't since I actively campaigned for his opponent in his first defeat. And then took delight in getting to announce the election results on the air from the courthouse. No, he doesn't like me.

I didn't see him skulking around when we left the restaurant and can only assume management gave him the old heave-ho. Or maybe the motorcycle guys did it. They have enough sense not to want their meal spoiled by political campaigning, too.

Potpourri

2010-04-22T14:18:00.002-05:00

No, not a blog post about actual potpourri, but just a bunch of random stuff. Although...

I gave up on actual potpourri a long time ago. First of all, I have cats, and to cats potpourri = snack. And if they don't eat it, they knock it out of the bowl and chase it all over the house. Secondly, it's a complete waste of money. It doesn't matter if you buy it at Dollar Tree or spend a ridiculous amount of money on the "good stuff," the scent of all potpourri dissipates in roughly 7.8 seconds, never to return. Then you're left displaying a bowl of...well, dead flowers. So no actual potpourri here.

Husband and I have decided ESPN needs to add an additional channel to their lineup and call it ESPN-G. (The G stands for Gossip.) This channel can be the repository of their mock drafts, draft prognostications, and arguing about who is going to be drafted where and when. They can also use this new channel to speculate on Tiger Woods' personal life, how Ben Roethlisberger's behavior will affect the world at large, how Kobe really feels about Shaq, conjecture on how much jail time [insert name of professional athlete] will receive, and if Brett Favre will play ball again this year. In other words, use it for all the stuff they have no real idea about but only discuss to hear their own voices. This way they can clear up SportsCenter to give us the news we really want; ie: scores from games, the outcome of the draft, game highlights, and how much jail time [insert name of professional athlete]received from a judge. In other words, stuff that actually happened.

Where are all the hummingbirds? Despite the two feeders I put out (like I do every year), I've only seen one lone hummingbird. And it's not just me - the checker at the market has only seen one at her feeders, too. Did their migratory patterns change? Did all the snarky political ads between our U.S. Senator and the Lt. Governor who is running against her scare them off? I think it's the political ads. They're to the point now where I fully expect the next one to just say, "Yeah? Well, your mama!" Except for the frequency at which they air, I'm finding them entertaining, especially since I don't intend to vote for either of them. (You can probably catch an update on their battle on ESPN as Mel Kiper, Jr. predicts the outcome of the election.)

After reading how Holly Burns might have inadvertently attracted pan-slinging demons to her apartment, I've started wondering about my haunted lamps. They used to belong to my dad, and I got them when he died. For years these lamps have come on and gone off with no human intervention. (Saves a ton on those timer things you use to throw off would-be burglars.) Dad even had them rewired at least once, but it did no good. They still switch on and off all by themselves. At least they did. I've not noticed this behavior in a couple of weeks, and I wonder if whatever haunted them has fled before the onslaught of political ads. Or maybe I'm just so used to them I don't notice it any more. No, it's the political ads. Exorcism by mud-slinging. Who knew?

Envy oozes from every pore

2010-04-18T19:36:00.003-05:00

Just read one of the best reviews of a Them Crooked Vultures show. Not only am I envious she got to see them live, but also by the way she writes. Oh, and of her accent. Can't wait to read the review of The Dead Weather's show!

Sorry y'all

2010-04-18T16:09:00.006-05:00

I've had to turn off the comments until the fans of a certain singer move on to bother someone else. So much for the diversity and tolerance she's tried to foster for so long. (I'd love be either Janet Reid or Lyle Hopwood at moments like this. Lyle would pen pithy, well-phrased rejoinders that would make them cry and wet themselves, and Janet would just chew them up and spit out the pieces. Ah, well. My genteel southern upbringing gets in the way of my inner bitch yet again.)

I also deleted the blog post so the link will go nowhere. Not that it matters since the only thing of interest in it was my shout out to Memphis Botanic Garden and all the super things they do. So there's another.

Ah, the price of fame. I'll bet Ross Halfin gets this all the time. (And wouldn't I love to see him take on Miss Thang's "fans!" I think I'll email him...) At least I'm in stellar company.

Marathon Men

2010-04-18T11:43:00.003-05:00

I'm happy to report Husband still has all his fingers, toes and other body parts after The Great Chainsaw Adventure yesterday. Plus, all the dead wood is gone from the front yard. He's my hero.

After the trees were dealt with we spent almost seven hours watching baseball. And we only watched one game, the Cardinals and the Mets. They played 20 innings (that's the equivalent of two games + two innings for those of you who don't follow the game) and it took six hours fifty-three minutes. As sports announcer Tim McCarver said, "It's like a college frat party; no one wants to leave!" The game certainly wasn't an offensive struggle as no runs were scored until the 19th inning. Interesting things happened, though. Two Cardinals utility players ended up on the pitcher's mound while starting pitcher Kyle Lohse played left field. Unfortunately, the Cardinals lost 2-1, but it was still a game for the record books. (I would, however, like to have a word or two with Ryan Ludwick about that ill-advised dash for home plate.)

I think it's filled my quota for weekend baseball, though. I've no desire to watch today's game and may even go (gasp!) outdoors. We've had a cool snap come through the area, but maybe it'll be warm enough today to put the top down on the car and let the wind whip through my hair. Hey! Maybe my ponytail will give me new ideas for The Second Book. I'm off to find out.

Instead of writing

2010-04-17T13:46:00.003-05:00

Husband is outside with the chainsaw, and I'm hopeful he doesn't cut off his foot or something. (I'm not sure where our cooler is so if he does lose a body part I'll have to put it in a gallon Ziploc bag with ice and I'm low on Ziploc bags.) He's chopping up the last of those two trees the highway department killed, and I'll be glad to have them out of the yard. I just hope he leaves the rest of the trees alone. You can never tell what a man with a chainsaw will do. (NOTE: He just stomped through the house, went out on the back porch and returned with an axe. This could get interesting.)

I've reached the point where I'm snarling at The Book, so I'm laying off it for a few days. Editing in that frame of mind doesn't seem to be wise, so I'm going to kill some tomato plants instead.

Yeah, I bought tomato plants. Actually, I think I might be able to grow those. The death of the ones I planted two years ago is directly attributed to the cats who thought the planter was a nice, cool bed. This time I've got one of those wire cage thingies which should solve that problem. I even bought Miracle-Gro. Since it takes a miracle for me to grow anything I thought it a good idea to get a leg up.

I no longer hear the roar of the chainsaw, nor do I hear the thud of an axe. Guess I'll gather up some Ziploc bags and go see what's happening out front.

Ow.

2010-04-15T20:28:00.004-05:00

I'm going to whine a bit, okay? Thanks.

I've felt like utter crap all day. My muscles are all in revolt and I've been dealing with constant pain since I woke up. No, I didn't over-exercise (remember who you're talking to, here!), I didn't strain myself picking up or carrying anything too heavy, nor am I coming down with flu. No, this is the condition I've had for over fifteen years, the one none of my doctors can do anything about. Correction: the one none of my doctors give a rat's ass about. None of them seem to have the time or inclination to find out exactly what's going on, so they shunt me aside and try to prescribe anti-depressants. Um, I'm not clinically depressed, I'm just in continual pain. (I've been through clinical depression before, so I know what I'm talking about.)

What's that you say? New doctor? Yeah, I've tried that. They all give me a couple of visits before they give up trying to help. Why should I keep paying them for that? I can be in pain and not have my bank account drained.

I just hope one day medical professionals start listening to women instead of attributing all our aches and pains to hysteria. We're not stupid; we know when something's wrong. Why won't you listen?

Okay, whine over. I'll be back to normal tomorrow. In the meantime, I need something to cheer myself up. I can't think of anything better than this:

If I could only take him three times a day (heh) I'd be fine.!

I loathe it. And I'm touching it.

2010-04-13T09:35:00.006-05:00

The first "it" refers to writing a query letter. And not just loathe, but loathe spoken very slowly, dragging out the "o" sound to the point where it sounds more like "ew." Try it: loooooeeewwwwwtttthhhh. There you go. The art of being concise is one that eludes me (I'm a very parenthetical person and tend to go off on tangents when the mood strikes, causing me to use the words "But I digress" with frequency) so condensing The Book into a nice, neat 250-word letter that will make an agent salivate to read the rest of it has not come easy. I do, however, have the Ultimate Query Letter First Line, one that makes people sit up and say, "Whoa!" and makes publishers hit the Open Door button on elevators. Let me explain that.

My friend Alex told me she read once where an agent said to think of your query letter as the thing your agent will use to get the attention of a busy publisher walking through a lobby and totally ignoring said agent. When the publisher gets into the elevator, the agent calls out the first line of your query, and it must be interesting enough to make the busy publisher push the Open Door button to let the agent in. Then the rest of the query is what the agent tells the publisher on the elevator ride up. By the time they reach the publisher's floor, the agent must have piqued the publisher's interest enough that the publisher will demand to see the rest of the book. *sigh* I can get my agent in the elevator, but it's the next 239 words that are giving me fits. I'll get it, but it doesn't mean I like doing it.

Back to the title of this particular blog entry - the second "it" is The Book. Yes, I know I said I wouldn't touch The Book again, but I have to. I have to get my word count lower. Evidently publishers don't want to publish books that are too long to be read in one evening and word counts must be slashed before an agent will even look at a manuscript, no matter how brilliant the query letter is.

Personally, I detest skinny books and consider them a waste of my money and my time. I've been scoping out the competition by reading a lot of Contemporary Romances, and last week I bought two books. One book was skinny (about 70,000 words) and the other more hefty (about 100,000 words.) (Both books, by the way, cost the same which makes me question the whole "bigger books cost more to publish and end up priced too high for the average consumer" argument.) The covers of both books proclaimed the authors were New York Times Best Selling Authors. I read the skinny book in one evening; the other book took me two evenings to finish. I found the skinny book bland, predictable and a complete yawn-fest. With so few words to work with the author had no opportunity to flesh out the characters and make me care what happened to them, nor did she have enough time to delve into the plot to keep me guessing. After the third chapter I knew how the book would end. The bigger book, though, is one I'll read again. The characters were interesting and funny, and the author took enough time (and words) to make them real. She also kept me guessing with the plot. My only complaint is the ending seemed rushed. I can only surmise she was told her word count was too high and had to cut and slash to bring it within acceptable parameters.

And so I cut. Again. Yes, yes, I know I swore on Jimmy's head I wouldn't do that anymore, but I have to. He understands.

Can't touch this

2010-04-09T19:39:00.006-05:00

(Good grief, remember those horrid pants MC Hammer used to wear?)

The third - and last - draft of The Book is now complete. This means The Book is finished. For good. Until an agent tells me to, I'm not touching it again. I've done my best and it's time to let the professionals in on it.

No, really. I'm not going to do one more thing to it. I swear on

his >>>

head. So you know I'm serious.

I'm sure there are still things that can be cut, and passages that can be rewritten, but I'll let my agent and editor suggest those. Because I've finished the third - and last - draft.

Truth in advertising

2010-04-08T13:11:00.004-05:00

I received an email today from Genesis Publications, Ltd., the subject line of which was "Jimmy Page Now Available to Pre-Order."

Turns out it's his book.

Bummer. Got me all worked up for naught.

Buh-BYE!

2010-04-04T19:34:00.005-05:00

I'm relieved to report I'm no longer the owner of the Raising Sand CD! I've been trying to ~~dump~~ give that thing to someone...anyone!...since the day I bought it, but no one would take it. I mean no one. Many thanks to Laurel's friend Paula for taking it off my hands. I'm pretty sure she's not heard it yet, or she would have run screaming into the night just like the other people I've offered it to. But it's her problem now. Mwahahaha.

I only purchased the wretched thing after Husband surprised me with tickets to the Robert Plant/Alison Krauss concert in Memphis almost two years ago. After listening to the CD in the car on the way home from the store, I knew we'd made a huge mistake. There was only one song on it that didn't completely suck. (I didn't say it was good; it just didn't make my ears jump off my head and hurl themselves out the window the way the other songs did.) Of course, the concert was excruciatingly bad, causing us (and about 8,000 other people) to bail less than halfway through. And this after sitting and melting quietly in 100-degree (I'm not exaggerating) heat for hours. Yes, it was that bad, and more.

Robert's on his way back to Memphis in July, this time with his Band of Joy. He must remember how hot it was in July 2007 when he played at Mud Island Amphitheatre, because this time he's booked at the air-conditioned Orpheum Theatre. Like a complete and utter fool, I considered attending. But I've been reading about this Band of Joy. The word "folksy" keeps coming up in every article, and I've changed my mind about going. Been there, done that, have the brain damage. Sorry, Percy. You'll just have to limp along without me this time. And every other time, because I'm through with you. I'll just take that money I'd have spent on Band of Joy tickets and buy Jimmy Page's book. And without the evil presence of Raising Sand radiating from the CD cabinet, I'll be able to fully enjoy every overpriced page. (Or should that be Page?)

I think my hair is haunted

2010-04-04T17:14:00.002-05:00

At the very least it appears to have some kind of intelligence of its own. This is the only explanation I can come up with after the past couple of days.

My hair was the catalyst in my realization that I'd have to cut a much-beloved scene from The Book late last week, and it has now played a part in the plotline for The Second Book. No, I haven't been ingesting anything hallucinogenic.

Imagine my surprise last night when, while rinsing the conditioner from my hair, the entire plot (complete with a murder, the identity of the killer and the reason why) burst full-blown in my head. I just stood there with Nexxus Humectress running down my back, envisioning the whole thing. I had the love story already mapped out (hey, I write Contemporary Romance - of course there's going to be a hot love story), but not much else. But now I know how it's going to play out and I'm ready to get moving.

Of course, there's still the third - and last - draft of The Book to complete. (And before the end of the month, too, or no Jimmy Page for me, just the thought of which I find intolerable.) I mean to have it finished, polished and ready to read, which means I really don't want to take the time to work on The Second Book just yet. But just jotting down the notes for the plot last night made me anxious to get started.

I can only hope my hair won't have any more brilliant ideas until I get caught up a bit.

You oughta know

2010-04-02T17:13:00.003-05:00

(And now I'm going to have to find that Alanis Morrisette CD because I love that song and haven't heard it in forever.)

Anyway.

Since I blogged about the reception the first 25 words of The Book received at Authoress Anonymous, I've had several emails asking which entry was mine. After all, they were all, well, anonymous. But since you've asked, I'll answer.

Click here for my entry.

I hope you're hooked! I hope you will be! I hope!

The feel of the wind (and the ponytail) in my face

2010-04-02T14:35:00.004-05:00

I know I've mentioned two or three (hundred) times how much I dislike shopping for groceries. My dislike ratcheted up a notch to hatred today. Don't shop for groceries on Good Friday. Just don't.

What's worse is the thought that came to me as I was driving home. I was in a great frame of mind; I'd left the teeming hoardes of people fighting over the last carton of eggs behind, the sun was shining, the top was down on the car, and the wind was blowing gently in my face. Then I passed an eighteen-wheeler. This created a vortex of air in my car and caused my ponytail to whip around and slap me in the face. And in that moment I realized I'm going to have to cut one my favorite scenes from The Book. Crap.

I flippin' love that part of The Book! I loved writing it, and I adored imagining myself in the place of the main character in such a situation. But I've moved this particular scene to several different places in The Book, and I still wasn't happy with where it ended up. For some reason that slap from my ponytail gave me the reason why; the scene just doesn't work for this story. My two protagonists would never behave that way. Correction: they would, but not with each other. So it has to go. Removing it will smooth the flow of the story in so many ways, not to mention do wonders for reducing my word count. But...but...

This is the first bit I've cut that has made me pout and whine. During the polishing of this third - and last - draft, I've cut a lot of things that are unnecessary and haven't thought twice about it. Their deletion has made for a tight, concise, better Book. I love the way it reads now. But this one scene...

Oh, well. It has to be done. If it doesn't work, it doesn't work. And I can content myself with putting it in a folder with The Second Book. It's too good a scene to get rid of completely, and I'm going to see if I can't work it in when I really get going on the next story.

Okay, here's where I heave a sigh and cut. Hurts worse than the ponytail slapping me in the face.

Dead Line

2010-04-01T11:49:00.003-05:00

I have until the last day of April to finish the third - and last - draft of The Book. This is a deadline I've set for myself. If I don't meet it, I can't...um...hmm. You know, I think I've found the reason I tend to ignore deadlines. No consequences other than just not having finished. Okay, then. If I don't complete the third - and last - draft by 30th April, I can't have chocolate until June. No, that won't work because those little Hostess Donettes aren't chocolate, and I'll substitute those when I need a refined sugar fix. I need something that will really hurt to give up. Like...like...not being allowed to look at pictures of Jimmy Page for a whole month. Now that would hurt!

Now that I know I'll be tortured if I don't meet the deadline, I can get back to editing. It's been going well thanks to Sylvia Rochesters' writing tips. If you write anything, this article will be of immense help. Instead of the usual "use your Find function to search for repetitive words" advice you see everywhere, Ms. Rochester gives a list of words that are commonly used too much along with a few examples of how sentences read better without them. I almost did backflips when I saw this, because I've found it's just flat impossible to know which words are repetitive in something you've written. They're like typos; no matter how many times you go over a manuscript, you just don't see it. She also writes about redundant words, indefinite words, defining adjectives, verb choices, passive voice, tightening the manuscript and several other helpful topics.

Since I started using these tips I've cut over 5,000 words from the first 14 chapters of The Book without affecting the story one little bit. These edited chapters now read so much better without all the superfluous crap I had before. Unfortunately, I now have a big red spot on my forehead from smacking myself so often. Why did I write, "Katie pulled the door closed behind her," instead of, "Katie closed the door?" And can we talk about writing "He reached out to touch" when it should be "He touched?" We won't even discuss the overuse of the word "looked."

With the threat of a Jimmy Page-less month hanging over my head, I can now get back to work. I can ignore the fact that it's a freakin' beautiful spring day. I can ignore the fact that I feel the urge to watch A League of Their Own again. And thank goodness Sean Ferrell has stopped tweeting the things his muse says, because those were just addictive and kept me glued to Twitter the whole day. (My favorite: "You know what just occurred to me? Nothing.")

Here's to putting the old nose to the grindstone and ending up with a GREAT book and a realistic word count!

Hooked

2010-03-26T10:39:00.004-05:00

One thing aspiring writers hear a lot of is how important "the hook" is to their story. It's pounded into our heads that if the first few words of a book don't immediately hook the reader then you're dead in the water, no matter how good the rest of the book is. The prevailing consensus is that readers won't buy a book if they aren't drawn in upon opening the cover and reading the first tiny bit. Of course, there are varying opinions about how many words that takes, and for readers like me, it's often not true. I've loved lots of books that start out slow as molasses. Overall it's the story, the characters and the writing that keep me going, not the first few words. The blurb on the back cover tells me more than the beginning. However, we keep hearing about "the hook." Gotta get it right!

So Authoress Anonymous asked her readers to submit the first 25 words of their works in progress to see what "hooks" and what doesn't. And, boy, did they submit! 176 entries are posted on her blog, entries in every conceivable genre. Knowing that most readers will give a book much more than 25 words before tossing it into darkness, it was still a place to start. What piques our interest?

I'm relieved to report that The Book has A Hook. Out of all the comments my entry received, only one person said he/she wasn't interested in reading further. All the others professed themselves to be intrigued, interested and, yes, hooked. There will be a celebratory dinner at my house later. I've not been to the market in some time though, so we'll have to make do with crackers and a rather elderly block of cheddar. Luckily my refrigerator has ice and water through the door, so you can serve yourselves.

I read through all the entries posted, and most of the comments. And while I was usually in agreement with the other commenters, sometimes their reactions baffled me. One of the things I kept coming across was how some people said they wouldn't read a book because they didn't like the name of the character. Now personally, I just can't conceive of giving a book the old heave-ho because I wouldn't name my first-born Ezra or Arianwen, the two names that seemed to draw the most ire (although I rather like Arianwen). I mean, if that was the case I would never have read J.K. Rowling's books since I'm not fond of the name Harry. And when I got to Hermione it would have been over for sure. And look what I would have missed out on! Different strokes for different folks and all, but that sure seems like an inconsequential reason not to read a book. (And while we're on the subject of names, why is it that most books in the fantasy genre have characters called things like Zhuellaniama, Queen of the High Gorgonzola of Parmesania? Since I don't read fantasy I'm wondering if this is the norm, or if there are otherwordly characters called Betty and Bob. Sorry, getting distracted here...)

Another thing that surprised me was the number of entries in the Young Adult and Middle Grade genres. I suppose everyone wants to be the next Rowling or Stephanie Meyers, but, um, I'm looking for books about grown-ups, too. While a large number of the entries in these categories had nice hooks, I have to admit I probably wouldn't read the majority of them. I'm just not that interested in the lives of teenagers. Unless, you know, they're being pursued by Dark Lords and all; but if they are, then that book had better be exceptional to keep my attention.

While reading and leaving comments I did get a little worried when I came across one entry that had everyone swooning while I didn't like it at all. Of course, I'm also the only person in the world who doesn't like a current best-selling author. "You don't like [name of author]'s books?!" people exclaim upon hearing this. Nope. Sorry. So when I see a book hit the NYT Best Seller List with the opening I read in that entry I won't be surprised. Maybe the next 25 words will intrigue me more than the first 25. I'll certainly read the first page, two or three pages in the middle, and probably a few passages near the end before I make a decision on whether or not to give the book a chance.

But I am encouraged that I evidently have A Hook. Now to make sure the rest of the book lives up to that opening. Because the rest of the book is what really counts.

Vinylicious

2010-03-23T14:01:00.004-05:00

Cool. I just made up a new word.

So, remember the other day when I posted a photograph of my daughter's mother-in-law holding those three Led Zeppelin albums? Well, Cathy gave them to me. No, I mean she freakin' gave them to me! I had no idea they were coming to me, and when I saw them on Sunday I jumped up and down and did a happy dance. No, really, there's a photograph. I won't share it, because it's not the most flattering picture ever taken of me, and I'm nothing if not enormously vain. But trust me; I did a happy dance. I so love them! They're the original pressings, and I could almost swear Led Zeppelin III has never been played. And, yes, it has Jimmy Page's little message to the world inscribed on it.

Not only did Cathy and Rick send me the three Zeppelin albums, they sent a ton of records to me! Here's a (very) few of the wonderful records that have spinning on my turntable since Sunday:

Want a closer look? Sure you do.

I can't begin to tell you how touched I was that they'd give me these, and all the others I haven't even gotten around to playing, yet. I'm completely overwhelmed, and ever so grateful.

These wonderful LPs sound so good. I've said it before - there's a depth and a resonance to vinyl that gets lost in digital translation. Listening to vinyl records reminds me all over again why I was so captivated by this music in the first place.

And now if you'll excuse me, I have to flip the album over to side two. Believe me, it's worth the inconvenience.

Feline Friday

2010-03-19T17:08:00.006-05:00

For days Monica has been driving us mad by waking us up in the wee hours trying to open the door to the cabinet under the bathroom sink. It appeared she'd got it into her head that the cabinet was a prime spot to have kittens, and she was determined to climb in there and make a nest. I finally locked her out of the bathroom yesterday, so she spent the rest of the day wandering through the house, dogging my every step (how about that? A cat that dogs!), and generally making a nuisance of herself. Evidently the box Husband brought home for her and that I lined with soft, clean, old T-shirts wasn't grand enough for her. But last night she finally gave in, jumped in the box and had babies. Four of them.

This is her last litter. As soon as they're weaned, she's going to the vet for an O-P-E-R-A-T-I-O-N. (I have to spell it out because I'm convinced Piper has explained the whole process to her, and I want to get her in the cat carrier with as little bloodshed - on our part - as possible.)

Pudge - as you can see - is really excited about becoming a big brother.

As a precaution, I'm keeping the door to the bathroom closed for now. I'm pretty sure if I didn't we'd wake up some morning and find kittens in the cabinet.

The ties that bind

2010-03-19T11:54:00.002-05:00

When I married Husband I was lucky enough to get fantabulous in-laws. We've never had any of those extended family troubles from which so many seem to suffer. I was reminded again of this when I found the following post on California Kara's blog. This is an actual letter written by a woman to her extended family regarding their annual Thanksgiving dinner. Kara changed the names in case anyone was feeling litigious, but otherwise, it's the actual letter given to her by a friend whose co-worker received it from her sister:

From: Marney

As you all know a fabulous Thanksgiving Dinner does not make itself. I need to ask each of you to help by bringing something to complete the meal. I truly appreciate your offers to assist with the meal preparation.

Now, while I do have quite a sense of humor and joke around all the time, I COULD NOT BE MORE SERIOUS when I am providing you with your Thanksgiving instructions and orders. I am very particular, so please perform your task EXACTLY as I have requested and read your portion very carefully. If I ask you to bring your offering in a container that has a lid, bring your offering in a container WITH A LID, NOT ALUMINUM FOIL! If I ask you to bring a serving spoon for your dish, BRING A SERVING SPOON, NOT A SOUP SPOON! And please do not forget anything.

All food that is to be cooked should already be prepared, bring it hot and ready to serve, warm or room temp. These are your ONLY THREE options. Anything meant to be served cold should, of course, already be cold.

HJB—Dinner wine

The Mike Byron Family
1. Turnips in a casserole with a lid and a serving spoon. Please do not fill the casserole all the way up to the top, it gets too messy. I know this may come as a bit of a surprise to you, but most of us hate turnips so don't feel like you a have to feed an army.
2. Two half gallons of ice cream, one must be VANILLA, I don't care what the other one is. No store brands please. I did see an ad this morning for Hagan Daz Peppermint Bark Ice Cream, yum!! (no pressure here, though).
3. Toppings for the ice cream.
4. A case of bottled water, NOT gallons, any brand is ok.

The Bob Byron Family
1. Green beans or asparagus (not both) in a casserole with a lid and a serving spoon. If you are making the green beans, please prepare FOUR pounds, if you are making asparagus please prepare FIVE pounds. It is up to you how you wish to prepare them, no soupy sauces, no cheese (you know how Mike is), a light sprinkling of toasted nuts, or pancetta, or some EVOO would be a nice way to jazz them up.
2. A case of beer of your choice (I have Coors Light and Corona) or a bottle of clos du bois chardonnay (you will have to let me know which you will bring prior to 11/22).

The Lisa Byron Chesterford Family
1. Lisa as a married woman you are now required to contribute at the adult level. You can bring an hors d’ouvres. A few helpful hints/suggestions. Keep it very light, and non-filling, NO COCKTAIL SAUCE, no beans of any kind. I think your best bet would be a platter of fresh veggies and dip. Not a huge platter mind you (i.e., not the plastic platter from the supermarket).

The Michelle Bobble Family
1. Stuffing in a casserole with a serving spoon. Please make the stuffing sans meat.
2. 2.5-3 qts. of mashed squash in a casserole with a lid and serving spoon
3. Proscuitto pin wheel - please stick to the recipe, no need to bring a plate.
4. A pie knife

The June Davis Family
1. 15 LBS of mashed potatoes in a casserole with a serving spoon. Please do not use the over-size blue serving dish you used last year. Because you are making such a large batch you can do one of two things: put half the mash in a regulation size casserole with lid and put the other half in a plastic container and we can just replenish with that or use two regulation size casserole dishes with lids. Only one serving spoon is needed.
2. A bottle of clos du bois chardonnay

The Amy Misto Family (why do I even bother she will never read this)
1. A pumpkin pie in a pie dish (please use my silver palate recipe) no knife needed.
2. An apple pie in a pie dish, you can use your own recipe, no knife needed.

Looking forward to the 28th!!

Marney
~~~

What would you have done if you'd received such a missive? I can tell you what my reaction would have been; I'd have shown up with a package of hot dogs, a bag of buns (store brand, of course) and a 2-liter Dr. Pepper, already opened.

Oh, and by the way, "Marney", you misspelled prosciutto.

You know I'm going to do it, don't you?

2010-03-18T09:32:00.003-05:00

The advent of Spring makes me lose my mind. No, I mean that. The soft sunshine, the balmy temperatures, the peeks of green on the branches all make me want to do things I know I'm unable to do. Like grow things.

For the past few days I've been trying to beat back the urge to rush to the Nursery and purchase herbs. (No, the legal ones.) My mind, overtaken by Spring-induced madness, sees a row of terra cotta pots on the kitchen counter, sprouting with huge bunches of things like rosemary, thyme and basil. That won't be the outcome of any herb buying, though. No, I'll end up with a row of terra cotta pots full of dead brown sticks. But I still want to try. Last night I prepared roasted potatoes with garlic and rosemary, and while I was chopping the rosemary that little fiend in my head kept whispering, "Wouldn't it be nice not to have to purchase fresh rosemary from the market? Wouldn't it be wonderful if you could just reach over and snip a few fresh stems from a terra cotta pot on the bar?" Well, yes. It would. It would also be nice if I could get my query letter in order, too, but that hasn't happened yet, either.

Of course, it doesn't stop with herbs, oh no. Once I start envisioning pots full of growing things my mind jumps to the front yard. I see nice, fat bushes of lavender, trellises with sweet peas, and tall stalks of gladioli blooming in the sunshine. This is never going to happen, and not only because I can't grow weeds. No, the soil in our yard isn't conducive to growing anything, not even grass. Even dandelions have a hard time sprouting in that heavy, clay-laden dirt. My lilac bush is proof of that. We've lived here nine years and the bush has only grown about a foot in all that time. It does bloom (in spite of being in close proximity to me), but by now it should be about eight feet tall. It's not.

My step-mom and my mother-in-law don't help to alleviate my grand gardening ideas, either. Both of them could take an acorn, cover it with a thin layer of dust from the side of the road, and have a full-grown oak tree by September. Neither of them can understand why every plant or seedling they give me dies before I get it home. Last year I planted tons of stuff my step-mom gave me, plants she said were impossible to kill. Of course they died. This year my mother-in-law is giving Husband a peony bush. Husband loves peonies, but since he's been married to me he's not been able to have one in his yard. He tried one year, but the bush evidently saw me through the window and immediatley expired. He's going to try to grow another one this year, and I wish him luck.

As much as I love Spring, I'm hoping Summer gets here awfully fast. Temperatures in the nineties with 100% humidity and no rain will quench all these urges to grow anything besides swimming pools, and things will get back to normal. I'm just going to ride it out, and save my money this year.

I wonder what time the Nursery opens?

The Holy Grail

2010-03-17T18:18:00.003-05:00

My daughter and her family are in Chicago (or close to Chicago, anyway) this week visiting the son-in-law's family. My sweet little girl decided to torture me a couple of hours ago by sending me this picture of her mother-in-law:

Now I know why some animals eat their young...

Drama, drama everywhere

2010-03-17T09:39:00.003-05:00

Evidently, some people are freaking out like monkeys on acid because the 2010 census asks for a phone number. A phone number. Like everyone and their attorney doesn't have that already. Ever heard of Caller I.D.? A telephone directory? Anywho.com? Your telephone number is not sacrosanct; it's public knowledge whether you think it is, or not. "But my number's unlisted!" Yeah, right. With five bucks and an internet connection, I can have that unlisted number on my computer screen in ten minutes.

Ever order a pizza to be delivered? What happens when you give them your phone number? (No problem giving it out to an anonymous voice on the phone, but have a cow about writing it on a census enumeration. *insert rude noise here*) You give them your number, and they immediately tell you your name and address, right? And guess what? That's not all they have on that little computer screen. If you've ever paid them with a check or debit card, they're looking at your banking information, too.

Ever pay a credit card bill by check because you don't think online bill paying is safe? Well, guess what? You've just sent off a piece of paper with your name, address, telephone number, driver's license number, bank account number and bank routing number. Oh, and in the little "memo" section you've written your credit card account number. How many hands will that pass through before it's deposited? But go ahead and have ten major freakouts because the census bureau asks for your bleeding phone number.

Our census form came in the mail yesterday. I looked it over, frowned, and said, "That's it?" Name, address, age, birthdate, race, gender, marital status, own or rent, relationship to head of household, and phone number. That's it. Good grief, our neighbors know more than that about us. It's a lot different than prior census forms. For example, in 1910 the census not only asked your name, age, race and marital status, they also wanted to know: Was this a first marriage? Second? Third? How old were you when you got married? How long have you been married? If you're a woman, how many children have you had, and how many of those children are still living? Where were you born? Where was your father born? Your mother? What was your native tongue? What language did your parents speak? Where do you work? What's your position there? If you're an immigrant, when did you immigrate? Are you naturalized? If so, when were you naturalized? By 1930 they'd expanded it to ask if you owned a radio. And no, this wasn't a "long form," it was just the basic census enumeration.

I can think of much more important things to get worked up over than putting my phone number on a census form. If it just kills you to give out that top secret info, don't write your damn number. Then go order a pizza.

Currently in wait mode

2010-03-15T12:28:00.005-05:00

Surprising myself, I beat my self-imposed deadline of 31st March for completing the second draft of The Book. I'm very pleased with the changes I made, but it increased the word count. A lot. A really whole lot. I'm considering changing the title to War and Peace...With Sex. Actually, there are quite a few things I'm ready to cut, things I can take out without it affecting the story, but I'm going to wait until I hear from some readers to make sure I have a consensus* on those parts.

I've also written my query letter. The first version of that was about as dry as the Sahara. Unfortunately, I sent it to Rachelle Gardner when she asked for queries to critique on an upcoming blog. The minute I hit "send," I knew I shouldn't have done it. It was a truly uninspiring query. If Rachelle decides to use it I'm sure it will be a lesson to others on how not to write a query. I've rewritten the thing and think it's much, much better. So I sent it to Jodi Meadows for her weekly query critique so I can find out what still needs to be fixed. No, I've not sent it to Query Shark yet because The Book isn't ready to be submitted. I mean, the Shark would take one look at the current word count and I'd become instant chum. I probably will, anyway, but I don't want it to be because of word count. On second thought, if that's the only thing she'd find wrong with it, I'd be ecstatic.

Speaking of word count, who knew there were so many ways to figure it? You would think the nice little word count function in MSWord would suffice, right? But that's evidently not the case for some. No, they want a certain formula for determining word count, something about 250 words per page, or 350 words per page if you used TNR 12. Huh? Dammit, Jim, I'm an author, not a mathematician! I had to use Google just to find out how to spell mathematician! I agree with Nathan Bransford who tweeted that God invented the word count function for a reason. No matter how many words are on each page, there's still the same number of total words. No, really.

So now I'm in wait mode, on both the second draft and the query letter. I suppose I could get caught up on all the housework I've let go recently. Or I could work on one of the other two books in progress. Or I could...look at some pictures.

Lyle Hopwood sent me that one and completely made my week.

*Had to edit this since I'd misspelled consensus. Must be all those ads about the 2010 census going out this week. That's my excuse and I'm sticking to it.