ADVENTURES IN VIAGRA

Meet my husband...Mr. Upgrade. He has brought me such doozies as let me fix the oven so we can pay another $500 to repair my mistakes to oh, I'm sorry I took out the garage door, I wasn't really trying to, to your two year old is running across the roof because I forget to lock the gate before I went up there to sweep off the needles to please don't get near me when I have this hammer because I'm liable to hit you or anything that looks hostile.

To know him is to love him. He can't help himself. He works in the housing industry, that wonderful place where all new homes are clean and white. And after years of saturation, the industry has taken its toll on the poor man.

In our twenty some years of marriage we have renovated more homes than Bob Vila. We lived in a condo which we redid. Well, at least the kitchen. We changed the carpet and put in some panelling. And our next house was a real blast. That included new carpet and paint, new windows, wood floors, roof, appliances, kitchen remodel, more paint, paint for the outside of the house, and new French doors.

The next house was only 8 years old, but it needed wallpaper, carpet, paint, wood floors, paint, new blinds, paint, more new carpet, and more wood floors. Was that enough to slow the man down? No. It wasn't.

The next house (are you starting to see a pattern here?) was in need of major stuff. Let's start with the roof, then the septic system, the floors, the windows, the doors, add a total kitchen remodel, a total master bath remodel, a kids' bath remodel and new WHITE molding. Add wood floors, laminates, carpet, paint, more paint, counter tops, more paint on cupboards, did I say new windows and the septic system? New blinds, new heaters, a whole new fireplace insert, in gas of course. A gas stove in the family room. A dog. The dog wasn't a remodel, just an addition. Three bedroom fans, a family room fan, and did I mention flourescent bulbs throughout the house. More carpet, tile backsplash, new laminate and wallpaper in the family room bath. Did I mention wallpaper in the kids' bath?

Now, why am I telling you all this? Because it's a sickness. Any man who needs white doors and white molding is sick. Did I mention white windows? See what I mean?

So, in all fairness, I am auctioning him off to the highest bidder. He can fix anything in your house if you give him enough money. He knows a variety of contractors. They all owe him favors. Most of them work cheap. Some of them don't show up. Many of them are half-wits. But, they are in his rolodex.

Now, I am willing to let him go cheap if you promise me that you will pay me back for all those remodels so that I may retire without him to the island of Tahiti.

If you want to make a bid, please send an email to AFeistyWriter@aol.com. I will take all and any bids no matter how ridiculous the offer until New Year's Day, as to not upset the children by the departure of their father so near Christmas.

I will consider all trade-ins if they are under 55, in good health, and not in need of dentures or Viagra.


UPDATE -- Four hours after posting this blog post. Please note that this is an addendum to the post above. If that isn't obvious, oh well.

Ok, so the bids aren't rushing in. This is very sad. I had already picked out a beach chair for Tahiti and was mentally preparing my speech to the children where I would tell them that their father was moving on to greener (or should I say whiter) pastures. I had it all planned out and then the worst possible thing happened.

No one bid.

So, in all fairness to my husband, I feel I must list his better qualities. This lack of bidding is certainly going to ruin his self-esteem because as we all know, everyone wants to be wanted, even him.

So, here are his most redeeming qualities:

1. He doesn't belch too loudly.
2. He only farts in the bedroom.
3. He doesn't belch unless he's at the dinner table.
4. He doesn't believe in wasting time cleaning garages or garbage cans.
5. He loves rats.
6. His dear mother is an add-on and I, for one, will vouch for her lovely disposition.
7. His balding hair is not quite half gone. You can't see his scalp yet---a good sign.
8. We call him chubby. He's not fat.
9. He doesn't believe in wasting money on food when you can go out to eat.
10. His foot odor is relieved by daily baths.
11. He only snores after 9 p.m. and before you fall asleep.
12. His coffee breath could stop a train, but Altoids are his constant companion.
13. Give him a sausage, a couple of eggs, some ice cream, and Sports Illustrated.
Who needs sex?
14. He drives a Ford Exploder, a four-wheeled wonder of balance and charm. And you,
dear reader, can enjoy that sun roof!
15. He prefers Mexico vacation to work.
16. I'll throw in the resort timeshare.
17. He's very mellow and very unbothered by the looming and upcoming crisis about the settlement of the family estate.
18. He only complains about traffic when you're stuck in the car with him.
19. If you're not feeling particularly beautiful in the morning, just hide his glasses. He can't
see a thing without them.
20. If you apply constant pressure, you might get something out of him.
21. Clairol is his best friend.


Well, if that doesn't make you salivate, I give up. This guy is just one big hunk of burning love and I need to get rid of him. Email me. Again, that email address is AFeistyWriter@aol.com

How they cleaned my carpet, stained it pink, and nearly burned down my house

Ok, it was a stellar day. I had nothing to edit, which always makes it a good day because I like editing very occasionally and only when I have to. So, instead of working, I went to the dentist to have a crown put on my molar, but not before I let in my friend the carpet cleaner. Seems my daughter is coming home from college this weekend and I have to clean up the filthy carpet and get rid of the dog hairs because she has asthma, which is another story all together.

But, I let in the carpet guy and his wife and told them that I wanted it all clean, including the throw rugs which I will save for repairs on my carpet like the pink stain from Crystal Lite and the hole that the dog ate right below my coffee table, but that's another story.

And the carpet cleaner, he's really into getting this beige carpet clean, so I leave him and his wife to do the voodoo that they do and sashayed off to the dentist, Dr. Joseph, the 24 year old dentist with a body like Superman and way too young for me, but that's another story.

And young Dr. Joseph, whom I shall call Joe from here on in, put my crown in place and actually got me out of the office in 30 minutes flat, a new all-time low for that clinic. Usually, you wait an hour, get in and wait another hour in the chair, they work on you for 30 minutes and then you wait another 30 and then when you hit about hour number three, they let you go home. But not today. I was out in 30 minutes flat.

So, I was meeting my ever-graying and slightly-balding husband for lunch but I had to go home first, which I did. I came into the family room and I looked over at the corner and the dumb carpet cleaner had pushed a box full of my writing/editing and VERY flammable material RIGHT UP AGAINST THE HEATER, WHICH WAS ON. Now, trust me, I've always had a fear of someone setting my house on fire, particularly my kids, so much so that I have convinced my oldest daughter that she'll probably one day burn down the house. But that is another story.

So, I pull the box out, which is, seriously people, ready to go up in FLAMES. And the heater is overheating in the wall, probably due to having been plugged up with flammable material. And I about choked.

But wait, it gets better. The box that was sitting in front of my heater happened to have red writing on the bottom and when that mixed with the wet carpet, it produced pink stains all over my carpet.

Which is why you should never, ever, ever have your carpet cleaned.

Why I Will Never Grow Old

All this about writing and editing aside, and really, I do have to put it aside quite regularly because it makes me nuts. I mean there is no business like publishing to give you an anxiety disorder. So, onto another subject...and perhaps some better sentence structure...

And the topic today is OLD AGE.

You know you've reached the apex of your years when you receive a mailing from the AARP. Now don't get me wrong. I find nothing wrong with old folks. Middle aged people. Old farts, and dirty old men. I believe in live and let live. But why, oh, why, would I want to get old?

We all know that life revolves around being young and photogenic. The photgenic thing is important because you never know when you may have to use your beauty or good looks to manipulate your circumstances or some person in particular in order to fulfil your will.

The young get the good jobs. Good dates. They get whistled at and pat on the butt. They make more money, get into clubs faster, smile their way out of tickets, and get the best clothes. Makeup is made for them because they don't have forty-seven lines running criss cross on their face. They look eternally young, beautiful, handsome, and alive.

And the old, what do they get? Cholesterol tests. Blood sugar monitoring. A hip replacement. A bad back. Gray hair. NO hair. The bills. A sagging butt. Crows feet. An appointment with the cardiologist.

Is this fair? No, it is not. There is seriously something wrong with this picture. And this is why when I receive my invitation to join AARP that I am immediately calling their headquarters and insisting that they take me off their mailing list because I am convinced that we age exponentially in the ratio to which we receive offers for senior's discounts. You know what I mean.

Only you can end this. But I digress.

The whole freaking pharmaceutical industry is built upon old age. Think about it. Who will they market to if all the old farts die? Do the 20 something's want Viagra. Cialis? That funny pill for a leaky bladder? What about the one for Alzheimer's Disease? You know we're not getting that in our thirties and forties.

But it goes on. Think of the medical supply places. You know, oxygen and diapers. Then think about all the medical clinics around this country. They thrive on old age. Heck, you could get rich treating old farts.

And then there's the stock market. Remember when all the old folks took their money out of their savings accounts and got into the market? Oh, that was a very smart ploy to get their money.

But I'm getting off track.

Thing is, old age is an industry. But do you hear people shouting about the diapers in landfills from old people? No, blame it on the babies, that's what they do. Old age is sacred. Only in that the older folks have all the dough so we have to find ways to separate them from their money.

So, the key is to get money without getting old. Getting rich young is a good idea.

Cleaning my desk, dead mice, and other things

I woke up at five this morning, raring to go and ready to clean my desk. The idea had been on my mind for a full twenty-four hours and had apparently bloomed while I slept. But I stayed in bed until six and then I pulled myself out, doned my slipper (Merrell sandals, really), grabbed my bathrobe, and headed to the kitchen.

It was still dark out and the house was quiet, so I made some coffee, ignored my dog who rattled around in her cage begging to get out, and then I went to the garage and grabbed the biggest box I could find. It's been several years since I cleaned my desk. Probably the last time was when my friend died and I had this need to make things look neat. Apprently, the need is back.

I started with my bookcase. I've decided to sell most of my books, but I organized them as neatly as I could and dusted the shelves. Everything that didn't belong went into the box. Then I started on my desk. Lots to throw out there. I even threw all my rejection letters (about 300 of them) into the box, along with all my emails to and from editors, writers, etc.

I'm going clean.

This is year seven. Sevens have a great significance in my life. I homeschooled my kids for seven years. Then they went to school. I've been writing and subbing for seven years. And now it is time to move on. It is time to put away the Writer's Markets. The CWIM. The SCBWI publications. It's time to throw out the rejection letters. The returned manuscripts. The letters from editors who liked but really didn't "love" my stories. But they liked them well enough to write me a personal letter which, in the scheme of things, really means nothing.

And all of this lost its importance in the last year.

On the seventh year, I change. I drop everything I'm doing and I go in a new direction. I have the attention span of God, apparently, who also did things in sevens. But let's face it. After seven years, things get stale.

So, as I cleaned, I thought about how much I would NOT miss all this stuff. All the angst. All the rejection. All the thrills. I thought about how nice my desk will look and how I no longer have the need to compete, been seen as successful, or have a career. I am free.

Not that I won't write. I will write. But I will no longer be under the cloak of what everyone thinks it is to be a writer, participate in the online writers' community, etc. I'm on my own.
I'll do whatever the hell I want to do, write whatever I want to write and maybe I will never sub another book. I just don't know.

But back to my cleaning. After I finished my desk, I decided to clean the whole danged room, along with the family room (adjoining). Then I decided to shampoo the carpet. And guess what I found? When I lifted up the area rug, there, stuck to the carpet, flat was a board, was the mouse my daughter doesn't even know is missing from her cage. And had I not decided to clean my desk, I would never have found it.

It's in perfect shape. Just flat. Nice and soft. Tail in tact. Looks like it was running along and got flattened by a truck. So, I took it and stood it up on my daughter's keyboard, so when she wakes up, it will look like there's a mouse running across her desk.

It's been a great morning so far.

When there is no meaning...

I've been scouring my brain the last few days for an idea for my blog. And it seems I have drawn a total blank. Zip, zero, nada.

So, having come to a dead halt, I will ponder the meaning of life.

And the only thing I can come up with is this: Is life always meaningful?

I don't think so. Sometimes there is no meaning. Sometimes we just have to move along without anything to hold our attention, anything to make us feel good, anything to push us forward. We just slough through and wait for the days of inspiration. Some days we are in the doldrums of meaninglessness.

And here I sit.

It's kind of like being on a blank page with no pen to write a word. Or like sitting in space with nothing around you, hoping that someone stops by to pick you up. Or like lying in bed and not being able to get out because you haven't found a reason to face the day.

But, go on I must. I have things to do. Places to go. Tasks to accomplish. And I suppose that I can accomplish them without great wisdom or humor. I will just forge forward because tomorrow is another day and I'll probably feel differently when the sun rises again.

Man, I hope so, because I hate this empty feeling that I seem to have fallen into.

All Good Rats go to Rat Heaven

You know if you shake a bag of rodent food and your rat doesn't come running that something is wrong. But I wasn't surprised this morning to find that mine was dead. It's just been a bad month for my rats.

About four weeks ago I came out one morning to say hello to my rodents and found one of them stiffer than a board with blood oozing out of her tummy. Very sad. Her litter mate and best friend stood nearby looking not very anxious. So, I took out my dead friend, put her in a plastic bag and entombed her in my huge plastic garbage can.

And then I began to worry about her friend. A nice doctor once told me that when the heart has nothing left to live for, it will stop beating. You've probably heard stories about old folks where one partner dies and a few weeks later the other bites the bullet. Well, that's what I was worried about with my poor rat. All she'd ever had was her sister. They were together every day for over a year.

So, I put her on suicide alert. But nothing. And then she began these incessant attempts to escape her cage. Not a good sign. She spent all of her day, every day, jumping in the air, climbing around on the top of the cage, and falling to the bottom of it. I could tell that it was either escape or die. I know how it goes.

So, this morning I come out and rattle a bag of food to no avail. I lift up the little rat house and there she is, dead as a rock. No signs of foul play. I suppose if we autopsied her, we might find that she died of a broken heart but I take solace in the fact that rats only cost $2.99 and she is easily replacable.

She is only one of many we have loved through the years. There was Norman, the extrordinary rat who climbed in and out of his cage and called our family room home. It freaked my sister when she visited that he liked to walk around the room at night, especially since she was sleeping there.

There was Flower, the genenetic mutation Dumbo rat with the huge ears on the wrong side of her head. Mutations don't live long and she was soon gone.

There was Ratty. And I just can't remember the name of the rest. We played with them, we taught them their names. The only one who was buried in the ground was Norman because he was so loved by everyone.

But I am sure that they have all gone on to the big rat heaven in the sky because they were worthy pets. They served their purpose. They gave us hours of great entertainment.

And we will miss them all.

You never know who might be at the door

A few years back a good friend's husband died. After things settled down, I asked her if she might marry again. She looked at me and laughed. And I told her to stop laughing because I was serious.

"Will you marry again?" I said.

She said, "Yeah, well, if I'm going to marry again, the guy is going to have to come knocking on my front door because I'm not going looking for another man."

I nodded. "Well, that's how it will be then," I said.

That was nine years ago. Today I met the man who came knocking at her door. He was her 7th grade sweetheart and he'd never forgotten her. After his wife died, he started looking for her from all the way across the country. It took him a few weeks, but he found her and he went knocking on her front door. They were engaged to be married within a few days, I think, and the rest is history.

Except that today I got to meet him. He stopped in my office with my friend and I put out my hand.

"I've been waiting for you to get here," I said. "What took you so long?"

He gave me a puzzled look and then I explained my conversation with my friend some years back. He smiled. "I got her as quick as I could," he said.

Why I don't join groups

The last time I joined a group was when I went to Washington D.C. for an anti-war protest. This was a LONG time ago, you can do the math in your head.

Anyway, we went and we ended up in jail. And the Coliseum, because there were too many of us in the jail. The protest had been arranged by the SDS, but surprisingly, none of them ended up in jail. Just the rest of us.

There was something wrong with that picture. But I figured it out.

I was a sociology major at the time. So, I took the course The Mass Mind, and it explained it all--how people will do things in groups they would never do on their own. Mind blowing stuff.

It was the last time I really joined a group of any kind. Except maybe for hanging with a few friends. But truly, that was IT for me.

I never could live in a group. I'd always disagree with someone and that would make me uncomfortable. I'd feel forced to do and say things I don't want. I'd be forced to like people I don't like. Forced to accept things I don't believe in.

It's a sickness, I know. But three days in the D.C. jail and I was cured. Thank you Mr. Nixon.

What is truth?

There is nothing I love more than sitting down to read a book that is filled with truth. Truth, you say? What is that? Is it the facts of life? The story of someone's situation? What happened on the way to the forum?

Truth, at least from my point of view, is that deep, deep core of a soul that you find in a character. The part that is stripped down to nothing and is left only with what it faces and what it might do. That is the truth of life.

It's not what happens every day. It's not what we see or hear. It's not plot. It's not story. It's soul. It's what a soul has to go through to survive. It's what a soul has to learn to go on. It's what a soul fights against in himself before he can make the right decision.

Truth is that thing that comes at us and beats us over the head until we give in and do what it wants.

I have actually met people who never met truth. I wonder what planet they live on.

What I have learned

I think I reached the apex of my intelligence when I was about 27. I remember working in advertising in New York City and realizing that I had everything figured out. I didn't think I had everything figured out. I KNEW I did.

I could tell you what people were all about just after spending a few minutes with them. I understood how the world worked, why people did the things they did, why the world was so darned screwy.

Then I got older. And I realized that I didn't really know all that much. First of all, I didn't understand anyone because people act so darned strange and do absurd things. People have reasons for stuff that I just don't get.

So, the older I got, the less I knew. My intelligence was diminishing each year. But, for my loss of intelligence, I was granted patience, something I didn't have when I was young. I could wait for things in a way I never could before. I wasn't sure it was such a good trade off.

Then I had kids. In exchange for my kids, I gave away my sanity. I'm not sure this is a fair exchange because you really do need your sanity to raise kids, but I also noticed that my sense of humor became fine-tuned, particularly when my oldest reached about 17. That was also when I learned that it is valuable not to speak to a seventeen-year-old. The best you can do is just listen and get away from them as quickly as possible. Plan to send them to a college far, far away. Or farther.

And now I am old. Or so my kids say. I'm dumber, fatter, more patient, and very funny. This is what I have learned. If you can laugh, you won't die. If you can wait, things will probably get better. Who needs brains?

Not all dogs are the same...

Yesterday I met Wesley, the 20 lb Siberian Husky and Schnauzer mix. He looks like the dog in the Winn Dixie movie only cuter.

So, I go home and I'm talking to my doberman and I say, "Hey, Riley, I met this dog today and interestingly enough he's cuter than you."

Riley: (no comment)

Me: Yeah, and he had these great blue eyes, such a light blue. When he looked at me, I felt that he could read my soul.

Riley: Ears perked up (no comment)

Me: Yeah, so I'm standing there going, wow, this is a great dog. I wish I had a dog like Wesley.

Riley: Head down, two paws crossed on top of snout (no comment)

Me: So , I was thinking that maybe I could steal that dog because he's so cute I could make a million bucks off of him. You know, you are not as cute, Riley. I know this might hurt your feelings, but someone has to tell you that you are NOT the most cutest dog in the world.

Riley: Sitting up, baring teeth

Me: On second thought, maybe he wasn't that cute, Riley. Here, come lay your head down on my lap. Yeah, that's right. You are the cutest dog.

Then I had to break the news to my black lab that he also was not the cutest dog in the world. Moose didn't care. Give him a piece of bread and he thinks you've given him the world.

And that leads me to something else.

Subjective opinions.

One woman's Wesley is another's Riley.

Not everyone can be brilliant

Here is the quote of the week:

"It is less disastrous to turn down a work of genius than to turn down a talented mediocrity."

I don't know who said that, but some editor or publisher said it to some agent at some point in publishing history. And it is a thought to ponder.

Who are the geniuses anyway? Do we recognize them when we see them? Are they usually way out there in left field, ahead of their time maybe? Do they have something to say in a new fresh way that we really don't want to hear?

And what of all the mediocre but talented writers? Are they the fodder of the masses.

I only know what I like and what I don't. I do have one ms I'm working on that I think is brilliant. It is creative beyond the call of duty and just keeps getting better all the time. It has a pub date of 2007 and I'm very excited to see this book take off. It has so much potential it's sizzling.

Well, that's it for today.