Cleaning up the Big Guy

In the last post I discussed finding the appropriate dress for my daughter for the family wedding we attended yesterday. As you'll see when you read that, it was a glorious occasion which shall not be repeated at least for a few years.

I hope.

And after suviving that adventure, I was left still with getting my hubby dressed. That, in itself, is a road trip you don't want to take very often, but occasionally it must be done.

If you met my husband, Big Guy, your first thought might be that he hasn't missed many meals. And you're right. That's not to say that he's fat, because he's not. He likes to use the words chubby and pleasantly plump, but since they've been erased from our vernacular by the Politically Correct Police, we are want to find a word to describe his portly self. The only thing we could come up with was Big Guy (BG).

So, Big Guy is a very casual person and he prefers to wear chinos and polo shirts, even to work. He has managed to work his way from suits to business casual over a period of about 10 years and I am so proud of him for all his hard work. It wasn't easy retraining the small minds of business, but he did it.

Now, Big Guy used to be Pretty Hot Muscular Buff Guy. I know that that was a long time ago, so many that we barely remember it, but unfortunately, most of his dress clothes were bought during the PHMBG stage. He went to the Men's Wearhouse many years ago and bought several suits, my favorite being the double breasted navy blue blazer. When PHMBG put on that jacket with a white shirt and a nice pair of pants, well, I'm telling you, it was hard to keep my hands off him. And then he morphed to BG, and let's say that it's just not the same.

When it came time to discuss clothes, I pulled four jackets from Big Guy's distant past from my daughter's closet where they've been gathering dust for about ten years. Well, thirteen or fourteen. The moths hadn't eaten them. They were still stylist (lapels haven't changed that much in that time, at least not for middle aged big guys.)

It was the time for the ceremonial trying-on. He stood. I stuffed him in the jackets. Checked to see if they'd button. None of them really did. And, with that out of the way, it was a toss up as to which he should wear. Considering that none of them really fit him, it didn't matter. Right?

Right.

I think the thing about getting older and looking back on who we used to be is very hard. I don't really enjoy it. I'd rather forget parts of my youth, like when my gut didn't sag and my hips didn't hurt. I'd also rather not remember when PHMBG looked really hot in that navy blazer. Or when he became BG. That was another time, an era we will probably someday totally forget as we progress from middle-aged to really old farts. One day we'll be in diapers again and our kids will be signing us up for some nursing home that smells like bleach where we'll be locked in our rooms at night so we don't escape. I, for one, know that I would not want to be in a place like that.

But one day, the memory of the blue blazer and that wonderful day 14 years after it's purchase when BG again adored himself with that flannel wonder, well, one day that will be gone. My kids will probably clean out our closets and throw it out, along with the other many memories of our lives, like the back massager which I can't get him to use or the orthotics in our shoes. We have shared so many memories.

Like the time he drove through the garage door. Or the time he "fixed" the oven, only to blow out the thermostat. There was the time I left him in the care of my two year old and came home to find her running across the roof. Yes, these are the memories that make for a great marriage and a fun family. These are the stories my kids will be telling at our gravesites.

"Do you remember the time that Mom didn't talk to Dad for two years?" she'll say.

"Yeah, I do."

"What was that about?" the younger will ask.

"I have no idea. She was so weird. Thank God they keep her locked up now," the older will say.

"And do you remember when Dad took us on that trip to California and made Mom ride up every mountain top on the way? Remember the look on her face at Mt. Shasta?", the younger will say.

"Yeah, she hated heights. She turned kind of green. But, hey, the good news is that she won't be going up any more mountains. She looks pretty stuck in that bed."

"Yeah, they were pretty cool. Crazy, but cool," the older one will say.

"My friends all thought they were the coolest," the younger one will say as she locks our nursing room door and takes her sister by the hand. "So, let's go get a latte and talk about what we're going to do with all their money."

"They had money? I thought we spent it all."

"Yeah, you tried. But there's some left."

"Cool!" the older one will say. "Let's go make plans."

Finding The Right Dress

If you have a 16-year-old girl, then you know how difficult it is to find the right outfit for a special occasion. Whether it be the prom or homecoming, a wedding, a funeral, no matter--it's just not that easy to outfit a descriminating child with the perfect frock.

But it can be done.

And before you set out on said adventure, I suggest that you have two glasses of wine or at least a few shots of tequila and visit the lady's room twice before you leave. Once you have taken the proper amount of sedatives, you are ready for the mall and it is probably ready for you.

Remember, do NOT shop for said frock in advance. You must leave this to the last moment, say, about 3 hours before you need it. That way, your teenager will be forced to settle for something she really doesn't want, but desperation is the mother of invention and you will save yourself hours of shopping if you cram this into a totally unreasonable time frame. Or leave that to your daughter because she loves to perform under pressure.

Remember to ask the child to tell you what she really wants. That way, she can lead you to every fricking store in the mall and try on at least 50 things she really doesn't want, but that might work. Do not discourage this child from trying on everything in sight because you want to wear her out early so she will settle on something reasonable. And you will leave that store to the last.

Make sure that you open the dressing room door in every store and peek in. This is sure to really piss her off and the more pissed off she is, the faster she'll want to get out of the mall which means you will get to the designated store (where she will buy what you want her to buy) before the mall closes.

Remember that there is a pot of gold at the end of this rainbow. It's called the bar. As you are walking from store to store and your feet are starting to burn, think Merlot. Chardonnay. And if this is becoming an especially long venture, think calamari and salad. Crab legs. After all, you will deserve these when you are done.

It is said that saints are born in malls and after 3 hours in yours, you will have passed the Mother Theresa test of patience and there will be someone waiting at the door to hand you a halo. Wear it proudly. You have survived 16 pairs of pants, 23 blouses, 5 jackets, 13 pairs of shoes, 4 pairs of gaucho pants, 6 dresses, and 4 sweaters that don't work. Only someone with the patience of a saint can sit through that many changes while she watches her loved one tie up her Converse sneakers one more time.

And, relax. It's really not that hard to keep your mouth shut. Imagine duct tape, the invisible kind, plastered across your lips. When your child says, "What do you think of this, Mom?", you can answer, "Murfffff," and nod your head yes. After all, she really doesn't want your opinion. She only wants you to bolster her ego and you can do that without saying a word. A lilt of the eyes, a head going up and down. A smile. They all work. Just don't open your mouth and express an opinion because, as you know, that will bring venom of the worst kind from her pretty little lips.

The most important thing to remember before embarking on this trip is that you love your child. Your mantra will be "I can do this. I love her. There is booze at the end of this road. Anything is possible if you believe it will end." I know, it's a long mantra, but you will need it to cover every aspect of your trip.

And enjoy because one day she will grow up and leave you. She'll probably take a credit card when she goes or half your linens. She'll probably clean out everything in her room but this is good. This is what you have been waiting for. You need that room and this trip to the mall is but one way to push your agenda forward.

They all eventually leave. If you change the locks, they can't come back. And you will miss them. So, do your motherly duty. Keep your mouth shut. Take her shopping. And remember the merlot at the end of the trail. It will make it oh, so worthwhile.

Long Time No Blog

Yeah, I've been gone. I was off to a conference and met lots of really nice people and hung out with a friend for a few days. It was lovely there, nice and warm, but cool at night and I had a blast. I think I could get used to traveling a couple of times a month. Maybe I should be careful when I say that.

I'm working on copy edits now and it's moving along ever so slowly. I hate details, it's not in my nature to even care about details, so this is a labor of love. As such, it is taking time and I am learning not to hate it too much. I might actually love it when I'm finished.

And that's it.

Hey, It Won't Be Long Now!

Get your own countdown at BlingyBlob.com

Job Hunting

But first, a message about my brain.

Your Brain's Pattern

You have a tempered, reasonable way of thinking. You tend to take every new idea in, and meld it with your world view. For you, everything is always changing. Each moment is different. Your thinking process tends to be very natural - with no beginnings or endings.

What Pattern Is Your Brain?

Another Day in Blogger Hell

I flipped my blog over to the new Blogger beta thingie and it has refused to let me in for two days. On top of that, my tab and my ctrl C and ctrl V both stopped working. But I have finally gotten it all back up to speed and maybe I can move forward. Maybe not for long.

I'm working on pre-launch promotion on my book. That is going well. I have many ARC reviewers lined up and now I am waiting on my copy edit. And waiting. And waiting.

Waiting is what I do.

Teenagers are a kick

I really do adore teenagers. They are the most creative and goofy characters.

Take for instance my older daughter who, when discussing all her many activities at school and life, suddenly blurted out, "I'm an overexceeder, Mom. I just can't help myself."

"No, honey," I said, "that's overachiever."

She looked at me like I was crazy and hinted that maybe I was a little jealous because she invented new words and I had never done that.

And so it went. This is also the girl who put her face down on her desk when asked by one teacher to put her test face down. I understand that traveled through the channels in the teacher's lounge. And it was cute. Our Little OverExceeder kind of felt that it made her notorious, and she was so proud of that fact. In fact, we brag about it to everyone we know even today!

But now her sister, our Little UnderAchiever, is coming up in the ranks. She can be seen hiding behind her bangs (thank God they're not green), or passing notes about her teacher to the girl on the left. She doesn't want to seem too smart, so she won't be the one waving her hand in the air when the teacher asks a question. NO, she will hide behind her cloak of invisibility and it is her job, not mine, to remove it.

The older one always told us what was going on. In fact, she told us WAY more than we wanted to know. The little one? Well, getting stuff out of her was like prying the door molding off the wall.

So with her, we've had to resort to a higher power.

Wendy's and Target. They're about as high as you can get.

In the past, we've had to beg for information and bribe her with things like a Frostie at Wendy's or new socks from Target if we want to get anything out of her. She has so many socks that I had to buy her a new dresser. Then there was all the garbage from the Frosties and the sock packages. My garbage man started asking questions about the socks, and really, it's so personal. This has become a costly endeavor, never mind the probing eye of the garbage man, and we would like to change. But, alas, we are parents of the worst sort (American) and seem totally unable to evolve. It is because of this that our Little Underachiever is so unique and stubborn. And we are so proud of her!

There are times when we could have used a little help, but we never asked. These teenagers are of our making (it's like genes meet jeans) and we love them just the way they are. We think they're wildly creative and they think we're really old and stupid. But it works for us!

The Ernie and Bert Terror Alert

Nail Biting 101

Since I'm a writer, I should probably talk about books, the business, revisions, book covers, reviews, agents, editors, publishers, promotion, marketing, and deadlines. But there are so many people who do that so well that I think I'll skip that and talk about the things that interest me.

Like nail biting.

I have been a dedicated nail biter for a very long time. I started when I was about three, I think, and I have managed to perfect it as an art form. There's the bite-and-rip, which often leaves bloody corners in the nail bed. There's the nibble, where you just take chunks off the very end of the nail. And there is the cuticle-assault, where you gnaw on the dry cuticles until you expose raw skin. And always, there is the healing period where you look at your nails and sigh because they look like crap.

Nail biting is an activity that centers around anxiety and stress. There's dramatic- music-in-a-movie nail biting, which is my favorite. Lesser forms include I'm-late-for-work, my-husband-is-pissing-me-off, my-teenager-won't-look-me-in-the-eyes, and the ever-fun oh-let's-just-bite-because-that's-what-I-do.

So, imagine my surprise when I looked down the other day and realized that I hadn't bitten my nails in a really long time. They had actually grown to the end of my fingers! You can imagine my surprise at discovering that I had broken the habit of nail biting without doing a thing.

There are several theories floating around about how that could have happened. Someone (my husband) hypnotised me in my sleep. I was taken over by an alien. I don't have stress in my life anymore because I've reached a whole new level of consciousness and my all time favorite --I just don't know.

This is truly disturbing. Now don't get me wrong. I like having nails and everything. But I'm a bit perturbed that I've made this big life change and somehow I wasn't aware that I was doing it. And considering how much energy the other changes in my life have taken, this one is a real surprise.

To celebrate my new nails, I went out and bought some really expensive polish, a nail file, and cuticle oil. They are sitting on my desk so I can, at a moment's notice, primp those puppies. I've learned to file the sides so they don't look quite so wide (I guess I have big fingers). I can put on polish with my left hand (a feat that was not easily learned), and I do spend a lot of time admiring these rose-colored magnificants.

But I do have to wonder what's next? Will I wake up thin? Will my gray hair go back to being brown? Will my fallen arches suddenly rise to their original position? Are the lines on my face going to disappear?

This is the beauty of life. You just never know what's around the next corner.

This is Cool!

I applied to be a writing mentor to a teenager at Absynthe Muse the other day and I was accepted. I'm hoping to work with an incarcerated teen but I don't know when I start yet.

And I'm kind of excited about this. I really like to teach and I really love teenagers. So, I'll have to keep you informed.

I'm back from Eastern Washington. I had a great time with my 20-year-old. She is such a kick. Great sense of humor, goofy as hell, full of energy, and definitely lacking in the vocabulary department.

When she was about 17, she came to me one day to talk. "Mom," she said, "I'm having a problem. I'm really stressed with school and leadership and all."

So, I said, "Back off a little. Maybe you took on too much."

"Yeah, you're probably right," she answers. "I really am an overexceeder."

I start laughing. "It's not overexceeder, kiddo. It's overachiever."

She looks at me kind of dumbfounded. "Same thing," she says. "Then she kind of smiles. "And," she says, "no wonder I'm so worn out. I even make up words."

I'm Back -- Again!

It's been the summer of driving back and forth across Washington State. First, it was Spokane for the Fourth of July. Then it was Chelan for our summer vacation. And last it was to the unversity where my daughter is studying.

There is something really nice about seeing your children do well. Or watching them smile and laugh as they glide through life. I rode home feeling very grateful to have great kids, a nice husband, a home I love, and future that excites me because I know I am VERY fortunate.

I've Been Neglectful

I know, I know. My usually funny posts about something in my life have really slipped of late. Ever since I went on vacation, I haven't been able to get back into the swing of things.

I think what's happened is that I've been home too long. What I need is a new job and something to do eight hours a day. This sitting here at the keyboard and periodically clicking on every favorite link is getting old.

I know, I know. I could be writing. But there's no incentive. No pressure. No reason to get on with it. I'm really slipping.

I don't get out enough. My local mall is not that thrilling. There's usually three or four businesses going OUT of business and something new is always coming in, but
there's only so many times you can drool at the goodies in Victoria's Secret before you start looking like the town mental case. In fact, things are so bad that I forgot to use my $10 off birthday certificate from them. It just rattles me.

I've even stopped cleaning. And since my little Electrolux vacuum decided to die, I haven't felt so bad about doing nothing. I asked my husband to take it to the vacuum fixing guy and he lamented that he'd been there two times in the last month and the guy was going to start charging him more. He actually wanted me to take it to someone here, locally. I gasped and put my hand to my neck! He wanted me to do something? Go out and talk to the public? My God, the man has gone over the deep end.

I do have a lunch date with a friend tomorrow, at another mall. This one is much more entertaining. I could kill a day there.

Or I could go back to the casino. Last time I went, my husband warned me not to bet too high on those penny machines. Wouldn't want to let forty-five cents go down the drain at one time, no, not me. I was so traumatized by his warning that I bet one cent on the machines and it took me (gasp) six hours to lose $40. Actually, it was the longest losing streak I've ever had.

And that's another thing. When I came back from the casino, my husband tells me that maybe there is a message in the fact that I haven't won a dime at the casino in months. He gave me that tilted head look, the "honey, you're wasting good money" stare, but he said nothing else. I looked back at him. "Yes, there is a message here, I am sure of it. I need more practice!" And I planned my next deposit at the Tulalip Casino.

Don't you love Indian casinos? I do. There's nothing like the rush of five gazillion burning cigarettes to get your throat burning. And the thrill of winning, that one really gets me. There's a certain excitement as you watch a guy sit down at the machine you just lost on, put in a 9 cent bet, and win $85.00. Yep, it's exhilarating, especially since I'd been praying all day, "Give me a winner, Lord. Come on, let me win some money." So, finally He gives me a good machine and I move off it before it starts paying off.

I think that's what my husband meant about the message. That maybe somehow God was looking down and telling me to get my ass out of that casino. Well, if I do that, what am I going to do with all my time? Tell me, huh? Just what am I going to do?

Great Lyrics

My daughter played this song by Beck for me today and I'm just mesmerized by the lyrics. You have to listen to this. You can find it on Media Player by doing a search. It reminded me of a few relationships I had as a teen where I had to give up on people and leave them behind. Here are the lyrics:

Beck - Lost Cause Lyrics


Your sorry eyes
cut through the bone
Make it hard to leave
you alone
Leave you here
wearing your wounds
Waving
your guns at somebody new

[chorus]:
Baby you're a
lost,
baby you're a lost
Baby you're a lost cause

There's too many people
you used to know
They see you coming,
they see you go
They know your
secrets,
and you know theirs
This town is crazy,
nobody
cares

[chorus]

I'm tired of fighting,
I'm tired of fighting
Fighting for a lost cause

There's a place you are going
You ain't never
been before
No one laughing
at your back now
No
one's standing at your door
That's what you
thought love was for

[chorus]

I'm tired of
fighting, I'm tired of fighting
Fighting for a lost
cause

Adding Content

In the spirit of better websites everywhere, I have added some content to mine today. One of the things that might interest you writers out there is the query letter writing article. There's also one on school bullying that actually placed in the Writer's Digest contest a while back (a long while back).

I've also put up a couple of other things, including a flyer for book that comes out in February.

Find them on the "other stuff" page on my website, which is here:
www.judygregerson.com



(Blogspot is screwing with my mind again and won't make my link appear, so if there are two links on your screen, just click on one.)

I'm Not Dead

Contrary to popular opinion, I am not dead. I'm back from vacation and trying to get into some sort of routine which will probably include finding a job now that summer is about over. Ugh!

But I need a diversion. I spent most of the summer working on pre-launch promotion for my forthcoming book, bad birls club, in February. It took hours and hours of research to get the information I needed to create the kinds of connections I want for publicizing my book. I've read four books on public relations (I worked in the field, so not much of it is new except the fine details of book promotion), a book on publicizing your book by an industry insider, and several other books on marketing (also my background).

And after about 6 weeks, I'm sick of it. Sick of all of it. I don't want to read another book, send another email, or contact another reviewer even if my life depended on it. I don't know how people do this full time because as fun as it was to jump into, it's equally fun to get away from. Not something I'd want to do full time. Ugh.

The book business is sometimes very exhausting. There is no end to the things you can do to publicize a book, but there is an end to my patience. I've reached it today.

But, after a few weeks rest, I'll probably be at it again. Meanwhile, I'm thinking of doing a reprint of my first book, in paperback this time, and getting that on the market to sell. I must be crazy.

In case anyone wondered

This is how the head shot turned out.

Fun in the Sun

Oh, the joys of vacation! Afternoons at the beach. Warm nights watching the sun go down. Good meals. Sun stroke.

Yeah, sun stroke. It's a real fun part of going on vacation. I've never had it before and I hope to never get it again, but two days ago I did get sun stroke and thought I might die.

I've been in the sun during the summer all my life. I've never had a problem. I use sun block. SPF 45, as a matter of fact. I hang on my floatie for hours every day and I've always been fine.

Not the other day. And it scared the crap out of me.

Everything was fine. I'd been at the beach for a few hours and came back to the condo to eat dinner. Suddenly, I was nauseous. Horribly nauseous. Then I became very hot. I didn't think much of it, and headed to the casino. While there, I became very weak and didn't think I'd make it home. I had no idea what was happening to me, but I knew I was getting very, very sick. So I headed back to the condo (and left my winning penny slot machine!). On my way home, I became disoriented and ended up at the grocery store rather than the condo. But I was able to pull it together and get back home. My husband took one look at me and handed me a big glass of water. I went to bed and after about 20 minutes, I could feel the weakness leave my body. The nausea went. My temperature dropped.

I ran into an EMT in town yesterday and told her about what happened. Yep, heat stroke she said. Not good.

I don't think I'll ever feel the same about going to the beach. I now have a six pack of Gatorade at my side. And bottles of water.

Five Days on the Family Yacht

I haven't posted for a while because I was getting ready for our annual trip to Lake Chelan, where I totally relax and have fun. Now I am here, relaxing and having fun and also catching up on what's happening in cyberspace. I cannot live without my laptop.

So, yesterday afternoon, after the crowds had left the beach, my husband I launched the yacht. There is nothing so fine as being on the water, feeling the rocking of the waves beneath you, and listening to the water lap upon the side of your boat. I love to sit there and feel myself go with the water as I look out on the lake and the hills that surround it.

"So, uh, what do you think?" the hubby says.

"Oh, this is very cool. Better than last year."

"Well, we had a better year, we can afford more."

"True, and daughter number one is buying her own food now at college. That helps a lot."

"Yeah, and even though you quit your job to publicize your book, we're still ok."

"That's right."

"So, what do you want to name her?"

"The family yacht?"

"Oh, I don't know. You have any ideas?"

"Yeah, I do."

"Such as?"

"How about we call it Floatie One and Floatie Two."

And we're back to reality.

"Darn you, why did you have to remind me that I'm on a floatie. I was really getting into the boat fantasy."

"Sorry."

"Yeah, sorry my foot!"

Graceful Like a Rock and 10 free ARCs

She was a woman who, between courses, could be graceful with her elbows on the table.
Henry James
(1843-1916)

Yeah, well, I put my elbows on the table all the time and I look as graceful as anyone else.

Well, the week is shaping up. And here's the blather on me.

Yesterday I had my head shot done by a professional photographer. Let's just say that my face muscles freeze when I have to pose for anyone, so it wasn't easy getting great pictures of me. But I need them and I have to have them right away, so I tried my best. He took 600 pictures and out of that, I think we'll probably get 10 really decent ones. I'll have proofs tomorrow and final copies in a week maybe. And that will be the end of that.

I've done my advising at college and I'm going to finish my degree. This might take a few years, but I can finish up all my requirements in two quarters and then move on to upper level stuff. I've wanted to do this for a long time since my first two tries at college were dismal affairs. Perhaps the third will be the charm.

I've made my list of who gets ARCs (Advance Reader Copies)of my book. If anyone out there wants one and is willing to do a review, send me an email and I'll see that you get one. That's unless I get four gazillion people asking for ARCs and I really don't have that many. So, let's say the top 10 people can have one. You need to tell me who you review for and where to send the book. And I would like a copy of the review.

That's it.

My Internet Has Fallen and It Can't Get Up!

bedlam
Definition: (noun) A place or situation of noisy uproar and confusion. (Like my desk today.)


Ok, I'll bite on the idea that heat wrecks computers. And I believe it only because both my friend's computers crashed today, another said hers acted like it might, and mine nearly did.

I think the AOL Virus and Protection Software Thingie lost its mind this morning and if the heat factor is what started up the AOL crankiness, I think this is what happened:

The Cranky Virus Protection Thingie (CAOLVPT) probably was not happy to begin with because it had to compete with AVG Virus Protection (AVGVP). AVGVP is very hot (as everyone knows), so I'm sure that jealousy is to blame. You know how jealousy works. You can't stand to see anyone else do well, so you plot your revenge in dainty little steps, as you plan on completely destroying your enemy. I'm sure that the CAOLVPT worked itself into a lather and then cast its venom upon my computer like a drunk throwing up a gallon jug of MD 20/20. It disabled AVGVP (mwahahaha) on the first wave of nausea. That had to have felt really, really good (and you know how it feels to get rid of some really bad hooch). I mean, how can CAOLVPT compete with a high class program like AVGVP? And now it was knocked on it's ass.

When it saw that it could get away with that, the second wave came, only this one was worse. It began an insidious and relentless attack upon the poor, pitiful components of my computer. First it disabled my CD drive, then my Control Panel, and finally Internet Explorer. Was that enough? NO, it wasn't. There were yet more waves to come. The last had empowered it to continued it's rein of terror (spewing of puke) by disabling YahooIM, my Start Taskbar, my Windows Media Player and my Dancer. (Can't tell you how much I missed that one.) You wouldn't have wanted to see my computer at this point, so I won't describe it.

But then, as it always is with revenge, the CAOLVPT began to turn its wrath upon itself, completely taking out the AOL program in one last bolt, sending sparks flying in every direction. Smoke bellowed from the box. Moans were heard. And then it died.

But I was not defeated. No, not I. At that very moment, God was looking down on me and parting the clouds as I busily worked away on my machine and I think I heard the sound of harps and a heavenly choir. It was one of those moments when you realize that life is worth living and you must press on, no matter what the cost! I uninstalled, I reinstalled, I pleaded, I begged, I promised. I lay prostrate on the floor and then I got up because I knew that my answer had come (belief is a powerful thing, you know).

Let's just say that I cleaned it all up in one felled swoop and managed to get everything running really well. The room became brighter and for a moment, I nearly felt divine. But when I got on AOL, all my saved mail was gone, as were all my links and my address book. I was able to import the mail and the links, but the address book is yet to be seen. AOL tells me that its server will find it and send it to me, but as of yet, it hasn't returned.

I will wait, though. I love my address book. It was the only casualty of this war (see the Crow War posts) but I am taking it hard. I will stand at my computer (OK, sit) and wait for it to pop its pretty little face upon my screen and then I will know that I have lived to fight another day.

As the Heatwave Subsides

Subsides is a misleading word. What the headwave is doing is holding on by its teeth as it's being ripped out of the atmosphere by some other front that's coming in behind it. And that means that today it's hotter than hell again, but it will probably be gone tomorrow.

Probably is a misleading word. In the world of Seattle weather forecasts, nothing is a given. They can say sun and it will rain. They can say cool and it can be hot. They can say snow and we'll get a 60 degree day. Of course, from September to June you can say rain and it probably will rain during some point of that day. Ah, the power of cheese! (I mean prediction.)

So, as the heatwave holds on for dear life, I continue my search for an agent. I'm a tad perkier today because it's not 90 in my house today. It's only a chilling 86, but that four degrees is enough to take my mind out of a fog and put the synapses back in place. Yes, I can think again. I'm burning up but the brain is working. And the agent search is on.

So, as I await word from someone in New York City (Hello, I'm over here!), I will get back to my MG novel and try to be good. The heat has taken all the feistiness out of me. And my recent computer problems have exhausted me, thank you AOL.

On to Day Two of the Heat Wave

Quotation of the Day
You may deceive all the people part of the time, and part of the people all the time, but not all the people all the time.
Abraham Lincoln
(1809-1865)

I don't know how that will affect my day, but maybe it will.

Well, day two of our heatwave is upon us. It's looking kind of cloudy out there and I can only hope that a huge thunderhead rolls in and ends this misery. I tried to write yesterday but my brain cells were percolating instead of making synapse connections, so I gave that up. Besides, who can write when it's 91 degrees in your house? Not I!

Besides, moderate temperatures are why I moved to Seattle. Well, that's a lie. I moved here for some guy, if the truth be told, and then he dumped me I ended up living in this mansion/boarding house with a selection of odd characters and weirdos. There was the guy who claimed to be hiding out from some good old boys in the deep south. The transexual who was half way through the sex change process. The longshoreman I eventually married and then quickly divorced when he decided that I should support him. There was the ballerina who didn't dance and the school teacher who also eventually got married. My favorite was the guy with the Harley who took me for rides all over Seattle on his bike. We also had an engineer, a freelance writer for Time Magazine who went to Central America for some coup and ended up stabbed in the chest. There was the aloe salesman who had everyone drinking aloe juice, and really, I forget the rest. Oh, and of course, there was the landlady who often ended up getting beat to a pulp by guys who worked for her when she stopped payment on their checks. No end of fun in that place!

It was also the place where I was electrocuted. I was living in the sunroom. Everyone there had space heaters and you ran them day and night because the landlady refused to turn on the heat. Anyway, mine had been going for a long time and one day I accidentally picked up the cord (which had frayed) and got a zap so big it sent me flying through the French doors. And all the while I am thinking that this was a pretty silly way to die. You know how your life flashes before you when you're dying? Well, the only thing that flashed before me was this: so this is how it all ends!

As you know, I lived. I did have electrical burns all down my arm and I've really not been quite the same since. I should write about living in the Pink Palace, as we called it. But mostly I'm trying to forget.

So, what does this have to do with our heatwave? Nothing, really. Nothing at all.

Something New to Worry About

Be on guard against men who can strike from a distance.
Aesop
(620 BC-560 BC)

How far is a distance? A few feet? A couple hundred yards? A mile? Maybe 2000 miles? Perhaps the next blog in Blogspot's list of ramblers like myself?

This is just what I need today. It's not like I don't have enough to worry about and now I have to think about what could be coming out of nowhere, at any time, and without warning.

On to the Head Shot

Words, as is well known, are the great foes of reality.
Joseph Conrad
(1857-1924)

No, Joseph, you're wrong. The great foe of reality is a picture.

Ok, take two of the head shot is approaching. This is becoming a very expensive endeavor as the last one cost me $150 and I looked like a doberman on speed. It was right around the time I was leaving my job after a few months (ok, a year) of intense stress and if you looked at those pictures you'd think that someone had stuck a poker of some sort up my butt.

So, take two.

This better be good. It's being done by a talent photographer in Seattle (just saying the word talent gives me shivers) and I was advised to hire a makeup artist. A makeup artist? Yeah, you heard me right.

Let's just pretend for a moment that they'd actually seen me before they made that suggestion. I'm not the young chicken I used to be. My eyelids swell. Sometimes a lot, thank you processed wheat. I do have a very fleshy neck (nothing a little surgery couldn't fix right up) and I tend to look tired. I won't tell you what that's about because telling you about my wheat allergy put me way out of my comfort zone, but just imagine for a moment a middle aged woman (as my children starting calling me when I reached 35) with puffy eyes. Can a makeup artist fix THAT?

Probably not. But thanks to airbrushing, I can wipe at least ten years off my face. That, a bottle of Miss Clairol, the new moisturizing I'm test driving for a friend, a haircut, and a good night's sleep might make me photogenic.

Or, it could be a disaster. When I think of photo disasters, I think of my husband. Whenever we have a family portrait done, he manages to somehow be looking at the ceiling, the fat lady in the corner of the room, or at the floor. He has shifty eyes, they're always looking somewhere else, but certainly not in the camera. No, that would be too easy.

I don't want to look like him. But I have these lips that turn down. It's a family trait. We look mad if we don't have a big smile on our faces. We are the maddest looking bunch of people you ever met and if you didn't know me, you would probably think I was very stern.

I'm not looking forward to this.

EVIL EDITOR

EVIL EDITOR

Ok, the Evil Editor is at it again. I'm perplexed at how much these queries read like a synopsis. Am I missing something here?

Quote of the Day

I really like this one:

One can know a man from his laugh, and if you like a man's laugh before you know anything of him, you may confidently say that he is a good man.
Fyodor Dostoyevsky
(1821-1881)

Do you think?

Well, nothing to report today. As I said yesterday, the crows are gone and life is back to normal. It really was back to normal yesterday, but I killed the whole day on the net doing a whole lot of nothing. And since this blog is about a whole lot of nothing, I suppose that I fulfilled my mission for that twenty-four hours.

So, I am on to other things, whatever that might be.

And remember, at the bottom of this page are lots of nuggets of insignificant trivia for your reading pleasure.

New Features!

Quote of the day:

It is essential to seek out enemy agents who have come to conduct espionage against you and to bribe them to serve you. Give them instructions and care for them. Thus doubled agents are recruited and used.
Sun Tzu
(544 BC-496 BC)

I wonder if this applies to writing.

Oh, boy, we're going big time now. If you scroll down to the very bottom, you will find the Word of the Day, the Quotation of the Day, Hangman, and This Day in History. I know, this is important stuff.

Remember, today is the day that Disneyland opened.

The Crow War Has Ended

Yep, the crows have gone home, helpless and defeated by my superior intellect. It probably helps that I have six inch walls to protect me from their nasty little beaks.

Here's the casualty count:

Crows:

1 dead
1 wounded

Humans:

0 dead
0 wounded

Cats

0 dead
0 wounded
1 initimidated

Dogs:

0 dead
0 wounded
1 intimidated

Now that this is over, I suppose I should go back to working on my humor novel. This ate up two whole days, but it was fun.

The First Casualty of the Crow War

If you've been following my crow thread (The Crow Has Landed, see below) you'll want to know that there has been a death. But, such is war, I guess.

This is how it went down. When the crows realized they were losing the war, they sent for reinforcements. Unfortunately, there were none, as most crows are off bothering the folks over on the next block this time of day. So, they called for volunteers within their own ranks. The only one was another baby crow, sans all his flying feathers, who apparently felt it was his duty to come to the rescue of his young sibling.

I'm sure the conversation went something like this:

"Ok, who's going?" said the big crow.

"Pick me! I'll go." (That's Junior, the little crow.)

"You're too young, Junior. Sit back down in that nest and eat that shiny quarter I gave you."

"You always say that. It's not fair!" (At this point, the young bird throws a tantrum.)

"Cut it out! I can't stand it when you whine."

"I'm not whining."

Isn't that the way it is with kids?

Well, apparently they let him go. He stood on the branch of the cedar tree and took his solo flight into the air, over my backyard, and landed right in the ivy.

Unfortunately, before I could save him, the cat ran in and dragged him off, never to be found.

Well, if you think that the crows were pissed before, you have no clue how mad they are now. I am awaiting reinforcements which I believe will arrive around dusk. Meanwhile, the cat is in hiding, the dog won't go out and I managed to escape and make a run for Round Table Pizza.

A really cool obit

I love obits and this is one of the funnier ones.

http://www.legacy.com/TimesDispatch/DeathNotices.asp?Page=LifeStory&PersonID=18382676

The Strategy of Crows

Ok, I'm getting the hang of this now. What crows do is set up sentries at strategic points around your property. There's one on the cedar tree in the front. One on the birch in the back. One at the other end of the property to the south. The picture above shows the one in my back yard.

Then they go dead silent. Pretend they're not there.

So, you send the cat out and they go crazy. My cat is now cowering under a branch, on top of the fence next to my bedroom. He doesn't dare move.

This is getting interesting. Wonder what they'll do if I send the dog out? Or my husband?

An Update on the Mutant Flies

Well, it's not looking good. I have a total of three (out of what, maybe a hundred) flies on my fly paper. What's weirder is that usually the flies buzz around the house and create havoc by landing in your food, on your face, or on your nose while you're sleeping.

No, not these flies. They all flew to the window sills and died. The whole bunch of them.

Makes you wonder what's going on in the environment.

Now to clean out the windows.

The Crow Has Landed

You have to wonder what kind of impact a mother has on her children. I am wondering that very thing myself, because an odd thing happened tonight that made me realize that my Mom had more influence on my thoughts than I ever thought.

So, anyway, she was raised Christian Science and was very superstitious. I don't know if those things go together. Might be that someone in her family was superstitious, or maybe just she was. But, she got in a fight with her Mom when she was nine, and that night her mother was killed. It devastated her for the rest of her life. She was orphaned and at sixteen went to live with an aunt. The poor woman had a horrible childhood.

But, anyway, she used to have these silly superstitions about things that really creeped me out as a kid and tonight one of them kicked in.

I was sitting at my computer reading email when my husband hollers out that a crow has flown into our house and is now residing in the living room. Most people would think of rescuing the crow, but my first thought was to call both my daughters.

Why you ask? Because my mom always said that if a bird flew into the house that someone in that house would die very soon. Ok, it's superstition, but I'm sitting at my computer in a panic. A bird once flew into our house when I was a kid, and that night one of my sister's friends was in a horrible car accident and got quite mangled up.

So, I was thinking of calling my oldest, who is away at college because any self-respecting mother would warn her children. Right? The conversation would have gone something like this.

"Are you OK?"

"Yeah, Mom, I'm fine. What's up?"

"Well, don't go out tonight. Don't drive anywhere. Don't get near a street."

"WHY?"

"Well, this bird flew in the house and..."

"Mom, you been drinking again?"

"How can you say that. I don't drink."

"Sure, Mom. Uh, so, you have finally gone over the deep end? You know, I worry about you and I always thought this would happen."

"No, I have not gone over the deep end! And I don't know how you can say that. Everyone knows that if a bird flies in the house that someone is going to die. It could be you, but don't take me seriously. Just don't blame me if you die, you heartless, ungrateful child!"

CLICK!

Anyway, after realizing that I really didn't want to have that conversation, I came to my senses, put the phone down, and rescued the bird. I took it to one of a few wildlife rescues in this country and the gal took him and said she could make him well.

We named him Carl.

They say he'll live, but I don't know about his friends. Right now, I have a flock of crows dive bombing my property. They travel in packs (?) of eight and all eight of them (well, seven now) are waiting for us to give up the captive bird.

I can hear them talking.

Crow #1: "Ok, so we're going in. They have Carl."

Crow #2: "Let's get the dog. That'll bring 'em to their knees."

Crow #3: "And the cat. They treat that cat like royalty."

Crow# 4, 5, 6,and 7: "Ok, on the count of three we're going in. Have no mercy."

This seige may go on for a while, so if I disappear, just think of the movie THE BIRDS.

My Book Cover Again

I had to delete my posts about my cover because the website wasn't linking. So, here is the cover. My URL is http://www.judygregerson.com But if it doesn't link, you can always link to my website from my profile page.

Someone stole my chainsaw!

I promised last night that I'd show you a picture of my blower and my chainsaw, my two favorite appliances. I call them appliances because, to me, they are as essential as any toaster or microwave oven. More so. So, anyway, here is a picture of my blower. I can't post a picture of my chainsaw because it's missing.

Ok, this is disturbing. I just cleaned out my garage and was looking forward to using that chainsaw. There's nothing I like more than whacking up a dead stump or some tree limbs. And now, I am at a loss.

Where did the chainsaw go? Did someone come into my garage and steal it? Come on! The blade was dull, it needed oil, and was out of gasoline. Why would someone want my chainsaw. It could not possibly have the sentimental value to anyone else that it does to me, and, besides, it's MINE!

I cannot believe that I spent 3 full days cleaning that garage and now I can't find my favorite appliance. I don't know what I'm going to do.

This could be a real day wrecker.

Eccentric? Don't you believe them!

No picture for tonight's post. But I promise that tomorrow I will put up a picture of my blower and my chainsaw. I made mention of that about 2 weeks ago and I did get my digital camera working again thanks to the Energizer Bunny (thank you, Bunny) and tomorrow is the day. And crap,

Oh, so here's the story. I realized today that I am wearing the same outfit that I had on four days ago. Why is this you ask? Because I'm in my writer mode. And it goes something like this. You wake up and realize you need to get to your computer RIGHT away because time is wasting away. So, you drag out of bed, which in my case is difficult since I have a bad back.

But wait, you must brush your teeth. You have a Sonosomethingorother, so you go into the bathroom and run that across your teeth for about 10 seconds, because, as I said, time is wasting away and tooth decay is no excuse for bad literature.

But wait! You need clothes. Looking through drawers, ironing, pulling out something new takes time and you have no time because time is wasting away, as I told you before, and it is quite possible that you might die before you finish the next novel, so you pick up the clothes you wore yesterday, the day before, the day before that, and the day before that, and you take a quick sniff.

If they smell a little odd, you spray some lavender and vanilla scented oil on them because, really, no one is going to notice if you stink, because, after all, you are a WRITER. You don't go anywhere. Ok, you go out for food once a week. But you certainly don't visit friends. You don't attend "social" functions where you're required to look good and I'd place bets that you don't really give a rip what you look like. In fact, you don't put on makeup, and you don't brush your hair.

These all take time. Precious minutes that are ticking away as your body slowly (or quickly) dies and you are racing the clock of death because that next novel is calling to you like you're some kind of junkie and it's your fix. Such is the life of a writer.

And they call us eccentric. Well, I'm here to tell you that we are NOT eccentric. We're just nuts. And if you look through the history of writers over the decades and perhaps centuries of modern literature (or perhaps old literature which is now rotting in some ancient library or collector's home), you will notice that most writers died of alcoholism or perhaps insanity and if they were really lucky, they just got hit by a truck.

I really don't know anyone who got hit by a truck but I often feel like I'm being hit by a truck as I write my novels because half the time I don't know what I'm doing, which is why writers drink or eat chocolate.

Ok, so, tomorrow I bring out the pictures of the blower and the chainsaw and tell their stories. I don't think they're novel worthy, but they certainly are interesting. And tomorrow I promise that I will take a shower, spend 2 minutes brushing my teeth, and I WILL change my clothes. Unless I'm in a rush.

Mutant Flies!

Ok, something is wrong around here. Very, very wrong. And I'm beginning to think that I'm being scammed.

Here's the story: I've been leaving my doors (screens) open the last few weeks and let's just say that there are a few flies in my house. Actually, more than a few and some of them are big. And they're in just about every room in the house.

But that shouldn't be a problem, right? You go to the store, you buy fly paper, you stick it up on your ceiling and the flies are history. Yeah, well, you'd think that would work, but I'm here to tell you that it doesn't.

I've had two fly papers hanging for a week. So far, they've only caught one Mayfly. If you're not from the Pacific Northwest, you may not know what a Mayfly is, but it's this big honking thing with long, long legs. Anyway, it's stuck on the fly paper, but not one stinking fly body has yet appeared.

You have to wonder. Have flies mutated over the winter? Have they become smarter? Do they know that fly paper kills? And if so, how did they find out? Why are they flying in every corner of the room but the two where the fly paper is hanging? And if fly paper worked for years and years, why doesn't it work this year? Is mine old? Past its expiration point? Does fly paper have an expiration date? Do I care? No, I don't care. I just want to catch the flies.

So, now I'm going to have to resort to a fly swatter. This is OLD technology, folks. It requires work. I hate work and if you don't believe me, read down where I go on about it, almost endlessly.

I thought of training my dog to catch the little buggers. My cat isn't much help. Heck, my cat only catches my daughter's escaped mice. When we had mice, or a small infestation of them, did he catch those? NO, he did not! Only our own personal stash of mice did he mutilate.

I could put the hubby on it. Make him chase flies. I could open all the doors and windows and blow them out with huge fans. I could move. I could spray them with insect killer.

So many options. So little time.

IDIOT OF THE WEEK!

And the award goes to Dun and Bradstreet for their efforts and making business better for everyone, everywhere.

Ok, here's how this story goes. In 1999 when I first started "selling" little pieces of my writing, I got a business license for tax purposes. I named it Dancing Word Productions, you know, a catchy little title that made me stand out. I had business cards made and handed them out at conferences or to whomever.

So, a couple of years ago, I get a call from D&B wanting more information on my "business". I told them that I wasn't in business, that I was a freelance writer and there was nothing they needed to know about me. And I hung up.

Well, today I was googling myself just to make sure my website is up there and what do I find but a company called Manta and also D&B, and they are selling reports on my "business". For $9.95 you can get basic information on me, for $139 you can get a crap load of information on me. (Not that there is any.) But wait, it gets better. I'm not a freelance author. I'm a dance studio and fine arts organization. So they say.

So, I call D&B. The Manta business has NO phone number listed (gee, how convenient). I get a D&B rep on the phone, tell him my story, ask him to remove my listing. Oh, no, they won't remove my listing. I'm a business. In fact, they are legally able to sell my listing and they are sending me the documents that prove that they can! But, they will change the listing so it shows "author" rather than dance studio.

OK, D&B, what is your problem? I don't do business with anyone. When I sell a book, I'm a private contractor. I got the freaking license for tax purposes ONLY, not to do business, not to be listed on your site, not to have my address and phone number sold to some dance catalog business. What is your problem?

So, the moral of the story is this: I have no clue! Life sucks? D&B sucks? I'm not sure.

The World Hotdog Eating Championship

Yep, you saw it first on ESPN. Remember, the E in ESPN stands for ENTERTAINMENT and this was certainly entertaining.

It was Joey Chestnut with 52 and the Japanese guy with 53. Each had their own style. Joey kind of stuffed the hotdogs in, or twisted them into his mouth like a corkscrew and the other guy, he chomped down in big bites.

These are some athletes! Apparently they train for the competition.

Ok, how do you train for a hotdog eating contest? You have trial runs? You practice at home? WHAT?

I felt bad for Joey. He constantly looked like he might puke. The other guy, though, he had focus. He could eat and eat and nary a vein popped out on his head. He showed tremendous focus.

I wonder if they have a puke bucket behind them.

Well, here's how it might have gone if I'd been reporting:

"Ok, we're in Coney Island today for the Nathan's Hotdog sponsored World Hotdog Eating Championship. Remember, Nathan's put the "N" in hotdogs. It's a beautiful day in Coney Island. The sun is out, there's a bit of a haze, and you can hear the ocean behind us. Or is it the sound? Oh, who cares?"

"It's the American, Joey Chestnut, against that Japanese guy with the yellow hair and the headband, whatever his name is. The Japanese guy beat Joey at the National Hamburger Eating Championship, so there's a lot at stake here, folks. You can see the sweat pouring down their faces."

"The crowd stands in anticipation as about twenty people stand behind the table, each with a judge in front of them, ready for today's nitrate gobbling fest. Yes, you saw it here first, and only, on ESPN, the channel for professional sports."

"And they're off!"

Yes, it was an exciting twelve minutes. True TV. It had suspense, competition, young people, a woman, a guy with a towel on his head, and one with face paint. Never have I been so thrilled to watch athletes compete at such a high level.

Well, that's what I've been doing today. Watching professional, trained athletes gorge themselves on hotdogs. What fun!

Why I Like Rodents and Here Comes Dad!

Ok, I admit it. I have this thing about rodents. I really, really like rats and mice and gerbils and hamsters and, and, and...and whatever other rodents there are that you can put in a cage. I know this is sick, but it's how I am. (And, yes, I will get to the part of this story that goes with the picture of the plane, but hold on!)

I confess that it started when my youngest, then about five, wanted to get a rat. She convinced me that they are social creatures with a heart of gold (come on!) and that she had to have one. Like any self-respecting mother, I said yes. You can have one, but you have to take care of it.

But everybody knows about Norman, the rat. (I've talked about him in other posts, so you'll have to go read that if you want the gory details.) He's the rat who is buried under the big log with the cross (made of pencils) jammed in the top in my backyard. He received the highest level burial in this family, better even than my own father who insisted that we spread his ashes over his favorite tavern.

Now that's a story. Ok, so my brother, my niece, my sister, and the pilot go up in this little two seater plane, nearly taking out a few trees on their way up, and my other sister and I wait on the shore of the bay, next to my father's favorite tavern, for the arrival of the ceremonial tossing of the ashes. Finally the plane comes along, they open the window, and then dump the ashes out of the plane. I pull up my hood and yell to my sister, "Take cover! Here comes Dad," (you'd have to understand the relationships here to get this) as the ashes land on MY head. Yes, MY head. And my sister's head. Totally missed the tavern. Hardly got any in the bay. Most of them landed on ME and in the parking lot of the restaurant next to the tavern.

I stand there with this gray stuff all over me. "Thanks, Dad," I say. "That was really nice."

Thank God there weren't a lot of ashes or I'd have been the one who was buried that day.

Which is why I say that my rat got a better burial than my dad. But it's how he would have wanted it. No muss, no fuss. He was a basic guy, with a house as austere as just about any vacant house on the block. But that's another story.

Which reminds me. When we got his ashes, they arrived in a cardboard box with a plastic liner. My sister, Charlene, really wanted some of those ashes. She wanted to put them in a glass box and keep them on her mantle. Why? I don't know. She wanted to be close to him?

But the problem was that he was in this box. I could see that it was killing her, so I went to the kitchen, got a big honking spoon and a baggie, and went back to the dining room table. I opened the box of ashes and started shoveling some into the baggie. My brother opens the door and says, "What are you..." and then he just leaves.

And my sister sits there with tears in her eyes as I shovel her some really gray, gritty ashes with a tooth or two mixed in, because she now has a part of my father and he is going to live on her mantle.

I, on the other hand, do not have a bone of sentimentality in me, except when it comes to my own kids, so I didn't need any of the ashes. I did appreciate, however, the idea of dumping them on your favorite tavern. If only they'd hit the mark.

Which is why I love rodents so much. You put them in a cage. No muss, no fuss. When they die, you toss them in the garbage, unless, of course, the rat is someone as good as Norman, in which case, he gets a burial in our family plot out back.

Rating by Depends

If a book was really funny, would you give it 5 Depends?

Here we are, wasting away again in Bunionville

When I become rich and famous as a writer, I know that people will ask me how I managed to survive while I wrote my bestseller. It wasn't easy, people! I almost starved on several occasions. The first time was when my husband refused to let me scrape the bottom of the ice cream carton. I had to hit him over the head with the ice cream scoop before I got a bite. Then there was also this time when my kids caught me stealing food off their plates and they stuck a fork in my hand. They have a lot of nerve. For God's sake, I was a starving artist. (OK, Blogspot is at it again. Now it won't let me make paragraphs. Sheesh. Bear with me, ok?) OK, so I was a starving artist. And as I starved, I took part time jobs to feed the children, lest they starve, also. Any self respecting mother would NOT let her children waste away, and I was among them. And then there's the cat who bites me if I don't feed him and after a few chomps on the leg, I wasn't going there. So, here's how I made the bucks on my way to stardom. First there was the job selling used trailers in trailer parks. That was a good one. It gave me tons of material for the novel CRACKING NORMAL that I just finished and it was while on that job that I was told the story that became the basis for bad girls club. Lots of material in those trailers. When that got old (business went dead), I moved on to working with my husband in his manufactured housing business. That had its cool moments. I got to install a new phone system. I brought the internet to every desk through a very complicated mess of telephone wire and cable which no one but me could decipher. No lack of forethought there. I knew if I ever left (which I did) that no one would be able to figure it all out. Ha! Well, that grew old. Actually, it just got really rotten, so I left. And I went back to being a staring artist until I really started to starve and had to find another job. That's when I took the job at Bunionville, the shoe store (name disguised to protect the innocent) where I learned everything there is to know about feet and then some. Feet are an interesting thing. They come in all shapes, sizes, and smells. I actually met a man one day whose feet were purple and black (dying, folks) and he was in complete denial. There was the lady who let a doctor perform 15 surgeries on her feet (and ruin them) without a blink of the eye. I saw lots of botched surgeries (names withheld to protect the innocent). The list goes on. Bunions. God, lots and lots of bunions. Big bunions, little bunions, surgeryized bunions, bunions that became mangled feet, bunions that no one could fix. Old ladies with bunions. You get it, bunions! Eighteen long months of bunions, calluses, fallen arches, bunionettes, plantar fasciitis, tendonitis, infections, amputated foot parts, amputated feet (or foot because they wouldn't be in a shoe store if they didn't have ONE foot), and then, of course, normal feet. Unfortunately, this job did not provide material for a book. There were a few characters there, useful for another book, but really, no plots jumped into my head and said, "BOO!" What the heck kind of job is that? Really... And it does make me wonder. Do I have to go back to selling trailers to continue as a writer? I'm just not sure.

Cheese Whiz as an anti-aging elixir

While driving back to Seattle the other day, I saw Mt. Rainier to the southwest as I drove toward Ellensburg. Now, I see this mountain all the time, but I've never seen it from there. It was an awesome sight as you'll notice that the Cascade Mountains in the foreground are very small compared to Rainier. We're talking BIG mountain here.

And on another note: What ever happened to Rainier Beer? Does anyone remember the beer cans running through the forest? They were second only to Ivar's clams running around the beach. Ok, so it was people in a beer or a clam suit, but they were my favorite commercials.

Oh, on another note, I decided while in a Mexican fast food restaurant that if I put their cheeze whiz on my face that I would be so well preserved that I might not age for another ten years. My husband had to leave the restaurant when I told him that because it struck him as very funny.

But picture it. Me with Cheese Whiz on my face. Not something you can wear to bed. Can't go out in public with it. But, if the preservatives in it can keep Cheese Whiz "edible" for ten years, why not my face. Apply liberally. Don't leave the house. I'll post a picture when I have completed that task.

I'm back!

I'm sure I was sorely missed. But if you didn't miss me, I forgive you.

I was gone for four days visiting my oldest daughter in Spokane. She goes to college near there and we went to celebrate her 20th birthday. What a great four days.

First, I love driving across Washington State. When I get over the mountains and hit the east side of the state, something inside me just mellows out. And the tunes are good over there, so I turn on the radio and just drive. The scenery is beautiful. Every fifty miles or so you hit new terrain, so it stays interesting. My list of words this week are: Columbia River, plateau, high desert, sage brush, marmosets, yellow corn, gorge, mountains, valleys, agriculture.

Spokane is an interesting city. It was SO hot that I didn't do a lot of exploring, but I stayed right at the Riverfront Park and I did explore the park. My kids loved the marmosets. I liked the river. The fireworks were spectacular. We were only a block or so away, but could see them from our hotel window.

It was also good to get back home. I had a novel to proofread one more time! Ugh. I'm working on marketing/promo stuff for bad girls club, and I had to send some stuff out to agents. I do love this book I'm working on now. Lots and lots of fun. There's an excerpt up on my website. I've changed the title and haven't quite figured out how, on the Authors Guild template, to change that, but I'll figure it out sooner or later.

So, it's an easy going day and things are good.

A Poem

YOU

I give you things
I never got.
Seeing myself
in your eyes.

You are not me
Or me, you.
You have your own destiny
But
I am filling your life
With the things
I missed.

And you are
One of those things.

Give Me A High Five!

I did it. I finished my novel. Now all I have to do is go through it one last time for a typo check and other small tweakings. I'm psyched. I started this book about 4-5 years ago. It was so different from what I normally write that it's taken me a long time to get it just right. Now to sell it. Any takers?

'THE SUMMER OF DIRT

If 1969 was the Summer of Love, then 2006 is the Summer of Dirt.

Let me share the differences and comparisons:

1. The Summer of Love had mud. I just have dirt. But with a little water, I could make mud.

2. Lots of people attended the Summer of Love and they did a lot of grooving. There is no one helping me, so I'm not grooving .

3. There were real good live tunes in 1969. All I have is an old boom box.

4. People at the Summer of Love were very dirty. Well, so am I, but unlike them, I can take a shower. (This is a real plus.)

5. People saw lots of weird stuff at Woodstock. Stuff that didn't exist. Well, I'm seeing weird stuff, but unfortunately, it exists.

6. I didn't get to participate at the Summer of Love. But I am participating in the Summer of Dirt.

7. You had to pay to get into the Summer of Love. Yeah, I'm paying. My neck hurts, my back hurts, and my feet hurt. Unfortunately, I don't feel that I'm getting my money's worth.


Other than that, there really are no similarities. It's hot. It's dirty. And it will end.

But, in all truthfulness, this is what I have accomplished (with help from one friend) in 9 days:

My backyard is pruned, heavily.
Front yard is almost done.
Garage is cleaned
All closets in house are cleaned.
Windows are done, in and out.
Floors are clean.
Bathrooms are done.
Laundry room is cleaned.
All laundry is clean.
All drycleaning is at the dry cleaners.
Family room is spotless.
Kitchen is spotless.
All doors, molding, and door frames are clean.


And, I worked on my novel some.

This is all good.

On Being An Author

Well, it's great to be an author. Greater yet are the misconceptions the public has about its authors. But fear not. I am here to dispell them today.

1. All authors are famous.

Hahahahaha! I wish. Most authors are unknown and obscure. You have to search through four hundred gazillion books at B&N just to find their book, if it's even there. Oh, can't find it? Well, it can always be ordered if you want to wait 10 days, in which time you'll probably have moved on to some other book.

But I desire to be famous. Does that count? I'd love to get a call from someone that my book has been reviewed in the NY Times. Is that enough? Probably not. But the simple fact that it would be ok with me if I became famous may be enough to project me right into famousness.

2. All authors make a lot of money.

Hahahahahaha! I wish. Most authors make less than $10,000 a year at writing. We wish we were rich. We really could use the money. I'd like to pay off my van before I die, so a little money would be good.

Ok, I admit it. I like money. I'd like to not only pay off my van, but also my house. A huge wardrobe of boutique clothes would be nice. I could do that with about $5000 in hand. Or maybe I could buy a Mercedes. Yeah, that would be nice. And a bigger house. Maybe a yacht. I like yachts. And, I love to travel.

3. All authors are bestsellers.

Hahahahahaha! I wish. If they publish 50,000 books a year, maybe 100 make the bestseller list. Maybe a few more, I don't know. But I do know that the 50,000 don't make it.

But I dream about being on the bestseller list. I don't care which one because I'm not a picky author. Really, I'm not. You can put me on any list and I'll be happy. Even the list from my hometown paper with a readership of 1,000. That's fine. I'll take what I can get.

Now here are some things about authors you may not know:

1. Authors are brilliant people.

This is very true. We are the best and the brightest. We also have a great sense of humor and God know, the world needs it. It also needs our great intellect and most of all, it needs our ability to sort out what life is really about. We're good at that.

While we're on the topic of brilliance, I once mentioned to my husband that I want this written on my gravestone: "She was brilliant and fascinating." He laughed at me. Can you imagine? Here I was expressing one of the greater desires of my heart and the guy falls down into a weeping mound of humor. The nerve!

2. Authors are special people.

Yes, that's true, too. We are special. My mother told me when I was very little that I was special and I've gotten a lot of mileage out of that. Come on, folks, it ain't easy to write a book. You have to be pretty special to do that. Besides, we value specialness in this culture. The more special you are, the better. No one wants to be ordinary. And we're not.

Besides, my dog thinks I'm special. He likes to sit on my feet and look up at me with adoring eyes. If the rest of the world would just get onboard!

3. Authors have very big egos.

Nah, that's not true. Skip that one.

4. Authors are gods.

Yeah, a lot of people think that. Isn't it great? There are so many myths about writing, publishing, and authorship that authors reach near godlikeness in the minds of many people. Keep it up folks. This works for me.

Besides, you really do need godlike qualities to finish a novel. It isn't easy work, people. All that world building, character building, narrative tension. You think this comes out of the mortal mind? NO, it does not. This comes out of the minds of gods. If it was so easy to write a book, everyone would be doing it.

Oh, wait. Everyone is. I take that back.

Well, that's it for my brilliance today. I have to get back to cleaning my garage.

A Joke A Day

I promised one of my former co-workers that I'd post a joke a day, just for him. Well, I have failed. I'm on day six and I haven't said anything funny in all that time. It's a tragedy, I know, but he'll have to live with it. After all, do I owe him a joke a day just because I promised it? Nah, I wouldn't go that far. Do I desire to say something funny? Sure I do. But it's so danged hot that I can't get the humor engine going. (Blogspot won't let me make paragraphs again today. What is wrong with this danged program?) But anyway, if I was going to be funny, what might I talk about? Let us ponder this a moment. Here are some ideas: What is this picture about on the left? Is it about being different? Having a nice chest? Sweating a lot? You know, I don't know where I got this picture but it was in my "My Pictures" folder and it was the best I could come up with on short notice. I don't have a hidden file of clever pictures for moments like this. I wish I did because if I did, I'd post one and then my former co-worker and his cronies could chuckle while they slave away and I'm not there. Hahahahah!

Ok, so I promise to think of something funny. I'm just so involved in cleaning right now that I can't be funny. Cleaning is a very serious business. Filth is nothing to laugh at. That's right, Kit, it's nothing to laugh at.

But, if in the meantime you need a chuckle, read down to the post where I was trying to sell my husband. That is worth revisiting. Or send me some kind of prompt, something that will get the juices going. Or wait.

Why I Hate Work

Because it's work!

Meet my garage. Nice, huh? And this is after a whole van load of crap went to the dump. This is an improvement. Actually, it's a major improvement. You can now get past the exercise equipment and get to the door. That's good, because now you can get in the house which is needful sometimes.

Ok, back to work. I hate work. Actually, I have this love/hate relationship with work. I hate being bored, but I hate work. If I could find that nice medium where I wasn't bored but I wasn't working, I think I'd be in Nirvana. Does such a place exist? Nah. Not on your life.

Well, it's time for the ceremonial cleaning of the garage. That time in the decade when you open the door and part of the crap falls from the garage into your house and you just know that you have put off work for a little bit too long. And now, instead of a nice little job, you have a big old hummer on your hands. Whoopie!

So, off I go. Separating out the crap from the good stuff. The record player for 1981 must go. The three dead computers are staying along with the monitors and keyboards. Just can't let them go. All the clothes my kids saved from elementary school are out of here, but the toys stay. They could be worth money someday.

The bikes? I just don't know yet. The tires we bought and never put on the car...well, they are probably rotten by now, so they're going. What about all that crap on the shelves? Going. That's where I'll put the computers.

What I dread the most is cleaning out the kids' stuff. They have this habit of bagging stuff up and throwing it in the corner near the bikes. Bags and bags of stuff that probably will cause them heart failure if I throw it out, but, oh, well. Such is life.

Is there anything funny about cleaning a garage? No, there is not. I cannot come up with one funny remark about cleaning out this mess. I'm happy, though, that I'll be able to get to and open my freezer again. I haven't done that in two years and I know there's food in there somewhere. I'm happy I found the chainsaw. I have a few things I'd like to hack up, but that means more yard work, so maybe not. I'm also happy to see the three dead vacuums I bought at yard sales. No more of that! And all the beach floaties. I need them for my vacation.

No, folks, this is not fun. It's 90 degrees out and I'm sorting crap in my garage. Nothing pretty about that.

Meet My Filthy Closet

Life imitates art. Or does art imitate life? It's hard to say. In this case, I would say that my filthy closet is a symbol of life imitating art because this closet represents the last ten years of my life. We moved in ten years ago from tomorrow, an auspicious day to say the least.

We were making life changes. Downsizing when downsizing was a nice way of saying that we just couldn't afford to live the way we were. We came out of a big new house and moved into a smaller older house that needed major remodeling which we did over the course of about 9 years.

And all the while, I kept throwing things in my closet. Things I had no space for. Things I didn't know what to do with. Things that no one wanted. Pocketbooks. A steam cleaner. Christmas ornaments that were never to be found again. An expensive raincoat I bought in a thrift store when I had no money. I never wore it, but there it sits.

It is also packed with Christmas wrapping paper I forgot about the day I put it there. Old gloves that were never to be found again. Boxes. Comforters. Stuff.

And over the years, I kept piling stuff in, as if getting them out of sight would get them out of mind. And it did. And then one day I couldn't shut the door. Not another coat could fit in the danged closet and it was time to clean it out.

As I pulled each thing out, I realized that they represented a time in my life when I was too preoccupied with my own demons to do much about anything else around here. My sister was sick and dying. I was in a bad car accident and didn't walk so well for a few years. The trauma of my own childhood came flooding in on me one day and grabbed me by the throat until I'd listen and let it out. And I kept packing those things in the closet.

But as I pulled them all out yesterday, I realized that the demons are gone and it's a good reason to clean things up and start new.

That is what I'm doing this summer. I'm starting anew.

What I'm Doing On My Summer Vacation

Well, I quit my job and I am home for the summer with my trusty dog and other assorted animals including Napoleon the frog and Lloyd Christmas my gerbil (see picture below). Also have an offspring here with me. She hasn't offered to help me clean the place up because I think she has an allergy to cleaning or some kind of evil aversion to cleaning solutions.

Anyway, when you think of me, picture me sitting under that tiny little umbrella on my patio. The green and white one that you can hardly see. I spend a lot of time there. Yesterday I started reading UNLESS, a book I ordered in 2003 because I was hot to read it. Obviously, not THAT hot, but I got to it in less than three full years, so I'm doing good.

I really like this book. I'd call it reflective fiction. I like that style. It's about a woman whose daughter of 19 has taken up sitting on a street corner in Toronto holding a sign that says "GOODNESS". She lives in a shelter, won't come home, won't talk to her parents and I don't know why yet. But the poor mother is reflecting upon her life, and also, of course, the loss of her eldest daughter.

My eldest is nineteen. I can't imagine losing her to a street corner. Or anything else, for that matter.

But what I really like about this book is the whole reflective thing. Not lots of action going on here. The main character is just thinking her way through her days, probably the way I would if my daughter had taken off for a street corner. I think this is the kind of novel I'd like to write next, when I finish the one I haven't touched in 7 months. I may get to it this summer after I'm doing cleaning the house and pruning the yard. That's about 2 more weeks of work and then I can get back to my writing.

I've had a love/hate relationship with writing. I love to write. I hate to have to produce. I hate that I don't write the kind of stuff that sells like M&M's and soda pop on a hot day. You know, flavor of the month stuff. Lots of that out there. But I love it that I write about deep issues that mean something to me. To each his own, I guess.

Anyway, I'm living in my big shirt and my capris. I look like hell. My hands are dirty. The house is looking better. How did I ever let it get this bad? I think it was the 7 years of writing 12 hours a day most days, 7 days a week. I forgot that I had a life. I got that life back last year and now I am catching up.

So think of me.

It's a dog's life...

Meet Moose. Friendly companion, loyal buddy.

The Ceremonial Bringing Out of the Blower

Lloyd Christmas Watches as I Play With My Blower













(No hamsters were hurt, injured, or tested upon in mean and evil ways during in the making of this blog!)

Nothing signifies nor celebrates the arrival of summer more than the bringing out of the Toro Leaf, Dirt, Rock, and Dead Rose Heads Blower. It is a proud moment, one which I experience early every warm season with great pride and hilarity. Usually the blower is hidden somewhere in the hinterland of my garage, behind some garbage bags filled with old clothes or perhaps behind some dead computer. It can even be found behind my freezer which now acts like a shelf for the carpet that never made it into bedroom number three, the Christmas ornaments, and the chainsaw. But this year was different. In a stroke of genius, I decided last fall during the Ceremonial Taking Back of the Blower to leave it on the patio to see if it could survive the torrents of a Seattle winter. And alas, it did. But I'm getting ahead of myself. My blower has been sitting on the patio all winter and every time I looked out upon it, I would wonder with great concern if it had the strength to make it through the Rain Festival called Winter without rusting or blowing a gasket. And like I said, it did. I will insert a picture here __________ when I find my digital camera which is also hiding somewhere beneath something. It is a little dirty (the blower that is). The front blower thingie did fall off when I began my blow, but it snapped back on real nicely. And away I went. (Since blogspot won't let me add paragraphs today for some dumb reason, you're going to have to read all of this in block form. Sorry.) Anyway, I began my seasonal blowing to rid my patio or every dead maple leaf and every piece of dirt that has fallen or blown in since September. It was exhilarating, really. That was amplified only by the fact that today is my last day of work for a while and although I am not allowed to wear shoes without socks, I'm living dangerously today and going for sockless sandals. It's amazing how empowering a blower can be, but now that my patio is clean and my life is on track, I'm feeling very exhilarated. Next I'm going to clean out the hall closet. Stay tuned.