My Kitchen Might Be A Gateway To An Alternate Universe: UPDATED

Anyone who knows me at all is aware my one greatest fear in life is Alzheimer's Disease. I could deal with anything else, I believe, but not the loss of my cognitive function. Should I ever be diagnosed, in one of my increasingly less-frequent lucid moments, I would go for a long hike deep in grizzly country with my pockets full of bacon and Snickers.

And I'm only kidding a little bit.

I read. I write (and some would say rather well). I actually proofread novels for other writers. I can focus on complex craft patterns and follow the plot of True Blood. I'm capable of carrying on intelligent conversations, though I do prefer to avoid interaction with Others.

But those random "senior" or "stupid chick" moments tend to rattle me.

Today, a case in point.

I have a tiny walk-through kitchen, which - surprisingly - is relatively clean today. Follow the process with me, and see if you can tell me where it all went horribly wrong.

I'm hungry. I want a sandwich. I meander the whole six or seven steps between Sofur and kitchen. I get a small plate from the dishwasher and a knife from the silverware drawer and sit them on the counter by the coffee maker. I go to the pantry at the end of the kitchen and get one of three remaining buns, which I carry over and place on the plate. I turn around (small kitchen, remember) and retrieve deli chicken breast, Swiss cheese, and mayonnaise from the refrigerator. I place these items on the counter beside the plate.

With me so far? I figured. Even I'm not lost yet. It's not neurosurgery.

At this point, the dogs have arrived, because they are Minnesota Cheese Hounds with ESP regarding anything involving the removal of cheese from the refrigerator. I open the cheese and take out a slice. I tear off a small bit for both dogs and put the remainder of the slice on the bun. I get two pieces of chicken from the flimsy zip-lock deli bag and put them on the cheese.

Here's where it starts to get all Twilight-Zoney.

I take the blue plastic lid from my jar of Hellman's mayonnaise (insert possible two-second fugue state here?), use the knife to smear some of the creamy condiment on my sandwich, toss the knife in the sink, put the top of the bun on the sandwich... and reach for the mayo lid.

Which is nowhere to be found.

My usual suspect: Darwin, who is lying at my feet. Brody has wandered off after ascertaining he was unlikely to receive more cheese. Had the lid hit the tile floor, I probably would've heard it. Even if Darwin snitched it, there would be evidence. If Brody had somehow liberated it from the counter top, I'd at least hear a sloppy, slobbery tongue as he licked the mayo from the underside of the lid. If Darwin had it, there would be crunching. Crunching like, "Hey, mom, thanks for the blue plastic hockey-puck-sized biscuit! Kinda bland, though." But he's lying there, smiling and wagging, hoping for a sudden gravity surge to cause the sandwich to fall from the counter and land in his mouth. It's never happened, but he wholeheartedly believes it will eventually.

I turn in a slow circle, my eyes keyed to locate some hint of blue plastic lid. Hm. Nope. I look in the dishwasher, even though I'm pretty sure I got the plate before I took the mayonnaise jar from the fridge. I look in the lunch meat drawer in the fridge. I look at the spot where the mayo lives in the fridge.

I squat and look under the overhang of the bottom of the cabinets and under the fridge. I look in the dogs' water bowl, which is on the floor at the end of the counter. I look in the sink, the pantry, the freezer (which I don't even think I opened today), and the cupboard where clean plates and glasses live.

I look behind the coffee maker, and in the bowl of my stand mixer. I look on the dining room table. I even look inside the damned crock pot in which a roast is simmering for dinner. No, I have no idea how it could've gotten in there, but by now it's clear it will turn up somewhere bizarre, so why not get a head start on the discovery?

I emptied the trash before making the sandwich, so it's not in there. I look in the dog food bin, and in the shoes under the dining room table. That's pretty desperate.

I look in the Sofur cushions. No, I wasn't in the living room between sandwich-making and the discovery of the Missing Mayo Lid, but that's where my cell phone usually is when I can't find it.

Now, remember, I managed to lose this lid in a matter of seconds, without ever leaving the spot where I was standing at the counter, directly in front of my plate, sandwich, and all sandwich-related ingredients and utensils. I'm pretty sure. Unless there was the fugue state I mentioned earlier. I haven't killed off any new brain cells recently, so I can't blame alcohol detoxification, either.

As of the writing of this post, the mayonnaise lid is still MIA. I put some foil over the mouth of the jar to keep the mayo from getting all icky and gave up the search.

This leaves me contemplating several possible outcomes.

1) The lid is lost, never to be seen again, possibly sucked into a parallel dimension through a momentary rupture in the space-time continuum.
2) It will show up, eventually, in a place that makes perfect sense once I find it and realize how it got there.
3) It will show up, eventually, in a place that makes absolutely no sense and makes me wonder how the hell I had such total brain-failure that this could happen at all. I will consider scheduling an appointment with a neurologist.
4) The dogs are actually evil, malicious, mutant geniuses with a master plan to Gaslight me until my brain shorts out, giving them access to my motor control centers, after which they will force me to hand over cheese on command. This is not so different from how things work now, but to evil, malicious, mutant - cheese-loving - geniuses, more cheese is always better.

For now, I remain clueless and befuddled. I mean more than usual. If any of you have one of those handy psychic quirks involving always being able to determine the location of lost objects, let me know. Until this thing turns up, I've decided to quit worrying about it, because I don't need more frown lines in addition to missing large chunks of my brain.

I suppose I should admit, this isn't the first time something like this has happened. In Colorado last summer, I lost a VIP concert ticket between the box office and the gate, in the space of less than two minutes. It was never found. In September, I lost my car key on the minute-long journey from my car, into the convenience store, and back to the car. I had to walk home. Like the ticket, the key was never seen again. Two days ago, my crochet hook (the only size G I have) vanished, despite the afghan, yarn, and hook having never been moved from the couch. Tom eventually found it under the couch, just as I was about to give up and go to the store to get a new hook. So, one mystery solved, at least.

The jury's still out on the mayonnaise jar lid.

UPDATED: I found it. In the fridge. Behind where the mayo jar usually lives. It must not have been on tightly and fell off as I took the jar out, and I completely failed to notice. I'm trying to decide if I should find that fact at all alarming. I'm going with "no" for now, due to the frown-line concerns.

Shift of Focus

I'm sorry for being away so long. Many of you keep up with me on Facebook, or via my author page, but the place to be until Christmas is over on Writecrastination.

I've been rather distracted throughout the fall with various issues and projects, and Fermented Fur has taken a major hit in the neglect department. Sadly, that's not going to change in the immediate future.

At the moment, I'm participating in my first ever blog hop. No, there's no hopping involved. As you know, I avoid all forms of "exercise," and I also have bad ankles. If there were any actual hopping, I'd have had to pass. But this is Twelve Days of Creepfest, a cool blog hop focusing on independent ("indie") horror writers of all genres, and Monsters Unmasked definitely qualifies.

Over three dozen authors are participating, and we'll be posting daily through December 24. We'll write posts, have guest posts, share interviews with other authors, review books... and we're all giving away free stuff!

So, visit Writecrastination (first blog hop post is dated December 13). If you've been following me any length of time, my Questions of the Day - which earn you more chances to win stuff - should be no challenge at all!

For a full list of participating authors and links to their blogs, visit the 12 Days of Creepfest home page.

See y'all in Creepytown! :-)

You Know You Want One, Too

If you haven't read this post by The Bloggess yet, you will have no idea what the hell is wrong with me and won't share in the joy and hilarity at all. So check out that link about The Bloggess and her encounter with Beyonce (not the singer!), and then come back.

All right. We're set.

I've had a lot going on here since Make or Break was released six days ago. The holiday weekend, of course, which meant lots of Tom-time, as well as networking and marketing to promote the book. I needed to get paint for the Writing Lair, and Tuesday was spent (all by my little-own-self!) tearing apart the Lair, and painting over the violent green walls with a lovely, soothing "mystic fairy" shade, which is a fancy name for a pale, glowy mauve that doesn't clash with the Lair Chair.

When I'd finished...

Tom: "Wow, no more green. I never liked that green."
Me: "Wait. What??? Then why did you let me paint the room that shade in the first place?"
Tom: (*shrugging*) You liked it.
Me: Hello, have you met me? I can not be trusted with colors. In fact, if I like a color, you should probably go to the opposite side of the color wheel, and go with whatever's over there instead.

Sadly, this is true.

When we went to buy paint, I pulled about twenty colors from the sample rack and handed them, along with the picture we'd printed out of the Lair Chair and the wall behind it, to Tom, telling him to pick his top two. I figured if I only had to choose between two preapproved colors, I might not end up hating it and having to re-do the whole job.

I'll post pictures of the completed Lair soon, here or on Writecrastination. Today, we must talk about... giant metal chickens.

I was thisclose to getting one while we were in Aspen. I saw a man loading one in the back of an SUV. I raced into the nearby home decor shop to find out if they had any more giant metal chickens. Yeah, I got a strange look from the clerk. She mentioned they'd had two, and that was the last one disappearing down the street in the SUV. I'm sure she wondered why the hell they were suddenly having a run on giant metal chickens, because she probably doesn't read The Bloggess. (Her loss. Really.)

Then, Sunday morning, I stumbled my way out of bed and up the hall, aimed straight for the coffee pot. Which, as it happens, is by the sliding glass doors to the deck.

And what to my wondering eyes should appear...

(Yes, and in keeping with the Beyonce the Giant Metal Chicken tradition, the note does say, "Knock Knock Motherfucker." Though Tom did add, in a much less profane manner, "Congratulations, Chickie!")

How incredibly lucky am I to have the kind of guy who will buy me a giant metal chicken??? I'm afraid to ask what he spent on it. But it was totally worth it. He got the bonus of seeing me laugh myself halfway to an asthma attack in the A.M., before my third cup of coffee, which never, ever happens.

Then he showed me he'd also taken the (now) customary "chicken at the front door" picture before moving my new friend to the deck, where I'd actually see it. You know, I never, ever open the front door. Because you never expect it to be a giant metal chicken.

(Don't worry. The neighbors already know we're not quite right.)

Brody stared at the sliding glass door suspiciously for a while, growling. Then I brought the chicken in and put him by the dining room table till I figured out how to fit him in the Lair. A short while later, Brody barked at something while standing near the chicken. This was not a surprise. Brody finds something to bark at every five to seven minutes. The surprising part was the chicken resonated with the bark, essentially becoming a chicken-shaped bark amplifier.

Yeah, I really had to get him to the Lair as soon as possible.

Tom said there were two of these marvels at the market across the highway. He'd originally started to take the other one, but when he moved it, he discovered it had a wasp nest in it. Because wasps started flying out of its butt! OK, I understand he's terrified of wasps, but how freaking awesome is a giant metal chicken who can shoot angry wasps out of its ass????? Though, once I calmed down, I had to admit having a big metal wasp-hive in my Writing Lair was not especially practical. So I began bonding with my new friend.

He needed a name. Obviously. I name almost everything. Things like that. It makes them less likely to break down, catch fire, or explode and send white-hot shards of jaggy shrapnel into your face. I asked friends on Facebook to offer suggestions, but nothing was clicking (not clucking, either).

Finally, Tom said he'd been thinking of a name. Thurston. I considered that. It was almost there. Not quite. I went out on the deck, pondering a surname to go with it. Naturally, I associated Thurston with Jim Backus' character on Gilligan's Island, Thurston Howell III. I started thinking of chicken-related words that started with "H." Nothing.

Then it came to me.

I flung open the door and yelled at Tom, "Thurston Fowl III!"

Nailed it.

Tuesday evening, after painting and restoring the Writing Lair, we brought Thurston downstairs and settled him into his new home. He looked bored. He needed a job. So, I give you...

(Thurston Fowl III, machete-wielding chicken. Nobody messes with a machete-wielding chicken. Nobody.)

(He kind of looks a little like Jim Backus, doesn't he? Mostly around the eyes.)

(Thurston stands guard near the Lair Chair. Yes, he's wearing a lei. It's to distract potential victims from the machete, because he doesn't exactly have anywhere to hide it.)

You just know there's more to his story, don't you? My friend Sabrina suggested his name was Ramon, and he was an ex-cockfighter who went on the run after the Mob offed his hen and chicks. I suspect she may be right. Thurston is in the Poultry Protection Program, hiding from the Mob. I thought he looked like he knew what he was doing with that machete.

Now would be a good time to mention I'd really, really love it if you'd click over to my author page and make use of the buy-links on the right to get your copy of Make or Break. As of today, it's available on the Etopia Press site, which includes a folder with four different e-formats (epub, html, pdf, and prc), something for any device you have, from computer to smartphone to pad/tablet. It's also live on Amazon and Barnes & Noble. Print release will be in a few months. And don't forget about my novella, Monsters Unmasked, either. Links are there for that, too.

You should read them because I'm absolutely sure you'll enjoy them. Not because I have a giant metal chicken with a machete. He doesn't shoot wasps out of his butt, but he's still pretty scary, and if I don't sell a lot of books, he's not going to be happy.

Nobody likes an angry giant metal chicken.

UPDATE 9/10/11: The video and photo tour of the Writing Lair is now posted on Writecrastination! Take a look!

And Now, May I Present...

Holy Flying Spaghetti Monster! The past 24 hours have made me both frustrated and frantic!

Make or Break launched on the Etopia Press website yesterday morning, and within hours a technical disaster befell the site, and it has been down ever since.

Until about a half hour ago! Now, finally, you loyal FFFans can click on over there and buy the e-formats of my debut romantic suspense, Make or Break! If you like sexy romance, suspenseful threats to life and limb, or hot guitar guys, you should take a look.

If you prefer, you can pre-read the first chapter on my author page, and go from there.

Buyers from the Etopia site receive a folder of four e-formats: html, pdf, prc (for Kindle), and epub. Something for everyone! :-)

If you read it and like it, please leave reviews wherever you can, and share links and recommend it to your friends. I'd really, really appreciate it!

It's Almost Here!

If you've heard I'm dead, don't believe it. I'm not. I'm pretty sure.

I've been crazy-busy lately, with another amazing road trip to see Cody Canada & The Departed (four cities in Colorado in early August), and handling the final revisions on Make or Break.

And that's the exciting part. Make or Break will be released this Friday, September 2, by Etopia Press! That's the e-format. The print version will follow shortly thereafter.

The image to the right is the OFFICIAL cover, which I received from the publisher just this morning. I provided the basic image design, which I contracted out to the amazing Daleen Smit when I was considering self-publishing. Etopia modified the fonts and placement of the text to fit their "house style," and I think it's absolutely gorgeous!

I'll put "buy" links over on Writecrastination as soon as I have them, to make your book-buying as simple and painless as possible. Heh.

To prove I did actually do stuff when I should have been blogging:

(Me, on top of Aspen Mountain, 11,212 feet elevation)

(In a meadow on top of Aspen Mountain)

(The two photos above are of the drive out of Aspen)

(The spectacular Pouder River, in Pouder Canyon, Bellvue, CO, just north of Ft. Collins)

(The Mishawaka Amphitheater, in Pouder Canyon. The river is literally just behind those trees to the right of the stage. Beautiful venue and a great night!)

So, that's the story, boys and girls. For all the concert stills (and Tom takes amazing pictures!) check out the show at the Belly Up (Aspen), The Mishawaka Amphitheater (Bellvue), and the Grizzly Rose (Denver). Tom didn't take stills at Cowboy's in Colorado Springs, because he focused on taking video. (AWESOME video), so check out his YouTube channel to see "our guys."

A-Sporking We Will Go

We have three topics to discuss today, and here they are in random order.

Oh, wait. That wasn't entirely true. I've already decided the order, based on increasing order of hilarity. However, in case I'm wrong and they don't get funnier as I go along, let's pretend it's random. Work with me, here. It's a victimless crime.

About a month ago, I planted the first garden I've had in years. When we moved here in 1996, I fully planned to only be in this house for five years. Every year after that, I still hoped we'd be somewhere else by the next year. At first, it was supposed to be a place farther up north, preferably on a lake. Then we were talking about Ohio. Then the housing market took up residence in the proverbial septic tank, so despite a forthcoming infusion of cash, we're pretty much stuck till things get better. It never seemed worth it to create a garden with all the tilling and fencing and whatnot, if I'd only use it for one summer. But now... well, we probably have at least a couple of summers ahead of us.

I did the customary tomatoes, yellow onions and green peppers, using already-started plants or sets. Then I used seed for zucchini, yellow squash, carrots, green beans, chives, green onion, lettuce, and beets.

Only the lettuce and beets came up.

Who knows? I might have covered some of them with too much soil, or it could be because right after I planted them, we had another cold snap with nights in the 40s and days struggling to get near 60. In any case, I asked Tom to re-till those areas so I could start over. I got new seeds for the beans, carrots, green onions, and chives, and got plants for the zucchini and yellow squash. Then, just for giggles, I added cucumber and hot peppers.


And now, we wait. At the rate I'm going, the seeds will sprout just in time to be frostbitten. On the up-side, we had salad yesterday with lettuce from our own garden. I did notice, however, that it feels wrong-wrong-wrong to buy onions, tomatoes, and cucumbers at the store when I have some trying to grow in my garden. But unless I want to wait six weeks for a salad, I have no choice.

Topic Number Two concerns Darwin. We had a warm afternoon about two weeks ago, and the pool is finally up and running. So, D-Dog had a swim. After which he had a hyper run around the pool, with his idiot mother chasing him. It seemed like fun at the time. Right up until I tripped over the edging between the patio and the mulch and took a header. I ended up with impressive bruises on my hip, ribs, elbow, upper arm... and shoulder. That last one included a nice, scabby patch of mulch-burn. I'm still trying to figure out how someone falls and lands on the point of their shoulder. Apparently you have to be a clumsy, intoxicated, middle-aged idiot.

Those bruises are gone now, but I have a new batch, also courtesy of Darwin. (Yep, I'm blaming him for everything, because he's cute and I can forgive him. If I blame myself, all I have to look forward to is sitting around reflecting on the depths of my own stupidity. And I do that enough as it is.)

A couple of days after his swim, he went to be groomed. I always have them shave beneath and behind his ears, the insides of his back legs, and the "leg pits" of his front legs, because those are the areas most likely to mat when he swims. The very next day, I noticed a spot of blood on his left cheek, in front of the shaved area under his ear.

Hot spot. Big one. Darwin has never had a hot spot in the 3 1/2 years we've had him. But... his ears have been kind of irritated lately, then he went swimming, and I'm sure he created the hot spots on his cheeks by scratching his ears. The groomer didn't see them because she didn't shave that far up, and they hadn't bled through yet.

Upon further inspection, I discovered he had hot spots on both cheeks. Not good. Not good at all.

The next morning, he seemed pretty depressed, so Tom said to take him to the vet. Once we shaved the fur over the area, it was much, much worse than I thought.

Also, he gained almost twenty pounds over the winter. I suspect I did, too. I do not own a scale, because I am happier without that information. It was that kind of winter.

This means Mr. Puppy Porky Pants is on a diet, and I'm not (because I don't want to be).

By the time we got home, the hot spots were twice as bad, because he scratched himself completely bloody in the car. It looked like someone had sacrificed a chicken in there. So, we got home and put him in the Cone of Shame.

(World's saddest golden retriever)

Amazingly, he tolerated it well after the first five minutes. Still, it didn't take him long to realize he could inflict massive damage to the backs of my calves with the thing. I have several very dark, crescent shaped, purple-blue bruises.

I was a good mom, though. After years and years of yelling at people for taking their dogs' cones off too soon, or explaining why they needed to wear one in the first place, or happily charging the owner for re-stitching or re-treating the wound or injury after Fluffyhead got his or her mouth on it, I knew I had to leave that thing on. No matter how annoying or inconvenient.

It was a struggle. I gave him his meds, and I'd wipe down the area daily with peroxide, dry it, medicate his ears, and apply an anti-fungal powder to the wounds. And keep the inside of the cone clean. And try to keep my legs out of the way of a tailgating golden retriever.

For seven entire days.

Then, today, oh happy day! I took him back to the vet, because no way in hell was I going to take the cone off until I had her okay. His cheeks are totally healed, and the fur is growing back. One ear is still a little inflamed, so we'll keep working on that. He also lost a whole pound in one week! But best of all... no more cone!

I don't know which of us is more relieved.

Now we arrive at Topic Number Three. Crazy writer-type people.

This is all Adam Levine's fault.

My friend Annetta Ribken (who also happens to be my editor now) and I have been "watching" The Voice together. We get on Facebook and message back and forth throughout the broadcast. She loves, loves, loves Adam. I'd never even heard of him before, but she informed me he's with Maroon 5. And, as it turns out, they are playing a free concert under the St. Louis Arch on July 3. She lives nearby.

This definitely calls for a road trip. We began making plans. The earth began to tremble. People began planning escape routes and estimating how far out the blast zone was likely to be. Because getting the two of us in one place is going to have that kind of effect. Yes, indeedy.

So, what's the logical thing to do? Invite more writers, of course! The more the merrier! The more potential alibis! Vastly improved odds that one of them will be able to remember the location of my hotel room! (Or at least the hotel itself.) More accomplices! More people with minds as twisted as our own who are sure to have creative ways to hide any and all resulting bodies!

Now we have three others coming. And if you have five authors together in one place, what do you have? A conference, of course!

There wasn't a real one happening in St. Louis that weekend, so we made one up. We have announced Intergalactic Pretendacon SporkFest 1, (A Very Serious Writing Conference), St. Louis, MO, July 1-4, 2011.

(Design by the immensely talented author, Joseph Paul Haines, who is not even remotely sparkly.)

And look! We haz shirts! That's how you know it's a for-real-and-for-true conference. I think.


And since this is a Very Serious Writing Conference, it should (theoretically) be tax-deductible. Maybe. Let's go with that for now, shall we? I'm intrigued by the idea of getting a tax deduction for my bar tab. Which, as we all know, will be substantial.

It's an intergalactic conference because one of the attendees is coming from Canada. I'm pretty sure that's what intergalactic means. I determined this because I've never been to Canada, in exactly the same way as I've never been to Saturn or Alpha Centauri or Discworld... so "intergalactic" it is.

I'm going to need an entire suitcase just for alcohol, snacks, and props. What props, you might ask? Well, when sitting around having extremely serious and in-depth discussions of the craft of writing and the state of the publishing industry, you never know when you might need devil horns. Or a tiara. Or a wig. Or Groucho glasses. And writers are always, always prepared for these things.

We'll be dividing our time between the conference hotel (chosen because it has an attached TGI Friday's), 'Netta's house, a concert or two, the riverboat casino, maybe Pleasure Palace (Oh, like you wouldn't go there?), an additional bar or restaurant or two, and perhaps even a friend's pool.

My strategy is to make sure we all have an ample number of equally-embarrassing photos of each other, which will cancel out the possibility of blackmail. I'd say I planned to be the only one not photographed doing something embarrassing, but let's be realistic here. That's never gonna happen.

We've decided not to notify FEMA in advance. We'll let it be a "surprise." Hopefully, we'll have made our escape by the time they arrive on the scene.

If you're anywhere near the Greater St. Louis area over the July 4 weekend, I advise you stay indoors with the windows and doors covered. If you're downwind, stay tuned to your local emergency channel for updates on the fallout pattern. You have been warned.

Now, where did I leave my spork...?

Slow Learners

Having a pool in Minnesota is stupid. Having an in-ground pool in Minnesota is so far beyond stupid it defies description. But it was here when we bought the house for its large, already-fenced yard, so every spring we have to open it. Then Tom has to maintain it for the three or so months we can use it, then we have to close it. All this, just so I can get in it three or four times, and Darwin can sneak into it at every opportunity. Yeah, those few days are really nice, and maybe I'll be in it more this year since I no longer have a day job. We'll see.

But, oh, the opening process. Two years ago yesterday I detailed the clusterpalooza of opening the pool. If you haven't read that, go ahead and check it out. I'll wait.

I've spent the last couple of days pumping water from the pool cover, hoping to get enough off that we wouldn't have as much trouble removing it. However, due to the multiple stab wounds inflicted on the pool cover in the post I mentioned, a certain amount of water always oozed back up onto the cover, foiling my efforts.

But Tom had a plan. He always has a plan, though I seldom understand them, even when he explains them to me.

This particular plan involved using the leaf blower to direct the water to where the sump pump rested on the cover. This went well, and I began to feel optimistic.

Then he had another idea. From this idea, we learned one very important thing. We've been doing this wrong the entire fifteen years we've lived here. Rackenfrazzle.

See, here's the thing. No matter what you do, some of the stagnant, disgusting, rotten-leaf-filled water is going to end up in the pool. You try to avoid it, but the outcome is always the same. Our approach was always to take the far end of the cover, and draw it back, folding it over till we reached the shallow end. This resulted in a swampy, filthy water balloon the size of a Volkswagen. It also weighed as much as a Volkswagen, meaning you couldn't haul it out of the pool. Eventually one edge or the other gave way (or you stabbed the pool cover repeatedly with a box cutter), and semi-toxic sludge-water dumped into the pool. But at least now the water balloon was light enough that we could heave it onto the cement patio.

But this year, Tom figured we shouldn't fight it. Why wrestle with a metric ton of water balloon if we were going to end up with slime in the pool, anyway? So he said we would start at the middle, and pull that to the shallow end. Whatever was on the deep-end side would fall in the pool, but big deal. It was going to anyway.

Genius. We had that thing off in two minutes.

It only took us fifteen years to figure this out.

At this point, I went on worm patrol. I don't know where the little buggers came from, but where the edges of the pool cover had been, there were a number of distressed earthworms. They don't have faces, per se, so they could not display a fretful expression, but I could tell. I went around gathering them and giving them a nice new home in my fern bed.

Then, suddenly, things weren't going so well. Tom was fine, but I saw... a millipede. It was small, and about the color of a worm, and I almost "rescued" it. Which means I almost touched it. With my hands. At which point my heart would have stopped. My general rule is anything with more legs than my dogs is on my Ick List. But millipedes get their own list altogether.

(Sixty or more legs??? Four legs per body segment??? MANDIBLES???)

Millipedes. Many-legged escapees from hell. If I ever touch one, there will be screaming. Much, much screaming. Followed by broken sobs as I sit in a vat of disinfectant and try to peel off my own skin. I don't know if they bite or sting. I don't know if they're poisonous. For all I know, they might give happy, many-legged hugs and cure cancer. I don't care. The sight of one will induce a panic attack.

The presence of a millipede was going to interfere with my further participation in the pool-opening. I lost sight of that one, but I knew it was there. Somewhere. Watching. Plotting. Probably with numerous friends.

We had to haul the cover out in the yard, spread it out, clean it off, and fold it so we could put it in the shed. Honestly, Tom had to do most of this, because I didn't want to touch too much of it. I knew it was seething with millipedes.

It got spread out in the yard, and I said, "You know, we're supposed to have staff to do this sort of thing."

"Minions," Tom said.

"Naked minions." Because while you'd think that would be obvious, I thought it was worth mentioning. I'm assuming he's aware these minions will be male, since I'll be in charge of minions.

Tom handed me the rake and asked me to remove the remaining clumps of leaves, and put them in the fire pit. I was fine raking, but those leaves were going to have to stay in the yard. Putting them in the fire pit would involve touching them, and I'm certain that's where the millipedes were hiding.

So I raked, but I absolutely, positively did not touch those leaves.

Then I saw a millipede and stepped in fresh dog poo. In my bare feet.

We quickly got the thing folded and in the shed, and I came inside to recover from the heebie-jeebies.

Hopefully, in a week or two, after Tom does numerous vacuumings and chlorine dumping, I, along with George The Sequel (my Kindle, safely in his waterproof pouch), will be able to float and listen to some music. Unless I see a millipede. Then all bets are off.

The Miraculous and the Mundane

If you follow my Writecrastination blog, my author page, my Facebook fan page, or are one of my regular Facebook friends, you already know the miraculous part. But for those of you who might have missed the news...

My romantic suspense novel, Make or Break, has been bought by Etopia Press, and will be released in both print and e-book formats later this summer. I signed the contract a few weeks ago, and am currently in the editing process. My mega-talented editor, Annetta Ribken, has done the first round, which involves suggesting things I should eliminate, streamline, add, or change to make the overall novel work better. I did the revisions, and now the manuscript is back in her hands so she can evaluate what I've done, then move to a more detail-focused line-by-line edit. This is where we will remove anything that is unnecessary, redundant, or distracting, and refine structure and word choice.

So, yeah, I'm going to be published, and unlike the situation with Monsters Unmasked, I'm not doing it myself.

Exciting, no? If you haven't bought Monsters yet, take a look. When I have a release date for Make or Break, I'll start working out a plan to get signed copies in the hands of those who want them, so stay tuned.

The rest of this spring is much (much) more mundane.

As many of you know, we'd been planning to move ("get the hell out of Minnesota before another suck-ass winter") sometime this year. But, sadly, we started doing the math. And by "we," I mean "Tom," because I'm congenitally unable to comprehend numbers or how they work.

We looked at the money we expect to have coming in, then at what we'd have to spend to pay down more debt, fix up the house, and get it ready for sale. Next, we factored in what we could hope to get for this house - if we could even sell it in this market - and how much we'd want to spend on a new place so we could afford the mortgage payment.

We concluded that we'd be better off to hang here for a year or two more, fixing up the house, and wait for the housing market to improve a little. Not the happiest decision we've ever made, but it's practical. Sometimes being a "grown-up" really, really bites.

The first big house project will be undertaken in the near future, and involves having the bathroom ripped right-the-hell OUT, down to bare subflooring and sheetrock and pipes sticking out of walls and floors, and putting in something that does not look like 1982. Also, I want a bathtub that invites soaking and perhaps even jacuzzi-jetting, instead of making me feel like I need another bath to wash off the first one. Lighting that doesn't make me look like I've been dead for five days would be nice, too.

But first... the yard.

You know, because it hasn't snow-flurried for a week, which means winter might be over, but don't hold your breath.

I grew up with a huge garden. Three of them, in fact, which probably covered well over an acre... maybe two. I loved spending evenings out there with my dad, following behind him when he tilled the soil in preparation for planting, helping him mark out the rows, place the seeds or plants, replacing the dirt, and hanging out with the neighbors. I wasn't so keen on weeding, but harvesting was always fun.

We moved so often the first five years or so of our marriage, and lived in rentals, so I didn't have a garden. When we got our first house in Indianapolis in 1990, I focused on a rose garden, and it was pretty darned gorgeous. I also grew some herbs, but never really took the time to garden. In the fifteen years we've been in Minnesota, I mostly worked full-time. Since I'm bad at time management at home (so very, very bad), a garden was out of the question. But now I work at home and have much more time to devote to my long-missed garden.

The previous homeowners had a big area in the back yard, bordered by railroad ties, which had had a swing set on it. It was composed of a layer of black plastic with concrete on top, covered by a thick layer of sand. It's been a useless eyesore for every minute we've lived here. "Garbage trees" grew up along the border, extending in toward the center, defying all attempts to keep them cut back or kill them outright.

But at long last we hired somebody with a Bobcat to come dig that motherwanker up and haul it away, along with two pea-gravel-filled horseshoe pits. Yeah, the yard looks like a war zone at the moment, but by the end of the week, I'll have a garden.

I measured out a 25-foot square. Then I looked at it, considered my tendency to overestimate my enthusiasm level, reminded myself of my innate laziness and the fact that I frequently lose interest in projects moments after starting them, and reduced the size to 20 feet square. Hey, I might have a lot of shortcomings, but at least I'm self-aware enough to recognize what they are.

We bought a rototiller. Then we returned it, because it was a piece of crap and couldn't have tilled pudding. We got a better one, and Tom spent part of yesterday tilling my little plot. It needed another going-over, but we had ark-worthy rain overnight, so now it looks like Darwin has a new, improved, super-size bog. I'm going to go out and investigate shortly, but I hope we can do another round of tilling tomorrow, if not tonight.

Then... we will put up the keep-Brody-and-Darwin-from-trashing-the-garden-and-forcing-me-to-kill-them fence, put down some stepping stones, and I can commence to plantin'. I have tomato and pepper plants, onion sets, and seeds for green onions, chives, zucchini, yellow squash, green beans, beets, lettuce, and carrots. I figure that should keep me busy this year. If all goes well, maybe I'll expand it next year.

I've been raking dead leaves and last year's foliage from my perennial beds, and tomorrow I will do the same in the many planters and barrels around the pool. Then... back to the plant store for annuals to fill them.

This kind of physical activity - outdoors, no less - seldom happens with me. In the daylight. Out. Doors. But I've missed gardening so much, and while my enthusiasm is still high, I figure I should make the most of it. And since I've been doing a little more cooking these days, it'll be nice to have the fresh food I remember so well from my childhood.

The other maddeningly mundane activity in which I have recently participated is locating my spring and summer clothes. This involves going into the laundry room, dumping out the baskets that have sat there all winter, and picking out things which are short sleeved or capri in nature. It's like getting new clothes, because I haven't seen these garments for about seven months, and had forgotten most of them existed.

I not only washed them, I dried and folded them, and even carried them up and put them in my dresser. My dresser is largely empty, because I usually leave everything in baskets in the laundry room and just pick my daily wardrobe from there. You know, when I remember to change my clothes at all.

I stopped short of trying on any of the pants, though. No sense in ruining my sense of accomplishment with a sense of "oh, holy hell, my ass is twice the size it was last fall." I figure I'll dish out that demoralization bit by bit over the next few weeks. Possibly after a run to the store for some stretchy shorts. Or a tent dress.

Tom says I need a big floppy gardening hat with a sunflower on the front. I'm thinking sports bras and a cowboy hat. I think he'll approve of that decision. I don't think either of us wants me to end up looking like one of those wooden cutout yard-butts.

Road Trips Rock. Literally.

It only took me three days to recover from last weekend's road trip enough to write about it. This is an improvement over the one in October. By the time I could think straight again, writing about that adventure seemed like old news.

At what would normally be bedtime last Thursday night, we headed out to Illinois. The two of us, plus my concert-split-personality. I shall elaborate on that shortly.

We arrived at Burr House, a beautiful historic bed and breakfast in Bloomington, Illinois, just before 6:00 AM, an hour ahead of schedule. Because, you know, zero traffic when you're driving in the dead of night. If it hadn't been for resident dog, Sadie, a beautiful little Australian Cattle Dog, we'd have probably had to sit in the Blazer for another hour, and we were both so exhausted all we could think about was the presumably comfy bed awaiting us upstairs.

(Pretty dang nice, no?)

Burr House is located just a couple of blocks from Six Strings, the venue for that night's Cody Canada & The Departed show, the whole reason for our visit to central Illinois.

We grabbed a couple of hours of sleep, then shifted into pre-concert mode. Which involved hitting a bar & grill by the club to begin reconnaissance. Tom always (always) has a mission when we go to a show. This time, he had a black acoustic-electric guitar he'd bought to get signed by the band. Also four photos. I think that was it. This time.

After breakfast/lunch/whatever, and a few road trip weekend beverages, we went back to the B&B. Tom didn't stick around long. He brought the Blazer back down and parked it by the club so he had a handy-dandy place to stash the guitar and photos. I was in the room getting ready to meet him when the texts started showing up.

"Signatures completed for Cody."

"I f**kin' rock" (Only he spelled it out. I'm trying to be courteous here.)

(Yes, he does rock. This is the iconic PRS #1 that Cody has had forever and true fans adore. And Tom got to hold it. I died a little.)

"Currently waiting. I'm good at that."

By the time I showed up, he was 100% Mission Accomplished. Guitar signed by all five band members, and the four photos signed by the guys who were in each one.

Yeah, he is kind of amazing.

(Mission Accomplished. Well played, Tom.)

Outside the club, the other hard-core road-trippers started assembling. And by that, I mean Rick and Cheryl. Because they are Totally Awesome.

Only problem, it was pretty cold. I dislike cold. Then it rained. I dislike cold rain even more. Tom sent me to the Blazer. Then it snowed a little. When I went back across the street to Tom, a bird pooped on his shoulder. I told him that was supposed to be good luck, but being a good wife, I wiped it off.

As the time for the doors opening got close, it started raining again, and the club took mercy on our damp, shivery asses and let us in. You know, where they keep the alcohol.

By now, I was in full concert-split-personality mode. What does that mean, you ask? My hermit-like nature is well-documented. I usually prefer to have as little to do with other humans as possible. I can go for a week at a time and not speak to anyone but Tom and the dogs. If I had laryngitis, it could go undetected for days.

I do not engage in conversations with random strangers. If I have to answer "paper or plastic," or "two Seven Layer Burritos, please," that's as much interaction as I can handle. This is not, however, true at concerts. At concerts, knowing that the others in line hours early or clustered at the front of the stage share a common love with us... makes me automatically love each and every one of them. We exchange stories. We plan future road trips. We share drinks... and occasionally a hotel room in case of emergency.

I am sure I talk more on a concert road trip than any two non-concert months combined. I laugh, I hug, I compliment, I share way too much information.

Me. Concert-Mode. It drives Tom crazy. I'm outgoing and assertive in a way that I never am otherwise. Sure, the wine helps... but it's more than that. The fans who carried over with us from the Ragweed days to now follow The Departed are awesome. I honestly like them, and miss them between shows.

So, fantabulous, kick-ass show, as always. Best of all, the band's guitar technician brought "the guitar" to the front of the stage so I could touch it, thereby negating my need to divorce Tom. I can now die happy. And still married.

We were able to get the chance to talk to all the guys over the course of that night and the next. Tom shot tons and tons of incredible video, so hop on over to YouTube and check them out at twupnorth. I'm in the process of uploading now, and it's going to take a while, so subscribe to his channel or keep checking back.

Following some hang-out time after the show, we returned to the B&B and actually got some sleep. Ahhhhhhh... sleep!

The next morning featured a lovely breakfast with another couple at the B&B. And I can't say enough about our hosts, Mary Ann and Jeff... and Sadie, of course. They accommodated our weird schedule, and were so gracious and welcoming.

Then, off to Rock Island. We got there, cased the venue (Rock Island Brewing Company, also known as Ribco), had lunch/beverages, and checked in at the Holiday Inn a block from the club. After that, it was pretty much a repeat of the day before. Tom went down and parked by the club, hung out with Rick & Cheryl, and I stayed in the room a bit longer to get ready.

(I'm pretty sure I should not have been allowed inside this particular hotel.)

Another great show, more new friends, and I adopted a new daughter, Tiffany, whom we'd met at the Madison, WI show in January.

The trip home is always depressing. This time it took us through Iowa, where I had vowed to never again set foot following last October's Incident. I mostly kept out of sight in the back seat, just in case.

Back in Minnesota, we decided the only way to circumvent post-concert depression was to throw ourselves a little welcome home party, so we did.

Since then, we've been reviewing and organizing videos, and trying to share them with old friends, new friends, and friends-we-haven't-met-yet.

I love road trips. I love The Departed. I love the amazing shows. I love the other fans. All this is totally contrary to my usual reserved, social-phobic nature, but I guess we all have to come out of our shells sometimes.

The next day, Tom itemized our expenses from the trip. I'll share the list he made, deleting the dollar amounts because a) not anybody's business, and b) the bar tab is a wee bit embarrassing. Or impressive. One of those.

1. Hotels ($)
2. Gasoline ($)
3. Food/DRINK ($$)
4. Dog Sitter ($)
5. Tickets ($)
6. 16 hours of driving
7. 14 hours of sleep in 3 days
8. Stood outside the venues for 7 hours
9. Got rained on
10. Got snowed on
11. Bird shit on me
12. Got to hold Cody's PRS #1

PRICELESS!

Yep, that about sums it up. That's what fun is all about.

Follow The Bouncing... Ball?

Tom was watching college basketball yesterday, and bemoaning some of the changes in the game. Twenty-plus years ago, the last time he was very interested in the game, the palming of the ball between dribbles would have been called for "carrying" (apparently... taking his word for it). Also, it seems the players now have to go on a half-court stroll before being called for traveling.

This led to the following conversation.

Me: Maybe they should just run up and down the court and randomly fling the ball at the basket. Kind of like football.
Tom: That's practically what they're doing now.
Me: Yeah, but there should be tackling.
Tom: (Thoughtful pause) And it should be played by women in bikinis.
Me: And they should have water hazards.
Tom: And a Jell-O pit.

See? This is how conversations like that always turn out around here. And we just invented a new game.

Or so I thought. Looking for an image to include in this post, I found...


I guess there really is nothing new under the sun.