The Write Stuff

I love word processing programs. A lot. I can't imagine how I ever lived without them. Before they existed, I had a permanent pen-shaped dent on the end of my right index finger (which, by the way, has finally re-grown all its skin after my failed attempt to stop a wine glass from tipping over on the kitchen counter several weeks ago), and sometimes my right arm would hurt all the way up to my elbow from hours and hours of writing.

Back in high school, all my essays - and even term papers - were written out by hand in a notebook, and then laboriously re-copied without all the scribbles, cross-outs, and arrows, before being turned in. Since I was no better at brevity then than I am now, it's a wonder I was ever able to pry the pen out of my cramped, numb fingers. I was also no less of a nut-job when it came to errors of any sort, and even the tiniest mistake would cause me to re-write the whole thing.

Later, in 19-a-long-time-ago, when I started writing for the racing magazine, my first articles and columns were written by hand, then typed on a portable manual typewriter, and mailed to my editor. Then, after I finally squeezed my first check out of the cheap, procrastinating bastard, I bought a Brother electronic typewriter that had a teeny display that showed about two lines of text at a time. I could type an article, then hit "print" and the typewriter would take off like a player piano. Cool, but also a little bit creepy.

I don't remember what happened when you got to the end of the page, or how it knew.

It looked a little bit like this:


When I was covering my first Indianapolis 500, my editor (the cheap, procrastinating bastard) gave me a portable word processor. It was a little bigger than a hard back book, and identical in shape. It was basically a keyboard with a few lines of display across the top. I could arrow around to make edits, and save stories in some kind of primitive electronic filing system. In the press room, I noticed a lot of the media people had identical devices, so either my editor wasn't as big a tool as I believed, or everybody's editors were as cheap as he was.

It looked kind of like this, but was gray:


To get the articles to the magazine, I had all these cables I had to hook up to the device and the phone at home, punch in a bunch of numerical commands, and hit the right buttons on the word processor, and somehow it would get from Indianapolis to Milwaukee.

Oh, and I had to call the office first, so he could set up his equipment to receive it. And sometimes he would remember to send me a check.

All of which is why technology that resulted in laptop computers and word processors is my favorite invention ever, other than Jacuzzi bathtubs and boxes of wine with built-in taps.

Not only can I type merrily along for hours (on a good, un-mittened brain day), making as many changes as I want, I can reliably save work. It helpfully points out when I spell words wrong - which I almost never do - and it's really not the program's fault that its retarded dictionary doesn't realize that "weirdisms" and "Sofur" are perfectly good words. It's also handy for catching typos, unless you happen to commit a typo that is actually another word.

It does get cranky about some of my sentence structure, such as always yelling at me that I should put "and" after a comma and before "then". It seems to have no opinion on when - if ever - to put punctuation outside of quotation marks, so I still have no idea which way is right, and just mix it up and do it both ways in a more or less random manner.

And, sentence fragments? Grammar check doesn't appreciate their quirky value.

Still, I can take a file and email it anywhere I want, email it to myself so that I have access to it even if I'm not at my own computer, and format things in ways that I never imagined while I was using that old Brother typewriter.

I was puzzled when I learned that most book publishers still want you to submit work on paper. There are about a bazillion rules about layout and margins and such, and you're supposed to put the whole pile of loose pages in a manuscript box and mail it. Strange. I mean, why would they want all those reams of loose paper? I picture things getting shuffled, lost, and spilled-upon. Wouldn't it be easier for them if people just emailed the files?

Since I love editors and publishers, all of them, with my entire frustrated-writer heart, and must suck up to them as much as humanly possible so that someday maybe they will not throw my submitted work in the shredder, I shall not question their logic. Assuming they use any.

I'm just glad I don't have to write everything in a notebook with a drippy Bic anymore.

Shut Up, I Hear You!

Dear Universe,

While I want to thank you for your obvious concern for my creative well-being, I also want to let you know that you can lighten up just a little bit.

It was quite thoughtful of you to provide me with the repeated references to The Loft Literary Center. I promise, I am going to take a class there, beginning in March. I'm sure it will be hugely beneficial, not only for my writing skills, but to help me become part of the larger creative writing community.

Then you started prodding me to find a writers' group, and through the term "writers resistance" led me to write to a couple of people I discovered online, and with whom I appeared to have quite a bit in common. They never wrote back, but the idea of a group was firmly implanted, and I kept looking.

Yesterday, once again chatting with Curt, he suggested I check out an online source that helps people find groups pertaining to their special interests. I couldn't find a writing group in my area, but it kept me going.

Then I thought, "Duh! Craigslist!" As I got on there to post my own ad, I discovered someone who listed their area as the small town immediately adjacent to my own and who wanted to form a women's writing group.

So, I did write to her, and she replied. Turns out she's not exactly in that neighboring town. She's right in my own town, but listed the other one because it contains an outlet mall, and everybody knows where it is. She's several years older than I am, and seems to be looking for the same things out of a writing group. We're going to chat some more, then probably meet for lunch or something, and see if we can help each other out.

She's even planning to take a Loft course, but one that meets at one of their satellite locations. She was debating this, because it's on Fiction and Romance Writing, which she doesn't consider her genre... but it turns out that it might actually be mine. (Why I have this aversion/dread of potentially discovering that I'm a romance writer, I don't know... but I do. I don't want to write romance, but I shy away from the graphic vocabulary that would take it over into erotica territory, even though that's a genre with which I'd much rather be associated.) So, maybe I'll take that course with her, I won't have to go downtown, and it might be exactly the help I need.

You also seem to be helping my brain shed its mittens, and I appreciate that a ton! I even started a new blog where I can share my writing progress, so I don't clutter up Fermented Fur with a bunch of stuff that probably isn't too funny.

You'll be pleased to know, if you don't already, that I have written 7000 words (20 pages) on my new short story or novella or whatever it turns out to be. However, if you happen to have any idea for a plot for the story, that might help. And maybe if it's a romance, or just a character study? Because I still don't know. I figure it will tell me, sooner or later, but it might be nice to have a working theory till then.

You have my very sincere gratitude for all your encouragement and guidance. Truly! But you can stop bludgeoning now. I hear you! I get it! Because I figure the next step is a bolt of lightning, and I studiously avoid high ground and consecrated buildings to stay away from that stuff, so I'd rather not get zapped by you just because I didn't take my writing seriously enough.

Thank you, thank you, and thank you again. Now. Shhhhhhh! I'm writing!

A Note From BroZarkWin

We don't like this. We don't like it at all. Mom is sitting there with that stupid computer, clickety-clicking away, not paying any attention to us. We've tried doing the twirly-tail ferret dance, the bouncy woof-woof maneuver, the gaze adoringly and beg for ear-skritchies thing... and none of it has worked. She is totally ignoring us, and we're just about fed up.

Yeah, fine, she did remember to feed us. A half hour late. And don't think we didn't notice.

We tried to pin her down when she took a break on the Sofur, but she squirmed out and went back to the computer. How is that more interesting or more important than lavishing attention on us? Huh? Because we really want to know.

We are considering retribution. Computer cords are edible, you know, and so is that little oval clicky thing that she uses all the time. And we don't think that computer would work very well if someone "accidentally" filled the keyboard all up with some nice, gooey drool.

We do not want to take such drastic steps, but these ears aren't gonna skritch themselves, you know. She'd better come to her senses, or there's no telling what might happen.

And if she doesn't let us out pretty soon, she's going to have a whole new set of problems.

Writecrastination

In true form, in order to not procrastinate and start writing, I did a very me-like thing. I decided that having a blog dedicated to posting my (eventual) fiction work would help motivate me to write more consistently. Therefore, I spent much of the morning deciding on a name for the blog, because I came up with Fermented Fur kind of on the spot, and have regretted the name ever since. I wish I had named it Life Barks.

Then I spent more time creating the blog and fussing with the settings and layout. I'm going for ultra-simple, not wanting to detract from all the great stuff that I will (eventually) post there.

I guess this means that Writecrastination, which was born to be an anti-procrastination tool, is actually starting out as yet another procrastination event! How typical.

I do have a plan, though, at least for today. After I eat something, and get dressed, I have to go to the clinic's bookkeeper's house (and decline all offers to partake from her incredibly gorgeous and professionally-stocked home bar) to pick up our W-2s, and get the ones for former employees in the mail.

Then, I shall come home and work on my short story. I have the entire rest of the day, because Tom is working the closing shift and won't be home until around 9:00.

I've got to beat the demons back... the ones who say "this sucks," "you suck," "this entire concept sucks," "your dialogue sucks," "your characters suck," and "the very fact that you exist sucks." I just have to write. This piece, this short story or whatever it turns out to be, is more of an exercise for me, because I haven't written fiction for so long, and I'm not expecting something publishable from it.

I just have to write.

Updated 6:30 PM: Word count is now up to 6600, 20 pages. I still have about two hours before Tom gets home. I still think it sucks, though. Maybe. Maybe not. No plot yet. But there's kissing!

Word Count

I was a good girl today. I wrote. I took the laptop into the spare room, or the "cabin room" as we call it, due to its decor, sat on the futon, and wrote.

Final word count for today is 3,627 words, on 11 pages.

It's more a writing exercise for me than a serious effort. I think it's a short story, though it could become a novella, but how it could do that without any actual plot thus far escapes me. But you never know what will happen; at least I don't.

Mainly, I'm trying to get back into the mindset of writing fiction, or build fiction from some fragment of my reality. I'm trying to develop my characters, make them individual and likable, and to work on my dialogue skills. I tend to avoid dialogue and write too much description, so I'm trying to get away from that.

I guess it's mostly a silly, girly fantasy story. Not enough plot to be a novel, but it's sort of a sexy happily ever after tale. Maybe a plot will accidentally develop, then I can scale back on the "exercise" portions and expand the story, but I'm not expecting that.

It's probably not anything I can share here, this being an open, "family" forum, but if you're interested, and if I finish it and decide to post it somewhere, or if it gets onto an e-publication, I can let you know... because I need all the positive feedback I can get! "I-suck-ism" is the bane of my writing existence, and I fall prey to it at every turn!

Work tomorrow, but plan more writing for Thursday!

Maybe the mittens are starting to slide off the ol' brain.

The Universe Won't Shut Up

As I wrote last week, the Universe has been tapping me on the shoulder, telling me that I need to quit whining and start writing. I know, I write here almost every day, but I'm talking about the other stuff rolling around in my head... the essays, the short stories... the book - you know, stuff for which I might actually achieve fame and fortune.

I'm trying to break through all my self-constructed barriers which are currently standing in the way of my writing. I really am. I do plan to sign up for the course at the Loft Literary Center on writers resistance, even though I have to figure out the tuition, and conquer my phobia about driving downtown.

The other obstacle has always been the fact that, sadly, I have to have a "real job" if I want to keep the dogs fed and the heat on at home. I know lots of writers, especially as they are trying to get a career established, have that problem. Maybe I'm different, or maybe not, but when I start writing and really get focused on a project, I tend to lose entire days in the process. I get up, start writing, and before I know it Tom is coming home from work, it's dark out, and I haven't even brushed my teeth. For the time being, though, I'm only working three days a week, so maybe that's the Universe trying once again to capture my attention.

So, today I was chatting with Curt, who told me in no uncertain terms to sit down, shut up, and start writing.

Then the Universe stopped going "tap tap" and started hitting me in the head with a sand bag.

I was outside earlier today and thought, "I have no accountability. Once you have a foot in the door, you have agents, editors and publishers going 'Hey, chick, you have a deadline coming up, and this shit isn't going to write itself. Want your check? Get busy!!!!' but I get all motivated, then I start doubting myself, then I get confused and bogged down, and then I realize it's been two months since I've written anything other than the blog."

I know Curt is also working on a book, and I thought, "What if we form our own little group of two, and challenge each other to a chapter every week, or every month? Then I'd at least have one other person who could say, 'I wrote my chapter this week! You didn't? You big, fat slacker!'"

And with that, the still air began to whisper around me, and I recognized it as the same breeze I sometimes feel while sitting in a wilderness area up north, when I feel like my parents are trying to tell me something. In this case, it sort of felt like "Yes, that's what you need. So stop talking about it and do it!"

Then I came back inside and Googled "writers resistance." This proved to be very interesting, because the first hit was for a blog post from last summer. Upon further investigation, the author is a Twin Cities area writer, and she was talking about not only the concept of writers resistance, but the fact that she had had a breakthrough thanks to the Loft Literary Center! Plus, she met some fellow writers there, and they have formed their own writers group for support, critique and encouragement.

Checking out this group, one of the members' emails was handily available, so I wrote her, just describing how I found her, and my situation, and the fact that I plan to attend a course at the Loft soon. Best case scenario is that she - or some member of the group - write back with some guidance and encouragement, or even an invitation to attend one of their get-togethers, giving me a local network to keep me focused.

Through that writers group website, I found Wyrdsmiths, which appears to be an even more serious group, also in the area. In fact, one of the authors listed among the membership is one I've read and enjoyed a great deal. So I wrote her, too, with the same story. I'm just trying to make contact, I suppose, with anyone established in the world of writing. Someone who might help steer me in the right direction, to make me feel part of things, and to keep me going when I start whining.

I am also a bit nervous, because I should learn in a week or two whether my work produces a win in any of the three categories in which I was nominated in the DWAA writing competition. I must say, I'm putting a lot of pressure on myself, because if I don't win any of them, I'm going to be very discouraged.

But what am I writing, aside from Fermented Fur?

Well, there's the often-started, always-abandoned mystery novel, tentatively titled Recycled Gold. It features Michelle "Mitch" Donahue, the owner of a pet supply store and volunteer for a golden retriever rescue group, set in a small town based on the area in the Northern Panhandle of West Virginia where I grew up. I get to the two-chapter mark, then start thinking it sucks, and I don't know where to go with it, and it's going to be stupid... and then I stop writing.

Essays... blogs are like essays, right? I've always loved essays, and feel that, like Jen Lancaster, I could build something around personal essays, if I had someone working with me who could say "this is where your focus needs to be, and this is what you have to do to take all these bits and turn it into a book".

I'm also working on (as of yesterday) a "romantic fantasy short story," which kind of takes some of my mushy girly-thoughts about a certain singer, guitarist and songwriter (all the same guy - not three different ones, because I'm not that big a slut) (Shut up.) and the fictional world where a character sort of like me would meet him, and romance (and other good stuff) ensue. I'm not sure there's all that much of a market for something like that... it could be good erotica, except for I get sort of bashful about the naughty parts. I'm trying to get over that, but in as tasteful and graceful a way as possible. I guess mainly it's a way for me to bridge the gap between essay and fiction, which has given me trouble all along.

My writing is a lot like my artistic ability, I think. I've always been able to look at a picture, be it a landscape, an owl, or a photo, and make a fairly decent copy. But I've never been able to create a picture just out of my own head. It's too flat, too lacking in dimension and detail. I worry that is how my writing is. I can write things I can "see". I can write things I've personally thought or experienced. I know that fiction writers use their own experiences to create fictional stories, but I seem to be having a bit of a problem stepping across that boundary, and I feel like this romantic fantasy might help me get there, to gain a sense of spinning fiction from a single thread of truth.

Well. That's where I am. My brain is still wearing its mittens, but I think the Universe is trying to rip them off and force me to get busy doing what I am supposed to be doing.

Help!!!!!

Fashionista In Training

Even though I warned you, I still seem to have caused some of my readers to fall prey to the highly addictive qualities of Fashion Solitaire. I'm wondering if any of you bought the full version, or if you're just playing it on the Shockwave website. (The full version is much more fun!)

I'm actually doing a lot better. I had one whole day - I think it was Monday - in which I didn't play it at all.

Here's the progression... At first, I felt compelled to play every second I could, and had a hard time stopping. Then I finished all eight "style categories" and went back to re-do some of my picks. When that stopped being fun, I started over again as a new player and did it all a second time. I'm currently in level 7 as my third user.

Reviewing my "fashion photos", it seems I have an unhealthy attachment to slutty mini-skirts. (Surprised? Raise your hand. Didn't think so.) But hey, if you're as skinny as these models are, why not wear a mini-skirt?

Plus, it's not like I have total control over what they end up wearing. You can only dress the three models that are visible at one time with cards that are also visible at that time. As you use a card, the one under it is revealed, so even if you know the cute pink skirt is there somewhere, and it would go perfectly with the jacket you just put on a model, it doesn't do you any good unless it comes up. So you might have to put her in the ugly green Capri pants instead, then mark her as "done" and move on to the next model and hope better cards come up.

And by the time you get to the last two models in any segment of any level, you never have the right shoes left to match the outfits. I don't know why. So you keep ending up with a decent outfit, which is red, and only purple shoes, or something equally horrendous.

Now, for your viewing pleasure, here are some of my Fashion Photos:










See, I told you; Lots of mini-skirts. There aren't really any of those in the evening wear category, so we went with mermaid skirt instead.

That's it. I really had no purpose for this post other than to show you the pictures!

Clueless, Useless, and Insane

Dear Clinically Insane Client,

I understand you're coming to pick up your cat today. I've also heard the reports of your recent conversations with various members of our staff, and I have to say, your entertainment factor is right up there with your annoyance factor. Unfortunately, neither of these is doing your cat one damned bit of good.

You wanted to know why, after "two years", we were unable to "fix" your cat. I'll have to let you know the answer to that in 23 months, though, because we first saw "Bitsy" one month ago. Perhaps time moves differently in whichever dimension you inhabit.

Part of the reason Bitsy isn't "fixed" is that you claim to be completely unable to get a single medication or supplement into your obese 7-year-old cat. You can't even keep the cone collar on her for twenty minutes to keep her from licking off the topical cream we gave you. We put the collar on her, and it was snugly fitted, which leads me to surmise that you got home, she gave you the pathetic "why are you doing this to me" face, you took the cone off, and were then unable to put it back on.

Plus, every time we give you a product, you look at the container as if you suspect it contains black widow spiders or possibly plutonium, which is really starting to get on my nerves. Look, there's a picture of a kitty cat on the bottle, not a skull and crossbones.

Then, when you pay your bill, you always want to do something strange with the payment, because you and your daughter are splitting it according to some ever-changing formula. The other day, when I handed you your itemized receipt, you looked at me kind of the same way you look at the medication bottles, and interrogated me as if there were no doubt in your mind that I am a total idiot and incapable of doing simple math. (I might be a mathematical moron, but I do have a calculator.)

We formulated an excellent treatment plan for Bitsy, and told you all our most top-secret tricks for getting stuff into your cat - where it can actually do some good - and you don't do it.

I know, cats are difficult to pill, and they can be very resistant to eating if their food is in any way suspicious, but how do you expect her to get better if you don't find a way? Perhaps you do have a plan. Maybe you're going to read her our treatment plan three times a day and tuck it under her bed at night. Or you will hold the various bottles tightly and think about Bitsy really, really hard. It might help if you shake them. Kind of like magical maracas.

We've had Bitsy here for three days now, because we told you that we'd be willing to do that so that we could treat her according to the plan, and she might actually get better. Granted, she's not the world's nicest cat, and treating her is an adventure, but we are trained professionals and enjoy living dangerously. When I say "we" I am of course referring to my technicians, because I am not about to go anywhere near that cat, who is at least as crazy as you are.

However, since she is your cat, and for some unfathomable reason probably likes you better than she likes us us, I would assume she wouldn't be quite as likely to rip your arms to shreds.

So, now we're at the point where we'd start expecting to see Bitsy's condition improve, but you've decided you must come get her. Why? Because, you claim, you are psychic, and from 6:00 PM to 8:00 AM every day since she's been here, you can hear her "screaming".

Really. Screaming. I know some people "hear voices", but you're the first one I've ever met who hears cat screams. And on a schedule, too. Impressive.

These hours, it should be noted, are the exact times we are closed - as clearly stated on our website, our phone message, and our front door. Coincidence? Or simply you fixating on the fact that she's "all alone" and you feel guilty that she's here, due to your inability to provide her one single element of our awesome treatment plan at home?

Just so you know, even though we technically close at 6 PM, there is almost always somebody here till close to 7:30, and we've certainly never heard Bitsy do so much as give a melancholy sigh, let alone scream. But I guess these are psychic screams we're talking about, and you're the only one on that frequency, so her outward silence doesn't change anything from your perspective.

Yeah, we're a holistic clinic, and as such we do tend to attract a rather eccentric crowd. We're generally a couple of bubbles out of plum ourselves. But even by our standards, you, my dear, are a total nut-job, and on top of that you are also a bitch. We can endure crazy people, for the most part, as long as they're nice, and you definitely are not nice.

So, when you pick up Bitsy later today, you'll also receive copies of her records, including all of our recommendations, so you can try to treat her yourself, or give them to a less-screamy clinic.

Today's Q & A

Q: You really want to write... something. A blog would be nice. You tried to write one yesterday, and it was so ass-deep in suckage that you can't bring yourself to inflict it on any of your fine readers. Your brain is, um, whatever you say something is when it isn't working right. Broken? Defective? Not performing up to standards?

Normally, you would know how to say it, but not today, on account of the brain thing which you cannot adequately describe. Because of the brain thing.

Um, what?

Sure, sometimes you have days like this, but they're usually the morning after drinking too much, and that does not explain the present situation.

If your brain were a car on a dynamometer, it would be revving away, but stuck in neutral. (Perhaps the brain-drain isn't as bad as suspected, if you were able to come up with the word "dynamometer," but you are, after all, a race fan.)

If your brain were hooked up to an electroencephalogram, the line might not be completely flat (because then you wouldn't be able to do some very important things, like breathe on your own, or feed the dogs), but it wouldn't be all spiky with creativity, either. (However, bonus points for electroencephalogram, and for correctly using the subjunctive.)

You are also wondering if this is what early Alzheimer's Disease feels like, because that's the one thing you really, really dread. On the up-side, you don't give much of a shit about anything when your brain is this sluggish, so maybe if you had Alzheimer's, you wouldn't care.

You have lots of good ideas rolling around in your head - you can tell they're there - but your brain can't pick them up, because it is wearing mittens.

And now, after this very long question, we shall examine the multiple choice portion of this quiz.

What is wrong with your brain?

A: Choose One:

(Fine, choose more than one if you feel like it:)

A) Just tired

B) Seasonal Affected Disorder

C) Sofa Slug Weekends have leaked over to other days

D) Bummed over decreased work hours (not likely, FYI)

E) Early Alzheimer's

F) Cumulative damage from so many years of placing vulnerable brain cells under a wide variety of influences

G) Carbon monoxide

H) Alien experimentation

I) Fashion Solitaire-related brain atrophy

J) Global warming

K) Overdosed on 7-Layer Burritos (sadly, this is possible)

L) The twin you absorbed prior to birth is staging a revolution, taking over the control center (Her name is Dori. Blame your older sister.)

M) Darwin is using hypnosis or subliminal messages, repressing your free will in preparation for his cuteness revolution

N) Following last year's head wound, some hair follicles were stitched pointing inward, and have penetrated the skull and are infiltrating the brain

O) Not enough sex Naaaaah.

P) Short circuiting caused by repeated static electricity shocks when petting the dogs

Q) Boll weevils (Seriously. They're sneaky.)

R) Latent paranormal abilities gathering strength in preparation for unleashing themselves on the world, like a great big witchy coming-out party

S) Not enough Vitamin C

Switching back to the First Person now.

I suddenly realized the alphabet has way too many letters, but there's no reason I have to use all of them. "S" seems like a good place to stop.

Maybe we only need 19 letters and can get rid of some of the extra ones. Do we really need "K"? How often do you really use it? You can always just use "C" instead. "K" is redundant. And aren't five (or sometimes six) vowels a bit excessive? Consonants are much snappier.

I'll be back later to check your answers. Unless "M" turns out to be true, and Darwin won't let me.

Medical Update

I just wanted to let you all know where things stand now with Rachel's mom and her recent surgery. Tomorrow will be a week since she had a mass removed, along with a large portion of her ascending colon, and Rachel says she might get to go home tomorrow. That's the good news.

The other news is not so good. The biopsies of the lymph nodes that were removed do show cancer. She said that there were at least 10 affected nodes, so there will have to be some additional treatment. They'll be meeting with the oncologist to come up with a plan.

Rachel also reported that the doctor mentioned that the mass was on the exterior wall of the colon, not inside... I'm not sure if this is significant, but it sounds less desirable than being contained, but if it's anywhere in your body it is bad, so I'm not going to try to figure that part out right now.

It's too soon to know if the eventual treatment plan will cause additional changes to the Royal Wedding, but Tom says we're going to Orlando on 4/26 whether there's a wedding or not, because we have the plane tickets and he is not paying to change them again! I hear they've got some sort of amusement park down there, so I'm sure we'll find something to do.

This could also be very interesting, because if I get to go back to Denver for the second part of the veterinary management school, that will be April 21-25... meaning I'd normally fly home to Minnesota on 4/26, but would have to probably take the "red eye" home Saturday night 4/25, and then be back at the airport at the crack of dark to go to Florida. And no, I can't just fly straight to Florida, because we already have the tickets, which are round trip from Minneapolis.

Anyway, not a big deal in the scheme of things.

If you'd like to send Rachel your best wishes, you can do so by leaving a comment here. I know she'd appreciate it.

Skinned

I am not a cell phone nerd. My phone, by most standards, is extremely low-tech. It doesn't have a camera. I have no idea how to use it to get online. I can't even fathom having a "phone" that allows me to read e-mail, play games, watch videos, listen to music, or - for all I know - shoot laser beams. I use it to talk to people (when I have to) and to send the occasional text message.

A couple of weeks ago, Tom discovered SkinIt.com, and ordered a Notre Dame skin for his phone. When it arrived, it looked pretty spiffy, and then he had me get him a Notre Dame fight song ring tone.

OK, now I was intrigued. But I knew I wouldn't like any of the "stock" skins that were available. I went to the site and was happy to discover that you can make your own. I immediately started uploading some pictures of Ripley and designing a skin for my phone.

Then I went, "Waaaaaaaaait a minute," and started uploading completely different pictures. Of Cody. Why this didn't occur to me in the first place, I have no idea. I suppose it means my fixation isn't quite as ingrained as we all believed. But it did eventually occur to me, so the Cody-obsession is apparently alive and well. I mean, my phone alerts me to incoming calls with Cody singing "Alabama", unless it's Tom calling, in which case Cody sings "Constantly".

A few minutes' effort and around $20 later, and my phone is now a unique - and yummy-looking - tribute to my favorite performer.


Since I spend more time looking at my phone sitting on the end table or on my desk than actually using it, this seemed like a very reasonable investment.

You can also get a skin for a laptop, but since I'm always sitting on the side where the screen and keyboard are, which I'm pretty sure is where most of us sit while using our laptops, I'm not sure what good a skin on the back of it would be, so I'm not planning to get one of those.

Probably.

I already have a Cross Canadian Ragweed Zippo lighter, and if they'd market a cigarette case, I'd be all set.

Listening to the Universe

I have a hunch that the Universe is telling me to get over my hang-ups, stop making excuses, get off my ass and Start Writing. Actually, I suppose I've never really stopped writing, doing the blog, essays, the occasional poem, and numerous false starts on the book, but I have no direction. I need to focus on what I want to produce, come up with a workable plan for getting it done, and get busy.

On Friday, I was driving home from work and listening to talk radio, as I always do. The drive-time program usually has a lot of celebrity news, silly stories, and personal banter between the hosts, and sometimes it annoys me to the point that I switch over to NPR for something a bit more substantial. Friday, though, they had a local author, Ellen Hart, who writes the Jane Lawless and Sophie Greenway mystery series. She's quite successful, and has been called - to her great delight - the Lesbian Agatha Christie.

Hart was talking about The Loft Literary Center, which helped her find direction in the early years of her work. I'd heard of The Loft, in a vague way, but pictured it as a small artsy place in downtown Minneapolis, which held the occasional writers' workshop. I made a mental note to look more into it, sometime, if I remembered.


Then yesterday I was at the library. I was trying to pick out something for Tom, because the last few books I brought home for him weren't to his liking. I was meandering through a part of the tiny branch library where I do not normally venture, and found a magazine-style course catalog for The Loft.

Wait. A course catalog? It was a large enough organization to have a course catalog???

I picked up one of the catalogs and brought it home. I began paging through it, and I was overwhelmed. They have nearly 100 "Teaching Artists" from all areas of the craft and business of writing. There are 137 courses, ranging from single-day workshops to 12-week sessions. They have categories of Basics (exploring creative writing and getting started), Children's Literature, Creative Non-Fiction (memoir, biography, essay), Creative Process (ideas, imagination), Fiction (novels, short stories), Multigenre (for writers of creative non-fiction, fiction, poetry, comic book & graphic novels), Play- and Screenwriting, Poetry, Writing Realities (career exploration, agents, publication, book proposals), and a whole bunch more.

I am intrigued.

I really need to take a course and see what this is all about.

Then I started making excuses.

Tuition is around $40 for a half-day workshop, $100 for a full-day workshop, $114 for a four-week class, $172 for a six-week class, and $344 for a 12-week class. "I don't have that kind of extra money." OK, so I need to find it.

"The classes are going to have at least one session while I'll be attending the Royal Wedding." Not all of them. You'll only be gone Sunday through Wednesday.

"It's downtown. I hate downtown. I'm scared of downtown. I get lost Every Single Time I try to go. I hate to drive. The traffic will be awful. Parking will be a problem." Put on your Big Girl Panties and deal with it.

"But I have to work." Not as much as you used to, your schedule is flexible, and lots of the courses seem to meet on Tuesday or Thursday evenings, not to mention Saturdays.

Ironically, some of the courses are about breaking down your barriers, overcoming writers' block, and the obstacle of writer's resistance.

I've filled out a registration form for the six-week course called Writer's Resistance, which meets from 5-7 PM on Thursdays, beginning in March. Now I just have to fund it, send it in, and actually convince myself to show up.

As I was preparing to write this post, I did some additional research, because I'm all about bringing you useful facts. Or made-up ones, if I'm not feeling very motivated. But the following paragraphs are real, true, actual, un-made-up facts.

The Loft Literary Center was founded in 1974 in a renovated loft space above a Minneapolis book store, and is now the largest and most comprehensive independent literary center in the country.

In 2000, Open Book came into being. Formed by three non-profit groups - The Loft, The Minnesota Center for Book Arts, and Milkweed Editions - it is housed in three connected brick warehouses, and has gone a long way toward revitalizing the neighborhood in which it is located. There is a Book Club Room, and writing lofts which can be rented on a monthly basis. It has a resource library, as well as the classrooms and meeting rooms, and performance space.


Who knew??? I'm not an "urbanite". I prefer to stay as far out in my safe little suburbs as I can... but now it looks like I'm going to have to face down some of my issues so I can take advantage of this amazing wealth of information and opportunity.

The DWAA nominations, decreased hours at work, frustration over not being able to get past the logjam in my brain and actually write, and discovering the Loft... Yep, sure sounds like the Universe is trying to tell me something.

I just have to keep my fingers out of my ears and listen to it.

Are You Going Somewhere?

Darwin is a sunny, joyful, very interactive, high-energy dog with an off-the-charts cuteness factor. Very little upsets him. As long as he's getting attention, the world is exactly as it should be.

If he's not sacked out on the Sofur, his head in my lap and gazing adoringly up at me, he's wrestling with his brothers or vaulting unexpectedly over the arm of the Sofur and landing on my pancreas. Periodically, he retreats to the bay window to recharge his batteries, which has the added benefit of placing him in prime position to receive our "awww, isn't he adorable" looks.

The exception to Happy Darwin is Sulky Darwin, who makes an appearance only when I am peparing to go to work. Dogs, being keen observers of our every habit and behavior, quickly establish which activities signal our imminent departure. When Darwin sees me laying out my work clothes, or drying my hair, putting on makeup, or doing pretty much anything other than sitting on the Sofur, drinking coffee, smoking, reading, and watching the Today Show, he knows what is going on.

I am about to Leave Him.

This triggers Sulk Mode. He has a few locations in which he prefers to conduct his sulking. One is on the floor on the right side of the bed, his head tucked between the bed and the floor fan. The other is on the opposite side, facing my bedside shelves. When he really wants to make a statement about his disapproval, he gets on the bed, facing away from the door. In every case, he refuses to look at me, no matter how much I sweet-talk him. Ear-ruffles do not produce a glance or a tail-flutter. I do not exist. As far as he's concerned, I've already left the house.

Yesterday was a "park himself in the bed and refuse to move" day, which makes it very hard for me to make up the bed before I leave. I tried pulling the covers over him, and the resultant Darwin-shaped lump never so much as twitched. I wasn't even there, so how could I possibly have buried him under the covers?

He had positioned himself on my side of the bed, head on my pillow and on the section of sheet that was left exposed when I reluctantly tossed back the blankets a short while earlier, and he seemed to be planning to spend the day in that precise spot.

Of course, after I attempted to motivate him to relocate - and he ignored me - I found him that much more adorable. Which, I assume, was his plan. Even though he's unbearably cute at all times, he is trying to discover what will take him up that one additional notch, which will finally make him so cute that I will be completely unable to leave him for even one second, ever.

And he's darned close.

(If he decides to try wriggling over onto his back and draping his big front bear-paws over the edge of my Korean Mink Blanket, he just might succeed.)

It's not really fair, is it? Not only is he trying to manipulate me with his cuteness, he's taunting me. "Hey, Mom, remember about an hour ago, you were all warm and cozy and snoozy right in this very spot? Don't I look comfortable? In about three seconds, I will be snoring contentedly and drooling on your pillow. Are you really sure you want to go anywhere?"

No, I'm not sure. I'm not sure at all. Because I do - very much - want to be snuggled under those covers, and Darwin is an excellent nap-partner.

But I'm a responsible employee, so I suited up and trudged out to the car, despite my adorable dog and the -22F temperature.

This morning, I have yet to do a single thing that would hint at the fact that I have to go out to the grocery store (shudder) and the library, but BroZarkWin are already suspicious. Brody and Darwin took over the Sofur, clearly indicating that they don't expect me to be needing my customary lazy-ass location.

(Note suspicious look in Brody's eyes)

Ozark is staying out of sight, not because I'm going anywhere, but because he knows that at any moment I'm going to track him down to put Zymox in his ears. Which he hates. A lot.

I am procrastinating. Although it's a balmy 19 degrees, I am dreading the thought of Super Wal-Mart on a Saturday, when the percentage of wailing, hyperactive, snot-infested children peaks. I must shop for the right assortment of food that will not only fulfill our nutritional needs but eliminate the "don't we have any..." (chocolate, crunchy snacks, decent fruit, essential personal care item) complaints later. It involves thinking and making decisions, two things I try to avoid when not at work.

But when I come home, Darwin will hear the garage door and will greet me by standing in the bay window with his tail thumping joyfully on the window... and I'll remember that the only thing that makes leaving bearable is coming home again.

Dateless For the Inauguration

A mere four days until, as the Northern Sun catalog’s bumper sticker says, “The End of an Error”. For the first time in far too long I will get to claim a president that doesn’t make me cringe in shame.

I wonder why Inauguration Day is on a Tuesday, though. Kind of like book, CD, and DVD releases. Why Tuesdays? I assume there was some sort of logic involved in the decision, but I’m not entirely sure what it is. The government is generally fond of a Monday or a Friday, creating the ever-popular long weekend, so that would make sense. For maximum viewing by the general population, a Saturday or Sunday would be ideal.

Tuesdays have been my regular day off for a while, and as of next week I will be off Thursdays as well. (Yes, it sounds sweet, but no, I am not happy about it. I’m too poor to work any less. Hopefully both the abbreviated schedule and my general poverty are only temporary… though poverty has been hanging on for a decade or two, so we may be beyond the cut-off point for referring to it in any way as “temporary”, at least till I win a buttload of those DWAA awards and become a bestselling author.)

Whoops. I really wandered there, didn’t I? To continue the original thought, which had something to do with being off on Tuesdays…

This means I will be able to watch all the Inauguration festivities that I can stand. I don’t think Tuesday afternoons are prime “uncork the bottles and get out the hats and noisemakers” celebration time, and especially not in this case, because I will be all by my lonesome. Despite my ingrained alcohol-related issues, I don’t drink alone. Plus, many of the related festivity-type activities technically require the presence of the husband.

In light of the postponement of the Royal Wedding, Tom’s schedule got jerked around, and they scheduled him for two consecutive Saturdays, which is Not How It’s Supposed To Be. He said fine, but if he had to work two Saturdays in a row, he’d like to have this coming Tuesday as his day off. Because his bosses are clearly Republicans Bastards Republican Bastards, they said no, but he can have Monday off. While this means he can stay up late to see the entire Steelers/Ravens playoff game, it doesn’t help much with Inauguration Day.

Some people (who are not even Republican Bastards) seem to feel that it is unseemly for the Inauguration to be so celebratory and lavish in light of the current economic situation, but I’m not sure I agree. I think many citizens are so deliriously happy with the outcome, not to mention the historic significance, that they really want a blow-the-doors-off event. It doesn’t make me feel disrespected or marginalized or anything like that. I figure even if they held the Inauguration at the bus station, none of the money that would have otherwise been spent on the occasion would find its way into my personal pocket anyway, so we might as well let our new President have his day, and I’ll enjoy it vicariously via MSNBC and CNN (Not Fox News).

If anybody else is “dateless” for the Inauguration and wants to watch it together long-distance and instant message profound observations – or make fun of somebody’s dress, whichever – let me know! Otherwise it will be me, the dogs, MSNBC, and Fashion Solitaire!

There will also be the added bonus of the traditional “watch the outgoing President board the military helicopter and slink out of town” footage, which is sure to be especially enjoyable this time around!

The Logic Escapes Me

Irony? Idiocy? Imponderable? I'm not sure, but one of our suppliers called us yesterday with an interesting little tidbit of information regarding our expected delivery.

They were giving us a "heads up" that we would not be receiving our regular shipment of raw frozen pet food... because the weather was too cold.

On a related note, after work yesterday I got home and trudged down the Killer Steps of Death to bring in some firewood, because our furnace tends to get grumpy when it never gets to shut off. I started a fire in the wood stove, then accidentally let it go out because I was too busy playing Fashion Solitaire (slightly less addicted in the last day or so, but not so's you'd notice). I was, however, wearing two pairs of socks, which clued me in that I should probably pay a bit more attention to the fire so that my ass didn't freeze to the Sofur.

Darwin does look adorable when he comes in from outside with bark-breath frozen all over his muzzle, but it's still not funny.

Brrrrr

Curt demanded requested a video of hot water being tossed into the air and immediately vaporizing, or turning to snow, or freezing, or whatever the technical term would be... but while Tom and I have been home, and it's been -20F or below (which it is at the moment, wind chill -35F), it's been dark and not conducive to shooting a video clip. Failing to produce the video myself, I did what all good bloggers do; I went in search of such a video on YouTube.

So, enjoy!

This morning, I also watched our weather guy blow bubbles that froze (I will try that in a bit... I still have the Darwin-rejected bubbles in my desk at work), and he hammered a nail with a banana, a tomato, an apple, and a cucumber that had been left outside on the table in the Weather Backyard.

I guess you have to find whatever amusement in this weather that you can. In the three minutes it took me to put gas in my car, I seriously considered setting my hair on fire just to thaw out my ears.

Brody, however, being a Great Pyrenees, thinks the weather is perfect just the way it is.

UPDATE: Revised plan. It is entirely to freakin' cold for me to go out there and try the frozen bubbles thing. Much warmer to stay in here and watch other idiots do it on YouTube. In this video, the bubbles behave as if they are made out of slightly rigid plastic wrap.

I am totally not going to even think about the fact that I was supposed to be in Florida today.

The good news is that Rachel's mom's surgery went well, and the doctors are very optimistic!

Time to climb into my coffee mug now, because it will be at least an hour before my office warms to the point where I can't see my own breath.

UPDATE 2: OK, I just did the bubble thing, and it was pretty neat.

Weddings and Weather

Where I was supposed to be today:

(Disney's Old Key West Resort, high temperature around 70F)

Where I was this morning:

(Treasure Island Resort & Casino, Red Wing, Minnesota. Add a foot of snow to the picture, and a thermometer which would have read -20F this morning, and you'll see the contrast between this photo and photo #1.)

When the Royal Wedding got rescheduled, we felt we still needed a getaway, as our heads were already in Getaway Mode, so we booked a night in the Jacuzzi Suite and headed out.

Of course it was snowing, and it was getting scary by the time we got there. Then we were safely inside, checked in, and on the gaming floor... which unlike the Grand Casino Mille Lacs, is not dry and therefore has bars. I'm thinking the Prairie Island Band is clearly superior to the Mille Lacs Band of Ojibwe. I was definitely enjoying their hospitality after the second trip to Bongo's Bar, conveniently located near the ticket redemption machine.

(Side note: When we first moved to Minnesota and heard radio ads for the Grand Casino Mille Lacs, it said, "The Mille Lacs Band of Ojibwe welcomes you," only Tom thought they were saying the "Relaxed Band of Ojibwe," and felt it was probably a good thing that they were relaxed and not still bitter about having all their land stolen by white people... only now they have their own nation and don't pay taxes and get all this casino money, so maybe we're the ones who should be less than relaxed.)

The wind chills in the central part of Minnesota were in the -25 to -40F range today. This is not funny.

However, let's be serious for a moment, because the reason we're not in Florida right now is that Fabulous Fiancee's mother is having surgery tomorrow. She says it's OK for me to share some of the details with you. She found out one week ago today that she has colon cancer. Due to a blockage, her doctors didn't give her permission to travel, because emergency surgery thousands of miles from your primary doctors isn't something you should risk, if it can be avoided.

So, tomorrow she will have surgery to remove the large mass causing the blockage, and they should know a lot more after that. Ideally, this will be one single localized mass, and a low stage of cancer, rather than a whole bunch of small masses, which could be hiding all over the place and escaping detection.

Rachel (a.k.a. Fabulous Fiancee) says they aren't thinking that she'll be starting chemotherapy at this point. We're hoping that she'll have the surgery, a swift and complication-free recovery, and be ready to hit Disney and celebrate like crazy at the Royal Wedding in April.

We got our plane reservations changed (for a mere $210 additional dollars, the extorting bastards), and the Kids got their wedding arrangements changed to the new date. Now we just need for her mom to get healthy and strong, and ready to witness the merging of our two family empires.

And did you know that, since it's so cold out, I could go out on my deck right now and splash a cup of warm water into the air, and it would instantly transform into a snowy cloud? But I won't, because it's freakin' frigid out there, and I'd rather stay in here and play Fashion Solitaire.

Even My Cynical Old Heart

I'm normally unimpressed by things most people consider "cute". I'm not so much into kittens, though I do make the occasional exception. Babies... forget it. The only cute baby that ever existed was The Boy, and then only when he was actually asleep. When awake, babies drool, poop, cry, and require care that tends to interfere with Mama's preferred agenda of napping, reading, and otherwise doing things that do not involve spit-up or diaper rash.

I remain dismissive of the whole "icanhazcheezburger" thing, where people put supposedly humorous - and hideously misspelled - captions on pictures of their dogs or cats (mostly cats). Why should we assume that our pets would have terrible grammar and spelling skills? I'm fairly certain that my dogs are well-spoken and literate, in addition to being cute.

Darwin, of course, takes cuteness to a whole new level. I can only imagine how off-the-charts adorable he was as a puppy. Especially in those "puppy falling asleep" moments.

Being a Saturday morning, you would think I'd sleep in, but it didn't turn out that way. My back was bothering me around 6:15, so when Tom started to get up to tend to BroZarkWin, I said if he wanted to stay in bed, I'd get up. Because I'm unselfish that way. Plus, I wanted to get up and play Fashion Solitaire.

As it turned out, we both got up and tag-teamed BroZarkWin's breakfast preparation. At 7:00, Brody was outside barking his muzzle off at the neighbors, who had backed a truck up to their mysterious outbuilding, the contents of which I have yet to determine (probably not a meth lab).

I yelled for him for a while, but decided that since they were clearly already awake and loading something into the truck (probably not dead bodies), I didn't have to worry about him disturbing anybody's sleep. If they find his barking annoying, that's not my problem. Well, it probably is, but in order to not get hives or ulcers worrying about it, I pretend that it's not. He eventually got bored and came in, frozen bark-breath festooning his whiskers.

None of that had anything to do with anything, but I assumed you would want to know.

So, then I was sitting on the couch watching the Today Show, waiting for Tom to head out to the YMCA, which he joined yesterday (better than a gym, because it not only has exercise equipment and classes, it has basketball courts, a pool, a sauna, and a Jacuzzi), and saw a story that sucked me into an inescapable vortex of cuteness.

(Side note: If Tom discovers you can actually lose weight just by sitting in a Jacuzzi, I'm totally going to join, because I now have until April 27 - the new date for the Royal Wedding - to lose 15 pounds, and I refuse to resort to actual exercise.)

It must be because I'm not entirely awake, and therefore my defenses against cuteness assaults are not up to full strength. Yeah, that's it. They ran a story about a guy who started a blog called "Cute Things Falling Asleep". Normally I would snort in derision and voice caustic comments about the state of this person's intelligence and lack of any systemic testosterone... but there were puppies.

(I'm trying to overlook the fact that this blog uses the hideous green template that I briefly tried last summer, before Fabulous Fiancee created my current awesome layout.)

I'm not a puppy owner. I don't plan to ever be a puppy owner. I have three perfectly wonderful (and housetrained) adult dogs, thankyouverymuch. But I do get to satisfy my "puppy fix" at work, and I maintain that puppies are really the only truly cute things on the planet, except for those few dogs who remain cute into adulthood... like Darwin.

The Cute Things Falling Asleep site has video clips of puppies, kittens, bunnies, babies (ick), a sloth, and other allegedly cute creatures dozing off in awwwwwwwww-inducing ways.

Of course, none of them are actually cute (especially the babies)... except the puppies. And they are all freakin' adorable. To spare you the alarming possibility of accidentally seeing a baby with cereal all over its face falling asleep in a high chair, here is the direct link to only the puppy videos.

Tom has just departed for the Y, so what am I going to do while I await his return? Housework? Laundry? Anything that is in any way even close to useful? Nope. I'm going to watch puppies falling asleep and play Fashion Solitaire.