Realigning My Scattered Brain

As I try to gather my scattered brain from the multitude of things demanding its dubious attention, I am feeling unmotivated and stressed. This... is not good. When I'm at work, I quickly knock off the necessary tasks, but don't really have the drive to seek out additional tasks or to start any major projects.

I just want to go home and either a) sleep, or b) write.

Then I looked up at the bulletin board beside my desk, and once I got past the many Cody pictures (and some of Tom, The Boy, and assorted dogs), I noticed something I pinned up there over a year ago and seldom pay attention to anymore. The Five Reiki Principles.

For those who don't know about Reiki, it's an ancient form of light massage and energy healing, and Dr. Vet-Friend is a practitioner. But since it's about harmony and balance, the principles come into play both for practitioners and patients, unless the patient is a dog or cat. They can't internalize the written principles, but that's OK... dogs and cats already pretty much live the principles anyway.

So, for my personal benefit today, and for yours, too, here are the Reiki Principles:

1. Just for today, I will not anger.
Letting go of anger brings peace to the mind.

2. Just for today, I will not worry.
Letting go of worry brings healing to the body.

3. Just for today, I will be grateful.
Being thankful brings joy into the spirit.

4. Just for today, I will do my work honestly.
Working honestly brings abundance into the soul.

5. Just for today, I will be kind to every living thing.
Being kind brings love into the will.

Whether you believe in alternative modalities like Reiki or not, you can hardly argue with the merit of those principles in helping you keep things in perspective.

So, now I'd better sit here and work on activating them in my own head!

Lame Update

When I'm not at work, I'm pretty thoroughly lost in the book, rarely emerging to visit "reality". So, sorry about the lack of new material, but the book is holding me hostage!

Today, I'd like to ask you all to visit Writecrastination to read my update. Plus, I've put two very important links over there, asking for your support for two writing friends! One is on the verge of winning a very prestigious writing competition (one of TWO finalists!), which will include a publication deal. She needs your votes, before March 29! The other is for a friend who has published an erotic story collection, which I've already bought, read, and thoroughly enjoyed. If you like unique erotica, I hope you'll take a look.

By the way, all the Cody-related stuff I've been posting lately is totally research! I want the band in my book to have a very Ragweed-esque feel, so I had to hunt down the details to make it feel real. I found a couple of interviews done on their bus, which was important because several key scenes in the book take place on my fictional band's bus. (I'm still trying to forget about the Star Wars sheets, though.) I found a great web interview that chronicled the timetable of the pre-show preparations. I've been reading a lot about guitars, and even had to do things like look up the sunrise/sunset times in that part of Minnesota during the time frame of the book.

A writer's work is never done!

Now, go visit Writecrastination!

Interview

Americana Music Times

While "researching" on Friday, I came across a really good article in the Americana Music Times, by journalist Randy Cunningham. I thought I'd already read most of the Cody Canada interviews floating around online, but this one came out sometime last month, and this is the first time I'd seen it.

I like it because almost every interview is, naturally, about music, what they're recording, where they're touring, and other things related to the band. This is about his cars, which is something I'd wondered about but never had any information. (For the record, it's pretty much what I suspected.)

A note to Mr. Cunningham reveals that the 1947 Willys Jeep is going to be sold after all, but I wonder if he ever got the water cannon installed. He also said that Cody has so many great stories that the article pretty much wrote itself.

(Photo below by Steve Circeo)

What Have I Got Against Chick-Lit?

Several months ago, I started what I'd intended as a writing exercise. I had two characters, and I was just going to write some little steamy vignettes, because (as hard to believe as it is) I noticed I tend to be too inhibited when writing intimate scenes. I wanted to cultivate a style in which I could be very explicit, but not vulgar.

The vignettes became a short story, and then started telling me it might be a novella. Fine. But then it decided it was a book, and I had a whole new set of problems. For example, I now needed a plot.

If forced to pick a genre, I'd have told you I am a mystery writer. This is what I read the most, and what feels like a "real" book to me. But having started this book in the most ass-backwards way possible, the pieces weren't there. I had my characters first, before I had any notion of plot beyond the chemistry between Seth and Abby. Concocting a full-fledged mystery around them wasn't something that was going to happen naturally. It's about them, primarily, and their relationship.

Which makes it a romance, not a mystery. Perhaps a "romantic suspense" at best.

But I am not a romance writer. I'm not, I don't want to be, and you can't make me.

Except, I apparently am. Shit.

So, fine. I told myself this was a romantic suspense, beefed up my plot, and got on with it. The problem was... it was boring. Writing Fermented Fur for the past 14 months, I discovered I like writing humor, and am not altogether awful at it. When I think of the authors I most enjoy, they all write in a very humorous tone. To make the book more entertaining, I knew I had to bump up the humor a lot... which is a primary feature of "chick-lit".

But I don't want to write chick-lit. Why? What is this completely unfounded and hypocritical prejudice against this fiction genre? Some of the most intelligent people I know read a great deal of chick lit, though we always seem to feel as if we have to apologize for doing so. "Oh, I just had to read a little fluff this weekend." Why?

Let me tell you, writing this stuff is not easy. You still have to have a plot, just as for any romance, and the relationship must be the primary focus, with the mystery or other drama supporting the development of the relationship. So you have to create flawed but likable characters, bring them together with a certain degree of conflict amid the sparks, craft a story around them, and keep the whole thing moving along and entertaining to read. Plus, you have to be funny.

I try to excuse my accidental chick-lit-writing as "my starter book". In many ways, I do see this book like that. I'm learning the skills and procedure for writing a book, and I'm trying not to put too much pressure on myself to expect perfection. (Fail.) I said I don't want to "waste" this steep learning curve on my "real" book, which will be Book #2, a mystery.

But why am I being so snobby about the fact that this book has turned out to be a chick-lit romance? I almost feel like I have to apologize, though I'm not sure to whom.

It has cut down my pool of potential critique readers. Tom is trying, and he likes what he's reading, but not being a "romance reader," he ends up confused. "Why does there have to be this conflict when they meet?" Because that's how it works in chick-lit. No conflict, no drama, no story. He also mentioned today that chapter two is a bit "gooey". Yep. Romance.

Dr. Vet-Friend, who is hands-down the most brilliant person I know, read chapter one and had a couple of very good suggestions. I have to read a section of dialogue at class this coming Thursday, and I suspect I'll leave class that night a tad more suicidal than last time. I'll also have to try to find a good bit of dialogue that is entertaining and tells you a lot about the characters, but doesn't contain too many profanities, which will be tricky. (Hey, you run over a guy's guitar, and he says stuff, often brought to you by the letter "f".)

And that's where I am. 3 chapters, 53 pages, about 14,000 words of chick-lit. I want to wrap this section up and move into chapter 4, in which Abby and Seth finally get to her house.

But I am not a romance writer. I just happen to be writing a romance.

It's a subtle, and probably delusional distinction. I guess you have to be a writer to understand.

Proof That The Universe Is Totally Screwing With Me

As previously reported, the Royal Wedding, in which The Boy and Fabulous Fiancee will celebrate the start of a new dynasty (Prince Odin being the other member of said dynasty), is to be held Monday, April 27, in Orlando, Florida.

Any time I travel, whether for a conference, vacation, or visit to family or friends, I always cross-reference the travel dates with the Cross Canadian Ragweed tour schedule. (You see where this is going already, don't you?) It's not because I'm lacking things to do on these trips. It's because we only manage to get the band to play one of the Twin Cities area clubs about once a year, and that is Simply Not Enough for devoted Ragweed fans, which we are.

I can say, without fear of contradiction, that we are their biggest fans in the region.

Their DVD is the only one I ever willingly allow to play on our big TV downstairs. Their songs are my cell phone ringtones. Pictures of Cody Canada are the skin on my phone. I have a Cross Canadian Ragweed Zippo lighter. I press mix CDs on everyone I know with ears, because I'm sure that if people just hear them, they'll be as enraptured as we are and become CD-buying, concert-attending fans. I have sent mix CDs and letters to area concert venues, begging them to book them. I have launched the CCRusade right on this very blog. We are always the first people in line for any show, because we must be up front. (And no, it's not just me. Tom also requires stage-front concert viewing.)

Today, I became aware of a fact that was at first thrilling, then devastating.

The wedding, at the Harry P. Leu Gardens in Orlando, is April 27. The Social, also in Orlando, will be hosting a Cross Canadian Ragweed concert, also on April 27. The wedding venue and the concert venue are separated by 3.3 miles.

Three. Point. Three. Miles.

The wedding is around 3:00 PM. The post-wedding dinner is around 6:00 PM. Doors open for the concert at 7:15 PM.

To some, it would seem to be almost do-able. However, when we attend a Ragweed show, we are generally in line around 2 hours before the time the doors open. Because of the "must be right against the stage" thing.

It does say "with guests" in the concert listing, so I can guess that Ragweed might not actually hit the stage till 9:30 or 10:00. But still. If we're not there before the doors open, there will be teeming masses of less-Ragweed-loving people between us and the stage, and that is not acceptable.

If it were anything else, anything but the wedding of our only child, we could totally blow it off. Relative having a heart transplant? Call us if tragedy strikes. But the wedding... no can do. (Don't want to, either, so don't start.) The entire guest list, including the happy couple, numbers nine, so even if we just failed to show up for dinner, our absence would not go unnoticed. Even if I were willing to miss the time to socialize and celebrate with the newlyweds and new in-laws. Plus, Tom's parents will be there, and we haven't seen them in almost two years, so I imagine they wouldn't understand the "Must See Ragweed" complication.

See? The Universe is totally out to get me.

I checked to see if they were playing anywhere else in central Florida on Tuesday the 28th, because I'll actually be free that night. But no. They're off that night, before playing in Atlanta on the 29th.

Screw you, Universe.

The only way I could possibly see this working out is if the Universe takes pity on me, and I ain't holding my breath. The Ragweed gang would have to be aware of the magnitude of our devotion, and of our dilemma. They, being the awesome people they are, would want to show their appreciation for our years of devotion, and send a car to the Old Key West Resort (25 miles from the concert venue) and retrieve us following dinner. We would be escorted into the Social and directly to a backstage meet and greet, then to stage-front positions for the show.

(Note: They stopped doing meet and greets last year, because apparently some people can't behave. We, however, are not only old, but also have too much respect for them and personal dignity (theirs and ours) to be idiots. Plus, I have never, ever had too much to drink while attending one of their shows. Can't risk not remembering every second. And, said meet and greet photos would be awesome, because I shall still have on my air-brush makeup and eyelash extensions from the wedding!)

So, the VIP concert experience is pretty much the only way we have any chance of making that show.

But that won't happen, because the Universe hates me.

And right now I kind of hate it back.

Spring Not Quite Sprung, But Definitely Splashing

(Note: You may have trouble with the first clip. I can only get it to play 3 seconds at work or home, even though it says it has all 37 seconds. So, just enjoy the second one if the first one doesn't play.)

I'm just telling myself to get used to it. At least once a day I must allow Darwin to indulge in his mud-bog ritual, because this is a dog who absolutely has to burn off some energy. The videos below were shot yesterday.

(Not too bad at this point. Very adorable and very happy, which is the part that makes it hard to kill him.)

(This is about half as bad as it eventually became. Notice Brody, being a good dog, monitoring the perimeter and never permitting his paws to become even remotely soiled.)

The main problem at this point is that I need to pin him down and shave his belly and inside his back legs, because he's so matted under there that there's no way to get all the dirt out. Taking him to the groomer right now seems a bit of a waste of money, since he'll be filthy again within ten minutes - but she could get the mats trimmed in no time. Truth is, I'd be ashamed to let her see him right now! I'm not house-proud, like people who clean before the housekeeper arrives, but I guess I'm a little dog-proud.

Life Would Be Easier If I Never Had to Leave the House, But Also Had a Maid

I despise any and all tasks associated with day-to-day housekeeping. Yeah, I know, huge surprise. Yet I was thoroughly disgusted with myself today when I realized I have a system for unloading the dishwasher.

Me. A system. For unloading the dishwasher. Sure sign of the apocalypse.

For those of you who care, it consists of 1) put away the plates, 2) put away the pans and big bowls that live under the counter, 3) put away the great big knives and utensils that live in that particular drawer, 4) put away the little knives and other stabby-type things in the utensil basket on which I am likely to injure myself, 5) put away remaining silverware, 6) put away miscellaneous small bowls and plastic thingies with lids, and 7) put away the glasses.

The fact that this system has seven steps is now my newest source of shame.

My hatred for household duties extends to running errands. If today's errands hadn't led to some amusing observations and thoughts, about which I was already blogging in my head before I even hit the checkout counter, they would have had virtually no redeeming qualities at all.

SuperTarget can be a wonderland for the budget-conscious shopper, but it still annoys me. Then again, I'm probably not the typical shopper.

For example, they have almost no thigh-high stockings. I find this both inconvenient and upsetting. I went down the hosiery aisle three times before I found any, and those were on clearance, indicating that soon there will be none at all. None of them were black (let alone fishnet), but sometimes you have to make do.

They had plenty of tights (including fishnet), but unless you want to bring them home and modify them in creative and possibly illegal ways, it's better to leave them on the rack. Thigh-highs have obvious advantages - if you don't know what they are, you are too young and/or wholesome, and I'm not about to tell you - and these advantages are not necessarily salacious in nature. Except when they are. (In the case of the pair of stockings that found their way into my cart, let's assume they are.)

They did have a nifty little black camisole covered in fringe, which I had to have because fringe is fun. And it was on clearance. The short black floral print skirt I got to go with it, however, was not on clearance. One WIN + one FAIL = DRAW.

Then, as I was making my way toward the grocery section (because I was out of ketchup... again), a woman raced toward me, several toys in her hands.

Toy Woman: Excuse me, can I ask you a question?
(Does she think I work there? I'm wearing a long, black leather coat and pushing a cart. Probably not. So this is a stranger talking to me. I don't usually even talk to people I know if I can duck out of sight quickly enough. But, whatever.)
Me: (cautiously) Sure.
Toy Woman: Do these look like things that would make a four-year-old happy at a birthday party?
(Perhaps she hasn't noticed that the contents of my cart, which so far include two tubes of mascara, some Benadryl, thigh-high stockings, a black fringed camisole, and a floral print mini-skirt. Do I seriously look like someone who knows the first thing - or gives a rat's ass - about the care, feeding, or entertainment requirements of four year olds? Again... whatever.)
Me: Sorry, I don't do kids.

She charged off, muttering that she had to be at this party in 20 minutes. I assume she accosted some more child-friendly shopper on her way to the checkout counter.

After I located the ketchup and Diet Dr. Pepper, I gave some thought to the fact that it would be nice if I brought home something for dinner. I cruised up and down the aisles looking for something tasty which required virtually no effort on my part, yet did not cost more than the total of all the other items already in the cart. Unfortunately, everything looked more like "ingredients" and less like "dinner," so I gave up. We'll find something here.

It'll be fine, though, because now I have ketchup.

Flash-Back Time

Summer television schedules are all about re-runs, and most people still watch them. Well, lo and behold, blogs can do this, too, even though it's not summer. At least I can. Because it's my blog.

I was sitting here, procrastinating, because I do not want to go out on my errands, and can't start the fourth re-write (and, I swear to doG, the final one) on the start of the novel because I have yet to locate a guitar nerd to help me assemble the guitar arsenal necessary for Seth's character and the new opening scene, and had a thought.

The yard is melting today, and I'm anticipating much Darwin-hosing in my immediate future. I wanted to see what the melt-mud-snow cycle was at this time last year, so I went back to the March 2008 archives and started reading.

This, FFFans, is something you totally need to do. I'd forgotten how hilarious I am. Or was. Which worries me, because I'm starting to think I was a whole lot funnier in 2008.

Those of you who have come to Fermented Fur less than a year ago and who have not read the archives are missing out on a whole lot of funny. Or pathetic. Or stuff about which to roll your eyes in a condescending manner, which you should not do, because I will know. (The Boy is doing it right now, regardless of whether or not he's reading the blog.) But still, venture back into the archives if you dare.

Some highlights:

• I wrote a haiku
• I complained a lot about snow (at least once in haiku form)
• I detailed my attempts at culinary domesticity
• Most of the DWAA Award-Winning blogs about Darwin were posted
• Long two-parter about the worst "cyber creep" I've ever encountered
• Cute dog pictures and video clips
• I suffered work overload and lack of brain wattage
• Discussed the 24th anniversary of the birth of The Boy
• I contemplated using a belt as a tube top
• I continued to wonder where "The Wagon" was (still wondering)
• I pondered the effects of the aging process
• I almost died of fruit poisoning
• I revealed the depth of my library-nerddom
• I cautiously considered Darwin's Cuteness Revolution
• The clinic was attacked by a squirrel
• I wrote about my crush on Cody Canada. Twice.
  
• I tortured the dogs, and Ozark peed in a bowl

So, what are you waiting for! Go! Go now!

I'm almost out of procrastination time, so I had better go take care of those errands.

Maybe after a snack.

Prepare to Be Redirected

Today mostly sucks. I had a what I thought was a beneficial meeting with Dr. Vet-Friend and our bookkeeper yesterday, but second thoughts may derail our Grand Scheme to turn business around. Where I thought things were getting under control, now I'm not so sure, and we may be making some decisions based on unfounded suspicion... but only time will tell there.

Then, there's last night's writing class. You'll have to read that story on Writecrastination (and please do, because this isn't really a post... the story of the day is over there).

Add that to the fact that after class, already upset for numerous reasons, I made the grave error of eating TWO BITES of a KFC chicken wing, and suffered unbelievable gastronomic distress for quite some time afterward. Then I slept from 11PM to Midnight, then from 3AM to 5AM. Not feeling exactly perky today. I'm torn between crawling into a hole for an undetermined amount of time, or throwing myself in a wood chipper. Either way. Honestly, I have no preference one way or the other at this point.

All I know is that I'm probably going to have to re-write my 3.2 chapters. For the fourth time.

Now I need to go see where I can borrow a wood chipper. Somebody else will have to hose it out and return it.

Home Renovations

(Tom says I can't blog about this. *)

(* Oops. **)

(** You knew this would happen. ***)

(*** Sorry, Honey.)

With the housing market in the septic tank and going down for the third time, home owners everywhere are dealing with property that isn't worth what they still owe on it, or that they desperately want to sell, but can't. When we bought this house in 1996, the plan - inasmuch as we had one - was to stay till The Boy graduated in 2002, and then move somewhere a bit further out.

When we looked at this house, Highway 101 was still a two-lane road, being widened to four, and other than a convenience store and the Liquorette, there was nothing at the intersection a few blocks from our house. Just corn. Now, the four-lane road has a ginormous overpass which is visible from our house, and the former corn fields have strip malls, a Holiday Inn and Indoor Waterpark, banks, restaurants, a gym (no, I have never set foot inside and never will), and only another block up the road... a SuperTarget. We want quiet. We want 25 wooded acres at least five miles from the nearest overpass. But there's no way in hell we could ever sell this house.

Never mind the fact that we paid a ridiculous amount of property tax last year, because it was based on the 2007 assessed value. Since that value has dropped by an alarming amount, which I am intentionally not calculating, but which might well be $30,000 to $50,000, those taxes seem grossly unfair. We couldn't sell this place and come out of it with enough to buy a 20 year old camper.

The other factor, besides the lousy housing market, is the fact that we have dogs.

I've always said that our financial situation would be vastly improved if our dogs would either a) get jobs, or b) apply for social security numbers so we can at least deduct them on our taxes. I'm not sure I could pull off the social security thing, but I think I've figured out a job for them, because the one thing at which they all excel is trashing houses.

Know how when you get a new car, you live in unspeakable dread of the day you notice the first scratch or ding? Or when you get new carpet, and every time your dog sneezes or even looks as if he might be thinking of having diarrhea you nearly have a stroke? It's all about the terror of that first defiling incident. Once you back into a trash can or the dog barfs up four chicken legs, a sock, and an unidentifiable, partially decomposed mammalian-type creature that he found in the back yard, the pressure is off. See, stains and dents are actually your friends.

BroZarkWin can't help with your car issues, but they are very qualified (possibly over-qualified) to help get you over that "my house is too clean and it's giving me anxiety attacks" hurdle. It might, in fact, be pure marketing genius. If I want to sell my house, I simply have to focus my attention on dog-owners. People who have dogs might look at freshly carpeted, re-painted, pristine houses, and on some level really appreciate them. But inside they're thinking, "Wow, beautiful house... but look at that carpet. Too clean. Three days, and Rover is going to get excited and pee a trail from the front door all the way to the couch, and I just can't cope with that."

Which is why our house would be perfect. The carpet is completely pre-destroyed. Whether you fear urine, diarrhea, barf, snags, or copious amounts of deeply-embedded fur, fear no more. It's already taken care of.

There's no point in worrying about stains and gouges in the lower 1/3 of the walls. They've all rubbed their delightful doggy selves along the walls, leaving oily residue, and Darwin has applied artful splashes of bog-mud.

Brody has already shredded (and in some cases removed) the window screens, with a little motivation from the UPS guy. Sure, screens keep bugs out, but they also diminish the clarity of your view of the neighborhood. Just don't open the windows, and you'll be fine.

Dog owners know that the hair gets everywhere. Honestly, I suspect that my lungs are just as packed with dog-fluff as they are with tar and nicotine. We had our heating ducts cleaned out a couple of years ago, and I think the experience may have terrified the duct-cleaning guy into an early retirement. He was about 26.

The ducts were likely full of hair again by the following week, so I am confident that the first time the new home-owner turned on the furnace or air conditioner it would blast forth in an explosion of fur, coating the furniture, walls, draperies, ceiling fans, and appliances and thereby eliminating any chance that they could ever be accused of being "house-proud".

I'm even happy to leave you a few dog hair dust bunnies the size of sheep, just to get you started.

Darwin has done his best to fill the plumbing with enough of his lovely golden coat that not even the most industrial-strength drain opener has a chance.

They've taken care of the yard, too. Sometimes at work a client will ask if we know how to stop their yard from having the yellow spots created when their dogs pee. (No. Other than teach them to pee in a place that you don't mind having turn yellow, or in a gravel area, or going outside with them and watering the area with a hose immediately afterward... none of which I have ever tried, because I don't care.) Burned grass is the least of your problems.

Ozark has dug an impressive bunker on the shady side of the house. He's 110 pounds, and he almost completely disappears when he's lying in it. He's also been excavating what I suspect might be an underground parking structure beneath the shed, and is digging test-holes in contemplation of a future koi pond. His efforts have been suspended for the winter, but should resume in the next few weeks.

Darwin, of course, has built an all-season racetrack along the east fence line. In the winter, it's a high-speed skating rink. In the summer, it's a doggie motocross course. Much of the year, it's a swamp-buggy course, with his well-maintained bog at the north end. What dog wouldn't delight in that? He certainly enjoys it. He's even figured out that when conditions are too dry, all he has to do is go soak up as much pool water as possible (he's quite absorbent) and transfer all that lovely wetness to the dried-out bog. Instant muck! Just add water! He's a genius.

While I'm sure their skills will someday enable us to sell the house, there's no reason they can't earn some money in the meantime. I'm thinking of hiring them out to non-dog-owners so that they, too, can offer already broken-in houses to the vast pool of dog-owning home buyers. There are oodles of spotless houses and dogless families; Let them take care of themselves. We need to provide comfortable, stress-free options for the underserved dog-owning population.

If we make enough money, I can just dynamite this place (because that's really the only solution) and buy my northwoods island. But it's not about me. It's about creating homes where dogs and their people can live in squalor a harmonious, anxiety-free existence.

About Facebook

(Disclaimer: If you are one of my Facebook friends, none of the cynical, condescending, satirical, sarcastic, snarky - but highly amusing - things I'm about to write are about you. Unless they are. But I'll deny it, regardless, so just assume it's not about you, 'K? Cool.)

Sometime last year, I set up a Facebook page. I no longer remember why, but I only had about three friends, because I couldn't figure out how to search for people. Clearly, nobody was searching for me, so I got my feelings hurt and quit. (This is a lifelong pattern. Join something, get overwhelmed or get my feelings hurt, quit. It's always served me well.)

I never could make much sense of Facebook. If I knew these people and wanted to communicate with them, why couldn't we just email? Or maybe Facebook is where you go so you can communicate with pseudo-friends that you don't like quite enough to give them your actual email address. I never figured that part out.

I was massively annoyed with the whole "games, gizmos, gadgets and gifts" aspect of this social networking experience. Really? People who can't send me a damned email consider it a substantive act of friendship to "send" me an imgainary snow globe or bottle of Yoo-Hoo? This furthers our friendship... how?

Tell you what. If you ever suffer catastrophic organ failure, I'll send you an imaginary kidney on Facebook. (If it's your liver, you're totally on your own, because I'm pretty sure even my imaginary liver has cirrhosis.)

So, blah blah blah, I quit Facebook. I had no sooner done this than I started getting email requests from people I actually knew, in reality or online, asking me to join Facebook and be their friend. See, ain't that the way? You start playing hard to get, and you're instantly in high demand. I shunned them all (bwahahahaha). "Gee, no, sorry, tried it and didn't get much out of it, don't really have the time, buh-bye now."

I went off to play with Twitter, because I truly do have profound thoughts of 140 characters or less at least 27 times a day, and I must have a way to announce them to the world, or at least my 114 followers. I did find some other interesting bloggers through Twitter, and have since developed cyber-friendships with them that do not involve any social networking site, so Twitter is still on my list of acceptable online time-wasters.

A lot of the Tweets (hey, gotta know the lingo if you want to run with the Twitterati) mentioned their Facebook pages, and I got thinking that there were a few long-lost friends that I'd never succeeded in tracking down, so I decided to give it another try.

I don't know what has changed since last time, but it was much, much easier to find people I knew, and after only a couple of weeks I have 43 friends, all of whom I actually know in some context, either from school, dog-related activities, or various online lists or groups.


(Note: My Cyber-Friends-I've-Never-Met outnumber people I've known in person by about 2 to 1, which might or might not give you some clue as to my real-world social skills.)

Even though I know all of these people in one way or another, some interesting patterns are emerging. First of all, the people who are most interactive, entertaining, and responsive are... my cyber-friends. Perhaps this is because the reason I know them at all is that we have something significant in common now, as adults.

What's really funny is that the first thing the vast majority of people said when we "connected" on Facebook is, "Oh, my gosh, I am so addicted to Facebook!!!" I can categorically state that if your level of Facebook use qualifies as "addicted," a) you need to check out dictionary.com for the definition of "addicted" and b) we're going to have to come up with some exponentially greater, all-encompassing word to describe my feelings toward books, nicotine, and wine. Most of the time I'm signed on Facebook, only two or three of my friends are signed on, and all but one of them is shown as "idle". Plus, most of these people have status messages that are several days old, if not more. This, people, is not addiction.

(The good news is that I have a very short attention span. While I've been back on Facebook for a few weeks, odds are high that before long I will completely lose interest and disappear from your Facebook world forever. If you didn't like me enough to bother to get my email address, I shall be nothing more than a tiny asterisk in the footnote of your life any time now.)

As for people I knew way back when... I know we were friends for some reason, but it is in many cases now difficult to recall precisely what that reason might have been. Since I still seem to harbor warm feelings toward you, you probably never stole my boyfriend, or at least not one I wanted all that much. If you were an old boyfriend, odds are that at some point you made my little girly heart go pitty-pat, even if you eventually stomped it into haggis. (This is a safe bet, because I was almost always the dumpee and not the dumper.)

I find myself being annoyed by many email conversations. Look, I know we probably haven't been in touch for 25-30 years, but I'm trying not to dwell on that because I don't want to make you feel old. This does not apply to me, however, because I have found the Fountain of Youth and went from 37 to 25, have remained there for 7 years, and given my impenetrable state of denial and monumentally childish behavior I will probably stay that way till my hips give out. Either from decrepitude or, well, use your imagination.

Truly, I just wish people would do one thing before sending me a private message. Look. At. My. Profile. It's right there, and chock full of useful information. For example, I am clearly a militant-agnostic-slash-atheist. (If I'm anything at all, it would be Total Heathen Pagan.) So the odds that we should have a discussion about the many blessings god has heaped upon you and your direct-from-heaven children are slim. While I'm happy that this is fulfilling for you, I am not really interested. I mean, I can't wrap my brain around that in order to relate in any significant way. Feel free to pray for me, though. I get that a lot.

I'm also a bit on the, shall we say, "unconventional" side. If you checked out my blogs for a bit of a clue-in before writing to me, you'd discover that I write a fair amount about things like sex and accidentally setting my hair on fire (which happens more than you might think), and I tend to use words that you probably don't hear in church or at Gymboree. You would also notice frequent references to liquor, nicotine and tattoos. While I'm undoubtedly smarter (if less educated) than the vast majority of you, I'm not like anybody you're ever going to encounter at bible study or the PTA.

Honestly, I sort of feel sorry for people my age with little kids at home. Sure, they probably felt sorry for me for 18 years, while I was busy being the morbidly obese mother of a kidlet, but that was then and this is now. Plus, my 40s have been My Time. I'm old enough now to be able to learn about myself, and to know what I want and what's important to me. I couldn't have done that in my 20s.

I don't count as "child-free," since I did raise a son who is brilliant, successful, kind to dogs, and not a derelict or serial killer. My parenting method consisted mainly of making sure he knew how to use the microwave and did not stick any metallic objects into electrical outlets. By all reports, he's really grateful. Mission accomplished.

If your only real interest in life involves something like mountain climbing or triathalons, we probably don't have much to say to each other, as the only record I'm trying to break is the number of consecutive hours I can spend on the Sofur in any given weekend. I'm betting I can top my personal best in the fall when we turn the clocks back, and I get an extra hour to work with.

Growing up in a small, rural town and attending a Catholic high school, it was pretty unacceptable to be anything but part of the herd. But now that I'm a grown-up (chronologically, anyway) I get to decide who and what I want to be... and that, my friends, has been a shitload of fun.

I feel obligated to mention that it's been widely noted that I do not possess a "too much information" threshold. I'm likely to tell you just about anything with little or no encouragement. So if you don't want to know, for your own protection, do not ask. Do not even think about asking, because I'll know, and I can guarantee you won't be able to unring that bell.

If you want to get to know me as I am now, that's great. (I am, after all, the Cool One now.) It should be fairly obvious what points we have in common, and we can bond all over again based on that. As long as you don't expect me to send you Glorious Wishes In Celebration of the Ressurrection of Our Beloved Lord And Savior, we're cool. If you're not going to develop heart palpitations every time I use a four letter word (or a creative string of them, including a few I made up myself), we are also cool. If you are going to be able to resist the urge to proselytize every time I mention alcohol or smoking, peachy. At the first mention of AA or Nicorette, I'm totally gone. If you hate dogs or haven't read a book in 20 years, we'll have little to discuss.

In short... Read. My. Profile. Seriously. I read yours.

There are some people I've found with whom I have more in common than I did two or three decades ago, or with whom I still had an uncanny number of things in common, and it's been great to get caught up with them. Others, not so much.

Honestly, Facebook is sort of like being a teenager all over again. You can ignore (or be ignored by) the same people you ignored (or were ignored by) back in the day. And if there is a Facebook friend you are just tickled all to hell to have "found" again, you can totally get psychotically jealous if they seem to be paying more attention to somebody else.

Since I was sure I'd outgrown all this bullshit years ago, I'm starting to think Facebook may not be a positive thing for me. Just take the email addresses of a few foundlings (because you already have the addresses and blogs of the cyber-friends) and be done with it.

It's a really, really good thing I have such a short attention span. And a life that completely suits who I am now.

But, if you'll excuse me, I have to go visit Twitter. I'm having another profound thought.

(PS: Stepher, I totally love you!!!)

Painful Disappointment

I'm formulating a post about my recent return to Facebook, but that's going to take some more thought. In the meantime, perhaps you'll share my distress (or chuckle at my overwhelming dismay) about something that happened last night.

I had a fairly miserable afternoon. I'm supposed to be done with work at 4:00 PM. I'm always there by 7:30 AM and rarely take a lunch break, so it's a long day.

Yesterday, I got summoned at 3:00 PM to help cover the front desk "for a few mintues" because we've cut staff hours due to economic concerns. Most days this is a good idea, but when we get a welcome busy appointment schedule, it leaves us scrambling when my receptionist gets pulled to help with appointments or treatments. I did my ten years at the front desk - more if you count all my years working the circulation desk in two different library systems - and I hate it with the white-hot passion of ten thousand suns. "A few minutes" lasted until 5:30 PM.

Which, if you do the math, is two and a half hours, and a full hour and a half past my scheduled quitting time. Me? Not happy.

I'd been home for a while, and had a completely lame dinner of French bread, sharp cheddar cheese, kalamatra olives, and country-cured (garlicky-salty-yummy) olives because I was too tired and impatient to do anything even remotely complicated. Like turn on the stove. Even microwave button-pushing was beyond contemplation. Fortunately, I love bread, cheese and olives. Sounds kinda biblical, no? And believe me, that's as close to anything biblical as I'm ever likely to be.

After dinner, the sweet tooth kicked in. I knew there were Reese's Cups in the fridge, so I went to procure one. This is when I noticed the plastic container announcing the presence of Schwan's Caramel Mini Creme Puffs.

(Mmmmmm... caramel mini creme puffs!)

Oh, it seems someone has brought home a treat! I am deliriously happy. I imagine biting through the crispy-flaky pastry shell, and sinking into the creamy-caramelly deliciousness inside. This might just help salvage a day that has failed to live up to my pitifully low expectations.

So, I open the container, salivary glands kicking into overdrive, and my eyes behold...

...what appears to be something partially chewed and expectorated, and reeking of curdled spices. Man, I hope that's rice, because I refuse to even consider what else might look like that.

Peering around the fridge in the general direction of the couch, where Tom is watching one of the funny-home-video shows, I'm all "What the hell????"

Well, apparently "what the hell" is "dirty rice." Like from the Zataran's box mix, which is what he must have fixed himself for dinner when I was so late. A passive-aggressive plot? Perhaps.

Dirty rice isn't one of my favorite things in the first place, and it is probably one of the most repulsive things you can encounter when you open a plastic container which even has pictures of delicious Schwan's Caramel Mini Creme Puffs right on the fucking lid.

I ate my Reese's Cup (actually, two), but it wasn't nearly as wonderful as it would have been if I hadn't seen that abomination inside the caramel mini creme puff container. I think dirty-rice-cooties leaked out and contaminated the Reese's Cups. They're totally insidious.

Clearly, my disappointment has carried over to today. If you love me, you will immediately send me many, many boxes of Caramel Mini Creme Puffs. I'll go wait by the mailbox. Don't send them UPS. Brody hates the Big Brown Truck every bit as much as I now hate dirty rice.

I Blame the Mob

Well, I have to blame somebody, don't I? And since the Mob was largely responsible for the original development of Las Vegas, they're a good choice. Just don't tell them that I'm blaming them, because I don't want to end up clogging one of the pump stations at the Hoover Dam.

It all started a couple of weeks ago. If I had attended the Western Veterinary Conference, as I have done the last two years, we would have spent last week in Fabulous Las Vegas. The first year, I went with Former Vet-Friend, and last year Tom got to go.

He loved it. And when I say "loved", I mean that there was a distinct possibility I was going to have to drug or otherwise subdue him to get him on the plane and back to Minnesota.

Perhaps it's just our reticular activating systems. You know how, if you decide to buy a certain kind of car, suddenly you start seeing that kind of car everywhere? Or if you're pregnant, it seems like every female you see between 15 and 75 is also pregnant? That's your reticular activating system. There aren't really any more instances of seeing those things, but your brain is just programmed to notice them more. So maybe that's what's up with all the Vegas references we're encountering lately. Or maybe it's the Mob.

Tom watches a lot of those "cops and criminals" shows, like Jail, Speeders, and Cops. Right now, they all appear to be set in Las Vegas. I mean, every time he turns on the TV, there it is.

He was in mid-"I want to go to Vegas, can we please go to Vegas" plea when he looked at the cover of the book I was reading (Dancing With Werewolves... yes, I read that kind of stuff.) and saw a picture of the Las Vegas sign on the cover.

If the "cops and criminals" stuff isn't on TV, it's "Vegas Cheaters", showing all the ways people try to cheat the casinos and the ways the casinos catch them.

We're NASCAR fans, and this week's race was in... you guessed it... Las Vegas.

Yesterday, I was in the tub and heard, blaring from our TV, a Dean Martin song. Turns out, Tom had been flipping channels and come across the movie Vegas Vacation.

What was the cover story in the travel section of yesterday's newspaper? "Come to Las Vegas!"

As if this stuff weren't more than enough, there are TV and newspaper ads for ridiculously cheap packages to Las Vegas. We can get air fare, plus three nights in a hotel on the Strip for something like $269 per person. Honestly, since I discovered the McDonald's (yay, dollar menu!) hidden way in a back corner of the Excalibur, we could almost spend as much money going to the Grand Casino Mille Lacs an hour from our house. But, of course, we wouldn't be in Las Vegas. Where it is not at this moment (pause to check desktop weather bug) 18 degrees.

I think we were giving serious consideration to a 4-day getaway to Sin City... and then I did our taxes. Which always baffles me. We have very modest income, but always claim "zero" on our W-4 so they take out plenty of taxes throughout the year. We have a de-valued house with two mortgages, and pay license taxes on three aging cars. That's about it. No dependents. No tuition tax credits. But with modest income and two mortgages, and taking out "zero dependents" tax levels all year... how the hell can we owe over $1000 between federal and state taxes??? One of us should have been an accountant (not me.).

So. The Mob can keep taunting and tempting us, but it's not going to do any good for right now. We have the Royal Wedding in Florida at the end of April. Then, who really wants to go to the desert, even Las Vegas, in the heat of mid-summer? (Though I have drawn up a plan by which we can visit at least 4 casino/hotels without being outside for more than 15 seconds)

Right now, I'm thinking maybe for our 26th anniversary in September. The Mob is just going to have to be patient about getting their hands on our tens and tens of dollars.