By The Numbers

During our three-day trip to Orlando for the wedding, here are the numbers...

Nights in Florida: 3
Beautiful, elegant weddings: 1
People in the wedding party: 9
People married when we got there: 6
People married when we left: 8 (Rachel's brother is single, ladies!)
Theme parks visited: 0 (Shopped in Downtown Disney, but wasn't ambitious enough to tackle any parks.)
Awesome meals: 3 (Lunch at Olivia's in Old Key West, Dinner at Raglan Road, Dinner at Ohana)
Things purchased: 2 (Engraved bride/groom Mickey/Minnie frame for the newlyweds, House of Blues shirt for me)
Drinks consumed: Sunday, 1.25, Monday, 3, Tuesday, I forget
Bugs seen: 3 (Or maybe 2. The two flies might have been the same one twice.)
Miles walked: 729 (half in heels)
Impressive blisters obtained: 2
Impressive blisters popped: 2 (because I can't leave things like that alone)
Disney transport buses ridden: 986
Times bus driver got lost: 2
Non-Geico geckos seen: 413
Happy squirrels living in palm tree off my balcony: 1
Cross Canadian Ragweed concerts seen: 0
Times I thought about the concert: 8266
Times I whined about missing the concert: 62 (which is proof that I did show some restraint)
Miles away from concert venue while at wedding ceremony: 3
Times stuck in an elevator: 1 (Thankfully, only for a few minutes)
Minutes until I would have had to strangle my mother-in-law if the elevator hadn't opened: About thirty seconds more
Sunburns: 0 (Pasty white Minnesota winter skin and latent vampiric tendencies made me keep to the shade whenever possible)
Makeup girls who thought I was a bridesmaid, not the mother of the groom: 1 (and I totally love her now)
Times I told total strangers that my son just got married: 47
Times in a limo: 1
Lifetime total times in a limo: 1
Times swimming: 0
Mouse ears on hats, logos, landscaping, architecture, etc.: 214 jillion
Average daily high temperature: 86
Average daily high temperature at home: 52
Times I embarrassed Ryan: at least 42
Gardenias: 916,000
Gardenias I stole for my room: 3
Times I stuck my face in the gardenia hedges while passing: Every time (They smell purrrrrrty)
Times I made Tom admire my eyelash extensions: 37
Hours I had the eyelash extensions: 18
Hours I had the eyelash extensions but was asleep: 8
Times I lost my Downtown Disney map: 6

That' about sums it up! We all had a marvelous time, the newlyweds are blissfully honeymooning till Sunday, nobody got eaten by alligators, and Rachel's mother was feeling well (she's between chemo treatments) and looked strong and healthy.

Now, I shall go and enjoy my last day off before heading back to work tomorrow!

Wedding Picture

Home again, safe and sound, and the whole trip couldn't have been more perfect. I'll write more about the wedding later, but for now I just wanted to share a picture. If they aren't the world's most adorable couple, I can't imagine who is!

Farewell For Now

I don't have a bunch of clever stories to tell today. I just wanted to touch base with everybody before we head out of town for the Royal Wedding. We leave at some unholy hour Sunday morning (which is probably appropriate for me), and will be back Wednesday afternoon. I guess it will be late next week before I get anything posted, but it will probably include a few wedding pictures, in which I hope to not look like a crone.

A little drama at work made my departure even more... interesting. We had been having network problems, sporradic crashes, and assorted glitches. The computer guy has been in and out of the office for a week, tracking down and fixing everything. Then, Wednesday night, our server crashed in some major and catastrophic way. This means we were essentially out of business for 24 hours. Couldn't even look up patient charts, let alone enter charges or collect fees. He got us patched up on another PC as the server while he gives the other one a lobotomy or a brain transplant, or whatever they do in these situations.

So today there was very little for me to do at work. I did it, then I left. Hey, I have a house with biohazard stickers on the doors and a trip to pack for.

However, my beloved laptop has also been experiencing problems with its fan. I'm pretty sure I shouldn't have second degree burns on my wrists after using it. It started making the scary "I'm dying, and there's not anything you can do about it" sound again today, so I called Computer Guy. He's going to pick it up from the office and fix it while I'm away. My 'puter is in the hospital! However, this is good timing. Since I'll be gone till Wednesday, this is about the only time I can imagine being without it. I'm using the laptop my sister sent me last week, which is now our home computer (other one was way too blue-screen-of-death to trust).

Before I left my poor little laptop, I backed up my book on not one, but two flash drives. You know. Just in case. If I lost 156 pages of manuscript, I'd probably throw myself into the jaws of the first alligator I saw in Florida. I don't think that would take long. I hear they have a lot of them down there.

I also printed out the manuscript. I figure it's about 40-45% done. But since I won't be able to write till I get home, I thought it would be good to have the manuscript with me so I can do my re-reads and edits on the plane or whenever I'm having "social interaction overload" and need to hide out in my room.

It's kind of impressive to see how much I've written. The stack of pages is close to an inch thick. I wrote that! Me! Even if it sucks, I still wrote it!

And, really, that's it. Chores to do, and waiting for Tom to get home. Dogs to feed. My thrilling life. But I get to go to Florida for a wedding!

Maybe There's A Reason

This one is multiple choice.

I am either:
A) A batshit crazy writer
B) A vampire
C) Both of the above, because all writers are, in fact, vampires

This didn't just pop into my head for no reason, though things often do that. I have several reasons for entertaining this question.

I'm always an "in bed by 9:00 PM, asleep by 10:00 PM" person. Not a night-owl, because I am addicted to Benadryl like my sleep. But Monday night was strange. I went in to bed at 9:30, and at 10:30 I was still wide awake. I'd missed my pre-sleep drowsy phase, and was lying there worrying about the book. I was only partially done with re-writing the billion or so words that had been rendered useless by the pesky, accurate information I got from my new best buddy with the ATF, and it was really bothering me. I had to get that sorted out, figure out how much of the stuff that came after that would also need to be changed, and change it so I could move on to new material.

So I got up. At 10:36 PM. And made a pot of coffee. I wrote until 4:00 AM before finally going to bed and sleeping till 9:15. This hasn't happened since I was in high school and used to stay on the phone till 4:00 AM.

I can only conclude that these sudden nocturnal habits are a symptom of vampirism. Or batshit-crazy writerdom. Or both.

Then there's the fact that I've discovered a fondness for Bloody Marys. They're scrumpdillyishus, and they have food-type items in them such as olives, pickles and celery, so they're actually a healthy meal in a glass. With alcohol. Which makes it perfect.

There is also the sunlight issue. As I mentioned on Monday, we had a beautiful, sunny day here on Saturday. I, however, did not set foot outside. Sure, it could have been because I was on the Sofur (tm) being a slug. But it could also have been because my inner vampire was aware that if I did go out there I would immediately burst into flames.

I must also consider my aversion to churches and all things religious. I haven't been in (or near) a church in more years than I can recall. Again, this might be my inner vampire protecting me from spontaneous vampiric combustion. It's an instinct.

Plus, I'm pretty sure a stake through my heart would kill me. Or maybe that's true for everybody. There haven't been a lot of studies conducted on the topic. But let's assume.

I do have a tendency to bite. Tom has several t-shirts with fang holes in them, courtesy of Yours Truly. I always thought I was just kind of annoying, but maybe it's my inner vampire trying to assert itself.

Since most of the writers I know seem to be more nocturnal than "normal" people, and they're all kind of crazy, I think there's a very good chance that "C" is the correct answer to my multiple choice question. And all I can say about that is...

Cool!

I'm sure I'll be the most awesome vampire writer ever!

Missed Mission: Updated

I spent some time this weekend recalling last year's Letter to My Neighbors, because these people have yet to modify their behavior to meet my specifications. Yes, I know that Saturday was beautiful and sunny. Well, I know that second-hand. Tom did a lot of yard work, but I did catch glimpses of the sun through the window while lying, slug-like, on the Sofur. He assures me that it was a lovely day, though, and I believe him.

Beautiful day or not, the neighbors need to stay in portions of their yards which are completely out of sight from any portion of my yard. Brody, a Great Pyrenees (translation: Barky Guardian Dog) can't handle the pressure. And neither can my nerves or eardrums.

Last year, I was greatly worried about the condition of the four screen panels in our front bay window. I didn't fear so much for the screens as I did for Brody's health and well-being if Tom came home before I did and found the screens shredded and scattered around the house.

Yes, this happened.

No, it won't be a problem this year. We don't have any screens left.

Brody did miss one major Threat Level Red on Sunday, though. He must have been napping under his favorite tree in the back yard when our doorbell rang. Normally, he's in the house and a ringing doorbell sends him into paroxysms of frothy, drooly, barking formidability.

I've always been of the opinion that the fact that he's spraying possibly-rabid saliva all over the inside of the bay window five feet above their heads would suggest to visitors that they might want to reconsider the necessity of their presence. But, since Brody was lying down on the job, I had to check the situation out for myself.

You might recall that I do not answer my door. Ever. Unless you're seen to be in possession of a) one of my dogs, b) a pizza or other delicious food item, c) a giant box with a ribbon on it, d) Cody Canada or e) a giant cardboard check, I'm not opening the door.

To make this determination, I scrape a bit of dried dog-spit off the bay window and peer around the curtain. Then I go back and sit on the Sofur till whoever it is goes away.

However, I almost made an exception yesterday. When I stealthily put only enough eyeball around the curtain to see who was standing below me and slightly to the right at my front door, I beheld...

Missionaries.

I'm pretty sure they were Jehova's Witnesses. They were squeaky-clean young men, with perfectly-parted hair (I was looking down on them from my perch, remember. Also, no dandruff was observed.), white dress shirts, black ties, black slacks, and black backpacks. I went and sat down, waiting for them to go away.

Though I did kind of wonder what was in the backpacks.

They must have had a quota, or received a report that I was in extra-urgent need of salvation, because they rang again, and then knocked (in case the doorbell was just a decoy) before wandering off to spread the word elsewhere.

But now I'm almost wishing I'd let them in. Let's imagine the possibilities, shall we?

Me: Come in, come in, young men!
Young Men: Why thank you! We've come to share the joy of our faith with you!
Me: Well, isn't that lovely? I'd like you to meet my three dogs. Lucifer, Satan, and Beelzebub. Don't mind the horns.

(Hmm. I actually do have a pair of devil horns on a head band. Note to self: Wear that and actually answer the door the next time missionaries come to call.)

Me: What fine young gentlemen! I'm sure you and your families had a wonderful holiday last weekend. So, tell me, how did you celebrate Zombie Jesus Day?
Young Men: (looking shocked) Zombie Jesus Day? Jesus wasn't a zombie.
Me: He had to be. He died, right?
YM: Yes, ma'am, he did. (even though they are freaked out, they would remain polite)
Me: And then he came back to life, right?
YM: Yes.
Me: So, he's a zombie.
YM: No, ma'am, he is not a zombie. He could not possibly be a zombie.
Me: (Pause. I can figure this one out.) Oh, okay. I get it now! He was a vampire! That explains all the references to blood. That makes way more sense than 'zombie.'

Me: Hey, you want to go down to the family room and see my stripper pole? I just learned some awesome new moves! Three drink minimum, though!

(I do not have a stripper pole. I fall down entirely too much as it is. But it would be totally worth it to say that I did, just to see the looks on their faces.)

Me: I will absolutely convert to your religion, whatever it might happen to be. IF you will both get Cross Canadian Ragweed tattoos. On your necks.

Me: Let's play "Let's Make a Deal!" I will join your religion if you can find, in your nifty black backpacks, one of the following: 1) Porn, 2) One ounce or more of pot, or 3) Handcuffs.

Me: (you might have noticed, I've stopped allowing the Missionary Boys to speak at this point.) Hey, you can go through your whole speil, spread the word, yada yada yada. But, while doing so, you must clean my house. You stop scrubbing and I stop listening. Plus, I'll let Beezelbub out of the bedroom.

Me: Does your religion have "commandments?" Because I don't take orders very well. At all. Now, if they're more like "suggestions..."

Me: Hey, what's your religion's stance on reincarnation? Because I totally think I might have been Mary Magdalene. And possibly a vampire.

Seriously, I usually leave religions alone. I state my heathen beliefs, and let people make of them what they will. They should do whatever makes them happy, as long as it doesn't involve me. But if a couple of naive, unsuspecting boys show up at my door, they're on my turf, and all bets are off.

Now, you play! What would you suggest, should these boys come back for another try?

UPDATE: It has been pointed out to me that Jehova's Witnesses do not celebrate Zombie Jesus Day, or, in fact, most other holidays. I should have known that, because I went to elementary school with a girl from a strict JW family, and she got to miss school whenever we had any of the classroom holiday parties. (Apparently, Jehova's Witnesses have something against cupcakes.) So, in all likelihood, my clean-cut visitors were probably Mormons.

This doesn't change anything about the future plan, though. Only that I need to learn more about the various religious affiliations. Like, if they were Mormons, I probably could've offended them with coffee instead of having to bring up porn and drugs, if I am correct and Mormons still eschew caffeine. I'm fairly certain I'd have stuck with porn and drugs, though, because they are more fun.

I also realized that those two young men greatly resembled a pair of characters in Mark Henry's latest novel, Road Trip of the Living Dead. (If you haven't read it, do so. Now. But only after you read his first darkly hilarious title, Happy Hour of the Damned. Fashionista zombies? Can anyone resist that?) Upon reflection of Mark's story, I now know I should have brought my visitors inside and searched their backpacks for 'shrooms.

What If I'm Not Really A Hermit?

I have long held the position that I am a hermit. I do not "do lunch," go shopping with the girls, host (or attend) dinner parties, or have spa days with my friends. I go to work, come home, then just hang out with the husband and dogs, frequently with the addition of my good buddy, Jack Daniel's. I read. I write. I occasionally fall down or set things on fire (including my hair). But I do not go out.

People squidge me out. Sure, I have fun for about ten minutes, then I am done. I want to go back to my Lair, to my Fortress of Solitude, and be alone. It's not that I don't like the people I am with. It's just so damned exhausting. I can be outrageous and amusing for ten minutes, then it starts to feel like too much work.

But I have recently (like, since last night) had to begin to reconsider the degree of my hermititude. It was the last night of our Loft writing class, and I thought it would be nice for some of us to go out afterward for a beverage.

(Two words: Mmmmmmmmango Mmmmmmargarita.)

Four of us went to an establishment near where our class was held, and I. Had. So. Much. Fun. Typically, I am not a fun-haver, unless it's at home, in the company of The Husband. I'm usually so anxious and self-conscious when I go out with other people that the fun gets sucked right the hell out of the event.

I'd noticed that writers I follow online seem to have an awful lot of fun. Usually involving alcohol, bizarre public displays, and conferences. Now I know why. It's because they're with other writers! Yes, I do occasionally have a difficult time grasping the obvious.

Since I have no social life to speak of, my only real friends are co-workers, and a few dog-people. (And, I gotta tell ya, the dog people are all as hermit-like as I am, so there ain't a whole lot of socializin' goin' on.) When I do go out with co-workers, which is almost never, I have fun for a very brief time, then I want to escape. I mean, I spend more hours at work than I want to, already. I do not need to add work-time and work-talk to my unpaid hours. I love them all dearly, but after seeing them all day, I'm ready for a break. (They probably are, too, but are too polite to say so.)

"Regular" people always seem to look at me in a way that suggests they are plotting to abduct and re-program me into something more closely resembling a sane member of society.

But, writers. Oh, writers. Writers are a breed, and possibly a phylum, apart. I've found a group of people whose eyes do not glaze over when I have been talking for 7.25 minutes about Abby, Seth, the exploding duffel bag, and whether or not they can have sex in a hammock. (I'm betting they can. Find out later.) In fact, writers ask for more details!

Normally, when other people are speaking, I'm either planning my escape or thinking about what I want to say next. Probably about Abby and Seth. If it's not about them, it will be about the dogs. But when I'm with writers, I love hearing about their characters, their plot, their Point of View issues, the problem of Show versus Tell, query letters, agents, morale-breaking critiques, and writing-related fugue states.

Writers don't think I'm psychotic when I tell them how upset I am that I had to leave Abby and Seth in that hammock, waiting for me. They get it when I tell them that I didn't intend to write this book, but the characters hijacked my brain and won't give it back until I write their story. (They're so pushy that way.) They understand the horror of discovering that 4,000 words are just wrong and have to be completely re-written.

I fear I may be in danger of becoming... social. I actually want to see these women again, and the sooner the better. The fact that Julie picked up the tab, and also owns a cabin at which she is willing to host a weekend drinking writing retreat has absolutely nothing to do with it. For the record, I have a kick-ass pool, and might do the same thing on a day-trip basis.

The point is, I should have been hanging out with writers all along.

They are My People.

And I totally can't wait for our first writers' conference. No photos, please.

Another Redirection

If you want to read today's post, which is totally not funny (except maybe the part about children and maggots), pop on over to Writecrastination. You probably won't laugh, unless you laugh at people who are having psychotic episodes. Which, if you're one of my regular readers, might just be the case. It's not about dogs or anarchists or setting my hair or environment on fire, but it's what's going on in my head today. Visit if you dare.

Going to the Source

I just had a fantastic conversation with a Special Agent In Charge from the St. Paul Field Office of the United States Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms & Explosives. (Wow, I hope I got all the titles and lingo right. He did instruct me very carefully.)

I had emailed our local field office to see if I could find a Special Agent who would be willing to discuss my scenario for the book and help me make sure I got the details right. I'm so glad I did, because I was totally about to bungle the whole thing up in a major way!

I learned a lot. A real, whole, enormous, lot. Thanks to the SAC, I'm not going to make some fairly obvious mistakes, thereby avoiding snarky emails from future readers. "That would never happen like that!" "What kind of moron are you?" "This is the stupidest scenario I've ever read." Won't have to hear that, at least not about the bomb that detonates in Abby's guest room.

He also pointed out something that makes me yippy-skippy-happy. I get to have a couple more dogs in the story. The first thing that would happen when the ATF got on the scene, which they would do very promptly, is have an ATF Explosives K9 search for secondary devices. Because, if you watch the news, you know that bombers like to do that. Set one explosion, then set another to go off when they expect officials or other potential victims to be on the scene.

I know what kind of device to describe, but not in too much detail. I know how to describe the damage and debris that would result. I know how to handle the resulting fire and that it would largely be extinguished by the vacuum effect that would follow the explosion.

Perhaps most important of all, I know that the bus would not simply be contacted and ordered to return to town. The bus was where the bomb was originally placed in the duffel bag, with the killer's expectation that it would be under Seth's bunk (with Seth in the bunk) when it exploded. So the bus would be pulled over by State Troopers, or contacted and told to pull over and await the troopers and ATF. There would have to be a bomb dog go on board and search for additional devices, and it would alert on Seth's bunk, where the bomb had been placed. Occupants would be identified and questioned. I can have them return to town after that, to get another vehicle of some sort so they can go on home.

This SAC was extremely talkative! At times, I had a tough time getting a word in to ask my questions, but he was so fascinating. He said he enjoys discussions like this, because it's important to get accurate, positive information out in the public eye.

Now, my job is to use his information properly, finish the book, and get it published so I can mention him in my acknowledgments!

Did you know that a few years ago, people were intentionally putting incorrect instructions online for building explosive devices? Their plan was that anybody who tried to build one according to those directions would blow themselves up. I didn't know that, and I sort of wish I didn't. What a screwed-up world.

And now, back to work! I have to fix all the stupid stuff I'd written, and about which I now know better!

Lack of Magic

OK, I just had another thought. Cyber-fairies are probably mythical. Or urban legends. Whatever. The point is that I left bait out for them, bigfatjuicy bait, the kind of thing that leads to cyber-miracles every day (or so believers claim)... and nothing.

I direct your attention to Proof That The Universe is Totally Screwing With Me. For those of you too lazy to click and do a bit of additional reading, I'll summarize. (I don't know why. I guess I'm feeling generous, or my blood sugar is low.) (Or my blood alcohol level is low. Like, zero.) (Which I totally can't explain, since it is a Friday. But I can probably do something about that. The hell with the blood sugar thing.) So...

The Royal Wedding (The Boy + Fabulous Fiancee) is Monday, April 27, in Orlando.

The Royal Wedding is the only event in the history of the universe that could preempt...

Cross Canadian Ragweed (The Band I Love Almost as Much as Tom & The Boy. Sometimes more.) is playing Monday, April 27, in Orlando.

3.3 miles from the site of the wedding.

The wedding festivities will not wrap up (at the earliest) until well past "doors open" time at the club hosting My Favorite Band.

Even knowing that Ragweed won't probably hit the stage till 9-10 PM, I cannot possibly go. 25 miles from post-wedding location to concert venue. No rental car. And I must be there when the doors open, because I would be a basket case if I had to see these guys play from anywhere other than front and center, against the stage. Otherwise, there would be (shudder) people between me and the band, and that is completely unacceptable.

That's where the cyber-fairies were supposed to hop in and save the day. Like, if I were some kid with a rare and disgusting disease, I'd totally be sitting on Spongebob's lap by now. If Spongebob has a lap, which I don't know, and could not possibly care less. But I'd be there, if I were some pathetic sick kid.

But no, I'm just the most loyal, avid, band-promoting fan these guys have. (See details of the magnitude of my fan-ness and attempts to convert the rest of the world in my previous post.) You'd think the cyber-fairies (like, do they use Google Alert?) would have whispered my plight to the Management, and I would have learned by now that they will be sending a car for me at the conclusion of the post-wedding dinner (oh, and Tom, too), rushing us to the concert venue, escorting us to a private meet & greet - at which they would thank us for being such totally awesome fans - and then place us in my favorite concert-viewing location. Right at the stage.

And, possibly, there would be a few complimentary beverages. They don't have to drive us back to the Old Key West Resort. We can get a cab. I only expect so much from the cyber-fairies.

It'd be like Cinderella, but way, way cooler.

But apparently I shouldn't expect anything, because as it turns out cyber-fairies are an urban legend. Unless you're a sick kid with many visible lesions or missing body parts. Then I'd totally be riding Shamu at Sea World.

(Sniff. And I hoped my deep and abiding love for Cross Canadian Ragweed would touch the hearts of the cyber-faires, or Google Alert - possibly the cyber-fairies' cover - and make something magical happen.)

Schizophrenic Much?

I can now categorically state that it is true. Writers are all insane. Perhaps there are writers out there who would dispute this, but they're wrong. They just don't know it, because they are insane.

Oh, sure, there's the weird fact that we're often writing when it does not appear as if we are doing so. But we are. In our heads. We get hung up on a description or a plot point, and it doesn't matter what is going on around us. Breaking news report on TV? Armored car crashed on the front lawn? Wildfire cresting a nearby hill? We don't care. We have to figure out what to do with the damned story. Right. Now.

There's also the way we are after spending any amount of time actually engaged in writing. We are so deep into our fictional world, and unable to break away, that everything else (husbands, kids, chores, hygiene, etc.) are perceived as figments of our imaginations. I suppose this might bother those around us, such as lonely husbands or dogs who are totally aware that supper time should have been an hour ago, but we don't care. We're busy. We're still writing. And you're not real, anyway.

The true hallmark of writers' insanity, though, is our own particular brand of schizophrenia. Sure, we hear voices in our heads. Sure, our characters are kind of like imaginary friends. But the part that makes us insane is that while you think we are hearing voices and have imaginary friends, as far as we're concerned, they are real. We pity you because you can't hear them. Yet.

We can sometimes infect others, but only a little bit. You can't get chronic or terminal writers' schizophrenia. But you can have occasional acute episodes when reading our books. Writers love it when readers write to them and talk about their characters as if they are real. Because they are. To us.

I've realized I am now among those afflicted (or gifted) with writers' schizophrenia. I talk to people about Abby and Seth, Joey, Abby's mom, and Dilbert the dog like they truly exist in the mundane world. (Well, Dilbert, a one-eyed black lab mix, does exist. But now he exists twice, because I put him in my book. I hope neither of them finds this confusing.)

I go on and on about the conversation that Abby just had with her mom, or something sweet that Seth said, and the listener will go, "Wait. Who's Abby?" I never know what to say in those situations. "She's a character in my book" doesn't feel right. She's not a "character." She's a person with a family and a history, faults, fears, dreams, hormones, a home, a career, friends, and a sense of humor. So is Seth.

The fact that I know every single (intimate) detail of what goes on in their bedroom is not at all strange. Or creepy.

And I'm not insane. Not really. I'm just a writer.

Recogniton Rocks

This writing thing is pretty cool. It will obviously be way cooler when (someday) I actually get paid buckets of money for doing it. They don't even have to be really big buckets. Medium-sized would be fine. But right now the writing thing is still pretty cool.

I got an email today from the the editor of Ruff Drafts, the newsletter for the Dog Writers Association of America. You remember the DWAA. They are the extremely discerning folks who gave me the 2008 Maxwell Award for Best Regular Blog for my series of posts about Darwin's mud bog activities. No, they did not give the award to Darwin. He can't write. He provides great inspiration and ridiculous amounts of comic relief, but he needed Yours Truly to tell his story.

(Note: While DWAA did give me the the aforementioned award, they failed to give me awards - and in one case money - in two other categories in which I was nominated. But that's OK. I don't want to be greedy. Well, I do, but I'm trying to be gracious, here.)

At any rate, the email said that the DWAA website is launching a completely re-vamped and much more member-inclusive version in the next couple of weeks. One of the highlights will be having a "featured member" on the front page each month. Click on the member's picture, and you will be whisked away to see their full biography and some nifty pictures, as well as links to their work.

Soooo....... guess who has been selected to be their very, very FIRST featured member. Go 'head. Guess.

I have!!!!!!!!!!! Which only shows that the DWAA is the ultimate, smartest, most progressive, dynamic, and blog-worthy organization in the world. Even though I'm still pretty sure they owe me money.

I did point out that the editor/web designer should pop by FF first and have a look-see, since the blog is really only about 30% dog-related. He did, said he liked my work (obviously he is a true literary conisseur), and thought it was good that it wasn't "all dog".

I don't know if he noticed the parts that talk about the Alcohol Trifecta, gaping head wounds, mini-skirts, plotting unpleasantness toward my neighbor who was snow plowing at 4:13 AM, setting my hair on fire, being assaulted by an imaginary SWAT team, or my slightly unhealthy Cody-obsession, but he had his chance.

Fermented Fur would be much more "dog", but that's not my fault. BroZarkWin haven't been all that amusing lately, other than Darwin's pizza-napping of last week. And I'm still a little bit pissed about that. Plus, I admit I've had my head up my... creative process with the book. At this rate, I'll be lucky to have any decent posts to enter in the 2009 DWAA Writing Competition.

However, maybe I'll get some attention and hook up with an agent or editor, which would be awesome. I'm the kind of writer (the lazy, procrastinating kind) who would be much more productive with somebody behind the scenes cracking the whip.

Then maybe, just maybe, one day in the not too distant future, I'll finish the story of Abby and Seth and the crushed guitar and the killer trying to do away with him just as they're poised on the brink of happily ever after... and then write my dog mystery, featuring Michelle "Mitch" Donahue and her golden retrievers... and then beat out the person responsible for introducing me to golden retrievers in the first place by way of obedience training, for Best Novel (Susan Conant).

(Sometimes I just loves me a good ol' run-on sentence. It's like running a marathon while holding your breath, with fifty times the fun and none of the discomfort.)

And then maybe, just maybe, I'll be a "real" writer and worthy of the words written to me as an inscription in one of her books by my dear, late friend and mentor, Virginia Lanier, author of the amazing Bloodhound mystery series... "To Lori, who writes as well as I."

Seriously. Agents and editors? Call me. I crave discipline.

Pawsitive Thoughts

I won't relay the whole story here. You should stop by my sister's blog and read about the ordeal her shih tzu, Mindi, has been through the past couple of weeks.

To summarize, she suffered a back injury resulting in total rear limb paralysis. She had spinal surgery ten days ago at Louisiana State University. Linda brought her home today.

It's been an odd coincidence, too... Managing a veterinary hospital, we sometimes see paralysis cases, but not often. It's been many months since I've encountered one. We see a lot of lameness and weakness, because we have a veterinary chiropractor, but not paralysis due to spinal injury. But just since learning of Mindi's plight, I found that one of my online writing friend's Basset hounds - Phlash - suffered a similar injury, had surgery, and (sadly) did not show any significant signs of improvement following his surgery. He was 13, so age could certainly have been a factor, but I know his family is missing him terribly tonight.

Then just this morning one of our techs showed up with a 5 month old bulldog puppy... belonging to someone she knows in the world of raising/showing the breed... same thing. Pup had been injured, but after four days on medication showed no signs of deep pain response, and there was no reasonable hope of recovery.

So. Mindi got the care she needed in the time frame in which she needed it, and is apparently both a very tough and very lucky little girl. Neurological things are often a mystery. It's nearly impossible to predict what the long-term outcome will be. But Mindi seems to be doing well, and I know she has all the love and support any little dog could have.

Detecting

The setting: My kitchen
The time: Yesterday evening
The victim: One medium Papa Murphy's mushroom and artichoke heart pizza
The evidence: Empty pizza tray
The suspects: BroZarkWin
The unwitting accomplice before the fact: Me

I baked the victim according to the instructions helpfully included in the wrapping, and then stashed it in the microwave, safe from marauding hungry dogs. After eating a piece, I apparently neglected to return it to its dog-proof hiding place.

Tom later discovered the licked-clean tray on the floor by the dogs' water bowl. This suggests that ill-gotten pizza makes dogs thirsty.

What's odd is that I did not hear the crime being committed. True, the tray is a papery-plasticy thing, and wouldn't clatter like a metal one when hitting the floor, but my dogs aren't typically very good at "stealthy".

The other odd thing is that this pizza-stealing did not result in a Darwin-Brody battle. Normally, any food-related incident isn't going to turn out peacefully.

I can rule out Ozark as the culprit. He does not counter surf. Also, he is a chicken, and at the first sign of naughtiness, he would have wedged himself under the end table to avoid becoming involved.

Because there was not a fight, I can also deduce that Brody is not the guilty party. If he'd snagged a snack, Darwin would definitely have rushed over to make sure he got his share, and carnage would have occurred.

In addition, it's possible that Brody wouldn't have heard the theft and subsequent snacking if he happened to be napping. It is also possible that he did hear it, but didn't want to be falsely accused of pizza-cide and so kept his distance.

This leads me to the obvious conclusion that this is the guilty party:

(Darwin, suspected pizza eater, feigning innocence)

Dang. Leftover mushroom and artichoke heart pizza would have been really good right about now.

All I can hope for is to be spared from post-pizza doggie digestive upset all over the carpet.

Worth Mentioning

Today is the 4th anniversary of "my" clinic.

I'm not technically an owner, but four years ago today Dr. Vet-Friend and I (well, okay, some other people helped, but we're the only ones still here and working our asses off) opened this place. We'd just spent three months slaving away in a building full of junk abandoned by the previous owners, hauling garbage, scrubbing, scraping, painting, and crawling around in dark, filthy crevasses, usually wearing parkas, hats, mittens and scarves because we didn't want to turn on the heat until we were open and bringing in money. Despite hard financial times, I still love this place.

So, happy anniversary to us. But that's not the "worth mentioning" part.

Now, those of you who are always rallying for me to get on (and stay on) the Prohibition Wagon, don't get your hopes up, but...

Today, I have declined the offer of free celebratory alcoholic beverages.

Yes, I know. Shocking.

I'm certain this will not become a habit. Typically, if somebody else is buying the liquor, I'm totally there. Even if I'm buying it myself... totally there. But today I had some reasons to pass up the libations.

First, I'm 26 miles from home. I get sort of fuzzy after two drinks, and though I'd say I would only have two drinks (and thus be likely to arrive home without complication), I would actually sneak a third one.

Second, if Tom had to come get me due to overindulgence, he would Not. Be. Happy.

Third, I get done work (officially) at 4 PM, and we don't close till 6 PM, so I'd have to lounge around here in the office and amuse myself till everyone else could come partake of the luscious liquor. Unless I started without them, but that would be rude, and they'd probably draw warts and mustaches and geek-glasses on me with a Sharpie while I was "napping".

The fourth, and the last reason I can think of at the moment, is that I plan to have another full day of writing tomorrow, and any alcohol-intake the night before leaves me busy repairing brain cells much of the next day, which is not conducive to writing a book.

So, that's it. No drinky for me today. Just don't look for such an event to happen again in the future when I am faced with the prospect of free booze.