Randomness

1. Can someone go check yesterday's post and tell me if Kalola is kidding or if I randomly just got chewed out by someone I've never heard from before?


2. I had an article run in the Deseret News and the Mormon Times yesterday. It's about online dating. It even features a quote from a blogger some of you will know. You can CLICK HERE to read it.


3. I just turned in a short story my editor requested for a Christmas anthology my publisher is compiling. I kept procrastinating it but once it was done, I loved it. I doubt they'll end up using mine because it includes the line, "Watching my mom die was killing my Christmas spirit." But really, I nailed exactly what I wanted to say, so maybe if they don't use it, it will appear as a blog post come holiday time.


4. I'm obese today. I might not be tomorrow. This is because according to my BMI, if I lose one pound then I'm "normal" but at this weight and higher I'm obese. I know I should probably be depressed by this but I honestly just find it funny, probably because I don't feel fat and I have lots of cute clothes I like to wear. Granted, a lot of them are skirts, but still. 


5. I don't like living in a place where there are snakes. Don't they know that we build suburbs for the strict purpose of denying that nature exists beyond our garderners' abilities to tame it? Hmpfh.

I don't want to grow up.

I'm not afraid of getting older.


But I'm scared of dressing older.


Because, oh man. Sometimes folks get it wrong. The old folks, I mean. They're like, "Everything on my body has drifted south by 25%. I will now live in sweatsuits."


I don't know what the connection is between those two thoughts but I think that's how the fuzzy logic goes. Of course, these are the ones who maybe didn't dress great before.


There's another class of old people dressing that involves embroidery. I don't know what this is all about, but suddenly every sweater or t-shirt they wear has to have stuff embroidered on it. Stuff like scotty dogs and outlines of the state of Kentucky. 


????


Can't you just share your love for those things in verbal conversation, old people?


And there's a third type of old people dressing that involves the wearing of old people fabrics. I'm looking at you, polyester. And elastic. Especially when you come together to form pants. This is a tough one because the intention is good. They're trying to put the effort in. They just don't realize that these poly-fabulous leisure slacks are an old-people-only phenomenon.


I WILL NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT.


When I was little, I thought old people were awesome because the coolest people I knew were old. I still think that. And the coolest old people I know have gray hair and wrinkles. Maybe that's why it didn't faze me when I plucked another gray from my scalp yesterday morning. I even thought to myself, "Wow. Even in the nesting grounds of The Real Housewives of Orange County, I am going to age gracefully. I plucked a gray hair and moved on without weeping. I am great."


But then, halfway down the mall later in the same afternoon, I had an epiphany. I went to Express to return a sweater and I saw . . . nothing, NOTHING I would buy. Shrug. Moving on. And then I pushed the stroller past Chico's and saw something in the window and thought, "That's cute."


WHAT?


Stoller. Pshaw. IT MIGHT AS WELL HAVE BEEN A WALKER.


And no lie, for often as I forget sunscreen and burn, I think I'm secretly trying to speed up the process of roasting my skin to a fine, aged, leathery patina.


WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME? 


Thank heavens there's Ann Taylor Loft to ease me through the next ten years gracefully. But I swear if I step into a Coldwater Creek a day before fifty, I'm punching myself in the head.


*Please note: I'm actually glad these places are going to be around when I get a bit older because they'll save me from polyester pants. I just want to walk into Nordstrom and drift toward Brass Plum instead of St. John's Knits because "their music isn't so loud."


*It's entirely possible my formative career years spent in retail management (a la the mall) have made an indelible mark on me.

Cut off

Last night I unsubscribed from a few blogs I follow and I admit that in a few cases, I did so gleefully.


I am petty. 


Right now, in this moment regarding this situation, I DON'T CARE.


One of these blogs was from someone fairly well-established in one community of bloggers I hang around who has every so often sent out blanket "Read my blog" email invites. So I go. I follow. I comment from time to time in an effort to build a relationship. She never reciprocates. 


Bye bye.


I don't think that everyone whose blog I like has to in turn like mine and come back and comment. But I do think it takes a lot of gall to invite someone to read your blog merely so you can be worshipped and petted.


So that was a fun one to click "Unfollow."


For sure, blogging has made my life richer. But it is 90% a reciprocal relationship for me. I read very few blogs where I don't have some type of connection to the blogger. If I don't comment on your blog, I don't expect the same from you. Sometimes commenters drop by here and I'll swing by their blog a few times but I find I don't have much in common with them and so I can't think of anything to say. That's okay. It's okay if people do the same to me.


But heaven knows I wouldn't be harrassing someone to come read me if I had no intention of ever trying to be their friend, too. And I HATE the idea of blogging just for business. I have zero problem with monetizing a blog, but the idea that the whole purpose behind someone starting a blog, ESPECIALLY A RANDOM MUSINGS personal blog, to make money is off-putting somehow. That's someone who doesn't understand the social side of blogging. If you're a craft blogger and trying to parlay it into fame and moola, this makes perfect sense to me. But a personal blog that doesn't grow from an authentic place of participating in both sides of the "sharing" equation" rubs me the wrong way.


All right. I've taken a deep breath and I'm done now.


I'm off to visit blogs of people I like and want to hear from. Because that's why I blog. 


P.S. I'm sure many of you are dying to hang out with me EVEN MORE after this, so that being the case, if you're Twitter, click in the sidebar to be my friend. I want to Tweet with more people I know but I can't figure out how to find all of you. Oh, and I'll give away a copy of The List if I get to a 100 followers by Friday. 78 is embarrassing when 62-ish are those creepy web-bot spammer things.

The devil made me not do it

My life is not hard. I admit this. But I have to say that even still, it is hard to blog and draft new stories and revise old ones for official deadlines for my publisher.


Especially because I am undisciplined.


I can honestly spend two hours doing everything except what I need to and not have any idea where the time went. Random research for my novel on the Internet. Business-type conversations with writer-type friends. Scrabble. But not write.


I'm frustrated with myself when I do this but I keep doing it. I think the frustration comes from knowing exactly how much I can get done when I buckle down. Want to know how much? GOBS. I can bang out impressive word counts when I put my mind to it. I just too often don't. 


I fritter. I'm a fritterer. I ought to have a pageant sash that says so. And a scepter made of origami-ed Wrigley gum wrappers and a tiara of jimmied paperclips, both of which I could produce if you put me in front of my laptop and said, "You have two hours to write" and then left a pack of gum and a small tray of paper clips lying near by. Well, sure I COULD write, my train of thought starts, and then wrecks on, but I could also make fantastic creations out of gum wrappers and paper clips because I am the MacGyver of procrastination.


So that's how that goes. More or less every day, really.


Anyway, Tuesday is a new day. A new day where I will grumble about not having the time to get things done, but really--I have the time. It wouldn't even be that hard to fit it in. I'd just have to, I don't know. . . quit blobbing on the interwebs for an hour or two. 


I think I need to spend some serious thought on figuring out exactly  how I'm using my time lately. I don't watch that much TV. I don't read nearly as much as I used to. Ditto blogging, both reading and writing. I'm really sort of confused by all this. Is it really possible that I'm spending THAT much time on TMZ.com?


Hm.


Well, before I go, it's time to announce winner of the giveaway of Bumpy Landings by Don Carey. Survey says . . . it's CYD. Whoohoo! Email me your address and I'll make sure a copy gets out to you soon!

Want to go to Hawaii?

My friend Don Carey is letting me give away another of his books! Hooray for all of you! All you have to do to win is leave a comment on this post and tell me your most favorite vacation place. Contest closes on Saturday night.

Jordan MacDonald dreams of flying above his Hawaiian home, but his mother demands that he stay on the ground. Spurred by the pain of a failed relationship, however, Jordan secretly begins flying lessons. Just as he finds love again, Jordan's lies close in around him, and his dishonesty attracts more turbulence than he's ever faced in the air.

Anatomy of a BAD joke

A bunch of people most of us have in common have been and will be blogging about a conference we all went to this weekend: LDS Storymakers. And it was epic. Most people will tell you it's because the classes were awesome, the speakers incredible, etc. All true, by the way. But it was epic for me for entirely different reasons.


See, here's the thing. The very first post from which most people discovered me three years ago chronicled the absolute disaster of my first writing conference. That story is here. You'll think it's funny. Maybe we're at the point where tragedy + time = comedy, because I admit, I think it's kinda funny now, too. Kinda.


Then at last year's conference, I had another moment of total idiocy which you can read about here. Yeah, you'll get the idiot shivers. Me, too. I'm learning it's a function of me + writing conferences = tragedy.


So it should come as no surprise to you that I'm fresh back from another conference and this time, I reached the highest heights--wait, no. Make that the lowest of lows, in my quest to flame out of one of these on such a massive scale that I'm forever barred from all writing conferences. In the world. EVER.


All right. Here's the thing. This comes down to a joke. Imagine if you will, a girl walks up with something scribbled on her conference name badge. Let's say someone named Becca squints and (to be funny) says, "Does that say (insert name of not very famous author) was here?" And the other girl, we'll call her Karen, says "No," like why would she want the autograph of that minor author? And then I think I'm being funny and I say, "What she's not telling us is that she now has a lower back Sharpie tattoo that says (not famous author) was here."


Okay. Not a great joke. In hindsight, marginally inappropriate. The joke was intended to circumscribe a couple of tropes (yeah, I just explained it that way--I'm too tired to think of the easy words, so let's all cope) into one joke: dumb groupies of rock stars etc. who get Sharpie tattoos on their bodies + how the tramp stamp is usually the most cliched spot for a girl to get a tattoo = witty. 


So, yeah. Not a great joke. But let's now imagine that instead of me cracking this joke about two girls (because I'd been hanging out with primarily women for two days straight at this point) that I cracked it about two guys (because I'd been hanging out with primarily women for two days straight and wasn't thinking clearly about my audience). I meant the joke the same way that it would have been meant had it actually been two girls involved (tramp stamp Sharpie tattoo of minor celebrity = silly), but if it's two guys, the meaning of the joke TOTALLY changes.


Just think about it.


The poor man who I was teasing blanched and looked horrified. It took me a full forty-five minutes to figure out why he was horrified. Then I was horrified. Like, completely and utterly horrified.


I leaned over and begged Becca to tell me how to fix it. She was like, "Oh, sister. You can't." My other friend Brittany was like, "Ohhhhh. Yeah, okay, I get where you were going now, but I totally thought you were making a different joke and I was a little shocked." 


And I was all sobbing and what not.


Okay, I wasn't sobbing. But I was writhing on the inside. Really, it was awful. Beyond awful.


I don't know if I'm going to have to swear off writing conferences in the future, or maybe just the vodka I'm always hiding in my water bottles. But something's gotta give.

This post stinks.

So I was going to bring raw almonds as a "save me" snack during the LDS Storymakers conference I'm attending this week . . . until I found out almonds cause gas. And I'm presenting. I already have nightmares where people exit the room muttering, "Wow. She stunk." I don't need them to mean that literally. 


My mom used to have all these theories about foods that caused her gas. If she ever got gas within an hour of eating any food, no matter what it was, she would pretty much never eat that food again. So yeah, she more or less lived on oatmeal. No gas! During the last month of two before she died, when she still had an appetite, she took a great deal of satisfaction in eating whatever she wanted and not worrying about the fall out. And folks, sometimes it was nuclear level. 


I've learned a lot by having parents who died too young. One of those things is: don't leave things unsaid. Another of those things is: eat stuff you like even if it makes you gassy because life is short. Except if you're presenting at a conference. Then don't do that.


I'm like, pretty wise and stuff. That's how I can find a lesson in anything.


Anyway, time to figure out a plan B. Off to Google: Do baby carrots cause gas? Oooh, or better yet: Snacks that taste delicious and won't make you fat OR give you gas.