Potpourri

I was overcome with the strangest of sensations just now: the desire to blog even though I have nothing to say.


I do so much writing now that the idea of blogging just because doesn't really appeal to me anymore. Gotta have a point or I don't want to do it. Write, write, write. It won't be long now before I snap, get committed, recover, rejoin my family, and then have chronic PTSD flashbacks every time I hear the click of laptop keys.


Blogging has changed a lot, hasn't it? But I don't want to talk about that because I kind of zone out on other people's blogs when they talk about it.


So how about an update? I haven't really kept in touch often enough for you guys to know what's going on. 


Um . . . so everything. And not much.


My books seem to be selling well. I'll know how the  new one is doing in a couple of weeks. My ward has finally figured out that I'm a "real" author and it trips me out that they're so tripped out to get catalogs selling books with my name on them. 


I've lost 17 pounds from my peak. I feel good. Probably could stand to lose 5-8 more so I'm tackling that this month. 3 of them, anyway. Then maybe 3 more the month after that.


I feel emotionally grown up this year. I think I've been doing a better job of putting things in perspective. There's just some stuff that I'm letting go because it doesn't matter and it's not even something I'm telling myself so I'll feel better. I really just figured it out: it doesn't matter.


I've been having tooth issues again. I've got a nub right now and will for two  more weeks. At least. And also, for some reason after the most recent (re)root canal, my tongue on that half of my mouth doesn't feel/work right. It's that feeling you get after you burn it on something super hot and you haven't gotten sensation back yet. It's not all the way numb. It's just not all the way working. Weird.


I recently renewed my love of farmer's markets. Picking out their produce makes the little ones want to eat it. I've gotten SO MUCH fruit down them this week.


I'm on deadline again. So far I'm ahead of pace on meeting two of the deadlines and behind the pace on a third. But it'll all come together.


And that's it. Now I'm going to go think of writery stuff, but it's new story idea stuff so I like that.

The most expensive book signing EVER.

All right, tomorrow is the last day to enter to win my new book Not My Type by commenting on my last post here (for those too lazy to scroll down. Geez).


Uh, and I'm signing books from 11-1 tomorrow (Oct. 8) at the Ensign Books in Temecula. As always, I'll have fudge.


So, book signings.


Many of you have been to them for some author. Some of you have been to mine.


I really like book signings. Also, I kind of hate them.


I have done several now. Not a lot compared to most authors, but I'd say at least a dozen. So here's the deal: Not ONCE has it ever been worth the money. Not even close. But then again, that's not really what a book signing is about.


Let's take an April book signing I did. A 90 mile round trip (gas + $14 in tolls), the cost of the fudge I make and bring ($10), plus I like to buy a book at the stores where I sign ($14). That day, I bought paintings for my kids' Easter presents ($80). Oh, and I got a speeding ticket on the way there. ($450.) And I sold 4 books, two to people I knew.


Minus the speeding ticket, that's kind of the norm. I know, you'd rather poke your eyes out with pencils than spend your entire Saturday six weekends in a row doing the same.


The thing is, when I sell a book through a store, I make a little over a dollar a book, and I only get those dollars twice a year in my royalty checks. I'd have to sell A LOT of books to pay for just the gas money of getting to the closest LDS bookstore which is over 20 miles away. And I have not ONCE broken even yet on a single signing I've done. 


The most books I've ever sold at a signing is the one I did in Utah a couple of weeks ago. That was in the 20 something book range. And every single person who bought one was someone I knew at least a little. And um, that was a $200 plane ticket to get up there, plus a car rental.


So that's the part I hate. Really hate.


Then why do them? Just because it's expected? No. They're still a potentially smart business decision. Because bookstore visits aren't really about selling books to the random customers who come in. It's about building a relationship with the store owners and booksellers who work there so that mine is a book they keep recommending even when I'm not there. 


The thing is, even that wouldn't be enough to drag me into spend the bulk of my Saturdays for a month in a bookstore, feeling foolish at my little table while half the people in the store try not to make eye contact with me. (What? You thought this was GLAMOROUS? Ahahahaha!) But there are other parts of this equation that make it totally worth it.


First, the booksellers and store owners generally love books and that leads to some really fun conversations. I often get to tell them who in the market I'm reading lately and get their opinions on which books I should try. I can't be talked into doing boring things for money. (Yeah, I realize that's the luxury of having a stable household income). But fun? Yes, sign me up! That's because I value my time over my money. (Again, I know that's a luxury.) And talking about books is definitely fun.


Second, the strangers. The strangers are fun to talk to because when I can tell they aren't going to be into my book, if they're in the fiction section I still see it as a challenge to find them a book they WILL like. That also leads to a lot of fun conversations.


Third, and my tied for first favorite part, is the rare times that a stranger comes specifically to see me. They've read my book, they want the new one, they want my signature on their copy, they just want to say hello. SUPER EXTRA fun. I'm not actually sure I can explain in words how cool that feels and why. It's validating, yes, but it's a little more than that. It's kind of like they come in because they feel like they've connected to me, because something in one of my stories feels familiar and real to them, like I understand them, and I feel happy that I could do that for them. It helps me feel like what I do is worthwhile and it matters.


And then fourth, my other tied for favorite part of book signings are the people I DO know. Because when they show up it's always a great time to chat and catch up. I get to see people I haven't seen in a really long time because of these signings. But what most of them don't realize is that it's a vote of confidence, and a lot of times, during signings where ten people in a row have blown right by my little table to grab their copy of 17 Miracles without so much as glancing my way , I really need the pick-me-up of someone stopping in to say hello TO ME. I value that so much.


So . . .


I think I have about four book signings to go before I worry about this for the next book. But as long as I've got my bowl of homemade fudge and fellow bibliophiles to chat books with, that's all right by me.

Cliffhanger

Don't you hate it when I'm all, "I'm going to tell you a story!" and then I don't?


So I owe you a story.


I believe I mentioned something about a slight breakdown a couple of weeks ago. I am fine, by the way. But the episode produced a tiny gem of a moment that I have polished and re-examined a few times in the last two weeks.


I'm a writer. Either I'm a writer, therefore I'm neurotic, or I'm neurotic, therefore I write--but I'm not sure because I've been both since as long as I can remember. Writing won me essay contests. Writing won me my college scholarships. Writing got me my job.


But I always wrote for a reason. It wasn't really the story-telling kind of writing. Because I'm a pragmatist. I do things that make sense. Sometimes. And when I do things that don't make sense, I get upset at myself because I can clearly see they don't make sense and then--VOILA! Le Breakdown.


So I wrote but I didn't do much storytelling. Still, I would always say I was going to write books because I love telling stories. I grew up listening to my grandfather, one of the greatest storytellers to ever live. And you can't spend more than a few minutes with me before I tell you some kind of story. It's almost compulsive.


And this idea that I should write a book was almost compulsive, too. But for a long time I didn't write. A whole space of years between the birth of child number one and the career and the marriage and the caring for of ill parents and the planning of funerals and . . . I did not write.


But it felt like I should Write. A story.


I don't know. It's that thing we're all brought up with: if you have a talent, share it. No squandering under bushels, y'all. Bushels bad. Bad, bad, bad.


And finally I had time. A second baby, no job to worry about each day. But I didn't write an epic. No big old weighty work with a meditation on life and death wrapped in some layered family drama. That's steak and fingerling potatoes in a rich burgundy wine sauce. No. I produced a . . .


Well . . . a confection. Not even a rich one. More like a meringue, as in lemon. Slightly tart. Definitely frothy.


Those are the stories that come to me, probably because those were the ones I liked to climb into on exhausted Friday nights when I was single and too tired to date because I'd been caring for a kid and my parents and 150 other people's kids in my classroom all day. Or at least I used to read those, until it got too hard to find ones in the national market that weren't, um, filthy.


And so I wrote the kind of book I couldn't find. There were a few fun ones in the LDS market. But a very few. Most of the romances were more issue driven, not utterly silly like mine.


It was fun. I felt good about finally using my talent after the nagging feeling I'd had for years. And I wrote a book. And it was accepted. And then I wrote another. And another. And then a fourth. And then my first book actually came out. And being an author became more than writing. It was suddenly all about marketing and . . .  anyway, it was fine. It wasn't my favorite part of the job, but I'm good with people so none of that stuff was hard.


But it was very time consuming. From the time to draft a book to the time to edit it while trying to hit a deadline on a new project and then launch a book while trying to hit a totally different deadline and then OH YEAH BE A MOM. That.


And my husband was so super supportive through it all. He cheers for me when I hit writing goals, celebrates my milestones with me, brags about me to all of his friends, tells me what an amazing writer I am all the time, praises me, wants to know how my stories are going.


I'm so lucky.


But when this new book came out three weeks ago, I was also feeling incredibly guilty. Yes, this is a "hobby" I actually feel prompted to use. And yes, I get paid a little. My oldest has some shiny new braces, courtesy of my August royalty check. But this all costs A LOT of time. Book signings, conferences, critique groups, and the writing every single day.


So I stood on the verge of a new book release, which kicks the madness up crazy high for about a month, and I wondered, Is this all worth it for a silly meringue? Meringues don't change the world. Meringues don't even feed people. Steaks in rich sauce feed people. Potatoes feed people. Not so much fluffy pie toppings. What am I doing?


And here's the thing. This is super long already, but I've already written this whole thing, so I'm going to do you nice people a favor and cut it in half and post the rest tomorrow to give your heads a rest. So since I've been rather steak-y today instead of my usual meringue (and we're reading that as in lemon meringue, not dancing a merengue, right?), if you would like a tart dessert, may I recommend Regarding Annie? You will enjoy her. And I'll be back tomorrow with my whole watchamacallit? Point.

This post is full of . . . a word Nancy won't let me say.

Oh, my gosh.

I had the best idea for a blog post.

And I totally forgot it.

Too bad. That means I have nothing to say today, but really, when has that stopped me?

I saw a commercial I loved today. It's for toilet paper. This guy calls for his wife to throw him a roll because they're out and she does. It whizzes by his head and shaves a thatch of his hair off because it's so rough.

That made me laugh, probably because I always buy the t.p. on sale and I brought some home last week that was just paper. It was so uncomfortable I finally just handed it to my son when he said he needed more paper for school.

What? Haven't you heard? "Use it up, wear it out."

Now on the other hand, one of my least favorite commercials is also for toilet paper. It's the one with the bears. What brand is that? Because I don't want to buy that brand even on sale. Anyway, it's not the bears that make it bad. It's the slogan on the most recent one: Enjoy the Go.

Ew.

Back to favorites. It is bad to drink beer. I get it. But if I DID drink beer, it would be Dos Equis (sp?) based solely on The Most Interesting Man in the World.

And in the interests of yin and yang, you know what product I'll never use? I think Sue blogged about this before but I just saw the commercial on TV the other night: the Schick Quattro TrimStyle for women. I won't inflict it on you, but . . .

Ew.

Stupid answers, cont'd

Kazzy wants to know what kind of toothpaste I use. I kick it very, very old school. I use the Crest paste that does not whiten or remove tartar or do anything more than baking soda and water would. That's what my dentist told me to use. It's surprisingly hard to find a toothpaste without all the bells and whistles. My second favorite after that is that kind that Emeril advertises. I don't remember the name but I liked the vanilla mint kind.

Terressa wants to know my favorite brand of chocolate. Great question! I really like the Trader Joe's milk chocolate bar right now but I always have a pound of See's chocolates on hand as a writing incentive. I fill it with all my favorite pieces and I never share. No one else is allowed to touch it and even I can only touch it if I've written at least a thousand words in a day. Needless to say, I've thrown some really bad crud down on paper some days in order to get my chocolate. And I don't mean that literally because I do all my writing on my laptop but that doesn't have the same ring to it and I'm a writer so I had to make the image work, see?

I will answer both Kelly O's and Aunt Linda's question the same way: I think you both know the answer to those questions. Let's let any of my other relatives who read my blog continue to live their dreams by not revealing the answer here, shall we?

Sarah wants to know the plus and minus of being a CODA. Sarah is a very, very cool girl who is deaf with hearing kids. CODA stands for Children of Deaf Adults. If you're new-ish around here, she's asking me this because both of my parents were deaf. By far the biggest minus was that it affected my relationship with my mom. This was for a lot of reasons but some of the simplest ones were things like how I couldn't pick up the phone when things got tough at college and talk to her about them. It just wasn't the same going through a relay operator to discuss stuff like that. Maybe it would be different now with all the technology advancements like videophones but this was when email was still like, "What's that?" Instead, I would pick up the phone and call Pawpaw (my grandfather). So I always had someone to talk to; it just wasn't my mom. Variations of this played out in many, many ways over the years. The best part of being a CODA (although it takes getting older to appreciate it) is that it teaches you great communication skills, especially because of all the interpreting you do for your parents where you have to figure out what people are really saying. Also, I learned to be independent at a very early age and most of my CODA friends did, too. At first, it totally bugged me but now I really appreciate it. Also a bonus: people think I'm cool for knowing sign language.

Luisa wants to know when I decided that I knew the writing life was for me. Tricky question. I've always been a storyteller and come from a long line of storytellers. Before I even knew how to write, I would stand by the side of my father's typewriter and dictate poems that he would type out for me. I still have some of those and for age six? They're pretty dang good. I remember writing a scary haunted house story in eighth grade that got passed around during earth science every day in a spiral bound notebook and everyone waiting for the next installment each day. I remember writing a very Poe-esque short story as a junior that was published in our school literary magazine. I quit writing any kind of fiction in college and didn't have much to do with creative writing again until I began teaching it. It was a question of time. I taught eighth grade creative writing for five years and I kept thinking, "I ought to write a book." Actually, I thought that all throughout college too, but again...no time. It wasn't until I stayed home full time that I felt like I would be wasting a God-given talent if I didn't take a stab at it and so I did. I've never had literary ambitions. I just want to tell good stories that people enjoy. I write with a lot of humor and I write characters that I understand very, very well. I have no designs on the great American novel. I just want to entertain.

Ambrosia wants to know how I keep my house clean on bed rest. The answer is, I don't. It's a mess. And I'm not actually on bed rest so that's even worse because I don't have an excuse. I'd say my husband actually cleans almost as often as I do and he definitely does the dishes more. But I cook a lot and I DO clean. There just tends to be a day or two a week where I don't get to it and I don't care. My house is clean about 70% of the time and I'm fine with that as long as I know it's not bothering my husband AND as long as I don't have company coming. But I figure if they find me in a messy house and judge me, Oh well. They're probably dead right most of the time anyway. I accept that as a consequence of putting other things first sometimes.

CaJoh wants to know if I feel I've grown as a writer over the years and whether or not blogging has helped or hindered my writing style. First, I've grown as a writer FOR SURE. My voice as a writer is much more authentic now. I don't read my stuff and think, "Wow. That sounds impressive." I read it and think, "Yeah, that sounds like me," and it's hard 1) to write that way and 2) to recognize when you are and aren't doing that. So it makes me happy that I can. I'm sure blogging has had some effect on my fiction, but I'm not sure what. I can't point to a direct correlation so I don't know if it's helped or not. I can say that my blogging has improved tremendously in the 18 months I've been at it because I found my voice here, too. My first three months of posts are especially cringeworthy but I like to see that I've grown. What I express is ME now, not a persona I was trying to define, like it was sometimes at first.

Kimberly asked if having two books accepted for publication changed the way I see myself. I love this question. The short answer is no. The longer answer is that I definitely feel validated and I guess there's been a change in the sense that I feel like a Writer now, not someone who writes. I should do a post about that some time because it's a very key distinction for me. However, the reason I'd say mainly no is...

Well, this all going to sound very arrogant, but I've answered all these questions truthfully so far and to keep that up here is going to preclude false modesty. Here's the thing. I have a lot of personal fears about whether people will like and accept me but if you were trying to figure out whether to hire for me a job, I'd be able to break down for you with astonishing accuracy exactly what my assets are and how to best use me. I don't have many doubts about anything I tackle professionally because I know I'll do whatever it takes to master it and I'm a total sponge. I love learning new things. To be fair, I don't tackle things that I don't have an affinity for. Hence, I am not and will never be a rocket scientist, fashion designer or preschool teacher. I would totally suck.

Writing was a little unnerving at first but I was pretty sure I had the talent for it; I just worked very, very hard to soak up enough knowledge to make sure I also had the skill. I KNOW how to learn. I read, I went to workshops and conferences, I listened, I asked questions and I applied. Each of my manuscripts has shown me how much I'm learning and growing. Each of them shows me how much I still have left to learn. But I DO see progress and that's what I expect from myself. I'm following the same M.O. I've always had when it comes to professional goals.

I know, that's incredibly boorish, right? But you asked. I feel a real sense of accomplishment and pride in being a published author, but not really any surprise. It wouldn't occur to me that I wouldn't achieve a professional goal I set for myself. That's why the inevitable setbacks in my writing career are probably going to hit me harder than they will most people, but I just truck along worrying about what I can control, not what I can't. I'm sure I'm in for some kind of breakdown when things don't go right in my writing career, but I don't know when that will happen and I can't expend emotional energy worrying about it. In the meantime, just know that the moment I got my acceptance from my publisher, it was truly magical. It's a blessing to occupy a space in time where you are feeling your dream come true.

Migillicutty wants to know what kind of shampoo I use. I use Pantene. Sometimes I use Head and Shoulders when my scalp won't cooperate. And I use a fantastic Bumble and Bumble conditioner that actually helps with my incredibly dry hair.

And oh, my goodness, I have BLATHERED again. I'll save the last few questions for my next post. Tomorrow (or whenever Christmas Eve is for you when you read this) is my birthday and I'm going to be soooo self-indulgent. I'm not exactly sure how this is different from say, your average Tuesday, but I will say that I will consider each comment tomorrow as a birthday present from you to me and I thank you in advance. Merry Christmas, all!

Everything you never wanted to know

After receiving a few comments, I went back an reread what I wrote. It sounds SUPER cranky. I don't know why because I don't feel cranky at all so I plead pregnancy, but I'm going to let the post stand because it took so long to write. However, please know, I wasn't directing these AT the person who asked the question. I guess I'm feeling a wee bit feisty today, so no one take these personally, okay? These were actually really fun to answer.

I didn't know when I said you could ask questions that they would be HARD questions. Sheesh. (Kidding.)

All right, since Christmas is a season of love and forgiveness, let's all go ahead and forgive me now for not doing links. If we had to wait for me to do that, we would be waiting for a long, long time and the links still wouldn't get done.

Also, I should be working on my manuscript right now instead of blogging. Grant just went down for his nap (yes, I realize I just used his real name) and my two hour window of peace and heavenly quiet just opened up for writing. The problem is that I'm at the climax of a scene where my main character is about to destroy her competition in a Dance Dance Revolution type of contest and I'm having a hard time playing it for the proper drama and humor given that my character is a Jimmy Choo wearing diva. And no, I'm not making that up. I mean yes, I'm making it up in the sense that I write fiction, but that is the actual scene I'm working through right now. But I don't wanna. So maybe blogging will get me on a writing streak and after I answer your questions, I'll feel inspired to keep going with the Dance Dance smackdown.

Deep breath . . . and moving on . . .

Steph and Diapers and Divinity wants to know my favorite place I've traveled. Until I was thirty I'd never been anywhere interesting. Since then, I've been to Egypt, Italy, France, Scotland, England, and New York. Honestly, I think my favorite is NYC. It's as alive as everyone says it is. I want to go back badly. But believe me, none of those other places was chopped liver. There was something I dug about each of them. As far as where I long to go: Africa. Costa Rica. London. Scandinavia.

Don C. wants to know what kind of tree I want to be. I think Josi Kilpack did an excellent job of answering this on her blog already, but I'll take a shot at it. The last time I was asked this question, it was a journal prompt in my 11th grade English class. I said a live oak. Part of it was that I was only two months into a move to California from Louisiana and I was a little homesick. Mostly it was because I love those trees. They represent deep roots and wisdom to me. So I'm still going to go with a live oak. They're my favorite.

Jami wants to know my favorite childhood memory involving food. Again, I grew up in Louisiana so this is a rich, rich file in  my memory banks, but I'm going to go with jambalaya. My Cajun great-grandfather, who remained vigorous until his passing when I was seventeen, would cook up a tasty jambalaya a few times a year in a Dutch oven over a fire outside. I learned not to ask what the meat was (after he answered "squirrel" one time and meant it) but usually it was chicken and sausage. I remember running around the yard, playing with my cousins, and thinking that I would die if the jambalaya wasn't ready soon. Like a Memphis man with his barbecue skills, a good jambalaya or gumbo is the mark of a great Cajun cook. Grandaddy's was the best.

Kristina P., I don't want to be an inanimate object because I like having a brain. But I'll pick anyway. The first thing that jumps to mind is a clock. Not the Hoff's underwear. Sorry!

Josi wants to know what goals I have outside of writing and family. Okay, this is going to sound obnoxiously earnest, but when my kids are grown and gone, I think I'd like to get involved with a non-profit organization that focuses on empowering underprivileged women, helping them develop job and parenting skills, etc. Slight less lofty and long-term, I'd really like to learn to sew. I've taken a couple of classes but I suck. This is mostly due to a total lack of manual dexterity or my fingers being possessed of the devil. I'm not sure. Also, it's possible an extreme lack of patience is a contributing factor. Possibly.

Wonder Woman wants to know why having a girl is freaking me out, though she asked it much more nicely. All right, I'll tell you but just know that I'm pretty cool with it now. The biggest reason is that I taught eighth grade language arts for five years and I hate the DRAMA. I think spending one day in a classroom with a parade of crazy teenage girls all day long is about the most effective form of birth control possible. WARNING: You could birth one of these! Sadly, there seems to be girl drama at every age. I'm so NOT into drama that I'm sure my poor daughter's efforts to share it with me will be met with eye rolls which will only incite MORE drama, so I'm trying to figure out how to prepare for that. Secondly, I didn't have a close relationship with my mother or sister growing up. There was a communication barrier with my mom (she was deaf and it's not as simple as knowing sign language; there are cultural experience gaps to bridge) and I was five years older than my sister. Those relationships improved greatly as an adult but I was already biased against having a girl by the time we worked stuff out. Lastly, I have two boys. That's what I know how to do. Like I said, though: I'm pretty excited now.

InkMom wants to know why I'm a raging liberal. Kidding! She wants to know if it's hard for me to sit a little to the left of most Mormons and how I came to my opinions on things. A most excellent question. I'm a registered Democrat right now because I wanted to vote in the California primary. However, I consider myself an independent and usually register that way. I vote conservatively on some issues and not on others, but the key is that I take it issue by issue and candidate by candidate. Let me go ahead and offend the majority of you by stating the following opinion: I think it's ignorant to vote party just because. Now, is it hard for me? No. My parents always voted, and always took us with them, but never indoctrinated me into their point of view. I was staunchly Republican through most of high school and didn't discover until much later that my parents typically voted Libertarian or Democrat. Huh.

Anyway, they let us think whatever we wanted and set an example more through their regular voting and keeping up with current events than by orating. You're absolutely right that I own what I believe, but I DO NOT engage in debates with people. I share my opinions when asked but the most publicly liberal I'll usually get is to espouse my devout hatred of Fox News. Otherwise, if someone wants to know what I think, they have to ask. I flatly refuse to argue about it. I'm a very good listener to other people's points-of-view. I'm not interested in changing anyone's mind. I resent people trying to change mine. I get my information from the BBC online, CNN and USA Today online, and NPR. And strangely, The Daily Show. And no, I'm not going to argue about or defend that, either. When I don't understand something, I ask people who know. I read. So no, it wasn't hard for me to reach my opinions on most issues. Some, yes. Some I still struggle with. But I don't shove my opinions down anyone else's throat and I'll shut down anyone who does it to me. I listen only when I can tell someone is well-informed whether I agree with them or not. Then it's just interesting instead of maddening. And in case anyone is wondering, I'm not liberal. I'm boringly moderate.

Whew! I'll go for an even ten and answer three more today.

Amber Lynae wants me to share my most embarrassing public bathroom story. Um, I used to have serious stomach issues that regularly turned me temporarily Catholic while I mumbled Hail Marys and raced to find a public restroom at all too frequent intervals. But the one that comes to mind is a Vegas weekend with my friend Colleen. We were driving through Old Town Las Vegas when I suddenly and desperately needed a bathroom. She raced to the nearest casino and I ran through wildly searching for a bathroom. When I finally found one, the only open stall was the handicap one. But I was desperate so I took it. Within a couple of minutes a little old black lady (and yes, her color matters because they chew you out SO much more effectively than little old white ladies do) starts banging on the door, demanding that I come out. She went on and on for several minutes because um, so did my stomach. When I finally came out at the earliest possible moment, she was super livid to discover that I was a youngster taking up the handicap stall, and let me know fifty different ways that I should be ashamed of myself. She even tattled on me to the bathroom attendant. So that was fun.

Sue wants to know if Kenny is the only guy I was ever engaged to and how he proposed. Well, he's the only guy I've ever been engaged to because he's the only guy I ever said yes to. I think he was about the fourth or fifth guy that wanted to marry me, but he's the only one I wanted to marry. Mind you, I was 32 when I got married, so my inherent awesomeness is only part of the reason for the other offers. Mostly it was just due to the law of averages. I went out with so many guys over time, every so often one of them got it in their heads that they might want to marry me. As for how he proposed, it was on one of the lifeguard towers on the beach at sunset. Apparently, that was Plan B, though. Plan A involved writing a song and a monkey riding a goat, and I'm not making that up. It's a long story or I'd tell it, but I really liked Plan B. It was actually more like dusk and when he opened the ring box, it had a light in it and it made the ring all shiny and awesome.

L.T. Elliot wants to know if I get pedicures or do it myself. Oh, I most certainly DO NOT do them myself. That would be an exercise in total frustration. Once a month (if I'm lucky), I go to the little place around the corner and sit in their lovely massage chair while they work on my poor, abused feet. I also usually get a French manicure that chips after a couple of weeks, so then I strip it off and have naked fingernails for two weeks until I can sneak away to indulge again. I figure I'm worth the $25 a month and so does Kenny, so it all works out.

Oh, man. I think that's quite enough for all of us today. Maybe I'll take on the other half tomorrow. Although, tomorrow is my anniversary. And Wednesday is a girl day with my friend. And Thursday my birthday and Christmas Eve....

Hm. I think tomorrow will work. In the mean time, don't hold your breath. This Christmas, I'm all about committing to as little as possible. It's been a fantastic holiday.

Wait, does this make me a hippie or hipster? I'm confused.

I would have blogged more this week but we're staying with family that has no TV and so the kids have taken over my laptop for a non-stop marathon of Yo Gabba Gabba DVDs. I think it might be the same as back in the old days when the moms stuck whiskey in the baby bottles to knock the kids out. Now the whiskey comes in a non-alcoholic puppet form that has the same effect.

I have watched myself transform into something nearly unrecognizable on this vacation. For example, I spent three hours last night playing Settlers of Catan. I'm worried I've endangered my right to mock my husband for his shady Dungeons and Dragons past history.

I hugged a tree. It's a hazard of traveling in Northern California, I guess. But in my defense, we were in a redwood forest and my kid wanted to know if we could surround the tree while holding hands. So it was forced hugging, but I think it technically makes me a tree hugger. I feel very used by the redwoods.

I've been eating mostly organic food. And um, it's pretty good.

I have to go now because it's time to chant Kumbayah while crafting corporal representations of tree spirits out of twigs. Or else it's lunch. Time is a weird blur here.

Oh, I'm next at the twig station. See you later. . .

Name that tune

I live on Lake Street. I have lived on Laurie Lynn Drive, Brightside Lane, McAllister Street and Van Buren Boulevard at different times. And of course, in Utah there were a whole bunch of those soulless streets labeled with numbers instead of even a glimmer of personality. Of those, the street that best fits my situation in life right now would be Brightside Lane.

If I could make up my own street name to describe my life right now, it would be . . . Bliss Way. Yeah.

Anyway, I was walking down my actual street, Lake, and a snippet from one of my favorite movies ran through my head. I have often walked down this street before, but the pavement always stayed beneath my feet before...

You know it, right? It's from My Fair Lady. I love the song. The only thing that bums me out is that it's that poor sap who's in love with Eliza who sings it. I don't know why I can't remember his name right now. (Yes, I do: pregnancy hormones blocking brain function yet again.) I bet it's Reginald. Poor saps in old movies are always named Reginald. Oh, wait. Nope. It's Freddy. Freddy sings that after delivering Eliza safely home. I always kind of wished Professor Higgins sang that song, but he's not a poor sap, so why would he sing it?

Anyway, I can't remember why I'm posting this other than that I was happy to be on my street the other day. And I had that ear worm. And now I'm going to go write. More. I'm going to go write more. And probably walk down my street again. And sing.

An actual snapshot of my mind.

Death isn't on my mind very often. It isn't. It's so unusual, in fact, that I had to stop and consider why I was driving to drop off dinner at a friend's and thinking about the best way to die. When I followed the thought thread back, this is what I found. (It would be really hard to call this a train of thought because that's far too. . .linear. I think in bubble clusters. At best.)

This NPR story is really interesting. I wonder if Brother Blakesley would ever be on one of their shows as a legal expert. I know he's been on a few TV shows. I really like his Facebook status updates. Maybe if we ever drive through Vegas we could stop and visit him. Although I haven't seen him since I was fourteen. It would probably kind of weird. And even if I did make that phone call, there would be that awkward moment when we're in his living room catching up and he asks how my parents are. What do I say? "Uh, they're dead"? And then he'd want to know how and there's no fast way to explain how my dad died. Although he'll probably think it's cancer. But that's what my mom died from. And I don't feel bad for having to say it but I feel bad for other people having to hear it. And then there will be the follow up questions and I'll have to explain that it wasn't such a bad experience. I mean, what if they died all of a sudden and I didn't get to say what I wanted? Everybody got to say what they wanted before Mom and Dad died. But is it selfish to be glad they lingered? I mean, wouldn't I want to go fast?

Hm...how do I want to die?

I'm a lot better about these random brain field trips now. In high school, I'd often drop a statement like "I like blue popsicles" into a conversation about football and get blank looks. It made perfect sense in my head. I mean, they're talking about our JV team and who's going to make the varsity team, so it looked like this inside my brain:

I wonder if we have anyone at our school good enough to go past that to college or even the pros. How weird would it be if I saw a classmate play in the Super Bowl? I love Super Bowl commercials. But the funny ones, not the serious ones. They always have Gatorade commercials during the Super Bowl, I think. Those are always serious. I like blue Gatorade the best. Man, it's hot right now. I wish I had some blue Gatorade. Oooh, even better, a blue popsicle. "I like blue popsicles."

And then the blank stares.

When my friends discovered that no matter what the statement, I could always trace the convoluted logic that got me there, it became their little past time to get me to walk back through the bubble cluster.

"Books smell funny."

"Okay, Mel. How'd you get there?"

And it always surprised me that it wasn't totally obvious.

Me with an impatient sigh, "You were talking about pandas." Duh.

You mean besides the gaping holes in my mouth?

Yeah, I feel fine.

I'm not even swollen. I slept a lot yesterday, ate a little soup and watched movies with my husband. My mouth hurt but not too bad, and it feels all right today.

I do remember making the following statements under the influence of nitrous oxide and before the anaesthesia hit:

"I usually talk a lot but I just don't feel like it right now. It's nice." The nurses laugh.

And this, after the doctor tried to get the IV in my hand for the third time, mumbling something about lady-like veins that roll. I said, "That really hurts but I don't care."

That's it for highlights. I think Dove chocolate and tomato basil bisque are a great post recovery diet for anything. Not so much for losing weight, but still utterly delicious.

Is there a doctor in the House?

One day, I'm going to get really sick and it'll be something bizarre. I never get anything normal. I fully plan to survive whatever it is I get, but boy, am I going to be sad that House doesn't really exist.

P.S. I just noticed that Kimberly from Temporary Insanity nominated me for the Mormon Mommy Blog spotlight. Whoa! Um, just so I don't feel like an idiot, I wouldn't mind if a few of you went over and seconded it. Thanks, ladies. And gentlemen. I promise not to forget my roots when I live in blog fame.

Behind the faux croc curtain...

When Abraham Lincoln died, the contents of his pockets were collected and given to his son. Eventually, his descendants left the items to the Library of Congress in a box labeled, "Do not open." In the 1970's, however, in a moment fraught with breathless curiosity, the artifacts were revealed under the watchful eyes of Library of Congress curators.

The items provide an interesting insight into Abraham Lincoln and his character, but what they tell you depends on what you choose to infer. The box contained, among other things, a pair of eyeglasses held together on one side with a piece of string, a worn leather wallet lined in purple velvet that contained a Confederate five dollar bill stamped with Jefferson Davis's likeness, and some newspaper clippings Lincoln had kept that praised him, a rare occurrence during his tenure as president.

I know this, because I taught a weeklong literature unit on Lincoln every year and these little tidbits were part of it. To introduce the lesson, on the Friday before Lincoln's birthday, I had my students lay out the contents of their own purses or pockets on their desktops and infer what those items said about them. I would do the same, never editing my handbag's interior when laying it bare. As a mom, it made an interesting grab bag, with random Hot Wheels stored by my son for convenience mingling with my lip glosses.

It's been a couple of years since I followed that tradition, and I miss it. It's kind of fascinating to see what this examination turns up. Today, I'll turn out my handbag for you again, and you can infer what it says about me. This is a little trickier than usual because I'm between two purses at the moment, so I'll make them both open for analysis.

The first is my little Coach purse that I used for date with my husband on Friday. It currently contains:

1. a pink Sony camera
2. two tubes of MAC lipstick
3. one MAC lipliner
4. two tubes of MAC Lip Glass
5. my wallet with two driver licenses (one with my maiden name), three check cards, one credit card, Disneyland annual passes for my son and I, a movie ticket receipt (no title listed), my son's and my library cards, a Nordstrom gift card, a Costco card, and two super saver movie passes.

The second is a giant faux croc patent leather bag that doubles as a diaper bag and occasionally as a laptop case. It normally contains everything listed above, plus

1. left over Iron Man valentine cards from my son's school party
2. two check books
3. a fistful of clean but crumpled fast food napkins
4. receipts (Target, Costco, McDonalds, the mani/pedi place, an ATM transaction)
5. loose cash ($9)
6. two torn, empty envelopes
7. Weight Watchers points tracker
8. several grocery coupons
9. stubs from deposited checks
10. a week old Relief Society bulletin
11. a dentist appt reminder
12. a brochure about our city's centennial celebration
13. an old birthday card from my MIL
14. a brown cotton head band
15. one more MAC lipliner, two more MAC lipsticks, one other lipstick, four more lip glosses
16. a Borders gift certificate
17. two half full punch cards for the local LDS bookstore
18. my business card case
19. a movie stub (Slumdog Millionaire, I have no idea why it's R and am glad I was talked into it)
20. a faux croc wallet with the cards I don't use very often (insurance cards, Blockbuster, Game Stop, etc.)

And looking back over the lists myself, I can analyze myself perfectly: I spend too much money on books and lipstick. I'm going to have to think harder about what goes in my purse so that if it's one day opened in excitement by future historians, it will reveal that I was a woman of great depth and intelligence. From now on, I'm stripping it down to nothing but my driver license, a credit card, and pocket sized copies of a thesaurus, a dictionary, a copy of Great American Speeches, and my college transcript (except for freshman year). Baby G better hope nothing bad happens in his diaper when we're out and about because I can't put any Pampers and wipes in there and risk looking all human and stuff a hundred years from now, in case on any given day my purse is snatched and saved for posterity.

Potty mouth

And the Tim Tam giveaway winner is...Heather! But she won my book giveaway and I don't want people thinking this is rigged, so I will be sending Heather some Tim Tams, but we drew another winner: Chris! Yay! Everyone's a winner! Except the thirty of you that are not.

On to some existential stuff...

As a Mormon mommy blogger, or a Mormon Mommy Blogger!!!!! if you prefer, I wonder if my blog is an appropriate place to discuss pee. Shall we find out?

Warning: this will fall under TMI for most of you, does not concern infants or cute diaper/potty training stories, will in no way uplift you, and may cause you to lose IQ points.

Still here? Okay, then.

The other night I was in the bathroom. This is, of course, a great place to think. But I had a particularly brilliant insight because as I was doing my business (just regular potty), I sneezed. And it occurred to me that there are two things that are great about sneezing when you pee.

1) It makes you go faster. It's like a turbo button.

2) It is the rare time that you can sneeze and not worry that you're going to wet your pants a little. Not that this has ever happened to me. Okay, it did once a little while after I had Baby G and it's been over a year and I still worry about that. I change diapers all day long. I certainly don't want to change my own.

Anyway, that's the nice thing about sneezing when you pee. There's nothing nice about peeing when you sneeze.

Y q?

Thanks for all the comment love yesterday, peeps. Bet you thought you cruised past the seven comment bar so fast that I wouldn't be ready with something else to post about, didn't you. Didn't you?! Well, ha. I am ready with some burning questions, things I've been wanting, NAY, needing to know for a lonnnnnng time. So for those of you with a handy-dandy linguistics professor in your back pocket (Annette), here's your chance to shine.

Why do we have the letter "C"? We have "S" and we have "K". Why "C"? Is it just for the lame reason of making the "ch" sound? Why can't "kh" do that? It seems to me that letter "C" has been getting a free ride for too long. Being the vocal minority doesn't make you right. Perhaps it's time for "C" to be silenced.

Speaking of silent...why silent letters at all? Most specifically, why silent "k" in knee and knuckle, etc.?

And I have issues with "q", too. Why not have a kween of England or winter kwilts or kwiet time?

This is obviously the tip of a gnarly iceberg, people, but I need to know. Why? Why?

Not why "y". I get "y". Except for the whole vowel thing.

P.S. Why do I have three times as many "J" names in my email directory as any other letter?

This is what the inside of my head looks like. Be afraid.

I'm vomiting words today because I'm too scatterbrained to focus on a particular thought for a blog post. This means you're getting an unfortunate glimpse into my actual thought process during any given slice of time. Seven comments to move on today, people, so let's all step up and get us out of this strangely disconcerting place.

I was reflecting on James's super awesome cardboard tank yesterday (see blog post below) and reflecting on how much fun he's had building and using it. In his imagination, it's fully functional and he happily blasts Lego creations to smithereens. I'd worried more about this violent streak except....he's nine. Or will be, this month.

So I decided to become as a little child and learn from him. No, I'm not going to blow stuff up. Although....

Focus!

I remember a grand puppet theater we made out of a cardboard box when I was a kid and other miscellaneous adventures. I'm sure it must have been around age twelve that I became to cool to do this stuff. Twelve is when lots of stuff goes out the window.

I've come to realize as I grow up (still working on it) that I'm not cool at all. Definitely not too cool for cardboard. So then my mind wandered (anyone else have this problem when cleaning up?) and I began to think about what I might build of cardboard. It's not that crazy. Surely you've seen these photos circulating:

See? It's not just for kids.


So here's my list of things I want to construct out of cardboard: a mini-spa on my balcony for manicures/pedicures/scalp massages, my dream kitchen, a chaise lounge at the foot of my bed, a new cell phone, and a mini-van. If my imagination is as good as my son's, then I'll enjoy my cardboard creations as much as if they're real. Plus for an added bonus, I'll be reusing and recycling so I get to be a fantastic human being in the process.


In other news.....I've lost seven pounds! Whoo-hoo! It's been cooking Weight Watchers recipes at home and religious gym attendance but at last, my shorts are sagging in the butt again. I never thought I'd want that. *Happy dancing, happy dancing, happy dancing!*


I've also picked up some blog bling from Heather at The Extraordinary Ordinary and tomorrow I will proudly display it. (Apparently, I make her smile.)


Baby G is dressed in a pirate monkey shirt. I have decided I would dress him in nothing but pirate monkey clothes if there were enough available.


Carry on....

You don't need to know this....

Here’s a list of useless stuff I knew this morning:

The Sea of Tranquility is on the moon
The body’s largest organ is the skin
The dominant metal in the Eiffel Tower is iron
Pearl Harbor used 700 sticks of TNT and 4000 gallons of gas in the explosions
The flow rate of a glacier is 80 years
The last word in the Bible is “Amen.”
Sleeping Beauty slept for 100 years
The name of the Volkswagen in the old Disney movies is Herbie
“Ooh, I wanna take you to Bermuda, Bahama, Come on, pretty mama” finishes the line, “Aruba, Jamaica…”.
Penguins mate once a year.

With my husband’s help, I was also able to come up with the number of squares on a standard chessboard (64), the residents of 39 Stone Canyon Way (The Flintstones), the last word in the Bible (Amen), and Elvis Presley’s middle name (Aron).

Some people refer to useless knowledge as “trivia” which is also apropos, I guess. My synonym would be “stuff that occupies the brain space that I could be using for grocery lists, quotes I really like, and talks from General Authorities, all of which I can never remember because the capital of Nepal (Katmandu) stole that spot.” But since that’s kind of a long synonym, we’ll go with trivia.

I am obsessed with it. When I was in labor last November for over twenty four hours (thank you, second child, and you so owe me) and too scared to get the epidural (have you seen the needle?), I made my sister distract me by reading me Trivial Pursuit cards. I have a poster of Alex Trebek in my bedroom (totally not true) and back in the day (late nineties, y’all) I spent every night punching answers madly into my telephone keypad, trying to get on Who Wants to be a Millionaire. I told my grandfather that if I made it on, I was bringing him as my guest to New York. Bless his heart, he was so convinced of my genius and capacity to remember crap no one else needs to know that he stressed himself out for months trying to figure out who would watch his dogs while he was in the Big Apple, and what he would wear to meet Regis.

I have this fantasy where aliens invade earth, convinced humanity is a corrupt and irredeemable race (Battlestar Galactica, anyone?) and to prove it, they put us on trial (yep, totally stealing from Star Trek: TNG now). The test is how little we know about our own history and culture. But then I’m chosen as a representative of humanity (average housewife demographic) and because of all the useless information in my brain, I can answer their questions (number of players on a field hockey team: 11, father of pointillism: Seurat) and then I save humanity.

Okay, I made that up, too. But seriously, when else will I ever need to know the country with the greatest number of earthquakes per year? (Japan!)

Rainy days....

I don’t know if I believe in saving for a rainy day, because here’s the thing: people I know who do that? Never figure out it’s raining. And I’m not saying it’s bad for them. I’m saying it doesn’t work for me.

I’ve been thinking about this for the last couple of days while we’re hanging out on a cruise ship in Alaska. There’s all this gorgeous wilderness lining the inlets of places like Glacier Bay and I look at and think about how my mother would have loved it. She always wanted to see the fall foliage in New England and to come to Alaska and look at the untouched landscape.

She never did. She died young, but that’s not why. The thing is, we grew up poor because my parents’ teachers salaries were often stretched past breaking by medical expenses. My dad had cancer. A few times. And a few other crazy medical emergencies as well. Even when his health straightened out, something always went wrong. They’d get a little ahead, sock away some cash in the bank and then the oven would break or the toilet would flood and we’d be back in the red again. So we lived in hand-me-downs and had more than our share of D.I. cheese and granola. I kinda miss the granola.

That habit of squirreling away the cash lasted even when things finally stabilized and insurance covered all the health disasters. My siblings and I were all out of the house and paying our own way for stuff. The mortgage was low, the cars paid off, and their years in the school system finally earned them comfortable salaries. Very comfortable. They still lived really modestly, which was great. I learned a great deal from that.

But then in November 2006 I had to wake my mom up one morning to tell her that my sixty year old father had died of flu in the hospital the night before. She couldn’t be there because she was undergoing chemo and hospitals are bad, bad places for sick people. And a month later, she had to shop for our Christmas presents in her bedroom, using the Sunday circulars and send my sister and I out to get the gifts for everyone because she was too sick to go herself. She would fret over this picture and that ad, unable to decide what to get. We encouraged her to do gift certificates for everyone to their favorite stores. She felt relieved by this solution.

She wondered how much she should gift to each person. I suggested she go hog wild and give out a few hundred dollars. Now, mind you, she only had a few people to gift and she had a ton of money to shell out. I know. I was taking care of her accounts. I wanted her to have fun in her last weeks spending the money she’d worked hard to earn and save. The rainy day money. But she blanched at this suggestion. She might need that money.

For what? She knew she was dying. She knew it would be soon. Funeral plans were already paid for and we would have no other expenses to settle for her estate. My brother and sister and I didn’t really want any of the money, anyway. It felt like blood money. It is blood money. All of us have done the same thing with it: gone on a major trip and stuck the rest in retirement funds. I thought my mom should spend the money on something that she would enjoy giving while she was alive.

Because if dying two months after your husband, especially when you know it’s coming, isn’t a rainy day….

Then what is?

She stuck with $50 on the gift certificates. I smiled. I didn’t think she’d really do anything different. But as I look out over the railing at the passing Alaska landscape, I realize that this trip could pay a month of our mortgage.

But then again, I feel the rain. On my face. In the place my mom only dreamed of going. I’m here for her. And it’s worth every penny.

I say, save away for a rainy day. Just be sure you know when it’s raining

The weirdest house in the world

I'm in San Francisco at the RWA National Conference (Romance Writers of America). I'm trying to soak up all the craft workshops I can so that next week (fingers crossed) when I begin editing my completed (fingers crossed) manuscript, I might have half an idea of what I'm doing (fingers crossed). I would rate myself as an excellent editor for other people's stuff. Then I lose my mind, objectivity, and basic working knowledge of grammar when it comes to my own work.

You'd think with all the rubbing of published authors' shoulders I've been doing (and I mean that in the metaphorical sense, not the creepy sense in which I would randomly offer published authors shoulder massages or brush up against them in the confines of an elevator), that's what I'd be blogging about.

You'd think so. But you'd be wrong.

Nope, today I'm thinking about what is currently one of the stranger houses I know of, elevated to a new height of strangeness by the arrival of me, Kenny, and the baby. It is my ex's house, and his wife's and their son's.

It's pretty cool as houses go. It's packed neatly in between Victorian revivals and less ambitious homes that have so far escaped regentrification. But this house, this very cool house, is regentrified right down to it's newly reinforced joists. It sits in the Mission district, just up the street from Emmy's Spaghetti Shack where up-and-coming chefs drop in to try out new stuff but meatballs as big your head are a menu constant. My ex, referred to from here on out as BJO, is a contractor and they recently remodeled this place. Cool custom concrete countertops, funky bathroom tiles, original abstract art on the walls, gorgeous oak floors. A pretty cool San Fran hang out.

So, it's not weird because of how it looks, or because I can't figure out if the picture in the foyer is popped balloons or just red blobs at the end of black squiggles. It's weird because I'm here with my ex, his wife, their son, our son, my husband and our baby. And it doesn't feel uncomfortable at all. BJO is playing with my baby on the floor; his wife is roasting an incredible smelling chicken upstairs, the son we share is regaling us with accounts from horse camp this week (there's a chicken named Barbecue which seems funny and sad), and BJO's son is climbing all over my lap and chattering gamely.

And it's strange that it's all so comfortable.

This is a weird house.

But I'm glad.

What does this MEAN, anyway?

In general, I have a lot of things on my mind at any given moment.

Like right now, I'm simutaneously thinking the following things:

1. I should not have eaten brownies for breakfast.
2. I wonder if it's bad that the baby is still in just a diaper and it's after lunch?
3. I bet my sister and I are the only people on earth who like to peel skin after a sunburn.
4. Does my Facebook picture look stupid?
5. I wonder if there's anything good on tv tonight.
6. Why am I wondering? It's July. Of course not. Duh.

If only I was making that up.

But the biggest thing I have on my mind right now is this: What if all the security words on other people's blog comment boxes mean something in the Google powered universe? What do those words really mean?

For some reason, my computer pops up two comment boxes every time I click to read comments. (I can't prove it, but I blame Vista). This means I see a lot of these scrambled, wavy security words every day. I collected a few, and now I'm providing what I'm pretty sure are their definitions:

Bkmcj: something you spread on crackers
Vnfeh: a color that looks particularly nice in living room drapery
Cykzz: a cousin to a gnat, but it's purple and louder
Vkljrrje: an aggresive strain of computer virus
Xohpwe: a tribe of peaceful people whose primary deity is vaguely equine
Dxpfj: an exclamation on par with the British, "Piffle," and is equally outmoded
Ikmid: an adjective to describe a guy at a party who is trying too hard
Qfsnbdf: a small village, formerly a whaling hub, now restored with people roaming around in costume offering posies and nosegays

Iymxlfyo: your condition if the vkljrrje gets you. Don't say this in polite company
eahzukud: an ear dwelling parasite that thrives on wax and hibernating beach sand
Efrwuc: a tasty holiday treat that's a cross between a scone and a falafel

So it took me approximately six minutes to define those words. (Not counting the twenty seconds it took each time to add a new security word to a growing list. Or the time spent reading and commenting on other people's blogs.) Which means I don't have nearly enough other important things to think about.

Um, that's not true, either. I should be writing the climax for my story, but I hate drama so I'm avoiding it. How come even a primarily comic work has to have serious stuff in it?

Because you're trying to write a GOOD story.

Oh, yeah.