Be Careful What You Wish For

So, with a month from the end of this year, I have been thinking about my 2012 Goals. Take a look at them here.   Here's where we stand...

1. Book Deal: not yet (but read on)
2. New car: very likely (read on, I told you...)
3. Skyfall: OH. YES. (wiping drool off chin)
4. Exercise: not every day, but most days, and I've lost weight this year.
5. Spine: Stronger, maybe mild scoliosis (figuratively, new readers)
6. Dates: we've been pretty good, actually, in the latter half of this year.  Nights out are happening!
7. No apologies:  kinda like the spine--that is a work in progress.  Apologizing is part of me, but I am starting to accept who I am, and forcing others to when I am right.
8. Writing: well, that one has been a weird one.  I was writing every day for 2+ hours in the spring.  Got shot to shit during the summer (move, summer class, grandmother's funeral).  Fall started okay, but the Boy is in afternoon kindergarten, which is making it more challenging to actually get my writing time in.  Plus, the current home's desk set up is less than inviting.  I may start doing more on the laptop (shudder).

So, that is where I am.  Pretty good.  Now... about that book deal.  I finished Book 1: "The General's Heir", and passed it along to peer readers.  Got some great feedback... and decided that I had to rewrite the whole thing.  I needed to focus on my heroine.  So, rewrote the book into first person.  She's telling her story.  I expanded scenes, trimmed others, and finally told the story of what happened in Tejhaus before and after the rebellion, and how she came to decide to go to Stone Country.  The book is so much stronger.

I finished the rewrites at the end of August, and then started editing.  I finished the week of Thanksgiving, and promptly emailed David Hazard for a recommendation for a professional editor: I am funny with hyphens and ellipses...as my regular readers (ha!) know.  We set up a meeting to discuss finally working together (since I have money coming from my grandmother).

And then Wednesday struck.  I had a car accident.  My lovely little Honda Civic has been a loyal member of my family, but she's on life support, and her age ain't making it look good.  A 1997 coupe with 170K miles... if they don't declare it totaled, it will be a miracle.  I love that car.  It was the first car I picked out and bought.  She was overpriced, and used.  But I paid her off slowly (with the Husband paying as well after we got married), and she's been faithful and dependable.

So, yesterday, instead of focusing on the fact that my body had had a shock, and I needed to just read, I spent most of the day beating myself up for the accident.  Sure, I wanted a new car, but not til the money was there.  She was supposed to outlast the Saturn.  I went from quiet mourning to anger and back.

And then, late last night, I remembered my 2012 Goals.  I really had met some of them.  Maybe...just maybe, the stars are aligned, and I will meet the first goal.  On Monday, I plunge into revising my query letter and creating my spreadsheet for literary agents to hit.  When the editing is done, I am unstoppable.

I will it to be so.

The Past Rears its Ugly Head and Ruins a Lovely Walk

It is a beautiful autumn day.  I finish my coffee, and tell the Boy that it is time to take the dog for a walk.  I pull on my sneakers, he slips on his "slip-ons" as he calls them.  I wind a scarf around my neck, and he wiggles into his hoodie.  Leash, dog, and off we go.

The Boy holds the leash today, and he is kicking leaves.  Today is Picture Day at school, and he tried to put on his suit this morning.  I convinced him that just the white shirt and vest will work if he adds pants without holes in the knee.  He's a handsome boy, and I suggest to him that zipping his hoodie will keep him warmer than clutching it shut.  We walk along.

He holds my hand, and never stops talking.  He points out spider webs, fallen nuts, and pretty clouds.  The dog follows as best she can, all the while sniffing and stopping to deposit her own calling card.  I admonish the Boy that watching her poop is kinda gross, and he turns aside.  He comments on the houses in the neighborhood, and asks me if I remember the huge slug we saw last week, and wonders if it might still be there.  I laugh, delighted, and suggest that, since several days have passed, rain has fallen, and birds would have noticed him by now, I bet the slug is long gone.

I am right, and we continue on.  He loves looking down into a ravine to which a homeowner has added a little landscaping bridge.  He calls my attention to flowers, and I think about what an interesting boy he is, and how much I enjoy his company now.  I really cannot believe he is already six.  And, as I often do, I think about what I remember at his age.

Disaster strikes.  At Christmas, when I was six, my mother sent my brother and I off for our visitation with my dad.  He dropped us off at school at the end of the break, and no one came to pick us up that evening.  My mother had run away.  January 4, 1982.  At my son's age, I only had three months more with my mother.

I look at my son, who is still holding my hand and attempting to get the dog to stop digging in a mulch pile, and I cannot imagine life without him.  And I wonder how she could have left me just when I was getting to be interesting.

Confession.  I hate babies.  They are boring.  They are annoying.  All they do is cry and eat and shit, sometimes all at once.  I loved my son when he was a baby, but in a grim way perhaps.  It was my duty, my responsibility, and I approached the task of motherhood vowing to do it well.  I didn't relax into being a mother for months, and it  was years before I felt confidence in that role.

Years have passed, and I have this fun little guy, who thinks zombies are hilarious, loves books and Legos, and correctly uses three syllable words.  He makes interesting leaps of logic in his reasoning, which while sometimes less-than-accurate, are entertaining.  He is sweet, loves holding my hand, and expects an intelligent answer when he asks about clouds or leaves or mechanical engineering.

I wrap my arm around him as we walk.  He is still trying to control the dog, who is hot on the trail of some remarkable scent.  I have a feeling that the next few months will be a countdown of sorts for me, that I will be cramming in all sorts of experiences into the Boy's life, as I continue to over-compensate for the mother who didn't want me.  I will fight off tears as I mourn what I didn't get to do with her, but will damn well make sure he gets to do with me.  And when that magic deadline passes, I will know that I can maybe let myself just love the Boy for being mine, and stop projecting on to him the little girl who waited and waited for her mother to show up and take her home.

Writing and Boob Jobs

Husband has been on the laptop, surfing, I guess.  I haven't been paying attention.  He notices me busily typing on my birthday present, a Kindle with keyboard.

Husband:  You like your birthday present?
Me:  I love it!
Husband:  So, you browsing Amazon or something?  Don't spend too much, ha ha!
Me:  No, I am working on my book.
Husband:  (finally looking up from the laptop, where he's been looking at  motorcycle pictures on Faceborg .  Don't know why--he'll be able to get a motorcycle the day after he buries me.) Wait.  You uploaded your book onto the Kindle?
Me:  Yeah!  I love reading it there!  It is so cool--
Husband:  You are just reading it?
Me:  Well, not really.  I am editing it.
Husband:  You are still editing it?
Me:  This is more about sentence structure, and verb agreement--
Husband:  Verb agreement?
Me:  Well, two revisions ago, I played around with writing it in present tense, so I missed stuff--
Husband:  In the last round of edits.
Me:  No!  In the last revision!
Husband:  What is the difference between editing and revising?
Me:  Hmmmm.  (thinking hard about how to answer this) Revising is making changes to the body of the literature.  Editing is making corrections.
Husband:  Okaayyy.
Me:  Oh!  See, revising is like getting a boob job, and editing is more like just wearing a better bra.
Husband:  ...I'm sorry, what?
Me:  Okay, bad example.  Revising my book involves me changing characters, or expanding scenes, or fleshing out backgrounds.
Husband:  Uh-huh.
Me:  And editing is fixing sentence structure.  Or something.
Husband:  So...
Me:  I started a revision back in January that didn't work out-- the whole present tense thing.  But I canned that and just went with making the story told from Elena's point of view, in first person.
Husband:  And...
Me:  I finished that in August, and now I am doing the last round of edits, so I can send it out again.  I am hoping by November?
Husband:  Okay.
Me:  So, yeah.  I am editing.
Husband:  ...Do you want a boob job?

Thank you for the Kindle.

Who Wants To Live Forever?

Today is my son's first day of school.  This post is NOT about that.

Well, it is kinda.  See, I walked him to school, and there were all these parents there, snapping pictures, wiping tears.  And I was thinking, "I cannot wait to get home.  I wonder what I can eat with the Boy's grilled cheese sandwich crusts."  I then thought, "Wow,I am a bad mommy.  I'm not posting my son's first day of school pics to Faceborg.  Of course, now I am an OLD mommy."

Yesterday was my birthday.  I am 37 now.  The thirties have been awesome, and kinda hip.  Hitting 35 was cool, and 36 was grown-up.  But 37 is close to 40, which is close to death!  Tee hee!

I am going to die.  Because people do die.  But it is getting harder, apparently.  My husband shared a news post, about this guy who figured out how to oxygenate blood, so when your heart stops, you can live longer without brain damage.  It depressed me.  We already live so fucking long.  TOO fucking long.  And why does a 86 year old person deserve a new kidney or heart?  Sorry, but really?  Why can we not listen to the signals our bodies give us?

Heart:  Huh.
Grandma:  What?!?
Heart:  I am really not working so well.  And...
Grandma:  WHAT?!?
Heart:  I know this is hard to take, but your arteries are kinda clogged, and your lungs are so inflamed from forty years of smoking that they aren't sending enough oxygen anyway.
Grandma:  I don't understand...
Heart:  And really, the extra fifty pounds you've been carrying since the 80s are kinda making it worse.
Grandma:  Okay, I can't hear what you are saying.  I keep losing my hearing aid, because I can't find them unless I wear those ugly glasses the doctor gave me.
Heart:  JUST DIE ALREADY!
Grandma:  You want me to go where?

I am not advocating the execution of the elderly.  Trust me.  I just lost my last grandparent this summer, and I was depressed for weeks.  (Hence the no new blog entries.)  I remember her telling fascinating stories, and braiding my hair when I was younger.  She was a nurse for decades, and raised four kids.  She created quilts, and she introduced me to naughty literature.  But she was in her nineties, and they decided to do shoulder surgery, even though she kept talking about how much she missed Grandfather and didn't understand why she wasn't with him yet, and she wouldn't eat and was generally miserable.  She didn't want to improve her quality of life...she wanted her long full life to end.

So, how do you make sure you won't live forever?  A Do Not Rescusitate Order? My husband's grandmother had DNR paperwork, advanced medical directives, the works... and THEY GAVE HER A FUCKING PACEMAKER ANYWAY.  I joke about getting DNR tattooed on my left breast, although I've been informed that this is not legally binding.

What does a person have to do to DIE a natural death?  You aren't allowed to die when your body is clearly giving up.  You aren't supposed to commit suicide.  You cannot get someone to assist you in dying.  And you cannot do a long term, subtle cyanide poisoning anymore (Waldorf Salad, anyone?), because there is even a KIT now, and then they cure you, and you have to start all over again.

So, we live long lives despite the terrible abuse we heap upon our bodies: eating McDonald's, smoking cigarettes, consuming vast quantities of high fructose corn syrup, breathing smog, watching over twenty hours  of television a week, and never exercising.

We deserve to be able to die, and we certainly deserve to die.  Maybe medical care should be saved for those to prove they really deserve it.  Smoke?  No healthcare for you!  Addicted to McDonald's?  Nothing for you.

Want to live forever?  Not gonna happen.  If you want to live longer, take care of your body, and teach your kids how to take care of their bodies.  Eat fresh foods!  Don't smoke!  Exercise!   Don't just assume you'll be saved by a fucking medical community that cannot figure out the difference between what you CAN do versus what you SHOULD do.

Is my son's first day of school important?  No fucking way.  Whether he becomes a life-long learner IS.  And I hope he learns that he ought to throw mommy from a window rather than sign the paperwork for her to get a heart transplant when she is 98.  If he learns that lesson, then I'll be happy.

Happy thoughts.  And  now for some Queen... Who Wants to Live Forever?  (sorry about the ad)

Moving Sucks

Moving sucks.  You go through everything you own, and wonder why you own so much shit.  You throw stuff away.  You pack the items you know you want to keep.  You make huge piles of items to sell or donate.  Then you pack up everything else, knowing that you probably don't need it all, but loathe to toss it before you have a chance to go through it all carefully.

And then you move.  And the unpacking begins.


Me:  So, we have like 8 quart size storage containers without lids.
Hubby: Should we get rid of them?
Me:  I dunno.  We might use them.  Maybe?
Hubby:  Maybe we should toss them.
Me:  You may be right.
Hubby:  Did you find the yellow cups yet?
Me:  No.  I hope they didn't get tossed.  They were a matched set!
     (These yellow cups are 32 oz. yellow plastic with the logo for a coin operated laundromat in Nacogdoches, TX.  They are tacky as hell, but they are big and perfect for a big glass of water.  Plus they are dishwasher safe.  Oh well.  Then there were fourteen boxes marked "Master Bath".)
Me:  So, what is in this box?
Hubby:  What does it say?
Me:  Huh.  There are four different labels.  Mather bath.  Kitchen.  Hubby shoes.  Misc.
Hubby:  I am pretty sure that kitchen one is from when my grandmother moved.
Me:  So, Master bath or shoes?
Hubby:  I think my mom packed that box.
Me:  ...Oh.
Hubby:  What's in it?
Me:  I haven't opened it yet.  I lost my screwdriver.
Hubby:  (whipping out his pocketknife)  I'll get it.
Me:  Nonono!  My screwdriver is here somewhere!
Hubby: (opening box)  Huh.  I guess I didn't need to buy another package of razor blades.
Me:  (looking in box)  You bought more blades?  So we have eight thousand blades for you.
Hubby:  Where were these?
Me:  It says master bath.
Hubby:  Huh...
     (And then there was the kitchen I spent hours organizing early one morning when I couldn't go back to sleep.)
Hubby:  Where did the plates go?
Me:  I moved them to the cabinet over there.
Hubby:  But I thought you put them over the dishwasher.
Me:  Well, I did, originally.  But then I thought it made more sense over there.
Hubby:  So where did the Boy's medicine wind up?
Me:  Over the coffee maker.
Hubby:  Okay.  Hmmm.
Me:  What?
Hubby:  I cannot find the silverware now.
Me:  (exploding)  I just put everything where it was in the old kitchen!  It makes perfect sense!
Hubby:  (backing away) But the layout is different than in the old kitchen.
Me:  Well, yeah.  But the order is the same.
Hubby:  Okay, look, I will try to figure this out.  Now where did the cereal go?
Me:  In the pantry.
Hubby:  I don't see it.
Me:  It is right in front of you!  (looking)  Huh.  Wait, I know where it is... It was in that box marked Kitchen items.

I have made enough trips to Salvation Army that the old guy, who seems awfully reserved when he takes your bags and items, actually smiled at me the last trip.  I think he is gonna smile again when he finds me buying back the yellow cups that we cannot find and are certain wound up inadvertently in the 'Donate' box.

Ode to a Wine Glass

I pride myself on not being attached to stuff.  If there was a fire, I've always assumed that once my family and dog are out of the house, I would be torn between grabbing my jewelry box and tossing a few handfuls of fiction literature out the window.  The other stuff?  Not so much.

I mean, we are about to move, and I hate that there is so much stuff.  I pack box after box of weighty tomes, clothes, dishes, theatre props, desk supplies, computer equipment... you name it.  And I keep thinking, wow, I have hardly even touched the stuff I use on a daily basis.  I am purging, trust me.  I have filled the dumpster a dozen times so far, and have sold stuff, and plan to have a huge moving sale.  I expect the movers (the same local company we used four years ago) to marvel at the empty(ish) house...

But, apparently, I am a liar.

I have this bad habit of not washing my wine glasses.  I let the counter get crowded with three or four well rinsed but unwashed glasses.  I don't want to have anything else in the drainboard when I wash them--I've broken a glass or two that way, and hate cleaning up the broken glass.  So, I had five glasses waiting to be cleaned, and finally had an empty drainboard.

Two were white wine glasses with twisty stems that I purchased at a yard sale.  The other three were part of a set of four purchased by Wine Friend, as a gift for my birthday.  They are lovely Shiraz glasses by Riedel.  Three years ago, I would have just loved that someone bought me elegant wine glasses (and from Williams Sonoma!), but being a little more educated now, I recognize the care with which these glasses were chosen.  He's been bringing wine out for almost two years now, and knows not only on what I like, but what kinds of wine I tend to  purchase for myself.  He also knew that I'd been drinking wine out of glasses that don't do justice to them.  (You don't have to be a wine snob to recognize that the shape of a glass can enhance or distract.)  It probably wasn't a difficult purchase, but it showed that he knew what I liked and would appreciate, and chose to purchase it for me.

I love these glasses, I am sure you can tell.  But I didn't know I loved them until I broke one last night while washing it.  For a shocked moment, I looked at the soapy broken glass.  And then I began to weep.  Not just cry a little.  Weep.  The Husband helped me gather the broken pieces, and offered to finish up for me.  I went upstairs, sat on the floor by my bed, and just wept.

It's just stuff, right?  I still have three, right?  It's just a fucking wine glass, right?

I pride myself on being practical.  Why buy nice clothes if they are just going to be out of fashion in two years? (investment or quirky pieces, it all comes from Target or is on sale.)  Why buy a new car if my Honda Civic is still working and likely to continue working as long as I maintain it (mileage over 165K!)?  Why buy a new book if I can just check it out at the library or borrow it from a friend to see if I like the author enough to spend money on it? (Sookie Stackhouse novels, yes.  "Shades of Grey", god no...)

But I like wine.  I don't buy rotgut because I don't like it.  Not being independently wealthy, I won't buy bottles of wine that are over $20 unless there is a sale, and when I find something I like and is reasonably priced, I may buy several bottles more.  I am no oenophile, but I am semi-literate.  Those glasses were a gift from someone vastly more educated in wine than I am, selected to help me enjoy what I do drink at home.

Wine Friend visited Saturday night, and the three of us were sitting around discussing life, the universe, and everything.  And I said that this world is pretty terrible, and that even though I recognized the misery in the world, I felt like I was just a spoiled housewife who contributed nothing to make it better.  And Wine Friend shot me down, saying that Husband and the Boy would argue, and that I bring joy to those around me, and to the arts community, and to him.

Sober, I can agree with that assessment.  I do bring joy to many people around me.  I cannot save the world perhaps, but I do what I can to bring light to the world around me.  I spend countless hours helping to organize a tour of artists studios, which helps the local economy, brings artists and the community together, and educates the public about the arts in general.  The visual arts produce material objects that please people, and serve a purpose.  Every morning I drink my coffee from mugs produced by local potters.  My walls are covered in visual art that pleases me.

Appreciating a few material objects is not embracing materialism--there is a middle ground that I have never really recognized.  Yes, I absolutely object to the endless consumerism of modern life-- and am frustrated with the amount of stuff that we all seem driven to acquire.  I still have no desire to continue to upgrade just because I can.

But I do have a few items in my possession that genuinely make me happy.  My hardcover edition of "The Sun Also Rises" was bound with the cover on upside down.  When I was fifteen, I took it to Mexico and read while imagining myself as a glamorous ex-pat in another country.  My engagement ring is lovely and was designed especially for me by the Husband, who was instructed to get a ring that I couldn't hurt myself with.  He did that AND recycled diamonds-- very cool ring, and cool of him to do it.  I like the story almost as much as the ring.  So surely I can recognize that joy can come from an object that holds special meaning to me.

Even a wine glass given to me by a good friend.

For Want of a Snail...

I want to tell you a funny story.

(I know, beware when someone begins a story by declaring it a 'funny story.'  But this one is more funny as in "wow, that is kinda whacky", although it certainly has some "wow, that is hilarious!" parts.)

Two Christmases ago, the Husband's sister sent us a thoughtful gift of a hummingbird water fountain.  It was a graceful bit of copper sculpture that requires only a body of water and electricity.  The hummingbird gracefully hovers over the open petals of a tulip, from which flows a charming cascade of water, hitting one of three leaves....Can you tell I thought it was a bizarre gift?

It sat in a box for a few months, until the Husband decided that we ought to get something to put the fountain in, so we could enjoy it.  Running water makes me have to pee (as does laughing, yelling, coughing, having sex, and peeing), but I thought, why not? Running water is also supposed to be soothing, right?

He came back from the hardware supercenter with... a red flowerpot.

I liked the flowerpot.  It was red.  I like red.  But it was not exactly appropriate for the 18 inch tall Hummingbird Water Fountain... Notice that the sculpture now has capital letters. That is when it began to assume a life of its own.

It distressed me, but we returned the beautiful flowerpot.  I would rather have kept the flowerpot and returned the Hummingbird Water Fountain, but alas, it was a gift, and we didn't know where to go to return it, whereas we knew where we bought the flowerpot.  Byebye, little flowerpot.

Hello 35 gallon pond.

We put the Hummingbird Water Fountain in the pond.  We had to experiment with bricks and cement blocks to get the height right, but soon, we had a lovely pond on our back deck, with a copper fountain splashing prettily.

It looked empty.  The Husband noticed, and soon, the pond had plants.  Three water plants:  a lily, floating water hyacinth, and a water lily.  And then, we added pretty gravel and pebbles to the bottom of the pond, and then some big rocks for variety.  And, the coup de grace... the rock with the Chinese symbol of balance.  Here is what we had, by the beginning of June.  Pretty, no?  We had a lovely place to display the Hummingbird Water Fountain, and make the birds happy.

One day, that summer, I was having my zen moment, kneeling before the Hummingbird Water Fountain, enjoying the tinkle of water before the run for the bathroom... when I saw something...something in the water... something moving.  A bug?  The Hummingbird Water Fountain kept the surface too busy for mosquitoes... or did it?

Tadpoles!  We had done a good job, and created a viable ecosystem for wildlife!  Amazing!  Frogs had come into our backyard, and hopped up onto our desk, and laid eggs!  Except...they weren't tadpoles.  Unbeknownst to us... one of our three water plants had carried a bonus.  A cluster of fish eggs.

Koi!  We soon had tiny fish all over the place!  Cool!  This led to frantic research, visits to the pet superstore, the purchase of additional water plants for the fish to eat, koi food, and endless speculation on what variety of koi we had.

Look carefully at the picture.  You see that the pond is on a deck.  A deck.  As September turned cooler, we began to recognize the implications of a 35 gallon pond with fish and water plants on a deck.

We set up the fish tank that the Husband had used back in his youth, which had until this point in our marriage held only a tennis racquet and collected dust.  This necessitated the purchase of a new filtration system, of course.  And modern chemicals, new water plants, and indoor gravel.

We successfully transitioned the 16 fish inside and figured out how to store the plants for the winter (5 gallon buckets of water in the garage).  At this point, we discovered that we didn't have true koi, but shubunkins, a different variety of goldfish, but lovely and thankfully not as large as koi.

Fast forward a little.  Spring arrived, we scrubbed the gravel from last year, and set up the pond again.  It was lovely, and the fish were so happy to be back, and they grew.  How they grew.  They also had fishy sex, apparently, because part-way through the summer, I noticed there were some tiny little fish as well.

Shit.  We bought more food, and new plants, and continue scrubbing away, and taking care of the damn pond... the damn pond that we only had because of the Hummingbird Water Fountain, which was no longer as happy as it once was, what with all the fish shit and algae filtering through the water.   Plus, the Hummingbird Water Fountain lost one of the three leaves, and was not shiny and pretty anymore.  Oh, and it made noise.

Summer ended, and we captured the fish again, and set up the plants, and all was well.  Except we now had well over twenty shebunkins, and the biggest guy was attacking the other fish, and we had to fucking clean the tank every three weeks to avoid the stinky aquarium smell.  The algae was awe-inspiring, and we briefly debated adding an algae eating fish.  Error check, and I instead sent out a plea over the Borg to see if anyone wanted some fish.

One of my girlfriends has a proper outdoor pond, and was happy to take some lovely shubunkins.  I let her pick out the prettiest ones, and encouraged her to get the big ones.  We were left with a more manageable 15 (or so, have you EVER tried to fucking COUNT fish?  Really?) and the fish society seemed happier.

Two weeks ago, I was drinking with Wine Friend and the Husband.  I was tipsy, admittedly, so the guys can be excused for laughing at me when I suddenly exclaimed, "Is that a fucking snail?"

Funny jokes ensued.  But, the truth of the matter cannot be denied.  We have a snail somehow.

I threw away the Hummingbird Water Fountain.

Stress

I am stressed.  I need to learn to let things go.  Seriously.  I am cranky, and unable to sleep, and don't enjoy my meals.  I enjoy my wine, but that could also be the company.  I am daydreaming constantly, and reading to escape.

Supposedly, writing a list of stress factors can help bring them to manageable proportions.  Here is my list of things that are stressing me out.  I hope that writing them down will set them loose into the internet, where they can spawn and create a worm that will infect the very lifeblood of Monsanto.

1. Sleep-- I am not sleeping well, and taking lots of pills to try to make sure I am sleeping.  I am not sure the pills are getting me good sleep, but they do make me sleep....if I've taken enough of them.
2. Medical-- I had an ER visit recently.  I had some chest pains-- probably not heart related.  I have a stress test soon, and my regular GP put me on anti-heartburn medication.  In addition, I need to get to the eye doctor (18 months since last visit).  The Husband probably needs some dental work done.  My son's belly is still distended, and it should have healed by now.  And we keep having minor medical expenses to the tune of $200-$500-- they add up.
3. Move-- I am moving in about 60 days.  Have not packed a single damn box.  Why?  Well, I didn't want to live with a bunch of boxes, thinking a normal looking household would be a better choice for living.  Yeah, it looks pretty, but it also stresses me out...all those empty boxes, just waiting to be filled.  "Fill me!"  On top of that, the house we are in is about to be on the market for rent... which means I have to have the house nice for that.
4. Money-- I have no right to be stressed about it, I guess.  There are people in this country who are un- and under-employed.  People are buried in underwater mortgages, credit card debt, student loans, and no savings.  We have no debt, are downsizing, and have a decent sum in savings.  But we used to have LOTS more in savings.  We have two cars which are 15 years old, and groceries are more expensive than ever.  A lot of my clothes are old (ie, don't fit, have little or big holes, etc) and then there is the medical stuff.  So, I am stressed about it.
5. IRS-- We just got a letter from the IRS, claiming that we owe like $8K in unpaid taxes and penalties.  We were sensible in 2010 and finally rolled all our various retirement accounts into a single account.  One of the rollovers was reported as taxable income to the IRS... so it looks like we got a huge sum of money.  And we didn't.  I understand it is all a matter of filling out the forms and such, but FUCK... You get a letter from the IRS demanding more than I have earned in any year since my son was born, and tell me that your heart isn't leaping out of your chest.
6. Book-- good god, I want to finish my book.  If I can edit 15 pages or so a week, I will finish by the time school ends.  But after that, I will get NO regular writing time until September.  Unless I can manage to begin writing at night again.  I just don't know how, especially with a move looming, and a summer camp planned in July.  I really want to finish-- I know it can be published, and will be good.  
7. Volunteer-- I am still active in the community, but it is hard work, and I am not enthusiastic about it right now.  I really should make this my last time... but then what am I doing for the community?  And what else do I have to show for myself in this time.  Everyone says motherhood is noble/ necessary/ etc.  But no one PAYS you for it, and potential employers look down their noses at it.  And I have to do something until the Boy is in school full time... unless my book sells.
8. App-- The phone app is fun to work on.  But it is work.  And it is unpaid work for now, and maybe forever, unless we can increase sales.  So, all that writing and entering is free.  And after the move, I will no longer be able to just walk two houses down to work with my partner.  I will have to drive across town.  
9. Work-- My theatre class is not stressing me exactly, but there is a lot of work to do that requires me to focus and be creative... and I can neither well until I can let stuff go. 
10. Politics-- The War on Women, the attack on the environment, the economy... I actually have to make myself STOP reading the news sometimes, or logging on to Faceborg.  I try to have a wide variety of friends- they range from libertarians to socialists, radical feminist lesbians to religious conservatives.  It used to be nice, because I would be exposed to a lot of different ideas and perspectives.  Food for thought, ya know?  Now... I just get scared.  The hate and anger and fear have reached terrifying levels.  Where are all the moderates?  Running scared, just like me.

So, there they are.  All my stress factors.  Not a terrible list, I guess.  I mean, I didn't actually HAVE  heart attack, did I?  I don't have to get a transvaginal probe, and the IRS issue will be resolved without having to write a check for $8K.

But I am still stressed.

Daniel Craig Helps to Save the World

I have this whole life where I am not chained to the computer.  Really.  I am not endlessly editing my first novel.  OR allowing Mark Zuckerberg to suck out the rest of my brains.  OR sending out pissy emails to my elected state officials.  Or writing blog entries.

See, in this other life, this alternative life, if you will, I have been secretly developing a project.  A dastardly project.  A warped, evil project that will result in Daniel Craig James Bond having to save the world from the fruits of my labor.

You see, here is the real plot for Skyfall.  Pay no attention to the "trailers".  They bear no resemblance to this script.  Read on...

Daniel Craig James Bond knocks on the front door of the house.  A dog begins to bark.  A female voice gently shushes the dog
ME:  Shut up, you idiot dog!  You don't have to bark at every damn thing!
Daniel Craig [yeah, I give up] lifts an eyebrow, giving that patented smirk.  A feminine shape appears at the side window, peering through the small gap in the curtains.  The female voice shrieks.
ME:  OH NO NO NO NO NO!!!  Please give me five minutes.  I won't destroy anything, I promise!

The sound of feet running up the stairs so the female can hastily slip on a sexy dress and her killer red suede high heels.  Daniel Craig checks his Omega watch and looks at the black lab, who is eyeing him through the window and madly wagging her tail.
DANIEL CRAIG:  Really, if this is a bad time, I could come back later.  I have a few Vesper Martinis to down.
The door suddenly opens.  I am standing there in a sexy red cocktail dress with the killer red suede high heels.  I have one hand concealed behind my back.  
ME:  Don't make a move, Mr. Bond.  I think I can persuade you to forget her, and those crappy martinis.
There is a momentary tightening around his eyes.  He decides to take the weapon away.  He grabs my arm and finds that I am holding only my phone...  There is a subtle line between his eyes-- wonderful acting!
DANIEL CRAIG:  This is a phone.
ME:  Yes.
DANIEL CRAIG:  How are you going to take over the world with a phone?  I am capable of defusing bombs, you know.
ME:  I am not going to take over the world, Mr. Bond.  I am merely going to change it... For the better.
DANIEL CRAIG:  You have one minute to tell me how, or I shall show you what I can do with my little finger.
ME:  (smirking)  Is that supposed to be a disincentive?  You are welcome to use all ten fingers.
DANIEL CRAIG:  (not showing any reaction)  You have fifty seconds.
ME:  Fine.  Look.
My fingers tap a few times, and a phone app appears.  It is The Daily Toast.  He watches over my shoulder suspiciously for a moment, and then his handsome face relaxes.
DANIEL CRAIG:  Really?  You think you will change the world with a funny drink-of-the-day calendar?
ME:  Pick a day, Mr. Bond.
Daniel Craig's eyes dart to me and then back at the phone, certain it must trigger a bomb or incendiary device.
ME:  Pick M's birthday, Mr. Bond.
His fingers scroll through the archive, and come upon the day.  He reads the special occasion for the day, and then the mixed drink to match.  A brief chuckle escapes his lips.  Absorbed, he explores the app, and does not notice as I disappear.
DANIEL CRAIG:  This is actually an amusing drink-of-the-day calendar, Ms...
He looks up, and realizes I am no longer next to him.  He whirls to find me standing behind him, one hand concealed behind my back.  His eyes narrow.
DANIEL CRAIG:  What now?
I smile, and hold out to him the drink-of-the-day he chose.  He eyes me suspiciously, looking me up and down, lingering on my amazing shoes.
DANIEL CRAIG:  I don't intend to drink that.  I have no idea what you might have actually put into it.
ME:  You think I gave you poison?  (I do the requisite evil laugh)  Very well, Mr. Bond.  I will try it first.
I take a sip, and then offer him the glass.  He just looks at me.
ME:  Oh for the love of pete, you are a suspicious fellow.
I offer him a chair, which he eyes suspiciously.  After rejecting three other seats, we sit on the front step, the dog watching us happily through the window.  I am still alive after five minutes by this time, and he reluctantly samples the drink.  He is suddenly happy, and he smiles at me, in that charming, minimalist way he has.
DANIEL CRAIG:  That is good.  And what a great app.
ME:  I know!
Suddenly,  his hand is on my throat.  His eyes are narrowed suspiciously.
DANIEL CRAIG:  Then what is your evil scheme?
ME:  (gasping through the grip on my neck) It isn't really evil, Mr. Bond!  I just thought people might benefit from learning about a fun holiday, or historical event, or cultural spotlight.  And everyone loves celebrating with an appropriate cocktail.
DANIEL CRAIG:  And the humor?
ME:  I'm a funny gal.
DANIEL CRAIG:  You expect me to believe you did this all on your own?
ME:  No!  I have a partner.  He knows how to do technical and web stuff!  But please don't choke him!
Daniel releases me and stands.  He goes down the steps slowly, lost in thought.  He turns, and I think he might have caught me checking out his ass.  He looks at the shoes again-- they are clearly bugging him for some reason.
DANIEL CRAIG:  One more question.
ME:  Of course, Mr. Bond.
DANIEL CRAIG:  How much does your app cost?
ME:  99 cents.  And you can get it for Android or iPhone.
DANIEL CRAIG:  Thanks for the drink.  I was thirsty.
He dashes off to save the world, or something.

[Daniel, if you read this and want to try our app, I would admire you even more than I already do, and would give you a promo code, so you could get it for free. Oh, and for those people who don't understand humor or satire, no, this is not an actual scene from the script to Skyfall.  Actually, it is.  And Daniel Craig wants YOU to buy the app.  Don't make him come after you...]

Conspiracy Theories

Wow.  It feels like a conspiracy.  Life, the universe, and everything is against me working on my book.  It is almost eerie.

(I like conspiracy theories.  I visited the alien museum in Roswell, New Mexico and became a member for a year.  I loved it.  It was hilarious.  Really.  I bought a cute t-shirt for their espresso bar.  On the other hand, I do believe Kennedy was probably just shot by Oswald, and Ruby was just irritated and had a gun, being a Texan.)

So, this is why I think there is a conspiracy working against my brain being in a work mode.

1) VIRUS FACTOR:  My son caught a cold...which he then passed to me...which eventually got my husband sick as well.  There is also a stomach bug flying around the neighborhood that has hit no fewer than three households with children my son's age.  I have actually done some cleaning--Clorox wipes are a mother's friend.  Really.  The urge to clean increases exponentially in presence of snot, diarrhea and vomit.

2) BEST FRIEND FACTOR:  My Best Mommy Friend and I got into a political disagreement.  (Not to be confused with Best Friend Actress--she and I have one complete brain between us, in that we might as well share it, since we have never disagreed on a single idea or issue or opinion.)  Anyway.  I was being my typical self and hyperbolizing, and got BMF going.  She and I don't see eye-to-eye on a number of political issues, which is fine, but I shoulda known better.  It is all good now, but it left me with an unhappy feeling, obviously.  Next, I actually had the opportunity to socialize this weekend... and GASP... I took it.  I met the Husband and some of his co-workers for Happy Hour in DC, and then we had dinner with Male Best Friend.  The next night, I met up with my two Arts Council Best Friends... or Best Friends Formerly of the Arts Council? We only groaned about the arts council for five minutes.  We laughed most of the rest of the time.

3) WEATHER FACTOR:  Okay, really?  The weather guys must fear the legions of school-age children burning them in effigy.  They keep teasing us with snow.  I want snow.  Everyone keeps saying that I am tempting the gods, but at this point, I would sell my gods to the highest bidder if it would get us even 4 inches that would stick.  Instead it has been bloody cold or bloody warm or bloody wet.  Huh, kinda sounds like winter, when I think about it.

4) CREDIT CARD FACTOR:  Our credit card got hacked this Friday.  We found this out while we where supposed to be in DC having a wild and wonderful time.  Thanks a lot, thieves.  Not only did you fucking spoil my night out, you also stole my credit card and forced a lot of phone calls, account checks, and tummy rumbles.  May Astomach virus find you and cause spew from both ends.

5) HUMAN RIGHTS FACTOR:  Oh, hell, I talked about this here.  Let me congratulate a bunch of white guys in Richmond, Virginia for choosing to lay off the minority populations for a bit and concentrating on suppressing the majority.  Yeah, morons-- women make up 51% of the population.  We know where you live.  We live with you, we take care of your households.  We are legion.  Or something.  Anyway, you don't want us to have birth control?  Fine.  You guys are officially cut off.

6) BAD SEED FACTOR:  Okay, the Boy isn't the Bad Seed.  But he has been so bad at his Friday after-school program that he probably won't be going anymore.  He got in serious trouble and that took quite a lot of attention.

7) APP FACTOR:  Well, this is kinda cool.  My neighbor and I have designed, developed, and launched a phone app.  It is cool, but it takes time to do the content.

8) STUDIO TOUR FACTOR:  I know, I know.  I volunteered.  But it is getting rolling now.  And my work is increasing.

9) SLEEP FACTOR:  I lasted with the up-at-5AM for like three days.  The Boy was getting up even earlier, and then I was having my usual trouble sleeping some nights.  And then there was the whole getting sick thing.

So, whine whine whine.  I know.  Poor me.  But seriously-- these things have majorly intruded.  I want to write.  I would love to write.  I am still writing, but only during the normal times, when the Boy is not here, and when I don't have a meeting, or am too upset about life, the universe, and everything.

Things are going well, however.  I finished the storyboard, and a list of tasks for each chapter.  I am making progress.  I am doing good work.  I guess I just feel like I am doing good work more when I have time to think about it.  I love it when ideas are simmering all day, or when I dash out the shower to grab my notebook or phone to make a quick note.  Now, it is taking me time to get there, and I am thankful that I have the edits to do, versus having to create.

I sometimes wish I could be alone for even a week, and just work on it, without thinking about my family, my outside projects, illness or anything else.  Just me and the computer, with a timer set to remind me to take a break to eat.

Fear

I don't know that I have experienced a low grade fear before.  Sure, I have felt a swift burst of terror when the car in front of me suddenly brakes, and I jam on mine, hoping that my car will stop in time.  And I remember dreading the moment my dad found out about... well, I don't know if he ever found out.  I feel anguish when my son wakes up coughing and screaming because he cannot breathe.  That happened just last week.

I am going to throw politics aside for a moment.  Whether you are pro-life or pro-choice, please feel the low grade rumble in my belly, the chills running down my spine when I can no longer distract myself.

Virginia just passed a law requiring all women who want abortions to undergo an ultrasound.  Initially, I was merely irritated-- it is medically unnecessary and expensive (especially since I suspect most insurance will not cover it).  It seemed like an annoyance, but oh well.  But then I read the details.  This is not the cold goop on the belly, rubbed in by the ultrasound wand.  The law requires a transvaginal ultrasound.  If you won't look at the picture, then know that a tube is inserted into the vagina and moved around to produce a lot of images.

I had one, once.  I remember discomfort, and thinking that if felt like a good size dildo was penetrating me.  I had mine for diagnostic purposes.  My doctor recommended it to me, my insurance approved of the procedure, and I participated in it of my own free will.

Now, women who have chosen to undergo an abortion for any reason will be forced to be vaginally penetrated by this unnecessary procedure... and if they choose NOT to look, they have to sign a waiver.  And then they still cannot get the abortion until after a waiting period.

I was outraged, and said so in probably over-emotional and slightly incoherent emails to my state representatives down in Richmond.  Still, angry and all, it didn't directly effect me, because I don't have to worry about an unexpected pregnancy, thanks to my trusty Mirena.

But then the House went one further...  They passed a Personhood Law.  Once sperm meets an egg, that cell is granted full rights as a person.  House Bill 1 makes it criminal to harm that 'person'.

Let me give you a rundown on how this makes me a criminal.  My IUD prevents implantation.  The practical explanation basically is that I don't build up the uterine lining a fertilized egg needs to grow (and I don't get periods!  TMI?  Sorry).  There is also a lot of cervical mucus, which sperm does not like.  No problem, right?  Well, see, it does NOT prevent me from ovulating.  So, in theory, one of my eggs, traveling through an environment utterly hostile to implantation, could potentially meet a sperm.

Do I think this is a form of abortion?  No.  Do I see this as a healthy alternative to taking BCP?  Yes.

Well, the Commonwealth of Virginia says otherwise.  "All stages of development" is pretty broad.

So, yeah, I am suddenly a little scared.  I took down a Facebook rant about it-- more because I realized I am too angry to have a coherent discussion about it right now.  I wanted to write another angry letter to my reps... and then wondered if they will be keeping a list of women who admit to using IUDs like mine.   So I kept silent.

And all of a sudden, I was terrified that I thought I ought to keep silent.  Low grade fear.  If this gets signed into law, will they simply prevent doctors from prescribing new ones?   Can a woman go over the border into Maryland, Washington DC, or West Virginia to get one?  Or will she be charged upon crossing back to Virginia?  Will they go after women who already have one?  My Mirena is a 5 year implant, and I just got my new one a few months ago!

Maybe you think I am being melodramatic.  It could be.  I am an actress, after all.  But the fear I feel is real.  I joked yesterday about moving to West Virginia.  This is like The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood.  I have never felt like this, as an American citizen.  I felt sorry for American Muslims after 9/11, that they had to bear the brunt of so much unfounded and  misdirected hostility.  I have sympathized with gays for years, because their supposed 'sins' are certainly no worse than the average person's.  Likewise, I have been horrified by the news reports of human rights violations so prevalent in many parts of the world.  But I don't think I ever really got it.  Nothing brought it home.  This did.

In anger, I posted on FB,  "Virginia, get out of my vagina!"

Now, I think, "head down and shut up."

A Writer's Contract

I just spent four days at a writing workshop.  I have lauded David Hazard before, but I am gonna do it again.  It was amazing, and I learned so much, and this is the SECOND time I took it!  If you write, or think you might have a story to tell, go look him up.

There is a lot to talk about, but I am only going to address the Writer's Contract right now.

If I am going to acquire Space to Write...
WHERE:  at the desk
WHAT needs to be kept out of that space:  the email, the phone, the bills, non-writing work
WHO are the potential intrusions:  the family, the dog, work and volunteer associates  (I can avoid them all by just not answering the phone!)
WHEN will I write?:

• Primary time- Monday-Fridays, while the Boy is at school (8:45-11:15), as soon as I walk the dog.
• Secondary time- After Dean goes to bed.  If I CANNOT do the primary for whatever reason (meetings, doctor's appointments, etc.), I WILL use this time, even if it only for an hour or so.
• How I will make this happen:  I will get up at 5AM (when the Husband leaves) to do the other stuff:  the email, blogging, work and volunteer stuff, even the bills.  I will do this upstairs on the laptop, and put all the applicable materials in one binder with pockets, along with my thumb drive, so it is all contained and cannot take over.  So, I will have that stuff done before the Boy even wakes up, wanting to have his Mummy Cuddle Time.

WHAT are my objectives for my Writing Time?:

• Sunday evenings/Monday mornings, I will set the objectives for the week.  One of my goals for today, for example, is to create a task list based on my to-be-completed storyboard, with the end of May being my deadline.
• Minimum-- is there research I can do?  Writing prompts I can create or find?  Storyboard tweaking?
• Medium-- Am I working on incidents and scenes?  Am I expanding or focusing on characters?
• Maximum-- Did I meet all the goals and then some?  Am I moving forward?

It doesn't look much like a contract, but it has solidified some things for me. I felt a lot of pressure, because I had no time allotted for the non-writing stuff, but I still needed to do it!  It would make it tough for me to get into my zone...And the evening is becoming less of a productive time for me.  Getting old, I guess!


Now, how is this morning thing working out?  Ha!  I am bleary eyed, and every third word contains a typo.  My sense of humor is still in bed, apparently.  However, I have just checked off the second item from my early morning Task List. Tomorrow's task list will include coffee...

Writing Time

Did you ever see The Shining?  I love this scene.  Yeah, the film isn't as good as the book.  And there are gems about writing in the book-- LOTS of gems... But watch the scene.

As a woman, I used to hate the scene.  I mean, who the hell would want to be married to someone who talks to you like that?  Oh wait!  Wendy can't get away!  She is stuck in a snowbound hotel with fucking Jack as an asshole husband...  Except, he is kind of an asshole even in their first scene together, in the car.  Jump out, Wendy, jump out!  Rolling down a mountain has to be better than being married to him.

Feminist interlude over.  Yay!

Ahem.  As a writer, I have come to understand, and even appreciate the scene.  Watch it again...  Go on.  I will wait.

I get it.  Every time I am in the zone, and something interrupts, I think of it.  I want to throw my phone across the room for daring to ring.  I would rip the brains out of the telemarketers who start calling at 9:30AM, if they had any...and if they were within range.  I yell at the dog for barking.  I loathe the clock for going so fast.  I get to write 9-11:10 every weekday.  I get an extra hour on Fridays.  My writing time is precious.

So, yeah, I get cranky when I have to do non-writing things during my writing time.  Bills, doctor's visits, volunteer meetings, answering stupid emails from jackasses...

So.  Here is my solution.  I am going to ignore the phone...both of them.  I will not turn them off, in case the school calls-- I am not an unnatural mother.  I will NOT do email, or Facebook, or anything non-book related during my writing time.  I do have the occasional meetings or appointments, and will suffer through them.

Oh, and I love this clock.

The beginning of a beautiful relationship

     Let's talk, 2012.  See, I made an arrangement with 2011.  I told 2011 what I wanted, and I thought 2011 and I would have a nice time together.  I didn't realize that my expectations, while communicated clearly, were not clear expectations.  It was a "Hey, let's have a nice date" versus "Hey, I want a fancy dinner with good wine, and then a movie with Daniel Craig or Hugh Jackman."
      I realize that this is a failure on my part.  I didn't specify what it was that I actually wanted.  This should not be a surprise to me... what with the whole "Not Doing It" being the name of the blog.  2011 could not read my mind.  How could 2011 know what I wanted if I wasn't even able to communicate that to myself?  And yet... did I not mock 2011 on Facebook? I did, I am sorry to say.  No one deserves that, especially when it is my fault.
     So, 2012, I am going to try to communicate my clear expectations.  I want you to know what will make me happy.  Some of the items on my list may strike you as unrealistic, or silly, but if you know, at least you might have a better idea of the kind of thing that might make me happy.

What I Want Out Of 2012

1. A book deal.  It doesn't have to be Stephanie Meyers size... but I would love at least to be able to buy a new car, which leads me to...
2. A new car.  Both of the cars in my household are almost three times as old as my son.  And he's about to start kindergarten.
3. To see the new James Bond film in the movie theater.
4. To make exercise part of almost every day-- strength training, walking, hitting balls at the driving range... whatever it takes.  Finishing 2011 with physical therapy kinda blew.
5. A spine.  I rarely speak up for myself, and when I do, I inevitably cave.  
6. A date, once a month, when I go out, looking lovely, wearing a pair of killer heels, and forget that I am the mother of a 5 year old.  Don't care if it is with my girlfriends, or a big group of people, or just me and a lucky guy.
7. To stop apologizing for who I am.  It is one thing to apologize for a specific action, something I said or did.  It is  a whole other thing to apologize for not being the way that someone else wants me to be, or for not thinking what someone else wants me to think.  I am valid, and so is my point of view.
8. To write five days a week.

     So, 2012.  How does that sound?  I hope I have given you a much better idea of my expectations than I did 2011.  I suspect 2011 might have actually been less of a disappointment if I had been as clear with him as I am being with you.  Let's work on it, shall we?

Hugs and kisses,

Zombie Grrrl  

2011: A Year in Review

..." I see this as a place to journal, a place to jump up and down, a place to vomit, a place to celebrate, a place to collaborate, and maybe, a place to make my decisions final."

Here I am, almost a year later.  The quote above is from my very first blog post.  I would say, based on that quote, that I was very successful...except that the blog was supposed to be about my three goals for 2011...

Plan for 2011

1. Figure out what you are NOT going to do, make it happen, and move on.

2. Walk three times a week.

3. Schedule two recharge breaks a month.

Anyway.  Plan 1... I figured out a lot of things... Meaning, I quit a number of things.  Arts council...  gone!  Acting... retired, mostly.  Art model... not pursuing it.  Teaching... winding down.  Volunteer... still going, but will be finished in June.  Writing?

That is what I decided I AM going to do.  Write.  I love it, and I am good at it.  I spent the last of my mad money to attend a hardcore writing workshop (4 days, all day).  I wrote and submitted a play for a playwrighting competition.  I have worked hard for most of the year, and have revised "The General's Heir" into a much tighter and stronger novel.  I not only finished it (mostly), but have three new readers in the process now of giving me feedback.  There is small stuff to fix, but they are easy fixes.  Additionally, I wrote my query letter, and sent it out to six literary agents.  Two asked to see my work, and ultimately passed, two sent form rejections, one sent a personally worded rejection, and I am waiting to hear back from the sixth.  Finally, I have begun to work with David Hazard, an amazing writing coach, who believes I have talent, and is pushing me in directions I need to go.

Otherwise?  Still married and mothering.

Plan 2... well, I went back and forth on the walking.  I pushed myself to walk the dog far more frequently than I used to... but does that count as good walking?  On one hand, I think no.  But, on the other hand, I have been walking longer walks with her than we used to, and I read somewhere that even an extra five minutes a day adds up over the course of the year.  So, I am going to give that one a VERY qualified success.

Plan 3... Well.  Hmm.  Not so much.

Okay, so thank you, 2011.  Next time... my Plan for 2012.