tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9804142421506663862024-03-20T04:32:59.039-07:00A Gingerbread Latte, A Laptop, and A Good StoryJanet Spaethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14495937200749703773noreply@blogger.comBlogger95125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-980414242150666386.post-25345294241785919752015-08-20T20:41:00.000-07:002015-08-20T20:41:41.501-07:00Dear Retail, Let's Talk<br />
<img src="http://www.sweetcitycandy.com/media/catalog/product/cache/1/image/9df78eab33525d08d6e5fb8d27136e95/m/e/mellow_mix_4.jpg" /><br />
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Dear Retail, let's talk. You're making me nervous. You know what you've done. You spent summer's halcyon days putting Halloween candy on your shelves. My friends are planning what costume to wear for Halloween. No, scratch that. They decided last month while they were waving sparklers--and nibbling Mellowcreme pumpkins.<br />
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So here we are, in mid-August, with our brains melting out of our ears because it's so incredibly hot that even the mosquitoes can't be bothered to buzz, and the Halloween candy has been on the shelves for a month.<br />
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True story: One year, I brought home autumn M&Ms in the midst of an early August heatwave. This was the exchange between Mr. Spaeth and myself:<br />
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Me: This way I know they're really fresh!<br />
Mr. S: Or really old.<br />
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Some of us can't help ourselves. I'm guilty. I've already gone through a teeny tiny itsy little bag of candy corn, and I may have bought some more. I might have a cup of Autumn Cranberry tea at my hand. And there could be a bag or two of autumn-colored M&Ms on the counter.<br />
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So why am I nervous, Retail? Well, as soon as we clear Labor Day, guess what's next? GUESS! Yes, Christmas. You'll put up Christmas trees in every store, and I'll have to confront the fact that I have no idea what I did with the lights last year. I think I still have a creche somewhere, and I hope I know where Joseph is so the yellow Power Ranger doesn't have to fill in (again).<br />
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And snow. And boots. I live in the north, so you'd think I'd have this down to a science, but I go through this every year, the annual festive Boot Hunt.<br />
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But I can't worry about that now. Candy corn awaits.<br />
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And it's good to be back in JanetWorld!<br />
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<br />Janet Spaethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14495937200749703773noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-980414242150666386.post-83631634221434528292012-12-20T13:21:00.000-08:002012-12-20T13:22:07.606-08:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnyhoSJBaCBqOGnUCPilZTPQbB-j4b1fdJ6Wk46Ypg_K1UE_svi8HHxWJqxIPhL8eT3Pnb772udf5OO9jf0ITF3nL7JvMkCGOOPKmzQXWTt3xdxtk_-Id4zIF7HWNCw89qEs2Wp9Yr990/s1600/Macy's.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnyhoSJBaCBqOGnUCPilZTPQbB-j4b1fdJ6Wk46Ypg_K1UE_svi8HHxWJqxIPhL8eT3Pnb772udf5OO9jf0ITF3nL7JvMkCGOOPKmzQXWTt3xdxtk_-Id4zIF7HWNCw89qEs2Wp9Yr990/s320/Macy's.gif" width="240" /></a></div>
I have to make that dreadful picture of the dreadful turkey go away. So here's a photo of me that my friend Mary-Carol took of me on Sunday at the State Street Macy's in Chicago. Festive!<br />
<br />Janet Spaethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14495937200749703773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-980414242150666386.post-42154255312523089462012-12-20T13:00:00.005-08:002012-12-20T13:00:56.310-08:00It's been ages, hasn't it? I let this drop off the face of Bloggerdom, and it's not like I didn't think about it. I did, but then I generally fell asleep.
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However, now I have a few days off. It's December 20, and that means I have FOUR WHOLE DAYS to get my Christmas shopping done. That's like forever, right? I started it last night (yay, me!), but let's face it. It's not happening on time. Not this year.
And why?
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*sad, crestfallen, guilty-me face*
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I am dreadful at time management. <br />
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Actually, that's probably not true. I could manage time if I had any. Here's the problem: I love having a gazillion things to do. Unfortunately, I don't have a gazillion hours in a day.
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What to do, what to do?
One thing I should NOT be doing is this. I have presents to buy! Dishes to wash! Laundry to fold! Things to pick up! Cards to write! Bills to pay! A cat to snuggle!
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Or I could take a nap....Janet Spaethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14495937200749703773noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-980414242150666386.post-46249041994056301272012-02-05T18:32:00.000-08:002012-02-05T19:06:40.262-08:00Sicko meI have a cold and a tummy boo. I don't feel good. I get cold so I put on a sweater. Then I get sweaty and I take it off. Then I get cold again, and the sweater goes back on. Warm, and the sweater comes off. And the process starts again, with me sneezing and blowing my nose throughout.<br /><br />I get sick only once a decade or so. For a long time I thought it was because I am a mom, and as a mom, I am blooming with acquired immunities. Let's face it: for years you get sneezed on and urped on and adorable little beings want to kiss you with their germ-crusty little mouths.... After a while the immune system cowgirls up for the job and you can laugh in the face of any nasty bug.<br /><br />That was the reason I rarely got sick.<br /><br />Ah, so wrong, grasshopper! Something else is a-work here.<br /><br />Here's the real reason: I have no patience with being sick. I hate sitting still and letting the viral icks run loose in my system. <br /><br />I have things to do! <br /><br />My kids did great sick faces. You know the kind, where you think sad, sad thoughts (Lassie fell in the well, the store is out of chocolate milk and will never, ever sell it again, for Christmas you will get only underwear and educational toys, etc.) and your face mirrors it so perfectly that no one with an ounce of sanity could doubt for a single minute that this next breath could easily be your last, and you will expire, right there on the couch, like a forgotten coupon.<br /><br />I got lots of advice from friends. Sit down, feet up. Or go to bed. Drink water. No, tea. Herbal brews. Read. Sleep. Do nothing. <br /><br />Do nothing? How does that work?<br /><br />Here's what I did: I went to the grocery store because the cat needed food and a new litter box and litter. My sick face was fully made up (vanity, oh vanity!) and I was wearing my favorite Itasca sweatshirt, and all was good and I felt better when I was outside, and I thought maybe I was actually healed, that my maternal immunities had finally kicked in and then....<br /><br />Right by the cat food, HEAT! No, COLD! No, HEAT! No, COLD! And let's face it, there are only so many layers a woman can adjust at the grocery store before she's carted off by the cops. And I so do NOT look good in jail-orange. <br /><br />So I finished my shopping, shivering and sweating, went home, unloaded the car, fed the cat, set up her new litter box, and collapsed into an antisocial heap in my chair, with my sick face on, thinking my own sad thoughts: the cat doesn't want to eat THAT food and she doesn't want to potty in THAT litter box with THAT litter.<br /><br />And I forgot to buy the cold meds and aspirin. PLUS (now, here's the kicker) I'm sick on the weekend! THE WEEKEND! Now, <em>that's </em>sad.Janet Spaethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14495937200749703773noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-980414242150666386.post-61477513792219221802012-01-15T16:18:00.001-08:002012-01-15T16:41:06.828-08:00La Domestique<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ2_aF9f39XCIdWwLvnbVj3WbZQWZEP2S3ncLp1NOPfl0AaAOfpTc3qxf1oMHmFPNu_QoZ0H-k0KWCrLGWlYjqDSiR66h1dCSyRZBKUoUmmUgeoNCeXe24jw3n9tzY2XZgeMazAf8ofzo/s1600/turkey.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 192px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ2_aF9f39XCIdWwLvnbVj3WbZQWZEP2S3ncLp1NOPfl0AaAOfpTc3qxf1oMHmFPNu_QoZ0H-k0KWCrLGWlYjqDSiR66h1dCSyRZBKUoUmmUgeoNCeXe24jw3n9tzY2XZgeMazAf8ofzo/s320/turkey.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5698020879368754466" /></a><br />I had the urge to go all <em></em>domestique<em></em> today, so I hied myself into the kitchen and began to destroy any semblance of order in there.<br /><br />I began with a turkey. Now, those of you who are loyal readers know of my frequent run-ins with turkeys. I don't know what it is, but the nasty creatures have it in for me. I don't care for them alive, and I don't care for them dead, but I'm a mom and I must feed the Spaethlings.<br /><br />Today's went pretty well, except for my continuing puzzlement about which end is which. And it does matter, I gather from the directions. If you're to get the mystery packets out, you have to dig in the right end. Actually, you need to dig in both ends. There's stuff hidden throughout the turkey.<br /><br />There's something new in the birds, I hate to tell you. I think it's the body part of the neck, but I'm not sure. I tugged and pulled and wrenched, and the thing would not leave the turkey, so I guess it's supposed to be in there. I hope so. It stayed in there.<br /><br />All went well, though, until I took the turkey out of the oven. And I saw this.<br /><br />Does this look right to you? What happened? Why did my turkey collapse? It tasted okay, so I just wrote this up to another terrible chemical accident at the turkey farm and went on to Project Two: Wild Rice Soup.<br /><br />I've never made it before but I found a recipe that was repeated frequently on the web by sites I trust.<br /><br />Well. No. <br /><br />It made too much to fit in the recommended pot. It didn't thicken (the roux was added at the end, which in my culinary experience means it'll only do its rouxy thing on reheating). But maybe the weirdest part is the directions forgot the rice. In wild rice soup.<br /><br />Ah well. Add a glass of wine or two and your favorite music, make sure you're sitting with good company, and, as my daughter says, "It's all good."<br /><br />That's the best part of a <em></em>domestique<em></em> day!Janet Spaethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14495937200749703773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-980414242150666386.post-44896105202883741762011-12-25T14:15:00.000-08:002011-12-25T14:49:12.192-08:00ChristmasToday is Christmas, and you know what that means in the Spaeth household. Yes, <em></em>turkey wrangling!<em></em><br /><br />I did okay this time. Found all the horrendously icky bits (though I had to dig around to find the aptly named "package"--it was in the, uh, other end if you get my drift), dispatched them to the trash, and got the turkey in the oven. <br /><br />Then I merrily did some dishes, sang some carols to myself, talked myself out of an early glass of wine and settled for coffee from my brand-new Keurig (Merry Christmas, Janet!), and did a time check.<br /><br />Heart stop.<br /><br />3:52??? How did that happen? What did I do with the day? I know I read the paper but honestly, I'm a fast reader. Did the puzzle (crossword, that is--abandoned the Sudoku), brushed my cat--how did that consume the entire day? <br /><br />Then I realized that on my new stove, the timer takes over the clock. 3:52 meant 3 hours and 52 minutes til the turkey was done. It was only really something like 1:00.<br /><br />I was telling Music Guy about this, and he pointed out that if I'd watched the clock on the stove, I would have seen time going backwards! 3:52, 3:51, 3:50.... I would probably have put down the coffee and found that bottle of wine (no glass--bottle!).<br /><br />Now, for a story of Christmas Past. I put this on Facebook, but I like the story so much I'm telling it here too.<br /><br />I was 2 or 3, and it was almost Christmas. My mom was just getting ready to plunk me in the bath when the phone rang. My dad answered it.<br /><br />"Janet, it's Santa!"<br /><br />I tore into the living room, totally naked, took the phone from Dad, and said, "Santa, I don't have any clothes on!"<br /><br />Santa laughed and my mom nearly fainted because....<br /><br />It was a spot from the radio station, and we were live, and I had just announced it to all of Grand Island, Nebraska.<br /><br />Yes, we moved shortly after that. To another state.<br /><br />Merry Christmas, all!Janet Spaethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14495937200749703773noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-980414242150666386.post-83265992006405462122011-11-29T18:39:00.000-08:002011-11-29T18:53:12.795-08:00Counting my blessings...stillWell, there went another month. My last post here was 25 days ago! And much fascinating stuff has happened in those 25 days! But this post is about the highlight of this month--Thanksgiving.<br /><br />Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday of the year. I'm torn by the inherent issues of the actual holiday itself but what I do love about it is that it truly is, for many of us, a time to recognize our blessings and to acknowledge that maybe, just maybe, we can't take credit for them. <br /><br />Every day of my life I say the same three words: "I am blessed." I am blessed beyond what I deserve. I am, without much thought on my part, taken care of. I'm warm. Fed. Loved. Safe.<br /><br />It's the last two I'm especially grateful for. <br /><br />For those of you, family and friends alike, I am thankful. You keep me feeling loved and safe. You are blessings above measure. <br /><br />I am blessed. I love you all!Janet Spaethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14495937200749703773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-980414242150666386.post-91692209913637383672011-11-04T22:37:00.000-07:002011-11-06T20:29:04.809-08:00Non, je ne regrette rienEdith Piaf sang, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q3Kvu6Kgp88">"Non, je ne regrette rien,"</a> which means in French, "No, I don't regret anything." She was an amazing singer (with amazing eyebrows--I'm starting to notice a theme here, but I'm meandering) and this is a fantastic song.<br /><br />The lyrics tell us how she's thrown away the sadnesses of the past, and it ends with a yummy bit that makes me weak in the knees:<br /><em></em><br /><em>No, I don't feel sorry about anything, </em><br /><em>Because my life, my joys, today begin with you</em>. (Janet translation)<br /><br />Excuse me while I pause to wallow in the lines. Those are beautiful words. In French, they're an absolute knock-out:<br /><br /><i>Non, je ne regrette rien,</i><br /><i>Car ma vie, car mes joies,</i><br /><i>Aujourd'hui, ca commence avec toi.</i><br /><br />I'd like to add one teensy thing: this isn't exactly true. I do regret a whole lot of stuff I've done, and I think that's natural. Nothing too major, and nothing that there are outstanding warrants for.<br /><br />Music Guy and I were talking this weekend, having a deep conversation about who-knows-what (he'll remember, bless his little Memorex heart) (he can remember all kinds of stuff! He probably even knows where his snowboots are, although I am just a wee bit unsure at the moment regarding the location of mine) and I said something about regrets being my school--that I keep them with me because I've learned from them, and they make me a better person.<br /><br />That's a whale of a sentence. Oops.<br /><br />I'm not perfect, but every day I get closer to my ideal of who I should be. Who I can be. And, honestly, who I must be.<br /><br />Okay, enough seriousness. What else is going on in JanetWorld?<br /><br />Well, Janet went a-wayfaring. Oddly, so did Music Guy! We had a fantastic time in the Cities, seeing friends and family and enjoying an eating frenzy. I have to report that I did not enter a single store, not even the gift shop at the Walker. Apparently it's possible. Who knew. Usually when I get to the Cities, the credit card comes out and doesn't go back into the wallet until it's fairly well melted.<br /><br />Halloween came and went, and so did the candy.<br /><br />Birthday came and went, and I'm a year older, just like that. In the shift of a second, I aged an entire year!<br /><br />We're at the turn of the seasons now, my darlings, so find your snowboots and make sure your mittens match. It's near.<br /><br />But meanwhile, enjoy the extra hour you get tomorrow night!Janet Spaethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14495937200749703773noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-980414242150666386.post-26920522686142457722011-10-23T21:52:00.000-07:002011-10-23T22:26:54.838-07:00October musicMusic Guy gave me tickets to the Museum concert series for my birthday! (Not to worry if you haven't gotten me something. There are still 12 shopping days left in which to select something absolutely exquisite.)<br /><br />Today was the first day of the series. I drove since I have a campus parking pass, and it occurred to me as I whipped into the parking garage (and visibly aging Music Guy, who kind of yelped as the wall came perilously close to his side of the car) that not everybody appreciates my driving skills. Eh. Que sera.<br /><br />The concert was marvelous! I realized that hearing the Mozart piece was like hearing a long-forgotten language--or one I thought I'd forgotten. I could almost lean into the direction it was going to go. Even after abandoning a music major to go the more lucrative English major route<g>, I could, decades later, understand the music. Mozart was still talking to me. It was an amazing gift that Music Guy gave me--and he didn't know the depth of it (until he reads this).<br /><br />I did have one moment of absolute horror, as I was sitting in the audience and a stray thought came tearing into the mass of cells I call a brain: <em>So, Janet, first time wearing this jacket. Did you by any chance take the tags off it?</em> I tried surreptitiously to wiggle around in a discreet manner and feel for tags. I hope it didn't look like I had some kind of infestation as I checked the likely spots for tags. Fortunately, I was good.<br /><br />Then, after the concert, Music Guy and I watched <em>Bell, Book & Candle</em>, which I'd seen in play form a few days ago. Let me say this right away: Kim Novak had AMAZING eyebrows in this movie. But despite the eyebrows (which should have have an IMDb entry of their own), this film had an all-star cast and was charming beyond belief. If you're ever looking for a subject I'll quibble with you about, bring up the fact that this is called a comedy. Only in the broadest of literary terms is this a comedy.<br /><br />But no quibbling, not at this time of night.<br /><br />It was a wonderful Sunday!Janet Spaethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14495937200749703773noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-980414242150666386.post-43924687881351483872011-10-10T22:03:00.000-07:002011-10-12T14:48:31.920-07:00October OutingIn my last post, I credited a good friend with getting JanetWorld back in business.<br /><br />That prompted an early morning call.<br /><br />"GOOD FRIEND?" he yelled. "GOOD FRIEND?"<br /><br />Okay, I'm sort of exaggerating. It wasn't early--well, it kind of was. 9:30 on a Sunday morning. And he didn't yell, not really. He was teasing me. And he can tease me because he <em>is</em> a good friend. You know.<br /><br />*clears throat*<br /><br />I told him I was going to out him in this post, tell the world who is responsible for <strike>nagging</strike> encouraging me to open up JanetWorld again, and he said: "Janet, I know I can trust you to be discreet" or some such nonsense.<br /><br />Discreet? Since when was THAT part of the deal?<br /><br />Okay, here we go, being discreet: he's Music Guy.<br /><br />Actually, when we first met, years ago, he had a guitar in his hand. He's always been Music Guy. But now Music Guy is part of JanetWorld.<br /><br />Music Guy is the official <strike>nagger</strike> encourager for this blog.<br /><br />Okay, enough about him. Let's talk about me.<br /><br />Here's what I've been doing: cooking. In an effort to expand my culinary art, I took out the crock pot (which I swear I've never seen before but whatever) and made some deliciousness.<br /><br />But not before trying to slice off my fingers. It's probably just as well I don't have the Ginzu knives (although as Music Guy very aptly pointed out, if I did have them I could cut some bathroom tiles, resole a shoe, and then slice a tomato paper thin). My decades-old knives don't cut through my fingers any better than they get through a squash. If I had a Ginzu knife, my kitchen floor would be littered with Janet-body parts.<br /><br />So, in the interest of personal safety, I've decided I'm never cooking anything that requires me to get into a squash. And I'm not buying a Ginzu knife. It's probably best for everyone. Especially me.<br /><br />By the way, I appreciate the comments and I wish I could respond but for some reason Blogspot is not letting me post on ANY blog in the comments section. I don't understand it. I've been nice (well, pretty nice) (all right, I've been okay) (tolerable) (nobody's sued me) (yet) but it seems to reject me. I'm trying not to take it personally, and please, I don't want you to either.<br /><br />I hope everybody gets out and tromps through the leaves before the city says they have to vacuum their yards. I'm all for tidy, but honestly, this is fall! It's a lovely, noisy season--the sound of dry leaves skittering through the air and across the ground is wonderful. So quit reading this, post a quick comment saying hello to Music Guy, and go outside and kick some leaves!Janet Spaethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14495937200749703773noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-980414242150666386.post-89384185734443644032011-10-01T20:34:00.001-07:002011-10-01T22:09:26.188-07:00Grand Re-Opening!A good friend discovered my blog (I suppose having the link at the bottom of every single email I send might have helped him "discover" it). He calls this "JanetWorld" so that's what it shall be.<br /><br />JanetWorld. I like that.<br /><br />He also pointed out that despite my best intentions and publicly avowed promise to blog more, the blog has been completely silent.<br /><br />No more.<br /><br />JanetWorld is back in business. It's time for a Grand Re-Opening!<br /><br />*rubs hands together*<br /><br />So, what shall I talk about first? There is so much on my mind, it's hard to decide.<br /><br />The writers conference I oversee has just wrapped up, and it went well. The editors were kind and helpful (Brian Farrey, Elizabeth Law, and Jennifer Arena--a triad of wonderful people!) and the headline author, Kurtis Scaletta, was fantastic.<br /><br />Writers conferences invigorate me and help me focus my often-roving brain and remind me that I am a writer. It's an identity that's, honestly, hard to come to terms with, even after all those books on the shelf with my name on them. A writers conference brings me around again, and reminds me who I am and what I do when I'm not doing the zillion other things I do that suck the identity right out of most of us women. (Maybe guys too, but let's face it--no.)<br /><br />I learned a lot not just about writing but about me, which is sort of the neglected part of the equation, isn't it? Here's what's on my mind tonight:<br /><br />* I really do need to trust my instincts.<br /><br />* I need a huge network of supportive friends. And I have them. I am blessed beyond human thought.<br /><br />This is deep for the woman who dropped the entire plate of cat food on the floor this morning (and right down the front of her white nightgown too--that ain't ever coming out). And who yesterday called zucchini a root vegetable, and moved Bambi over to the lamb family, and today sort of leaped from Shanghai to South America and didn't take her listeners with her.<br /><br />I really do have a PhD. I do. It's here somewhere.<br /><br />Okay, it's been an incredible week.<br /><br />Thanks, everyone who came to the conference. Thanks, AFL-CIO, for 100 years in North Dakota. Thanks, dearest Lord, for getting me through this week and keeping Your hand clapped over my mouth when I was perilously close to meltdownville.<br /><br />And thanks to my family and friends who keep me sane and laughing and loved.Janet Spaethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14495937200749703773noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-980414242150666386.post-42249407448571427042011-04-01T15:00:00.000-07:002011-04-01T16:01:40.796-07:00Brain DumpToday I had the chance to listen to a panel of esteemed writers, and I realized that I heard nothing they said in the first five minutes. Well, I heard it but I couldn't concentrate. <br /><br />Then it dawned on me why. My brain wasn't ready to hear about writing because it had other Very Important Things to deal with first, like: <br />*Laundry. Socks, especially, and did I ever empty the dryer? <br />*Dishes. It's been a busy week and I'm way behind. Evidence is in the sink. <br />*Car payment. Did I or didn't I? <br />*Cat litter. I bought some but did I use it already? Do I need to buy more? <br />*What will I make for dinner? <br />*Taxes! Uh-oh! Taxes! Terror! Taxes! Taxes! Where are my W-whatevers, and do I have things to deduct or claim? <br />And so on. <br /><br />The list was getting longer and longer and bits and pieces of it were falling off the edge. Or the things I was juggling were raining down on me. Choose your image. Whichever it is, I was forgetting things--or worried that I was forgetting things.<br /> <br />So I got out my notebook and began a brain dump. I wrote down all the things that were nagging at me. It went quickly and soon I was able to listen to the speakers and enjoy the rest of the hour. <br /><br />I know that some of my friends journal. Just the thought of something that organized, that planned, that scheduled makes my brain itch and my soul crawl. I don't journal. I list. Endlessly. In color, preferably, and when something is done, it is blocked out with great panache. <br /><br />And my life is filled with notes to myself: clever things I could put in a book that I will never remember if I don't write them down...not that I remember where I wrote them down, or if I even ever found a pen. <br /><br />And once the words are on paper, I can listen to life again, hear the poets talk about creativity and imagination and exploration. <br /><br />I still won't know about the car payment or the cat litter, but I'll feel much better.Janet Spaethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14495937200749703773noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-980414242150666386.post-40872521284249032032010-10-03T20:49:00.000-07:002010-10-03T23:00:20.620-07:00Well, oopsWhat happened here? Or, precisely, what DIDN'T happen here?<br /><br />It's been about 2 months since I've blogged.<br /><br />It's not like I haven't had something to say. You know me. I *always* have something to say. I've been busy, with a lot of this and that--a heap of this and a pile of that.<br /><br />So here, in a bloggerly nutshell, it's what I would have said if I'd been more diligent:<br /><br />* I tried new hair. I will probably go back to old hair. (See? Important stuff here.)<br /><br />* Books, books, and more books. Some I write, some I order, and some I read.<br /><br />* I still wear a cat on my head (or my lap) when I write, mainly because I sit when I write, and that's prime cat-on-Janet time.<br /><br />* The monkey glass still exists for those days when I need my wine in a monkey glass. You know. Everyone has those days. My monkey glass is my treasure.<br /><br />*The conference has come and gone, and I survived. Look for digital info next year. Yes, we are on Facebook and Twitter, thanks to someone younger and hipper than I. (Hard to believe, I know, but there is such a young woman.)<br /><br />* I have Great Plans in the works for 2011. Ssssh, though. It's a secret, so it's just between us, okay?<br /><br />Now, back to typing faster than I can think. It's a skill all writers should develop.<br /><br />I promise I won't be so non-bloggery any more.Janet Spaethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14495937200749703773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-980414242150666386.post-17113855645971644922010-08-15T13:42:00.001-07:002010-08-15T14:15:36.740-07:00In which I wrangle a turkey....I seem to have issues in getting the turkey from the wrapper to the table. Remember? I blogged about the merriment of it all...<br /><br /><a href="http://janetspaeth.blogspot.com/2009/11/turkey-turkey.html">Here</a><br /><br />and<br /><p><a href="http://janetspaeth.blogspot.com/2009/03/why-im-not-doctor.html">Here</a></p><p><br />Today, I decided to pop a turkey in the oven and let it take care of itself because I have edits due on the Book of Great Wonderfulness, aka my next novel.</p><p>Let's just stop on the word "pop." That didn't happen. This was the slitheriest turkey I've ever had the pleasure to wrangle. Rinsing it off was a freak show in and of itself. </p><p>First I had to do the body cavity invasion that, now let's be honest, is just gross. I got rid of all the surprise packages except for one which would not come out (and let me tell you, you do not know what fun really is until you've tried to pull some unidentifiable body part out of a turkey carcass). I tugged and I twisted and I wrenched and it wouldn't move. I left it in. </p><p>Plus I was aided by a cat who thought (well, I might be giving her too much credit on the <em>thinking</em> thing) that since I was in the kitchen, I was undoubtedly trying to find something for her to eat. I've never done that, but I guess hope springs eternal in her little feline mind.</p><p>She wrapped herself around my ankles and began to coil in an endless furry loop. I needed to move the turkey from the sink, where the rinsing wasn't going at all well, to the pan, which I'd left on the stove.</p><p>Under the best of circumstances, it's a drip-drip-drip across the floor and the turkey's plopped into the pan and shoved in the oven to finish.</p><p>These were not the best of circumstances. I turned, the cat didn't, and the next thing I knew, I was horrified to find that I was clutching this wet turkey to my chest! </p><p>I'll leave time for everyone to shudder.</p><p>Bearing in mind that I'm 95% vegetarian (the spare 5% is for bacon), this is nightmarish. Do you understand how awful this was? <em>I was hugging a wet dead turkey!!!</em></p><p>I suppose it's better than hugging a dry live turkey, but in a perfect world, I wouldn't be hugging ANY turkeys.</p><p>I guess you could say that my cooking is close to my heart. Like about an inch away. Literally.</p>Janet Spaethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14495937200749703773noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-980414242150666386.post-49833749219573462502010-07-14T17:26:00.000-07:002010-07-14T20:06:11.591-07:00Hey, you! Remember me?As you all know, I feel very fortunate to have married Mr. Spaeth and not the other fellows who came in and out of my life. And it's quite okay for me to be snarky about the <a href="http://janetspaeth.blogspot.com/2010_02_01_archive.html">Boys of Yesteryear</a>, but now the majorest of the Boys of Yesteryear has posted something on HIS blog about the Girls of Yesteryear--and HE DID NOT MENTION ME! Not at all! HEY! YOU! We were engaged! As in going to be married!<br /><br />We were totally smitten with each other for about a year. But then we were separated by college, where I met Mr. Spaeth, and, as luck would have it, at his college the Boy of Yesteryear met his Ms Future Wife, and that was that.<br /><br />Things turned out the way they should have in the marriage department. I am perfectly okay with not spending my life with the BoY (cute acronym, isn't it?) and he is, I understand through my nefarious snooping skills, blissfully happy with his wife. That's good.<br /><br />Still...ahem...WHY AREN'T I IN THE BLOG POST??? HUH???<br /><br />I am stunned that I was omitted, but I've figured this out. He was so blasted by my breaking up with him that he suffered a dreadful bout of amnesia! (We writers like amnesia plot devices. Also secret babies, but trust me, if there were any babies in this, they were a secret from me, too.)<br /><br />It works.<br /><br />And, as we say in fiction circles, that's my story.Janet Spaethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14495937200749703773noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-980414242150666386.post-73378527152360114752010-06-22T08:26:00.000-07:002010-06-22T08:36:18.720-07:00Saying something niceYesterday I had the chance to say <em>THANK YOU</em> to two people who had really helped me out. One was a woman who had shaped my life--thanks to her, I found a love of children's and YA books and libraries, all of which made me a reader, a writer, and a librarian. She and her family became my family, and I love her and her family dearly.<br /><br />The other was a woman who had helped me through my recent surgery. I could have done it myself (well, not the surgery! HA!) but it would have been a frustrating, worrisome process. Thanks to her, it was smooth sailing through paperwork and phone calls. She encouraged me, and I am grateful for her support.<br /><br />It felt extremely good to say, "Thank you," to these wonderful women. And I hope it made them feel good too.<br /><br />When I lived in Albuquerque, I had a poster that said something along the lines of: "Not only to love, but to be told that I am loved. The realm of silence is large enough beyond the grave." The poster didn't make it through many moves (it was beautiful though--a true hippie poster) but I still carry it in my heart.Janet Spaethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14495937200749703773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-980414242150666386.post-10893212139989467972010-06-14T15:51:00.000-07:002010-06-14T16:20:39.556-07:00If you can't say something niceMy mom used to say, "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all."<br /><br />That's not the reason I haven't posted for a month. Blame a book deadline and a second round of orthoscopy for that.<br /><br />No, my mom was probably right. In the way of all moms, she usually was.<br /><br />BUT--here's the deal.<br /><br />We're talking about ME. I talk. A lot. And if something really cranks my cord, I'll say something to someone. My problem is that I tend not to tell the person who has me upset.<br /><br />I'm nonconfrontational. Always have been. I'm a pacificist. A vegetarian (for the most part). A nod-and-smiler. If you disagree with me, I might state my case and move on, because I have never found that arguments in a bar or a living room or at work have produced effective change.<br /><br />Yeah. In other words, I'm a wuss.<br /><br />But I will talk to someone else about it. My poor friends, they've heard it all. One in particular has been getting emails from me, probably 10 a day, regarding something that has my knickers in a knot. It has nothing to do with her, mind you, except that she's my friend and, as such, is forced to listen to me.<br /><br />So I try to keep it entertaining. I figure I owe it to her. And I've found that the angrier I am, the more hurt I am, the more frustrated I am, the funnier I am.<br /><br />Who knew? Yes, out of these negative emotions come the redeeming quality of FUNNY. And she gets into it too, so that our emails are, honestly, going to be in a book of their own one day. She and I together are snort-your-white-zin-out-your-nose funny.<br /><br />It heals, laughter does. It eases the fact that someone has dug in and injured your soul in a way that is desperately painful. It takes those slights and makes them slight. It forces ignorance and rudeness out into the light and pokes them with a stick.<br /><br />If you can't say something nice, say something funny.<br /><br />Go figure, huh, Mom?Janet Spaethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14495937200749703773noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-980414242150666386.post-47278064221824630282010-05-18T20:50:00.000-07:002010-05-18T21:14:30.742-07:00Whack-a-mole editingI got the manuscript done! Of course, right at the end, the worrywart part of my mind (which is actually a HUGE part of my mind) kicked in, and editing became whack-a-mole. You know what I mean, don't you?<br /><br />Example: I was in the shower yesterday morning, feeling quite confident and good about the book, when this stray thought popped into this mess of chaos I call my brain: <em>Wouldn't he have known she was a widow from her job application?</em><br /><br />See? Simple little thing, right?<br /><br />Oh, of course it wasn't. For one thing, I was in the shower. No computer in the shower (it's kind of bad for them). And I was in there because I was getting ready for work, and that's an uninterruptable process. So I had to wait until the afternoon to investigate.<br /><br />So I asked a co-worker, who is a writer herself and understands odd manuscript questions, and she said, <em>Sure. </em>Then, <em>Oh, maybe not.</em><br /><br />She thought, and I thought, and together we put together a couple of brain cells, and then she said, <em>That's one of those questions you're not supposed to ask--it's marital status.</em><br /><em></em><br />Okay. Whew. But it led to another question: <em>Wouldn't he have wondered, though?</em> And Karlene looked up from her cross-stitch and said, <em>Yup.</em><br /><em></em><br />Now, bear in mind she had no idea what my story was about, but she understands whack-a-mole editing.<br /><br />My heroine's marital status wasn't the mole: it was HIS knowledge of it. So, I had to whack that mole! And then all sorts of other little associated moles popped up, one in this chapter, one in that chapter, and I spent the evening doing whack-a-mole on that whole character line.<br /><br />I was way over my word limit so I deleted an entire section, and you know what that meant. I had to play whack-a-mole on every piece of that thread leading up to and following it.<br /><br />Whack. Whack. Whack.<br /><br />Finally, I emailed the manuscript.<br /><br />And then, just as I was falling asleep, guess what popped up. Yup, another mole. This one was: <em>If you deleted that entire thread, then does this other thread have any support?</em><br /><em></em><br />Well, oops. I'll email my editor and tell her I'm aware that on line edits I'll have to include some of that back in.<br /><br />It goes like that in whack-a-mole editing. Luckily I have a team of editors to work with me who make me write the best book I am capable of. I can honestly say that by the time we're through, there is very little I'd change.<br /><br />My book credits should read<em>: By Janet, JoAnne, Rachel, and Margie...and a whole lot of moles. </em>Janet Spaethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14495937200749703773noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-980414242150666386.post-61143674797985379392010-05-08T22:03:00.000-07:002010-05-08T22:06:47.640-07:00Reader mail!I'm back on my publisher's <a href="http://editcafe.blogspot.com/">blog</a> where a reader comment was posted. And it's a really good, humbling one!<br /><br />Click on over to read it, and leave a comment yourself!<br /><br />Now, back to writing another book that will be loved by someone--I hope!<br /><br />(And Happy Mother's Day!)Janet Spaethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14495937200749703773noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-980414242150666386.post-80831204060773037092010-05-03T20:40:00.001-07:002010-05-03T20:41:44.591-07:00I'm on Editcafe!I'm talking about my Minnesota series on my publisher's blog, <a href="http://editcafe.blogspot.com/">Editcafe</a>. Stop by and say hello!Janet Spaethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14495937200749703773noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-980414242150666386.post-82172111292932608622010-04-13T17:00:00.000-07:002010-04-13T17:04:57.595-07:00ME! Guest blogging!I'm the guest this week at the Heartsong blog. Stop by, leave a comment, win a book! What could be easier??? Well, sitting where you are and watching "As the World Turns" would be easier, but do it anyway!<br /><br />See you at...<br /><a href="http://heartsong-authors.blogspot.com/">http://heartsong-authors.blogspot.com/</a><br /><br />Later this week I share insights into the deep, dark recesses of my mind and how I mine those same recesses to create my characters.Janet Spaethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14495937200749703773noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-980414242150666386.post-48541877711956468022010-04-02T17:20:00.000-07:002010-04-02T17:53:41.232-07:00Lessons from the Grocery CartI have been grocery shopping. I went at 5:30 pm.<br /><br />I can feel your sympathy.<br /><br />But it wasn't all for naught. Listen, O Grasshopper. Learn my lessons.<br /><br /><em>Lesson 1: If you go to the grocery store and you haven't brushed your hair or put on make-up and you are wearing a shirt with a peace sign and enough cat hair to create a new kitten, HE will also be shopping.</em> And he will see you--unless you are quick enough to duck behind the display of Froot Loops in time. Note: You will look stalkerish if someone sees you doing that, so dart with care. Oh, try not to knock the display over either.<br /><br /><em>Lesson 2: If you should happen to be standing in front of the toilet paper, trying to remember if your family loves Charmin and hates Northern, or if it's the other way round, avoid having a conversation with yourself about it because you never know who's right behind you. </em>I barely escaped that last week. I don't *think* he heard me. I actually one time got caught standing in front of the tea and talking to it. Not loudly, mind you. I was simply wondering which ones were black tea, because I don't understand things like green tea and herbal tea, which are not teas at all in my mind--they're brewed lawn clippings. But I turned around and the Most Gorgeous Man I have ever seen was watching me, smiling. Why didn't I strike up a conversation? Well, see Lesson 1.<br /><br /><em>Lesson 3: No matter how many times you go to the store, no matter how many stores you go to, no matter how many times you have it on a list, no matter how many times you check that list, you will forget the item you came for. </em>I am typing this in very faint light. I might have forgotten light bulbs.<br /><br /><em>Lesson 4: The shopping crowd at 5:30 pm on a holiday weekend is made of People With Missions. Do not mess with them. </em>Nobody goes to the grocery store at 5:30 any night, especially a holiday weekend night, because they want to see if Dr. Pepper just happens to have a new flavor. No, they're there because they have A Mission. They have no choice. They've been working all day and they're tacking this onto the end of the day. Or they're making dinner and realize they're fresh out of cardamom. Or a tiny little somebody in the family is freaking out because there is NO MILK and how can we possibly eat without MILK?<br /><br />This last lesson is quite important. I saw it in action this evening. Imagine, if you will....<br /><br />A middle-aged woman is striding toward the grocery store with her Mission clearly in mind. She is walking so purposely that she looks like the QE II parting the waters. A driver cuts a bit too closely to her, and she says, without moving her eyes or breaking her pace:<br /><br /><em>"That was a stop sign, you a$$."</em><br /><br />He says something to her and she replies, still looking straight ahead and gliding through the parking lot:<br /><br /><em>"Back at ya."</em><br /><em></em><br />I wanted to ask for her autograph, I was so impressed, but she sailed into the store, ready to tackle her Mission.<br /><em></em><br />Thus endeth today's lesson. Learn well, Grasshopper.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="left"> </div>Janet Spaethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14495937200749703773noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-980414242150666386.post-40602991150834008482010-03-14T12:56:00.001-07:002010-03-14T13:24:32.024-07:00Daylight Crazy TimeOne of my favorite songs from my youth was "Does Anybody Really Knows What Time It Is?" (by Chicago). And today--the first day of DST--anybody's guess is as good as mine. How many people showed up at church just as the benediction was being pronounced? Arrived an hour late for work? Or, like me, are just off-kilter today?<br /><br />I suppose that there *are* people in the world who merrily spring forward (I think that's what we were supposed to do) but I'm not one of them. And here's why:<br /><br />1. I don't spring anywhere. I'm having knee surgery again, though, and hopefully that will aid my springability.<br />2. I don't know about spring forward/backward and fall forward/backward. First off, I have to decide which we're doing. I can get the spring/fall business just fine, but the forward/backward stuff? Could we a bit more helpful, please? I have fallen forward (see knee surgery above) and I have definitely sprung backwards (hello, little mouse last year!).<br /><br />Plus I don't do this merrily at all. I'm a bit cranky today because I had to find all the clocks that don't automatically reset themselves, and ignore the ones that do reset themselves, and hope that I haven't forgotten any of them. It's like "Sleeping Beauty" but instead of forgetting a spindle and making the castle sleep for a hundred years, forgetting one clock can make you an hour late for everything.<br /><br />And if you do the wrong thing with the clock, you can be TWO hours off. For instance, if today at noon I moved the hands backward one hour, I might think it was 11 instead of 1, when actually it's 12, but 12 is now 1.<br /><br />Oh, the pressure!<br /><br />Plus I simply don't get why we do this. We don't save *any* daylight. Daylight is daylight, and days come and go despite how you plead for them to slow down or to be brighter or sunnier or whatever.<br /><br />This just messes up our carefully calibrated Circadian cycles. Today I read an <a href="http://abclocal.go.com/kfsn/story?section=news/health/health_watch&id=7317184">article </a>that says DST contributes to heart attacks when we move the clocks forward...5% increase in the first days of DST!<br /><br />Someone, please try to convince me that there is some good reason for this. And hurry--I have to change the clock in my car which requires getting out the manual, trying to figure out what it actually means (the manual is, like so many car manuals, apparently written by monkeys), and pushing buttons until the radio is stuck on a grunge station, the heater is on at Vulcan blast level, and the windshield wipers are whipping full tilt. Then I'll give up and call in my teenaged son who will, with a sigh and a 30-second investment of his time, fix it all for me.<br /><br />You'll have to excuse me if I'm not in the DST fan club.Janet Spaethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14495937200749703773noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-980414242150666386.post-74619649821922631582010-02-21T19:03:00.001-08:002010-02-21T19:32:10.771-08:00The thrilling days of yesteryear???A long time ago I had boyfriends. That was, of course, before I became Mrs. Spaeth, which ended all that kind of stuff. (There are a lot of benefits to marriage. Not having to deal with any more boyfriends is right at the top of that list.)<br /><br />The other evening some friends and I were indulging in reminiscing about old boyfriends. Interestingly, we'd all given the heave-ho to guys who'd gone on to great wealth (and, in one case, fame). What this says about us, I don't know, but it's interesting. Well, it was to me.<br /><br />Anyway.<br /><br />We had a great time, drinking wine and talking about The Boys We Left Behind. Oh dear ex-boyfriends, wouldn't you like to hear that we miss you? That we made a horrendous error in judgment when we said it was over? That our lives have been sad, sodden messes without you?<br /><br />Ain't gonna happen.<br /><br />No, we all said, "Whew! Dodged *that* bullet!"<br /><br />And then we went on to talk about something that was much more compelling. Thanks to the internet and idle curiosity (rarely a good combination but it has its moments), we'd located the Ex-Bs. So we wondered: <em>Should we contact them? Why? What would we say? </em>A HUGE part of us wanted to say something very mature and adult, you know, along the lines of, "Neener, neener, neener! Look at me now!"<br /><br />I don't know. I have no interest in beginning a new--what would it be? friendship?--with my ex-fiance. He's got a family. So do I. And luckily they're not the same. (Did I just say that?) (Was it too mean?) (Nah.) He's 180 degrees from me politically and religously, things I take very seriously.<br /><br />Plus he wasn't the rich guy. (Okay, that was snarky.)<br /><br />So the question du jour for you, precious reader, is this: Have you ever looked up an old boyfriend online? Did you contact him? And how did it all end?<br /><br />Inquiring (and snoopy) minds want to know.Janet Spaethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14495937200749703773noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-980414242150666386.post-38684008163293330162010-02-13T20:53:00.001-08:002010-02-13T21:42:23.654-08:00Happy Valentine's DayI like Valentine's Day a lot. The colors are perfect for the last holiday of winter: cherry red and strawberry pink and bright vanilla white. They're the opposite of the colors that ushered winter in--the fall palette of butterscotch and pumpkin and caramel (okay, I am teeny bit hungry).<br /><br />This holiday celebrates love, and I like that. It's important. The more that we struggle against people who just can't get along--whether it's war or bullying or a simple argument--the more we need the solid glow of love to keep us on an even keel.<br /><br />How are you celebrating Valentine's Day? Remember the four kinds of love: <em>Eros, Philia, Storge,</em> and<em> Agape. </em>It's not necessary (though nice, very very nice) to have a snuggle-bunny on February 14th and celebrate <em>Eros</em>. You could call a parent or a sibling or your children, and revel in <em>Storge </em>love. Tell your friends how much they enrich your life in honor of <em>Philia</em>. Perhaps you'll celebrate <em>Agape</em> love, and donate to the Red Cross so that those in Haiti might know a better tomorrow.<br /><br />It's not a bad idea, you know.<br /><br />The Beatles said it so well: <em>The love you take is equal to the love you make</em>.Janet Spaethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14495937200749703773noreply@blogger.com3