Summertime is--well, it's one of those things in life that never seems to quite live up to its hype. It's full of promise but lately it hasn't been coming through at all well.
It seems like summer is when the you-know-what hits the fan, and why wouldn't it be? It's summer! The fans are on!
I haven't blogged in almost 2 months. And here's what's happened:
1. I had surgery that I'm not recovering from the way I'd hoped. I'm giving up.
2. The plumbing in my house--oh, sigh.
3. This is the worst: a woman died. Not just any woman, but one whom I'd known for almost 40 years, one who gave me my husband, one who loved me. My life has a huge hole in it now, with only memories to fill it in.
There's a month left in summer. I'm going to try to redeem those last 31 days. I'm going to go to the Saturday Market. I'm going to feel the sun on my shoulders and get a sunburn. I'm going to sit in the back yard and read a book and drink iced tea. I'm going to see a movie, preferably one with Johnny Depp in it, and I don't care what the reviews are.
I'm going to clean my house, every single room, and then I'm going to have a garage sale. I'm going to knit a scarf. I'm going to watch TV, and I'm going to take my kids out for ice cream, and I'm going to tell them I love them.
I'm going to finish the long-overdue book that I'm writing, and then I'm not going to write for the rest of the month. I'm going to eat a whole thing of strawberries by myself. I'm going to paint my toenails purple. I'm going to sign up for French class.
But here's what I'm NOT going to do: I'm not standing in front of any fan!!!
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Monday, June 8, 2009
It's all about me
I have some secret talents that I am about to un-secret by telling you. Be prepared. You will be impressed.
When I was a kid, my career goal was to be a spy or a PI or something like that. That, of course, requires special skills, and the public school system didn't teach them (busy with math and English and history and such), so I had to teach myself. They are:
*I can read upside down.
*I can write upside down.
*I can write backwards with my left hand.
*I can toss a room and you'd never know I was in there.
*I can breathe so shallowly you'd think I wasn't breathing at all.
Nancy Drew would be so jealous.
When I was a kid, my career goal was to be a spy or a PI or something like that. That, of course, requires special skills, and the public school system didn't teach them (busy with math and English and history and such), so I had to teach myself. They are:
*I can read upside down.
*I can write upside down.
*I can write backwards with my left hand.
*I can toss a room and you'd never know I was in there.
*I can breathe so shallowly you'd think I wasn't breathing at all.
Nancy Drew would be so jealous.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Going to Rehab
Maybe it's the curse of having teenagers, but when I hear "Rehab" I think Amy Winehouse. Here, though, "Rehab" is the place I go for physical therapy for post-op knee stuff. The only thing I'm in withdrawl from is walking.
Had a good experience there last week. I was sitting outside on a bench, waiting for my ride, when a woman wearing a bright lime green outfit, her head topped with a big puff of white hair, laboriously pushed a walker toward me. She sank gratefully onto the bench and pulled out a cigarette. She lit it, took a big draw from it, and said to me, "Pain sucks."
And there you have it.
Had a good experience there last week. I was sitting outside on a bench, waiting for my ride, when a woman wearing a bright lime green outfit, her head topped with a big puff of white hair, laboriously pushed a walker toward me. She sank gratefully onto the bench and pulled out a cigarette. She lit it, took a big draw from it, and said to me, "Pain sucks."
And there you have it.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Clean-up on aisle 4!
I just finished a mystery by a favorite writer, and once again I laid it aside at the end with a sigh. And it wasn't a happy sigh, either.
You're all heard my rants on this before: Punctuation errors, POV switches that are baffling to track, people changing names, story threads simply abandoned--what is going on?
In this case, the most startling error was a reference early on to a conversation that I couldn't find, even upon backtracking. Ah, but I found it several chapters later.
As soon as I saw the conversation appear later on, I knew what had happened. She had changed her mind about where something should be (and rightly so--it did belong later in the book) but she hadn't caught all the little threads associated with it when she moved it.
I immediately wanted to send all of my editors HUGE baskets of flowers. They catch my strays. I can't imagine something like this would have slipped past them, and I'm increasingly grateful for their help!
Yes, I imagine them out there with my manuscript, a mop, a roll of paper towels, and some 409, doing their own version of clean-up on aisle 4. Thank you!!!
You're all heard my rants on this before: Punctuation errors, POV switches that are baffling to track, people changing names, story threads simply abandoned--what is going on?
In this case, the most startling error was a reference early on to a conversation that I couldn't find, even upon backtracking. Ah, but I found it several chapters later.
As soon as I saw the conversation appear later on, I knew what had happened. She had changed her mind about where something should be (and rightly so--it did belong later in the book) but she hadn't caught all the little threads associated with it when she moved it.
I immediately wanted to send all of my editors HUGE baskets of flowers. They catch my strays. I can't imagine something like this would have slipped past them, and I'm increasingly grateful for their help!
Yes, I imagine them out there with my manuscript, a mop, a roll of paper towels, and some 409, doing their own version of clean-up on aisle 4. Thank you!!!
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Concert YUM!
Elton John and Billy Joel. Together. How much better can it get? The concert was absolutely wonderful. The music was incredible!
I have what I call my "die-happy" moments, those when I can click off another thing that I've always wanted to do. Last night was one. Singing "Piano Man" with both Billy Joel and Elton John and a couple thousand other people was one of those moments. They stopped and let us sing it back to them. Wow. Just wow.
Now I have Jackson Browne in my sights for the next guy to see. I do like Jackson Browne!
But I do have a question for those people who do group seating: Why, oh why, must you link together folding chairs (no arm rests--one just hooks to the next one) and expect us to sit there for 3 hours? Bear in mind, I'm no physics chick but I do know how big a folding chair seat is and how big a human bottom is. They're meant to be approximately the same size.
And in most humans, the shoulders are about the same width, perhaps a bit bigger. See the problem developing?
Plus, my friends, those things hanging off our shoulders? ARMS? They add about six inches to the top area. So you've got people who are sitting, literally cheek-to-cheek, and what on earth are they supposed to do with their shoulders and arms?
We're given 14 inches of concert real-estate and a whole row of sixteen people have to somehow each accomodate the extra six inches of arm per person? That's 96 extra inches that have to somehow find a place to stay for three hours. Squish City!
This also happened at a writers conference I went to. The chairs were hooked together like that. I'm sensing a trend that must be stopped. (Along with wild dancing--an issue not at writers conferences but yowza, last night! To the chick in front of us: You fell several times. You sat on people. You hit people with your waving arms. No more beer for you, please. You way exceeded your given 14 inches. That's why those around you left.)
However, I am delighted that I got to see these two legends. I just won't go to the same venue again, unless I can be sure I have literally better seating.
I have what I call my "die-happy" moments, those when I can click off another thing that I've always wanted to do. Last night was one. Singing "Piano Man" with both Billy Joel and Elton John and a couple thousand other people was one of those moments. They stopped and let us sing it back to them. Wow. Just wow.
Now I have Jackson Browne in my sights for the next guy to see. I do like Jackson Browne!
But I do have a question for those people who do group seating: Why, oh why, must you link together folding chairs (no arm rests--one just hooks to the next one) and expect us to sit there for 3 hours? Bear in mind, I'm no physics chick but I do know how big a folding chair seat is and how big a human bottom is. They're meant to be approximately the same size.
And in most humans, the shoulders are about the same width, perhaps a bit bigger. See the problem developing?
Plus, my friends, those things hanging off our shoulders? ARMS? They add about six inches to the top area. So you've got people who are sitting, literally cheek-to-cheek, and what on earth are they supposed to do with their shoulders and arms?
We're given 14 inches of concert real-estate and a whole row of sixteen people have to somehow each accomodate the extra six inches of arm per person? That's 96 extra inches that have to somehow find a place to stay for three hours. Squish City!
This also happened at a writers conference I went to. The chairs were hooked together like that. I'm sensing a trend that must be stopped. (Along with wild dancing--an issue not at writers conferences but yowza, last night! To the chick in front of us: You fell several times. You sat on people. You hit people with your waving arms. No more beer for you, please. You way exceeded your given 14 inches. That's why those around you left.)
However, I am delighted that I got to see these two legends. I just won't go to the same venue again, unless I can be sure I have literally better seating.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Happy new year--really!
I think it might be spring. Finally. At last. And may I say, It's about time. Winter has pretty much worn out its welcome.
So now I have Spring Fever. Time to clean. Time to dump stuff. Time to move forward.
And that's what it's all really about, isn't it? Moving forward. I always think of spring as the first season of the year, which is silly since the year is already three months old--three months of hardcore winter--and the fourth is undecided. Well. So be it.
I feel energized--well, that's a bit strong. I'm not energized. I'm ready. That's the word. Ready. Ready for change. Ready to shed old skin and try on something new.
If I were going to make resolutions, I'd do it now rather than on a nightmarishly cold night in the midst of winter. I'd do it while the world is tilting into something new.
I have some writing goals for this next year, and we'll see how that all goes. I also have some house goals (does it EVER end?)
What about you?
Happy new year! Spring is here!
So now I have Spring Fever. Time to clean. Time to dump stuff. Time to move forward.
And that's what it's all really about, isn't it? Moving forward. I always think of spring as the first season of the year, which is silly since the year is already three months old--three months of hardcore winter--and the fourth is undecided. Well. So be it.
I feel energized--well, that's a bit strong. I'm not energized. I'm ready. That's the word. Ready. Ready for change. Ready to shed old skin and try on something new.
If I were going to make resolutions, I'd do it now rather than on a nightmarishly cold night in the midst of winter. I'd do it while the world is tilting into something new.
I have some writing goals for this next year, and we'll see how that all goes. I also have some house goals (does it EVER end?)
What about you?
Happy new year! Spring is here!
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Why I'm not a doctor
Today I decided to roast a turkey. I'm not a big meat-eater. Actually, if it weren't for bacon I'd probably be a vegetarian.
This wasn't the first time I've roasted a turkey. Over the years I've learned that there are surprise packages inside the turkey. Don't ask me why--and please, don't tell me, either. But there are. There's a mysterious paper or plastic wrapped bundle that I suspect contains something people call gizzards--and they're just as dreadful as their name implies. And there's also an icky bit that I think is a neck. It's huge and ugly and disgusting. I throw them all out.
I'll confess: I roasted a lot of turkeys before I remembered to take these things out. It became a family joke that I'd forget about them.
But not today. The little package is right there, and I throw it away pronto. Then, to get that long ooky thing--well, that requires something that usually only a veterinarian should have to do. Sticking my hand up inside the bird.
It's gross. Really, it is. But that's what you've got to do if you're going to roast a turkey, so I grimace and reach inside.
Or try to. I can't get my hand in there. I push and shove and twist, and no go. Finally I give up and decide to roast the turkey with that nasty piece inside of it.
So one last rinse with water--and what do I see? I've been digging in the wrong end of the turkey!
Color me embarrassed. I retrieve the offending bit, add it to the trash, and pop the bird in the oven.
Later, I take it out. I'm irked that this turkey, which comes from a well-known, top-of-the-line turkey company, doesn't have an "I'm done!" pop-up thing on it.
But worse--it just kind of looks odd. There aren't really legs, and it's an odd dark color. I carve into it, and it's dark meat, and not much at all. It's bones!
I'm starting to get steamed now, and, to tell the truth, sort of freaked. What is this thing?
Well, guess what. I have it upside down in the pan. I'm not carving the breast! I'm carving its, well, you know. Its underpinnings, if you get my drift.
I know that some chefs say this is the best way, and honestly, it turned out wonderfully.
And this explains why I'd make a terrible doctor. I can't tell the neck from the (ahem) bottom, and the breast from the back. Someone would come to me with a sore throat and I'd say....
This wasn't the first time I've roasted a turkey. Over the years I've learned that there are surprise packages inside the turkey. Don't ask me why--and please, don't tell me, either. But there are. There's a mysterious paper or plastic wrapped bundle that I suspect contains something people call gizzards--and they're just as dreadful as their name implies. And there's also an icky bit that I think is a neck. It's huge and ugly and disgusting. I throw them all out.
I'll confess: I roasted a lot of turkeys before I remembered to take these things out. It became a family joke that I'd forget about them.
But not today. The little package is right there, and I throw it away pronto. Then, to get that long ooky thing--well, that requires something that usually only a veterinarian should have to do. Sticking my hand up inside the bird.
It's gross. Really, it is. But that's what you've got to do if you're going to roast a turkey, so I grimace and reach inside.
Or try to. I can't get my hand in there. I push and shove and twist, and no go. Finally I give up and decide to roast the turkey with that nasty piece inside of it.
So one last rinse with water--and what do I see? I've been digging in the wrong end of the turkey!
Color me embarrassed. I retrieve the offending bit, add it to the trash, and pop the bird in the oven.
Later, I take it out. I'm irked that this turkey, which comes from a well-known, top-of-the-line turkey company, doesn't have an "I'm done!" pop-up thing on it.
But worse--it just kind of looks odd. There aren't really legs, and it's an odd dark color. I carve into it, and it's dark meat, and not much at all. It's bones!
I'm starting to get steamed now, and, to tell the truth, sort of freaked. What is this thing?
Well, guess what. I have it upside down in the pan. I'm not carving the breast! I'm carving its, well, you know. Its underpinnings, if you get my drift.
I know that some chefs say this is the best way, and honestly, it turned out wonderfully.
And this explains why I'd make a terrible doctor. I can't tell the neck from the (ahem) bottom, and the breast from the back. Someone would come to me with a sore throat and I'd say....
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