Something's gotta give

I. MUST. Do something about my life. Seriously.
Maybe if I put down on cyber-paper exactly what I need/want to do and then outline a plan and daily check off what I've accomplished.....BWAHAHAHAAAaaaaahhhhh...yeah, that's totally not me.
I'll at least do this:

I need to quit smoking. I HAVE TO. I'm 36; I've been smoking off and on since I was 19. The little sticks of joy control my every waking moment. I love them. LOVE smoking, which is absolutely disgusting, right? I'm terrified to quit, which is something I've done about 452 times over the years. I did do one thing right: I quit when I found out I was preggers and didn't touch 'em for three years. Almost didn't even miss them, amazingly enough. Then, you know the story, I go to a party, my best friend is smoking, I'm out for a rare evening of freedom and I"m drinking and BAM! Next thing I know I'm sucking on those coffin nails like a starving man. Woman. Whatever. The point is, I'm so hooked on the nicotine that every little puff I take is simply a burst of happiness in my brain.
The worst part? Well, not the worst maybe, but definitely the most annoying. I'm a secret anti-social smoker. I don't want anyone to know that I smoke. My parents and I have this lovely dysfunctional little dance that we've done my entire adult life where I pretend I don't smoke and they pretend they don't know that I smoke. My raspy voice? Allergies, obviously. Bad breath? Musta been the pound of feta cheese I eat every day, mum, I dunno. WTF? And forget about telling friends, unless I know they're not going to judge me for it. I mean, let's be real, smokers are the new lepers. Nobody wants to be around them and look on them with a mixture of pity and disgust. So, I huddle in my back patio by the garage, in a corner where no one can see me, running into the garage if a neighbor happens to come out and might smell it. Pathetic. yup, that's me.
The other worst part? My daughter is now old enough to know what I'm doing, since they do the whole anti-tobacco thing at school. She keeps telling me to quit, I keep telling her I will, she keeps busting me, and Ta-da! She gets a few years in therapy as an adult because her mom lied to her. Or died early of cancer. I should probably not do that to the person I love the most.

So.

I need to feel the fear and do it anyway, or some such new-agey crapola. I'll bust out the last of the nicotine gum I bought 2 years ago and occasionally munch on when I attempt to quit. That stuff is fairly nasty, but better than being a screaming banshee. I'm a nightmare when I'm coming down from the nicky. What I really need is to hole up in a cabin in the remote woods for three weeks and have no one to yell at but myself. I'll just stock it with books, my laptop and about 94 bags of cheetos and I'll be fine. Fat, but fine.

Ok. That's that. One down, sort of, I just need to set a date. Okay....my quit date will be....hmmmm, when is my period? Uh, I'm going to go with SATURDAY. This Saturday, November 1st, 2008. Look, I've written a big Q on my calendar. I'll just tell my mom that it means that I'm renting the movie "Quigley Down Under" that day. Loves me some Tom Selleck.

Yup. Doin' it. Yes I am. Wish me luck.

Rutting sounds like it should be a fun word.

I am in a rut. R-U-T. Rut. Rutting. Rut-rutty-rut-rut.

Which backward is only one letter away from being brown and smelly. Well, almost. You have to switch the R and the U around...oh, balls. See what I get when I try to be clever?

I'm just so....ick. Nothing is going on, I am making nothing happen, my world is caught in a bizarre spin of nothingness. I do nothing, even though I have much to do, I talk to no one, even though there a myriad of people I want to talk to, I just....linger and wallow and sit.

I know what I need to do to get out of it, I do.

Not being able to expend the effort to do so just makes it that much more depressing.

Rut.

My UnSmooth Moment

Today I had a funny thing happen. Funny things don't often happen to me, at least not with an adult context to them. Most of the funny things that happen to me involve mud, something plastic and some part of my daughter or her friends' hair. So I'm sharing. Mostly to see if I can get on the Bob and Tom Show , only the funniest morning radio show in the country.

My friend Sara, who is my lovely, funny, smart little bibliophile, is also my tactless bitch-sistah and potty-mouth partner. We often send surreptitious text messages to each other's phones when something funny and/or irritating is happening, or when she goes to the gym without me and the hot firefighters show up. It's like they know I'm staying home in my smelly fat pants that day. Sheesh. I never get to see the hot firefighters work out. (Not that I want to, honey, it's just an odd coincidence....)Anyway. I digress.

So I'm enjoying a quiet lunch out on my own (hell froze over--uh, my parents had the daughter while I was at acupuncture), and my phone gives the happy text chirp. I, feeling oh-so-hip, flip it open and read:
"_______________ is a fucking brat from hell". Or some such similar wording. Now, I know the child to whom she is referring, and yes, sadly that child is nothing but a fucking brat. We've all tried to feel differently about it but it's simply a fact: she's a fucking brat with a fucking clueless mother who thinks it's amusing. I feel for Sara, who is trapped at a church activity with her. So I sympathetically text back:
"No shit, Sherlock."
To which she replies:
"HOLY FUCK"
I chuckle, close my phone and leisurely finish my bagel and chai.

Flash forward an hour or two. I've driven 18 miles to my grandmother's house, to retrieve my daughter and have a visit. My aunt is in town today and tomorrow and I haven't seen her for a while. We talk, we laugh, we listen to my grandma bitch so sweetly about the time the church ladies barged into her hospital room when she'd broken her hip and wouldn't leave until she said "Please go and don't come back." I love my grandma. My aunt is pretty cool, too. She's 50 but looks about 40, wears designer everything and parties like it's 1999.
It's time to go home, the daughter is tired and figety, I have to drive in traffic back across the valley, I'm a little loopy from the acupuncture. I get the whiny grandpa-stimulated child into the car, hug people and promise to visit again soon, head home.

Around dinnertime, the phone begins to ring. We have a rule: we don't answer the phone at dinner. It's family time. If it's an emergency, people will keep calling and/or call the cel, which I will check if it keeps ringing. But tonight my cel never rang so I didn't worry much. Basically, if any part of your body is on fire and/or hanging over a cliff around 6 pm, call 911 or just plan on hitting redial.
After dinner, I check the voicemail. First, it's Sara:
"Call me. Now. Call my cel. Or my work. Call me. Call me now. Dammit. Call me." Huh. That sounds kinda important.
Next message. It's my aunt.
"Nessa, you left your phone here (she's breezy and chuckling), and I thought it was Mom's. I deleted some stuff from your messages. Teehee. I think I scared your friend. Hee. Uh, call grandma's house."
Oh.
Shit.
I call Sara first.
"First of all, I'm NEVER meeting your grandmother or your aunt. Gawd. Second of all, what the hell? Do you not delete old text messages? Dude, your aunt scared the crap out of me. I didn't know who the hell I'd texted what to!"

Apparently my well-meaning aunt thought my phone was my grandma's. She has one, and can never remember how to use it. So every once in a while my aunt or my dad will give her a refresher course in how to find the contacts and how to dial and to remind her she doesn't need to listen for a dial tone before calling out.

Auntie noticed there were text messages in the inbox. And read them. And was appalled that someone would send such things to an 82-year-old-woman. My aunt is a tough cookie, and she called back and let Sara have it. Sara is a tough cookie as well, but crumbled under the assault and shame and confusion of having sent the F-word and other choice tidbits to an old lady.

After laughing til I about peed, I assured her that my aunt was really cool, and that my grandma would probably laugh when it was explained to her.
Which she did, mostly, but was shocked that one of my friends would use "such nasty language".
"I know, Grandma, you'll have to excuse Sara. She was having a really bad day and having to deal with a really unpleasant person. She's sorry. I'm sorry. Sorry, Grandma."

She's sending home my phone tomorrow, with my dad when he takes my aunt to the airport. It'll probably be sealed in a ziploc baggie, reinforced with duct tape.

Maybe it's time to stop using the "F-word."

Do YOU have any good "unsmooth moments?" (Not affiliated with Keystone, Keystone Light or the Bob and Tom show. Just me. Wanting to see if anyone else is such a fucking idiot. Oops.)

Countdown

Ten Things I Wish I Could Say to Ten Different People Right Now:
1) I love you like a sister. But there is someone else in your life that is damaging all of your other relationships.
2) I swore I would never, ever say this to another stay-at-home-mom, but: What the Hell do you do all day? Your house is a health hazard, I can smell it on those rare occasions when you crack open a window. Your kids are cute but they smell too and watching them try to run or think makes my heart hurt. Either get help or stop having babies or both. I think you're a really great and interesting person, but come on. You are a grown up. Stop eating candy for breakfast and letting (or making) your kids stay up until midnight and wash a fucking dish now and then.
3) I miss you. Our friendship taught me a lot about how to be a gracious, generous person and I miss that. Unfortunately, I'm in a place right now where the parts of you I don't like outweigh the parts I miss.
4) Look, assbag: I don't care if you have a really nice car and you like to park in the handicap space because then no one's doors will bump your car. I'm not going to say I've never been tempted to park there, when there are ten empties and I'm in a hurry. But really, unless you forgot to put up your handicapped placard before you got out, I'm going to assume that you're just a selfish, lazy, holier-than-thou slut with a mental retardation issue. Then I'm going to key your little red Infinity.
5) How ya like me now?
6) I'm so incredibly proud of you, and jealous of you. You are an amazing person who sets goals and then actually achieves them. I want to be like you.
7) You're one of my favorite people in the whole world. No one has ever understood me like you do or forgiven me more for being a lazy friend. You kick ass.
8) I probably don't deserve you. Thanks for being tolerant of that fact.
9) She was wrong, about all of it. I hope you believe that, I hope you look around and see how many people adore and are in awe of you.
10) Get a life.

Nine Things About Myself:
1) I can be incredibly lazy. I've made it an art form.
2) I love school. I would go back to college and get about 5 more degrees if I could.
3) I have very little patience for fucktards.
4) I like my writing, but fear that in reality it's hackish crap that will never be published and I'll spend my life indignantly and ignorantly wondering why the hell I'm not getting published.
5) I really do have good intentions most of the time. They're paving my road to hell…
6) My secret guilty pleasure is watching celebrity news shows and reading People magazine. That's about all my girlfriends and I do on our little getaways.
7) I love animals. To the point that if there's an animal in the immediate vicinity I will stop and watch it and point it out to whomever I'm with.
8) Except spiders. Evil little minions of hell. Squish 'em.
9) I can out-drink almost anyone. Except Becky. (Ain't ya proud, Ma?)

Eight Ways To Win My Heart:
1) Don't talk down to me. Ever.
2) Laugh at me, with me, and at yourself.
3) Leave me the hell alone when I need it, and understand that it's not about you.
4) Play with my hair.
5) Massage. Lots of massage.
6) Love my writing.
7) Love my dogs. Laugh and Awwww at my bunnies.
8) Be nice to everyone, even if they're fucktards.

Seven Things That Cross My Mind a Lot:
1) What the hell?
2) What is my daughter doing right now?
3) Is there something on my face?
4) I should accomplish something…sometime…
5) Do I have enough booze?
6) Is anyone else thinking that daily naps should be federally mandated?
7) Oo! Look! A pigeon!

Six Things I Do Before I Fall Asleep:
1) Watch something brainless on the tube.
2) Shower
3) Brush the choppers
4) Watch the news
5) Snuggle with the man
6) Read

Five People Who Mean a Lot:
1)My family
2) Susan
3) DirtDiva
4) Sara
5) Becky

Four Things You're Wearing Right Now:
1) shirt that hides the pudginess
2) jeans
3) heels
4) my heart on my sleeve.

Three Songs That You Listen to Often:
1) Viva la Vida
2) Everything by Erasure. (That's not a song title. I literally mean everything.)
3) Theme from Barbie as Rapunzel. (not my fault….sort of…)

Two Things You Want to Do Before You Die:
1) See everything there is to see in England and Europe.
2) Spend two weeks in a tiny cabin on the beach all by myself with no contact with the outside world.

One Confession:
Ugh. I am a very insecure person who tends to freak out and withdraw when I think I've said something really stupid, which is most of the time. I'm afraid people don't like me and yet I can't seem to stop doing or saying the stupid things. I think of my friends often, but am often uncommunicative simply out of fear that I have nothing interesting to say.

What Happens in Vegas Stays in Vegas

- Wednesday


What Happens in Vegas Stays in Vegas...
Current mood: animated
Category: Travel and Places




...until some attention-whore blogger writes about it. My husband and I have been together for 12 years, married for 10. And what better way to celebrate the bond of true, committed soul-mate sacred love than to spend five glorious days in:




Sin City!

Ah, Las Vegas....that oasis in the vast desert, the strip of flashy lights and sound of money clinking happiness into someone's life, the storied town of the mafia, high-rollers, legal prostitution, glamour and drugs.

Except...now there's a castle:



and the Statue of Liberty against the Manhattan skyline:





The Forum of Ancient Rome:



across the street from the Eiffel Tower and Arc de Triomphe:






And the Mediterranean Sea


Which all led me to ask:

WTF?

What happened to the old-school Vegas glamour? Where have the good days of tackiness beyond measure and slightly slimey shenanegans gone?
Sure, sure, I've always wanted to travel the world, see the sights of old Europe. Now I think I have. But it all feels so....plastic. There's just something vaguely wrong with seeing the Statue of David in the middle of a mall. And the tributes to fallen firefighters displayed beneath a fiberglass Statue of Liberty poised at the corner of the strip of fallen dreams seemed a bit....disrespectful. Now there's talk that Disney is actually putting up a resort. Disney! The bastion of innocence and childhood joy, running a casino for parents to sit and get schnockered while the kids...what? Ride on a replica of the pretend Matterhorn? Meet the Princesses? Will the Princesses be wearing their regular costumes or will they be decked out in Vegas Showgirl glitz? I might have to go back just to see that.
The country of Dubai is in the process of building a mind-boggling ginormous complex in the center of the strip, the construction of which is on a scale of disbelief.

But, to my relief, we did find some of the comforting, familiar aspects of Vegas still exist.

Like that good old original "Welcome to Downtown Las Vegas" sign, now hardly noticeable on an island in the middle of a 4-lane split in the strip.

And, we found Fremont Street, where the lights still flash and the bells still ring.



btw, did you know that you can now buy a plastic debit card, attach it to your shirt with a spiral cord and play slots with that, instead of the good sound of coins being plunked into oblivion? No sound of crashing payoffs, just electronic beeps when one hits the jackpot. Weird.

We also found a few freaks. Like the religious fanatic with his signs and placards, standing in the middle of Fremont Street, proudly proclaiming the evils of gambling, sex and especially *whispers* homosexuality. I'm sure he did God proud. Ass. Hole.



And the homeless, while surprisingly not a strong visual presence, still find refuge in Vegas:



And the girlie vans endlessly circling the strip:




I just felt bad for the girls. It must get awful hot and boring riding around in the back of that little van.

There was also some fountain fun:



Pointing at a pee-pee:



(He's so mature...)


...and there was some gambling. Some. I love me some blackjack; it's the highlight of my year to head to Lake Tahoe with my girls and sit at a five dollar table and drink for free and have people bet on my hand. Love it. I've always been an incredibly good blackjack player, and have never lost. I average about $250 winnings every time.

Not this time. I lost. I LOST! I lost $70 in about ten minutes, and that freaked me out so badly I couldn't bring myself to sit at another table the whole week. Well, it wasn't a complete loss; I did get a good dirty martini out of it for free. Yep! A free martini that only cost me seventy bucks. I'm praying that my mojo comes back in time for this year's Tahoe adventure, otherwise I'm going to need therapy.
The husband did enjoy some video poker and a big stinky cigar though:




But the piece de resistance was the wedding.

Instead of blowing a wad of cash on seeing the Blue Man Group, we decided to make a real memory that would last and give us a chuckle. So we found the Elvis impersonator that does wedding ceremonies. We figured it would be funny, tacky and probably really trashy. We were right on the first two. But the chapel was actually very nice, the people were all very helpful, respectful and sweet, and our Elvis (other than being Sicilian and a brunette and probably gay) was just the best ever.


(Our names are up in lights behind us, but the angle is wrong to see it.)

We were by ourselves, the only witnesses were a reporter and photographer from England's The Sun newspaper, which simply set me over the edge. I was chuffed! They interviewed us and everything, and claimed that the story would run the next week and they would email me a copy. No sign of it yet, which bums me out. It would be the be-all end-all to be featured in an English paper for getting married in the tackiest, trashiest American way possible.


So, to wrap it up, finally: While not the Caribbean cruise I'd hoped for, spending five days touring "the world" on The Strip with the man I love was a perfect way to commemorate our marriage.

Thank yew. Thank yew very much. Uh huh

Rambling RandomNess

So, I've been a very good girl and have written in that book-thing every day for the past 2 weeks. At this rate, I might get it done before the 2010 deadline! With all that hard work, I figured I was due for a reward. So I'm blogging instead of noveling. Yay!

Uh, let's see....funny and interesting blog topic....hmmmmm....no....nup....not that.....crap. I'm out. Random b.s. it is.

Memorial Day. Gotta love the three day weekends. Well, if one has a real job I imagine it's nice, getting that extra day off. Funny thing; domestic goddesses don't get days off, much. We're pretty much here all the time, every day, on and on amen. There's always something to do, something to clean, someone's something to wipe. Even when my sweet hubby lets me sleep in on his day off, I still have to get up sometime. Even when my wondrous mum takes the girl over night, there's that obnoxious little buzz in the back of my brain that is ever tuned to the "what is the child doing now?" channel.

And speaking of baloney-filled holidays, I wonder when it was exactly that days like Memorial Day, Veteran's Day, and Labour Day went from being an opportunity for us as a society to take a break to remember all the people who have carried our glorious American freedoms on their back to being a day when we flaunt those glorious freedoms in almost obscene ways? Mega-sales, barbecues, pool openings, camping, yardwork; is that what it's really supposed to be about? Not that I"m complaining, really; when else can one get a mattress for the low low price of $150 and a free hot dog at the door? Politically-Correct Non-specific Deity Bless America!

So, I think I should be able to take a turn at running the world. I'm not happy with the way it's going now. Here are my first official changes in How Things Should Be:

1) It should be illegal to shut a bathroom door if no one is in there. Unless a person in doing something personal and/or embarassing, that door should be wide open to assure anyone who might need to use it that it is, indeed, vacant. No more standing meekly outside, rapping quietly on the jam, muttering "is anyone in there? Excuse me?" and then opening the door when there's no answer, only to find: Hello! Someone else in a compromising position that will be burned into one's retinas for all eternity. Nup. All bathroom doors, public and private, must remain gapingly ajar and there must be a functioning lock that must, by law, be engaged if you're a poopin'.

B: There should be two lines at the grocery store: Dumbasses and People Who Know What the Hell They're Doing.

III. I know I'm not the first person to come up with this concept, but: There should be a test and licensing procedure for anyone who even thinks about having children. It's too easy to become the person in charge of another small person and totally screw it up. You need a license to have a dog, a car, catch a fish or to be able to shoot someone. Why not a child? Or four? And don't give me that crap about freedom of genetics; there are some things that simply should be skimmed out of the gene pool.

Anyone else want to take a stab at this "being in charge" stuff? I'm tired.

I don't swim in your toilet, please don't poop in my pool.

So, I'm sort-of an avid swimmer, in that I love to swim. I was never on the team in high school, but learned to do laps in college and it's my primary form of exercise. There's nothing, for me, as freeing and calming and energizing as jumping into the pool, doing that OOH!ACK!OHFUCKIT'SCOLD dance, stretching out, putting on my dorky cap and goggles and going back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and breathe and stroke and kick and breathe and....you get it. It tends to re-set this little ADD-constant-loop-of-thoughts brain.

My daughter has also gained an appreciation of the liquid world, after a few years of step-clinging. She's a fish now, and I love it. We have a blast diving for diving rings, doing underwater flips, and of course, cannonballs off the side. And getting out every hour to go potty, whether we need to or not. And we've talked about how important it is to shower before we get into the pool, to wash off all the germs so we don't share them with the other swimmers.

Imagine my horror when I realized that not everyone does this important little scrub. In fact, almost no one does.

Once in the middle of a workout in the gym's pool (which is 25 feet long and 3 lanes wide, not large) I was the recipient of, I'm sure, some primo fecal-bacteria when a guy came bopping right off the workout floor, dripping in sweat including a rather large sweat streak right down the crack of his ass, took off his shoes and dripping sweaty socks and jumped right in. Right the fuck in. And exclaimed how fucking refreshing that was.
"Dude," says I, still wearing the so-cool cap and goggles, "you know you just flooded this pool with bacteria and sweat."
"So, it's a big pool."
You got me there, Einstein.
"Oh, right, my bad. Bacteria don't multiply. It being a closed system, I'm sure this water will all get filtered in the next month or so. I guess I don't mind swimming through your butt-sweat and athlete's foot funk. Silly me. Thank you, Dumbass, I'll be going now." And I hoisted myself out and went to the manager, who shrugged.

Last summer, all of the pools in Salt Lake Metro area were closed due to an outbreak of cryptosporidium . All of the pools. People got really sick, some almost died, we couldn't go swimming from the middle of July til almost September.

Why?

Let me give you the simple answer: Poop.

~Everybody poops. (Even you.)

~There are little tiny microorganisms living in poop. (Even yours)

~Wiping doesn't always get all the germs off the bum. (Even yours)

~Little kids often don't wipe very well. (Even yours)

~Poop and poop germs aren't always killed by chlorine. (Even in your pool)

~Swimming pools are closed systems, meaning the germs stay in it until they multiply or hit the chlorine filter. They're not going anywhere, even in a "big" pool. (Even the big big one you go to.)

~Water gets into your eyes, nose and mouth when swimming. (Even yours.)

~Poop germs will make you throw up and poop liquid until you want to die. Or do die. (Even you)

So, boys and girls to sum up: Take a cleansing shower right before you get in the pool. Shower your kids. With soap. Every time.

I know, I know: it's uncool, it's cold, it wastes precious time, the kids whine about it, it renders that first jump into the pool less refreshing, and surely YOU don't have any poop clinging to your bum.

Except you do. Poop is everywhere. Please don't bring it into my pool anymore.

Thank you.

This public service announcement has been brought to you by:

Poop.
Let's not share.

ANYONE CAN BE A BEST-SELLING AUTHOR!! (But should they be?)

June 7, 2008 - Saturday


ANYONE can be a Best-selling Author! (But should they be?)**oops, I forgot something**
Current mood: creative
Category: Writing and Poetry

So I went to a writer's conference today. My first. I haven't been to any before because 1) I don't pay enough attention to the outside world to know when they are and b: They usually cost around 150 bucks to attend, and I need to save my money for more important things like playing blackjack in Tahoe.

Being "In Charge" of a local writers' group, I recently received an email on the group's website from a publicist for a small local publisher. They were hosting a conference today, the "6-7-8 Conference" (get it?) in a tiny town an hour away. They were only charging $25 and including lunch, so BINGO! I signed up. No one else from my group did. Maybe that should have been my first clue.

I'll admit it; I'm not always good at doing my homework. I'd never heard of this publisher, but I know that there are several small publishing houses in the area, and had heard this small town was considered "progressive" for the area it is in, so figured it'd be okay. Finally Googled the place on Wednesday. It's an LDS publishing company. As in, they pretty much only publish Mormon authors writing about Mormon or local-interest books, or at least one has to mention that they are a Child Of God and know how the Golden Plates song goes in the book to get in. Not that there's anything wrong with that. This is the land of Zion, after all.

I am soooooo not a Mormon author. My book is sooooooo not mentioning the Nephites, the temple or the funny underwear in a godly way. No one is converting to the Chosen People at the end. But, what the hell; free lunch. I just planned on bee-lining it out of there if there was an opening prayer. Not that there's anything wrong with that either, but I've spent enough time being talked (down) to about the glories of the church. I get it. I'm a gentile and okay with that. I began to have some trepidations that this was mostly going to be seminars on how to incorporate the D&C into one's story arc or something. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but I don't want to. But I girded my loins and went.

It was nice, mostly. There was no coffee, obviously, but I'd anticipated that and had tanked up at home and was comfortably superhypercaffeinated at the go. There was no mention of the religious thing, the room was about a quarter full of non-Mormon authors from what I could tell, and there was absolutely no proselytizing. But still no coffee. And I kind of felt like a normal person at a job: I was bored shitless and kept wanting to sneak a look at my MySpace page.

What there was lots of was:

How to SELL YOURSELF as an author!!!

How to help your publicist SELL YOUR BOOK!!!

How to put together a Media Kit so the newspaper people will totally review your book!!!

Um. O-kay.


See, the naive babe-in-the-literary-woods thought that a writer's conference might be about....um....writing? Maybe? Like, how to strengthen a character or align a plot or maybe how to write a query letter. No. It was all about how to sell yourself and your book, no matter if it's done yet; no matter if it sucks. Sell it, baby.
**One of the presenters wanted us to each come up with a way to market ourselves, write it on a piece of paper and she would choose the best one for a prize. Not being good at this kind of thing AT ALL, I rolled my eyes and wrote:
"I could make a sandwich-board placard with my book cover on it, hang it on the Great Dane and take her for a walk at the dog park. Then I could get her a harness and pretend she's a therapy dog so we could get into the mall." Typical smartassery.

I won.

Have you ever been in a room full of authors? Let me tell you, it's like a party at the beach. If it's raining and dark and someone is insisting on playing charades. Writers, by and large, are not "people persons". They're awkward. They're socially inept. They have bad breath. That's why they write. To become someone else. (Not me, of course, this is just what I've observed...) How can these people possibly be expected to market themselves?


I was chastised for not having a "real" website and blog (Nope, MySpace doesn't count), and for not having business cards with my book title and the word "Author" after my name.

E'scuse me, WTF?


My book isn't done. I don't feel right about calling myself a "writer", much less bestow that honored title of "author" on myself, before I've been published. I don't know if my book sucks. (Haha, it doesn't suck. It's the best piece of literary awesomeness that has ever been trapped inside a Mac). I don't know if I'll ever get published, and yet, I'm supposed to act as though I already am? Am I just too humble? Is it silly of me to be a bit ashamed of the hubris it takes to do these things?

I've always considered writing to be an Art. A Craft. (Not like toll-painting or knitting; like the old-school meaning of the word). Something that one toils at, bleeds over, rends hair and shirts about, shyly keeps it close to the vest about, hopes and prays that some editor, agent and/or publisher will beg to put it on parchment and bind it together for all eternity. Amen.

Nope. It's a business. Anyone and everyone can be a best-selling author nowadays. It doesn't matter if your topic is a snore-fest, if your grammar is pure Utahvoo, if you have humans mating with eagles. Get a business card, put up a self-aggrandizing website, find ten people who like reading your crap and your in.

Sigh.


The only rays of heavenly light I saw today came from the keynote speaker (who wrote a book on how to use surfing philosophies to become a better salesman) and from the publisher himself, with whom I got to have a one on one meeting.

From the keynote speaker: "How many of you feel like you're not writing a book; but that THIS BOOK has chosen YOU to write it?"


From the publisher, who is very Mormon, and with whom I was straight in telling him that he would never publish my book: "It doesn't matter if you're following anyone's formula or writing what other people think you should be writing. I want to see a story that is written from the heart; one that means everything to someone."

Amen.

I'm going to go write now.

Doggie Style!

For those of you who clicked into here looking for pictures of a certain bored yet not-bad-looking housewife in a *ahem* canine-like compromising position, scroll down....























...a little further....






































you're almost there.....








































Here you go!



GET OFF MY PAGE, YOU PERV!

This is a family blog. I won't even use the "F" word. Maybe Peabody will even read it.

Dogs. What would we do without them?

I'm a dog person. I was once a cat person, but have decided that cats are selfish, psychotic little midgets in fur suits that like to try to suffocate me by sleeping on my face. Many have been launched across the room in the middle of the night. But that's another blog.

But a dog! They're loyal, intelligent (well, most of them, we have an exception), loving and smelly. And they stay where you put them. Unlike the feline things.

Since meeting my husband, we've had a few mutts enter our lives. Some we went looking for, some found us, some we literally tripped over and had to take home for some damn reason. So today, I'm taking a trip down memory lane to share My Life With Dogs. And to introduce our newest doggie addition.

Winnie

Winnie was the first dog my husband ever had. We returned from our first vacation together, a few months after we had started dating, to find a pair of big black Newfoundlands in his fenced back yard. We made a few inquiries of his mostly-stoned-and-unemployed-slacker buds, figuring they might know something about it, since my husband-then-boyfriend was the only one with his own house and they generally left their detritus there.
"Yeah, dude," one said, "my girlfriend, like, has these dogs, you know?"
Yes, we know that now.
"And she, like, can't keep them cuz she's like getting evicted? So, like, they just need to stay there for, like, a while. Hope that's okay, dude. Heh. Heh. "
Okay.
Turns out, both dogs were big sweeties, and pregnant. Imminently pregnant. We could feel the puppies moving, and I decided to take the most-likely-to-blow to my apartment. I had a spare bedroom, she could whelp in there. And she did, after peeing green goop all over my new carpet (a landlord's dream come true) and attacking my own dog. Once the pups were stable, I took them back to the fenced-in yard (it was summer and shady) to give my poor mutt a break. The other dog whelped soon after and we had a whopping 17 little sausages wiggling under the maple tree.
Six weeks later, The girlfriend got her act together and came to get the dogs and puppies. We were attached to them by that time and decided she wouldn't miss one, so we picked the mellowest, yellowest one and hid her, saving her from a life of living in the backseat of a Honda. Yes, the girlfriend had certainly gotten her act together.
And we got Winnie.



She was the classic big dumb dog. And sweet. Apparently Momma Dog had gotten busy with a purebred Golden Retriever, and we had to have both of Winnie's hips fixed when she was six months old. That was back before the miracle of digital cameras, otherwise I'd share the beautiful photos of her naked bum and bucket-collar.
Winnie lived with us for eight years, boucing and drooling and teasing the cats and loving the new baby we brought home. She died in 2005 of cancer.

Hobie
He was a crotchety but sweet old man when Lance found him on the Golden Retriever Rescue website. It was love at first sight between those two. He insisted on having his bed in the middle of the hall so we all had to step over him and he could protect us from all things bad, sucked on a towel, and wanted to bounce but had a bad rear leg. Lance took him everywhere; to work when he could, to the gym every evening where Hobie would wait faithfully and patiently in the car, sucking his woobie the whole time.











Hobie died of bone cancer two years ago. He's still in the back of Lance's car, his ashes and woobie memorialized until my husband finds another dog with whom he can bond so strongly. I just hope that bonding doesn't include barfing up three gallons of blech into his lap this time. Rest well, old man.


Rudy
My mother-in-law called us one day to tell us she had gotten a new dog. We laughed nervously, as she isn't always discriminating about her canine companions.
She'd found an old Golden Retriever (anyone see a pattern here?) wandering the highway near her house. No collar, no tags, not neutered, ancient and stone deaf. She called the local shelter to ask if anyone had been missing one and they said no one had alerted them to a missing Golden. She called him Rudy and set him up at her place with her Rottweiler and multitude of cats.
Two weeks later as she was walking the dogs, a neighbor stopped her and asked her about Rudy. Turns out, he belonged to a friend of this person and they were looking for him. She returned him to his owners, laughed when they said he "musta just wandered off when we let 'im out" and gave them her phone number, just in case he wandered back.
He did. Twice. And they never called her or the shelter looking for him. So, we decided he must not be that missed and would probably rather come live with us than playing chicken with semis on the highway again. (She had her hands full with the Rotti, we only had two dogs at the time, what's one more?)



This is what he did the most of. And he was the only creature in our whole family who wasn't routinely attacked by this evil devil-spawn cat. This cat loved him and followed him around. Rudy was a Good Boy.

On top of being deaf, Rudy was also mostly blind and somewhat shaky. The vet put his age at around 15. At that point, we joked that our house is The Place Where Old Goldens Come To Die.

He lived a quiet, happy life with us for a year and a half, and passed away quietly at home the day after last Christmas. That's a dog for you; he'd been on the brink for a week, dying a little at a time but wouldn't go on a day that he must have, with that odd doggie-telepathy, known was a special day. Rest quiet now, sweet old guy.

Phoebe!
Gawd. Have you ever fallen in love with someone and have no idea why? And continue to love them even though they might be neurotic and flighty and possibly *whispering* not very intelligent?
Well then you understand my relationship with the Pheebs.

I went to the pet store one day, just to get dog food. They were having a big adoption event and Grace, being three, "hadda go seeum doggees. " And there she was. I had to have this dog, this "Phoebe". I couldn't quit thinking about her and whined to Lance that I needed her until he gave in. "Fine. Three dogs is just what we need."
I've always wanted a Great Dane, they are awesomely majestic dogs. Powerful. Commanding. Serene.
Phoebe, while definitely a Dane, is none of those things.


She's goofy, neurotic, and a bit passive-aggressive. She was surrendered to the rescue by a fine, upstanding gentleman who had used her for the previous four years in a backyard-breeding puppy mill. She'd been beaten, bitten by the male, and had apparently never been out of her kennel. He finally got rid of her after five litters because she experienced complications with the last one and he had to shell out money so the pups wouldn't die. Prick. I'd like to let a male Great Dane have his way with him....

She had to learn how to navigate the stairs (which she still sounds like she's falling up every time) and was terrified of the cats and the car. She's chewed through three seatbelts in my backseat, even from behind the doggie-gate in my SUV, which I had to buy specifically to transport dogs. She had to learn to play, and it's the funniest thing EVER to watch her bounce around. She cannot CANNOT lie or sit down without a bed. When I wash her beds (which is often, because she's pretty smelly), she about has a nervous breakdown until they're ready. In fact, she once bowled me over to get them out of my hands before I could get the covers back on.


She's my Big Dumb Schweetie. And after what some uncaring a-hole put her through for four years, I think she deserves every moment of sloth she now enjoys. Stick around longer, my gal.

Morgan.
I'm probably not going to make it through this one without crying. Yep. I was right. Ahem.
I was 21 when this puppy found me. I was in college, had just moved into an apartment from my parents' house (after a stupid detour with a boy), and was working at a pet store. A litter of puppies came in for sale, and the shop owner had room for all but one of them. The puppy people said the last one was going to the pound. I looked into her little brown eyes and something just clicked. I took her home with me, instead.
And that was the beginning of a long journey. She was Golden Retriever mixed with Border Collie, and we almost didn't survive her first year. She was too smart for her own good and tried to herd everything that moved including skateboarders. She would chase a ball until she burst or your arm fell off. She destroyed Christmas ornaments and figured out locks. She and I got through the first level of competetive obedience in under six months training time (it usually takes a year or two before a dog is ready), but couldn't compete or impress the dog trainer that I worked for at the time because she was a "mixed breed". She was the ring bearer at our wedding and was offended when the baby came home, but got over it. Mostly.
She was my constant companion, my most trusted adviser, the one who was just always there.


Until she just wasn't. She left me last year after 15 years together, and it's still not something I can think about without bawling. Like now, for instance. I miss you, Little Red Dog, and will see you on the other side of the Rainbow Bridge, ready for our special greeting and a game of never-ending fetch.

Whew. Still with me? Okay then, I have one more:

Einstein
The daughter is tired of being the smallest being in the house. She wanted a dachshund or a pug. Pugs are not my favorite dogs, so I kept telling her if we found a weiner dog that needed us, we'd get it. She was excited to the point of yelling "I WANT WEINER!" out the car window one sunny afternoon after seeing someone walking their dachsies. Nice. Sssshhhh, honey, never say that again, okay?

Dachshunds are not easy to find in the rescue world. And then, out of the blue, ta-da! I found him.











He's our little man. He's a sweetie, a cuddler and is freakishly small. He's curled up in my lap right now as I type this, wagging his little tail every time I stop to stroke his llloooooonnnnngggg back. I've never had a small dog before and it takes some getting used to. Grace adores him; he sleeps happily tangled in her covers at night. And despite the size issue, he and Phoebe seem to be getting on just fine.




But she's jealous of his cool little bed. She's tried to get in it. She doesn't quite fit.
I hope he sticks around on his little stubby legs for a while.

So there it is. My Life With Dogs.

I hope you all noticed that all of our dogs have been rescues or adoptions. For a good reason. Millions of wonderful dogs are destroyed in shelters every year, given up or banished by people who either didn't have the time or the energy or the brains it takes to take care of their best friend. Please, PLEASE, if you feel you want and need a dog, do your research first. Dogs take time, patience, money and lots of love. Look at rescues first, don't ever buy from a pet store unless it's a rescue organization sponsored event, always always spay or neuter. They deserve better than what we've given them.

I don't remember who said it, but one of the best quotes I've ever read is as follows:
"Dogs aren't our whole lives, but they make our lives whole."
And
"Deal with stressful situations like a dog: if you can't eat it or play with it, pee on it and walk away."

Lecture over.

Share your dog pics and stories! Let's all do it Doggie Style!!!