You Know You’re Tired When…

My shoe is on the left. My daughter's
is on the right.

In case you haven’t read the last month’s blog posts, I’ve been taking care of my daughter who had cardiothoracic surgery. And I’m tired. I didn’t realize how tired until yesterday.

As we were walking to the car, my daughter said: You’re wearing my shoes.

Me (thinking she was talking about the new shoes she bought me for Christmas): Yep.

Daughter: I thought you were going to wear your new shoes

Me (wondering at the redundancy of her thoughts and chalking it up to heavy painkillers): Yep.

Daughter (confused): But you’re wearing my shoes.

Me (looking at my feet): These are my shoes.

Daughter: Where did you get those shoes?

Me: Out of your closet.

Daughter: So those are my shoes.

Me: No. They’re mine. I must have put them in your closet.

Daughter: But they’re my shoes.

Me (looking at the shoes again): I don’t know what—(gearing starting to turn). Oh, wait, these are your shoes.

Daughter: Yeah.

Me: Sorry.

Daughter: No problem. But don’t they feel big? (She wears a half-size larger.)

Me: They feel pleasantly roomy. My toes can wiggle.

Daughter: Ah.

Me: I think I need a nap.

Ten Worst Things About Having a Cold

 

Okay, it’s fall and I’ve got my first cold. This means, one, my mind is mush and I can’t think of a single thing to blog about, except, you know, my cold. And two—I can’t remember what two was.

In any case, on to the ten worst things about having a cold.

1. The House. When I am sick, I switch to minimal mode. Actually, I don’t. I still do the laundry, cooking, and ironing. (Yes, I do the ironing—do you know what the stack looks like if I skip a week?!) On the other hand, I get phone calls from my kids saying, “Hey, Mom, you are resting, right? Tell me you’re resting.” I love phone calls from my kids.

2. The Vaporizer. I cart mine around with me all day and it hisses, spits, and blows camphor steam in my face. On the other hand, I’m telling myself that it’s a medicated facial. My skin had better look radiant when this cold is over.

3.  Cold Medicine. This worst thing about this is that I can’t take it. I have a “sensitivity” to decongestant, which is another way of saying that if I take cold medicine my heart will beat so fast I get to visit ER. On the other hand, the alternative to cold medicine is a Hot Toddy—bourbon with lemon, honey, and hot water. At least if you have a nasty cold, you’re happy.

4. Snot. Okay, I don’t need to explain why this is heinous. On the other hand, you don’t notice if your allergies are bad.

5.  Sneezing. This is not a problem you want to have if you’ve given birth to four large babies. I will not explain this. And there is no “on the other hand.”

6. No Sense of Taste. This means the very cool pork butt roasted with chipotles and chocolate will taste like dirt. On the other hand, the tea that got left out in the sun and went bad—yeah, you won’t even know it’s spoiled when you drink it.

7. Focus. The ability to concentrate and edit is totally shot. On the other hand, Netflix!

8. A Frightening Reflection in the Mirror. The bathroom mirror reflects back an image that makes you look the love-child of Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer and Grendel's mother. On the other hand, you don’t care.

9.  Sleep. When I’m sick, I can’t sleep. So I ponder—my novels, the state of the world, the health of the dog, etc. On the other hand, I’m getting lots of practice trying not to worry.

10. Yeah, I can’t think of a tenth one. So this will have to do. Besides my vaporizer is seriously spitting—it’s actually blowing out rings of stream. I’d watch in fascination, but I think I put too much salt in the water and it may blow a household circuit. Yeah, that’s happened before.

The Married Man's Guide to Women's Shoes and What They Mean

This sling-back pump is courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.
Photo by Olivier Luma.

The other Sunday morning, I was late. So I asked my husband to grab my black pumps. He came back with black sandals. I said, “No. Black pumps. Those are heeled sandals.” He went back to the closet and came back with another pair of shoes. I sighed. “Sweetie, those are mules. I need pumps.” Eventually, I found the pumps.

It occurred to me that if a man doesn’t even know what a shoe is called, then there is a whole world of shoe communication that he does not understand. So I’ve written a husband’s definitive (short) guide to women’s shoe types and what they mean. Here it is.

Pumps. A woman wears these with a suit. They have a heel and enclose most of the foot. (Though there are open-toed and sling-back versions, which have nuances of meaning. But that is beyond the scope of this quick reference guide.) When I wear them it means, I can pump my own gas, but if you want to do it that would be great because I don’t like smelling like gasoline.

Sandals. Strappy shoes that expose the toes. There are two main types.

   One, the heeled party type. These mean I plan to have fun and am not opposed to drinking something with bubbles.

   Two, the flat type. These mean Take Me To the Beach. Now.

Mules. Something you side your foot into. As in, I’m as tired as a pack-worn mule and can’t be bothered with fasteners. You should probably pour me a double strength espresso with a twist of lemon.

            N.B. If they are Birkenstocks, it means I’m over forty and I’ve gone through a granola phase.

 This should be nipped in the bud if it threatens to come back. Seriously, do you remember the tofu phase?

Kitten heels. Playful shoes with a tiny, thin heel. They mean I’m feeling girly and playful as a kitten. (Think Audrey Hepburn in How to Steal a Million.) They also mean, after the kids are in bed, I would totally be open to playing hide and seek with Nerf dart guns in the dark.

Sneakers. I can pump iron. I can run like the wind. Okay, maybe not. But I can

beat myself shadow boxing. And just so you know, it means we’re eating healthy tonight.

Stilettos. The name obviously comes from a type of spy knife. Think tall, thin high heel that could be used to stab someone. You think this means “sexy.” You are wrong. This shoe means I-am-feeling-so-confident-that-I-don’t-care-that-these-these-things-are-going-to-give-me-back-spasms-later-today. These shoes mean you will need to find a bottle of Aleve and a tube of muscle pain cream.

Slippers with wool socks. I need a nap, an intravenous drip of a caffeinated beverage, and/or a break from the children. Afterwards, a long, hot bubble bath.

Hopefully, this clears everything up.

Ladies, did I miss any?

Grammar Snobs Unite

If you’ve been reading my blog, you know I’m looking for part-time, from-home work. Much easier said than done.

I’ve had a good nibble, and I’m waiting to see whether the big fish bites. In the meantime, I keep applying. I heard back from another company the other day. The email told me I was being considered for a position. They explained I’d need to pass two tests first. (This is pretty standard.) I continued reading the email. It went on to tell me how much they pay per hour. (Twelve year old babysitters make more. Not a joke. I recently got an email looking for a reputable teenage babysitter, so I know how much they make.) The company’s email went on to tell me that if I had a PhD, I could make $2 more per hour—the wage someone was willing to pay a babysitter.

The email ended by saying I needed to hurry because the tests were due on June 11 and they were eager to hire for fall of 2012.

Um, yeah. A friend suggested that the email was the real test and I ought to correct it and send it back.

But the whole thing got me to thinking. Honestly, people don’t seem to care much about written communication anymore. Not a day goes by where I don’t see an error in a sign, newspaper, or book. (There’s an interstate sign in my city that drives me crazy because it has an abbreviation error. And don’t even get me started on mail that arrives addressed to the “Keller’s.” Really? Singular possessive?!)  I’m beginning to feel the urge to start carrying a red Sharpie on a string around my neck. The problem is I don’t think I’ll be able to limit myself to correcting only mail, newspapers, and books. Pretty soon, you’re going to read that Connie Keller was arrested for propping a twenty foot ladder in a lane of traffic on Interstate 24 so she could correct a sign. No doubt, all my grammar Nazi friends will rally to support me. It might not be a big group. But our signs will all be spelled correctly.

Why I Don't Need Entertainment

I don’t need sit-com entertainment in my life. I have children. Here’s what it’s like:

  

1.   Matt: “Hey, Mom, your horoscope says don’t make any financial decisions that would rock the boat.”

     Me: “Why do I care?”

     Matt: “So where’s your wallet?”

2.  Matt to Luke: “You’d better watch out. Or I’ll sneak up behind you with my love and kill you.”

3.  Matt and Ariel: “Movies are rated R for two reasons. Lack of clothes. Or, lack of skin (gore).”

4.  Ariel: “My prof said math proofs are like dresses. They have to be short enough to be interesting and long enough to cover the subject.” (It was a class full of girls, and they thought it was hilarious.)

5.  Ariel (scanning Netflix looking for something to watch): "So there’s this cooking show, and it’s rated R. Does it involve disembowelment?"

6.  Matthew: “I’ve decided that Jezebel (our dog) has a bad case of Stockholm Syndrome.”

7.  Matthew while eating lunch: “You are what you eat…I hope that doesn’t apply to PB&J.”

8. Matt: "Cynicism?! I don't believe in cynicism!"

Why You Need To Pay Your Characters Well

The other day, I was reading about indie publishing. And someone with knowledge (how did they get to be the prognosticators—I didn’t vote for them) pronounced that to be a successful indie author you had to be publishing more than one book a year.

I swallowed. My heart went cold. More than one book a year. How does anyone do that? Are they chained to their computer? Do they run a tape recorder next to their beds and mutter plot and dialogue as they dream? Maybe they’ve disconnected themselves from Facebook, email, Twitter, and Google. (Of course, without Google how can you spend an hour researching ancient enameling procedures for a scene which will probably be cut from the book. But, hey, I’m an expert on enamel.)

Okay, so maybe other writers spend less time Googling random facts. But it doesn’t account for that much time. I have friends who tell me that they’ve had a good week writing. And I find out they’ve written 20,000 words. My lip quivers. I ignore it and I put on the supportive friend face. But my heart says, “20,000?!?” A good week for me is 5,000. (Before you feel too sorry for me, I write very sparely and can usually resist plot bunnies, so I rarely need to delete more than a couple hundred words from a first draft. Whereas, my friends will often say, “I cut 20k words from my book today.”)

Setting aside my excuses of distilled plotting, how come they can get so many words? Are their characters eager minions lined up to do their authors’ bidding? Mine are as surly as two year olds. And getting them together to do their work is like….herding cats.

Here’s what I think is really going on. (Courtesy of Jasper Fforde. You really should read his books.) I believe Fforde’s theory that characters are real people who live in an alternative universe. Their jobs are to people our books. I suspect that the reason my characters are more surly than other writers’ characters is because I don’t pay them very well. They’re hoping that if they’re difficult, I’ll fire them and they can get jobs elsewhere…Maybe their already putting out resumes. Grrr. If you’re looking for characters, do not hire Henry Mark Montgomery. He’s a total slacker who shows up for work late, complains about unsafe working conditions (okay, the Colors of Time are dangerous, but plot is all about risk), drinks when his parents aren’t looking, and complains that his leading lady is too tall. And don’t get me started on Peter—he’s casting hexes on the text. No wonder I can’t get hefty word counts. Maybe I need to bring in an enforcer. I’ve heard Voldemort is looking for a new job. Of course, he’s way outside my budget.

If you'd like to win a free copy of Screwing Up Time, check out my book blog.

Extended Warranties

I’ve never been a purchaser of extended warranties. When an appliance costs $400 and the extended warranty costs $250, it seems a waste of money. Because after five years when the appliance dies, they’ll fix your stove/dryer/etc., but then you have an appliance that’s five years old (and likely to soon die) whereas if you’d saved the $250 on the e.w. and then added another $150 (plus inflation) you’d have a brand new appliance. This makes sense to me. It’s great theory. And even one that I read in Consumer Reports. The problem is that it doesn’t work.

I’m on my third stove in the five and one half years that we’ve lived in this house. And I take really good care of my stoves. I think I use it more often than most people—at least three times a day. Actually, more when I count all the snacks the boys cook themselves.

But appliances aren’t really the point of this post. Bodies are. (Yeah, I know, what’s the connection? Sorry, you’ll have to wait for it.) There are nights when Cal and I wake up, like last night, and neither of us sleeps well because of pain. Once we’ve slept off the initial exhaustion, we toss and turn. And then we start making jokes. We’re really funny at 3am. (At least, we think so.) Last night, I told Cal that when we got married we should have bought extended warranties on each other. Don’t you love the idea of taking your body in and saying, “Yeah, the circuitry is fried. I want a replacement.” And I guess they do that with joints. Cal wants a spine replacement. What about you? What would you fix with an extended warranty?