Friday Five

I’m no longer keeping track of how many days I’ve been sick—it’s a ridiculous number. Anyway, I’m back to reading after having my fill of Netflix, synopsis writing, and query tidying.

I finished Jane Eyre yesterday. I had plowed through most of it very quickly. And then I hit the section where Jane meets St. John (if you haven’t read the book, it’s the name of a man who’s her cousin and wants to marry her). Ugh. That section dragged on and on. I had to force myself to read it. Of course, as soon as Jane bailed on St John, the narrative picked up and I was hooked again. I suspect Ms. Bronte could have used a bit of judicious editing at that point. (I know, I speak sacrilege to some—sorry.)

Now I’m trying to decide what to read next. My only two rules are:

1. It has to be a classic.

2. It can’t be Russian. Don’t get me wrong, I love the Russians. But they make me so depressed, and that’s not fair to my family. My plan is to read the Russians when the kids are grown.

I’ve read a ton of classics—I was a lit major back in the day when each class required the reading of one to two novels/oeuvres per week. It was like drinking from a literary firehose. But there are still so many great books that I haven’t read. So in the manner of the Friday Fives, which I haven’t done in a longer time (Sorry, Andrew), here are the choices that I’m considering:

1. Don Quixote—Cervantes (When Ariel was assigned this for a class, she read portions aloud to me. Hilarious and clever.)

2. Vanity Fair—Thackeray (I don’t think I’ve ever read anything by Thackeray.)

3. Tender is the Night—Fitzgerald (I’m a FSF fan, but I haven’t read this one.)

4. The Moonstone—Collins (Arguably the first mystery novel ever written)

5. The Picture of Dorian Gray—Wilde (I love Wilde’s wit.)

Readers, help me, which shall I read? BTW, if you have a personal favorite that’s not up here, feel free to list it. If I haven’t read it, I’ll consider it.

The Plague: Day Seven

I am on day seven of the plague. And it is a very great evil. I was supposed to be better today.  I was supposed to be well by Monday. I assumed that I’d be well last Sunday. Instead I’m stuck with a cough that reminds me of something from a Jane Austen book. “Oh, yes, Miss Connie, poor dear, she suffers from consumption.” Actually consumption is tuberculosis, which I don’t have. But it sounds good. 

What have I done with my time? I burned out on Netflix last week and haven’t streamed a single thing since. Instead, I’ve been making my way through boxes of Kleenex (yes, I realize that’s plural). I’m filling trashcans full with scrunched-up tissues. And I’m pondering how many gallons of herb tea I’ve consumed.

The most challenging thing has been getting the housework done. Yesterday, my minions (namely Matt and Jake) discovered if one goes outside, then one cannot be assigned “laundry duty.” LD is, according to them, a method of torture, which consists of emptying the dryer, putting what’s in the washer into the dryer, putting a new a load in the washer, and most heinous of all...folding the clean laundry and putting it away. Of course, my boys, being the unpaid/slave laborers that they are, aren’t too concerned with doing a good job. At the end of the day, Luke complained, “I got dad’s underwear, Ariel’s socks, and Jacob’s jeans.” I explained that if he started getting my bras, I’d look into the matter. Otherwise, he needed to cope. Beggars can’t be choosers. (Don’t you love it when moms start quoting clichés? That’s what happens when you watch too much Netflix.)

What else have I done besides rot my brain and drive my boys crazy? Not much. I decided to start a synopsis for the platypus (my current novel). A synopsis is supposed to be 2 to 4 pages, double spaced. Seven years ago when I first wrote the platypus, I wrote a synopsis. So I thought that I’d pull it out, dust it off, and it would be ready to go. So I pulled it out. And blinked several times. My synopsis was seven pages, single-spaced. What was I thinking when I wrote this porky thing? I’d need to edit out four and one half pages, minimum.

As of this afternoon, I edited out two pages—a line here, a phrase there, etc. I was feeling proud of myself until Ariel saw the pages, picked them up, and read them. She informed me that the synopsis made my character’s emotional journey seem shallow. I blinked. Yeah, I sort of knew that. But it’s the fever’s fault. When it’s gone, I’m sure I’ll whip that synopsis into shape. Or, maybe I can get my slaves to write it. I’ll say, “Laundry duty or synopsis writing. Pick your poison.” That LD is looking better and better.

I'm Not Sick. Really, I’m Not.

After you’ve been sick for a couple of days (actually, by the time you read this it will be five days = 120 hours = 7200 minutes), there’s nothing more provoking than taking your temperature and discovering that you still have a fever. Okay, my head hurts, my nose runs, and I cough up nasty stuff (sorry, too much information), but I feel like I’ve done the sick thing. I want to get up, do the dishes, cook meals, and fold laundry. Yes, my family is doing these things, but, well, I do it better and more efficiently. Hmm. I’m probably missing a lesson that I’m supposed to learn.

And I’m sooo tired of Netflix. I’ve watched an entire miniseries, a documentary on the world of modeling (very creepy—some of those “women” are 12!!), and some detective tv shows (the plots become extremely redundant). I’m entertained out of my mind and bored silly. Normally, I read or write when I’m sick, but my eyes were too bleary. So I had an entertainment overdose. (Sadly, for some reason, I can’t sleep when I’m sick.)

I have amazing respect for those who struggle with chronic diseases or disabilities. Especially the ones I know who bear up without complaint. There appears to be a lesson for me to learn there too. Hmm. I think this rant means that I haven’t learned that lesson yet either.

In the meantime, I’ve decided that the thermometer must be wrong. Yeah, okay, on Saturday I asked Cal to buy a new thermometer because I decided that all our new-fangled battery-operated ones had to be defective. He brought home one of the old-fashion glass kind. But it’s still not telling me what I want. I’m sure it’s the thermometer’s fault. It’s difficult to come up with a reason why it’s “broken” since I can’t blame it on batteries or electrical components. However, I’m a writer so it’s my job to be creative.  Here are my top five reasons why I really don’t have a fever.

1. My normal body temperature is abnormally high.  So it’s not really a fever.

2. The thermometer doesn’t measure in Fahrenheit. (Downside to this—the only other heat measuring units I’m aware of are Kelvin and Celsius. Neither of which help. I could make one up...)

3. The numbers painted on the side of the thermometer are wrong.

4. I have a fast metabolism so holding the thermometer in my mouth for three minutes gives too high a reading. Thirty seconds should be more accurate.

5. *Imagine me stomping my foot and channeling my inner two-year old* “It’s wrong because I’m tired of being sick.” 

Appeal to Fear

Have you ever taken the time to participate in one of those political phone surveys? I usually don’t. I have too many things going on, someplace I needed to be or a child that needed me.  And so I always wondered how accurate those surveys were. After all, busy people didn’t have time.

But a month or two ago, on a quiet evening when everyone was gone, I got one of those phone calls. And instead of saying “no,” I thought that I’d like to have my voice heard. So I participated. And it started out normal enough. The first question was whether I approved of the way that the President was governing. Talk about your opened-end question. Um, on which issue? It seemed to be a popularity question. But that’s what politics has become. So I answered the question.

And after a couple more questions like that, things got a bit surreal. My favorite question (to the best of my ability to remember it) was “Don’t you think that it’s unfair that the city is forcing police officers who live outside the county to leave their vehicles at the county line?” Talk about your leading questions. Talk about swaying opinions by the way questions are phrased. I had a year of stats in college and my prof’s favorite exercise was to bring in front-page-of-the-newspaper scientific studies and show us why the results were meaningless because the statistical formulas used had no bearing on the studies’s data. While this wasn’t “scientific,” I’m sure he would have had a field day with this poll.

Again the pollster pushed me on the question. I said, “You know, I really don’t know enough about the issue to answer the question.” Nothing had been in the newspaper about the issue. As it turns out, the city no longer wants to pay for the gas, etc., for policemen who live outside of the county (it’s a large county) to drive their vehicles home. Now maybe there’s a good reason for them to drive their vehicles home, but I don’t know what it is. The police weren’t willing to make their case in the press. And I can certainly understand why the county doesn’t want to pay for the gas for a police officer who chooses to live a long way away. And unlike the mental image created by the pollster, there probably wouldn’t be scores of abandoned police cars lining the county line.

At the end of the poll, it was obvious that the police department and the mayor were skirmishing. Since then, it’s turned in a full-blown war. Nasty, name-calling billboards, where the police threaten that they won’t deal with gang violence unless the mayor gives them what they want. Um, hello, what happened to “Protect and Serve?” Maybe the police have a good reason for their anger, but punishing the citizens isn’t the way to go. And when the newspaper tried to talk to the police chief about the billboards, he refused to comment.

Perhaps someone needs a lesson in logic. My son Matthew is taking logic right now, and this whole fiasco had been an excellent example of ad hominen abusive, irrelevant goals and functions, and argumentum ad baculum (appeal to fear).

At this point, I’d really like the police chief and the mayor to write some editorials because I’d sure like to know what’s going on. In the meantime, Matt’s learning about politics and putting his logic skills to good use. 

In Which I Don’t Leave Well Enough Alone

One of my spring break projects was to paint the bathroom ceiling, window, and window frame. And I did. But then, I had a paint brush in my hand, and the trim looked pretty skanky... So I painted the trim. No problem. And then the trim looked so fresh and clean. But the baseboards looked horrendous. So I thought, “I’ll paint them too.”

Now in the spirit of full disclosure, I knew that something might be up with the baseboards. I hadn’t really inspected them, and Matthew is the one who mops the bathroom, but I suspected that the baseboard project might not be the ten minute job that it looked like. I got down on my hands and knees with my paintbrush and discovered that the baseboards were covered with several inches tall of caulk. Kind of odd. But since old caulk needs to be removed, I removed it.

People tend to use caulk to hide something. In this case, dryrot. Behind the layers of caulk was nothing. The caulk was gooped there to hide the fact that the wood was disintegrated. So I got some wood hardener from the basement and soaked what remained of the baseboard. (Wood hardener is amazing stuff. If you buy an old house like ours, invest in wood hardener, Great Stuff, and Bondo—you can fix anything.)  

While that was drying, I moved on to baseboards behind the toilet. Inches of caulk here too. I loosened a section and pulled. And up popped about forty octagonal floor tiles. Apparently when the tiles came loose, the previous owners decided to spread caulk all over the floor and shove the tiles into the caulk. Do you know how heinous this is?  All the tiles have to be scraped and scrubbed. Then the old grout had to be knocked off with a hammer. (Ariel helped me and claims that she’s lost feeling in her fingers.)  Then the tiles all have to be properly set and grouted. And now they look amazing and the baseboard has been painted.

But then the tiles, the ceiling, the window, the trim all looked great. But the tub, well, the caulk on that looked vile (the caulk that the previous owners used—a pox on them—wasn’t mildew resistant). Plus the dry rot was coming from drips from the tub. So I removed the caulk—layers of caulk. They’d just put new caulk over old caulk. Last night, I re-caulked. And the tub looks fantastic, at least comparatively. But now...the cabinet doesn’t look so good. And the knobs are dated. Hmmm. I have more paint and five knobs would be cheap.  I think I hear another project calling my name.

P.S. (On a totally different topic) For those of you interested in the progress of my platypus, here’s the latest. My final beta reader gave me a “thumbs up.” Unlike a lot of writers, I don’t send out my novel to several betas at the same time. I dole it out one by one. So my first beta gives me suggested corrections. And I make the changes. Then my second beta reads it, and I make her suggested changes, etc. So by the final beta read, I’m hoping that the book is good to go.  Now the only thing that remains is to write a letter of introduction (i.e., a query) for my platypus. I need to convince prospective agents that they don’t want a duck, they want my platypus, which has the nicest bill, the warmest fur, and the coolest venomous spurs. 

How to Train Your Dragon, er, Lab

Every day early in the morning, I make a pot of dark roasted coffee in my French press while Calvin takes our dog Jezebel (a black Lab) for a walk and training. I never thought much about the training until Saturday.

Saturday evening a dog, a foreign dog, wandered into our yard. This causes a deep emotional crisis for Jezebel. Some no account uncontrolled animal has crossed into her territory.  At this point, frenzied barking commenced. Normally, I would tell her, “Be quiet.” She would bark a few quick barks and then moan in frustration.

But instead, I glanced outside as saw that the foreign beast was raising a hind leg. This is a heinous evil to me. At the front of my yard I have a beautiful hedge of red knock-out roses that bloom all spring, summer, and fall.  The neighbors from all around come to tell how lovely the roses are or to take photos of them. The elderly in the complex across the street thank me for brightening their day with my roses. Now imagine my ire at was unfolding before me. This dog planned to pee on my roses and maybe kill one of the bushes. I already have one bush that I have to transplant because some irresponsible pet owner failed to control his/her dog.

I yelled imprecations at the dog. I was ignored. Calvin opened the door and said, “Jez, go.” Jezebel shot out the door like (I know this is a cliché, but it’s exactly what she looks like) she shot out the door like a bat out of hell. And she took off after evil dog.

Evil dog takes off down the street with Jez on his tail. First, I’m worried that Jez will hurt him. She didn’t. She just stayed right on his heiny. Then, I panicked. At the end of our street is a very busy thoroughfare. I envisioned Jez getting hit by a car. I said, “Cal, she’s going to get hit.” Cal said, “No, she won’t.” Then he yelled, “Jez, come.”  Jez stopped on a dime, ran back home and sat at Cal’s feet.

I had no words. How...wow...cool.  Our neighbor who was sitting on her porch laughed and laughed, delighting in Jez and watching the fun.

Stupid dog came back. Jez flared her nostils, the hair on her back stood on end, and a nasty rumble started deep in her chest. Stupid dog stepped into the yard. Jez glanced at Cal with begging eyes. Cal said, “Go, Jez.” And again, Jez flew after the dog chasing him down the street until Cal said, “Jez, come.”  And she trotted home, placed herself at Cal’s feet, and Cal said, “Good girl.”

I guess he knows how to train a dog. 

Humpty-Dumpty

Yesterday was the major project day of spring break. After some cups of coffee, Luke and I started sanding the bathroom. Of course, we had the wrong grit of sandpaper—too fine. When I thought my arm would fall off, I found some courser sandpaper in the basement. Everything went well. Until I could no longer stand on a stool on top of the counter.

I wanted to sand the ceiling above the bathtub. Luke was sanding there, but it was the worst area so I decided to help. I put a barstool in the tub and then put a smaller stool on top of the barstool. Luke said, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” The walls of the tub are sloped and the barstool rocked a bit. I said, “It’ll be fine.” And it was. Until it wasn’t. And then, I fell. Into the bathtub. And my arm bumped the faucet handles on the way down. So when I landed, cold water streamed out of the shower head on top of me.

Thankfully, Luke waited until I said, “I’m okay” before he started laughing. So I picked myself up, wrung out the edges of my shorts and tee-shirt, adjusted my goggles, and sanded the window frame. I let Luke finish the ceiling since he’s 6’1” and only needs to stand on a barstool to reach it.

Here are some photos.