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?

Isn't It March?

February is the coldest month of the year. Normally, March and April are spring months with temperatures beginning in the 40s and as the months progress, ending in the 70s. But this year, we’ve jumped with both feet into summer. Yesterday, it was 91 degrees F. The kids wanted the air conditioner turned on. I resisted. But if today’s as hot as yesterday, I’ll cave.

And the heat, which has been unseasonable for a couple of weeks, has my gardens completely confused. Daffodils bloomed before crocuses. I have a bearded iris blooming—the tulips haven’t even started blooming yet. None of the seedlings I ordered have even arrived yet. They’re due tomorrow. But when I put them in the ground, they’re likely to get scorched.  Best case scenario, they’ll go into shock.

And, of course, the chance of frost doesn’t pass until April 18. So most likely, all the tender plants will come up and be frozen. And the weeds are having the most amazing celebration of spring. Normally, I can get them under control before they go crazy, but not this year. But I’ve been out every morning with my trowel in the cool morning wreaking my vengeance on them. I won’t let them mock me for much longer. Unless you consider the lawn (a weed patch that I call a lawn simply because I want to pretend it’s a verdant meadow instead of a rocky, clay slope that destroys everything but clover, chickweed, and dandelions). The lawn will mock me all summer. But I’ve decided to rise above it—that and send the boys out to mow. When the weeds are freshly mown and I squint my eyes, I can pretend it’s grass.

In spite of the weeds and heat, there’s one thing I’m loving. Open windows. (I am thankful that I don’t have pollen allergies. Most people in Chattanooga are bleary eyed and congested. I’ve heard all the Germans who moved here to manage the new VW plant are flooding allergists’ offices.) Last night, I slept with the windows, and the birds woke me this morning. Birds are soooo much better than alarm clocks.  If you aren’t in the frozen tundra of New England (sorry, Kirsten et al.), let the birds wake you tomorrow. It’s bliss.

Book Tag Party

The lovely S.A. Larson recently began a new kind of tag. A book tag. I thought it was a wonderful idea.

Here are the rules that she set up.

 Zah Rules: Please...

• Post rules!

• Tag a BOOK. Yup, it can be a traditionally or Indie published book or a short story in a published book. Want to tag a writer who doesn't have a book out yet? No problem. Tag an idea/beta read you've discussed with them or a blog post you savored. The only catch is you must let the writer know you've tagged them and be fairly confident they will keep the chain going. 

This could be a fabulous way to help traditional as well as Indie authors get the word out about their books!!!! It's also a way for word to travel about awesome bloggers, their posts, and their blogs. Won't you help!!

So I decided to play along. And I'm tagging the talented Kiwi writer, Melissa Pearl. I fell in love with her writing with the first book in her Time Spirit trilogy, Golden Blood. And after reading the next two books in the trilogy, Black Blood and Pure Blood, which were even better, I knew she was the author I wanted to tag. So without further ado. Melissa Pearl, you're tagged!

Here are links to her blog. Her Facebook fan page. She tweets at @MelissaPearlG

Bracketology

It’s now mid March. And I knew this day was coming. Today is the day that the March Madness brackets came out. The males in our house are penciling in their choices. Oops. Correction. We don’t use pencil; we use pen so erasing can’t be done.  When you ink in your choices, you are committed.

I’d tell you that the men are researching, but apparently they already have the requisite knowledge. And at meals, they discuss end of season surges, etc. I think men should come with tags, so you know what you’re getting. I had no idea that when we were dating and Cal told me that he played soccer and baseball on a college team, it actually meant something significant. He should have come with a tag that read, “I really like sports. I think it’s great fun to watch men throw balls around.” In response to Cal’s sports comment, I said, “Oh, I was asked to join the NCAA, division one champion women’s sailing team.” He was impressed at the time. Now I know that he probably thought, “Sports chick. Great.” The reality was different. The sailing team asked me to join because they were very desperate and I knew how to sail. In all fairness, I would’ve joined—they had the sleekest yacht around—but my work schedule didn’t allow for sailing practice. Let alone regattas.

Later on, Cal discovered that I was present in a sailboat that hit a yacht. But I was NOT sailing at the time. I was yelling, “Come about, come about!” We still hit. But it was a glancing smack. A little spit and rubbing took the scrape mark off the yacht.

So that’s my encounter with organized sports (except that women’s softball team where I got run over at home plate). And now I'm faced with bracketology. My method is glancing at my bracket printout and filling it in, randomly choosing teams whose names seem nice. But don’t put my method down. Most years I get at least three of the Final Four. Right now, I’m trying to pick out a Cinderella team. I briefly considered Harvard, but as Cal says, “They calculated their chances, and they’re not betting on themselves.” In the meantime, I’m leaning toward Long Beach State. Not because I think they have a chance, but Cal’s mom got her BA there. So that’s a good enough reason for me. 

Number One

This morning I had an email from a friend, Melissa Pearl (writer of the Time Spirit trilogy) entitled “Just Noticed!!” I opened it, thinking she had some great news to share. She’s had a lot of novel excitement lately—book readings, library interest, etc. But what she notice wasn’t anything about her book, it was about mine.

I’m not one of those authors who knows all the ins and outs of Amazon and their tags, lists, discussions, etc. I always feel overwhelmed by the wealth of information. Plus, it just gives me more to get stressed about. But today it was good news. My book was listed number one in young adult time travel. Melissa was giddy for me. And, of course, I couldn’t find it. So I figured I must have gotten tossed off the list—list rankings on Amazon change faster than the weather. And then, Matt sat at my computer. Click. Type. Click. “Here it is.” And here it is. (You can click on it if you want to see it enlarged.)

I’m beginning to feel like one of those pathetic relatives that everyone snickers about behind their back and says, “Bless her heart, she’s so ignorant.” And what will I do when all the kids move away from home? I don’t want to be the annoying relative who calls and says, “How do I...” I keep telling myself that once I have more time, I’ll experiment and figure out how it all works. But then I remember how I emailed everyone I’ve ever known/contacted including numerous NY literary agents and asked them to be my GoodReads friend. I’m guessing I’d rather be the whining relative than the “scary” author who wants to be “friends” with strangers.

I'm Back

I’m back. Sort of. I have the energy level of a wet dishcloth, but I’ve begun to care about the disrepair that the house has fallen into. That’s the first sign of health.

From my spot on the couch next to a box of tissues, a massive mug of hot tea, and a blanket, I’ve begun to survey and assess. The minions have made attempts to keep up with things. They’ve done dishes and folded laundry. Albeit with mixed results. Cal has complained that whoever folds laundry ought to know that bras don’t belong to him.

I’ve noticed that Matthew is out of bread. I know that sounds like a grocery store issue, but Matthew eats gluten-free bread. The only commercially available GF bread tastes like shoe leather and could be used as a projectile in a catapult. So I make it from scratch. It involves xathan gum (i.e., bacteria poop) and four types of flour (brown rice, tapioca, corn starch, and soy), which are so fine that merely disturbing them engulfs the entire kitchen in a white haze that takes days to settle. So that’s really high on my to-do list of priorities. What Matt doesn’t know is that he’s going to mix the dough today. And maybe Luke will wipe down the kitchen—it’s good to have one meticulous child.

The other thing I’ve noticed from the couch is the lawn. The couch is next to a massive plate glass window that stretches to the floor. While I’ve enjoyed looking at the spring flowers, I’ve noticed that the lawn is a patchwork of clover, dandelions, and vaguely dormant grass. I hatched an idea. (This is the problem with being sick, too much time to think.) Since the grass was dormant, I ought to be able to spray the weeds with Round-up. Dead weeds, live grass. I Googled my nefarious scheme. It was theoretically possible. The caveat was making sure the grass was really dormant, not just almost dormant. The article suggested trying to burn a patch of dormant grass. If it burns, it’s dormant. I pondered this suggestion for two minutes. Then I decided that if I actually tried this, my family would deem me too sick for rational thought and I’d be banished to bed for the remainder of my illness. So, I didn’t start a grass fire. However, I did spray Round-up with wild abandon. (Yes, I was sick while I did it—it was an opportunity for fresh air.)

Luke saw me while I was spraying. He said, “What are you doing?” Me: “Killing the weeds in the grass.” Luke: “Then all we’ll have left is a mud patch.” Of course, I’ll get the last laugh because he is the child who will be mowing said weeds all summer long.

So now I have laundry, bread making, tidying, and spraying weeds (Yes, the weeds are dying. It remains to be seen if the dormant grass is still alive. Otherwise, we will have a mud patch) on my to-do list. I think it’s time to drink a hot toddy and take a nap.

Still Sick

To those of you visiting and hoping to find a new post today, sorry! I'm still sick. And I don't think I could do justice to a post today. (I was feeling better-ish yesterday, and I guess I overdid it.) Hopefully, I'll be better by Wednesday.