Go! No, Stop!

On Saturday, Cal decided to have Jacob drive on Brainerd Rd. While Cal and I both drove in big city traffic when we were growing up, the kids have only had small town traffic.  But Brainerd approximates downtown chaos.  So we told Jake that he was driving us to WalMart, located off of Brainerd. (The WalMart trip is Cal’s and my weekly date so it was a bit of an inconvenience to us. But hey, it was for Jacob’s greater good.)

At the car, Cal asked if I wanted to ride shotgun and thus be the driving instructor. I said “no” since I was on migraine meds—I thought that I’d doze in the backseat.  I dozed for about 5 seconds. Jacob pulled out of the driveway and was going forward. Then some imbecile in a massive black SUV decided he didn’t want to wait for Jacob.  He wanted to squeeze through.  Jake kept going—he had the right of way.  After I yelled, from the back seat, Jacob stopped.  Afterward, I gave him my “you-almost-gave-your-mother-heart-failure” speech. To which he responded that I was never in any real danger. Yeah, right. This was not boding well for the trip to WalMart.

We got to the end of our street. To make a right on Brainerd, you have to punch the accelerator because there’s a sharp, blind curve about 10 yards from where our street meets Brainerd. You can’t see any oncoming traffic. So if it looks clear, you punch the gas and pray.  We explained the situation to Jake.  He pulled up to the stop sign.  It was clear.  Cal said, “Go!” Jake hesitated. Cal and I yelled, “Stop!” as a car flew around the curve doing 40 mph minimum. We waited.  Cal said, “Punch it!” Jake punched it, and we didn’t get hit. Yay!

In the midst of avoiding cars weaving in and out of traffic, Jacob commented that no one was using their turn signals.  It is Cal’s firm belief that no one signals because they’re afraid that if they do, the driver they’re trying to get in front of will cut them off.  It is my firm belief that if you turn on your turn signal and make eye contact with the driver, they will let you in. Of course, if it’s a teenager in a hoodie or an old lady, you can forget that. (Yes, I know, that’s profiling. But it works for me.)

The rest of the trip to WalMart was uneventful.  The trip home was peaceful until we needed to make a left turn. Cal and I had decided that we didn’t want Jake to do the suicide left turn across Brainerd at the blind turn. (It’s my favorite way to go because it’s faster, but neither Luke or Ariel will take it because it’s “unsafe.”) Still, that meant that Jake had to make a left onto Germantown—an overburdened two lane road that feeds onto the Interstate.  Of course, the intersection was packed and the only way to get through was to make a left on the arrow, which it looked like we would miss because we were so far back.  Cal said, “Get in the suicide lane and pull through to the turning lane. Hurry, go!”  Jake pulled in. I shouted, “Stop!” An SUV ahead of us decided to do the same thing and he didn’t look over his shoulder.  Jake stomped on the brake.  The SUV driver went on his merry way none the wiser to the fact that Jake’s good reflexes saved his hide.

For the rest of the drive, Jake mumbled, “Go. No, Stop!” to himself.  After we pulled into the drive, he said, “You know, it would be easier with only one instructor. And if you guys didn’t change your minds all the time.”

A Cast Iron Weapon

Maybe it’s the writer in me. More likely it’s the pessimist. But the truth is that I actually consider the question, If someone broke into our home and I was in Room X, what would I use as a weapon?

So assuming I’m not plotting a book or short story, why would I do this? For years, I just figured it was a matter of time. When I was young, my mom and I were home alone one evening. We heard the sound of helicopter. Then, lights shone in our windows. Then, we heard the sound of someone walking on our roof. At this point, we hid under the bed. Then, we heard the sound of someone trying to rattle the bedroom window open. (This was in the pre-cellphone, pre-911 days.) Eventually, the police caught the guy, and he never got into our house. Close call. Add to that a stalker in college. Someone trying to break into our house twice after Cal and I were married. (It’s not a good thing when someone tries to break into the house when it’s clear people are home.) Needless to say, we have a big black Lab. Yeah, I know I should consider a gun, especially here in the South where everyone packs. But I can’t quite get there. Yet.

But I do ponder available weapons in our home. Of course, this is assuming Cal isn’t home and Jezebel our Lab is incapacitated (or someone’s handed her a carrot—her one true weakness). Here is my mental list of weapons:

If I were anywhere near Luke’s room, I could grab his double-bladed sword or one of his fencing foils. Foils are nasty. Just like metal whips. And nice and long so you don’t have to get too close to the bad guy.

In our bedroom, we have some very heavy lamps.

In my writing area, I could always use my laptop and quip that the pen is mightier than the sword. But I don’t think that would work...not too many bad guys have degrees in English or even read. Thankfully, my writing desk is near the kitchen. But the kitchen has always been a tough spot. I mean how often do I have a pot of boiling oil sitting around? Not too often. And it’s not like I could whop someone with my Kitchen Aid mixer. But then, Ariel took me to go see Tangled. If you haven’t seen it, you should. It’s fun—Disney the way it used to be with a modern twist. And it gave me my ultimate kitchen weapon...the cast iron skillet. Yep, you can do some serious damage with cast iron.

More Real Than Real

I’m just about done editing my new/old novel. Okay, “done editing” isn’t accurate. I’ll edit at least once more before I start querying it. And I’ll do a read-aloud of the whole novel. (Nothing beats reading aloud to find missing prepositions, incorrect subject-verb agreement—all those pesky things that crop up when you edit the text.)

But I’m not at the read-aloud stage yet. I have to finish this edit, and I’m stuck on the third to the last chapter.  It’s the beginning of the climax. To the reader, it reads as a climax, but it’s a faux climax that sets the reader up for the real climax. This would be great...except I can’t make it flow. I’ve got all the little plots points worked out in the text. And they fit. The problem is the transitions. And my main character isn’t cooperating. Maybe it’s because I’ve put her in a horrible situation and she’s angry at me. But she’s behaving like an actress who’s flubbing her lines on purpose because she doesn’t like what the writer has written. Either that or she wants more money. Is there a Main Characters’ Union somewhere? Maybe this is like a “blue flu” strike. Clearly, the two of us are going to have to have a sit down and hash this out. Have any of you other writers had a character do this to you, just when the end is in sight?

Yeah, I know I take my characters too seriously.  But they are like real people, sometimes more real.

It Feels Shorter

Yesterday evening we were driving to my parents’ house, and Cal turned off a different exit from the interstate and announced that he was taking a short cut.  As we took the short cut, Luke said, “You know, it’s not really a short cut because the vectors are the same.” Jacob wasn’t sure whether he agreed with Luke’s assessment and they began drawing diagrams on the van’s windows. Then, Cal said, “Yes, but there are fewer traffic lights.”  To which, Ariel said, “This is an urban economics’ issue that relates to the problem of distance versus time.” Then she said that traffic flow calculations could determine which route was faster. Luke and Jacob didn’t respond because they were too busy arguing over algorithms for curve analysis.  At one point, one of the three said, “But that doesn’t apply to real life.”

During the hullabaloo, Matt leaned forward and said, “I feel sadly left out.”  I told him not to worry, in another year or so he’d take his place in the math discussions. And then it will be only Cal and I who are left out.  Don’t worry about us though, we can always say that the short cut feels faster.

My Personal Shopper

I have a new dress.  Actually, a new suit and a new dress, but the dress is a summer dress so I won’t be wearing it for a while.  But I wore the new suit this past Sunday.  Several ladies came up to me and said, “How beautiful. Did Cal buy it for you?”

I’m not shocked that they ask if Cal bought it.  They know. My birthday is just after Christmas so Cal cuts coupons and hits the after Christmas sales. But besides the willingness to brave the crowds, he has another gift. Cal is a very talented artist with an eye for line and color. He can pick something off the rack and know (without a shadow of a doubt) if it will fit, if the color will work for me, and if the line will flatter me.

When we were first married, I doubted his abilities.  When I shopped (which I hate with a vengeance), he’d hold out something and say, “Try this on.” I’d say, “Um, it’s orange. I don’t look good in orange.”  Then at his insistence I’d try it on.  Guess what? I can wear orange, it just has to be the right shade.

Nowadays he gets up early and heads to the after Christmas sales with Ariel.  It’s sort of their father-daughter outing. And while she does model the outfits for him, she’s not mainly along to make sure they’re going to fit (although the rule of thumb is that if it’s big on her, it’ll fit me). And she’s not along to make sure that Cal doesn’t make any fiasco purchases (his eye is perfect; he doesn’t make a mistake). She’s along to make sure that Cal buys something appropriate.

When he first started buying clothes for me, Cal came home with cocktail gowns. I’d try on the dress and show him.  He’d say, “Wow. That looks great.”  I’d say, “Honey, don’t get me wrong, I love the dress.  But where am I going to wear a backless, ankle-length velvet gown?  Not to church, clearly.”  He’d answer, “When we go out to dinner?”  Hmm. That would work if we went somewhere other than the cheap Mexican place.  Thankfully, we’ve been able to go on a few cruises and I’ve had plenty of gowns to wear.

But now, he buys things that I can wear more than twice—like the silk shantung suit in stunning mulberry color that he got me this December. It’s gorgeous. Or the white sheath with ruffle tucks—I can’t wait for summer.

Face Blindness

I’m not sure why this has become a hot topic lately.  I know there was a New Yorker article on face blindness so perhaps that’s it.  But for whatever reason, it’s become a fascination.  And I’ve gotten a few questions/comments on it.  You see, I’m face blind.

Now I don’t have the horrible version where people don’t recognize themselves or their spouse or their children.  I’m part of the 2 to 2.5% of the population that has a mild version of face blindness. I didn’t even realize I was face blind until about ten years ago—I just thought everyone had “trouble” with faces.

Ten years ago, we were asked to participate in the Family Study of Autism at the University of Washington.  We have a son with autism and since it is at least partly a genetic disorder, we were asked to participate (close relatives of autistic people often have “autistic traits”). What I didn’t know is that face blindness has a strong correlation with autism.  At that point, I’d never even heard of face blindness.  So we were put through batteries of tests.  At one point, I was shown 6 to 10 faces and told that they’d be showing me a series of faces and I would need to pick out these particular faces.  Sounds easy, right?  Except I was uneasy about the task.  I knew faces weren’t my forte.  I just didn’t know I’d be that bad.  I scored a zero.  Yep, a nil, nada. zilch.  I didn’t even get lucky by accident—and, believe me, I was guessing my heart out.  But I didn’t get one single face.

I could claim I had a really bad memory.  But the next test was the exact same thing, except they substituted intricate line drawings for faces.  I got 100%.  No memory issues.  I have to admit I was nonplussed by the whole thing.  Especially when Cal got 100% on the faces test. (I beat him on the line drawing thing though—not that that has any benefit in real life.)

So what’s it like?  That’s what people are curious about.  My experience isn’t much different than yours.  I learn to recognize people—but by their hair, build, proportional stature (couples are generally easier for me to recognize than individuals).  And my family helps. For example, a lot of college students attend our church and in the fall semester when we get a lot of new students, Ariel helps me.  Me: Uh, Ariel, who are all the tall blond girls?  Every week she goes over their names and distinguishing characteristics until I get them straight.

And yes, it does make for funny moments.  Movies can be hard—especially if a character doesn’t have lots of distinct features. (Thankfully, Hollywood usually chooses distinct faces, i.e. Julia Roberts is the-woman-with-the-horse-like-smile).  Without distinct features...

Me: Uh, Cal, why is that guy trying to kill the main character? 

Cal (heavy sigh): That’s the crazy neighbor. Don’t you remember in the first couple of minutes of the movie he was killing the jogger? 

Me: Are you sure that was him? 

Cal (heavier sigh): YES.

Once Cal asked if it would bother me if he shaved his beard and mustache.  I said, “No problem.”  He shaved.  Within the hour, I said, “Please, grow it back immediately.”  Even though I knew it was him, without the mustache it was like living with a stranger and my heart beat faster (not in a good way) every time I turned and saw him.  He’s never shaved it off again. Phew!

Or lately, I met someone whom I had “never” met before.  I mentioned to Cal after we saw this person “for the first time,” “Wasn’t it nice to meet that man?”  Cal: “Are you serious?”  Me: “Um, yeah.”  Cal: “Don’t you remember when we were at (public place) and there was a drunk man who became very belligerent and I had to call the police?”  Me (I remembered the incident completely): “Are you sure that was him?”  Cal: “Absolutely.”  Me: “Oh.”

I’m a police artist’s worst nightmare.

Waiting

Today is a waiting day.

I’m waiting for classes to start for the kids. It should start tomorrow, assuming that the rain storm that I’m waiting for doesn’t turn into an ice storm.

I’m waiting for UPS to deliver a package I ordered over a week go (two day shipping was irrelevant). UPS promised me it would be delivered last Friday. The delivery guy showed up all right—to tell me that the package was lost. Apparently, their tracking system isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Speaking of cracked, the package I’m waiting for is a ceramic breadstone...which probably didn’t fair well in its lostness. Plus, the day the stone was supposed to arrive, I made two massive batches of bread dough (both gluten-free and regular), which will make eight loaves. It’s waiting in the refrigerator. It will wait a while longer. The bad thing is that I have a really small refrigerator, and I need to buy groceries for the week.

I’m waiting for a partial rejection to come. I sent out the first batch of queries for my murder mystery the other day and got a partial request. Very exciting. I printed it up and mailed it off (to the tune of $8.70—I hate the postal service). Then today I was preparing to email some sample pages and noticed some of the attributions (dialogue tags, etc.) were “off.” Not wrong. Not bad. But not as smooth as they should be. Grr. How did that happen? How did I not notice it before? It’s like going for a job interview and having a bit of spinach between your teeth. And the interviewer can’t listen to what you’re saying because their eyes keep drifting to that spinach. Hmm. I swore I brushed my teeth--that spinach must have been planted by my enemies. Yeah, that’s it. So now I’m waiting. But at least it’s fixed for the next submission. At which point, I’m sure I’ll find something else that I hate...