Shit Yeah, I Just Did That

It couldn't be helped.  When it's cold outside he obsesses.  He comes in, lays down (uh, on the SOFA!) and licks his joints. 
~lick~lick~lick~
I think he's arthritic.  I feel bad for him.  I'm also 40 and home alone and don't have to work tomorrow.  Whatchyougonnado? 
I crocheted leg warmers.  For a male dog.  Yes, I did.  I think he likes them.  I can tell because he started humming, "she's a maaaaaniac, MANIAC on. the. floooor." 
he's looking at me with those big brown eyes, saying, "please, mom, can you crochet me a sweater with a giant head-hole?" 
Only then will he be complete. 
I'm not sure who should be more embarrassed here, the crazy lady crocheting random shit for her critters on the first night of a long weekend, or the dog wearing leg-warmers. 

The Broken Parts in My Head

The only thing that can possibly explain my little "quirks" is that I have all the parts of a brain, but it's fragmented and the pieces float around independently of each other.  I blame the "Incident Wherein Teresa Tied Herself to a Horse and was Dragged a Quarter Mile" of 1974 for this because I'm pretty sure I hit my head once or twice. 
So, these fragments send out little signals to each other, but sometimes the signals get lost in grey matter, or they end up in the wrong place.  Sort of like when you are in the grocery store and you tell your husband to hand you a package of paper towels and you look up and it is not your husband but some frazzled mother of 10, a good foot shorter than your husband.  The signals are correct, the intent is correct, but the recipient ducked off to read some magazines a couple of aisles over. 
I can't remember numbers.  Weird, because I love math and have always been pretty good at it... ON PAPER.  Ask me to mentally calculate anything and all you'll get is two eyes shaped exactly like zeroes.  History has always been my downfall because I can't remember years at all.  Seriously.  I freakin' WENT to Cambodia, I STEPPED FOOT in the Killing Fields, I READ NUMEROUS ACCOUNTS and history books and spoke to survivors of Pol Pot's regime...  but I can't remember if that all started in 70 and ended in 75 or?  Wait, what?  Even while I was there, and I committed it to my memory, "this happened when I was x years old," I STILL can't remember.
And, if I look at a watch to see what time it is, I instantly forget. 
Sometimes I associate colors with numbers.  Not for any particular reason.  I just think "blue" instead of "6". 
Plus, I'm afraid of elephants. And I'm afraid of spontaneously exploding. Suicide-bombing has never been a career path option for me. I don't need an aptitude test to tell me that.

So, here's to a happy 20yellow-orange.

Latest Obession: Ancestry

could also be titled: "Get Used to Disappointment"
I found mom's login for her Ancestry.com account, which she paid up through May, 2011.  I logged in and started puzzling away at my family tree. 
8 hours later....
I come from a long line of alcoholic dirt-farmers.  Eventually I ran out of connections in Kentucky.  I have visions of a smaller version of me, perpetually barefoot in the kitchen and with child.  I think most of my family was born with a bottle in one hand.  Not a baby bottle, either.
Jeff's family, on the other hand, was easily traceable back to King Furgus, born 1087.  With a little more work I think I could connect him to Jesus.  That would explain his passion for all things that float on the surface of water.  It's probably instinctual for him to try to walk on water all the time. 
Speaking of instinctive behavior, I did find the other day that a wine bottle is a superior rolling pin.  I had slippers on and was not pregnant, but there I was in the kitchen with alcohol, rollin' out some biscuit dough with a bottle of wine. 
Some things never change. 

Don't "Want to Be", Just BE!

I love this post by Kevin Smith and I'm going to read it every day for the next little while.  Here is the link to it.
To paraphrase it, boil it down, summarize it, whatever, I think he's saying to Just Do It.  Except, he talks about that point where the tension is the worst, and that's the point between wanting to Do It, and Done It. 
There's the point in a hobby, career, relationship, diet, whatever where you want to achieve something.  In my long laundry list of things I'd like to be when I grow up, there is "Writer".  I want to be a writer and I want my writing to put food on the table, even if it is a few day-old pieces of fried chicken from Fred Meyer's.  About 2 years ago I still had that dream.  I had a lot of ideas in my head about the best-selling book I'd write, the articles I'd publish, book tours, and joining or starting a band like Stephen King, Dave Barry, and Amy Tan did years ago.  So I walked around wanting to be a writer a lot.  But I hardly ever wrote.  I was going to get to it, I just needed: a long vacation, a writing retreat, a workshop, a winning lottery ticket, more time, less work, blah blah blah.  As soon as that all aligned, THEN I could sit down and get my words on paper. 
I read this article one Sunday about a woman who started her own line of purses.  I could seriously care less about purses, but I loved her entrepreneurial spirit.  She cited the book "The Artist's Way" (which I've mentioned roughly 8 billion times) as her inspiration.  So I bought it.  After a couple of tries, I actually got all the way through it, which was a 3 month process.  And then every story I've ever written was published, I found wealth, fortune, fame... no, wait.  That isn't true at all. 
What did happen was I became a writer.  I started to treat it like a part-time job (one that I enjoyed!).  I started writing every day.  I wrote an entire book, several short stories, and page after page in my journals.  I quit saying, "oh, I'd love to be a writer."  I was one.  (And, I do love it.)
There was a brief stage where I still envisioned that point in my life when I'd make a zillion dollars from a book, and until then I'd just hack away at my journals and short stories.  But, then that wasn't important anymore either.  What became more important to me was to write.  To start and FINISH stories.  To learn new ways to improve my writing.  Those are all things that you'd do if you were a writer and making money at it, so why wait until you make money to do those things?  I'm not going to be a writer because the world says I am a writer by throwing money at me.  I'm a writer now, and I'm telling the world. 
Kevin probably says it better. 

Fun and Terror!

We looked at a 6 month old colt yesterday as a potential companion for Wrigley and a fun project for me.  As you know, I don't have enough freakin' going on...
Seriously though, horses are herd animals and it just kills me to see my poor girl out there without another horse to hang out with.  6 more horses should fix that.  ;)
I'll pick up the new guy Thursday.  It's hard to evaluate a 6 month old.  They're just so malleable at that stage.  If he had nasty habits I'd be all "oh, we can fix that!"  Plus, it's a lot like looking at a puppy.  Have you ever looked at a puppy and NOT wanted it?  Have you ever seen a fuzzy little kitten or puppy (or foal) and thought, "meh, just not doing it for me."  My answer is no.
Okay, so I did do a little bit of an 'evaluation' of him.  One, I checked out his lateral flexion.  Nothing formal at all, I just pulled his head around to his shoulder.  He left it there, didn't fight, didn't pull away.  The other thing I did was try to lead him to one side, maintaining a little tension on the lead line until he shifted toward me.  Then I rewarded him tons.  First, he just shifted a little (reward!), then, he took a step toward me (Reward!), then I put a little more tension on the rope and he disengaged his hindquarters and came up to me (REWARD!).  Who knows if that is really a great evaluation of him but I did feel that he had a real willingness to try hard.  Apart from that, he hasn't had a lot of haltering experience, but that's fine.  I've always loved groundwork. 
I'll put up some pictures of him when I get him.  But brace yourself, this little guy is C-U-T-E!

Tools I Use: The Process

I have a full-blown process in place and I use this process daily to write.  Specifically, to write the other blog and to work on growing it. 

1. Get up and write my 3 pages per day.  Keep a separate notebook handy.
2. Whenever I get an idea that pertains to the blog (I get a lot, it seems), write it down.
3. When I'm done with my 3 pages, sit down at my computer and start working on "the list".  

Here's an example of yesterday's list.  I don't get too worked up whether I finish everything or not, and some of them are just ideas that I may dismiss later.

• Mom's canning story (work on it)
• Neptune Society (add a link to it from the blog)
• Reply to comments personally
• Story about how much I cuss and how much mom hated it
• add a "coming soon" widget to the blog
• Another story idea about ALS
• Email mom's ALS coordinator about the site and about resources (oh, and about mom's suction machine)
• set up a donation link on the site for the ALS Association
• Email a guy at work about a thing
• Buy some blue pens and a digital voice recorder
• check messages at "PatientsLikeMe.com"

Each day, I add to the list.  Some days I actually accomplish everything, then it's time to go back through the lists and do those things I didn't get to before.  Sometimes stuff just falls off my radar, or is an idea that is so uninspiring that eventually I just don't do it.

Consumed

Currently I'm totally consumed with this:  http://momdieditsucked.com
It's kind of got all my attention.    

Lunch with my besties wherein the rule is to end every sentence with "bitches.". Now that is some funny shit right there.

Weekend Writer's Retreat

I hereby proclaim this weekend to be my own, personal "Weekend Writer's Retreat."  Wha?  18" of new snow and more coming?
Dilemma.
Write?  Ski?  Write/ski?  Write on the chair lift, ski back down?  Write about skiing?  Write my name in the snow while peeing?
Probably going to ski a bit, then sit by the fire and write a bit.
I have a few assignments I've been stewing on, not the least of which is The Effing Christmas Letter. 
I don't want to give too much away, but there will be a minimum of three.  3.  TRES Letters de Navidad!  A TRIO!!  I'll title them thusly (and swear to never use the word "thusly" again): Gaspar, Balthasar, and Melchior.  First person to figure out why I'm naming them that will receive an iTunes giftcard for $20.00.  Leave your answer in the comments.  All hail the blog giveaway...
Now, no more information about the Christmas Letter(s) and STOP trying to pry it outta me!

THIS is a Reality Dance Show: Elaine vs. Me

Sweet Fancy Moses!



I got Nothin'!

To My Brother, with Mucus

Over the last year of mom's illness (ALS), she had constant issues with phlegm.  She couldn't swallow or spit or even cough.  Her throat, mouth, and tongue were completely unresponsive.  We found a suction machine, like what a dentist uses, and set her up with that so she could find some relief from the horrible sense of choking to death.  She'd take the suction wand and cram that thing so far down her throat I thought she was going to accidentally pull her seat cushion through herself backwards.  It was gory.
At times, this activity was more than I could stomach, and I had to look away.  I'm going to spare you the details, except to say this: snot in a straw.  Okay, no more details!
Besides being horribly appalling and uncomfortable to watch, it was awful to see mom struggle with this.  She feared choking, she couldn't clear her throat, she was just so uncomfortable.
She used a device to communicate.  She'd type out a word or sentence, and hit a button and it'd read it back, as best it could.  Usually the device's best was really lousy.  At one point it developed an Indian accent, which left you feeling like you were having a conversation with tech support for Mom v.1.0.
The disease began to take its toll on her hands as well.  Soon she abbreviated her thoughts, using single words to communicate.
Her single word for phlegm build-up, the sensation she was choking, and please get her the suction device was "Mucus."
Mucus.
I began to notice the effect the word had on my brother.  I saw the way his lips pursed, his nose wrinkled.  The churning of his stomach seemed to alter the tilt of Earth on its axis. It bothered him deeply.  I saw him in a new and vulnerable light.  My big brother, the one who always got to do everything before me.  The bigger, smarter, more athletic older brother who, in my younger years, I regarded as completely untouchable.  There he was, a little weak in the knees, a little afraid, and a little grossed out.
I thought, "Paydirt."
Thus began the random acts of mucus.  Sometimes I send him an email -- no subject line, just a word: "mucus."  Sometimes I spell it in all caps, or I enlarge the font.  I send texts to his phone too, just the word Mucus.  On occasion if he doesn't answer when I call, I leave him a voicemail message: mucus.
It's not a constant thing.  Just once in awhile.  It's my way of letting him know that I'm thinking of him and that I appreciate our connection.  Some people use the word "love," I use Mucus.

Santa Came Early!!!

Santa Came Early!!!
I'm not going to tell you what he brought, but I will tell you this: I'm willing to share.
Keep checking back, and I'll reveal a little more each day, and maybe even let you in on the fun.
Hint: This is not an Amway schpiel.

Product Review/Rant, Whatever You Want to Call it.

The obvious solution to my complaint here is that we need a bigger house. We need a much bigger house, by about 30,000 square feet.
I bought one of these Febreze luminaries. More like Stinkinaries. This vile contraption was supposed to emit a pleasant scent and a soft glow.
Glow: soft.
Scent: pleasant like fetid, bloated, gassy road-kill, and twice as strong.
I'm in another room and my freakin' eyes are watering. I'm not over-dramatizing, either. My eyes are literally burning and watering. I'm about to take all parts to the thing out to the trash. The only way this thing could've been tolerable is if I put it in the attic of my 50,000 square foot house.
I'm now the proud owner of a really expensive battery-operated tea light.
SUCKA!!!

You Wet the Bed Once, and Nobody Forgets it!

Granted, I was 34 years old.  It was on a raft trip, a very remote raft trip.  No access to washing machines, fresh bedding, or even clean underwear.  It was a borrowed sleeping bag.  Still, What the Almighty Heck, People???
It must've been nerves.  We were rafting the Selway River in April.  The Selway in April is notoriously unpredictable.  One day it's a docile Class II/III, and in a span of less than 12 hours it is a Class V, your boats are swept away in the middle of the night, and your only option is to hunker down in bear country until the river subsides (which could be June), or run it with whatever watercraft you have left.
Our crew opted to run it.  They were experienced, competent boaters.  I was not. 
I went to bed the second night, sober and dry. 
I dreamt of my office job, specifically of my office restroom, the restroom which had a toilet seat you could actually sit on as opposed to a splintery piece of plywood with a hole cut in it, which you positioned your hoo-hah over and tried not to think of outhouse-dwelling-spiders. 
The restroom seat was smooth, comfortable, and welcoming.  Not unlike the lining of my friend's sleeping bag.
I walked in, closed the door, sat down, and...
OH MY GOD!!!!
I woke up midstream. 
Ever tried to, you know, dam 'er up?  Close the gates?  Screw the clamps down?  Restrict the flow?  Abort the mission?  (Side note: have you ever done an internet search for euphemisms for urination?)
The only feeling worse than waking up in the bed you peed, is waking up in the bed you are still peeing.  Had I not already been emptying my bladder, the shock of the entire situation could have caused me to wet myself.  But, I sort of had that covered. 
We had two more nights left on the trip.  I had zero changes of clothes left.  I also ended the trip with zero friends willing to loan me sleeping bags (or clothing). 
I have a hard time stopping myself once I've committed to peeing.  Oddly enough, I have the same lack of self-control when it comes to spewing incriminating and embarrassing stories about myself.  Thus, the bed-wetting story was leaked. 
And I got an email today from a friend so enamored with the story that he's shared it numerous times, and introduces me to people as "the Sleeping Bag Incident Teresa".  He must be concerned that people may confuse me with other Teresas, like "the Gourmet Cook Teresa" or "The Proposed-To-On-A-Hayride Teresa" or "The Chainsaw Juggling Teresa".  A common mistake, I'm sure.
So, there it is, my big, dark, non-secret.  My yellow letter U that I have to wear on my chest. 
I might as well just go with it.  You know, once a story like that is leaked, it's pretty hard to stop it.

Asparagus Stuffed Rolled Steak

I am loving rolled steak.  It looks so pretty when you slice it, and if you stuff it with the right stuff, it's a meal in one.  Here's a recipe I made up tonight:

• Steaks (I had 1 1/2 lbs boneless chuck or something like that)
• 1/4 c panko bread crumbs
• 2T sliced almonds
• 2t Balsamic Vinegar
• 2 minced garlic cloves
• 1t dijon mustard
• salt
• pepper
• 1/2 lb asparagus (fresh or frozen works)

1. Preheat oven to 400 F.
2. In a bowl, combine the panko, almonds, balsamic vinegar, garlic, dijon, salt, and pepper.  
3. Wrap steaks in saran wrap (one at a time) and pound out so they are each about 1/4" thick.
4. Spoon the filling onto each steak, then lay the asparagus on the steaks as well. 
5. Roll the steaks and secure with kitchen twine
6. Bake, uncovered for 35 minutes (for medium rare, or longer for more done meat)
7. Remove from oven, cover in aluminum foil and let sit for 10 minutes.
8. Serve.

I PROMISE!

I swear to clouds and rainbows that the "Mom" category is not going to be flooded with "wah wah wah I miss my mom oh woe is me boo hoo hoooooooooo."  Not flooded with it... but perhaps that sentiment will trickle in from time to time.  I will try to offset the whining with other, less whiney anecdotes. 
There was the time she ran over my bicycle. 
Wait, no, I'm definitely not ready to write about that.  I'll start whining again. 

Tools I Use: 2 (This is a Double Feature!)

The first tool is really just a personal preference.  I mean, all I'm talking about is a pen.  But I do love this pen.  It is balanced, sturdy, fits in my hand well, and I love the ink.
See, I hate despise pens that don't put out enough ink.  Then it feels more like you are etching words onto slate rather than writing smoothly.  Scratch, scratch, scratch.  And then the words are all spotty and pale and completely lacking authority.  All that scratching makes me pissy, too.  The sound of it is like, yes, fingernails on a chalkboard. 
On the other hand, a pen that produces too much ink makes your handwriting look like that of an addled junkie.  It looks like you may've paused too long mid-word, maybe taken a bong-hit, and just let the ink leak out of your pen with absolutely no guidance.  Hey guess what, the freebasing freelancer character (totally NOT referring to Hunter S. Thompson, specifically) is so 60s!  I like my handwriting to be at least legible, if nonsensical.  I can't have my journals looking like a vast collection of ransom notes and drug-induced poetry, even if they are.
I finally found the perfect pen.  It's the uni-ball Jetstream (I opt for the 1.0). If you want to write nicely, check out that pen.  Now, if you want to write well, check out Tool # 2 of this post!

Admittedly, the first tool in this review is probably "not all that important" to some.  It might seem pretty trivial.  So, along with the "not all that important" Tool I Use, I'm going to sing the high praises of a tool I discovered two years ago and am still using.
It is "The Artist's Way" by Julia Cameron.  This book changed my life.  God, I'm like a freakin' jumble of advertising snippets and cliches today, huh?  I had a couple of false starts with this book, but then really worked through it when I was also training for the miracle marathon.  By working through the book, I learned the value of writing daily, and writing through anything.  If you are remotely interested in writing as a career, get the book and work through it.  If you are not interested in writing as a career but are thinking of "doing something new" with your life, the exercises can inspire you.  Since finishing the book I've also finished writing the first draft of a book, I've continued writing every day (with some lapses), and have completed several short stories.  Oddly, the exercise has me reading like you wouldn't believe.  I've read a lot of books over the last two years.

"Red Mountain, Uncorked"

I'm starting blog called "Red Mountain, Uncorked."  These are in reference to the Red Mountain AVA of Washington-the-state.

This is not a series of blog posts to glamorize or market Red Mountain AVA.  Somebody else handles that. 
This is a history of the area's development, and some current anecdotes, told from my point of view. 
I grew up on Red Mountain.  Dad drilled his own well.  We lived without indoor plumbing for months, in an old shed my dad bought at a Hanford auction and dragged out to the place.  We were the second family to live out there.  So, you know, what I'm sayin' is for real.  When pioneers of Red Mountain like Kiona Vineyards' Scott Williams introduce you to people as "pioneers" of Red Mountain... well... let's just say you go way back.

Please Mom, Do NOT Visit Me

I'm not ready for it.  I'm afraid to think about you too hard because then I know you'll visit me in my sleep.  I miss you.  Holy shit I miss you so much.  I miss your funny voicemails, where you'd ask me a question and wait for the answer... even though you were talking to a machine and you knew it. 
I miss how you would laugh at my stupid jokes and you always managed to pass off even a courtesy laugh as a real, genuine laugh.  I considered comedy as a career choice at one point. 
I miss your cooking. 
I do not miss your driving.  Sorry mom. 
I miss your eyes.  They were such an amazing blue and for some reason you always had this optimistic and hopeful expression in your eyes.  And I always thought that you were the only adult I knew who had that expression.  It baffled me.
I miss how your number one goal in life was to let us kids know how important we were to you.  It isn't like I need the constant affirmation.  What I miss about it is the example you set for me of constantly showing your loved ones that you loved them.  
So why wouldn't I want you to visit me?  Why would I be afraid to sleep at night or meditate or pray or do anything that might give you a quiet moment to come in and visit me? 
Because I know exactly what you'll do and say.  You'll tell me how much you love me and you'll hug me and you'll tell me how happy you are to be with Jesus finally. 
It'll feel too much like forgiveness and I'm not ready for it.
I guess I'm not ready to be at peace with this. 
You suffered so long, so much.  I feel that I failed you.  I lost patience with you, I never once could grasp what you must have been going through, I selfishly only thought of my loss, me... me... me...
And there is no way to go back and fix it -- to hug you more, to spend more time with you, to empathize more.
So, I'm stuck in this self-punishing mode. 
Ironically, I get this from you.  I'm afraid if you visit me you'll forgive me, take away my self-punishment, and really that's kind of my last tangible connection to you.  There is nothing on this planet that is as tangible as the long slow burn of failure and guilt. 
When you died and I went into your room, I had to remove your rosary before we left.  I carefully unwound it from your hands, and placed your hands -- clasped in prayer -- on your chest.  As I moved you a bit, I felt a warm spot on you.  I suppose the blankets had kept the last of your body heat from escaping.  My heart nearly stopped.  I knew I would never feel that warmth, ever again. 
Instead I'm clinging to the burning sensation of failure and guilt.  If you visit me, you'll take that away. 
I really just need to hang on to this connection to you, Mom, no matter how little sense it makes. 
Please Mom, do NOT visit me.

Flight or Fight? I Chose Fight

Something suspicious happened last night...  The dogs were upstairs.  The cats went absolutely batshit crazy as only a cat can do, and ended up huddled under the woodstove, growling at the living-room window.  I stormed out to restore order, thinking the dogs were chasing the cats.  I rounded the corner in time to see a head duck down below the window.  Dog head?  Person head?  Figment-of-my-imagination head? 
The dogs, by then, had crashed down the stairs, threatening our house's tenuous hold of its own foundation, and began keystone-copping around the living room.  They stumbled, sniffed, tripped over each other, all while asking in their dog way, "What the???"
I gathered my wits (and stopped peeing my pants, mid-stream) and went out to the front porch.  Nothing.  Still standing on the porch, I called Jeff, who was staying at the cabin.  In my loudest trash-talking voice I said, "Honey, Where are the guns?  I want the biggest one we own.  One that will BLOW THE ~BLEEP~ING HEAD OFF OF ANY ~BLEEP, BLEEP, BLEE, BLEEPING, BLEEP~ WHO COMES NEAR ME!!!"  To which Jeff replied, "oh, yeah, those are in the cellar."
The cellar. 
To get to the cellar, you have to go outside... past the window where I saw creepiness, and down some steps.  The cellar has no lights.  And a lock on the outside. 
So I said, "Oh, they're in the kitchen, and there's a shotgun under the bed?  Great!  I'm ARMED AND READY FOR ANY ~BLEEEEEEEEPING BLEEPITTY BLEEPS~ that come my way!"
Then I let the dogs out.  Murphy opted to continue guarding the inside of the house, specifically the down sleepingbag he commandeered as his watchpost.  From the comfort of the sleepingbag he could observe roughly nothing. 
Pup and Cricket, however, secured the perimeter.  They behaved alarmed enough to convince me something was out there. 
I went inside, told Jeff what happened, and decided that odds were good it was a figment-of-my-imagination head and I could go to bed in peace. 
Yeah
freakin'
RIGHT.
You're reading words from a woman who can't watch Hawaii Five-Oh without having nightmares for a week.  Real-Life visits by a potential creepster with satan-knows-what on their mind is just the thing to soothe me to sleep. 
Yeah
Freakin'
RIGHT.
I grabbed a closet rod, brought the dogs in, and ultra-super-duper latched every door, closed every shade on every window that had a shade, and went upstairs to bed.
Approximately 3 hours later my heart rate returned to normal.
Approximately 15 minutes after that, Pup jumped up and started barking.  A lot.  And then he laid back down.
Approximately 4 hours after that, I'm here writing about it.  Nothing happened.  At all.  But let it be known that I have the potential to out-yell and out-crazy any squirrels, cats, possums, skunks, figments of my own imagination, or stray dogs who would do anything as perverse and shocking as peep in my living-room window. 
You have been warned.

True Intimacy is Calling Each Other by Your Real Names

Jeff and I heard this on the news the other morning -- that "pet" names for each other kill romance.  I thought, "they must mean names like pooky or poopsy or whatever." 
Then the reporter said, "...and "honey" is the biggest offender." 
We looked at each other. 
We pondered a romanceless future. 
And rolled our eyes. 
Here's the deal:  Jeff calls me baby or honey, and I like it.  He doesn't call anyone else that (okay, he calls his kids honey, which is fine).  This makes it special and unique.  In one word he's able to convey several times throughout the day that I'm special to him. 
I call him honey.  I do not call anyone else that, ever.  Never.  But I call lots of people Jeff.  Usually, it's because that's their name. 
Also, when we talk to other people, we don't refer to each other as "honey" or "baby".  I don't call my best friend and say, "you'll never guess what honey did today!"  It's a specific term used only for face-to-face situations. 
We play with the notion of referring to each other by first name.  It makes me feel like he's pissed at me or something.  It's too formal, too distant, maybe too common. 
"Teresa, how was your day?"
"It was fine, Jeff, how was yours?"
"Teresa, did you get the mail?"
"Jeff, do you want to watch a movie?"
~shudder~
I call him honey, he calls me baby, and we still kiss everyday. 

Suckingness Averted!

You know I write every single day.  Today I pondered yesterday's post about "writer's suckingness."  Then I pondered another post I wrote about tools I use:  Index Cards.  You can probably see where this is going.
When I finished my freewriting this morning, I busted out the index cards and got busy on this short story I'm working on.  I wrote a single line about each "point" in the story.  Soon, a dozen cards lay before me on the top of our firewood box (the only clear surface in this house, so help me).  I shuffled them around, changed the order of a few things... and wrote 5 more cards. 
In other words, the story was missing an entire third of itself!  The things overlooked were really poignant.  I wept.  Filled partly with relief and partly with renewed grief over those topics that must be addressed and weren't, I did cry a little.
Here's hoping writer's suckingness will no longer affect this particular story.  It really deserves more...

Short Story About My Mother Takes Over My Life...

News at 11. 
It's one of many short stories about her.  It is meant to be poignant, memorable, sweet.  Like her.  But it's flat.  Flat as that funky cowlick on the back of my head.  I read this one and get to the heart-stopping punch line at the end completely dry-eyed.  I am working on a short story about the many things I miss most about my mother.  It's a story of preservation and death, a montage of our intertwined lives -- I'm her, she's me, we are one, but we are not -- but the story is about as emotionally engaging as my flat cowlick.   
The good news is that I and I alone have the ability to turn a brilliant, touching, true story into a press release. 
Yes, rather than breathe life into this story, I'm continually draining blood from it. 
Oh, the horror. 
What to do? 
Well, if "writing through it" works for writer's block, surely it works for writer's suckingness (the term I'm giving my current state of ineptitude). 
What do you do when you think you're writing sucks?  Or, am I the only one who's ever experienced this? 
I gotta go do something with that cowlick now.

Either They Missed Me, or They Are Hungry.

I stayed up at the cabin and went skiing.  When I came home, this is the greeting I received.  "Uh, mom?  We have some serious cuddling to catch up on..." 
or
"oh, look, it's the feed lady."

The Tools I Use: 1

I plan to make this a regular tool review.  Daily, weekly, monthly, or annually, I'm not sure what schedule this will be on, but it will be regular...
To start, here is tool number 1 and where I got the idea:


The book is "Your First Novel" by Ann Rittenberg and Laura Whitcomb (order here: http://tinyurl.com/36lw984).  The tool I use are index cards.  I jot down a story element on an index card, like "Blake finds a body."  Then jot down another story element on another card, "Blake's vineyard is robbed."  If you look at the top card, I even fill in a few details about the element -- in this case it's a list of who his debtors are.



Once I do a few cards (don't get too hung up on whether your story is complete or not), I shuffle them around:



By doing this, I decided to start the story with Blake finding a body, because that's way more exciting than just being in debt (yawn).  Laying out these index cards is a great tool, it demonstrates holes in your story you didn't know you had, and it lets you move parts of the story around. 

When I see a hole in my story, I write another index card.  Usually the hole is pretty apparent, so what goes on the card is obvious.  "Blake's vineyard is robbed" might be the missing link between Blake finding a body, and Blake's creditors being hot after him. 

From there it's pretty easy to write your story and keep your momentum going.  Just number and stack your cards, then write about each one, adding details and whatnot.

I like using index cards for outlining a story better than traditional outlining (even in a program like MS Word where you can cut/paste) because you have the entire story right there in front of you (no scrolling).  It's a lot like doing a jigsaw puzzle, so that makes it fun too.

There you have it -- a great book about novel writing, and a Tool I Use for novel-writing:  index cards. 

What are your tools?

Confession Time

As the wife of a Professional Ski Patroller, I get a free annual pass. 
That is cool.
But today -- opening day -- feels more appropriate for sitting in the cabin, smelling the chilli that is bubbling in the crockpot, and I feel guilty about that.
That is one wacked out sense of obligation I'm feeling, for sure.
The car is packed, the chores are (mostly) done. 
It's opening day.
I have bad-weather friendships to maintain (You know, those people you only see in the winter?)
And a husband to stalk.  (that is, MY husband...not just any husband)
New boots to try.
Thanksgiving Dinner calories to burn.
.... ~yawn~ ....

What I Do About Writer's Block

Yesterday was THE.  PERFECT.  WRITING DAY.  Snow falling, fire in the fireplace, no where to be...  So I sat down and began working on a project.  It's a project I've been working on for months.  You'd think it was an epic 7000 page novel.  It's just a short story.  Maybe 2000 words.
I rewrite a lot.  It's just how I work. 
I sat down to rewrite, with some additions in mind. 

What's that?  Dishes need to be washed?  Okay. 
I got up.  I washed a couple of dishes and thought, "Oh, this is an evil ploy by my brain to avoid thinking!"  So I gently nudged Velcro out of the red recliner, and assumed my writing position. 

Laundry.  I really should put a load in the wash. 
No, I should write. 
Just start a load and it can run while you write, you'll be multi-tasking. 
Fine. 
I put a load in the wash, poured another cup of coffee, and settled back into the recliner, noting that cats can truly produce the most evil and bone-chilling glare.

That fire is about to go out, better stoke it. 
Look brain, we are going to settle down and write.  That is that.  You are expending way more energy avoiding the task than just settling down and doing it. 
I stoked the fire.  Velcro glared.

Yesterday wasn't a great example of managing writer's block.  Here's what I do that helps: 

1. Write every day.  Every stinking day.  Don't worry about grammar, spelling, content, omitting or adding swear words.  Just do it.  Eventually you find that this task becomes your boot-camp for all other writing.  You are training yourself to let your mind go, and to press through and write.  No.  Matter.  What.  I write 3 pages per day, longhand.  It is some of the most miserable and unreadable tripe to ever emit from a pen...  If anyone ever read it, penmakers around the world would throw their hands in the air and scoff, "Really?  That is what she used these for?  Disgusting!"
2. Write.  Really.  If you're sitting down to write and your mind is totally not there, just start writing words.  Any words.  Even if it's unrelated to your project.  Write your name, a shopping list, it doesn't matter.  Keep doing it.  Next thing you know you'll be immersed in your project.  Or you won't, but you'll have your shopping list done. 

Ski Season Has Arrived!

I have an astonishing number of ski gloves.  Not an astonishing number of PAIRS of ski gloves.  While other people are searching the far recesses of their dryers for missing socks, I rummage through closets for left-hand, pink gloves, or the blue circa 1980 right-handed glove. 
Believe me, I have no issues whatsoever in wearing mismatched anything, least of all gloves.  Still, it would be nice to have an honest-to-goodness pair.
I found a pair. 
boots, check.  Skis, check, check, check, check, check.  Poles, check.  kneepads and goggles, check and check.  face mask, check.  Hat.  Hat?  HAT...!  ~more closet rummaging~  okay, we'll call that wad of yarn a hat. 
Long underwear, ski jacket, down jacket, ski pants, packed.

Self, say hello to your new winter wardrobe. 

In other news, this also begins the long dark winter of solitude, of widowhood.  The Mountain Man is a patroller and they're feeling a little short-handed this year.  He'll be working.  A lot.  My only hope at seeing him is to re-enact a little fantasy of mine where I get injured on the slopes (nothing major), and he comes to my rescue.  ~sound of dramatic music~ 
Except, I already know him, so the romantic gaze into each other's eyes is more likely to be followed by me screaming, "don't touch me!!!  no no nonononononono, don'ttouchme don'ttouchme don'ttouchme don'ttouchme don'ttouchme !" ... and he sees a woman who looks like a Michelin Man who robbed a dumpster for his attire, and well... that's the end of romance as we know it. 

Instead I will go up to the hill and ski around and hope to catch glimpses of my man in black, in his patrol gear, and try to suppress the butterflies and the oncoming swoon I feel every time...  unless it'd get me a little mouth-to-mouth?

Our Dysfunctional Relationship

It's an awkward romance.  You give me what I want, what I need.  But I always want more.  Sometimes, I have such a strong craving for you, it's unbearable.  I get physically sick, dizzy, spaced out.  Then, when I get too much of you, I have the same symptoms.
Sometimes I spend so much time with you that afterward I am hungover, sick, and heartbroken. 
Sometimes you're hot, sometimes you're cold.  You are always indifferent.  You could be with me, you could be with anybody else.  But I don't care. 
Sometimes I work so hard for you, I dress you up, shower you with trinkets and decorations.  Sometimes you return the favor, you warm me, comfort me. 
Some romantic relationships follow a natural progression, leading to marriage and a growing family.  Oh, you've given me growth, and plenty of it. 
I spend half my time loving you and half of it hating your existence.  I throw you out, you come back. 
Damn you food, can't we just be friends?

10,000 Hours Rule

"A journey of a hundred miles begins with just one step."
"Practice makes perfect."
"Practice, practice, practice."
In the book "Outliers" by Malcolm Gladwell, he repeatedly refers to the "10,000 Hour Rule".  Highly successful people achieved success from performing a task for 10,000 hours. 
Finally, at the ripe age of forty, I have accepted that a random publisher with deep pockets will not approach me on the street and say, "Hey, you look like you have a story, here's a million dollar advance, now go write it!"  That isn't quite how my fantasy of instant success went, but it may as well be.
Now, I'm too busy writing to day dream about instant success as a writer. 

1. I write for at least an hour every morning.  My goal is to write 3 pages, longhand.  It's just a brain-dump.
2. I then dedicate some time to working on whatever project I want -- short stories, a book, or just a list of ideas for more stories.
3. Weekends I write, usually more time on those projects in item #2.
4. I've started blogging, trying to make 3 entries a week. 
5. And I read: blogs, books, short stories, magazines, newspapers, cereal boxes, emails...

I definitely still dream of success as a writer -- and by success I mean earning enough money at it to do it full-time. 
But I think I'm a little too invested for it to ever be considered "instant."
How do you spend your 10,000 Hours?

I Love That Boy

Tonight at Thanksgiving dinner, Mountain Man's Aunt said about him, "I love that boy."  Yep.  She loves that 6-foot-tall, chainsaw-wielding, father-of-two "boy." 
"I hit the jackpot" I told her. 


Here he is sewing our wedding invitations.  (Sewing?  Invitations?  Yes, it's a long story, worthy of an entire blog of its own.)

He's handy to have around.

He's a good dad.

He baits my hook for me.  (Is that a euphemism?  If it means he rocks my world, then yes.)

~swoon~

Chaps, Chainsaw, Mountains, Man

Oh My

He will dress up in an Elvis wig, hike to the top of the mountain when the lifts are closed, and ski with me.

And smile the whole time.

We get each other. 

Aunt Inga, I love that boy too.

Thanksgiving: Pie Birds and Can I Get a Butt Check?

That is a pie bird in a blueberry pie,
to stop bubbling over... My EYE!

No, no, my eye didn't bubble over.

What I mean is, the pie bird didn't keep the pie from bubbling over. 

You plant the little bird's behind on the bottom crust, pour your filling in, put the top crust on, and bake.  My ineptitude at baking may have been too much for his ceramic derrier to tackle.  Or maybe I cemented his booty too firmly to the crust.  Sorry bird.

Even so, the pie tasted delish. 

I also made Mama Stamberg's Cranberry Relish.  It looks like chunky Pepto Bismol, which is not a bad idea for a Thanksgiving side-dish.  (Oh, now there is an idea -- Pepto-Bismol ice cream with Chocolate Ex-Lax chips... omnomnom!) You freeze this relish.  My in-laws eat it, sans turkey, in an icecream dish for dessert.  So, the Pepto Bismol ice cream is not a far-out idea.

A shocking amount of the time, I can churn out quite a good dish.  I swear to you that although it doesn't taste like it, I pull these good dishes out of my backside and think, "holy crap I didn't think that would work."  Substitutions?  Lack of ingredients?  Lack of skill with a blow-torch or alder planks?  No problem.

Today was not one of those days. 

The pie bubbled over, the crust tore, I put too much water in the crust so it had a play-doh consistency, and the cranberry relish didn't freeze through.  I couldn't decide whether to categorize this as an edible pursuit or an inedible one.

Can I get a butt check?

Pony Noses!

There is no blankie with satin bound edges that is as soft and comforting as the muzzle of a horse.

And, though my heroes (Buck Brannaman, Will James, Ray Hunt, and Robbin Wright) might all cringe to see it happen, I do love to kiss that muzzle. Wrigley doesn't object. Wrigley really doesn't object to much.




Or sometimes we just stand, nose to nose, and I gently blow into her paisley-shaped nostrils and she inhales. Then she gently blows out and I inhale. We'll do this for awhile. Her breath smells sweet, warm, grassy. My breath, on the other hand...

It's wrong, dangerous, and disrespectful even, to behave that way -- sticking my nose in her business. Or is it the other way around?





Maybe she likes people noses too. I'll ask her.

Wrigley's Report Card

Wrigley arrived green.  I wanted a project horse. 
In one month her report card looked like this:

• She can lead by her front feet (I put a rope on each foot and lead her around).
• She picks up her feet and stands nice for the farrier.
• I've ridden her about a dozen times 
• She ground ties for everything -- saddling, brushing, getting her feet cleaned, etc.
• She loads in the trailer pretty well.
• You can swing and throw a rope off of her
• She can back up in any direction

It took a lot of work from us both.   

What is Your Day Job?

What do you do to support your writing? Are you one of the people living my dream and supporting your writing with (dramatic pause) your writing? If so, how did you get to that point?

For now I'm an Application Support Engineer. It's a mouthful, but I think "Girl Friday" sums up my job nicely.

Yesterday I: updated a user guide, worked with two managers to develop a communications plan for an application, wrote test scripts to programmatically test software, answered a colleague's questions about MS Excel macros,wrote a quick little newsletter to some early adopters of our application, reported a few bugs, went for a run, and set up two new employees with development servers.

It supports my writing, my family, our dreams, our hobbies, and our future. I guess that's a fair trade. What do you do?

How Much Does a Fiction Writer Make?

Ever hear the joke, "What's the difference between X and a large pizza?" (where X is: a drummer, a ski instructor, or in this case could be a writer.)The answer to the joke, while germane, follows at the end of the blog.
For the non-J.K. Rowling writer, it doesn't appear to be the best-paying gig. As in, it really doesn't pay much at all. Damn the movies for convincing me that a writer's life is all tea and crumpets, fine dining, and a writing desk overlooking (fill in dreamscape here). I really was hoping for a job in which I could work in my pajamas. I guess that's still a possibility if I were to get a job writing reviews of mattresses for a mattress-maker.
For the fantasy job of writing fiction from the comfort of my writing desk overlooking the valley below and Mt. Rainier and Mt. Adams in the distance, and doing this in my pajamas, I should probably expect to earn enough to pay for the coffee that I consume while writing. Maybe. A person could pad that income by writing magazine articles, speaking for hire, or in my case, maintaining a full-time job. Basically, hustling. This article gives a good run-down of what to expect as a fiction writer: http://answers.yahoo.com/question/index?qid=20070310135839AAbSlno
And I think that this author's candid post on the topic does a lot to inform prospective writers: http://laurasalas.livejournal.com/109047.html
So, if A) you're thinking "I want to be a writer and eat tea and crumpets whilst writing at my writing desk overlooking (x)" or B) you're thinking "when she hits it big I hope she remembers me" then I have news for you -- expect both to be a long time coming. That's really not enough to dissuade me from writing, and hopefully won't discourage you either. My goal is to just keep on writing. Earning money from that would be great, maybe I'd use it to buy a nice writing desk.
Now that we have that answered, the answer to the joke "What is the difference between a writer and a large pizza?" is: "The pizza can feed a family of four."Next blog topic, "What's your day job?"