Damned Keebler Elves

Years ago some hospital made a video game for kids with cancer or some other disease. It was basically something like Space Invaders where the invaders were the disease and the kids got to picture themselves killing the cause of their illness. The researchers said the kids who played the game had better pain-management skills and did better at getting better.

Ever since I read that article (and it’s been years so I’m probably remembering it all wrong) I’ve been a big fan of visualisation for pain management. Instead of Space Invaders, though, I picture one of my problems as little Keebler Elves with sharp implements carving away parts of my innards to make Fudge Coated Pain Cookies. In order to feel better I invision myself going into the hurting part of my body, grabbing the little wisenheimers one at a time and tearing them limb from limb, drowning their screaming heads in my own blood.

Vicious. Gross. Amazingly effective.

In the past week or two I’ve massacred four or five treesfull of the suckers. Just now as I was finishing work on my novel for the day and trying to come up with a good topic for Ze Blog another handful of the bastards met their maker.

Why am I hungry for cookies?

Sorry. Just Had To Share.

I don’t put my fiction on here, and more than likely never will. (If I ever put fiction in large chunks on the internet it will have its own blog so that I don’t have scope creep on this here site.)

But I just really like this bit I wrote just now and I don’t know why. It tickles me somehow. It’s not supposed to be heavy; it’s just a bit of backstory. So I think it’s nice and light like a cookie.

Did You Hear That It Was Some Muslim Dude?

I was in the hospital for 8 hours today. My doctor was in surgery so the nurse–ever vigilant against lawsuits–sent me to the ER. When I was waiting to be seen the news broke about the Ft. Hood shooting. CNN called it ‘a major incident.’

Who uses the words ‘major’ and ‘incident’ together? That’s like calling something a Giant Nugget. Ridiculous copywriters work at CNN. Maybe they just aren’t allowed to use the word ‘tragedy’, and the word ‘heartbreak’ sounds too much like Oprah and the words ‘business as usual’ are just a heartbreaking tragedy all the way around.

So anyway, there it was. A Major Incident.

And since I was in the ER and we’re in Hermitage, TN, by the time I limped out hours later, I heard no fewer than three mentions of the shooter being a Muslim guy. By that time I’d spent hours in a room with a TV which could not be shut off, nor could the channel be changed. (Mercifully the sound was muted.) So I had some Steve Over The Edge guy yelling and some insolent teenagers, Jerry Springer and two women in baby doll dresses rassling over a doughy guy with a Molester ‘Stache who it seems had been given both of them–cousins–the hot beef injection. Then there was Maury where some woman cut off her husband’s penis (complete with a reinactment!) and flushed it down the toilet. Thankfully the fire department rescued his severed member from the U-bend. I can’t imagine he’d want it back after that, but I guess he did.

So anyway, right about now I’m pretty much convinced that not everyone I share this planet with is really happy. Or leading a fulfilling life. Or even thinking that much about anything beyond where their next fried food or f— is coming from. So the fact that they would distill this Major Incident down to the usual trope of us vs. them doesn’t surprise me. It does make me sad.

All The Letters Are My Babies, All The Sentences Are My Mark

A week or so ago I learned something grave and disturbing about myself that I’m not quite ready to put into print. But it has definitely changed the world for me, in that I heard a door slam loudly. Even though I had mostly closed it myself it was still left open a small gap, just in case I thought differently later and entered that room myself. And for a few days there it was starting to swing open and then *bam*! No more light, no more room.

And this is for sure not how I thought it would go when I started walking.

I don’t think it’s an odd coincidence at all–not believing in God and Mystery like I do–that another door I had already nudged open once has started to swing widely and welcoming.

It does occur to me that fear has kept me in this anteroom too long, sitting on a couch and enjoying the breeze from the many doors I’ve left cracked open. I think that’s how the much of the thirties are for some women. And I admit that I’m scared by having to go into that next room. But at the same time I’m a bit glad that it’s there and that I can decorate it how I choose.
Anne B., as some poor amateur historian called her earlier–transferring her nom de plume from Andy Griffith to The Brady Bunch–wrote genius works all through October and is now ginning up the gumption to take them to a publisher. Which I think she should do because she’s got a ready-made hit on her hands. Really. But I understand the fear, because it is that same fear which keeps me in this front room. She and I are so much alike, born one day (and several years, granted) apart. In a lot of ways we’re flip sides of the same coin. I stayed in The Church. She left it. I left college. She stayed. Etc. But I like to think that she is having her book born in October, I in November.

And it occurs to me also, as I step into this newer room, that even if I never have any fiction book published in this lifetime–and yes that would break my heart–I’ve still done what George Bailey did. Through writing I’ve met diverse people. I’ve touched lives in both good and bad ways. Now nothing I ever wrote pulled a drowning idiot kid from a lake. (Seriously, sledding is dangerous.) But if all we want out of this is to be remembered I guess I found my way.

Tweedy Patches and Meerschaum Pipes

I knew a guy who smoked a pipe in the breakroom at work when we were at the travel agency. It was a total affectation, but I kind of admired him for it. It was his way of saying “look, I’m an intellectual in a sea of normalcy.” And also “don’t sit with me and talk when I’m trying to read.”

I decided to do National Novel Writing Month–also known as NaNoWriMo–this year in spite of washing out at my last attempt two years ago.

And so far it’s going so well that I wanna go out and get me a whole set of Writerly Props just like Brian’s pipe. Because, gosh darn it, I feel more like a writer than I ever have in my life.

This book I’m writing is really more like I’m pre-reading it. I can’t fully describe the feeling (so much for being a writer) that comes from having it just flow out of me like I’m reading it into existence.

I made myself two promises this year. I would finish the book no matter what and I would just write. No research, no procrastinating for an hour while I set up just the perfect playlist in iTunes to feed my creativity. Just me getting out of bed every day and sitting at the keyboard and telling myself a story.

And it is wonderously freeing. Instead of stopping every few minutes to double-check the geography of Lancaster County or to look for a photo of a woman who looks similar to my character I am just telling the story as it comes to me. No checking back at an outline.

In short, less like the work I used to do as a secretary, minding the orders and details and managing everyone into the proper place. And while it’s somewhat scary to fly unguarded like this it’s also like I’ve given myself enough freedom to dance.

The Most Over-Exposed Pussy In Modern Day

I just got done reading Flashforward, the book upon which the TV show was based. And it was awesome, the first truly unputdownable book I’ve had my hands on in weeks. I swore I’d bug everyone I know to read it, but settled with putting that here on my blog so that I don’t make myself even MORE tiresome to others.

But I found myself laughing at several points in the book. I don’t want to spoil the read for anyone, but I think I can safely say without giving away plot details that much of the novel focuses on the various theories within Quantum Physics which deal with the science of time. There’s much talk of bosons and neutrinos and particles and thinking men with largely unpronouncable names. And of course there’s that most annoyingly overexposed pussy–Schroedinger’s Cat. Nearly every television show I watch has trotted out Puss In Box as a shorthand explanation for everything from quantum physics to romance. Maybe I watch nerdly shows, but I suspect someone somewhere brought it up at a Hollywood cocktail party.

And I know that it’s supposed to be nothing more than a handy analogy to neatly explain some theory of Quantum Mechanics, but I always find myself very irritated that anyone would propose to murder a cat even in theory. It’s grisly.

Sorry…back to my main thesis. Which is that as I read more of Flashforward and more of the Great Scientific Minds debating the nature of time with absolute certainty about their scientific principles it occured to me yet again that Quantum Physics differs very little from modern Christianity. I know there are science people who would just vomit to hear that, and I’m sorry. But I can’t tell you how many debates I’ve been in about Calvinism, predestination, the Rapture, Ezekiel’s valley of dry bones–pretty much anything in the Christian Bible, really–that hasn’t sounded exactly like Quantum Physics without the mess of advanced mathematics.

The book mocks philosophers in a couple of places, which gripes me. Because Quantum Physics is a child of philosophy, perhaps more like its parent than any other branch of the hard sciences. As a religious person I get kind of peeved at physics for refusing to acknowledge the basic intelligence of faith. Because it seems that we have the same discussions, merely altering the foundational assumptions to suit the particular gathering.

Is the cat alive or dead inside that box? Until you open the box it’s supposed to be both. I think that God may sit outside the box with us cats in it, alongside the poison of our own mortality and know for certain–without opening the box–that we are both right and both wrong in our way. I can’t help but think God is amused.

Last Night I Slept With A Celebrity

Yes, I know I’m married. But I just couldn’t resist. I mean, you see a guy in a movie and something about seeing him on the big screen, bandying with a hot movie star makes him irresistable. Even to me, a woman who takes her wedding vows seriously.

I knew when I watched him swept away that I was swept away by him. I had to sleep with him. I just had to.

I had no idea when we rented The Proposal that there would be an American Eskimo puppy as a major plot device. There’s been some argument on the web as to whether the dog(s) were Samoyed or Eskies. As a lifelong haver-of-Eskies I say, trust me. Those were American Eskimo Puppies. I know Eskies like I know the sound of my mother’s footfall. Besides, there was an article in People Magazine that confirmed it. The role of “Kevin” was played by four different American Eskimo dogs.

I should be delighted that my beloved pet, usually one of the more little-known breeds these days, has acheived a bit of recognition. Before his brother a Bernese Mountain Dog went away to college*, everywhere we went people would make over Casey and ignore Quinn. As though the magnificence of the one eclipsed the other.

But last night as I googled “What Kind Of Dog Was In The Proposal” I saw scads of people on various ask-a-question sites drooling over the total cuteness–it’s real, folks–of the American Eskimo and insisting that they must.have.one.now. I tell you , my blood ran cold. Because these dogs already have a habit of getting abandoned. As cute as they are when they are first-born, as majestic as they are when they are older…they have issues.
–Most of them go through an Awkward Stage. Like pretty girls in movies who are rejected as nerds for the first half until some jock dates them on a bet and forces them to go through a makeover, Eskies can spend a chunk of their life in what we call The Nerdy Larry stage. They’re all skinny angles, short hair and flat out nerdiness. I found more than one person disappointed that their three-month-old Eskie Puppy didn’t look like the pictures on the web. Well, he won’t. Not until he’s about three or four years old, most likely.

–Most of them are very smart. Yes, this can be a good thing. If you are prepared for it. But it also means things that most people don’t expect. They get easily bored and must have toys or people to occupy them. They learn to open doors. They catch on to English very fast, and eventually learn to spell. Most life-long Eskie havers I’ve known have to invent new words for “treat” and “outside” and “ride” lest they let something slip and have their insistent pet pester them endlessly. In many ways having an Eskie is more like having a pre-verbal toddler than having a dog. Except…

–They Are Very Vocal. American Eskimos are excellent watchdogs. This means they will bark at any and everything. You just have to learn to accept that kids and cars passing your house will raise an alarm of barking, mewling and “eskie speech”–an interesting mix of vocalisations that sound for all the world like if you give it another bit of time your dog will say something profound.

–They Need Their People. Eskies bond with their pack and take guarding that pack very seriously. They don’t do well when left alone all day and are simply not bred for being outside dogs. While they enjoy spending time outside (as mine is doing right now, surveying his kingdom) they have to have great quantities of time indoors with you. Which brings me to the other big point….

–They blow their coats. Eskies have low dander, which makes them excellent companions for those allergic to dogs. But they actually have two coats of fur. And several times a year that undercoat blows. This is different than shedding–something Eskies also do every day. Coat-blowing makes shedding look like a bit of a laugh. It’s piles of thick white hair coming out in fluffy chunks that tumbleweed around your house. You can keep it under control by combing twice a day with an Undercoat Rake. But that is a job. Fortunately…

–They can be incredibly vain. They love to be combed, brushed, made over. They love to be “decorated”. Mine loves to pose for pictures. Seriously. But if you take them to a groomers to have their fur cut short they will spend days under the bed. They are embarrassed at having their bad hair days.

I’m extremely fond of this breed of dog. My first dog was an Eskie. I’ll probably always have an Eskie, Lord willing. But I don’t want to see any more of them bought on whims because of their puppy cuteness in pet stores or blockbuster rom-coms, only to be abandoned to kill shelters. So if you’d love to love an Eskie, even with all this Specialness, go for it. Otherwise just buy a copy of the DVD and rewind the Kevin parts. You’ll be better off.

—
*It’s easier for me to deal with the death of my dogs if I instead just say they’re off at college. This is the new thing we do around here. As nutty as it sounds it helps with the pain. And it’s a heck of a lot less smarmy and creepy than that Rainbow Bridge business.

Oh, Who Am I Kidding?

I was 402 words into a post on the dreadful state of book publishing, inspired by an article in this week’s Entertainment Weekly that talked about how all the Books That Were Going To Save The Business This Autumn…haven’t. But as I kept typing I realised that I had nothing earth-shattering to say. Nothing to say that I hadn’t said a thousand times already. As long as literary fiction tries to remain above the perceived gutter to which Authors and Publishers mentally consign genre fiction…Authors and Publishers will go broke. People don’t buy books to read for fun that aren’t fun. And so much of what’s been put out there just isn’t fun. So I guess I don’t need to say more than that.

I’m still banging away at my own fiction, hoping to get brave enough to finish it. I think that there’s a huge part of me that thinks if I never finish it then I never have to try to sell it and thus never get rejected. Stupid, I know. Especially since I worked in a division of a publishers and know the routine. Most rejections of manuscripts aren’t personal. Still…

I have made one promise to myself, though. This November I am going to fully participate in National Novel Writing Month and I’m going to see it through. All the way to the end. My goal is to have a novel started and finished by the end of November. I’ve promised myself it doesn’t have to be like my “real” novels in that I don’t need to research it to death. The idea is to just bang it out quick and dirty. A microwaved meal instead of a Thanksgiving feast. Since my main problem with my work is the courage to finish, I’ve decided this may be a good thing.

I’m writing about my decision here because this is going to be the place where I keep myself accountable. If any of my dear friends who read this are also doing NaNoWriMo, drop a line and let me know! It’ll be fun. I hope.

Forever In Blue Jeans

Neil Diamond is one of my favourites. I first heard “Forever In Blue Jeans” when I was thirteen or fourteen. I knew pretty much as soon as I heard it that it described the kind of love life I wanted. If I were to bother getting together with another person I wanted him to matter so much that other things–material possessions–paled in comparison.

Over the years that’s certainly proven true. And I know just how lucky I am. Because I see money come and go. Friends and family with careers they chose in college have soured on their life course and are either begrudgingly sticking to their miseries or trying to carve out a different path while beating themselves up over the old one.

Now, not everyone is miserable or unfulfilled–far from it. I’m just glad that one of the few times in life I had good sense was when I decided to marry the man I’d only known for 7 weeks. It made the whole saving-myself-for-marriage feel like a payoff.

We’ve got a nice life. We are happy with each other, comfortable in the way and old sweater fits or your favourite chair feels after a long day. We are in love with each other the way a fire blazes when it touches oxygen, the way thick ice on the river cracks like a gunshot in the spring thaw.

That makes times like this–when we are singlehandedly trying to end the recession–better. Running quickly behind my computer and our vacuum in the race to give out our dryer works only sporadically, squeaking its way to damp and shuddering anti-climax. And neck and neck with the 20 year old dryer is the hole around the pipe coming into the basement. Any rain means extra water. Or it did until a quick trip to Lowes and 45 minutes of my dear husband’s labours later. I’m starting to eye our remaining appliances with a special wariness. Is that toaster still heating up properly? Is stuff in the fridge staying cool?

I blame the microwave. It broke about 3 years ago. The word of its general strike somehow leapt across the kitchen to the garbage disposal which quit about six months after that. Both of those lazy bums were eventually replaced but now that the word is out about our trusting nature the various other parts of our house seem to be going on holiday at a rapid rate.

And funnily enough I don’t mind. Because I still have the one thing, the only thing that truly matters. I have my funny little family. A husband who loves me unconditionally and is loved unconditionally in return. A crazy smart dog who is the light of our lives and more than a few eccentric stuffed animals who monitor the goings-on from cozy bleacher seats.

I’m thinking of all of this because of a phone conversation I had yesterday. A phone conversation that reminded me there are people who love nothing more than money and who fear the loss of material goods so keenly that they wouldn’t know how to care for another person if all their world and sanity required it. Love is the greatest blessing on this earth. I feel especially blessed to know that.

The Hookers, The Obamas, New Zealand And Alton Brown

Let me start by saying I have no idea what is wrong with my brain. I did take Benadryl before bed, but last time I checked Benedryl is not made from LSD. So I have no idea what those extended dreams were about.

But in my sleep I was in this sideways world. I was still married to my husband, but he hated being married to me. He spent most of our money on hookers. What he didn’t spend on hookers he used to buy cheeseburgers; he would then come home and eat massive quantities of those in front of the TV while he watched a cooking show. He seemed to have some sort of crazy mancrush on the host–a combination of Alton Brown and Joel McHale. In the sideways world of my dream, that guy was the biggest star on the planet.

One night his big star cooking show was preempted, and my husband had a huge fit. But we watched the show anyway. Turned out that the Obamas had decided to take over New Zealand, Iceland and Greenland and make them the three new states of the Union. There was a variety show filled with celebrities talking up how wonderful this was. Apparently Whoopi Goldberg especially liked the idea because in Iceland they made cheap plastic furniture which was perfect for people to buy while they sat by the bedside of their wounded soldiers. There was an extended segment about one father who slept JUST GREAT! in the hospital room on his special Icelandic Plastic Chair. And it only cost five dollars!

Needless to say I’m still tired.