Losing Count

Yay! A contract in the mail for April's issue of True Romance. I think that makes...22??

Being Prepared

Change light bulbs too high for me to reach...Check
Fix switch in kitchen so lights work...Check
Turn valve on furnace to "on" position for heat...Check
Swap Queen-size bed for Full size bed...Check
Do lots of laundry...Check
Buy 42" flat screen TV...Check
Get rid of old cabinet...Check
Buy bookcase...Check
Assemble bookcase...Check
Stock with myriad of books currently littering floor...Check
Clean up patio...Check
Clean out refrigerator...Check
Clean out pantry...Check
Manicure/pedicure...Check

Probably a million other things to do...but good enough for now.

Tomorrow I'm getting a new car. Oops. Sorry. I meant a new face.

Stay tuned...

Uber-Cool...Watch Until The End

Ye Olde Silver Lining

As a public service to myself, I thought I’d assemble in one coherent little speech the benefits I’ve observed thus far from giving up cigarettes.

It goes without saying, of course, that the health benefits are plentiful. (Contrary to what nonsmokers believe, smokers are not ignorant in this regard. Many of us have deep-seated, very complex motivations for continuing to smoke in the face of all the evidence.) Anyway, so let’s skip the physical aspects and get right to the rest.

1. I no longer worry about running out of cigarettes which, extrapolated, means I no longer worry about stopping to buy them on the way to an engagement. (Corollary: I don’t worry about having to stop on the way HOME either.)

2. When I arrive at a restaurant, I no longer immediately scope out all possible smoking venues. (Corollary: I also don’t have to pre-plan the timing between cocktails at the bar and being seated at the table, nor how I’m going to politely excuse myself after dinner to duck outside.)

3. Not smoking opens up the dating pool by wide margins.

4. In public, when I’m sitting next to a stranger, I don’t have to worry about offending him or her with the scent (stench?) of cigarettes from my clothes. (Although, let the record show I’ve always LOVED the smell of smoke—stale or otherwise. Even an overloaded ashtray doesn’t gross me out.)

5. I don’t have to feel like the marginalized second-class citizen California has made smokers into.

6. By not purchasing cigarettes, I can save enough money to pay for an additional week-long vacation per year.

7. In order to keep my mind off smoking, I busy myself with chores around the house I may have ignored before.

8. It’s a fascinating lesson in proving to myself that I can be modestly successful at something I didn’t think I could achieve at all.

9. I'm allowed to have cosmetic surgery. (Just sayin.’)

Having listed the above, here’s what I miss about smoking:

EVERYTHING.

Reflections On A Milestone

Okay, confession time. I’m feeling overly-saturated by the news coverage of the inauguration, the pre-inauguration and the pre-pre-inauguration. Don’t get me wrong—I’m all for celebrating the occasion on which the first African American takes office. But (to paraphrase Peggy Lee), is that all he is? The first Black president? I, for one, am hoping for much, much, more!

Like, I’m hoping he’s as bright, thoughtful, and serenely confident as he appears-- whether he’s green, black or purple. To get all caught up in his ethnic heritage is, to me, disrespectful (besides being only half-accurate). It vaguely implies that perhaps his color is the ONLY reason he got elected—like, the American electorate finally got hip enough to accept someone other than a white man. As though you could have substituted ANY African-American candidate this season because—whew, thank God, America’s finally ready for it.

No, it wasn’t timing. And, in my humble opinion based on nothing but gut instinct, our country elected the MAN, not the African-American...and THAT’S what the celebration should be about.

Name That View

Give up? Okay, I'll give ya a clue. There's wagering involved, but the place isn't owned by Indians (um, that sounds politically incorrect, but they ARE called Indian casinos, right?). Anyway, after a long, long, weekend spent avoiding cigarettes (meaning, I went NOWHERE and stayed away from the computer), Ann called on Sunday, suggesting we hit a movie.

Okay, I said. (Yes! I can sit in a dark theater without threat of giving in to the evil smoking demons!)

But then, as I primped in front of the make-up mirror, I heard the Real Housewives of the OC in the background and the bitches, I mean LADIES (hey, will someone tell those chicks that putting a hat on your head doesn't make you classy?) were at the racetrack.

Ding ding ding!

Quick call to Ann.

About an hour later, we traded a darkened theater for The Derby Club in Ventura, arriving in time for a late lunch and the 5th race (on which I won a medium longshot Exacta thankyouverymuch!)

I love it when a last-minute plan comes together.

Just An Observation...

When I take my mortgage payment to the bank, they practically throw a parade...

(See, this is precisely the kind of post that Twitter's good for.)

Signs I'm Over-analyzing

If it were humanly feasible (and it probably is, I just haven’t tried hard enough), I would eat from the moment I woke up in the morning till the moment I laid my head on the pillow at night.

No bullshit.

Moreover, in a perfect world, I’d consume nothing but junk food—a lifetime smorgasbord of nachos, fries, chex mix, and cashews, minute by minute, hour by hour.

Of course, I’d be as big as a modern-day zeppelin, and my arteries would need a case of Liquid Plummer, which is why, alas, I restrain myself. Yes folks, I do. Every day of my life, I count calories, I eat Lean Cuisines, I skip meals—I DEPRIVE myself.

But at least with the whole food thing, there’s no saying: “I will NEVER eat again.”

Unlike with the whole smoking thing.

Knowing the difference makes quitting a lot tougher.

I mean, no matter what—I’ll ALWAYS be able to eat another donut. Eventually...even if it’s far off in the future.

Blogless in Simi

Geez folks, I don't know what's up these days with my blog. Mostly, I just can't think of a topic worthy of more than one line.

Like this:

Try www.pandora.com for a cool way to discover new musicians in your preferred genre.

Or this:

If you miss being able to phone the time lady to get the right time, go here

But I'm also having trouble stringing words together.

Like this:

Blah, blah...literary vs. genre fiction...blah, blah...the difference.....

Do you suppose it's too much oxygen to the brain?

Not Your Mother's Pravda

I did my morning Internet run-through a few minutes ago, starting with The Drudge Report. Dutifully, I clicked on the headline about how the world is heading for a new Ice Age because, after all, I'm nothing if not hot and cold on the whole climate change issue. Global warming...Ice Age...It's all a toss-up, isn't it? Anyway, I figured I'd check out the latest doomsday prediction.

Naturally, I was quickly distracted by yet another headline on the cover page, this one titled "Hollywood Stars Disappear As They Try To Lose Weight."

Sign me up! I LUVS me a series of before and after photos of ridiculously thin movie stars! So I click on picture after picture, slightly nauseated by the standard set by our society for "beauty." And saddened for these ladies that they live this way.

But then I'm distracted yet AGAIN.

I'm reading this where...??

In PRAVDA? As in...THE Pravda? The one in Russia?

Sure enough. Only I'm reading the English version.

Okay, so when did we f-up the Ruskies with our tabloid-style version of journalism...?

Every Culture Has Its Pancake

Think about it.

Mexico...has the tortilla
France...has the crepe
China...has that mung bean thing, better known as moo-shoo

And Norway has LEFSE.

This holiday season, being of Norwegian heritage, I had a hankering for some, which led me to Google which led me to Mrs. Olson's in Minnesota. Clickity-click and bam! Minutes later, a supply of lefse was winging its way across America, headed for ME.

So what is lefse, you ask? All you really need to know is that it's made from potatoes. (I mean, seriously. Potatoes. What could be better?) To see the process, click here. Traditionally, you throw a little butter on it and maybe some sugar. Me, I added some cinnamon to the mix. Mmmmm. Plus, one day I found my self without store-bought bread, so I tossed a bunch of shredded cheese into the center of a slice and made...you guessed it...a Norwegian quesadilla.

Hey, don't laugh. This morning I stumbled across this darling lunch place called The Lefse House, located in (of all places) Alberta, Canada. Look what I found on the menu!!!!

Norwegian Nachos ~ $ 8.95
Crisp flatbread chips covered with
your choice of cheddar or gjetost
cheese, with sour cream, salsa,
and chives.

Okay, am I in heaven or WHAT? Norwegian Nachos, for God's sakes! These people are friggin' BRILLIANT! (And why can't I turn of the italics???)

Crap. Now, I'm hungry and I've exhausted my lefse supply...off to do some more clickety-clicking. And the italics is driving me crazy.

Read 'Em And Weep

Stumbled across these sad, sad, statistics on the blogs of Agents Kristin Nelson and Jennifer Jackson for 2008.

Queries Received

Nelson -- 35,000
Jackson -- 6,500

Full Manuscripts Requested

Nelson -- 88
Jackson -- 10

New Clients Signed

Nelson -- 2
Jackson -- 6

I'm not even gonna bother doing the math. Y'know...come up with percentages and stuff that'd really make my eyeballs bleed. The numbers kinda speak for themselves.

Now let's look at my submissions for the year, shall we? (Get ready: this could be equally scary.)

Looks like I sent out 16+ queries last year--a mixture of one-page letters and partials for both Leftovers and Lights! Camera! Love! From those, I got four requests (3 for partials, 1 for a full). Considering most "experts" say you should query 100 agents before giving up on a project, I'm thinking I should, um, amp up my efforts for 2009 (although, based on the above agent stats, you can forgive me for feeling like why bother.)

Sigh. That's why this biz ain't for the weak-of-heart, boys and girls.


*Sidenote: (I also submitted and sold about 10 stories--averaging about 35 pages each--to True Romance last year, so I'm not quite the slacker I appear. Ha.)

Blog? I Own A Blog?

Oh, yeah. That thing on the Internet. My blah-blah-blog.

Kinda reflective of my blah-blah-life (as of late). I mean, COME ON. I didn't even drink a COCKTAIL on New Year's Eve. What sort of start to 2009 is THAT? Sad, I tell you. Simply pathetic. Don't get me started on the rest of the New Year's weekend. It wasn't pretty but for very different reasons.

In news of a more positive light, I'm still in the running over at Karen Tabke's first line contest. How fun is that?

And in smoking updates...well, let's just say it's been over three weeks since I had a cigarette at work and leave it at that, shall we? (Practice. This stuff takes PRACTICE.)

As for New Year's Resolutions.......are ya kiddin' me?

118-210-57-71-91-15-163-5

Nope. Not winning lotto numbers. Only the freeways it took to get to last weekend's reunion get together in San Diego with my kindergarten/junior high/college chums.

The good news? TONS of blogable material!

The bad news? We're all so OLD, none of us can remember any of it!

Oh, well. Here are pictures:

This one's the view from Nancy and Kathy's CORNER room at the Manchester Hyatt. (Yeah, corner room--what a score, huh?) And considering the hotel was teeming (no pun intended) with Oklahoma State folks on tap for the Holiday Bowl, we were surprised to get upgraded. Well, at least half of us.)


Here I think I can safely interpret some confusion over a gift...? Nancy appears slightly afraid. Either that, or they're both trying to hide their hands so as not to give away their true ages for the photo. Ha ha.














View from the ninth floor. Now, does this look like cold weather to you? Right. It wasn't. All those sweaters, jackets, boots and gloves? Totally unnecessary. Sigh. That's California for ya.














We had LATE lunch at this cute place in Seaport Village before heading off to yet another venue, this time for alcoholic libations cuz, y'know, we hadn't had enough the prior evening.










And last but not least, for your viewing pleasure, an obscure shot of the guy I drooled over during cocktail hour. Don't worry. I didn't make it too obvious--I cropped Kath out of the picture.

Merry Christmas

As I traipse off to the annual Christmas luncheon to partake in traditional fare like tacos and enchiladas (not to mention margaritas), I urge you to consider one thing:'Tis the season to SPEND, SPEND, SPEND...so get out there and do your patriotic duty.


Oh, and have a happy holiday.

A Progress Report

I'm sure a few of you are wondering how I'm doing on the smoking thing. Mostly, I'm amused by the vast spectrum of reactions from my friends and relatives.

To some, even one cigarette means I've totally failed.
To others, 12 cigarettes in a week's time is nothing short of miraculous.

Let's just say there's a special place in my heart for 'the others.'

The positive:

I went two entire days (yes, 48 hours) before my first cheat. You may think that sucks, but hear me out: The last time I went even 24 hours without a cigarette was 1982.

So I'm getting better at it.

After the first cheat, I didn't have a cigarette on the following day. Yes, I had to stay home on a Friday night, avoid the computer, and go to bed early to achieve that milestone, but I figure if that's what it takes...

I would have done better on Saturday if I hadn't discovered two leftover cigarettes in a pack I'd thought empty. Turns out I'm not gonna be one of those people who can leave cigarettes lying around just to prove I'm above temptation. Still...I only smoked one of them right then and there.

I haven't smoked a cigarette at work in over a week.

I haven't smoked a cigarette while getting ready for work in over a week.

I haven't smoked a cigarette while driving to or from work in over a week.

By the way, did I mention I'm taking the drug "Chantix?" (Yeah, that's the one airline pilots are prohibited from using because suicidal thoughts are a possible side effect, although the whole process of trying to quit smoking is so stressful, I'm wondering how you can tell the difference.) Anyway, it's supposed to block the receptors in your brain from experiencing the God-given pleasure that nicotine brings. Now, logic makes me note that you have to SMOKE for this to work, don't you? Guess that's why they say it's okay to cheat during the first month. Plus, I'd swear that sometimes I THINK about smoking and those little nicotine receptors perk up (I picture them as puppies pawing at the air for treats) but because of the Chantix, nothing happens. They're left bereft--like at the airport when you see people waiting at the gate for a dearly-loved relative who doesn't show up.

So sad, it makes you wanna weep. (Yeah, for the airport people, too.)

Is It January Yet??

Geez...it was one festive event after another this past weekend. I'm exhausted, and I think I've already done the 7-lb. holiday upload.

I only took pics at one event, and here they are (well, some of them...the good ones--i.e., none of the photos taken of ME--ugh, wince, gag.) We begin with the traditional "first photo with the Mariachis," so that's 10-month old Evan with mom Tanya (Blogreader Joe's niece). Evan looks fascinated, doesn't he?

Old hands Travis (l) and Trevor (r) are future-Mariachis-in-training.
Aw...cousins...give little Evan a couple more years, and this trio will no doubt instill terror in the heart of Mom/Aunt Renee.

Finally, for your listening pleasure, something from violinist Miguel.

Just A Regular Thursday--Not

It was early, it was freezing, and I hadn't had a cigarette in over 24 hours.

These are my excuses for what you're about to read.

I was running late, and as I tore out of the bedroom, I spied a bottle of water and tossed it into my purse. Okay, now flash forward to a vision of me driving along Highway 23, enjoying the snow-capped mountains in the distance. Instead of having a cigarette, I decided to pop open the water.

Only, I couldn't get the cap off. Even when I pressed in the two little indented thingies.

Struggle, struggle...ah! Finally.

I went to take a swig...

One of those weird, split second thoughts flashed through my mind--how did I manage to get nail polish remover around the rim of the bottle?--before I filled my mouth with this:

Instead of this:
Not good, folks. Trust me. But what could I do? I was driving! Couldn't just spit it out all over myself. Couldn't swallow it. To tell you the truth, the next few minutes are a little hazy. I think I found a breath mint to add to the lacquer-like taste. Then I grabbed some old receipts out of the glove box and performed a swabbing maneuver.

Ugh. Yuck.

Fortunately, I then (miracle of miracles) happened to notice a REAL water bottle in the passenger seat--hm, no safety cap, shoulda been a clue--and downed it in three seconds (no doubt spreading poison throughout my system).

Anyway, it's been a couple hours, and I haven't gone into anaphylactic (sp?) shock or anything, so I think we're cool.

But, remember: Indented side thingies on water bottle are probably a BAD SIGN.

Day One

Not making any promises.

Just sayin'.

Where There's A Will There's A Won't

I remember the day I discovered that some of the jobs I thought of as belonging to men were, in fact, things I could do. (Actually, I owe this epiphany to former roommate and lifelong friend, Kathleen. She was a whiz around the house.) As I recall, picture hanging was the task in question. I thought you needed men for measuring and hammering and such. Turned out, no. You didn't.

I was so proud.

But as the years went on, I learned there were limits to my handiness. BIG limits. Like not knowing anything about wiring and electricity. Like not being physically strong enough. Add to those limits an innate laziness, and well...you get a picture of how much stuff there is around my house that needs doing.

Sometimes, though, corners can be cut. If you're creative enough, you can sidestep actual skill and come up with alternatives.

Sometimes, though, the best efforts fail.

So, ya might have heard about the arctic blast currently hitting southern California. B-r-r-r-r. Time to crank up the old heater, right? 'Scuze me. That would be the NEW heater that accompanied the new air conditioner I purchased over the summer.

Only, guess what?

No heat.

Lots of nice, cool air streaming from the vents, but no heat.

Oh, I could have called 'the man,' but that would be too easy, doncha think? Instead, on Sunday, I hauled out a space heater and lugged it into my 'office.' Then, I consulted my 'go-to' guys at work. The consensus is that my gas valve is turned off. "Follow the gas line to the little valve and give it a twist," my brother says. "But if the heat doesn't go on, be sure to turn it back off."

See, it's that kinda talk that scares me away from giving that little valve a twist.

Nonetheless, tonight when I got home, I dutifully opened the door to the closet in which the furnace resides. I didn't see any little valve. I DID see, however, lots of warning signs and cautions.

These made me feel a touch queasy.

I concluded that the little valve thing might be inside the the front panel, but knowing I didn't have the courage to give it a twist, I didn't bother popping said panel off. Besides, my sister-in-law loaned me a SECOND space heater--one guaranteed to 'heat up the whole room', so truly, this whole electric heater deal wasn't sounding so important.

Satisfied, I decided to get some exercise, so I turned on the TV and hopped on the treadmill. I'd only gotten through one replay of the Bush shoe ducking debacle, when

Pffft.

Silence.

I also came to an abrupt halt.

Hm. No TV. No treadmill...sure enough, also no computer and no space heater in the office.

Blown circuit breaker.

I trudged outside, held my cigarette lighter up to the electrical panel and threw all the switches. Eureka. (Okay, I lied. The truth is, I had to do this twice because the first time I BELIEVED the labeling and only flipped the one marked 'lights and outlets'. On the second trip, I flipped them all. Voila. TV is back on and--obviously--so is the computer.)

Hey, at least I knew the location of the box and what to do with it. So what if it's 48 degrees inside? That's what sweats are for, right? And planning vacations to Puerto Vallarta?

P.S. to Blogreader Mindy--if you're still at a loss as to a Christmas gift, you may wanna consider buying me a flashlight. Preferably one with batteries that work.