Sunday, October 2, 2011

October. That means Thanksgiving is almost here. Yes it is. Don't argue with me.

Look what BLOGGER went and done did...they made themselves SPIFFY! So spiffy, in fact, I'm a little lost. And right when I was about to go and get me some WordPress action. Just in the nick of time, Blogger, in the NICK of time. (Jury might still be out. This is sort of a ridiculous layout. Feedback, please!) Wait -- I need a photo here, to make this entry look visually appealing and to catch your attention. QUICK! What picture shall I use? Omigod omigod omigod, I'm sorta panicking. I got nothin'. I might have to Google more images of Mark Strong to give you something to stare at. I know I enjoy staring at him VERY much. You're welcome in advance. WAIT! I found one! THIS was my birthday breakfast. 

I turned FORTY on September 19. We went to a fabulous new joint here in town where everything is francais (that's FRENCH, for you hillbilly types). This photo, snapped on my cell phone, doesn't do justice to what is happening to my taste buds at this very second, but yes, that is a crepe, filled with fresh fruit (banana, pineapple, kiwi, strawberry, honeydew, cantaloupe...what am I forgetting?) on a thin layer of very fresh, light custard. It was awesome. Best breakfast EVER. Or at least so far. I didn't feel like dying after we left. No post-meal regret or tear-inducing stomach spasms. I call that a win-win! The morning prior to this caloric funfest started with a very lovely $40 Chapters gift card stuck through the mail slot (thanks, Bobbie!) and a gift card for the movies from my darling Janey-O. I got me a new cardigan to carry on with the slovenly writer look I am so good at. And it's RED. Saucy, I know. Kids made me some cards. Husband made butter chicken for dinner. All in all, I made it to forty, and the day wasn't so bad after all. 

RE: I mentioned Thanksgiving in the post title ~ Remember, lovies, I am in CANADA. That means Thanksgiving is in October. As in, a week from tomorrow. On a Monday. MONDAY?!? No, I have not adjusted to eating turkey before the Halloween costumes have been sewn. CanNOT. Not even after ten years. Thanksgiving is four days in November when the Macy's Parade is on, when the National Dog Show trots across the screen, when I put on the fat pants Wednesday night late and don't look back until I'm nursing a vicious tryptophan hangover on Monday morning when I'm lying on the floor, flailing about in mashed potato and gravy leftovers, begging the children to just bring me some cranberry sauce and that will make it all better. Mommy needs cranberries...please, have mercy on my bloated soul...

Whisper one word about how I didn't blog the entire month of September, and I'm outta here. If you haven't figured it out yet, I'm not good with blogging. In fact, I sort of avoid it, sort of how I avoid Pap smears until at least the third reminder follow-up call. Then I finally shave everything nice and purty, go in and throw on the paper gown, put my feet up in the stirrups, scoot my ass to the edge of the table, and PRAY that she's warmed up the speculum. (Boys are so lucky that they don't have to do this. Speaking of, it's time to start nagging Husband again about having his prostate checked. Spread 'em, boy!) That's sort of how I feel about blogging. I have to warm up the speculum before I get going. Plus, who the hell CARES what I have to say? Shit, I usually can't stand the sound of my own voice, and I'm am certainly not going to give you advice about anything useful. Unless you have a dirtbag ex and you need someone to remind you how much of a dirtbag he (or she) is/was. I'm super good at that. If nothing else, I will steal your angst, bottle it, and channel it into some written fantasy about torturing dirtbag spouses.

And tonight, all I really want to do is make fun of the people over 30 who are getting their patronus and house assignments on Pottermore. But that would be rude. And I think a lot of my friends over 30 are on Pottermore, so I shouldn't giggle. (But I still will. Nerds.) I'm sure Evelyn Hussy Lafont will sic her patronus on me now that I've mentioned this, but whatever. (Nerds.) I'm still giggling. You guys...really? Okay, I collect rubber ducks. I guess we're even. (Okay, we're totally not. Nerds.)

I'm sort of addicted to that new TLC show, "Long Island Medium." I mean, I don't get the whole Jersey thing with the long nails and the frosted hair and the ginormous personality, but that's because she's from Jersey, and I'm from Oregon. She (her name is Theresa) likely wouldn't understand why I like wool sweaters, Levis, and combat boots and how I've only ever been for a manicure twice, once when I got a job as a hand model (YES, a hand model) and another time when this psychotic ex-friend of mine insisted that it would change my life when all it really did was make my cuticles hurt and make me feel like there was shit on my fingernails. Because there was. THING IS, I want to meet Theresa. I totally want her to do a reading for me. I think I will put that on my to-do list for the future. Go to medium. Connect with important dead people in my life. I don't believe in ghosts, and I really want to. Although, it must be said, I don't want to be like certain OTHER people in my life who are convinced they can commune with the dead. Those aren't dead people whispering to you in the middle of the night. It's wine. Less wine = fewer dead people visiting your room. Just sayin'...

I think it's time for another picture. Hang on...let me see what I've got. <<<<<------ Okay, there you go. That's visually interesting, right? A fat beagle and a glorious Lazy Brown Cat, sharing a moment in the dying hours of summer? Fine. Whatever. I have to migrate iPhoto from the old computer but it won't stay on long enough to make this happen. Cut me some slack. And while you're at it, wish Boyfriend, proper name Kovu, a Very Happy Birthday on October 5. He will be 13, which in cat years, is hella older than you. Show some respect. (He bites, so you might want to just play along.)

Updates real quick like, and then I gotta go put the spawn to bed:

a. My eldest child came home in September for his two-week leave from Afghanistan. Much fun was had by him, his first return stateside since turning 21, and we were able to spend some precious hours in his presence. He's back in the 'Stan, not to return to US soil until March 2012, so keep thinking happy thoughts for him. Please. He's a good boy.

b. I've had some amazing, terrific, fantastic lovies inquire about the status of the follow-up to Sleight. Book 2 is called Stratagem, and because I am working on several projects at once, because I am a meticulous re-writer, and because I'm just now getting back into the swing of things after a rather disastrous summer (in terms of writing), Stratagem will not be released this fall, as I'd hoped. Don't be pissed. Remember, you love me. We're friends. I just can't shit it out, guys. I can't. It's like Mr. Reiland's seventh grade algebra class all over again. I wasn't understanding the material, so I wasn't turning in the assignments. Eventually, my grade bottomed out and my mother and stepfather had to come in for a conference. I was diagnosed by the school counselor with perfectionism, and as a result of said affliction, I refuse to turn anything in until it's PERFECT. I don't want to give you half-assed work. I know I'm not fast and awesome like some of the other writers in the Realm, but I'm me. They're them. And I'm writing. For those of you who are friends of mine on Facebook: every time you see me post something ridiculous or irreverent, it's because I've been interrupted by one of the many members of this household (animals included), OR because I'm struggling with a transient case of writer's block (some writers claim this so-called ailment never haunts their doorstep, and those writers are what I like to call arrogant fartyheads whose time's a'comin') that requires some sort of visual stimulation OR it might be because I am in a trough in the creative cycle and, well, I just can't write for shit. I'm not perfect, but my words have to be as close to such as possible. FOR THE RECORD: The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern debuted week before last, to rave reviews and an impressive showing on the NYT bestseller list. It's supposed to be fantastic. I have not purchased it yet, but shall. Soon. At Portland's Powell's books on September 17, I picked up said book and opened to a random chapter. The chapter was called STRATAGEM. Yes, I almost cried. Instead I started rambling to the stranger next to me, until he inched away quietly, tiptoeing so I wouldn't lash out and knock off his John Lennon glasses. Let it be noted that it was MY WORD FIRST. I did not copy her. Gahhhhhhh...

c. Check out LitStack, an awesome site for READER-CENTRIC news and reviews and even some occasional short fiction. Don't go to LitStack if you're looking for advice on publishing or writing. Go HERE for that: Chuck Wendig's Terrible Minds. (Caution: Not for those who are easily offended by the use of the F Word or who don't want to risk shooting coffee out their noses during a mid-drink guffaw.) Otherwise, check it: LITSTACK, baby! It rocks.

That's all the updates I have tonight. I think. There are likely more. I will blog again soon with said updates. If I can find a paper gown to put on first...

Xs and Os