Obligatory New Year's Post: No Resolutions, Please

What I Learned in 2012

That I can survive:

… one child in Afghanistan and his triumphant return stateside,

… another child during prom season, high school graduation, and the first day of college,

… another starting middle school and going to his first dance—with a girl,

... another breaking a tooth,

I don't have a broken tooth photo. This will have to suffice.

… yet another year in the grips of the flaky film industry with a dollar that won’t stop rising,

… yet another rewrite for a book that seems to never find its end (please don't give up on me!),

... the Mayan calendar meltdown apocalypse end of days what-have-you thingie. We're still here. (I secretly knew we would be.)

And I’m grateful that this year, thus far (there are a few hours remaining in 2012), in this household:

… no one contracted Ebola,

… no one broke any bones,

… no one crashed any cars,

… nothing caught on fire (other than my cooking),

… we laughed more than we cried,

… we had access to the medical care we needed,

… I signed with the World’s Most Incredible Agent and have worked/am working with two of the best editors in the industry,

… I got some secret book news that I am dying to share,

… I felt swathed in bubble wrap by friends who love me, who lavished me with signed books, Oreo cookies, and rubber ducks from all over the globe,

… that the confounded U.S. elections are over so people can put their brains back on.

I also learned that …

… I complain a lot but I don’t really mean it. I’m mostly kidding,

… our school district really does have a lot of days off,

... that no matter what my agenda has scratched on it, patience really is a virtue, and if I want my dreams to become reality, I have to understand that the people I rely upon have a lot going on besides just little ol' me,

… there is no accounting for some people’s taste—case in point, everything on TLC,

… that I can shove a needle into the flesh of my ailing cat in order to save his life,

… that I can change out the shower diverter, replace the sink faucet, and fix the black thingie that makes the toilet flush, ALL BY MYSELF,

… that some people are just stupid and can never be changed,

… that THIS is my new favorite artist: http://enpundit.com/genius-photorealistic-paintings-by-ana-teresa-fernandez/,

… that Bag Chemistry makes the awesomest messenger bags (we have four now: a Mockingjay, two Shakespeare bags, and the Minecraft Creeper): http://www.bagchemistry.com/,

… that every second of my publishing journey is THIS: http://blog.nathanbransford.com/2012/08/the-publishing-process-in-gif-form.html,

… that despite being late to discover this, GAME OF THRONES is the greatest thing ever invented in the whole long history of cinema and television (#HouseStark!),

… that this is my favorite entertainment website: trulyluminary.wordpress.com. Disclaimer: It’s my daughter. But she’s comprehensive and really cute. Plus, if enough people like this, she can eventually monetize and, well, who doesn’t like a kid with a JOB?

… that I love Grammar Girl: http://grammar.quickanddirtytips.com/,

... that there will never be enough hours to fix bad writing nor enough hours to read the writing that makes me drizzle those happy tears,

Thank you, Heidi ... I still can't believe you did this for me. *heart*

… that I have had the best editing clients ever this year, and every time someone emails and trusts me with his or her work, I am grateful and humbled,

... that sometimes, no matter how hard you try, no matter how much of yourself that you give, you can never be the right kind of friend. Conversely, sometimes it only takes an “I’m sorry, I screwed up” to get a friendship back on track. Never be too proud to say you’re sorry. And always be humble enough to say thank you to the people who count you among their friends.

I won't make a list of 2013 resolutions here because ... resolutions are made to be broken, and I don't want to fail first day out of the gate, especially because my brain is addled secondary to megadoses of antibiotics fighting whatever beast is currently inhabiting those squishy things in my chest that enable me to breathe. (Oh. Lungs. Right. Those.)

Here's hoping YOUR 2012 was better than expected, and if it sucked, take solace in the fact that only a few hours remain, fiscal cliff be damned. Thank you so much for being my friend. Please keep in touch.

In Which I Toe the Crazy Cat Lady Line ... and Stuff

First off, CONGRATULATIONS to my dear friend Angeline Kace for winning the Best Editing award at the first-ever utopYA Convention in Nashville, Tennessee.

Know why this is cool, beyond the fact that Angeline is a terrific human being worthy of All Things Great? Because I'm her editor. So, yeah. Sweet. 

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THIS lustrous Brown Lazy Domestic (Felis Brownus Lazyus Domesticus) almost died this weekend:

Damn, isn't he gorgeous? Even if you're not a cat person (loser), you have to temporarily suspend your anti-feline sentiment and understand how friggin' awesome this cat is. He's going to be 14 in October. And he STILL LOOKS THIS GOOD. Forget nine lives -- Kovu has some special deal with the gods because he has been through the shit and still manages to come out sparkly and brown and oh-so-soft on the other end. He's California born, suffered through his share of LA summers, and has since lived in Southern Oregon and British Columbia. (You can imagine his first introduction to snow. And go figure how the hell he's dodged the coyotes who regularly pick off lesser neighborhood cats.) His adventures with us started on a shaky foot -- the weird whistling neighbor lady who gifted a mewling bundle of eight-week-old brown fluff didn't bother to tell us that he had ringworm (Tinea corporis), which, for the record, is NOT a worm. It's a fungus. And people can get it. Because we did. THANKS, PSYCHO WHISTLING NEIGHBOR LADY, for giving us a cat with a communicable disease.

After a month of quarantine in a tiny room in the garage, twice-daily pills shoved down his little kitten throat, and regular application of the stinkiest antifungal "lotion," he was cured. (If you spend any time in our house, you know that one of Kovu's many nicknames is Stinky. From this dark time in his wee life. Poor cat.) 

And then, once recovered ... we learned The Truth. Kovu was meaner than hell. We had a tall IKEA cabinet in our bedroom, atop which I'd stored a few of my young daughter's oversized stuffed animals (stuffies, for our Canadian readers). Kovu would hide in between them, camouflaged, and wait for us to walk in, at which time he would launch himself from the 10' tall cabinet and embed his tiny kitten nails into your head. And then he'd eat whatever hair he could sink his milk teeth into. BASTARDO, seriously!

When Yaunna was ten, she heard Kovu fighting with a neighbor cat. Not thinking, she ran out to rescue him. Upon picking him up, he flayed her arm. Should've gotten stitches but the doc said no. Sweet little Yaunna still has nerve damage in the back of her hand from the holes rendered by Kovu's very adult fangs. (Dumb kid for picking up a warring cat, but we've had that lecture.) I tried to find the photo from that fateful day, but maybe it's best I can't. It's pretty gory.

Alas, he's all grown up now. No longer ventures out of doors, except on sunny days. Pretty sure he sees ghosts, and he will randomly start talking in the hallway and chasing his own tail, so I'm constantly asking him if he senses zombies or Republicans. (Same thing.) He is OBSESSED with those Temptations cookies and will sometimes come to me, while I sit at my desk, and embed his razor-sharp claws that he won't let me trim into the meat of my fleshy calf to say, "You. Woman. It's time for my cookies. Get thee to the cookie drawer." When he's not shredding my fat in pursuit of wholesome treats, he is otherwise known as the Ovary Warmer. Sometimes the Spleen Warmer. Because he effing SLEEPS ON ME. I've got a snoring husband on the left, and a freakish cat on my torso. It's safe for you to therefore assume that I am a woeful insomniac. But him's soooooo cute, how can I move hims? 

This sums up the hierarchy. Fat Beagle, YOU SHALL NOT PASS. Merrowww.

I'm sorry for talking so much about my cat. I point and laugh at people who do this. But Kovu had a stomach thing that started last week, and by Friday night, as I was force-feeding him water through a dosing syringe. I thought he was on his last legs.

As of this morning, he is alive and taunting his much-larger Maine Coon brother, Eskimo. When I say, "Kovu, get the kitty," and he gets that glint in his eye, his whiskers twitch, and he goes in search of some kitty ass to kick, I know he's on the mend. Meee-owwww.

Thanks, Kovu, for living to see another day. You rock. Mommy loves you. Now come over here and keep my spleen warm.

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In other news, I've started writing for this site:

They cover cool art/artists and designers, hot architecture, and stuff that inspires. Check it out when you get a chance. (I'm even on the About page now! So legit!)

For my other gig, LitStack, come August I'm going to be reviewing Chuck Wendig's NEWEST BOOK, Mockingbird, and interviewing him. AGAIN! OMIGOD SO STOKED. Total fangirl moment here. Only I have to think of shit to ask him. He's, like, a million times funnier than me. I can't even think of anything funny to say at this exact moment because I am awed by the mere thought of his funny. My funny has frozen, like a deer in the headlights. A drunk deer. Or maybe it's a deer on bath salts (so by default, he's from Florida), but if that were the case, the deer would chase you down and eat you. That would be weird. NO BATH SALTS FOR THE DEER.

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My kids start summer school tomorrow. Well, the Young Lads do. Mean Mommy. But it's a cool option that the school district offers -- a 17-day preview of the coming grade. One's doing 6th grade math, the other 3rd grade reading/writing (because he's going to be a better writer than me very soon). And that means I GET THREE WHOLE HOURS A DAY without children whining at me about the fact that we're out of Froot Loops and chocolate milk again. Hey, I get hungry. Sue me.

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The baby turned eight on Saturday. Which means I am getting old (because it's all about me). Here is a birthday collage Big Sister did to honor the little fella's special day. 

Omigod, he's eight. That means I'm 29.

Happy birthday, PianoMan. We heart you.

Now someone write to me and tell me what they're doing this summer besides working. I need to live vicariously.

Xs and Os, lovelies ...