Wolf Cub: Finished

I completed my novel, Wolf Cub tonight. It ended up at 51,283 words. I've posted the last two chapters to my Wolf Cub blog. I will leave the entire book up for one more week, then I will delete the blog.

I intend to edit, rewrite, and seriously seek publication for this book. As such, I do not want to run a risk of it being stolen or used by another author.

I am on my way to paste it in for verification on the NaNo site.

My last duty as a 2008 Nano contestant.

Yeah me!

Surviving the Sad Holiday Season

Thanksgiving is upon me. I've felt more and more depressed as the holiday has approached. I wish I could just miss it this year. I have no real desire to see family or set around and visit all day. (To be honest, a thick book and a thicker blanket on a large bed sounds pretty damn good.)

As my sadness has grown over the last few days I've blaimed it in part on the end of NaNo and the end of the book I'm writing. As an author, there is a natural let down to completeing a book. A "good bye" of a sense, to characters that have become friends and companions. In my case, to characters that have distracted me from dealing completely with Becky's death.

It has been difficult to write yesterday and today and yet I only need 4,800 words to "win" NaNo. I figure my book will be finished in another 5,000-6,000 words. Yet, once again they are not flowing easily. Only this time it's not because I am without direction, but because I am not happy. It is hard to set and right frivolous words when you feel sad.

It dawned on me yesterday that a month has come and gone by since Becky's funeral. We buried her on the 23rd of last month. In one since, it seems she's been gone forever. In another, I feel like I can still call her and wish her a happy Thanksgiving. Or more realistically, that she will be calling me to with me a Happy Thankgsiving. Regardless of how busy I thought I was, and how often I would go months without calling, she would always make a point of calling me or sending me cards for every freaking holiday. I think she even made up a few along the way.

I knew soon after her death, that the holidays would be hard on me this year. And they are. I love Christmas and for the last 10 years you could find me and my girls putting up my Christmas tree and all the trimming the weekend following Thanksgiving. And you'll find Steve griping about it, too. :)

I don't think he has to worry too much this year. I can't even think of putting up the tree without crying. Oh, I know I will eventually. Thought to be honest, I'm thinking of just buying a little one for Will's room. It would require less effort.

I'm worried if I drag out my big tree and set it up I'll feel like crying every time I look at it. That next year, my memories of this year will override my enjoyment of my tree. I don't know. Definatlely not a desision to make today.

Besides being so close to the time of her death, one of the reasons I am having such a hard time is that Becky's birthday is the 20th of next month. By this time every year for the last 30 years of my life; I have been trying to figure out what to get her. Or make her. What she was into this year? What color was her house decorated in?

I always wanted to make sure I had them finished in time to mail off and get to her by the 20th. Two presents; one for her birthday and one for Christmas. They were never big or super special; just acknowledgements. To let her know someone thought of her on those days; thought she was special.

But life goes on. You walk, or get dragged, through the days -- be they holidays or otherwise. As my mother-in-law is fond of saying when my father-in-law is complaining about growing old . . . it beats the alternative.

Or, as Dory says, "Just keep swiming."

Hurtful things people say. Unknowlingly?

I just thought it would be fun to share a list of painful things people say that really hurt us; and they are usually clueless. Some of these things were said up to 30 years ago, but they still burn just as much today as they did then.

Please add to the list via your comments, or email me with your additions. Maybe we'll wake up a "clueless" outthere, and save someone else the pain.


Some women look good without makeup,
You're not one of them.

You really shouldn't smile when
your getting your photo taken.
Your lips disappear.

It's not like it was a real baby.
Espeically effective right after you have miscarried a very wanted child.


I'm not attracted to fat women.

She's just not man enough to . . .

Have you ever wondered about weird phrases. We say them all the time. We hear them all the time. I probably wouldn't even thing anything about it, but my girls are constantly, "Where the hell did that come from?"

I don't know. It just happened. So today, I was thinking to myself about my last boss (and that is what this post is really about) and how after almost 5 years I still am so hurt by how things ended. I should be totally over it by now.

I thought at first I was so hurt because I am just never fired or "let go". The only two jobs I've ever been forced to leave involved a boss I said no to and someone else didn't and a company that was bought out from under me and shut down --everyone got let go.

I have always been promoted, given progress work loads, and usually assigned new duties I wasn't even aware I could do. I just could not accept that I was laid off while others remained. At least that is what I've been telling myself.

But Steve and I were talking about it last week and I came back to my old boss, Leann. Steve knew her two, he did several jobs for her over the years before I got laid off. The thing that always bothered me the most as that she took a no-advance warning vacation the day before her boss came in and laid me off.

After 5 years of setting up and managing the new design, layout, and proofing departments of their starter company.

After average 80 hour weeks.

After bouncing my department from 3 or 4 employees to 20 employees, to back to 3 or 4. Several times.

After Leann told me just the week before not to worry about my job, I was safe.

After I was 4 months into a high-risk pregnancy.


Finally I had to admit I was hurt by Leanne's actions. Everyone swears, to this day, that she had no idea. Bullshit. Leanne was not a spur of the moment vacation person. They were planned and talked about months in advance. She left because "she wasn't man enough" to look me in the face and lay me off.

Oddly, once I accepted that, I begin to let go.

Forced to write

I hate to post about my NaNo experience to often, I figure it's like illness. No one really wants to hear about it but the sick person.

I hit 40,342 words tonight. That alone would make me happy, but the really good news is the easy flow of creation has returned! I may not have bitched about it online, but last week was a very difficult week for me. Every day was like pulling teeth to meet my daily goals. It took twice as long and sometimes I "knew" I was writing shit.

I just didn't have any option; I had to write and all that would come was shit. Therefore I wrote shit. I quess it makes a sick kind of sense, anyone who has to strain the way I did last week runs the chance of a suprise in their pants when all is said and done.

In fact, those of you torturning yourself with my first round writings will no doubt notice that the entire Chapter 16 is one long, convaluted sex scene. An entire chapter! Why? Because when all esle fails, I can write sex. Sex is easy to write. I needed words and after a week of fighting for every frigging one of them I just filled the blank space in my head with sweet, easy, sex.

Oddly, as soon as I finished that chapter I was off and running. Maybe I needed to write something easy to allow my brain a break. Or, maybe writing anything I didn't have to bop over the head and drag onto a page helped my creative flow. I don't know. But for now, I can't write fast enought to keep up with the new flow.

My real reason behind this post was to first apologize for the low quality of writing over the last week. I've never been forced to write when the muze wasn't working and it was a new and painful experience for me. But I made it.

I have 7 days and less than 10,000 words to go. As I've been averaging over 2000 a word each day I've written, I feel very confident about making it.

However, to all those bitches (and bitch"hims") who are posting in our online NaNo group in excitment for reaching their 50,000 ALREADY . . . enought! The rest of us are not encouraged by your sucess.

Ode to Thankfulness by a Stay-at-Home Mom

So here is a little somthing-something I've been working on for Thanksgiving. I know, those of you who follow my blog are going, "What the hell?"

In case you missed it, I put up a post about a week ago bemoaning having to do this . . . to write or read something thankful on Thanksgiving. But I am from Texas; as as they say here . . .


If you don't like Texas weather,
Wait 5 minutes and it'll change.


Please feel free to offer suggestions to improve it. I may, or maynot, take them. :)

Misty

Ode to Thankfulness by a Stay-at-Home Mom

I am thankful for bath time.
I use to think showers were a waist of time.
The faster in and out, the more I could accomplish.
Not so, anymore.
Taken only after my husband home,
Baths are my only child-free time all day.
I am thankful for bath time.

I am thankful for the night.
I don’t mean bed time;
As bed time in my house results in hours of fussing, needs, and whining.
I mean when they are finally a sleep.
When you can walk into their room
And actually see the peace and happiness, the youth, upon their faces.
When you can set back and read, drink a cup of decaf,
or set out side and stare at the stars and enjoy them in silence.
I am thankful for the night.

I am thankful to miss the occasional outing.
I love going places and doing things.
More so than I did before I became a stay-at-home mom.
But sometimes the best treat is to not go places when everyone else does.
An hour or so alone with just myself for company is wonderful.
I am thankful to miss the occasional outing

I am thankful for the knowledge school is just around the corner.
When raising my son begins to feel like a burden, I have the dream of school.
At first, just a few hours a day.
But eventually almost an entire day
When I know he’s protected and carried for and I am free to accomplish other goals.
To start new projects.
I am thankful for the knowledge school is just around the corner.


I am thankful for my husband
Not that he works to support us,
For he would work anyway.
I am thankful for the sacrifices he makes
He works harder now than ever in his life,
With less return.
I am thankful he makes time to play with our son
During his 2 hours of free time a day.
I am thankful for my husband

I am thankful I get to stay at home with my son.
That I have had an opportunity to learn his every expression.
To watch him develop and grow.
To see him change from a helpless baby to a child capable of heading off to school.
To experience the thousands of “firsts” he’s encountered.
For the privilege of relearning the world and seeing it through the eyes of a child.
I am thankful I get to stay at home with my son.

Come on Menopause

First, I would like to clarify that I am not trying to belittle menopause (the mental or physical aspects of it) by this post.

Every female older than me in my family; grandmother, mother, aunts (those I know of) all went through menopause early. As a family; we seem to start our "flow" early, be incredibly fertile, and have all sort of feminine issue eventually leading to hysterectomy or early menopause. I've always known this, always expected it.

But the story starts when I was expecting my second child, Tori. I was 21 when I was expecting her and we were living in the guest house at my in-laws. I was on WIC and we were getting unemployment and food stamps. All I could think about was ending up with 5 kids; like my mom or even my husbands mother. They were still getting food stamps and other government aids.

I was also consciouses of the type of life, I as a child, had lived due to the extra mouths in the family. (I have to say, that is one of hate few times being the oldest comes in handy. I was here first. )

So I made the decision to have my tubes died after Tori's birth, and I did. I did not regret my decision until some years later when after I divorced the girls dad, I met and married Steven. While I never had more than my two girls I truly felt that having children was a life-changing experience. I would never have become the person I am today if it had not been for that experience, for my girls. And I didn't want to take that opportunity away from Steve.

We discussed it for years and finally about 4 or 5 years into our marriage we arranged and paid for a tubal-reversal. Although we both had full-time jobs with benefits at the time; neither of them paid for the reversal and we were out $5,000 for the chance at having a child.

After the surgery, which was classified as major and left me in the hospital for 4 days, we went in for testing to see how everything seemed to be working. The tubal repair had been successful. However, the doctors noted that my extended length of time with tied tubes may have put me in, or near, early menopause. I was ovulating very rarely. With my issues and some of Steve's own, they offered us less than a 5% chance of conceiving without the aid of hormonal treatment.

So I started a hormonal program and all I can say is it is HELL. It is like the worse day of your period every multiplied by at least 4 for the entire week surrounding your ovulation cycle. Besides cramps, you have to deal with out of whack emotions that would send most sane people to the loony farm. With my escape clause, of not being sane to begin with, I managed to survive. Barely. During the year+ I took the hormone therapy we conceived and lost two children.

The second one we lost we had known about for over 6 weeks. We'd carefully monitored it. Named it -- we were going to call it George (after Steve's granddad and the comic "I'm going to love it, an squeeze it, and call it George"). I had already crocheted it little hats and booties. When we were far enough along for a sonogram it came up empty. Even though I had been in for blood work 2-3 times a week for 5 weeks; and all signs showed adequate increase in the pregnancy hormone, there was not a baby in the uterus. We were forced to abort.

I almost didn't survive this loss. I would lay for hours in the hammock in my back yard and just look at the sky with tears running out of eyes. No energy, not enough life, to even cry. We decided that was that. I got off the hormones and we moved into our future without the thought of children.

The combination of losing George and making the decision not to try made it nearly impossible or me to be around other children for over a year. It just hurt to much. About two years after we quit trying we found out we were expecting Will, our less than 5% chance baby, our miracle -- later spelled T R I A L.

By this point we were both looking 40 right in the face. While maturity does have much to offer in the way of raising children, it lacks a lot too. I have patience, a better understanding about not sweating the small stuff, a true enjoyment of every time thing he does, and the easy ability to insert life lessons in everything he does. I do not have any energy or design to sit in the dirt and play cars.

After Will was born, Steve and I reserved the right to readdress the possibility of another child after Will was a little older. We both pretty much decided before he was out of his first year that he should be an only child (not discounting Bonnet and Tori; but they are so much older than him and don't live at home). The older and more adventurous, athletic, energetic, curious he got the more we reinforced to each other -- only child.

I can't begin to explain to those of you who are younger, or who do not have children at our age, how very difficult just keeping up with them for the day is.

So every month that mother nature is a little late, that I don't start on exactly the date I thought I would, you can hear me chanting in a call for it to be so . . .


"Come on Menopause"

And that's the Doctor's House

When I was growing up, no one spoke to me about what I could be as an adult. No one suggested I further my education, or even get a job. It was partially that we lived in a tiny town (under 3,000) and partially that we were very poor.

But not once did I hear any information leading me to understand there were differences in salaries and benefits to planning out your future. Never once was I told if you don't stay in school in get an education you will end up working at the Dairy Queen. (Though that was a pretty good job for a town of that size.)

So when my girls got old enough to start griping about school I took them for a ride in our old clunker. I don't remember which clunker; except for color and age, they were all the same.

I drove them to the poorest part of town and pointed out houses as we went through the neighborhood.

"That one belongs to the guy that picks up our garbage," I'd tell them.
"Is that where you want to grow up and live?"

"That one belongs to the woman at the laundry mat, would you like to live there?"


Then I'd drive over to the fanciest part of town I could fine. Places with outdoor pools and tennis courts.

"That's the doctor's house," I told them.
"Wouldn't you like to live with a a house with a swimming pool?"

"That's the lawyers house. The one with the giant water fountain.
"Wouldn't you like to take your friends to that house?"


I also made up stories about how the poor people had clothes from garage sales and the doctors got to buy all the new clothes they wanted. Told the diffence in Christmas and Birthday presents between the two.

It didn't really matter which house I pointed at, I had no clue who lived in which House. I just wanted them to be aware that choices they made now and throughout their lives would lead them in one direction or another.

The Ink Runnith Over

One of the things I love about living near Austin is the easy assess to free, or greatly discounted, office sup lies and equipment.

Since I've been in business, I have gotten for free 3 different HUGE black and white copiers -- chimerical cast offs after an upgrade. I used them religiously for my first year or so as my patterns were all copies of my patterns.

Then I purchased a commercial color printer ($10,000 value) for $100. I used that for about a year to copy my instructions, as they contain color photos in them. Eventually, I converted to digital every pattern I had and no longer needed the copiers so I got rid of them.

In their place I picked up 2 HP 4550 Laser printers; one worked one didn't. I scavenged parts from one and ended up with a working HP 4550 color laser printer with a 500 page reservoir and a duplexer (about a $5000 value) for under $200. I LOVE this printer and already dread the day it will go to printer heaven.

I also managed to pick up a 36-inch wide plotter for $250; about a $1200 value.

Between the plotter and laser printer I am able to print out my own full-size patterns and instructions at an amazing rate and fill orders as needed.

Now, supplies . . .

The laser printer uses 4 different toners; that if purchased at Office Depot or through HP would run about $60-80 each. It also has a Drum and a Transfer Kit that have to be replaced about once year; between $200-$300 each for these parts.

At least twice I have been able to purchase lots of these products locally from businesses closing down pretty cheap. If not, I've had a lot of luck on Ebay. The printer is older and most businesses no longer use it. On average, I've only paid around $20 an item for my printer since I purchased it over year ago.

Last week I noticed I was almost out of toners; only one black and a transfer kit in my "extra" stash. I searched my local places and nothing was available so I watched ebay and was able to win a 4-pack of the toners, shipping an all, for under $65.

The very next day a free post came up on craigslist; a company bought a new printer and had new toners for the Hp 4550 if anyone wanted them. I replied and went to pick them up the next day. They gave me 2 black, 2 cyan, 2 magenta, and 1 ye allow toner and a brand new DRUM -- all name brand, all new. I'm sure they paid close to $1000 for the supplied originally. So then my purchased toners come in and I have so much toner it will probably be a year or better before I need anything else.

I've also picked up cases of insainly discounted copier paper, relatively cheap plotter paper, and reduced ink cartridges for my plotter.

Some days you're the window.

Carrying Wet Pooh

Will and I decided to go walking today, and at the last moment he decided to push a plastic shopping cart with a HUGE Pooh Bear in it. We went up the hill to the stop sign; it's about 1/4 of a mile and back.

Will would run back and forth in a zig zag pattern as fast as he could. He and Pooh got dumped out several times. Once, Will wanted to just leave Pooh in someones yard for us to come back for later. I had to explain that poeple don't like strange Pooh in their yards; they find it offensive.

We continued our walk will little mishap, other than every time a car would drive by Will would start acting like he was going to jump in front of it. I make him pull to a stop each time a car comes and I think he was doing a Ready, Mark, Set, Go type thing. But he'd look them head on and do little lunges toward the road. They all avoided us like the plaque.

On our way back down the hill, Will realized he could let the basket go and it would run off by himself. He LOVED this and an akward game of chase started. Once he lost control of it and tripped and the basket hit a bump making it run across the road and into someone yard where the sprinkler was on. The worse was not the sprinker but that a van was on the way up the hill and Will's first response was to catch Pooh.

I yelled at him and he stopped; in the middle of the road. The driver of the van was so freaked he refused to move until I got Will, walked over to get Pooh, and crossed back over to the side we were orignally on. Then he pulled up to me and rolled his window down.

"I thought it was a real baby," he told me. "I was half way out of the van when I noticed it was just Pooh." Seeing his red complexion and hearing his uneven breathing I realized it wasn't politeness that had him waiting; we nearly gave the poor guy a heart attach.

The rest of the walk home was pretty uneventfuly. About a block from the house Will yanked Pooh from his cart and gave him to me. He was tired of Pooh and off he went at a full run.

So I carried wet Pooh home.

Little Shoes

Just in case you thought I spent all my time blogging and writing this month, I'm pasting in a photo of some shoes I made last night.

I am converting my leather shoe pattern to one that can be made from fabric. I thought I'd try it out on these newborn shoes (finished length of only 2.5 inches). Worked okay, if a little bulky around ankles . . . but could just be because shoes are so little.

The outside is an embrodeeried brocade and the lining is a nice thick white satan.



I also made up a set of washable mop pads that I sell on my site. November and December they are huge sellers -- presents for all those "green" customers I assume. Not pretty, so I won't share the photos.

But it was nice to sew; even if it was midnight when I was doing it.

Laughing at Funerals

One of the traits I got from my mom is my warped since of humor. All my life when mom and I would go to a funeral we would take tons of Kleenex, but not for the usually reason.

We both always found how the deceased was portrayed hilarious. It was like every bad thing they ever did in their life was wiped from the minds of those attending. The funeral could have been for a child molesting, ex-con who was forced to take classes, and who occasionally ate the neighbors dogs for lunch and someone would have the gall to say:


"Old so-and-so really liked children
You could never stop by his house that
he wasn't watching some neighbors child.
He was a self-taught man who spent years
furthering his education.
And he loved animals.


And while everyone else in the congregation/church would be nodding their heads in agreement and yelling out the occasional "hallelujah", mom and I would be trying to hide our laughter. We would get so bad we'd be clutching each other and holding Kleenex over our mouths to muffle the laughter, which sounded like sobs. One of us would whisper to the other, "Yeah, he liked animals . . . with ketchup!"

With our bodies jerking, our huddling together, and the tears running down our face someone would always come over and pat us on the back in support.

Which would just set us off again.

I'm sure it was partially due to how we dealt with stress -- or didn't deal with it.

Just another story from the weirdness that is my life.

Bike update

Will and I bought some "slime" to fix the tire issue I had when riding earlier. According to the directiosn, and yes I read them, I needed to shoot the slime in the tube, air the tube up, and then twirl it so the slime distributed evenly. Sounds easy enough. Will and I will be able to ride tomorrow morning for sure!

We put the slime in the tire, I ran over to turn on the aircompressor -- which was working fine this morning, and it won't work. One of the plugs that goes into the wall broke off. So then I ran around trying to find a hand pump; we use to have several. I find one and try as I might, it will not work.

Sure, I twirled the tire. But I can already tell you that the tube is ruined. And without air, it's not like I'm going riding anyway.

Maybe another walk.

Death has away of making you take a long look at your life

I'm no stranger to death; I've lost my grandmother, step-father, cousin, uncle, and my mom -- several times (but she keeps coming back). I thought I knew what to expect. That I understood the steps of grief; denial, anger, threatening, depression, and alcohol. I also felt pretty well versed in what to expect at each step.

But I guess Becky's death touched me closer, or a more intimate level, than any other I've ever experienced. I'm not sure if that is because she was my sister, my playmate, and my friend. Or, if it was because she was so young -- 6 years younger than me. Everyone eles I've lost was sick or old; it wasn't a huge surprise. Becky's suicide was a surprise, if not by nature, by timing.

But I find that unlike following the other deaths in my family, I am looking at my life with staid and world-weary eyes and not liking what I am seeing. All of a sudden, the thought buzzes around my head constantly . . .



If this is the last day of your life . .

Is this the way you want it to end?



Once again, I am not feeling suicidal so please no calling Adult Protective Services on me. No need to pray to God, we had a long talk earlier over some Amaretto. We're tight.

I know, as a rational individual, that I am not 100% myself at the moment. Things are skewed for sure. My feeling and emotions just don't feel right; sort of like wearing a hair shirt. (I can't say I've actually ever worn a hair shirt; but the visualization fits my current mood to a "t".) Itchy and uncomfortable. I feel very disconnected, which makes it a really bad time to look at your life to the degree I seem determined to do.

I'm looking at every choice, every option, every aspect, every relationship going . . . is this the best I can do? Is this what I want to achieve before I die? Knowing how short life is, do I need this hassle?

I'm also looking at what I've allowed myself to become and I am really unhappy with that. I've allowed years of staying at home, financial strain, worry about my girls going out on their own, and weigh gain to leave me with no sense of self worth of self value. What's more, I think I've been projecting my lack of value so loudly that others around me have started treating me like I have no value.

I guess my point would be that you should evaluate your life before major crises and to be prepared for the difference in loss when it's your sibling that dies.

My first ride on my Bike

I took Will out for our first official bike ride this morning. After Steve repaired my tire, we took a small cruise in front of the house just to make sure everything was okay. It wasn't; but Steve fixed it.

Will and I also decided he did not like riding his own bike and preferred to be in an old bike trailer we have. So we dug it out and got it ready to go last night as well.

This morning, I anxiously waited for Will to wake up. As soon as he did I dressed us both in loose comfortable clothing. Found us glasses -- well, him glasses (I couldn't find mine). I got us both bottles of water and kleenex. Loaded up Will, his gun, and his jacket in the trailer and noticed that one of my tires was out of air.

Since I had filled it up last night, and noticed the missing stem cover . . . I figured it was teh same thing. So I went back into the house and opened the garage doors, plugged in the air compressor, and filled up the tire. With Will patiently waiting on me.

Then I had to go back into house and close the garage doors. I peeked for any sunglasses on the way through the house; no luck. Locked up the house and we headed off.

I thought I had a pretty good idea of how bad out of shape I was. There is a 3-mile circle near my house that I always use to bike until I could build up stamina for longer rides. Now, my neighboorhood is solid rolling hills. There is no flat land; you are either going up a hill or coming down one. I honestly expected to have to stop 8-10 times before I made it the 3 miles. I didn't care how long it took. We had water, it was a beutiful day, and I was GOING to do this.

We finally got started off and it was WAY harder than I expected. I'm sure it was a combination of pulling a 46 pound boy in a trailer, a much cheaper bike than I'm use to riding, and my being grossly out of shape. But it was tough. I was only managing 2 to 3 blocks before I had to stop to catch my breath. Will was fine, he was having fun.

I made it about 1/2 a mile when I heard a funny noise and stopped my bike; looking down I realized my tire had gone flat again. Today, it seemsed sort of like a gift from God as opposed to just another wrong turn in my convualuted life. I got to quit early. I walked the bike the rest of the way home talking to Will and enjoying the morning.

I'm actually okay with my first venture. I did get about an hours worth of exercise, some fresh air, and some "fun" time spent with Will. Not a bad start; just not the one I hoped for.

NaNo Update

Just a quick note. I am at 25,662 words and have finished 11 entire chapters. The characters are really developing well and the story is taking unplanned trips; they tend to do that.

Having a blast with this project and am so glad, thankful even, that I joined.

My friend, Charlene, has already said she's doing it with me next year.

What I will be Thankful for this Thanksgiving

Where we will be having Thanksgiving this year is a huge thing at my house. To say I don't feel like celebrating anything would be a major understatement. I think I must be able to project a better non-injured air than I knew. Because Steve really doesn't seem to understand how hurt I still am by Becky's suicide. I mean really, it's been three weeks . . . shouldn't I be over it by now?

Our options were: our House with me cooking, my closest friends house, or my in-laws house. I could tell Steve wanted to have it at our house, but I don't -- veto.

Steve doesn't want to have it with non-family. My friend -- veto.

So we are going to my in-laws. I email them to see if they are even having it as I haven't heard anything about it. Apparently they sent Steve (and even Tori) an email; they just assumed Steve would forward it. Both Lew and Dona forwarded me the original email outlaying their plans for thanksgiving. They are doing something they did a few years ago that I really enjoyed . . . then.

Every family that comes will need to "sing" for their supper so-to-speak. A family member from each household will either need to recite a poem, a quote, or tell a story. Based around what they are thankful for. A lovely tradition if your sister didn't just commit suicide the month before.

I've cried off and on all day as I wrestled with this. Our household consists of only Steve, Myself, and Will. Normally, Steve would not do this at all and Will is too young. But I can't for the life of me get past a single sentence about being thankful without staring to cry.

I can see it now . . .

I stand up and read my list -- because that is all I can think of, a list:

I am thankful I am not dead like my sister.

I am thankful my oldest daughter moved to CO just when I needed her.

I am thankful my car exploded last month.

I am thankful I've put on 30 extra pounds this year and now can actually be mistaken for a blimp.

I am thankful my house stinks because I don't feel like cleaning it.

And I am really thankful I get to listen to everyone else's cute little poems and funny stories.

Who do you think will want to go next? Or, will the patty wagon come to take me away before desert. Because you know my fat ass will want desert.

I know Lew and Dona would not make us say anything and they wouldn't have asked it if they had any idea how adherent the idea would be to me right now. But even if I, or Steve, do not participate; I have to set there and listen to everyone else be thankful. All the while knowing my sister is lying 6 feet under and what ever they are thoughtful for doesn't seem that important to me right now.

And before you all email me offering support and encouragement -- I'm not suicidal (maybe I should add that to my thankful list) -- and I know I'm just having a bad day and there are TONS of things I am thankful for. They're just harder to see today.

How a Relationship is like a Car (an analogy for men)

I want to start out saying that this post probably doesn't apply to every man alive; just to all the ones I've known.

Through the different relationships in my life, I have found that while most women had an inborn understanding that relationships take work. Most men don't. Whether they are dad, brother, husband, or lover; most men seem to think once you are established in a relationship you need no longer think about it.

Years ago, when trying to find a way of describing the need to work on our relationship with my husband, I come up with the following analogy: a relationship is like a car in the following ways. The following list is specific to romantic relationships.

It is all fun to drive and show off when you get a new car but after a while you start taking it for grant. (You start out in a relationship opening doors, taking her places, holding her hand when in public, introducing her to everyone you meet. A few years down the road and the door is likely to hit her in the face if she's still planning on you holding it for her. Ever stood beside your husband at a picnic or get together and he forgets to introduce you?)

You need to do some basic things to a car on different cycles of use: fill with gas once a week, clean windows every week or so, wash on a regular bases, change oil ever 3,000 miles, etc. These things require time, a little money, and thought to accomplish. (A relationship requires repetitive maintenance as well. A phone call, a note left for them, an occasional date night out, even a special weekend away every few months.)

The harder you use your car the more maintenance it needs: requiring visits to the auto shop. (Should be self explanatory; but if your mate is stressing, see that get what "they" need to rejuvenate them.)

Your car will also require new tires and components. (New clothes that fit will make your mate happy.)

And above all, READ YOUR MANUALS. You will read instructions on how to install electronics, update your software, fix your vehicle . . . why should it be so hard to pick up and read a manual on having and maintaining a long term relationship? With proper maintenance, your relationship can outlive your car.

Which should be more important to you?

Photos of Strange Men

Cindy (my Aunt/Sister) and I went to the coast about 15 years ago. As she is still just 29, she was just a baby then. :)

We were both rolling towards the end of our marriages and just needed to excape. We laid on the beach, drink way to much, went dancing. Really pretty harmless stuff. About the only "out of the ordinary" thing we did, was as we laid on the beach we took photos of guys back sides as they walked by.

I have no idea how we reacted when we devloped the photos; I'm sure it brought a small bit of the happiness of that weekend back to both of us. However, I pulled out a hodge podge of photos that ended up in a zip log back in a drawer tonight and while flipping through them I was trying to figure out who exactly all the guys were. Then I came to a photo of Cindy laying on the beach and it clicked. Oh yeah, strange ass!

Sure, it's fun at the time you take the photos; but what do you do with them 15 years later? Scan them in and put them in your blog.




There were a lot more photos but the quality of them sucked! If I remember correctly, we were rolling around on the sand laughting so hard it was near impossible to get a good photo.

* * * * *

The really strange thing is; this is not the first time weird and unidentifiable photos have ended up at our house. (At least I was able to remember where these came from.)

One year, after returning from a 3-week driving vacation to ND, we developed about 26 rolls of file. Bonnet, Tori, and I had all taken our own cameras. When we got home and started going through the photos there were 5 or 6 in one envelopes of compelte strangers. The photos were taken at the swimming pool of one of the hotels we stayed in. But the people in them were all of a small boned Mexican family, and a bright pink umberella. You could tell by the wide grins on their face they were doing something sneaky.

We decided that one of us must have left a camera at the pool and ran back to the room for something. And on a lark, the family grabbed it and took photos of each other.

The Magic Disappearing/Reappearing Calories

I hope you have done this too, so I don't feel like such a little oinker admitting it online, but I eat food I don't remember eating.

I am almost always involved in something and I will grab waffles or some easy to transport food to take with me when I am on the computer, reading, watering my plants. This morning, I came in to write before Will gets up and I cooked two waffles (if by cook you read half-ass toasted).

I was sitting here IMing with my sister-in-law and when we finished the conversation I went to grab my waffles and they were gone. This happens to me ALL the time.

The really bad part of it is that if you don't remember eating them; they don't fill you up. It's like the waffle trasported it's self into my tummy without ever touching my lips are allowing my body the satisfaction of chewing it. Chewing my food is very important to me; it's what lets me know I'm eating.

So the next thing you know I am getting me more waffles; so I can feel like I actually ate breakfast. I don't mind the double work assiated with having to eat double what ever I am eating. But it really pisses me off that the food I don't remember eating manifests it's self in extra pounds I don't need.

NaNo Update (Over 20,000 words!)

While I am running almost 1,000 words behind my personal schedule. I have completed 20,899 words as of tonight. Those of you who don't write may not know this. But when an editor or publishing house is looking at your submission one of the first things they tell you is to GET RID OF THE FLUFF. So it's very odd and disconcerning to through every word you can possibly think of onto a page for word counts sake.

Even more humorous to think that when NaNo is over, we will have to go back and chop our efforts all up to make them more acceptable as publishable products.

Sort of makes me feel like I'm digging a hole I will spend the next few months refilling. Oh well, it's giving me something to focus on right now. And really, how many people can say they wrote an entire book in a month. Of coarse, how many are crazy enough to want to?

The TRUE Information Highway

I have always had a very busy mind. I can't stand to set still at all and even watching TV or having company over doesn't fully allow my mind to rest. The only time I am truly "down" is when I read. Which is why it's so addictive.

15-20 years ago I begin to see a pattern in how my mind worked; how patterns formed, ideas were handled. Now, I might be the only person on the planet that would even pay attention to these things. And if I am, please don't tell me. I've worked hard for my thin facade as a normal human being.

The way I visualize my thought process is that each though/idea/problem is a separate road that makes a loop. In some cases these loops are only 2-3 hours long. In others the loop can take 3 or 4 days to travel. And some years.

All the loops, or highways, travel over an intersecting spot; a bus stop if you will. At the bus stop I have to direct the traffic (thoughts).

An example would be: I see something at a store that I think is cool and different; a new highway is added. I couple of hours later when I'm home and making dinner the loop is completed and I remember the item again. Essentially, I wave the though on to make another loop. This continues until I do one of the following:

1) study up on the item and decide it wasn't cool after all
2) I try making one and succeed
3) I go out and purchase them

Once I am satisfied with the ending, the thought is processed as having a satisfactory ending and moved over to the bus stop and that loop is closed.

I'm not sure how some loops get shorter rearrival time lines than others, but it all works great.

Some other loops, like the one working on converting the snap press, reoccur about every 2 to 3 weeks and I work on them until I'm crazy. If I don't get a satisfactory conclusion they are sent back out to make another loop.

I've paid attention over the years as my understanding of how my mind works has grown and I find almost all thoughts, feelings, plans, are handled this way. When I first heard about Becky and pain of loss was horrible; I dealt with it knowing I would get a reprieve; and I did. It looped out. Now pain like that loops back sooner at the beginning but sort of spirals in larger and larger loops as it ages. The first few days I would hurt every 10 or 15 minutes. The next week I would go an entire hour before I'd get hit with it again. And now, I go 3 or 4 hours.

I've also noticed that different loops have different intensities. Some loops I can't ignore when they come back around and some I can simply thing "I'll deal with you next time" and off they go.

Maybe, if I'd gone to college or studied the human thought process I'd have a better way to explain this.

Maybe next time it "loops" in I'll get a new in site to add to the post. :)




My brain, not on drugs.

A bike story

Up until I conceived Will, I was a pretty active woman. I ran occasionally (although with my short legs it looked more like a fast hop/walk), enough to enter a short race every now and then.

I also biked, a lot. I would ride 5-10 miles 3-4 evenings a week and on Saturday I would get up early and ride 35-50 miles. I LOVED it. When I first got into riding, I was working as manager of an Editorial Department and for my birthday everyone pitched in and game me a $300 gift card to a fancy bike shop. No, I wasn't that popular; they were all suck-ups.

Regardless, I went and tried all the bikes in my size and decided on a nice Giant. I loved that bike. If you've never ridden a more expensive bike; as opposed to the one's from Walmart, it's hard to explain. But there is a difference. And I know if I bought a $1,000 bike I'd be just as enamoured with the amazing quality; but let me keep my happy memories.

Before Will was born, I conceived and lost two children. So when we found out I was carrying again the doctor told me to do nothing, not to get stressed, and I should have exercise. So, I quit riding my bike, got laid off from my job, had my oldest move away from home, and almost broke up with Steve.

Since Steve was having to support all of us, his hours got longer and longer. And so did mine. I couldn't take a baby out on my bike and by the time Steve got home I was too exhausted or it was too late. Years slowly crept by and I just crept into larger sizes each year and became less and less active. About a year ago I started riding again. I found a bicycle trailer at a garage sale and I'd hook it up and take Will riding with me.

Oh, it wasn't the sole-enriching experience riding pre-Will was; but it was working. I was rebuilding muscle mass and Will and I both were getting much needed sun.

Then Bonnet wrecked the bike she was using to get to and back from work. At the time, she was living about 10 miles from where she worked and she didn't get off work until after midnight; when the buses no longer ran. I gladly lent her my bike. A few weeks later it was stolen while she was at work. I never asked if she locked it up; I just assume she did and left it at that.

For the last year, I've been planning on getting a new bike. I figured I could get a decent one for $200 to $300. It never happened. A friend of mine purchased a $70 bike from an HEB Plus and she has been riding it and enjoying time with her son. And finally I had to look at things realistically . . . it's not like I'll be riding long distances and I'm certainly not in any shape to participate in races. And the biggest point of all . . . I can afford a $70 bike.

Yesterday, my brother Jessy ended up working about 40 miles from my house. He called, needing me to pick up some paint and bring it out to him. When I did he gave me an extra $100 for my troubles. And no, I didn't turn it down. I spent 4 hours and 1/4 tank of gas picking up and delivering the paint to him. As soon as he gave me the money I knew just what I was going to do with my "God money" as Tori calls it. I would buy a bike.

I didn't tell Steve I had the money last night for fear his negativity towards my plans would sway me. So this morning, Will and I went to WalMart and picked up an okay mountain bike for around $70. It's a small frame, has 12 gears, and non-flat tires -- a real bonus around my house.

We fight it through the store. We fight getting it inside our Montero Sport. We fight getting it out of the Sport when we get home.

By the time we do get home, it is time for mommy to rest (aka: Will's nap time) and I tell Will that after my break we will go ride bikes. He has a small one with training wheels. When he gets up he is raring to go.

We go out and check the bike over and the tires are a little low. I start up the air compressor and check for how much air the tire should hold. I see a limit of 197 and think that's high; but what do I know. I fill it up and check it and it's getting no where near 100 even. Oh, well, it's plenty hard enough so I go to feel the other tire up when the back tire EXPLODES! Re-looking at the limits I see that the 197 was weight max per tire; the air pressure was 50 max -- that tire had 90.

So there I set, after years of not being able to ride or even of having a bike, after using unsolicited money that could have paid a bill to get me a bike I was settling for, to still being unable to go for a ride.

The hardest thing to say . . .

Even though I grew up in a large family, it wasn't a close knit bunch. And it sure wan't affectionate. I clearly remember the first time my mother told me she loved me; I was 21.

About 6 months earlier I realized I never told my oldest daughter that I loved her. Then as I started thinking about it I realized that I didn't tell my mom either. We didn't exchange hugs. Hell, we seldom exchanged kind words.

So, I made a point of telling her "I love you" every time we'd leave her house or were just about to hang up on the phone. It took her 6 months of constantly hearing it from me before she finally repeated it one day as I was leaving her house. I didn't make a big deal of it; but I've never forgotten it.

I also made a point of telling my girls I loved them as often as possible. I didn't want them growing up feeling unloved or being uncomfortable telling others they loved them.

Because I am. I feel genuine love for my sisters and brothers, my husband, my children, even special friends and family members. But the words are so hard to get out. I feel like I'm handing someone a loaded gun pointed right at my chest every time I WANT to say I love you.

The only exceptions are my children and my husband.

It makes me wonder if there are others out there that feel the same way. Torn between wanting to respond back, "I love you, too." and not saying anything -- and thereby, risking hurting someone they love.

Just wanted to share so if you love someone and share that with them, don't assume they don't love you in return if you don't here the words back. As in most things, actions speak loudner than words.

And something goes ary in Dr. M's Lab

I've always been fascinated with how things go together, and come apart. Whether it's clothing, mechanics, furniture, even peoples phsyki. Most of my life I've fed this interest without any one noticing my strange prevalence for taking things apart.

But the last few years, I've started slipping and I'm getting some odd looks. I can't decide if it's just age; I either don't care what anyone things any more or can't remember I should care. Or, if the lack of a professional environment and continued educations has made it more necessary for me to test my limits.

Then to make it worse, I got all tied up in ehow.com. You can post small articles on how to make or do things and you get royalties. You don't get rich, but the royalties never stop until the sight goes under. I made almost $70 last month, some of it off articles that were over a year old. So all of a sudden, EVERYTHING has a purpose. Even if I don't want to make and sell the pattern, I can write up the instructions for ehow.com.

Regardless, I have a revolving door or experiments going on at my house at all times. In fact, I have five of them in some stage of "figuring them" out right now.

1) I've been working off and on for over 3 months on how to convert a watch-glass press (which is only $10) to a snap-press (which is $160). I plan on making up a washable diaper pattern and I think those types of people would be more interest in how to get a cheap press than a pattern -- there are literally hundreds of patterns for diapers available.

The weird thing is that I've been collecting cloth diapers of different sizes and styles as references when I make my diaper pattern -- for the last 6-9 months. You can't go in a room in my house that there are not a pile of diapers in some odd location. I just can't make my mind start that pattern until I am happy with the completed snap press.

2) I have hair on hide in my "leather" room that I am experimenting with to see the best way to trim the edges for equal hairless space on all sides. I also have several different razers and Steve's mustache trimmer in there. Trimmer is winning so far.

3) I have started collecting empty candy bags -- made of plastic. And melting them and other recyclable plastics to make my own durable plastic for bags and etc. I have melted pieces in all sorts of strenghts, some sewn together, some washed, you get the idea.

4) I have been trying to come up to an inexpensive alternative to PUL (plastic lined fabric) that is used in diapers. I've got pieces of fabric with rug backing, Plasti Dip, Paint, and plastic type caulk applied to it. I let them dry then washed and dried them to see how they worked. I also melted plastic to fabric with my iron and with my t-shirt press to check them out.

5) I have cut up deer antlers soaking in paint, ink, and stain to see which penetrates and leaves no trace best. I'm going to write up directions for making a hair on checker board with deer antler checkers. Hey! Someone will think it's cool.

Really, I'm weird.

This doesn't even cover the odd things I have tried over the last year: I figured how to address sweaty boobs, have installed my own cable line, built a playscape for Will almost totally by myself, designed a tunnel for Will's playscape from two plastic barrels, built my own toy organizers for Will's room, installed my own duplexer on my laser printer, made my own floating chlorine dispenser, found out how to make fire starter logs from lots of different ingredients including my favorite (dryer lint and old melted crayons), made extra butterflies for Will's EleFun Game, and discovered several cheap methods for repelling mosquitoes from your back yard. And that's just the tip of the iceberg.

Last night I was at WallyWorld in the hair isle and I saw the coolest looking curlers. They were light weight and pockey -- no need for closures. I was thinking now that is cool. I could put up my hair after my bath and by bed time it will be dried. But, of coarse, I wasn't paying $10 for a single set. Much less the $20 or $30 I would need to get enough of the right sizes to suit me.

So tonight I took out some plastic grid and cut a piece out, then I sewed two sides together to make me a lightweight cylinder shape. As it turns out I have a box of just the pokey side of velcro in my sewing room. Since I just wanted to see if the theory would EVEN work, I didn't bother sewing the pieces together and taking them down well. I pretty much rolled the velcro around the cylinder and rolled up a piece of my hair. It worked great! Well, it worked great until I tried to unroll it and the velcro pieces began to separate the catch hair everywhere.



I still consider it a success and when I get a chance I'll make me up a set and document the process.

Confess and loose a friend or spouse

I read this article written by Dear Abby well over 20 years ago, that has always stuck with me. A man had cheated on his wife. He regretted it and was doing everything to make up for it; but he'd never confessed to his wife. They were happier than they had ever been and he was afriad she would find out and it would all be over. And he was eaten alive with guilt.

He thought if he wanted to save his marriage he needed to be honest with his wife and tell her what had happened. Not so shocking . . .

What shocked me was Dear Abby's response. She said the only thing he would accomplish by telling his wife was the clearning of his own consouse. If the problem had gone away and was no longer likely to reoccur or hurt their relationship he should keep his mouth shut. Yes, it would most likely continue to bother him but he deserved that for what he'd done.

Go Abby! I had no idea the old broad was so open minded. But I totally agree with her. I don't believe in lying to your spouse. But really, if you've already screwed around on them, whats a little lie by obmission?

I actually have used this same advice several times thorugh out my life. Not that I make a habbit of screwing around on my wife. :)

But situatoins come up all the time with coworkers, friends, and family where you act in ways you know they would not approve up. And you just don't tell them. Your actions dont even have to be bad ones; they could be things you KNOW you need to do that someone you love or care about will never understand:

Meeting an old lover for lunch because they are a part of your past and just want to say hi -- REALLY,
Voting for the other person and not your friend,
Reporting suspiouse or illegal activity conducted by someone you know,
Buying that dress you really can't afford but have to have,
Spilling wine on the shirt they really should never be seen in public in, etc.

Regardless, if you did something wrong or if you took a stand for something you belived in, sometimes the best way to handle it is to just not mention it at all.

No Smoking in the House

Did you know that the ability to become addicted to something is actually handed down through our gene? Not the ability to become addicted to any one object; just the ability to cleve to something regardless of how it affect you or those you care about -- my person definition of being addictited.

At one time, everyone in my immediate family was addicted to somthing: prescription drugs, illegal drugs, alcohol, sex, religion, you name it. So I grew up with the single goal of not being like anyone in my family. So I either avoided things I knew were addictive, or I controlled my use of them strictly.

This was true of my forey into smoking. While I smoked for about 8 years; it was never serious. At the most! I would do about a pack a day. Usually, just two or three. Wasn't hard to quit and I tried never to smoke in front of my girls.

I haven't had a cigarette in well over 12 years. I don't even miss them anymore -- Thank someone's God! My current husband smokes the occasional cigar or pipe; and if I'm in the right mood I thourally enjoy him doing so. :)

But he always smokes outside on the back porch. We, nor anyone with us, smokes in our house or vehicles. If smoke just blows through the back door to our house, we can smell it a week later. Ex-smokers know what I'm talking about.

Well, as is want to happen, my oldest took up smoking a few years back. She smoked before she came "out" about it; but by the time it was official she was on her own and too old for me to put a stop to it.

She's pretty good about stepping outside to light up when she visits. Normally, she will pace up and down the sidewalk just outside the front door. You have to understand that she doesn't visit often; every few months or so.

Regardless, Will must have seen her smoking because a day after her visit I caught him imaginary smoking. And NOTHING I did or said made him stop. That night, after dark, he was still smoking and I finally told him, "You can't smoke in this house. If you want to smoke you need to go outside to do it."

I opened the front door and turned on the outside light. He calmly walked out to the end of the sidewalk and balanced on the ball of his feet as he smoked his imaginary cigarette. I closed teh door and watched him through teh peep hole.

He paced, he smoked, he stared out into nothing. I fianlly opened the door and said are you ready to come in now? And he told me he wasn't through smoking yet. I closed the door again and continued watching him. It was my third time to check on him before he finally came in.

But on the way up to the house, he threw his imaginary butt on the ground and squished it out with his foot.

Every few months, he starts smoking again. We tell him the same thing; not in our car or house. If he's in the vehicle, he'll wait until we get out -- though I'm not sure where he stores his imaginary half-smoked cigarette. If he's in the house, he'll go pace in the front yard.

Are you ever Lucky?

I was talking to my sister this last weekend about Luck -- good and bad.

If you didn't know me better, you might be led to believe I've had a run of bad luck lately. After all, I did just loose my sister to suicide, my brother shipped back off to Iraq, I broke my laptop, forgot to pay my taxes, my car died on me, the new (old) vehicle I bought looses trim every time I wash it, my trash service quit two weeks before I thought they would, and my AC unit caught on fire. And don't even get me started about those shoes! And this in the last month only.

But what you don't realize is that my entire life is that way. Has always been that way. I read a saying once, "Unlucky at cards, Lucky in love." I've accepted it gratefully to explain my entire life.

There are certain things I have accepted as truth; I will never have money, never have all the trimmings others have in their life, and never had a smooth sailing life. It's just not in my cards. (Don't get me started on Karma, me and that bitch need to have words.)

But back to the "Luck" thing. While visiting my sister she was apologizing for my run of bad luck. Everyone does, all the time. I tell her I don't really believe in Luck; good or bad. I mean really, everyone blames Luck for their misfortunes . . . but how often do you hear anyone say, "I'm so lucky!" (And not recant it a few years later at divorce Court.)

If someone is doing well it's their skill, hard work, and dedication. Or Mommy's pocket book. Have you ever heard anyone say:

"Oh, I'm not really qualified for this job. But Bob got caught with the bosses wife and let go unexpectedly. Really, I was just lucky."

"No, I was walking down the street and the guy in front of me dropped his wallet. I grabbed it fast and jumped in the car. Man, it was so full of cash. I am so lucky!"

"Yeah, with my 6th grade education, I never should have been up for the posit on of Executive assistant. But the boss caught me changing clothes in his office. I'm so lucky!"

Doesn't happen, and never will. Luck is an escape goat we assign blame to when life doesn't turn out the way we want. Or when others get things we didn't.

As probably, the most unlucky person you will ever meet, I have some words of wisdom for you.


Don't worry about the things you can't change.

Do not get upset over the small things. If someone didn't die, you don't have a fatal disease, and you haven't been put out on the street; it's probably survivable

Don't be sour over your losses, real or perceived.

Be glad for the things you still have that are not broken, damaged, or stolen.

Always remember that people count; things don't.

Instant Messenger

I did it. I actually downloaded Instant Messenger and installed it last night. My cousin, Lori, and I email back and forth a lot during the evening as I write and last night she told me just to go out and get it. And I did.

It's so freaking FUN!

The only issue I had last night is that Lori has a Video cam on her side and I did not. So I got to see her and hear her; but I had to type all my responses. It was such an amazing gift to see someone across the country who you haven't really connected with in over 25 years. To actually hear their voice.

I bet that's a shocker, hu? How many people with the ease of traveling these days actually go 25 years without seeing a cousin they grew up with?

Lori and I could not have been closer as children. I always thought she was the wild, beautiful, one that did all the things I was to chicken to do. I was equally impressed, and jealous, of her my entire life.

Then we just grew apart. I didn't really thing much about it, because I pretty much loss contact with all my cousins, and there are a shit-load of them. As you might suspect from reading my posts, I didn't exactly come from a family that promoted family reunions . . . they could never find an asylum big enough for the entire family to attend.

But with the loss of Becky, I feel a need to connect with all my remaining family. And oddly, even after all this time, Lori and I still click. Really, talking to her is so comfortable I feel like I've been a part of her life all along.

But back to Instant Messenger. I'm a little in awe of it and yet, very worried it could become addictive as well. I also wonder why I "fought" not to have it for so many years. The only thing I can come up with honestly, is that I'm just stuck in my "old" mindset. I just felt too old to be on Instant Messenger. That was something the kids were doing. Even the few adults I know that defiantly have it, are kids at heart.

Regardless, I plan on getting a camera for my computer tonight and then you'd better watch out. I will be armed and clueless.

NaNo Update

Just a quick note to let my supports know that I am keeping up with my writing. I am up to 13,605 words, and have completed 6 chapters of Wolf Cub. If you'd like to follow along as I write it, you can check it out at http://novel-wolfcub.blogspot.com/.

The posts are first round, non-edited, chapters. So minor things will change as I go along and once completed, I will go back and edit it. Feel free to email me suggustions, edits, or thoughts on the chaptes you read. I may not apply them until after NaNo is over, the end of November.

Suprisingly, I am about half-way in the word counts of most contestants. Not where I would be if I had started writing on the first, and not as far back as many people are.

For some reason, and I didn't care enough to ask, Austin NaNo contestants are called Penquins. First time writers in the Austin area go into a "hatchery" and are adopted by someone who had won NaNo in the past. It's nice to have someone to discuss it that has gone through it. But a little depressing when I see he has almost twice the word count I do. But I guess it wouldn't be very encouraging to be paired with someone just not making it either.

Oh well, I am up at the crack of dawn for a reason, and it's not to blog. So off I go to never, never land.

Tax man taketh and tax man givith back

I know you are thinking I got the title of this post all wrong, but oddly, I didn't.

I pay my sales tax quarterly. It's never very much as the marjority of my sales are outside of the state. Usually, I pay between $20 and $30 a quarter. At the beginning of this year I received a notice that because I did pay so little I could pay yearly if I preferred. All I could think about was how hard money is to come by at the end of the year and I decided I'd rather pay quarterly.

Well, I usually wait to pay until a day or two before my deadline. If my taxes are due on October 20th. I won't even think of paying them until I'm within a few days of my deadline. Same thing this last quarter. I was planning on paying them when I got back from my girls weekend away on the 18th and 19th of the month. Before I returned home, I had learned of Becky's suicide and taxes were the last thing on my mind.

Last week I realized I had never paid them and I went through my files and got my figures in order. I had about $50 in my paypal account so I figured I had plenty of money; even if there was a penalty for being late I didn't figure it would be that bad. When I logged on to the tax site I was supprised to see two different quarters of taxes still to be paid for 2008; the second and third quarters.

When I checked the second quarters to see what was going on I was SHOCKED to see a bill for almost $200. Somehow I had missed paying my tax bill and they had applied an "assumed" tax of $100 and then added a late fee of $50 plus a daily accruing interest rate.

I thought I paid them. Well, honestly I didn't think about them at all . . . which lead me to belive I paid them. I've been in a funk for the last . . . 2 years I guess. And it was getting worse the beginning of this year. I finally broke down and went to the doctor, but it took 4-5 months before I felt good enough to get off the medication.

(In a side note on the weird twists of the universe, I stopped taking my anti-depressents 10 days before Becky's death.)

Well, I don't have $200 so I go to file my 3rd quarter taxes figuring at least I'll get them out of the way. Only now I'm a little worried, and I had a right to be. I was able to key in the exact amount of taxes I owed but they assigned a $50 late fee. So even my third quarter taxes were over $80 . . . which I didn't have.

I tried backing out of pay your tax bill and selecting just to make a payment but it wouldn't let me. So I just back out of the system with knowledge I owe back taxes of almost $300 that are accuring daily. The tax man taketh . . .

It took me 2 or 3 days to get enough money to go back online and pay off the 3rd quarter taxes. The very next morning a collector from the Tax appraisers office calls to see about my late 2 quarters. I explain I paid off the 3rd quarter the night before and would pay the other as soon as I generated the funds.

Two days later a cusotmer orders over $200 in leather; largest leather order I've ever had. As soon as her payment clears, I log on the go to pay off my 2nd quarter taxes. When I log on the link looks different than it did previously. When I select to pay the 2nd quarter taxes it pulls up a standard page -- no presumed tax, no penalty. I add my tax figures and it does charge me the by day penalty. But instead of the $180-$200 bill I was expecting I only paid like $38. The tax man givith back. . .

Next year, I am definatly going to pay once a year.

Smack Down at the Chick-Fil-A

I just got home from the closest I've come to an actual fist-fight in at least 11 years. I know, some of you weirdos are thinking, "I've never been in a fight." Lucky you. Now go read someone else's blog and leave us normal people alone.

I was sitting outside the playarea at Chick-Fil-a, because unlike every other playscape designer in America, they don't have tables nor allow food into the play area. By the way, their playscapes are also 1/3-1/4 the size of most other playscapes. Not ever my choice of a place to take Will, but you can only expect an adult to eat so much BK and McD in a lifetime . . . and I have well exceeded those limitations.

From where I was sitting, I saw Will playing with a game on the wall. This girl comes up and just sort of tryes to wiggle in between Will and the game. And my son, oh he makes a mama proud, pushed her away and went back to playing. I'd like to classify that he did not hit her, nor even push her exceedingly hard. It was more of a this is my game, I am playing it, and I'm not putting up with your crap. Truth to be told, a feeling I wholly support.

It is hard to tell the line between raising your son to be punished and set upon by bullies . . . and raising a man who stands up for what he believes in and takes crap from no one. So when it comes to things like this, if I'm in the room, I usually ask Will to apologize and then let the child know "why" Will reacted that way. Then I let them know that in 2 minutes Will should let the other child have a turn. It's funny, because I am such a HUGE person on having children (and parents) behave in a polite way on public grounds. I even wrote a "how to" about it a few weeks back that has been well accepted.

But I wasn't in there. The little girl came out of the play area and told her mom that some boy "hit" her. Her mother, a stressed-looking woman in her late 40s with several children around her that was not sitting in view of the playarea, immediately jumped up and ran to the entrance pulling her daughter behind her. "Who," she practically screamed. "Who hit you," she demanded of the little girl, "I'll deal with him."

Like hell, I thought as I rose and followed them into the playarea. The little girl pointed out Will and the mom was set to launch. I said from behind her, "He did push her but she started it."

Their was an older child in their and the woman asked her if the little girl "pushed" Will. The older child tried to tell her mom what happened but the harbinger of death wouldn't listen.

She turns and sneers at me, "I might have believed you if it had been any of my other children. But not ____. She's not the least bit aggressive." Then she grabs her daughter and starts back to her table.

I was first stunned that this piece of white-trash talking, pot-smoking, want-to-be, would dare talk to me this way. "My son, did not attack your daughter." I told her as she walked away. Intending to tell her his actions had been proceeded by her daughters actions.

When she turns and smirks at me, "Well," she drawled, "you would say that your his mother."

"Goes for you too lady."

She told her daughter, "Go on back and play. If he hurts you again, I'll do something about it."

At this point, my mom was trying to break back out and jump on the bitches back. But I decided to take the higher road. Not much higher, but you have to take your victories where you can get them.

I walked back to the play area and opened the door so I could talk to Will and said in a normal (carrying) tone of voice. "Will, please be careful with that little girl honey. Her moms something of a bitch and I'd hate her to attack you."

Then I calmly went back to my seat and started working on my writing. I could hear her STOMPING across the floor as she went back to the playarea and yelled in the door -- I'm so much more classy than she, I didn't yell -- "You stay away from that mean boy!"

Oh, I thought, with a smile. That hurt. Right. I continued to work on my writing and check on Will's progress every couple of minutes.

The shrew from hell made a point of walking over every 3-5 minutes and demanding her child go up in the top to play and not play with the mean boy. How old was she anyway?

I went to check on Will about 10-15 minutes later and he and the little girl were playing hide-and-seek. Laughing and having a good time. I reminded Will to be nice and went back to writing. The woman made someone come clean a table closer to the playarea so she could watcher her daughter, because some people weren't watching their children and her daughter had gotten hurt. Right!

She also kept up the yelling threats for her daughter not to play with the mean boy and to go up to the top layer. I could tell she had excellent parenting skills from the need to repeat the order constantly; and my her daughters completely ignoring it.

All it all, I didn't think I did too bad. Yes, there was a moment when the time to actually hit an adult was close as hand. And growing up in the family I did, when the moment came, I would have hit to win. I may look like a short, chubby, middle age stay-at-home mom . . . but there is street fighter like you would not be live just below the surface. And the surface was thin today.

I doubt the lady went home thinking she was lucky, but she was. I came home, put Will down for a nap, had an Amaretto (or two), and got if off my chest in this blog. I still remember what it feels like take out the anger on a person though, and I doubt she does.

NEW Swiss Works Messenger Bag/Computer Bag FOR SALE

Oh what a twisted tale I tell . . .

My beloved father-in-law, Lou, is always showing his support to my personal endeavors by selling me his laptop when he upgrades. I'd have to say he's done this at least the last 3 times (maybe 5 years) that he's upgraded his laptop. At first he sold them to me at a reduced rate.

He'd take the older laptop I had and give me his last cast off. And I use "cast off" in the sense that it was the one he no longer needed -- not that it was bad or inferior. Lew always buys top of the line, so when he goes to upgrade a year or two down the road it's still an awesome machine.

But as times got harder around my house I had to let him know that while I would love to have it, I just couldn't afford it. And somehow he managed to give it to me without it feeling like charity . . . and that takes real talent.

But, back to the bag . . .

About 4 or 5 months ago I had in my belonging 3 different laptop bags and one lap top. One from an older laptop I'd acquired, an almost brand new standard laptop bag that came with the last laptop I'd been given, and an awesome "girly" laptop bag Bonnet gave me when her I bought her used laptop to see if we could update it for Tori.

Then, Tori was given a laptop without a bag and I gave her the newer 'non-girly' laptop bag. I gave the older one away to someone off craigslist and keep the 'girly' one.

Bonnet's father, Anthony, convinced her to move to Colorada; it was a practically a gold rush story. She would work with him and make 3-times what she currently made, he'd pay for her to go back to school, and he would lease his house to her when he moved out in 6-weeks time. What could she possibly loose?

To be honest, I secretly feared her father was full of crap. He has been most of his life; but you never give up hope your children's father will live up to their hopes.

She had to pack everything she owned into, or on, her small car for the ride. She sold everything that wouldn't fit, and her dad flew down to drive back with her. She was sad about letting so many things that mattered to her go. So I ended up giving her back her laptop bag; it was small but cute and had meaning to her. It's a girl thing.

So there I was, the proud owner of a nice laptop with no bag. Go figure.

I've been that way for a few months and it's not horrible. But my use of the laptop has improved dramatically the last few weeks. With my return to writing, I often find myself using the laptop to pound away while Steve or Will are on the computer. Facing the visit out of town this last weekend I was nervous about taking my computer without a bag to protect it. And luck was with me . . .

While dropping off items at our local Goodwill, I went in to check things out and found a NEW $79 Swiss Gear Messenger Bag that I loved for $12.99 -- with tags still attached! I wasn't out looking for a bag and even at $12 I had to really consider the purchase, but it seemed ordained by God. And who am I to mess with the ordained?

I rush it home and pack it up full of all the things I will need to work with during the drive and over the weekend. Now, I feel like a real writer. Go me!

Less than 20 minutes out from the house the following morning I pull out my laptop, planning to work for most of the 3-hour trip. While plugging things in and getting it set up I accidentally close it while something is laying on the laptop and shatter the screen.

So . . . I have this really nice laptop bag, used for only 12 hours -- practically new -- for sale. All offers considered.

Gifts from the dead

While visiting Byjo in Benbrook this weekend, she took me aside to see if I wanted some of the things she'd packed up from Beckys over the last few weeks. (Just in case you are unaware, Becky is my sister that committed suicide about 3 weeks ago.)

Initially, a voice in my head (or heart) screamed, "NO!"

But I've gained a lot of weight and Byjo knew money was tight and I probably didn't have a coat that would fit me. She said she'd brought two jackets (one leather and one soft comfy) from Becky's earlier in the week for me to look at. So I went to look. As soon as I slipped the comfy jacket on, my eyes filled with tears. I felt so warm and cared for; it smelled like Becky.

Before I knew it, I left the garage with two nice jackets, a gorgeous "Lucky" leather bag, and three pair of shoes. I set them by the front door and went outside to cry where no one would see me. As I cry now with no one to see me.

Yesterday, when Byjo casually mentioned wearing a pair of Becky's pants a small part of me wondered how she could do that. I've never had anyone that close to me die. So close I would end up with their personal items. So close I'd even thing of trying their clothes on and keeping them.

I did understand about needing the clothes. Hell, all of us girls weight goes up and down like a frigging yoyo. I bet there are no less than 5 different sizes in any of our closets. I also understand the finances. Byjo is a stay-at-home mom of 2 children with a husband that not only supports them all but took out a sizable loan to help pay for Becky's funeral. Times are tight; and so are our clothes.

And we've always shared clothes. It would be a rare visit, that one of us didn't leave the others house without some new clothes. I guess it's just the way of sisters. What mine is yours; except for my man, my wedding band, and the last servicing of ice cream in the freezer.

Tonight, I sit here wearing a pair of Becky's house shoes and fighting the urge to wrap up in her jacket . . . just because I can. Oh, it hurts. There is no doubt about it. And I was doing a pretty good job of handeling (read avoiding) pain the last week.

But I came away from my experience today with two distinct thoughts:

1) If you can wear it, sit in it, wrap up in it, or smell it and it gives you comfort; take it. I truly believe Becky would be happy that anything she left behind would help us cope just a little with her loss.

2) A needing to tell the younger generation of my family . . . I ain't got crap, so don't get your hopes up.

A Rose by any other Name . . .

My youngest sisters name at birth was Jennie Eva Estrada.

I remember my mother saying once that it was suppose to be plain Jenny; but mom didn't know how to spell and it ended up Jennie. (Guess that's a hereditary thing after all.) The name Eva was for her paternal grandmother.

The odd thing is that half the time when I am talking about her, or even to her, I'm not sure what to call her.

When she was very young, everyone called her what mom did; Eva. When she turned about 12 or so, she let us all know that she would prefer to be called Jennie, rather than Eva. While trying to change what you call a sibling is hard anyway, it was really hard for me as I seldom called her Eve to start out with.

My step-father attempted to teach all his children some Spanish when they were little. We all knew what most animals, body parts, and food was called. When Jennie Eva was around 2, he was trying to teach her to say horse.

Horse in Spanish is caballo (pronounced: Ka bye yo). Jeannie Eve had trouble getting her mouth around the word so Ernest would pronounce it really slowly for her, Ka Bye Yo. Being the I'll-do-this-my-way type of person she is, she selected to only use the last 2 syllables and a horse became a Bye Yo. Or, really more of a Byjo with her baby accent. Soon, every living animal was a Bjyo.

It didn't matter how much time Ernest spent trying to correct her, an animal was a Byjo and a Byjo they would remain. (Those of you who know her, shouldn't really be surprised by this.)

Some how, whether from our attempt to pick on Ernest or from her repeated use of the phrase, by the time she was 3, Jennie Eve had officially become Byjo to her immediate family. And as far as I am concerned, she still is.

So . . .

Byjo is in her 30s now and I am still trying to decide what to call her. When I'm talking to family members she is my Byjo. They know who I'm talking about and no one blinks; but they don't always call her by that name.

When I talk to friends of mine about her, I try not to use Byjo because if they ever meet her she will introduce herself by another name.

When I am talking to her I usually call her Byjo. But if I'm at her house surrounded by her friends or in laws I freeze every time I go to address her. I know they do not call her Byjo. But for a moment, I can't remember if she's Eva or Jennie. So I stumble.

I've been doing this most of our adult lives; stumbling over her name.

This weekend we drove to see Byjo and her family and even when trying to tell Will (my son) what to call her, I stumbled. "This is your Aunt . . ."

Now, I have a notoriously bad memory. Next to my notorious bad spelling. But I hope she never things I truly FORGET her name.

For my baby sister is special. She has overcome a lot in her life and has made for herself a life and family worth being proud of. She's smart, beautiful, and fun to be around. She's always ready to help any one that needs it. And there is no end to the limits she will go to for her family. No, she's not perfect . . . she is related to me after all.

And regardless of whether I stumble over her name in an fool-hearted attempt to make her more comfortable in different situations; whether I call her Eva, Jennie, or Byjo; I always call her sister. And I always love her.

The Texas Shoe-Step

I know you've all heard of the Texas Two-Step, well, the last 2-3 weeks I've been doing the Texas Shoe-Step. And it's driving me crazy!

As you may, or may not know, I started my sewing/pattern business based on a pattern for leather soft-sole shoes. I started making my own shoes for Will, who weighed 10.7 pounds at birth and didn't develop ankles until he was over the age of 2.

Side fact: Will was so LARGE that the doctor that performed the c-section wrote across my tummy with a permanent marker "Big Will". I guess I should be thankful she didn't add, "was here".

Regardless, Will was unable to wear any shoes I could find for him. I finally saw a pair of Robeez at a playdate and ended up making him a pair. He wore nothing but those shoes for 2 years and even now; half of his shoes are still made from the same pattern. We were constantly being asked where he got his shoes and on a lark I tried markerting the pattern on craigslist . . . the rest is history.

Well, I've added other styles and they all sell well enough. But I came up with an idea of adding elaborate appliques to the shoes to make the actual shoe an animal -- not just so it had an applique of an animal on it. Before you knew it, I had 31 different designs drawn out and ready to test. If it was just one pattern, I would make it up myself. But every one of these designs is different. I need photos taken after each step and photos of the finished shoes. And having photos of different sizes would be nice too. Then, I need someone to try out the instructions and pattern pieces to make sure they are understandable.

For those of you with no clue, one pair of these shoes can take an adequate seamstress 3-5 hours to make. Depending on her skill level, familiarity sewing with leather, and the design she is working on.

So there was no way I was going to have that time, nor the need for 31 pairs of shoes for Will -- some of which are definite "girl" designs. :)

My first stop was to contact the women of my yahoo group, but through them I only got 13 designs out to be tested. The wonderful thing about using these women, is that they are familiar with the basic pattern and will use their own leather. I just email them the files and they send me photos back . . . so the dance began.

The next thing I did was post looking for women to do the sewing for me. I offered patterns, leather, even my extra serger as enticement. I got responses, that required responses, that may or not may have responded back. About a week after the post, a woman and I agreed to meet in Round Rock to drop off the leather and patterns she would complete for the serger. I was spending a girls weekend with my friend and when we were locked inside for our scrapbooking marathon, I called the lady twice and she never came. She never emailed or called me again. The dance continued . . .

That weekend, another woman emailed me about doing the swap for the serger and I arranged to meet her and drop every thing off. When she started working on them, I got 5 emails one night. They were to much cutting out to do. Dip. They were taking longer than she expected. Spin. She wasn't sure she could finish them. One, Two, One. We finally agreed she would do all the detail work and I would take them back and finish them up. And the dance goes on . .

I still had over 10 designs left. So this time I posted in the baby section that I would supply all the leather, patterns, and email support they needed to complete the shoes in the colors, designs, and sizes of their choice. Two women from about 40 miles north of where I live wanted to do 2 pair each. I tried for over a week to get them both organized to meet at once. As these women were going to make their shoes to keep, I had to email them files to select which design they wanted then redo the pattern pieces to fit their needs. Dose Doe. I also had to supply the standard pattern, and all the leather needed to make the shoes. Which is very time consuming. I agreed to meet the women half-way to cut down on all our expenses. But one woman fell through, so I drove that distance to drop off two shoes for testing. Skip-to-my-Lou . . .

Another woman has called or emailed me about 20 times and she had trouble understanding how to pick out which styles. Was never available for pick up. Actually had me sitting inside a Burger King for 1-1/2 hours while she sit outside. And still I have her prepared patterns and leather in a little bag. It dangled from my door handle all day because she was going to come by the pick it up and never did. Bow to your neighbor . . .

And sadly, that is the tip of the iceberg. I've been trying to explain, detail, and set up meetings with women like crazy and I still have 8 designs left to test. One woman just contacted me again, the no-show from Round Rock, and she is willing to do 8 sets. One, Two, One. But when I emailed her back and told her I would not drive that far up north again, she never emailed back. Spin!

Some designs I sent out to my yahoo group over 3 weeks ago, I still haven't seen completed and they were suppose to complete them in a week. Oh, they have excuses . . . I was in the hospital, I broke a hip, yada, yada, yada. Dip . . .

The thought keeps circulating in my head to just make them myself! But, while I can run around all over town during the day with Will, I can't sew while he's awake. And he's always awake. The only time he is asleep, I'm writing. So I will continue my Texas Shoe-Step in the hope that I manage to get them all tested during this month and they are ready for me to tackle next month when my book is finished. Bow to your partner . . .

Other names for, lets say a "carrot"

Back when I was REALLY getting into writing, I was writing for the sole purpose of getting published. The easiest market to break into is romance. Within the romance genera they were desperately seeking erotic writers. It would seem writing steamy sex scenes makes some writers uncomfortable.

I find that pretty funny. They can write in detail about killing, abusing, rape, etc., but they can't write about consensual sexual relations between a man and woman. Regardless, I get side tracked.

When you are writing about sex a lot, and in great detail, you get tired of calling . . . lets say a carrot a carrot 100 times in a roll. So, as recommended, I started a journal. You are encouraged to read the same type of genera as you are writing. So every time I was reading an erotic romance and come across a scene where a body part was mentioned, I would jot down the alternative verbiage in my journal.

So my journal was separated by tags for male and female, then by body parts within each. I did find it useful in my writing. But of coarse, the girls found it and freaked out. They were both in high school at the time and the idea of their mom even thinking about male or female body parts seemed to freak them out. I told them what is was for and encouraged them to add alternative verbiage they might be aware of.

Tori left the room like I might be contagious. But Bonnet hooked her momma up.

Years after my last attempt to write, I came across the journal and after a good laugh I threw it away. The only thing the erotic writing experience left me with was an uncomfortable memory of Lew proofing some of my writing and an enjoyment of reading erotic novels.

So when I signed up to write a novel in the month of November, you know it was going to be an erotic novel. Now I wish I had my list. On the off chance times had changed, I did a search on the Internet for alternative names for carrots and hit the jackpot. Well, the jackpot if you need a good laugh. Not so useful for what I really needed.

So my good deed today, is to share a funny with those of you that end up here looking for an alternative name for a "carrot".

Partial list from http://justnet.com.au/rudestuff/

blue-veined junket pumper, ding dong, dipstick, dork, doughnut holder, firm worm, free willy, goober, hairy bagpipes, hang down, John Thomas, joy stick, knob, meat, meat whistle, organic dildo, ol' one-eye, one-eyed trouser snake, percy, piece of pork, pink oboe, pole, pork sword, salty dog, skin flute, spunk stick, throbber, tool, trouser trout, wife's best friend.

I left out the less-imaginative listings.

Now I dare you to not think about this list the next time you are looking at a carrot; be it your own or someone else's.

ADDED A FEW DAYS LATER

Alternative words for Kitties

Today, during my writing, I came across another episode where I could have used a naughty thesaurus. Since my last search for information of this nature was so successful, I thought I'd waste some of my day and see what useless list I could find to share with you.

So, in the act of fair-play; here is a partial list I took from the Cunning Linguist at http://www.vaginalady.com/words/words.htm.

Afro clam, baby cave, badger, bear trap, bearded clam, beaver, beef curtains, Bermuda triangle, bikini burger, bread-box, cat, cherry pie, coochie, cooter, dew-flaps, flesh tuxedo, joy box, kitten, mantrap, mossy cottage, muff, nether regions, nonny-no, poonani, poontang, quim, shaved kitty, silent beard, sugar basin, Venus flytrap, vertical smile, and hooha.

Once again, useless for my needs. Someone out there really needs to write up an erotic writers guide to body parts.