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Be Happy or I'll Make You Drop and Do Fifty. Hey, is it an Alien or Person? |
April 1, 2007 Be Happy or I’ll Make You Drop and Do Fifty My topic tonight is a “sort of” continuation of my topic from last Wednesday, only it’s not about exercise. (I’d better not hear a sigh of relief from anybody about that. Remember, I’m practicing to be a drill sergeant, and I’m sure the topic will come up again. Maybe even before this blog article is over.) In my last blog, I discussed Clean Sweeping our lives. Getting rid of the negative junk that can keep us from being the best we can possibly be. Making room for the good things God has for us. Along this train of thought, I found another interesting study online—this one about how optimists live longer. Apparently, being optimistic contributes to a healthy heart. People who described themselves as highly optimistic a decade ago had lower rates of death from cardiovascular disease and lower overall death rates than strong pessimists, the research found. There could be several reasons for this. One is that pessimistic people might be more prone to developing bad habits, like smoking or overeating, while optimists make more positive choices. I’ve given this a great deal of thought, and I wonder if a pessimistic outlook on life is a sort of self-protection mechanism—at least for some people. If I don’t believe things will be good, than when they aren’t, I will never be disappointed. These people have no hope. But, no matter the reason, pessimism is one of the most unattractive personality traits I can think of. Have you ever been around a person who always anticipates bad things happening? Someone who immediately jumps to the worst possible conclusion about everything? They don’t laugh. They take themselves w-a-a-a-y too seriously. Really, you just want to slap them and say, “Shut your mouth already,” because their words are like fingernails scraping over a chalkboard. Over the years, I’ve purposefully made up my mind to be more positive. One reason was a particularly heinous experience with someone who dragged me through the mud because she was so negative about everything. People were out to get her. Nothing ever turned out right. Life wasn’t fair. Many times, because of her fears and negativities, she ruined what could have been good experiences for both of us. That’s when I realized just how icky pessimism really is and just how badly it can affect everyone, not just the pessimist. See, from what I’ve observed, pessimism seems to go hand in hand with self-centeredness. A negative person is so tuned into themselves and the bad things around them, they don’t have anything left over to give to anyone else. I think part of the deal is that pessimism drains a person’s energy, but optimism builds energy—and hope. The cool thing about that is with more energy and hope, getting through a bad patch doesn’t seem to be so hard. Being positive never hurts. In fact, it might give people the umph to do things that might look impossible. So, I’ll end this blog with a Candy-ism: Sorry, but life isn’t fair. For anyone. Ever. So, quit whining, suck it up, build a bridge, and get over it. Laugh more. Have fun. Enjoy right now. And be nice to other people. And while you’re at it, EXERCISE! April 4, 2007 This will be a short blog. And it’s going to be about food. Well, at least partially. Not because I’m still harping on my health/exercise/yada yada yada topic. This is because my sister from Washington State is out here visiting me and my mom, so each day we’ve eaten lunch out. Monday, we ate at an Indian buffet that was awesome. I had things I didn’t recognize. Great stuff. My nose was running by the time I left the restaurant. That was good, but on Tuesday, my life changed forever. We went to a Japanese place. My dear step-sis was there with us, and she is my age. We both have birthdays in April. She ordered sushi and dared me to try it. I decided I could not live the rest of my life without trying it. Once. It was sort of a coming of age thing, I guess (old age). Surprisingly enough, I liked it. And I would eat it again. And--no big surprise--that brings me back to my self-improvement topic. Have you ever noticed how as people age, they become less and less willing to change? To experiment with new stuff? As a result, they become inflexible and sometimes even hard to get along with. They lose their sense of adventure, choosing instead to live in a rut. Life is boring. Stodgy. And they don’t think they have anything to learn, therefore, no one can tell them anything, either. They can no longer be taught because they know everything they want to know. Change. . .well, changes us. It's healthy, forcing us to find new ways to cope with situations and circumstances. To stretch our minds as we learn new stuff. As a result, we realize we aren’t quite as brilliant as we thought we were. And that's a good thing. The more I learn, the more I realize I don't know, and I'm content with that. I guess I want to be like a Toys ‘R Us Kid. I don’t want to grow up. I want to look at the sky and take the time to see things in the clouds. I want to dance when I’m happy. I want to cry when I’m sad. I want to laugh because it’s fun. I want to try new things because I can. I always want to remember that I don't know it all. Life is an adventure. When I reach the end of mine, I want God to say, Well done, good and faithful servant. And, by the way, I’m glad you had fun, too. April 8, 2007 My blogs have recently taken a turn to more serious topics. I guess I’m going through a phase (haha). This one will probably be one of the most serious. Today is Easter Sunday. All Christians are celebrating the resurrection of Jesus. But, I’ve been thinking about his followers. And the impact that the crucifixion had on them. Can you imagine how horrible it was for them when Jesus was crucified? They’d been following this man for several years. They believed in Him. And then. . .He was dead. At first, they didn’t understand the significance of what had happened. From our standpoint today, with Bible in hand, we see it all so clearly because we have the gift of hindsight. It’s easy for us to think, oh, the disciples just should have had faith. Really? Do you think so? I’ll be honest. If I had been one of them I would have been running away. As far as I could. I would have been afraid that I would be next on that cross. Crucifixion was a horrid, brutal death. Reserved for horrible criminals. Think of the doubts they had. The man they’d followed so faithfully was dead in the worst way. Talk about being discouraged. Talk about wanting to give up. Talk about wondering whether you’d been deceived into believing a falsehood. And that’s what I’ve been considering the past four days. The lesson I can learn from their experience. I can’t stand in judgment of them. Not Peter. Honestly, I will not even be critical of Judas. So, here’s what I’m thinking this Easter. When things seem the darkest; like when everything around us has crumbled away and we’re left with what looks like nothing—perhaps that’s the time we need to hang on the tightest. Today, for me, Easter is a double celebration. The first is Christ’s sacrifice for our salvation. My Savior died for me. But it’s also the hope that in my darkest hours, God is there. Always there for me. When I think I’m down for the count, I can look up for my deliverance. The best is yet to come, no matter how bad things look. That’s what this Easter means to me. April 11, 2007 Hey, is it an Alien or a Person? When I get asked the question, where do you get your ideas for books, I want to wave my arms wildly and say, just look around. People are a never-ending source of story ideas because some of them are just plain weird. Authors and other folks with blogs and websites are particularly susceptible to weird people. (Well, I have to be honest, sometimes authors are a little nuts, too—me being a prime example.) Today, I’m thinking about one of my favorite movies, Men in Black, in which MIB agents K and J (Tommy Lee Jones and Will Smith) are alien hunting feds. During the movie, Will, as a new agent, discovers that many people he thought were just. . .people. . .are actually aliens in disguise. The feds find aliens only because they know what they’re looking for. . .the signs the aliens leave behind. But, to regular folks, the aliens are anonymous. In the United States, anonymity is nearly impossible to maintain. People can’t even traipse around the internet incognito. Like those aliens, they always leave vestiges of themselves along the way that can be traced, if someone knows how. Really, most people would be surprised at the information they do leave behind, even when they think they’re being anonymous. When I developed my own website, I was amazed at the information I could obtain about people who visit my site just from the statistics that my web host keeps for me. That’s one reason my blog is on my website and not hosted by a third party. I find that ability comforting because, as an author, I am potentially subject to weird people due to the public nature of my career. Unfortunately, my author friends and I do receive anonymous comments and reviews. Recently, a fellow writer received a brutal book review on Amazon. The person who left that review signed it, anonymous. I’ve received my share of anonymous comments, as well, and have decided they are best ignored. They don’t upset me. In fact, I’m cynically amused, probably because I spend so much time at the sheriff’s office. Working there is enlightening. Cops are adept at seeing through pretense. That’s because they deal with people and deception on a daily basis. I’ve learned that there are basically two types of humans. The first are people who are innocent and what they do is upfront for everyone to see. Then there are those who aren’t upfront. Those who want to remain anonymous. Sometimes out of fear. Sometimes because they know they’re doing something that isn’t quite right. And sometimes because they’re dishonest. So, what’s my point? I guess, this. People who leave anonymous comments and reviews fall into the category of not being upfront, for whatever reason. Someone who is upfront will have to courage to take the credit for what they write. The people who don’t are weird. Or maybe they’re just aliens. Anyway, I’ve always figured if I can’t sign my name to something, it doesn’t need to be said. But there will always be weird people, which means there will always be fodder for books. That means that writers like me will never, ever lack for ideas. And that’s a really good thing. April 15, 2007 There’s a Reason it’s Called a Deadline My dictionary says that a deadline is the point in time at which something must be completed. (I can hear those deadline drumbeats beating in my head. Work. . .work. . .work.) Here’s my definition. The point in time at which the person trying to meet the deadline wants to crawl to an isolated corner and drool. (Please! Someone get me some earplugs! Those drumbeats are driving me crazy! Work. . .work. . .work!) I’m trying to complete a book now. This is the time in the writing process when I set daily word goals. 2,000 words minimum per day. (Work. . .work. . .work.) I reward myself for each big accomplishment--like 500 words. Don't laugh, but even cleaning is a reward for me at this point. I'm not joking. Oh, Candice! I say to me. What a great job you're doing today! You can empty the dishwasher--but only for fifteen minutes. Then you must work again. Wow! Amazing, girl! You can go clean the toilet! You wanna vacuum? Okay! But write those 500 words first! And, if I’m really good, like, if I write an extra thousand words, I allow me to do other things. Like answer emails or call a friend. (Work. . .work. . .work.) Even going grocery shopping—a chore I usually don’t enjoy is a huge treat when I’m trying to meet a deadline. Of course, then I wonder, if I had been just a little more disciplined, would the deadline be as bad? Like, if I had written just a little more per day a couple of months ago, would I feel the squeeze now? (WORK. . .WORK. . .WORK!) Maybe. Maybe not. Being a perfectionist, it’s easy for me to think if I’d just tried a little harder, I could have done better. There’s always that part of me that tells me I’m not quite there. If I would just make more effort then. . .maybe I would meet that seemingly unattainable place of perfection. Right. (Shut up, drums.) It's not true. No one has arrived. I’m not perfect and neither is anyone reading this blog. Everyone has room for improvement. Yes, maybe I could plan better and get a book done faster, but, I know a lot of people who are last minute types to one degree or another. The thing is, we always get it done. (Hey, do you think that deadline drums burn well? Like, would they make a really big bonfire? Marshmallows, anyone?) So, I’m making myself work hard and trying not to be hard on myself in the process. A fine line to walk for someone who is always striving to excel. A perfectionist who is trying to break the habit of perfectionism. (So, if someone finds me drooling in a corner, hands clasped over my ears, saying, please. . .matches. . .fire. . .stop.the.drums. . . You’ll know why.) April 18, 2007 Picture this. I’m sitting at my desk in my itsy-bitsy office, working on a particularly important paragraph in my manuscript. Winston the African Grey is on his perch behind me, laughing like the Count from Sesame Street. Ha ha ha ha! One! One! One bird! Ha ha ha ha! I smile because he’s so adorable. I'm used to the constant background noise. I tune him out and get back to the clue I need to add to the mystery I’m writing. It’s important, and has to be worded just right so my readers won’t— I hear the whir of wings. Winston takes off, flying circles around the room. Little white feathers float through the air. Papers fly from my desk, blown in all directions by the breeze his wings generate. “No!” I say and inhale a feather.
“Winston, don’t do that.” I pick up the scattered papers. “Now, stay there.” I could swear he’s smirking at me. Did I really say he was adorable? He starts yakking again, running through his repertoire. One of the latest is, Candy is the boss. Yes, I taught him that. However, he can’t say boss, so he says, Candy is the bot. So, I, The Bot. . .er. . .Boss, settle down to work again. Think. . .think. . .How, exactly, should I word that clue? Wait. I’ve got it. I’ll just— Wings whir.
Papers fly, and I try to snatch them from mid-air. “No!” “Winston! Don’t do that! I said, stay there. I’m trying to concentrate!” I know he’s smirking. Maybe he’s not so adorable. He begins jabbering again. No! he says. Don’t. . .don’t do that. No! Stay there! I said, stay there. (Yes, he really says that.) Someone told me once that Winston couldn’t possibly know what he meant when he talked. Yeah, right. So, then he starts ringing like a phone and screaming like a siren. Okay, those sounds are loud and harder to ignore, but still, as long as he’s making noise, I know he’s not flying. Now, back to my. . .what was it? Oh, yeah. A clue. . .a clue. . .think. . .think. . .
I slap my keyboard down. “Winston, you’re a feather-headed liar,” I say. “You don’t believe I’m The Bot. . .uh. . .Boss at all. You just say that to keep me off guard. And you’d better apologize to poor Sponge Bob.” Definitely not adorable. He doesn't apologize. I force him to step up on my hand, then put him back on his perch. This time I stand nose to beak with him and say, “If you do that again, you’re going to your cage.” I try to work, but by now, I have bird-induced dementia. I can’t remember what I was trying to write. Oh, well. I don’t even have time to try because he flies again. Only this time, he lands on my head. And when I try to get him down, he gets a little pushy, grabbing at my fingers. That’s it. Enough is enough. I was the mother of a very strong-willed child named Elizabeth. I am not a pushover. I keep my threats. Into his cage he goes. You must understand that this routine has been repeated over and over again for two or three weeks. See, the thing is, pet parrots normally have their wings clipped to keep them from flying. I let his grow out, because I thought it would be cool if he could fly. The problem is he’s pushy and stubborn. He won’t listen and stay where I put him. So, guess what that means? He’s getting his wings clipped. By the vet so I don’t have to enter the fray (using a towel to hold him down so he doesn’t bite the snot out of me). See, birds are really, really strong when they want to be. Those beaks can pierce to the bone. There’s a lesson in all of this, and it’s basically this. Don’t abuse your freedom. If you do, The Bot will make sure you get your wings clipped. Something from which she’ll derive great pleasure. Now, back to. . .oh, dear. What was I trying to do? April 22, 2007 Given that it’s springtime and probably mating and baby season for all animals, I thought a warning about how to survive an attack by a crocodile or an alligator was apropos. Why, Candice, would you write about this? You don’t live in Florida. And what do springtime, mating/baby season, and surviving reptile attacks have to do with each other? That’s a good question. Basically, it’s because I needed material for my blog, and I found this interesting article. If you’re a regular reader of my blog, you know that I’m always on the look out for interesting articles on which to comment. Oh, come on! Be a good sport. You never know when you’ll need to survive an encounter with a crocodilian. So, here was the first point in the article. While most of these attacks occur in Africa and Asia, these powerful reptiles are also found in parts of South America, Australia, and the southern United States. Crocodilians typically do not include humans in their diet, but in truth they will eat just about anything if given the opportunity. I imagine they don’t include humans in their regular diet because humans aren’t that available. If humans were on the menu everyday, I don’t think the reptiles would be choosy. The article’s second point was, stay away from infested waters, especially at night. Are they kidding? I don’t even like swimming at the beach when I can’t touch bottom because I can’t see what’s under me. So, forget after dark. The music from Jaws is never far from my mind. That movie ruined my ocean swimming experience forever. And I’ve seen enough Tarzan movies and nature programs to have panic attacks if I swim in a river. If it’s not some kind of flesh eating creature, than it’s all the parasites and other icky things that live in the water. No, thank you. The next two points. Be aware of your surroundings and stay at least fifteen feet from the nearest crocodile or alligator. Do I need to comment on this? I mean, really. Stupid is as stupid does. Okay. Now, you need to remember that if one of these beasts starts running after you on the bank of some river and you see it coming, do not just stand there and wait. Really. I’m not joking. That’s what the article said. Run for your life. While the reptiles aren’t sluggish on land, they only run about ten miles per hour, and they tire easily. But, contrary to popular opinion, running in a zigzag pattern only works if you’re an actor in an action thriller trying to avoid bullets from a machine gun. In real life, when you’re running from a crocodile, just run in a straight line as fast and far as you can. So, bottom line. What if you jump in a Florida river, one foot from an alligator, and it bites you? What do you do? Go for the eyes, the nostrils, or the palatal valve, which is a flap of tissue behind their tongues that prevents water from going down their throats so they don’t drown. Here is what the article says: If your arm or leg is stuck in a crocodile's mouth, you may be able to pry this valve down. Water will then flow into the crocodile's throat, and animal will most likely let you go. Hard strikes to this valve may also cause the animals to release you. I know if my arm or leg was stuck in a crocodile's mouth, my first thought would be, now, let's see if I can reach that palatal valve. And, hey. If you do get bitten and manage to live because you drowned the beast, get medical attention. A crocodilian’s mouth is full of bacteria. I feel so much better now. Don’t you? April 25, 2007 You’ve heard of Dancing with the Stars? And ball room dancing and square dancing? Well, how about refrigerator dancing? Bet you’ve never heard of that. Neither had I until I made it up. It’s all the fault of my iPod, along with the voices in my head. Here’s how it started. The time had come for the cleaning of the refrigerator. Not just cleaning out old food. I mean, really cleaning the inside. All the those television programs like How Clean is Your House? are enough to make the average housekeeper worried about rampant, deadly bacteria growing in the cracks and crevices of fridge shelves, just waiting to creep inside some hapless package of humus or crawl into an unsuspecting bottle of kefir. Seriously. Talk about pressure. I hear the voices of those two British ladies from that show in my head all the time when I clean. (Do you know how many germs live in the average kitchen sponge, darling?) So, I pulled everything out and put it all in coolers, all the while thinking what a tedious job I had ahead of me. I gathered up my tools. A bucket of warm, soapy water, a sponge (a clean one), rubber gloves, and a toothbrush for those hard to reach cracks and crevices (that I mentioned above). Then I saw my iPod and the light bulb came on. I could clean and dance. Everything is better with music. I dance with Mr. Clorox Ready Mop when I'm doing the kitchen floor. I dance when I dust and vacuum, and when I clean out the bird’s cage. Why not when I clean the refrigerator? I had an
awesome time. I got the work done quickly, and it wasn’t Remember what the Seven Dwarfs sang? Whistle While You Work? The idea is the same. Music does something for the soul. Singing and moving with the music makes everything a little easier. I enjoyed dancing with my refrigerator so much, I think I'll do it again soon. And then maybe those two British cleaning ladies will stop talking so loud in my head. That would be great. April 29, 2007 This blog won’t be a long one and for good reason. I had a meeting with my police consultant on Friday night to discuss the crime scenario in my cozy mystery that is due to my editor soon. Five sentences into my recitation of what I thought was a very clever set up, he said, no. . .that wouldn’t happen that way. What? I croaked. On the outside, I probably looked normal. On the inside, I was screaming, No-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o! He didn’t just say that. No. No. No. Are you serious? I asked. That’s not the way the cops would handle that, he said copishly. I can’t tell you all of the thoughts that went through my head. Things like, Yeah, but on Law and Order they did this. . .and. . .OH NO! I’ve written almost the whole book! DON'T YOU REALIZE HOW THIS IMPACTS EVERYTHING? But all I said was, Really? He was shaking his head. He continued to give me all the reasons my initial scenario wouldn't work. I started banging my head on the hood of his car. Fortunately, he knows me well enough to know that reactions like that are not an indication of a serious mental problem. He doesn’t have to cuff me for my protection and his, like he would if I were dangerously deranged. He understands by now that sometimes writers just do strange things. In fact, they are strange. He just placidly watched me come unglued and said nothing. After I’d finished head banging, I stood up straight, collected myself, and tried to gather a semblance of dignity. Okay, I said, what can I do? Like he'd be able to tell me that. Maybe give it some time, he said. Something will come to you. Gee, thanks. Easy for him to say. I guess I don’t have to tell you that I spent my weekend reworking my crime scenario and then started to rewrite my manuscript. How stupid am I? I should have talked to my consultant before this. You see, I just assumed that I knew how things would go. After all, I volunteer at the police academy. I type tests for the recruits. Wouldn’t I know? But, I assumed wrong. Sheesh. This is why writers can't necessarily trust what's in their heads, because it might be something we remember from a television show. Hey, I'm the queen of getting the procedure right. And I was fooled. So, I didn’t have a lot of time today to work on a clever, amusing blog article. I’m sorry.
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