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All About the Food
Survivor
PG Man. . .Making the World Safe for Lunchtime
The Exorcism
A Special
Announcement
Poof!!
The Old
Gray---Candy?
The Haunting
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September 3, 2006
September 6, 2006
The Old Gray---Candy?
This has been a bad week, but I’m not going to whine. Nope. I
think I’ll whinny instead. Here is my song for the day, and I’m sure
everyone knows this campfire gem.
The old gray mare,
she ain’t what she used to be, ain’t what she used to be, ain’t what she
used to be. The old gray mare, she ain’t what she used to be, many long
years ago.
Have you noticed that most campfire songs are repetitive? I haven’t
decided if that’s because people ran out of words or inspiration as they
were writing, or they were trying to make a point by saying the same
thing over and over again.
I’m going to use
The Old Gray Mare to make a point.
I’m getting older. I
ain’t what I used to be. So, when I have a bad week,
it’s hard for the old girl to bounce back.
I hate to admit it. I am getting old. Yes, I know that getting old is a
bad, and we’re supposed to fight aging. I do that. I run. I diet. I take
supplements. I do everything I can to help myself. But when weeks like
this week hit, I feel ancient. Like I’m hanging on with my toenails.
That leads me to another song called
Hold On.
This one is an old spiritual.
When you plow, don’t lose your track, can’t plow
straight and keep a-lookin’ back. Keep your hand on that plow, Hold on,
hold on, hold on.
That is how it feels sometimes. Like I’m just holding on. Looking back
is tempting. I wish I could go relive things or regain some years. But
like the song says, you can’t plow straight if you’re not looking ahead.
More than anything else, I want to keep my hand to the plow. I want to
keep looking ahead. Instead of regrets, I want to be content with what
lies behind because that is what made me what I am today. I want to look
forward to what lays ahead with peace. I want to have a thankful heart
instead of a griping mouth--a grateful spirit that looks beyond
inconveniences and trials. And I want to be a blessing to those around
me.
Lord, please use
these times to develop in me the fruit of the Spirit.
At the risk of sound like a preacher, those of us who know the Lord have
a glorious hope. Christ in us, the hope of glory. He is the one who can
give us peace. He is what makes life worth living.
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September 10, 2006
Poof!!
For the first time in the history of my blog, I’m going to
interrupt my Sunday series and stray from a promised article. Yes, I
left you hanging last week. And I’m sure everyone is waiting with BATED
breath to find out just how we fixed all that electricity flying around
inside our walls.
Sorry. You’ll have to wait until next week. Today, I’m going to write
about something different because
I’m in the midst.
In the midst
of writing.
I know, I know. That sounds about as exciting as burned toast, and
believe me, that’s how it feels sometimes. Grammar, punctuation, point
of view, sentence structure. . .writing isn’t exactly scintillating when
viewed through the mechanics.
But some people don’t think about the mechanics of writing at all. They
think the life of a writer is fascinating and lots of fun. Well, in many
ways, it is. I love what I do. I worked longer to achieve publication
than I would have if I had earned a PhD, although I don’t have student
loans to pay off, and I don’t make the same kind of money.
The thing is, like the mechanics, not every aspect of being an author is
fun. Especially when
I’m not inspired.
Let’s take the last few months. I’ve been writing because I must. I have
a deadline looming. And I’ve been waking up in the morning feeling like
I can’t breathe because I’m scared to death I won’t be able to finish my
second book. Totally afraid that my mind is going to stop working, and
I’m going to be a one-book wonder. A complete failure.
But last week something happened. The old magic kicked in. I’m starting
to move into that place that I call THE ZONE. Where my book is coming
alive, and I think of the story non-stop. I carry a notepad with me
everywhere (and I do mean EVERYWHERE) to jot additional ideas. I wake in
the middle of the night with thoughts about how to edit everything to
make the mystery better. I actually get up at two in the morning and
work.
This is the time when my husband tiptoes into my office and whispers,
Are you zoning?
He is a good man. Actually, he learned to ask that question the hard
way--after a million times of walking into my office, mouth first, and
getting his head bit off.
This is how it used to be:
Brad would throw open the door to my office.
“Hey, I finished
putting up ten two-by-fours today. Wanna see? Are you busy? Can you come
and look?”
After a brief, silent, pointed, loud pause, I would look up at him over
my glasses. “I’m
sitting at my desk. I have the keyboard in my lap. I’m typing. And the
door to my office was shut. WHAT DO YOU THINK?
Brad would look crestfallen and hurt.
“Oh. I’m sorry. I’ll
go away now.”
I would feel guilty for being a shrew. A horrible wife who isn’t
interested in her husband’s two-by-fours.
“Well, never mind. I
already lost every thought I had in my head when you busted into the
room." (Sarcasm is the sharp, icky side of facetious humor,
by the way.)
Brad would shake his head and turn to leave.
“No, it’s fine. I
don’t want to interrupt you." (Brad does sarcasm well, too.)
And so it used to go until we decided to reach an agreement. I would
warn him ahead of time that I’m zoning. He would understand that and
promise to notice if my office door was shut.
So, by now you’ll understand that writing is one of those things that
requires a writer’s full attention. The mind is totally consumed. And
the more intense a writer gets, the better the story. When I reach the
final stages of my books, the stories become so real, I can see my
characters.
Okay, now people will be worried. And well they should be. I think
there’s a fine line between art and insanity. One step too far and
poof!
There goes the mind.
My sister is convinced that if I outlive my husband, I’m going to be a
freaky old woman with long hair who wears hippie skirts and peasant
shirts. I’m going to live in an attic with my parrot and write books all
day and all night, only stopping to eat and drink.
No, I
say. Instead, I’m going to live with my daughter and leave wet towels
and dirty dishes all over my bedroom so she has to pick them up. Then
I’m going to leave my dirty clothes, particularly underwear, all over
the bathroom so she has to pick them up before company comes. (Can we
say, what goes around comes around and revenge is sweet?) And then I’ll
write all day, kept company by my parrot.
Seriously, I figure if I ever go senile, I’ll be perfectly happy in a
little room by myself because I’ll be surrounded by all the people I
wrote about who now live in my head. They’ll be my friends.
Sounds like my
poof
point isn’t that far away. . . .
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September 14, 2006
A Special Announcement
Does today look like Wednesday to you? No, I didn’t think so. It
doesn’t look like Wednesday to me, either. In fact, all the clues (such
as my calendar) lead me to believe that today is actually Thursday.
So, what’s my excuse for not posting this blog article last night? Like
when I’m supposed to? I forgot. Plain and simple. I even had this ready
to go. That senility thing that I mentioned last Sunday? Well, I think
it might be starting. Or not. More likely, it’s my brain leaking.
I’m still in the throes of finishing my book before my deadline. Not
only that, but I’m getting ready for another writers’ conference next
week. And I have some editing work to do. Stuff for Brad. Plus the
other, regular things, like, um, cleaning, cooking, laundry. Oh, and
exercise. In other words, I’m really, really busy. Yeah, whatever. Like
no one but me is ever busy. I hear my mother's voice in my head saying,
Suck it up. Build
a bridge and get over it.
But before I bore you to tears by whining about all I have to do, I have
a Very Important Announcement.
Next Wednesday, the 20th, I will be on a plane, traveling all the way to
Dallas, Texas. I lived in Dallas a couple of times, for five years
altogether. Once in the late 70’s and then earlier this decade. I have
some good friends there, but I don’t like Texas much. Mostly because of
the landscape (flat) and the heat (hot).
But, before I get caught up digressing about Dallas, I realize that
since my blog is so vital to Life As We Know It, everyone’s primary
concern will be whether or not I’ll write a Wednesday blog article next
week. Or even by next Thursday morning.
Good question. The answer is, no.
Yes, that’s a tragedy, but have no fear. I have a solution. I have a
GUEST BLOGGER scheduled. Something I haven’t done before, but it’s a
really great idea. (One that I might use again.)
My guest blogger is a very special person with an odd sense of humor
sort of like mine. He’s a he. And he will be anonymous—known only by the
moniker, P.G. Man. (However, despite his anonymity, I will have a
picture of, er, him on my website.)
P.G. Man is not my husband, for anyone who immediately thought about
Brad. For one thing, Brad hates computers. He also hates blogs and is a
little afraid of mine, I think. And for another thing, he really doesn’t
do facetious humor. In fact, sometimes my facetiousness is a little much
for him. I leave him speechless. I like to think that’s because he’s
overwhelmed by my sheer brilliance. (Alternate realities and
self-deception, by the way, are other signs of senility.)
Anyway, P.G. Man and his wife are friends of ours. And since there is no
way most of you will know who this is, even with a heavy duty clue, I
will say that he used to play the drums on a worship team for which I
played the piano. I’ve only met one other drummer who was as intuitive
and flowed as well with the piano as this guy. Very talented! Can ad lib
with the best. Not that that has anything to do with anything except
that he, too, is an artistic, writer-ish, church musician type. That
will explain his twisted sense of humor and his compulsive need to spew
facetiously.
So, get ready for P.G. Man’s debut next week. It’ll be fun!
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September 17, 2006
The Exorcism
So, two weeks ago, I told you all about the electricity playing
havoc in our walls. I said (and I quote),
When we moved into
this house, a couple of the lights really were turning themselves on and
off. That was startling, particularly when it occurred in the middle of
the night. If you know anything at all about wiring and the power of
electricity, having lights turn themselves on meant that somewhere,
inside the walls, the electricity was running amuck. Electricity
contained is good. Electricity running amuck is bad--like lightning
bolts having a frat party behind the plaster.
I called that blog entry
The Haunting
because of the lights turning on and off. And a haunting needs to be
fixed with an exorcism, thus the name of this entry because we did that.
We exorcised the electricity problem.
Before I begin, you must remember this. Nothing is ever done around here
until Brad starts grunting and talking to himself. Not to mention
inundating me with every detail about every little thing that he’s
doing. (He really likes to do this first thing in the morning when I’m
not awake. Before coffee. When I can’t think. When I’m CRABBY.)
In this case, that’s when he was trying to figure out what breaker went
where and which wires are hooked up to something that actually worked,
and which just went nowhere. (That’s really, really scary. A live wire
that goes nowhere is NOT good.)
Here’s the thing. There were four circuit breaker boxes in this house.
(In case you don’t know, most houses have one.) Okay, well, we actually
had five counting the one that Brad found in the mudroom ceiling. That
fifth one was the original breaker box with the original wire. And,
scarily enough, new wires were hard wired into the old, old, old wires
in this box. That is REALLY BAD.
Just the make things clear so far, not only was electricity running
amuck, so were the wires.
The work began. Brad grunted and turned breakers on and off to see which
breakers controlled what rooms. I helped with this. (Tell
me when the lights go off! Tell me if you smell smoke!)
Then, he went from electric outlet to electric outlet with his
handy-dandy electric checker thingie. I forget the name of it, but it
has lights on it that indicate whether things are working right or not.
He made lots of diagrams, most of which I can’t understand. Some of
which he can’t anymore, either. But, most importantly, he found out
where all the really old, dangerous wires were and disconnected them.
Then came the labor. Ripping out of the attic floor. Ripping out of
walls. Ripping out of ceilings. Finding really scary things like charred
old wiring. Charred outlets. That work entailed more than just grunting
on Brad’s part. It included comments that I shouldn’t repeat about the
stupidity of the people who did the original, unsafe wiring. Comments
with which I agree, by the way.
Then he ran new wire. That entailed ropes in walls—dragging wire from
one place to another. It also entailed running wire under baseboards.
Oh, and there was the time that I was balanced on a ladder over the
cellar stairs, helping him fish rope and wires and. . .I don’t like
heights, so, suffice it to say, we didn’t along very well that day.
All in all, it was a tremendous amount of work. Oh, and I might mention
here that digging around in old walls and ceilings is, well, messy. Brad
found years and years of things like mouse poop and dirt. With his head.
The work isn’t totally done yet. A couple of lights aren’t hooked up at
all. There’s a roll of wire hanging from a stairwell outlet that isn’t
yet working. That’s fine. I’d rather have rolls of wire hanging out of
the wall then die in a fire.
And about that nagging thing that I mentioned? (how my nagging saved us from losing everything in a
fire. Something I never fail to remind Brad of when he complains I’m
nagging. Like men never nag. )
Well, I’ll have to save that for another blog. This one is long enough.
Isn’t this great? Keeping you on the hook?
And remember. . .PG Man is our guest this Wednesday. I’ll be in Dallas.
Yeee Haw!
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September 19,
2006
PG Man. .
.Making the World Safe for Lunchtime
My blog is early by a day. I'm welcoming my GUEST BLOGGER! PG
Man! Thanks, PG Man,
for coming to my rescue!
WHEEL. . .OF. . .FORTUNE!!!!!!!
Have you discovered the free therapy session known as watching Wheel of
Fortune?
We get to say things we would never be able to say to people, because we
are saying them to people who can't hear or see us. We get to prove our
mental superiority, at least to ourselves, every time the players don't
solve the puzzle as soon as we do, or when they spin when we feel in our
bones they really should not.
Here are some typical comments you would overhear in any Wheel Watcher's
home:
"You've got $25,000. You HAVE to know what the puzzle is, and you are
SPINNING?!!! You know it'll be a Bankrupt or Lose A Turn! Just solve the
silly thing!"
"Q? There's no Q in Humpty Dumpty Sat On A Wall! What? Are you, crazy?"
"He doesn't know it yet! The idiot doesn't know it yet!"
"Go ahead, spin again! Spin, spin, spin! You know you'll hit Bankrupt,
but, please, by all means, spin again!"
"I know, why don't you buy the last vowel so every space will be filled
in?"
"I figured out the answer with only the T and the N. Why can't these
three jokers get it?"
I could go on, but you get the point.
We can't say these kinds of things to our friends and relatives. You
can't be at work and yell at your next-cube-over friend, "Just answer
the phone, PLEASE!" When standing at the copier in line with three other
people, you can't scream at the person making his hundredth copy, "My
grandfather could copy faster than you!" So, we can release all this
while venting at the poor people spinning the wheel, winning the money
that really should have been ours.
The people that I really feel sorry for are those that attend a taping
session. Sure, they get to see Pat and Vanna in person, and there's got
to be some excitement being in the crowd and watching all the activity
on and off stage. However, YOU CAN'T SCREAM AT THE PLAYERS! My gosh! How
frustrating that must be. You know each and every member of the audience
knows what letter should be asked for next, and knows the answer to the
puzzle before the players do. Yet they can't yell "K, stupid, K. There
are 4 Ks in there and you are on $2,500. Pick K!!!!" If anyone does
accidentally blurt something like that out, the taping has to stop, a
new puzzle put on the board, and everything starts over. Meanwhile
security escorts the offender from the audience, the producers blacklist
him so he can never return, and an unmarked white panel truck is
dispatched to his home to confiscate every television he may be able to
view the show on.
I think the best thing would be to have the set for Wheel of Fortune
next to the set for Dr. Phil, so the traumatized viewers would have
somewhere to go and receive counseling for being so close to the set but
not able to provide their wisdom to the players. Without some therapy,
these people probably usually are so upset that they can't even find
their cars in the parking lot and wander aimlessly for weeks. I'm just
guessing, but I bet I'm right.
Anyway, we have to wait until at least this evening before we can go to
the safety of our homes and yell at idiotic players.
Note from PG Man
– I would like to thank Candy for this opportunity to be her guest
blogger. As you can see from my picture, when I have shed my alter ego
(currently Mild Mannered Business Systems Analyst) I make the world safe
for lunchtime, especially at Mexican food restaurants. With my red,
green, and white striped tights, my red cape of goodness, and many, many
superpowers, I have dedicated my life to vanquishing all foes who seek
to thwart good, hard-working people from having a meaningful lunch
experience.
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September 25, 2006
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