For Whom The Bell Tolls

Our last foster cat, Wednesday, was of slight build and timid but loving disposition. And while she craved the attention of the humans in the household, she shriveled, hid and snarled at the canine members. Her demeanor at adoption events was similar to a convict awaiting execution, and at one event she did so poorly the volunteers covered her cage with a towel because she hissed at anyone who looked in her direction.

Not exactly the type of behavior one hopes their foster cat displays in public. It kind of puts a damper on the whole "Looking for a cute, cuddly kitty to adopt" thing.

Eventually Wednesday found a new home with a person who was dogless, and we went about our busy schedules in December and January. During dinner at Fudruckers the other night I received a text from the director of the No More Homeless Pets in Utah foster cat program. She advised me that there was a cat available to foster that loved dogs. Was I interested?

We discussed it during our meal and decided that yes, indeed we could manage another foster now that things had settled down and I arranged to collect the cat the next morning.

I picked up a female tabby named Zita who was very friendly and only cried once on the way home in the crate. After our arrival I put her in the "panic room."

We have a special room in the house where we store an old waterbed and keep the foster cats. This is for their own protection. It's a room with a baby gate in the doorway that allows the cat easy access to its food and water but limits the presence of dogs who only want to maraud and pillage, gobbling down the cat food, then raping and disemboweling the cat toys. I'm not going into detail about what atrocities they manage with the litter box, but bobbing for apples comes to mind.

So the gate is up to allow the cat to dive into the room when taking cover is the best course of action. And with the waterbed, and a few other things we have stored in the room, it's easy to lose track of a kitty because there are fabulous little nooks and crannies for a cat to hide in, on, and under. When we foster a cat we're required make the cat wear a break-away cat collar with an I.D. tag on it. Last time I had Wednesday's name engraved on it and the person who adopted her kept the collar. This time I got a generic tag that says, "Foster Cat; Scan my tag" engraved on a purple heart and attached to a pink collar. A pink collar with a bell. Those little tiny bells that they put on cat collars to warn birds that a cat is about to turn them into a McNugget.

And therein lies the amusement. Because while I was attaching the I.D. tag to the collar, and Zita was tucked safely away in the cat room, the two dogs, hearing the bell tinkle, went apeshit looking for a cat in the kitchen. Because of the bell.

Anyway, for your consideration, Zita, a spayed female tabby approximately two years old, is available. Look for her at an adoption event soon!

(I'll put up a link as soon as NMHPU adds her to Petfinder.)

Life, The Universe, and BYU

I attended the 29th annual Life, The Universe, and Everything conference at Brigham Young University last week. It's geared towards Science Fiction and Fantasy writers, but as those non-romance writers who have attended some of the Utah RWA chapter's events can attest, there are many things a writer can learn that are valid across the genre board. Plus it was only an hour from my house and a paltry $20. So, what's not to like.

Some of the workshops were geared towards beginners. (What's a query letter? What does an agent do?) I have no problems with sitting in on beginner workshops because it gives me a chance to rest my brain. While my brain is in neutral I watch cartoons in my head, which is my happy place. Since I had my netbook and internet access, when I got bored of my head-cartoon re-runs I watched some You Tube videos. One of my favorites is about a Mini Horse named Cupcake. I love the song that goes with the video.

(Warning: catchy song that will give you an earworm and also make you want to run to the bakery and get a dozen cupcakes. And adopt a miniature horse. Do not do either on the spur of the moment! Both options have consequences.)



Cupcake The Herdmaster*


I also admit to searching eBay for a Hari-Kari swords during one of my darker, more bored to death moments. But my compatriots lured me away from ritual suicide with the promise of wine at the end of the tunnel.

I also skipped some of the presentations because I'm not religious in any way, shape or form and do not figure much religion into my writing. A class on Mormons and the Paranormal or Using the Scriptures as a Basis for Fiction are too chocked full of potential triggers for me to spiral down into paroxysm of donkey-like braying that it is best for all involved if I abstain.

I was intrigued to find out that the presenters had to sign a contract with a non-swearing clause. I would have liked to have taken a look at such a contract; are the naughty words spelled out or only alluded to? It is three strikes you're out kind of thing or can you get a do-over? And does it count if you either apologize or say, "Oops!" after murmuring the offending word? Also, while Damn and Hell are specific (you wouldn’t "Sentence someone to heck for all eternity" as it's weak and confusing) should you get nailed for spirit as opposed to letter? Substituting "Fricking" still gets the initial idea across, although to me it's lame. And while no one dropped the "F-Bomb" the term "F-Bomb" was used. Since people can simultaneously translate "F-Bomb" or "F-Word" into its actual form, are you really accomplishing anything? Plus, it's all subjective anyway. What one person finds offensive another might find wry.

During one workshop about villains I discovered that the instructor had no idea who Hannibal Lecter was, which to me was appalling. I regret missing the lecture titled Zombies! but I had by that time behaved myself well enough during some most of the classes that I had earned several glasses of wine and wanted to reap my rewards. But my most favorite class was titled Lessons on Story from "The Hunger Games" which I enjoyed immensely. Unfortunately the presenter had only read the first book so he could not comment on my question about the love triangle conflict.

BYU, for those who are college geography impaired, is in Provo, Utah. People who live in Provo call Salt Lake City "Sin City". You don't even want to know what they call Las Vegas. When my friend and I stopped for breakfast at Village Inn the waitress asked if we wanted to start off with water, juice or hot chocolate. I had to ask for coffee, and then I had to wait for them to brew it. There was also a woman participant in the conference who brought her infant into Every. Single. Class. Many of which we had together. And her infant never failed to fuss and cry. In one class I heard a woman comment to a man sitting next to her that, "People don’t mind at all, this is Utah." This made me realize she was sitting behind me. I got up and moved. And her answer for every time the baby squawked was to pop the tot onto her breast for a meal.

No wonder we have an obesity problem in America.

Note: Shameless promotion ahead -->

My short story Splitting The Differenceis available at Amazon.com for the low low price of .99 cents. I saw a Motor Home at the RV show last weekend I really like. It's $329,000.00 so if I sell 1,096,645 more copies I can buy that puppy outright!

*Cupcake is a member of BlueStar Equiculture You should go to their website and read all about the great work they do.

Spiderman, Organ Failure, and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police

I know, it makes no sense. Allow me to explain:

The Sundance Film Festival arrived and departed Utah last month. As usual the festival was accompanied by a plethora of fun filled and feckless moments;

Tina, Dena and Slave Driver stood first in line for the Awards party, trying to get in early by using lines like, "We're with the band," and "We're Elmo's stylists…" And while none of the falsehoods worked, we did enjoy making the uber-trendy fellow behind us mutter, "They're sucking out all of my energy," accompanied by an eye roll and a heavy sigh. Which just goes to show you that many moms consider themselves successful if they can not only embarrass/annoy their own child, but can accomplish the same feat with someone else's offspring. Truly, it separates the amateurs from the professionals.

There were some wonderful films. At least that's what I heard. I only saw three, (Being Elmo; Submarine; Buck) one of which I was not a fan (Note to the distributers of "Submarine": while I'm sure based on the fact that the Joe Dunthorne book was popular it seemed like a good idea to turn it into a movie, may I suggest avoiding marketing this film to parents. "Why?" ask the savvy Free Marketeers. "Because," responds Slave Driver, "as the parent of a teenager, I can get all the drama and angst I want at home. For free."

And while I loved both "Being Elmo" and "Buck", many times for me the "real" entertainment is out in the lobby of the theater, not inside where the screen is.

For example, the first Sunday of the evening tends to be pretty tame at our humble Salt Lake venue. After all, most of the beautiful people are in Park City attending premiers, parties, and collecting as much swag as they can pile onto their publicists. Several of us were standing around, waiting for Alexi to introduce our last show of the evening, when in through the doors walked three scruffy looking young guys. After tilting my head and squinting real hard, I realized one of them was Tobey McGuire. They asked if they could still get into the film, Like Crazy, (which eventually won an award.) Luckily for them, it was Sunday night in Salt Lake, the film had not generated a ton of buzz yet, and the house had not achieved critical mass. Miguel grabbed some tickets for them while I escorted the trio to available seats and Alexi made her way to the stage and introduced the film. It was fun having a "name" in the house, and without any of the hoopla and posturing normally associated with arriving celebrity.

On the other hand, the closer we get to the end of the festival, the more intense and downright crazy-ass people become. For example, on the following Sunday, while the theaters in Park City play a lot of the award winners along with a few random screenings of festival fare, the Rose Wagner is the only other venue still showing films in the valley, besides the Sundance Resort, which is way the heck up in Provo Canyon. So where do you think all the local pass holders go? Yeah, that's right, they come to the Rose. Which is great. I mean, we love our regular, loyal, treat them like family, local pass holders. And as hard as it is for you to believe, I am actually being sincere. I get hugs from my regulars. However, the sheer number of locals that decide to show up at our theater the last day plays havoc with the ticketing system and throws all the computer generated models out the window. And what that means is:

The theater gets filled really fast and even if you arrive on time and you have a ticket, you still may not get in.

Which makes people really cranky. As you can imagine.

So on this particular day, for a movie called "Win, Win" starring Paul Giamatti, we turned a few folks away. Although unhappy, most of them were very gracious about it, having played the Sundance Shuffle before. Except for one guy. Claiming, loudly, to be a "Film Critic", he insisted that he was to be allowed to see the movie because he was a major asshat and was full of himself had interviewed Paul Giamatti. Alexi spent a long time with him, being very respectful, repeating over and over that since there was no place for him to sit, he would not be allowed into the theater. The gist of his reply was 1) he was a film critic 2) who had interviewed Paul Giamatti 3) from a foreign country 4) so we MUST LET HIM INTO THE THEATER, NOW, to see this film because 5) he had interviewed Paul Giamatti, and we had not. Plus he claimed to know the festival manager, which makes us shrug, because we too know the festival manager, and he does not make us tremble.

While listening to him rant at Alexi, I realized that the foreign country he hailed from was "Douchebagestan."* Knowing the only way to extract her from the situation, short of chewing her arm off and dragging her away, was to advise the Foreign Film Critique/ Paul Giamatti Interviewer point blank, that there was no seat available for him (I had already checked) and Alexi was done wasting spending her time explaining this to him because I needed her elsewhere.

Later, during an exchange in which I attempted to be nice (don’t snicker, I can fake it when I need to) the Film Critic proceeded to tell me that he would make sure that I would never work in the movie industry again (an industry I hadn’t realized I was employed in, being that I volunteer for the festival once a year and drive horse drawn carriage the remained of the time) and, after offering to have the sheriff escort him off the premise if he wished to make trouble, he countered with sending the Royal Canadian Mounted Police my way to arrest me.

I honestly had no idea the RCMP had jurisdiction in Utah. It just goes to prove that you can learn something new every day.

And last but not least, on the same evening, one of the other managers had to turn another patron away for a showing of a different film. Upon being advised that they were unable to attend the film, this patron told the other manager that they were in charge of the organ transplant department at a local university (I'm not telling you which one; it has a medical school, and their mascot's names rhymes with "fruits") and the manager better hope for the rest of his life that he never needed and organ transplant, because he would be denied. ** Hippocratic oath be damned!

Sigh…and eye roll.

So, I'm sure the title of this blog makes sense to you now.
I have to go, I need to hide from the Mounties while I look for a new kidney on eBay. It never hurts to hedge your bets.

*Not a real country. And although he threatened me with the RCMP I know he cannot be Canadian because all the Canadians I know are very nice. With the exception of one. But she doesn't count because I think of her more as a "Bitch" then as a "Canadian."

**Ironically, the manager who was threatened with Organ Transplant Black-Listing works for the medical school at the same university in another department. The entire exchange was witnessed by yet another university employee, and both of them planned on notifying the head of the Ethics department. Of course that doesn’t compare to being on the RCMP "Most Wanted" list…


If you've purchased my short story, "Splitting the Difference," THANK YOU! And please feel free to go back to Amazon and review it.

Coming To A Kindle Near You…

Several years ago, for Valentine's Day, I wrote a short story originally titled "Stupid Cupid." Full of promise, I sent it off to a romance magazine, and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Eventually, it got all moldy and stinky on my laptop so I wrapped it in Saran wrap, stuck it in a folder, and waited some more like a good little unrepresented author.

I've done the same thing with my novel, except for the occasional attempt to entice an agent to represent my work. Then I got a Kindle for Christmas, and you know what? I love it. I downloaded The Hunger Games on Christmas morning. I liked that book so much that I downloaded the second one in the series one night after I got home from work. Upon finishing that one, I bought the final book in the series. That was at about two am. And all three times, I never left my house. Which was good, because I was wearing mt PJ's and smelled a little like horse.

And here is what I have to say about eBooks.

I love them. I love my Kindle. I love the cover with the light Mr.SD bought me. I love the fact that I don't need book marks. I enjoy having more than one book in the same compact book-like package. And apparently, I'm not the only one who likes it.

From USA Today 1/5/2011

USA TODAY's Best-Selling Books list, to be published Thursday, will show digital's new popularity: E-book versions of the top six books outsold the print versions last week. And of the top 50, 19 had higher e-book than print sales.

Let me emphasize one sentence of that small paragraph: E-book versions of the top six books outsold the print versions last week.

Now, believe me when I tell you that I know paper books will never be obsolete. For one thing I won’t be taking my Kindle into the pool. I'm not stupid. Plus I like to drink a little while I'm floating around so sometimes gravity gets the best of me. Plus, although you can lend Kindle books to other Kindle owners, it's not quite the same as passing a paperback copy of Water For Elephants around. On the other hand, I have no idea where my copy of Water For Elephants is, which would be eliminated via Kindle lending, since they get loaned out for two weeks then come back to your account, as if by magic. And I don’t see a small herd of rainbow color unicorns thundering in my direction with little book bags around their soft and fluffy rainbow colored necks, returning my stack of Sara Gruen Flying Changes: A Novel Water for Elephants: A Novelbooks.

Anyway, all that was pretty much off the track I wanted to be on. But when I tell you the rest of it, it'll make more sense:

I got tired of waiting for someone else to publish my short story, so I published it myself. On Amazon. I know, I know: What kind of crazy ass would choose to ditch the middle man and publish their work on the biggest grossing sales site on the internet. Silly, I know. But what the hell…

The first copy I sold was to myself, because I wanted to make sure it was formatted correctly. Apparently, I goofed up the paragraph indentation, so you'll have to excuse that. Then again, if you're a frequent reader of this blog, you're used to poor spelling and typos anyway.

By the way, you do not have to own a Kindle to read it. There is a free app available for downlaod to PC's. iPhones/pods/pads and Android based phones and tablets. In other words, you don't need a Kindle to read Kindle books.

So, for your consideration, available for the low, low price of .99 cents, is my charming little short, Splitting The Difference. I hope you like it. And if you do, I'd appreciate it if you’d tell your friends.

And if you don’t, go ahead and tell your enemies.

Watch This Space...

Kindle Wireless Reading Device, Wi-Fi, Graphite, 6" Display with New E Ink Pearl Technology

This is kind of a test, but more about that later...

Once More, With Feeling

Yes, slacker. That's me.

The Christmas Carriage season went well, with the exception of a couple of nights with a lot of snow. If people paying for a totally frivolous form of entertainment can be used as an economic indicator, then things are picking up.

It's a strange occupation I have; some nights I'm so bored, cold, sore or crabby it's all I can do to not growl at the people in my carriage. Other nights we have front row seats to "Weird Shit Window On The World."

For example: I was on a ride passing North Gate and I noticed two guys unloading one of the ugliest loveseats I've ever seen out of the back of a pickup. This caught my attention only because the North Gate of Temple Square is not a typical place to unload furniture. Then they unloaded what looked to be the base of a motorized scooter. Now, being that we travel at a whopping four miles per hour, we get to see a lot of stuff, and much of it, I don’t give a second thought to. This was one of those instances, until Carriage driver Kar later mentioned the motorized loveseat zipping down the road at warp speed.




(Photos courtesy of Carriage Driver Kar)

Ok, it was warp speed for a couch. They usually don’t go from 0-7 in two minutes. They usually go from 0 to 0. At least all the ones I've ever owned.

Then, of course, there was the Barking Dog From Hell experience. A bunch of us were stopped at the light on North Temple and Main street, with traffic stack up like pre-teens waiting for the doors to open at a general admission seating Justin Bieber concert. A little dog in a car two lanes over noticed the horses and started barking, barking, barking. The owners, as usual with annoying dogs that bark continuously, thought it was cute, so they rolled down their windows. enabling the rest of us captured in traffic to enjoy the festive sounds of Sir Barksalot.

"Bark, bark, bark."
Rest.
"Bark, bark, bark."
Rest.
"Bark, bark, bark, bark, bark."
Rest; repeat.

This continued forever.

The stoplight, by the way, for whatever reason, was not functioning properly, so we sat there for a while, and finally I yelled to the barking dog people, "Doesn’t he know any other songs?"

They looked confused.

So I demonstrated for them by barking "Jingle Bells." Behind me, Crazy Shelley joined in. We sang one chorus, then we changed to a Salsa beat. Shelley sang the words this time, and I barked in appropriate places.

At long last the light changed. But not before we taught that dog a new song.

I'm Handing Out Signs...

I love Bill Engvall. His "Here's your sign" saying is most appropriate in so many circumstances. If Bill was in Salt Lake (I understand he has a house in Park City) I would appoint him the official "Sign Giver" to the following people:

**
The parking enforcement officer, a woman we call "The Parking Nazi" because of her anti-equestrienne bias, was double parked on the west side of the Conference Center, writing out tickets for the illegally parked vehicles. She was stopped in the right hand lane, double parked with her lights flashing when an elderly lady, late for the concert, pulled up behind her and got out of her car.
"When you move can I have your spot?" Elderly lady asked the Parking Nazi.
Elderly Lady, here's your sign.

**
I was stopped at the light at the corner of State and South Temple, waiting to make a right turn, when a van pulled up alongside me. The front seat passenger rolled down her window and asked,
"Isn’t your horse cold?"
"No," I replied.
"Really? How can he not be cold?"
"He's wearing a fur coat."
Concerned van lady, here's your sign.

**
A woman walked up and down the carriage line last night, petting all the horses, and asking their names. When she got to me she asked,
"Does your horse have a name?"
"No," I replied, "I just say: Hey, you!"
Lady, here's your sign.

**
A man in the same group walked up to Charlie (which is the name of the horse I was driving) looked underneath him, and asked,
"Is that a stallion?"
"No," I replied, "we rarely use any of our stallions on the street. They get a little feisty."
"Oh yes," he said, "I've seen those wild stallions in Hawaii. I'm not from here."
Obviously, sir. Here's your sign. Hold it up high so the mother ship sees it and takes you back home.

**
Last Saturday I went out to help Ro stage. It was extremely busy. Usually, I bring my metal "Carriage For Hire" sign and park in the unused east side of our staging area. That piece of prime real estate is ours. We pay for it with our yearly licensing fee, and it's where Ro parks (with the sign in her window) when she stages. I, however, forgot to put my sign in my car before I left the house that day, so I had to park at the barn, put all my gear on, walk two blocks to the train, take it three blocks to the station closest to South Gate, and walk another block to the staging area. All while wearing my 17 layers of winter wear. And I only had on one pair of socks so my feet were slopping around in my boots, making walking a chore.
Slave Driver, here's your sign…

Absent Friends, Empty Lockers

A blog doesn’t write itself, but there are times I wish it would. This is one of them.

Several weeks ago, we lost a driver. His name was Don, and he'd been with us for a couple of years. He was brought into our employment by his wife, Audrey, who also drives. Previously the employees we'd had named "Don" had all been as dumb as a box of rocks. So much so that at one point we imposed a moratorium on hiring men named "Don", just because the quality of Dons we'd experienced had been so incredibly subpar.

This Don was the exception to that rule.

Don was a quiet man, quick with a funny quip, there to assist if you needed help, and always willing to pitch in where needed. He had a gentle hand with the horses, and took exceptional care with his favorite co-worker, Libby. We were shocked by his unexpected passing of a heart attack, and his absence has left a hole in our small tribe.

And we not only lost Don, but Audrey has decided to be taken off the schedule for the time being. We're patient people; we know she’ll be back when she feels the time is right. And we'll welcome her with open arms when she returns.

Every once in a while I find myself saying, "Damn it, Don."

It's a reaction to his not being there. He wasn't there when I needed a roll of electrical tape to wrap my shafts with. He was tall, and wasn't there to help those of us like myself who are vertically challenged and need stuff from high places. He wasn't there when we were trying to figure out the best person to send to South Gate to place our traffic cones prior to the mayhem we knew Black Friday would be. He wasn't there when I had to change the time on my very confusing watch from Daylight-Savings-Time to Not-Daylight-Savings-Time. His turquoise truck wasn't parked in its usual spot in front of the barn when I turned the corner yesterday.

But I'll tell you where he was; He was with us when we toasted him Friday night at Dees for breakfast. He was there when we discussed how he took care of our carriage batteries. He was there when we talked about the person who would be driving Libby, wanting to make sure she was paired with a co-worker that would love her like he did. He was at South Gate with us last night when we talked about his funeral service, the moving music that reduced the most stoic of our clan to tears, and his gravesite up next to the fence in the cemetery with a great view. And he's there every time we look at the sign-up calendar for December: He was looking forward to the Christmas carriage driving season, and his signature is on every single day from November 26 to December 31. Ro couldn’t bring herself to scratch it out, so when they make up the schedule, they just work around it. And it's appropriate, because he's still with us in spirit, hanging around the carriage barn, just like he did every week from Tuesday through Saturday. And his headstone sits in the office, custom designed by the last trainee he had, waiting for spring to be set on his grave. By the time they set it, it will have acquired that special "horsey" smell we all love.

The day after Don's funeral, I ran into one of his step daughters; She thanked me again for everything the carriage company had done. For the horse drawn hearse that took Don from the church to the cemetery. For the drivers that showed up in our finest carriage driving attire. For our support in this trying time.

I replied that we hadn't done anything special. Don was part of our family too.

And damn it, we miss him.

These Boots Are Make For Walkin' (In Snow)

One of the most important pieces of equipment I have for winter carriage driving are my boots. Working in winter without the proper footwear is, simply put, insane. Because, for me, if I'm warm and dry I can go for hours; If not, I'm screwed. The winter weather in Utah comes in varying degrees of moderately cool, cold, and cold & wet. Cool and cold don’t need much preparation for me. My winter boots are not the stylish type one could pick up at a regular shoe store. Mine are the heavy duty kind you buy at places like Sportsman's Warehouse or Cabela's. In other words, boots heavy enough to use as a weapon.

Not all boots are carriage driving ready. Unlike some winter activities that allow the participant to walk, thus helping circulate blood flow, we do a lot of either sitting or standing around, sometimes in several inches of snow. I have two metal screws in each of my feet due to bunion surgery several years ago, so cold transference happens at a faster rate for my feet then to other, non-metal infused folk. So I take my footwear seriously.

It helps to start with a good brand of boots. I've used Coleman, Sorel and Ranger. The Sorel boots were warm but because I used a charcoal foot warmer, the sole melted, so I do not find them durable. I like the Ranger boots the best because they have removable liners that can be dried separate from the main part of the boot, thus expediting the process. Plus I have yet to melt the bottoms. However, even though the Ranger boots as labeled "Water Proof", they are not, in my experience, 100% waterproof. They are more like "Water resistant." And in my field water resistant doesn't cut it.

First I check my boots for any damage. If I have any separation issues, cuts, or melted spots I use Shoe Goo.
I "repaired" the soles of the melted Sorel boots with Shoe Goo, but I don’t wear them for work because the Shoe Goo soles don’t work as well as an insulator as the original rubber plus there is no longer any tread on them and that makes them slippery to walk in. I keep them at home and wear them when shoveling the driveway.



Next, I remove the liners and laces because they just get in the way. Then I brush off any dirt/shavings/manure still clinging from the last time I wore them.

Then to the suede/leather I apply a product called "Sno-Seal." It is a beeswax based water proofing ointment-like substance that comes in a jar. It works best if the boots are warm because it helps melt the product deep into the leather/suede.


After I apply the Sno-Seal, I let the boots dry for a while, then I apply Kiwi Camp Dry to any fabric areas of the boot.
It is a silicone spray water proofing agent. I usually apply two coats, just to be sure. Then I let then whole thing cure for a day or two and test it under running water.

Finally, I have a warm water-proof pair of boots I can use five nights a week night for the six weeks of Christmas carriage driving, so my feet stay warm and dry.

New Listing:

I have all this irrelevant stuff I'm doing over here;

Getting ready for the upcoming Christmas Carriage Driving Season ( I need to find the rest of my winter gear)

Writing and addressing my Christmas cards (I won't have any time after November 25)

Shopping for Christmas gifts (see previous statement)

Cleaning my house (both my mother and my brother are coming to visit. The level of chaos and clutter shame me. We're used to it, others, not so much. So I clean)

One of the things I've been contemplating is getting rid of some stuff. Not junk, mind you. And not crap I want to donate to the D.I. or Salvation Army. I'm talking good stuff that I just don’t do anything with any more. Stuff that I love, or that I use, just not so much. Could I live without it? Yeah. I just drag my feet about the actual getting rid of part. I used to sell a lot of stuff on ebay, but now I'm too lazy to deal with the mailing of it so I put stuff on KSL.com to sell locally then I don't have to mess with the shipping.

For example, in my garage I have a thing called a Hit-Away. I'm thinking of selling it. It's basically a softball on a string attached to a pole. You whack it and it winds around a pole, then as it unwinds you whack it again. It's for people to practice their batting skills with. Hand/eye coordination. But I’ll tell you what it's really good for: bashing the shit out of something without getting arrested. That's right. Have a fight with your kid? Don't pull a "Facebook Mom" stunt and shake them to death. Go out to your Hit-Away and crack the crap outta that softball with that Louisville Slugger until you feel all that pent up rage Melt-Away.

You know, maybe I'll wait a bit on selling the Hit-Away. At least until after Christmas. Or maybe when The Kid goes away to college.

Anyway, one of the things I'm contemplating selling is the best gift ever. It's one I gave mind you, not one that I got. But I love it just the same. And I would have killed to have this when I was a child. We had to use carboard boxes to make our "stables".

Available for immediate occupancy; spacious two stall barn on acreage only limited by your imagination. Comes complete with hay storage up top, wall to wall shavings, and sliding doors front and back. Exterior features full fencing, jump standards, and cavaletti. Also included are appliances such as grass cutters and hedge trimmers. Methane gas heat. Border Collie security comes standard. Owner willing to include some amenities such as bagged corn and oats, and tack trunk. Don’t miss out on a fantastic starter barn.

(No, I did not put Wednesday the cat in the barn. I was taking the photos and she climbed in it herself. Distracting in a Catzilla kind of way? Yes, but it does give an idea as to the scale.

And trust me, if I had the time, and someone else willing to play "Breyer Horses" with me, I probably wouldn't get rid of this either.

Spaghetti Western... Kind Of

I've been trying and trying to edit a video we made about two weeks ago at the barn. Nothing subversive, mind you, I just wanted to put some text over the video. And… for whatever reason, my editing software keeps freezing up. Maybe because it's the crap that came with the computer, who knows. Anyway, since it's been a while and I cannot seem to get this POS program to do what I want it to, here for your viewing pleasure is a regular day at the barn. With apple spaghetti.


(MBA has a food dehydrator. To make dehydrated apples she needs to peel the skin and core the centers. She decided that instead of throwing them out to bring them into the barn and sharing with her co-workers. That is what Ro is handing out to the horses.)

MIKs* And Other Stuff...

Sorry; I've been away, leaving this stale and sad reminder of a bad year. It's been a nasty rotation around the sun for a lot of people and I'm blessed with all the good things that have happened in my life. I apologize for my public wallowing in the pity pool. Too much all at once. I should not have dumped on you, constant reader.

I attended the annual Utah Romance Writers of America conference this past weekend. Our keynote speaker was New York Times bestselling author Christine Feehan,

along with noted authors Jessica Day George, Bree Despain, and Victoria Dahl. Along for the ride, and to scout out new talent, were literary agents Laurie McClain (Larsen/Pomada Agency, San Francisco, CA) Heather Osborn (Tor) Amy Moore-Benson (AMB Literary Agency) and Borders Books romance buyer Sue Grimshaw. Tagging along with Christine Feehan was her agent Stephen Axelrod, who is not looking for new clients, (and with a stable of folks like Jayne Ann Krentz, Susan Elizabeth Phillips, and Julia Quinn he's already pretty busy) but he did sit in on an author agent panel and gave his valuable input into the agent/author relationship.


The atmosphere was both festive and emotionally charged. After all, get a group of mostly women (with the exception of three male writers and a couple of tag-along husbands) and the estrogen levels expand like an erupting volcano. Add in a lot of ambition and a dash of desperation and you have a mix of people driven to succeed.
Plus we had these two guys wearing kilts serenading us during dinner and the book signing.

And these two guys hung around all weekend, until Annie and Laurie won them as a door prize.








Anyway, I should get back to writing my regularly scheduled blog next week. I have a synopsis to make ready and twenty pages to submit and I've been working like crazy to tweak it.


* Men In Kilts.

The Year Of Intermittent Sorrow

The Rollercoaster of Stress has been ricocheting around the twisted track at full speed this year.

It started with a fire at Ro's house in the early hours of New Year's Day, and continued when back problems, and car problems threw a big ol' wrench into the mix. Losing two dogs of our own, plus Harley the barn dog, a dear friend's medical issues, her dear friends freak accidental death, and this morning the passing of Mr. Slave Driver's father have labeled 2010 as "The Year That Couldn't End Fast E-Freakin' Nough."

I like it when the pendulum of my life swings in a low, slow, methodical arc. We don't win the Lottery, but nobody falls off a donkey on the way down the Grand Canyon. Literary Agents don't knock each other over to sign me for representation, but nobody's says, "Quit now. Take up golf. Or croquet."

At least not yet. There's still three months to go…

So today, in honor of The Year That Sucks Ass, I'm showing you my happy place. I love it there. It's a beautiful, spiritual place, ethereal with quiet grace and stunning vistas.

Moab.



The original Moab, according to Wikipedia, is "the historical name for a mountainous strip of land in modern-day Jordan, running along the eastern shore of the Dead Sea."

Our Moab is in Utah, south of I-70, close to the confluence of the Colorado and Green rivers.

So if your year has been anything like mine, take a deep breath, have a relaxing beverage, and enjoy.