That's A Wrap

Well folks, that's it for 2013.  And for Outing My Inner Hoarder.  I started this blog as part of my 2013 New Year's resolution to purge my house of all the excess junk and stuff that had it bursting at the seams.  And even though the house isn't entirely free of stuff, I'd say I got about 95% of it done. That's pretty good for a New Year's resolution.  Sure wish my weight loss resolution had been as successful.  But hey -- there's always 2014.

One of the fun parts of writing a blog is watching the page views climb and seeing where people are checking it out from.  I had over 5100 looks from 25 different countries.  Now I'm no fool -- I know that some of the page views were accidental, people cruising around looking for something else and landing on my blog.  My top countries were Canada and the USA of course, followed by Russia, Germany and South Korea.  I'm pretty sure they weren't all accidental and that at least one someone in Germany and one in South Korea were reading as I got a hit from those countries every time I put up a new post.  So...hey to you guys (you can't see me waving, but I am.)

And while I am retiring Outing My Inner Hoarder, I'm starting a new blog. Something a little more inclusive than cleaning out my house, although I did run off on several tangents while doing that, didn't I.

The new blog is called Green Jar Adventures and can be found here at greenjaradventures.blogspot.ca in the new year.  Maybe January 1st, most likely the 2nd.  I hope you'll join me and read along.  Don't go looking now -- all you'll find is a big empty while I try to figure out colours and text fonts.

Until then, thanks to everyone for reading.

Cheers to 2014!
 

Drum Roll Please....

Cast your eyes to the right.  A little further...down a little...a little further...no, now back to the left a bit...there!  I did it.  Sixty books in 2014.  With three days to spare.  Whew!

And now for the Outing My Inner Hoarder Awards...

Favourite Five (in no particular order):  Faithful Place - Tana French
                                                             Gone Girl - Gillian Flynn
                                                             The Art of Racing in the Rain - Garth Stein
                                                             Doctor Sleep - Stephen King
                                                             The Gods of Guilt - Michael Connelly
(Honourable Mentions go to Stephen King's Joyland and Tana French's Broken Harbour.  Favourite authors rarely disappoint, guess that's why they become our favourites.)

Favourite Fun Read:  Free Fall - Chris Grabenstein (this one should also be in my Fav Five but then that would make six so it gets a category all its own.  Grabenstein's Jersey Shore mystery series featuring John Ceepak and Danny Boyle is the most fun series I've ever read.  Try it, you won't be disappointed. But be sure to start at the beginning with Tilt A Whirl and read them in order.)

Biggest Surprises:  The Dinner - Herman Koch
                               Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children - Ransom Riggs
                               The Language of Flowers - Vanessa Diffenbaugh
(And I mean surprises in a good way.)

Best Non-Fiction:  Escape From Camp 14 - Blaine Harden

Biggest Disappointment:  Allegiant - Veronica Roth (a really really really disappointing finish to what had started out as a pretty good YA series...too bad)
(Honourable Mentions -- or perhaps that should be dishonourable mentions -- go to The Rosie Project by Graeme Simsion, The Sisters Brothers by Patrick deWitt and The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry by Rachel Joyce.  For me they just didn't live up to all the hype and great reviews.  Sorry.  And a special mention to The Cuckoo's Calling by Robert Galbraith aka JK Rowling.  The Harry Potter series is hands down one of the best ever written so maybe that's why I found this mystery so very very disappointing.  Hmmm...maybe this one should have tied with Allegiant.)

Weirdest Book:  The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake by Aimee Bender (had to read this after two people in my book club RAVED about it.  All I can say is...Wow...that was one weird read.)

Wished I Hadn't Bothered:  The End of Your Life Book Club by Will Schwalbe
                                          The Four Stages of Cruelty by Keith Hollihan
(I should have adhered to the advice offered by a member of my book club -- Take 100 and subtract your age.  That's how many pages you have to read before you toss a book.  Guess when you're 99 books have to grab you on the first page because you may not have many reading days left and no point wasting them on bad books.)

Favourite New Author:  Joe Hill (okay, he's not new, he's been around for a few years, but he's new to me.  I finished the year on his debut book of short stories and was suitably impressed.  Guess the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.  His papa is Stephen King, in case you didn't know.)

Well, that's a wrap for my 2013 Book Challenge.  Will I try to beat my record in 2014?  Not a chance. While I am never not reading a book, I don't want to feel compelled to have to read.  That happened sometimes this year with that goal I'd set.

And next year I have a few new tricks up my sleeve.

Ten Little Known Christmas Facts

1...Calories consumed between Christmas and New Year's do not show up on the scale (or in the waistband of your jeans) until January 2nd.

2...Not all kids who are spoiled turn out to be spoiled kids.  It's how they are raised the other 364 days of the year that makes the difference.

3...Brussel sprouts, turnip and parsnips were planted by aliens in the 16th century and were never intended for human consumption.

4...Aliens also invented stuffing.

5...90% of the plastic novelties found in Christmas crackers are unidentifiable.

6...Originally, nog was a strong beer.  Until beer drinking chickens forced farmers to find something to do with all those eggs.

7...Turkey basters were designed to baste turkeys.  And that's it.  Just turkeys.

8...If you have a live tree, you will impale your foot on a dried pine needle sometime in the month of June.

9...Dogs and cats do not enjoy wearing Santa hats or reindeer antlers.  Jingle bell collars are fine.

and last but not least...

10...Wishing someone a Merry Christmas should never be considered bad form, politically incorrect, or insensitive to other religions.  Hey -- it's not like you said, "Go F*** yourself."  Now that would be bad form. 

IT'S CHRISTMAS...HAVE A MERRY ONE! 

FaLaLaLaLa

At the risk of alienating myself and being shunned by Christmasphiles, I'm going to admit something  -- I don't particularly like Christmas music.  Sorry, just not a fan.  And with every musical artist and his brother putting out an album of Christmas tunes, it's pretty hard to get away from for the better part of December.  Thank God for CD players and USB connections in cars.  Christmas specials on TV?  Nope, don't watch 'em, except for maybe Blake Shelton 'cause he's doesn't always play nice, even when it is Christmas

But (c'mon, there's always a but...or an except for) -- when I was in Italy we accompanied a friend to a choir practice.  He had recently joined the choir (and quit soon after) but (see, there it is again) for that night anyway, we got to listen to a group of heavenly voices practicing for a Christmas concert.  They were learning the harmonies for several songs and maybe it was being in a foreign country, maybe it was the acoustics, or maybe it was because it was live, but man oh man, was it beautiful.  Even in Italy, they sing the carols and songs in English and we were called upon to explain the meaning of Deck the Halls.  

My only regret was that I wasn't going to be there to hear them perform in concert.  Shortly after choir practice we were exploring the catacombs under the Basilica and came upon a room with a huge vaulted ceiling and a wooden platform at one end.  Wouldn't it be an awesome venue for a concert?  Turns out, that was exactly where it was being held.  Had I been there, I would have been first in line.

Would have had Elmo & Patsy singing Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer beat all to hell.  

Let It Snow

When you grow up with the picture postcard white Christmas, it takes some getting used to the colour green at this time of year.  My little island in the Pacific gets snowed on every now and then but it's definitely not the norm and this year is proving no different.  According to the weather forecasters (and we all know we can safely put our money on them) there is only an 11% chance that I'll be seeing a white Christmas this year.  The last time we had snow for the big day was 2008 and when I say snow I mean SNOW!!

The only reason I remember this so vividly is because my community was hosting the World U17 Hockey Tournament and I was in charge of accreditation.  No one got into the arena -- from players to refs to volunteers -- without first coming by me, getting their photo taken and having the appropriate colour coded photo ID pass issued to them.  I spent a lot of time that year digging out my driveway, driving to the arena, working all day/night, digging out my car, driving home, digging out my driveway ...repeat...repeat...repeat...

It's a kick now when I'm watching an NHL game and hear the name of a player who was here in 2008 and yeah, you're right -- it is pretty damn impressive that I still remember names from all those players I photographed...but I digress.  Where was I?  Oh yeah -- the white Christmas.

So what's a girl to do when the grass is green and the skies are grey?  And the forecast says, 'Nothing but rain on the way...'  OMG...I'm rhyming.  Stop it NOW.  

What I'm trying to say is -- when there's no snow for snowmen, sometimes you have to improvise.
A little glass, a little solder, a little wire, a little ribbon... So what does one call a whole bunch of snowmen?  I love collective nouns.  You could say I collect collective nouns -- a shiver of sharks...an unkindness of ravens...a bloat of hippopotamuses...but snowmen?  An avalanche?  A freeze?

How about flurry?  A flurry of snowmen.

What Memories Taste Like

Just like music, food can take us back to a time, a place, a moment in our lives, maybe even the people we were with.  Hopefully your most powerful food memory is not the disgusting cold peas you were gagging on while trying to clean your plate to earn dessert.

And speaking of dessert....

When I was a kid my grandmother made these awesome squares at Christmastime.  They were soooo gooey and good.  She passed away when I was fairly young and the squares faded from memory.  As an adult, baking became my thing and Christmas my season.  Every year I would turn out dozens of different cookies and squares, always trying a few new things each year, but never forgetting to make the favourites.  A few years back I tried this marshmallow square recipe (no, not the Rice Krispie variety).  It was fast, easy and no bake.  When I cut the pan into squares and took my first bite I was suddenly ten years old again.  Holy crap!! These were my grandmother's squares. I didn't even remember them until that bite.  But with that one bite I was instantly back in her house at Christmas surrounded by aunts and uncles and cousins.  I'm tellin' ya, I could have wept.

I no longer bake a ton of stuff at Christmas, mostly because there are fewer people around to eat it so then I have to and then that leads to the kind of New Year's resolutions that involves scales and sweating a lot.  Yah, you know what I'm talking about.  But I still make my grandmother's squares, 'cause for me, they taste like Christmas.

So in the spirit of giving and sharing at Christmastime, I here now share with you my grandmother's marshmallow square recipe.  But they won't taste the same to you.

You don't have my memories.  

These Are A Few Of My Favourite Things

Cast your mind back....waaaay back.  To when you were a kid and Christmas was magical.  To the Christmas mornings when you got your parents up at 4:00 and 5:00 (and I'm talking a.m.) because you just couldn't wait one more minute to see what was under the tree.  Can you ever remember not opening your presents while it was still dark out?  And just what did you find under that tree?  What were your all time favourite presents?  Three things stick out for me.

When I was a kid, Santa always paid a visit live in person on Chrismas Eve, before he started his rounds in his sleigh.  He'd burst in the front door and give each of us three kids a present.  Years later we found out that a group of dads in our neighbourhood rented suits and went to every house for a visit.  If the parents wanted a Santa visit they would leave the gifts and a quarter (to help defray the cost of the suits) in the milk chute.  Remember those?  Back in the day when the milkman delivered door to door, there was a small door on the side of the house that opened from both the outside and inside so the milkman could leave the milk and you could retrieve it without it being left outside...but I digress.

One year (I think I was about 5 years old) Christmas Eve Santa brought me a Lady and the Tramp colouring book.  Oh man, I loved that colouring book and was so careful colouring everything perfectly...Lady's fur light brown, her ears dark brown.  Every page was a work of 5 year old art.

Then there was Bugs Bunny.  He wasn't just any stuffed toy -- Bugs could talk!  Pull the string and he said nine different things in Bugs Bunny's real voice.  (Toy Story revived the pull-the-string talking toy with Woody but you didn't get Tom Hanks on the other end of the string.)  My Bugs says:  Hi, I'm Bugs Bunny;  Now hug me tight; I'm sleepy; Heya, take me with ya; Yipes! I hurt myself; Now take it easy; Hehehe...you're a cute bunny; I love carrots (complete with munching sounds); and of course, Yaa, what's up doc?  Now before you go thinking I have the most amazing memory ever, you can stop being impressed.  The fact is, I still have old Bugs.  Sure he's a little worse for wear.  He's a bit twisted and floppy but he still talks.  His full repertoire, loud and clear.  How cool is that?

When I was probably 8 or 9 years old I got a microscope.  Anything and everything I could get my hands on went on a slide for my inspection.  No insect was safe within 10 feet of me.  But the absolute best part of the microscope kit?  A jar with a dead frog in formaldehyde. I'm pretty sure that's no longer standard issue.  I removed the frog's eyes and, after studying them under the microscope, kept them wrapped in a tissue in my pocket.  I'd go up to other kids on the playground and whisper, "Pssst....wanna see some frog eyes?"  I'm thinking now if I hadn't gone into law enforcement a career as a drug dealer or selling fake watches from the inside of a trench coat might have been in my future.

And when it came time to dissect frogs in grade 11 biology and everyone else was totally grossed out?  Well, let's just say I was an old hand at it.

Ahhh...Christmas memories.  

'Tis The Season

I have to admit, I've gone into this Christmas season feeling a little, well, humbugish.  Maybe it was a bit of jet lag.  Maybe it was all just starting to seem like too much work.  Or maybe I just needed to give myself a kick in the butt and put on a happy face.  So I did.  And you know what?  It worked.  So for the month of December, screw the purge -- let's talk Christmas.

And let's start with one of my all time favourite things, regardless of the season -- movies.  I watch a lot of movies, 'cause remember -- I get 'em free from the library.  Now everybody has a favourite Christmas movie...or three...or five.  Right?  Without cheating -- and that means no googling lists of Christmas movies or hunting through your personal DVD collection -- name your top 5 favourites.  I know, I know...there's WAY too many to chose from.  So try this -- what movies will you watch over and over again if it shows up on TV, even if you own the DVD and even if you come into it half way through?  Bet those are your favourites.

For me, it can't be super sappy.  Sure, all Christmas movies have an element of sap in them.  'Tis the season remember.  But I'm talking, gag me sappy.  So my list, in no particular order (except #1) are: A Christmas Story, National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation, Elf, and the Boris Karloff version of How the Grinch Stole Christmas.  (Yeah, yeah, I know, it's a not really a movie, but it's my game so I get to pick it.)

But my #1 Favourite Christmas movie is The Nightmare Before Christmas.  Named my dog Sally after a Nightmare character 'cause she's a ragamuffin girl, just like in the movie.  But it's Jack Skellington that I love.  Even have him hanging front and centre on my Christmas tree.

If that seems a weird thing to have for an ornament, consider this...

Die Hard is categorized as a Christmas movie.  

Casa Dolce Casa

The up side of traveling??  Duh...Everything!

The down side??  Unpacking.  Why does it take just a few hours to pack a bag to go on a trip but it consumes days unpacking the same bag when you come home?  It has taken a week since my return from bella Italia to downgrade the state of my bedroom from nuclear strike to minor skirmish.

Another upside?  Sleep.  Blissful, full out, like the dead, sleep.  I'm not talking "just crossed multiple time zones" jet lagged sleep.  I popped my No Jet Lag pills all the way across the Atlantic and hit the ground running.  Not one single day of feeling tired, drugged, zoned out.  And I was dealing with a nine hour time difference.  I fell asleep each night (or early morning -- let's be honest....I was in Italy after all) the second my head hit the pillow and stayed that way until the cooing of the pigeons or the chiming of the bells gently roused me.

Back home?  Another week of head on pillow = sleep.  But that all came crashing to a halt last night. I tossed, I turned, I flipped the pillow.  I clock watched -- 2:30...4:00...6:15.  Seems the spell has been broken.  Reality has become real again.  Short of hopping on a plane for a return trip, how can I recapture the magic, bottle this mysterious elixir called a good night's sleep?

Can you say....Sambuca??

Meanwhile, Back At The Purge

So here's a question -- Who glues that wretched indoor / outdoor carpeting to bare cement?  Really, who?  Well, the people who built my house for starters.  And it covers my entire basement:  the mud room, the hall, the laundry room, the rec room, the workout room.  Wall to wall, end to end, fraying grey-blue carpeting.  I've contemplated trying to rip it up.  The mere thought of that hurts my back. And so it greets me in all it's discoloured glory every time I enter the house via the mud room.

The mud room...no idea why it's called that.  Other than the fact that it's the room off the garage that's used 99.9% of the time to come into the house so it stands a fair chance of getting muddy. Not that I'm in the habit of hosting professional mud wrestlers.  Mud wrestling dogs on the other hand....

But I can now cross the mud room off the purge list.  It's not so much a room really, more of a large vestibule with three cupboards, a table and an old dresser.  Home to a plethora of coats and shoes and boots and hats and scarves and mitts and all the crap you drop the second you walk in the door. Other than the carpet, that's the biggest problem with the mud room.  It's the first thing I see when I come home.  And for me, a cluttered room (or vestibule as the case may be) equals a cluttered mind. Got to where I hated coming into the house.

But not anymore.  Now the space is pristine.  Nothing on the table but my keys.  Everything has a place in the cupboards -- coats are hung, shoes are stowed, hats and scarves and mitts all have their own neat little basket.  The ones that survived the purge that is.

And so I'm down to it.  One room to go.

See, I do more than read books and bitch about bedding.

On another note...In a couple of days, I'm outta here.  Italy here I come.  So...Ciao...for now.     

There Are Giants Among Us

And they sleep on flat bed trailers with mattresses for pillows.  They must do.  At least the sheet manufacturers seem to think so.  'Cause I mean...have you bought sheets lately???

When the kid moved out I bought her a new mattress and bedding.  Really really really nice sheets. Bamboo.  Expensive, but oh so soft.  She couldn't wait for those sheets.  So imagine my chagrin when I started to make up the bed and the sheets were beyond enormous.  (What's the word for beyond enormous?  Gynormous??)  I figured, okay, just a little extra tucking.  Let me tell you, no amount of tucking was going to make these sheets fit.  The "fitted" sheet covered the mattress AND the box spring.

So back they went to the very nice bedding store where I bought them -- 'cause isn't it nice to support independent stores and not the big-box behemoths -- where I could only get store credit, no cash refund.  So I went home and measured my almost new pillow top mattress, 'cause I was due for some new sheets, and went back to the bedding store (which is in another town so this isn't just a quick trip to the mall).  Now my mattress measures 14 inches in height and I'm thinking that's pretty damn big. It sure looks big.  Apparently not.  Every set of sheets in every brand in this store fits mattresses up to 19" deep.  Who has a mattress this big?  And those that do -- is their nose scraping the ceiling? Oh, I'd need the extra inches for tucking.  So I was told. No, assured.  So I fork out so more cash on top of my store credit for some very nice Tencel sheets, 320 thread count.  Yeah, yeah, eco friendly blah, blah, blah, with excellent wicking abilities and excellent temperature regulating properties. Apparently not tested on menopausal women with night sweats, however.

Let me tell you, no assure you -- you do not need five extra inches for tucking.  I like a sheet with some spring.  Snap those corners on and bounce a dime.  Instead, I'm sleeping in wrinkles.  I roll over, the sheet shifts and wrinkles some more.  Oh, they are very soft.  Temperature regulating?  Not so much.  And don't even get me started on the size of the pillow cases.

And the kid?  I had to make a quick trip to Target to get her some sheets.  Lovely and soft, 400 thread count, and the corners have two elasticized sections to fit a variety of mattress sizes.  What a cool concept.

Oh, and less than half the price.

Aptly Named

I'm talking about the King -- Stephen King to be precise.  I think if you're a Stephen King fan, you're all in.  There's no middle ground. Love him or diss him.  I happen to be a genre fan.  No Nobel prize winning Alice Munro for this girl (but good on ya, Alice -- nice to see a Canadian honoured).  I've tried reading Munro.  Just don't get it. I'm sure a lot of people feel the same way about King.  In the past critics called him a hack but I say, "hack away, Steve."  Oh sure, he's written a few dogs.  When your body of work numbers fifty books and growing, there's bound to be a couple that don't grab you. (I mean, Lisey's Story?  Even for Steve that one was just weird.)

I was introduced to King when I read The Shining all those many years ago.  It was a perfectly sunny afternoon in my perfectly safe little apartment and it scared the crap out of me.  I had to call my roommate to come and be in the room with me.  But it was the beginning of my love affair with his writing.  I went back and read his two novels published before The Shining -- Carrie and 'Salem's Lot -- and never looked back.

I've just finished Doctor Sleep, the "sequel" to The Shining.  Those are some high expectations to fill for fans.  And he succeeded to the nth degree.  Fabulous read.  I had planned to go back and reread The Shining before reading Doctor Sleep but found out I didn't have to.  It all came flooding back. Mrs. Massey in room 217...REDRUM...worthless pups need to take their medicine...Shudder.

I love how he slips in little things that make you sit up and say..."Cool."  Like at the bottom of page 273.  I'm not giving anything away here by telling you that Doctor John has an appointment with a girl named Frederika Bimmel.  She's never mentioned again, doesn't figure into the story, but you read that and nod and smile.  A little shout-out from Mr. King to Mr. Harris -- so he's a fan of Silence of the Lambs.  Like I said -- "Cool."

So just what is it that I love so much about his writing?  First off is his voice.  There's no mistaking it, no disguising it.  It makes reading him effortless and it draws you in, like he's just sitting there telling you the story.  (Never deprive yourself of reading his introductions or author's notes.  That's when he really talks to you, Constant Reader.)  And his characters.  He can bring a character to life, even a secondary one, in a few short lines.  No long drawn out descriptions.  No endless back story.  He creates living, breathing, three dimensional people with a few perfectly selected details or snips of dialogue.  That's talent, people.

But there are two things wrong with reading a Stephen King book.  Number one is when it ends.  Even though I can't wait to read one, I'm always bummed when I turn that last page.  And number two -- it's hard to pick up another book afterwards.

Because everything else just pales in comparison.

The Hanger Trick Revisited

Remember this one?  The hanger trick?  If you missed that post, it was back in February.  Go ahead and read it now...I'll wait...

...okay, good, you're back.  Well it's been eight months since I purged the clothes closet and turned all the hangers backwards.  So today, while practicing packing my suitcase, I figured it was a good time to deal with all those hangers that still hadn't been turned back around.

Remember my rule about not trying the stuff back on?  Well, I broke my rule.  Of course I did.  'Cause that's what rules are for. But turns out it was a good rule to break.  Because the trying on solidified in my mind that the stuff that hasn't been worn in eight months truly deserves to go.  I kind of figured that after so much time spent getting rid of stuff I'd start getting soft.  But I actually think I'm getting tougher.  Less attached.  More of the "it's just stuff" attitude.  So everything still on a backwards hanger is gone.

With one exception.  An authentic Levi denim shirt that I've had for years and years and years.  It's so worn it's almost white now.  And soft.  Like butter.  It gets to stay.  

Okay, two exceptions.  I also couldn't part with a funky vintage second hand white shirt made by the This is not a hat company.  All around the collar it says All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy ....over and over and over.  There is a typewriter stitched on the left front with a piece of paper in it with the same phrase....written over and over and over.  

Stephen King fans will know exactly what this means.  My friend who gave me the shirt sure did. And I happened to be wearing this shirt when I penned the very first short story that I had published.  Coincidence?  I think not.

What I do think is that I really should start wearing that shirt again. 

Clean Sweep

If you've been reading this blog, you probably know that I'm not a big fan of cleaning.  I mean I do it because one has to.  Well, one doesn't have to.  I've been in plenty of places that didn't ascribe to that philosophy.  So let me rephrase that to one should.  Whether one does it or not is one's own business -- until it becomes the business of the Department of Health or an exterminator.  Or an unruly mob of angry neighbours with pitchforks and torches.  So far anyway, my neighbours still like me.  Except one.  But that's got nothing to do with the state of cleanliness of my place.

Okay, we've established that I don't particularly like cleaning.  But there is one aspect of it that I love. Love, love, love.  Sweeping.  I love to sweep.  Really.  It is, for me at least, the most satisfying of the household chores.  Vacuuming, dusting, and scrubbing have nothing on a good sweep.

So when I decided today was garage cleaning day I wasn't going, 'oh crap, it's garage cleaning day.' I was going, 'yay, it's garage cleaning day.'  Well maybe 'yay' is pushing it a bit, because after all, it's still cleaning.  But cleaning the garage is more or less just one hell of a lot of sweeping. All those spiders and wood bugs and cobwebs and pine needles and general detritus that migrate in there on shoes and tires and lawn mowers -- it's sweepers heaven.

And for outside sweeping, nothing beats a good old-fashioned corn broom.  Nylon, rubber or synthetic will simply not do.  Well they'll do, but the satisfying scrape on the concrete will be missing.  Kind of like when they took the corn broom out of curling. Sure, I get why they did it.  No one wants their rock stopped dead by an errant piece of broom on the ice.  But the soft buzz of nylon on ice just doesn't compare to the slapping of the old brooms amidst the cries of 'Hurry, hard!'  Let's face it -- sweeping was the only part of curling that actually felt like exercise.  

And how much more satisfying does it get than wearing that broom down to a nub?

Man, I am way too easily pleased.

The Last 122 Days

Confession time.

On June 1st I boldly announced that I was going to dedicate the next 122 days to writing a new novel.  That I was going to write one thousand words -- every day.  Oh sure, I threw in the caveat that some days I would write more and some days less.  But my goal was to have the first draft finished by the end of September.

Well, it's September 30th (thirty days hath September...) so that means -- TIME'S UP! Time to see how that worked out for me.

June was spectacular.  The words flowed.  I was in the zone.  Couldn't wait to get to my keyboard every day.  I was in love with the people coming to life on the page and turned out over 22,00 words. Ninety two pages.  Things slowed down in July.  Forty two pages, 9800 words.  August.  What the hell happened in August?  Completed chapters were scrapped and started over.  Twenty pages, 4800 words.  What??

September?  Don't even want to talk about September.  Not. One. Word.  Nope, not one.  Zero, zip, nada.  I've been stuck in Chapter 24 all month.  A couple of the people have started doing stuff I don't like.  To the point I don't want to write about them anymore.  That's bad.  Something tells me I'm going to have to do something drastic to one of them.  Teach them a little lesson.  Let them know who's in charge here.

So yeah, I've hit the wall.  But hey, at least my desk is clean.

On another note...I'm having a book dilemma.  Of the reading kind.  I have two library books waiting to be read, one I waited quite a while to get.  But today I picked up Doctor Sleep.  Stephen King.  My hero.  One of the very few authors I collect in hardcover.  And I want to read it sooooo bad.

One Thing Leads to Another

Have you ever read the children's books If You Give a Mouse a Cookie or If You Give a Moose a Muffin or If You Give a Pig a Pancake?  The whole premise of the books is that one thing leads to another.  Something like (and I'm making this up, not quoting from the book) -- If you give a mouse a cookie, he'll want a glass of milk to go along with it.  And if you give him a glass of milk he'll want to see the cow where it came from....

Cute books, wonderful illustrations...my point here is not to promote kiddie lit but they came to mind as I went about my day yesterday.

If you start cleaning the house and look out at a beautiful autumn day, you'll want to do something outside and save the inside cleaning for a rainy day.  And as you're looking outside, you decide it's high time you finally get around to washing the windows.  And when you go outside you realize it's a beautiful day to hang a load of laundry so you strip the bed and throw the sheets in the washer.  And when you start on the windows it's apparent you need the dust buster to suck up the bugs congregating in the corners.  And when you go into the shop in the garage to fetch it, you remember you haven't finished the patina and polish on the stained glass you soldered the day before.  And you really should take that dust buster and vacuum the car.  And it's a beautiful day to wash the car.  And damn, the garage really really really needs a good sweeping.  But you go back to the windows and hope to hell you don't fall off the ladder and break something before your trip to Italy.  And you finally get the bird poop off the big picture window that has been there ALL summer.  And then it's time to make dinner so you go in the fridge and decide the shelves need a wipe down.  And the centre island is covered with stained glass patterns you need to cut out and a parcel you have to pack up and mail and the CD player and Italian lessons you haven't got around to listening to yet today.  And then there's all the tomatoes from the garden on the counter that you really should do something with before they go bad....

Well, you get the picture.  So there's only one thing to be done.

I need a good cloning.

On another note...I love YA fiction.  Many times you get a much better read than some of the best selling adult fiction out there.  Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children by Ransom Riggs is one such book.  The story is blended with awesome vintage photos giving the reader a much more in depth feel for the peculiar children.  And not a vampire among them.

Addressing the Seasons

NOOOOOO!!  Summer, don't go.  We miss you when you're not here.  Yes, we bitch when it's too hot and complain when it's not hot enough.  We curse and shake our fists when it rains on the day we planned the big BBQ, then turn around and bemoan the lack of rain means no campfires.  But we love ya, Summer.  Maybe because you never overstay your welcome.

And now your cousin Autumn has arrived. She's a wet old thing, isn't she?  Wet and dreary.  No, not every day.  Some days, Summer, I even like her better than you. On a really perfect Autumn day, she's actually my favourite season.  The colours.  The bite in her crisp air.  The sunshine that warms you but doesn't make you sweat.  Sweater weather. 

But you hung on to the end, Summer.  Yesterday, on your last full day with us, you gave me sunshine.  So I spent the day putting you away.  Pulled the flowers and took down the umbrella on the deck.  Stored the patio furniture and stowed the planters.  Picked the last of the tomatoes and cucumbers and shut off the fountain.  Then I sent the gnomes into the shed to begin their long period of hibernation, knowing they'll emerge when cousin Spring shows up, as jolly and plump as when they went in.  Sure, their paint may be a little more faded and chipped when they emerge but that's okay. 

And I have something to say to you too, Autumn.  Here you are, your first day here, and you're raining.  I mean, really, really raining.  A little over the top, don't you think?  But I'm all right with that. For the first time in forever I have nothing on my calendar.  Zero, zip, nada.  No appointments, no commitments, no errands.  So rain all you want and get it out of your system.  I'm happy to curl up with a book, cut some glass, clean a cupboard.  Just don't make it a habit.

'Cause Autumn should smell like apples, not wet dog.   

 

How I Spent My Morning

Ever tried collecting a urine sample from a dog?  That's what I was doing first thing this morning.  

My girl is scheduled for some doggy dental work next week.  Because they have to do that under a general anesthesia some preliminary blood and urine tests had to be done.  Yesterday my vet called to say there were some problems with the results and could I bring the dog in to discuss it.  

Now let me preface this by saying that my dog is a healthy happy active eight year old.  So it didn't make much sense to me, or the vet, that the blood tests showed she was anemic, her red and white blood cell counts were low, she wasn't producing enough red blood cells and her urine was dilute.  So what were we looking at here?  Kidneys?  Spleen?  Leukemia?  She had just had a complete physical and was pronounced healthy but now the vet was questioning herself.  So another complete physical. My dog does not like anything coming remotely close to her butt.  The thermometer was not a high point of her day.

Everything checked out.  Hmmm, did the lab mix up the test results?  Take some more blood and run a quick test in the office.  That's normal.  

And now your mission, should you chose to accept it...No water for 12 hours then collect a urine sample.  So armed with a little tray and sample bottle we set out for an early morning walk.  The first time she squatted I tried to shove the tray under her from behind.  She gave me a "wtf do you think you're doing?" look and continued on without so much as a squirt.  Next squat I tried putting the tray under her from the side and only succeeded in hitting her legs.  Now this is a dog who will sniff, sniff, sniff, squat and squirt 80 times on an average walk.  Today it was full steam ahead.  

Finally I managed to get the tray under her and collected...about four drops.  And then we found our rhythm.   She has this interesting way of lifting her back end while balancing and walking on her front legs and peeing at the same time.  Made for nice clearance to get the tray under.  After four more squats I had what I considered to be a suitable amount of pee.

Back to the vet we went.  It tested fine.  It's looking more and more like the lab screwed up.  But better take some more blood and send it off.  Poor girl.  Worse yet -- who's the dog who's been pronounced healthy but has some fairly serious issues going on?

All this before my morning coffee.

   

The List

I have got to get my butt in gear.  As soon as this final summer heat wave ends it's time for me to get back to the purge.  Which was the whole reason for this blog in the first place.  Given that it's over 30 degrees out there and I just donated a pint I'm allowing myself to be lazy for the rest of the day.  But now that it's down to crunch time, I better find a place in the shade and get started on the list.  You know the one I mean -- the dreaded 'to do' list.

It's such a feeling of accomplishment when you get to tick off or stroke out an item on the list. Conversely, those other items -- the ones that never seem to get taken off -- glare with haunted house eyes that follow you everywhere.  And I'm afraid I've taken a couple of steps back over the course of the summer.  Things are mysteriously organizing themselves into piles again.

There are two major reasons to call this crunch time.  One is that I'm expecting my reno dudes to call me any day now to say they are getting ready to do my flooring.  Carpeting out / cork flooring in. Before that can happen, however, someone (namely me, unfortunately) has to paint the whole damn joint.  Yuck.  I hate painting.  

Major reason number two?  I'm heading to ITALY!  Yah, baby!  Oh, not for about six weeks, but you know how fast six weeks can disappear when you're procrastinating.  Even bought myself a new suitcase...London Fog...70% off.  It's small, it's light, it has four wheels and it expands.

The dog should just about fit.

"If I fit in the suitcase can I go too??"

Harvest Time

This is my idea of cleaning out the fridge. When I can no longer eat one more sauteed, sauced, stir-fried, stuffed, or grilled slice of zucchini; when I can no longer stand opening the fridge and seeing the sea of green on the shelves, I go into baking mode.  Zucchini pineapple loaf. Zucchini coconut loaf.  Zucchini cheese muffins and mini loaves.  And plain old zucchini bread.

And it has to happen when the mood hits. Unfortunately for me, it hit today when the temperature outside is somewhere between friggin hot and really friggin hot (that's somewhere between 27 and 30 degrees celsius for those of you unfamiliar with the ''friggin" scale.)

It took one Doors album, two by George Harrison and one Tom Petty record to produce eight loaves, four mini loaves and a dozen muffins.

Tomorrow I'm going to harvest the tomatoes and make sauce in the slow cooker, a much more civilized way to cook in this heat.  The recipe calls for it to simmer 12 - 15 hours.  That would be like listening to my entire Beatles collection.

And if anyone knows what I can do with all the cucumbers, I'd love to hear from you.  I've got some Led Zeppelin waiting.

Pistols at Twenty Paces

I've been informed by one of the few people I know who actually reads this blog that I'm a little behind in my posting.  And looking at the calendar I realize she's right.  Been a couple of weeks.  But I have an excuse, a good one.  I'm getting ready to punt the kid out of the nest.

We came one step closer yesterday -- picked up the keys, arranged for renter's insurance, and shopped for the last few things on our list of essentials.  And some not so essential.  But hey, why have an alarm clock that only allows you to wake up to whatever happens to be playing on the local radio station when you can select your wakeup song on your IPod?  'The times they are a changin.'

We've done pretty well so far, the kid and I, buying stuff, packing stuff, making stuff.  We've managed to do it all without coming to blows.  Until yesterday.  Maybe we were tired.  Or hungry.  Or had to pee.  But the thing that nearly did us in?  Toilet paper.  It came down to Cottonelle vs Royale.  Me? Whichever is on sale.  I mean, think about what you do with it.  And then you flush it.  That's literally money down the toilet.  Oh, I have standards.  No one ply sandpaper for me.  But two comparable brands?  It's a no brainer.  Or so I thought.  Cottonelle was cheaper.  I put it in the buggy.  We were exiting the aisle when a certain someone muttered something about not liking that brand but "whatever".  Okay, you know things are getting tense when the "whatever" comes out.  I muttered something about waiting until she has to pay for it herself then we'd see what brand she picks as I stuffed the Cottenelle back on the shelf and tossed the Royale into the buggy.

I wasn't ready to kill her yet, I informed her.  I just wanted to maim her.  Maim? she said.  What does that mean?  Disfigure?  Yep, I said.  And draw blood.  Wasn't she ready to kill me yet? I asked.  No, she said.  She only wanted to punch me.  Hmmm, guess my fuse was a little shorter than hers.

Just to be on the safe side I'm thinking I better wet my powder before we start loading boxes.

Ta Da Number 2!!

It's a rare occurrence when something turns out EXACTLY like what you have in mind.

Maybe the stars need to align just so. Maybe someone up above is smiling down on you.

Or maybe it's just your turn for a change.

However it happened, the finished table came out just like we pictured -- like a rustic old table we'd nicked from some farmhouse. All credit to the kid.

First we sanded and primed.

Then the kid spray painted all the edges gold.

The plan was to paint the table then rub or sand the edges so a hint of the gold showed through.  But as soon as we started painting we discovered that if we brushed the paint on sparingly in places we could achieve that beat up look without it looking uniform or intentional.

When we finished I said to the kid, "I want one."

She just smiled.  'Cause we both know it's one of a kind.

Ta Da!!

Well, I gotta admit -- I'm pretty damned impressed with us, me and the kid. Construction took about five hours over two nights.  And let me tell you -- this is one sturdy table.  I'm talking you could dance on it sturdy.

We still need to give it a good sanding and she wants to paint it some funky colour and rub the edges.

But the best parts?  The kid and I are still talking.   And we still have ten fingers.... each.

Many times during construction I could see my perfectionist Dad shaking his head, maybe pulling some hair out, but all in all, I think he'd be pretty proud of us.

And you know?  There's probably nothing sexier than a woman with a drill and a chop saw who's not afraid to use them.

Procrastination 101

If you're reading this, there's something you should know.  I have nothing to say.  Really.  Nothing. I'm procrastinating.

There are a myriad of things I should be doing.  I should be writing Chapter 23.  So far today I've written Chapter 23.  I should be building that table.  But the kid wants to help and I have to fit that into her 18 year old work/friends/sleep schedule.  Today it's work.  I should be cutting some glass, cleaning the garage, weeding the garden, cutting down brambles.

Should, should, should.  Yes, I've elevated procrastination to an art form.  The more I have to do, the greater the level.

What I really SHOULD do, MUST do, HAVE to do, is clean out the bird cage.  Said bird is a 28 year old cockatiel (aka pig with wings).  I inherited him from my dentist seven years ago when his wife developed an allergy to his feather dander (the bird's, not the dentist's).  I just happened to be in for a cleaning when they were discussing needing to find a home for him.

"I have a critter friendly place," I offered.  Again with the big mouth.

At the time, my dentist told me that 25 years was the record for the oldest cockatiel in captivity. Either he lied to me or the Guinness people will be knocking on my door any day now.  The book people, not the beer people.  Probably a good thing it's not the beer people.

That would just lead to a whole new level of procrastination.


On another note...Ever notice when you get a new car, it seems that every car you see on the road after that is the same colour?  Well, apply that to my e-mail vs email conundrum.  Every time I'm reading now, that word crops up.  And I'd say almost 100% of the time, there's no hyphen.  Thought you'd like to know.

Me and My Big Mouth

We've been looking for stuff to furnish my daughters's apartment.  It's a very small bachelor so not much is required.  She's supremely bummed that her dream of upgrading from her current twin size bed into a queen has been put on hold, for the next year at least.  Personally, I think for a single person a queen size bed is highly overrated.  I never venture far from my side.  But that may have more to do with the dog lying stretched out full length on the other.

Yesterday we went table hunting.  Something wooden with simple, straight lines.  You know -- rustic. She wants to paint it some funky colour so we're not talking good wood here.  After a discouraging day of furniture stores, junk stores and antique stores it was fairly evident that what she has in her mind is not easily found.  Not in our price range anyway.  Here's where the big mouth part comes in.

"I'll build you one."

I said that.  Me.  Really.

What was I thinking?  I built a bird house once.  It's pretty cool. But no bird has ever moved in.  Saw one looking in the door one time but apparently it didn't suit his taste.

So I've found a pattern for a perfectly simple table and, not only do I know what all the tools are on the "tools required" list, hey, I even own them.  But it was my Dad who was the wood craftsman in our family.  I'm just hoping I've learned something through osmosis or maybe I carry the wood gene in my DNA. Either way, I guess I'm building a table.

Sure hope a tree hasn't died in vain.  

Cyber Clean-Up

I have a love-hate relationship with technology.  When it makes my life easier?  Love it.  But when I spend an hour cleaning out my back log of old e-mails (notice the hyphen?) and I'm still not even half way done?   Not so much.  Of course it's my own damn fault.  I'm the one who didn't hit DELETE the moment that piece of junk mail, disguised as something I really need to read one day, infiltrated my in-box.  Because that's the thing with e-mail, isn't it?  We open it up, give it a quick glance and say, 'I'll read that later.'  Well, later rarely comes, does it?  And the next thing you know, there's over a thousand of those messages hiding all the stuff you really do need but now can't find.

Back in the day, this was the sort of stuff that took up valuable kitchen counter space.  Until the day you couldn't stand the mess of it for one more minute and tossed the lot into the garbage.  Except now, instead of getting this junk snail mail every few weeks, it's a daily bombardment.  And just try to unsubscribe.  Hey, I didn't know I'd subscribed in the first place. 

But it's the safeguards that really freak me out.  Are you sure you want to unsubscribe?  Yes, that's why I hit unsubscribe.  You're about to make an irreversible life decision.  I'm willing to take my chances.  Please, take a moment and think about what you're doing -- the fate of the free world is in your hands.  Well, if you put it that way, maybe I better not. 

So, here I sit, finger poised over the delete button, going through my e-mails one at a time so that I don't accidentally get rid of something I need.  'Cause you never know, maybe one day I will read 5 Ways to Lose Belly Fat.

On second thought, maybe I should make that today's top priority.

Do You Hyphen?

I'm good at spelling.  No wait -- I'm GREAT at spelling.  I wish they'd had those spelling bee competitions when I was a kid.  I would have kicked some major spelling butt.  

But I can also be a little anal about it.  I cringe when I see your when it's supposed to be you're.  There, their, and they're can send me off the edge when used incorrectly.  And I want to yell at my computer when it underlines colour or neighbour.  Yeah, like it's doing right now.  Excuse me, but that U belongs in there.

So what's a spelling girl to do when faced with the unexpected conundrum of e-mail vs email.  This one stopped me in my writing tracks today.  I was in the process of editing Chapter 17 of my novel-in-progress, in which I've written the word e-mail several times.  And yes, I'm even hesitating here to refer to e-mail as a word.  Suddenly I'm thinking -- what's the correct spelling?  With or without the hyphen? So I did what I always do when faced with these major life decisions.  I googled it.  (Drives my daughter nuts if she asks me something I don't know the answer to and I immediately say, "Let's google it."  She always goes, "Ugh, don't bother."  To which I reply, "If you're not that interested, why ask in the first place?"  And then I just go do it.  Personally, I think 'Why wonder when you can google' should be Google's motto.)

Where was I?  Oh, yeah.  The hyphen.  So I googled e-mail vs email and of course there was like a bazillion entries.  (Interesting...computer doesn't underline bazillion.)  I read the top few and the definitive answer is -- there is no definitive answer.  What it really boils down to is personal preference.  I've always spelled it with the hyphen.  But I went through my chapter and changed every e-mail to email and you know, it just didn't look right.  So I changed them all back.

Until the spelling gods decree it's to be one way or the other, I'm sticking with the hyphen.

How about you?? 

The Dog Days of Summer

I always thought the dog days of summer were that period when it was just too damn hot to be a dog.  Those days when dog walking is either done before 9:00 a.m or after 9:00 p.m.  (You try wearing a fur coat when the mercury is pushing past 30 degrees celsius.)  Turns out I'm sort of right.  The boring dictionary definition is a period marked by lethargy, inactivity, or indolence.  Indolence?  Who uses that word?  Calling it indolence doesn't make lazy any less, well, lazy.  And hey, there's nothing wrong with lazy.  Lazy has gotten a bad rap.  Just like bored.  It's okay to be either one every now and then. Especially during the dog days of summer.

The more interesting definition is the sultry part of the summer, supposed to occur during the period that Sirius, the Dog Star, rises at the same time as the sun, now often reckoned from July 3 to August 11.  Well, that's certainly another way to say when it's really really hot out.  But here's what I like:  Sirius is the brightest star in Canis Major (the big dog).  So is it just a coincidence that Sirius Black of Harry Potter fame became Padfoot, a large black dog, when he was in his animagus form?  I think not.  (Damn it, JK Rowling -- you're good!)

Personally, I love the dog days.  They are put your feet up and read days.  Drink beer and BBQ days. Doze off on the lounge days.  Eat outside on the deck days.  Write a bestselling novel days.  Hey, any excuse not to clean the house.  We live in such a goal driven society that most people feel guilty when they're not accomplishing something.  I say, "Enough!"  Look at your dog (if you're lucky enough to have one).  Does she look guilty about anything?  (Okay, right now, mine is feeling a little bad for puking on the carpet -- twice -- at 5:30 this morning, but she'll get over it.)

So go ahead.  Be your dog.  Just try not to puke on the carpet.

On another note...Speaking of dogs -- The Art of Racing in the Rain by Garth Stein is a wonderful book narrated by a dog named Enzo.  It's an onion book -- it has layers and it just might make you cry.  At the very least, you'll be looking at your dog in a whole different way. 

Apartment Hunting 101

You never forget your first apartment.  That first taste of freedom.  The first place you could put things where YOU wanted without your mother putting them back where they belonged.  I never got to live in my 'first apartment' -- the landlord absconded with all the rent money before we even got to move in. But the first apartment I lived in with my two friends was a 2-bedroom basement unit in a scuzzy building on a busy downtown Ottawa street.  There were on occasion drunks sleeping one off on the sidewalk pressed up to our windows.  Every now and then a curious dog walking by would stop and stick his head in a window to check out our digs.  Our ceilings were covered with pipes so we painted them chocolate brown and turned them into art nouveau.  We had beaded curtains in doorways and thrift store furniture.  It was a fun, funky place and I had some of the best times EVER in that apartment.

Yesterday I took my daughter on her first apartment hunting expedition.  We now have the benefit of the internet, digital photos, and Google Streetview.  Back in the day, we circled sketchy ads in the local rag and walked through a lot of dumpy apartments (I'm talking boil your skin off when you leave dumpy) before choosing our own dumpy apartment (which we nicknamed The Black Hole of Calcutta. Our friends lived down the street in The Lean-To.  Ah, good times.)  But I digress.

We had three appointments lined up -- a 1-bedroom in a standard apartment building, a ground level suite in a private house, and a unit in a triplex.  We started in the apartment building, replete with narrow hallways, dingy carpeting and the requisite scary elevator.  The unit was nice, she could live there no problem, but it had no oomph, no pizzazz, no personality.

On to the private house.  In a beautiful neighbourhood.  Lots of trees.  Lovely homes set back from the roads.  Okay, so far, too good to be true.  Then we meet the landlords who live in the house next door and they are...the nicest older couple you'd ever want to meet.  Maybe on the planet.  Their daughter and her family live in the house where the suite is located.  The house is immaculate, the grass freshly mowed.  Mr Landlord opens the door to the suite and it is -- Shangra-La.  It's small and cozy and clean and bright and funky and so full of personality and potential it's in danger of exploding. My daughter's face is also in danger of exploding.  She can't wipe the smile off it.  She has found her first home away from home.  I'm jealous.  I want to live there.  We call and cancel the triplex.

The only thing I'm sorry about (other than the fact that I wish I was 19 again) is that she didn't really get the full experience of apartment hunting.  It was way too easy.  I'm happy I got to scruff and scrape and live in a place with drunks and dogs and pipes and beads and thrift store furniture.  And one day my kid will probably be telling people about her first apartment -- that it wasn't even big enough for a queen size bed and full size microwave -- and her eyes will glaze over with nostalgia.

Cuz that's what first apartments do.  

   

Happy Canada Day!

It's over 30 degrees Celsius in the shade and it's just past noon, so I'm giving myself the gift of a day off -- no yard work, no gardening, no cleaning.  A day in the yard to read, write, and watch the birds (who start singing at precisely 04:25.  I know this for a fact.)

I've distributed peanuts across the lawn and am awaiting the arrival of Elvis, Marcus, and Adam.  They're my crows.  I love crows. Elvis is the most recognizable of the bunch -- feathers always poofed up on his his head in a nice pompadour.  And those hips!  That bird has swagger.  Marcus is the biggest of the lot, and just unkempt enough to make him cool.  And then there's Adam.  Skinny little Adam.  He really doesn't stand a chance up against the big boys.  I'll be watching to see who can beat the record for getting the most full sized peanuts in the shell in their beak at one time.  Elvis and Marcus currently share the record with three.  The odds makers are split on this one -- Marcus has the size, but Elvis has the brains.

Later today I plan on conducting an experiment on the effects of sun and beer on the sleep deprived. When I recover consciousness I'll report on my findings.

On another note...I understand how you can grow a seedless watermelon.  What I don't get is how you can grow another one.

Zzzzz...

I have insomnia.  Well maybe not classic insomnia.  I do sleep.  Sometimes.  In short increments.

Typical night scenario #1:  1)  Go to bed (sometime between 11:00 - 12:00).  2)  Listen to the dog snore. 3)  Read until book is in danger of bloodying nose (sometime between 12:00 - 1:00).  4)  Put book down, take off glasses, turn out light.  5)  Find comfortable position on right side.  6)  Find comfortable position on left side.  7)  Flip the pillow to the cold side.  8)  Find comfortable position on back.  9)  Move feet around to find the cold spots.  10)  Fall asleep.  11)  Wake up at 2:30.               12)  Repeat steps 5 - 9.  13)  Repeat steps 5 - 9.  14)  Calculate the amount of time you have left to sleep if you fall asleep NOW.  15)  Listen to the dog snore.  16)  Repeat steps 5 - 9.  17)  Listen to the birds waking up after a full night's sleep in their cozy little nests, yawning and stretching their little wings, ready to greet another day with a song in their beaks.  18)  Fantasize about birdocide.           19)  Watch the venetian blinds on the window as the light between the slats gets brighter and brighter. 20)  Calculate the amount of time you have left to sleep if you fall asleep NOW.  21)  If you fall asleep NOW.  22)  How about NOW.  23)  Fall asleep (sometime between 5:00 - 6:00).  24)  Wake up (sometime between 7:00 - 8:00).  25)  Listen to the dog snore.

    
Typical night scenario #2:  Repeat scenario #1.  Eliminate Steps 10 and 11.  Add more Steps 2, 15 and 25.

Breaking Point

We all have one, don't we?  A breaking point?  Well, I've reached mine.  And it's time to do something about it.  I'm talking about -- cleaning the house.

Sure, we've all heard the cliches...Life is too short to spend time dusting...or...There will always be housework to do...or...Just don't answer the door when the Department of Health shows up.

But I'm one of those people for whom a cluttered house = a cluttered mind.  I really can't relax and give anything else my full attention if there is as much detritus on the carpet as there is in the yard.  I have a dog with velcro fur -- if she touches it outside, it's coming inside with her.  Pine needles, moss, those little fuzzy brown things that fall like rain from the pine trees.  I also have a cockatiel that produces so much feather dust I sometimes have to get the snow scraper out just to see the TV screen.  

I know it's time to clean when --

     The dust bunnies bear a strong resemblance to tumbleweeds.

     My daughter and I stop communicating via texting and start leaving messages in the dust.

     The slime on the shower floor actually oozes between my toes.

     Even the dog refuses to eat anything off the kitchen floor.

I've tried many house cleaning systems.  I've tried assigning a task to each weekday (Monday is dusting, Tuesday is vacuuming...) but that usually only lasts, oh, about a week.  I've tried blitzing once a week but that usually only lasts, oh, about a week.  I've tried seeing how much I can get done in an hour a day.  I've tried seeing how much I can get done in half an hour a day.  I've tried seeing how much I can get done in the length of time I can hold my breath.  I've tried cleaning when I'm having people over...so I just stopped having people over.  

I have nothing but admiration for clean freaks.  But I have to face it -- clean freak is just not in my genetic make-up.  I simply have to wait until my brain twists in a knot and refuses to let any thought processes through until I do it.  So I'm gonna clean my house.

Tomorrow.

On another note...I love finding a book I just can't put down.  Even if it means I don't do any writing for two whole days because I can't drag myself away from the book.  Just one more chapter...okay, just one more chapter.  If you like a book that you will gladly put your life on hold for, I highly recommend GONE GIRL by Gillian Flynn.  The ending was sheer perfection.  And when I finished all I could think was...Damn, I wish I'D written that.

Autumn in June

I know it's a little early for fall colours but I have to say it's the one thing I miss about Ontario, my home province.  We're woefully short of maple trees here in B.C. so we just don't get these colours.  A lot of yellow but only a little red and none of the golds.  So I have to settle for recreating them in my stained glass studio.

I had shut the studio door a few weeks back.  Felt like I was spreading myself too thin and I really wanted to concentrate solely on my writing for a few months.  But while the writing muse was sitting on one shoulder, the glass muse was sitting on the other.  They were getting a little loud, vying for my attention, so I finally had to say -- Enough!!  There's time enough for the two of you...as long as I give up vacuuming, dusting, cleaning toilets, and washing floors. Okay, I decided -- if I have to, I have to.

The sacrifices we have to make in the name of art.                                                                                   

On another (but similar) note...The new novel is progressing quite nicely.

Wanna Make A Lot of Money?

Invent a grass trimmer that isn't based on a piece of plastic string spinning round and round on a little spool.  That always runs out or jams when you've only got about 10 feet left to trim.  And so you take off the plastic cover and replace the string.  And you put the ends of the string through the little holes but it always loses tension and you have to take the spool out again to rewind it.  And then you put the spring back in but the cover never seems to line up on all four sides at the same time.  And you press and you twist and you push and you get so frustrated you just want to throw that damn cover. But you don't.  Because then you'd never find it in the brush.  So you sit down on the rock to cool off. And then you try it again, maybe you even talk nicely to the cover.  And so finally you get it on and start to finish that last 10 feet and the thing jams again and won't spit out any new string.

So yeah, invent something that isn't based on a piece of plastic string spinning round and round on a little spool.  And then go on one of those shows like Dragon's Den or Shark Tank.  And they'll give you lots of money for your invention because they all have lawns and they all hate their trimmers too. And then your trimmer will be hailed as the greatest invention of the 20th Century.  And you'll make so much money you'll never have to work again in your whole life.  And you'll even be able to hire somebody to cut your grass and do the trimming.

Yeah, invent one of those.  And I'll buy one.

The Next 122 Days

I've got a new plan, so I'm putting the household purge on hold for a bit.  Partly because it's getting to be too nice outside to be doing stuff inside.  Partly because I'm almost done.  But mostly because I have a visitor.  An old friend I haven't seen lately has decided to stop in for a while so I better give her my full attention, treat her right, and hope she sticks around.  I don't even know her name.  I just call her my muse.

I don't like to admit this but I'm a very undisciplined writer.  I write when the mood hits.  It's like moonshine of the brain -- I let a story or an idea brew for a while and when it reaches maximum potency, I write it down.  That's where I am right now.  There are people in my head who want out. They are tired of having long conversations with me while I walk the dog.  They want to meet each other and start living their lives on the page.  So I'm obligated to let them.

A lot of writers (probably all the successful ones) commit to writing x number of words or pages every day.  I've never been one of the those writers.  But I'm going to give it a try.  I'm committing the next four months to taking the novel that lives in my head and putting it down on paper (okay, on screen). I'm committing to 1,000 words per day.  Yes, I know...some days I'll write more, some less.  But by the end of September, my goal is to have the first draft finished.

That means there's going to have to be some changes around here.  Like maybe getting up earlier. Like maybe less TV.  Except for the end of the Stanley Cup Playoffs.  Even though my Leafs are out, I still love my hockey.  And there's only a few more weeks left of The Voice.  Oh, and on June 24th Stephen King's Under The Dome starts.  I can't miss that.  I mean, Steve is my idol.  All right, maybe the occasional movie.  But definitely -- no more Seinfeld reruns.  Except for the one about The Contest. That one is always worth watching for the umpteenth time.

Hmmm...Something tells me my muse is not amused.