Like Momentum Without the "M"

First things first: My baby sister turned 16 yesterday! Yay! And you know what means, of course. All drivers west of I35, watch out! Another lead-footed member of the H. family is on the road!

So I have this optometrist, Dr. C. He's sort of paunchy. He has a rather large "omentum." Oh, yes. I heart Dr. Oz. Anywho. Dr. C's omentum caused something of a beer belly which, unfortunately, rubs all over me while I'm held hostage in that damn exam chair. I mean, seriously, folks, it swipes my forearms and smacks my boobs. It really creeps me out.

At my last visit, his belly brushed up against and then rested on my wrist. He was all up in my face, checking my eyes with that horridly bright light, and all I could think was, "Maria, don't move your arm. Don't move your arm!" I just knew that if I did, it would seem like I was caressing his chub. Ick! Ick! Icky!

Later, I'm trying to explain this to Dave as we're pulling into the Target parking lot. For some odd reason, he finds the idea of Dr. C's omentum molesting me as hilarious. He then proceeded to act out Dr. C's point of view. "Oh, Mrs. O, your arm is so soft. I just want to rub my--"

I won't go into the rest of it. It got rather ribald at that point. Now I'm mortified. I don't know if I can go back to his office without seeing/hearing Dave's act. Jerk...

Back On The Wagon

After a hellaciously painful weekend (I curse thee with the fury of a thousand suns, ovarian cysts!) I'm finally getting back on the diet and exercise wagon. My weight fluctuated a pound in both directions over the last few days so I'm not horribly worried. I got in an awesome workout this afternoon and have eaten extremely well. It's amazing how good I feel when I treat my body well.

On the work front--well, damn I am stinking it up! It's hard to write sexy scenes when you feel like you're going to die. Hopefully my pace will pick up and these WIPs stacking up on my Great List 'O Shat To Write will get crossed off one by one.

That's it for tonight. Short check in. Tomorrow I'll try to post some funny snippets. I'm going to see if I can get Dave-O to re-enact his "Maria Getting Molestered By Her Optometrist's Fat Belly" routine that he pulled in the parking lot of Target the other day. God, that is sooo youtube worthy. If he refuses, I'll just have to describe it. It's priceless.

Saved

Dave came home yesterday and saved the day. First he dealt with the wailing smoke detectors and then he dealt with me. I'm feeling soooo much better today. I'm so freakin' thirsty and sore, but whatever. At least I'm not hugging the toilet.

It has definitely been one of those weeks. First the transmission on my truck went haywire. We lost the rear seal and it dumped all the transmission fluid in the garage. Then Dave learned that one of his friends' grandmothers had passed. I've got a ton of cysts (or endometriosis or pick whatever random reproductive nightmare might be plaguing me this week) acting up and causing serious pain. I was sicker than a dog yesterday and the smoke detectors decided to go all kinds of crazy. To top it all off, Dave got backed into a few hours ago. AARRGGH!

The only good thing has been my weight loss. By Wednesday of this week, I was done another three pounds. I'm holding steady at 10 pounds lost since April 1. I only worked out twice this week. No excuse, really. One day I was sore, and the others I just didn't make the time. I must do better. I refuse to lose my weight loss momentum.

So that's me today. I'm off to down another glass of water and then it's back to work. I am so behind on my deadlines.

Frazzled

The smoke detectors won’t stop beeping. I’m not talking about that annoying low battery chirp. Oh, no. I’m talking full out holy-shit-your-house-is-on-fire screeching. It started at 0627 and hasn’t stopped since then. All the smoke detectors are hard wired, have battery backup and are wireless so if one goes, they all fucking go.

I finally managed to get the four in the bedrooms and the one downstairs to stop, but the one in the upstairs hallway refuses to cooperate. It wails every thirty-forty minutes and sets off every other alarm in the house. I can’t find the manual to the damn things so I went online to the manufacturer’s website and it was completely useless. It doesn’t help that I’m 5’2" and the ceilings in the house are 10 plus feet depending on the room. Do we have a ladder? Nope.

I finally managed to climb up on the banister overlooking the staircase (we have one of those staircases that goes up, has a landing and then a second set of stairs to the upstairs hallway so from the banister it’s a 20 foot plus drop.) As I’m balancing precariously, beating the living crap out of the smoke detector and spewing a string of the vilest Russian, German, Spanish, and Arabic curse words I can manage, I realize that I’m probably going to kill myself. I’m either going to fall and break something or electrocute myself with the 110 volts running through the beeping bastard. Bosley seemed to share my worries. He paced nervously between the bedrooms and made anxious growling noises.

After ten minutes of messing with the detector, I realized that whoever installed the damn thing broke the battery release tab. When I touched it, it fell off in my hand. I can’t get the battery out. The wiring attached to the back looks a bit iffy as well. (I don’t have a lot of confidence in the wiring of the house. Just ask Dave about the ceiling fan with five wires. Our next door neighbor is an electrician and when Dave told him about the five wires he found, the guy was liek, what?!?!) I tried to pull the plug but it won’t budge. I can’t remove the battery or cut the power. Motherf$%&@!

Any other day I’d just put on my headphones and pretend the noise doesn’t exitst. Today, though, I have a low fever, a pounding headache, and am experiencing a variety of gastric pyrotechnics. Every second not spent cursing at the smoke detetors (Carajo! Scheisse! Yebnen Kelp! Kol ayre wle! Svoloch! Zarasa! Zavali Yebalo!) is spent worshipping the porcelain king. Bosley is just as bad. Strange noises agitate him. He hasn’t eaten all day and keeps going into the laundry room for peace and quiet. I’m embarassed to admit this but I’m locked in the laundry room too. It’s the only semi-quiet place. I’m about to crack.

Seriously, folks, I’m about five minutes away from throwing some clothes in a suitcase, coaxing Bosley into the truck, flipping all the breakers that carry power upstairs (since I don’t want the neighbors calling in to complain about the noise) and getting a room at the HoJo down the street.

OMG. Dave just called. He’s on his way home. I can’t tell you how relieved I am. I’m sobbing right now. In the laundry room. Sitting on the dryer. God, I’m pathetic.

Polygamists, Tumbleweeds, and Me

Yeah. So good ole E-Town is in the news again. Sigh.

My Eldorado

219 Children Taken From Polygamist Compound

It's really disgusting to see the place that I call home (cuz no matter where I move that itty bitty dusty place will always be home) stained by the association with those polygamist nutters. I'm all for letting people believe in whatever cultish ideas make them happy, but I draw the line at kids. If consenting adults want to marry their cousins and have loads of inbred children, whatever. When young girls are forced into marriages with stank old men who may or may not be their relatives, I want to vomit. Enough. Seriously. Get in there and take those girls away. Now. They might think we're being cruel, but it's for their own good. They just don't know it. When you're cut off from the outside world, you don't realize what's right and wrong.

That 16 year old girl who was ballsy enough to call in and ask for help is so incredibly brave. I feel so badly for her now. I can't even imagine what they've done to her and her baby. It's not clear whether or not they've located her. I wouldn't count on it. I'm sure it wouldn't have been that difficult to smuggle her off the ranch in the middle of the night. People from urban areas might find that odd, but out in E-town, well, there's really nothing but miles and miles and miles of open land.

Mom says everything in town is crazy. She couldn't even go to Mass on Saturday evening because of all the damn news trucks parked near the Catholic Church (which just happens to be down the road from the FLDS compound.) Nuts. Seriously.

Anyone interested in the story of the FLDS folks just popping up one day on the edge of town send me a PM. I'll fill you in. I'm not gonna get into it here. Way too long of a post, lol.

Stuff

First things first. Yesterday was my daddy's birthday! Happy Birthday, Dad!!!

So my new phone came in and it's AWESOME! The camera is amazing and the screen is big and bright and clear. The sound quality is crisp and clear. I'm in love! As for the old phone, well, I managed to get all my old phone numbers off of it, but I haven't had a chance to see how many pics or videos are still on the memory stick. My laptop doesn't have the proper port for the memory stick, and I can't find the adapter chingadera. It's in the garage. Somewhere.

Oh, and I've finally started the Insulin Resistance diet. Yeah, I'm not insulin resistant, but this diet is all about maintaining level blood sugar levels. With my hypoglycemia, it's turning out to be a godsend. Seriously, folks, I've lost seven pounds since last Friday. 7 pounds in seven days. OMG!

I totally expect the huge numbers to taper off next week, but whatever. My goal is 1-2 pounds a week so I'm fairly easy to please. And I'm not even working out. I worked out on Friday and Saturday and then nothing all this week. My support group says sex counts so I guess *technically* I have worked out quite a bit this week. At any rate I'm going to try to get in 3-4 workouts this week. They won't be long, maybe 30 minutes tops, but I have to start somewhere.

Writing is going well. I'm juggling three WIPs. I try not to do this to myself but it's unavoidable this month. I have a May 15th deadline for an anthology I want to enter so I need to finish that novella. I also have two full length novels that I'm 1/4 of the way through so it's not as if I can simply stop working on them until May. It's crazy but then so am I. C'est la vie.

All right. Must work. Wonderful weekend to you all!!!

Pervy Spider

So there's this total perv spider clinging to the outside of our bedroom window, and it's starting to creep me out. S/he stays out of sight until things get, uh, interesting and then--wham!--there s/he is! It's sick! I hate spiders, like, heebie jeebies hate. *Shudder*

I got lots of great advice yesterday on my missing/corrupted file problem. It's going to have to wait until I switch to another laptop though. I can't afford to have my laptop out of my sight until then. I write every day. I'm addicted to this laptop. Seriously. I made the mistake of conditioning myself to write only on this laptop at this specific table in my squishy chair in the living room. I'm getting to the point where I can sometimes work on the couch or upstairs in bed, but I'm not as prolific. It just feels wrong.

Oh, and Dave-O and I ventured into the flourescent orange and blue hell that is the AT&T wireless store. I was pleasantly surprised that I didn't get pressured into buying a new phone the second I walked in the door. They must have just had one of those meetings where they encourage associates not to attack customers like salivating hyenas.

Anywho. The guy behind the counter banged my phone around a bit, knocked out the SIM card and slipped in a new one, and yeah, nothing worked. I had one of those John Constantine/Gabriel moments: You're fucked.

I ended up dropping $250 on a new phone that should be here in two days. Yeah. Ouch. I'm not eligible for a free phone upgrade until September so I had no choice but to buy a new phone at a slightly discounted price. I figured Dave would crap a brick since I'm always teasin him about being tacano. (I even do the hand sign. God, it cracks me up.) But he didn't even blink an eye at the total. He was just like if that's the phone you want, get it. And I did.

He's weird like that. The man's a natural bargain hunter. He'll spend ten minutes in the peanut butter aisle scrutinizing the price per ounce of crunchy peanut butter brands before making his choice. (Oh, and we never buy smooth. Let no man or woman come between Dave and his crunchy peanut butter.) To be fair, I'm the same way. I spent three weeks researching mattress sets before we whittled the list down to three and then finally one. What can I say? We're weird like that.

I guess that's a good thing. We may only save a few pennies here or there but it adds up over time. It was nice not to have to panic about the impact of a new phone on the budget. When I see people putting cell phones and other stuff that's going to crap out sooner rather than later on credit cards, I always grimace. I just want to shake them. Double Crapping Damn! Don't they realize they're going to be paying that shit off years after that phone is scrapped? I've heard enough horror stories of friends/family putting weddings, jewelry, vehicles, furniture, shopping sprees and vacations on credit cards. It scares the poo out of me.

Anyways. That was my day.

Oh, and as far as the Sweating with Sven 70 Days of Writing Challenge goes I am kicking ass. Since March 1, I've written 52,371 words. I've completed, edited and submitted an erotic novella to my publisher. I'm three chapters into a new novel and working out the kinks (har har, get it?) on an erotic romance idea for a menage and more anthology.

And on that note I'm off to, uh, research. Yeah. Research.

Death to Technology

Oh, god. Have you ever had one of those weeks where everything goes wrong?!?! Yeah. That's been my week. I won't go into details about the personal and professional poo plaguing me. I will, however, rant about the crushing wave of tech problems I've had since 3 this afternoon.

So a few days ago I was copying folders of story ideas, synopses, manuscripts in various degrees of completion and other random crap to my external hard drive. I was in a rush (we won't go into why, sigh) and I didn't think to backup all the files I was moving on CDs. Today I decide to sort through them, maybe find a few gems to add to my yearly writing plan since I've already completed half of the novellas on my list. I start opening and skimming word docs. Most of them are perfect and intact but some of the biggest files, files that should have 150-200 pages don't. They have 13 or 17 or 21 pages.

I panic and race over to my Recycle Bin. I rarely empty it, and the few times I've tossed something by mistake I've always been able to rescue it. Here's the weird thing. Of all the files that I moved to my F drive and then chunked, only the corrupt files are missing in the Recycle Bin. Seriously it's as if someone went through my Recycle Bin and trashed the original files they knew I would need.

Forehead meet desk. Repeat. Repeat.

I was crushed. I mean, we're talking years of work. This is stuff that I wrote in high school or the early years of college. It's not ever meant to see the light of day cuz it's horrible, lots of purple prose, way too many adjectives, etc. But still... They meant something to me. As a writer, it's nice to look back at your old stuff to see how you've grown. It's also great compare it to your new stuff when you're feeling iffy or down about a particular chapter or scene. And now I can't do that. I sooo wish I could blame it on someone else, but I can't. It's my fault. I should have backed everything up and I didn't. Painful lesson? Oh yeah.

So I'm thinking, OK, this has to be the low point of my otherwise shatteous week. Right? WRONG!

Thirty-seven minutes ago my beloved W810i flashed the White Screen of Death while I was trying to send a picture text. I've tried rebooting the damn thing and have followed all the troubleshooting protocol. It's fucked. Normally this isn't a big deal (I've had phones die on my before) but I haven't saved any of my newer pics or updated phone numbers to my SIM Card or the memory stick. Fuck! Fuck! Fuckity! Fuck! Fuck!

I so want to wallow in despair and eat lots of junk food, but I can't. I got rid of everything that's tasty because I need to be more militant about treating this horrid disease ravaging my ovaries. Part one of that is better weight control. I'm almost tempted to run out to the closest convenience store, but oh wait, I can't drive at night.

AAARRGGHH!!

So anywho. The Jane Austen series on PBS continues tonight. Hopefully that will cheer me up. L8R.

Shady, Shady

So Dave came home from a 36 hour shift yesterday evening (like sevenish) and we decided to run some errands. We get into the truck and the first thing I notice is that Dave smells really, really, really good. It doesn't help that he's in his uniform which automatically puts me in omg-I'm-going-to-ravish-you-right-now mode. For a split second I considered knocking back the driver's seat and hopping on for a ride--but then I remembered that we were in the driveway and I'm quite certain that public naughtiness is something our Home Owner's Association would frown upon which brings me to the point of the post: Does anyone else have a shadowy HOA?

Seriously, folks, I'm quite convinced that our HOA is a branch of The Illuminati. Yes that Illuminati. No one in the subdivision has a copy of the HOA policies. No one has ever spoken to or interacted with a member of the HOA. It's always, "Well, so and so down on the cul-de-sac said that so-and-so in the two-story on the corner said that the couple in the red brick ranch across from the swimming pool and park got a notice about their water hose coiled in the front yard."

Riiiggghhhhttt.

Our neighbor did receive a couple of HOA tickets in the mail because of his improperly mounted satellite dish (we can't get cable out here) and because he had this hideous Itasca Spectrum RV (circa 1970) parked in his driveway. That thing was an eyesore. Other than rust, the dominant paint color was baby poo yellow with splashes of UPS brown. Horrid. Horrid. Horrid. It squealed when he started it too. I'm not sure what the hell he was doing to it. Right before he moved it to his dad's carport (to avoid more tickets) it looked like a combination taco truck/ice cream truck.

The reason I know this is because he told Dave the whole sordid tale. He also told Dave that he's refusing to pay the $300 annual dues because he's never seen the printed policies. Since we're considering some landscaping, I started to worry. Five days of detective work led me to the website for our HOA and a list of the most vague policies you've ever read. In short just about any improvements to our home or lot could be interpreted to be in violation of the badly defined policies.

I know what you're thinking. Why didn't we ask for a copy of the HOA before closing? Funny thing. We closed on the house two days before the wedding. Yeah. We were simultaneously building a house and planning a wedding and coordinating a move. I was also hammering out my first publishing contract, weeding through copyedits, etc. It just slipped our minds. Stupid? Yeah. But there you have it.

To avoid any future problems, I'm just going to submit in writing my request for approval of proposed improvements. I figure that as long as I have a paper trail and a written/signed letter of approval from the HOA we're fairly safe. Hopefully. Maybe.

Oh, and just for the record, there was absolutely nothing about driveway nookie in the listed policies. Wheeee!!!! Yet another entry I get to add to my huge list of "Strangest Places!"

Update

Haven't had a lot of time to post because I've been writing up a storm. I seem to have recaptured my old pace which is such a good thing. Last night I received my release date for ILLICIT BARGAIN so now I get to start thinking about promotion. It doesn't release until November 7th so I have plenty of time. I'm a chapter away from finishing my next novella and hope to have that one submitted to my editor and contracted by the end of March or first week of April. I've also been discussing a sequel to ILLICIT BARGAIN with my editor. We'll see how that works out... Then, of course, I have a full length erotic romance novel on the back burner. I'm planning to start workign on it as soon as I get my current WIP out to my betas.

Busy. Busy. Busy.

Dave went on a spring cleaning rampage yesterday. It's not easy to write when your husband is banging around in the kitchen and cleaning carpets. Eventually I just gave up and went upstairs. The carpets look really good now. You would not believe the crap Dave pulled out of them. Having a Great Dane in the house 24/7 is hell on the carpet.

We bought a new mattress set on Saturday evening but it wasn't in stock so it won't come in until next weekish. That gives us plenty of time to clean the bedroom carpet and such. Oh, and we went grocery shopping at HEB after that and, OMG, we ran into a friend's abusive ex-boyfriend. Dave spotted him before I did and stepped between us, sort of shielding me so I didn't have to make eye contact. We'd all thought he'd left Texas but apparently not. Dave did a little digging and found out that this horrid man still works for a Texas EMS company. Needless to say the entire experience was a fucking shock.

Other than that I'm stressed over my meds. They're not working any longer. I'm pretty upset about it, like, sobbing in the bathroom upset. I had such high hopes that correcting my hormones would be the answer, but apparently not. This could mean that Dave and I are no longer eligible for some of the less expensive options of fertility treatments like Clomid and Metformin. We may have to go straight to IUI, trigger shots, and even IVF. Sigh.

I've also been having sudden drops in my blood sugar levels. I'm talking shaking, diaphoresis, and ringing ears. It's very unsettling since, you know, I'm basically home alone most of the time. I didn't start having blood sugar issues until I started taking my meds. I mean, I'd had some hypoglycemia problems as a kid but nothing like this.

I'm not thrilled about the prospect of trying new combinations of pills. When I started this regimen, I went completely insane for about six weeks. No really. I wept when I ran out of paper towels, people. Wept as if my best friend had just died. It was pathetic. But what can you do, right?

So that's my update. Back to work!

Wheezing Shampoo Demons

Quick break from the all night writing fest to blog. Today (well, yesterday, I suppose) was a pretty miserable day weather-wise. I woke up early for a breakfast date with Alison, and omg, it was storming so bad. I have this irrational fear of showering when there's lightning, but I muscled through it and hopped into the shower. Okay, stumbled, I was freakin' tired. I'd only gotten 2.75 hours of sleep.

When it was time to wash my hair, I realized that there was still at least one dose of shampoo left in the tube. (Am I the only one who finds those damn Brilliant Brunette tubes annoying? Seriously, wtf? Who designed those things?) So there I was squeezing away and the tube was making these horrible wheezing noises, and suddenly, I hear this snarling bark and the shower curtain goes flying as Bosley tries to attack the shampoo bottle. I almost pissed myself! I jumped and slipped. I ended up smearing the shampoo I'd managed to squeeze out of the tube on the shower tile as I tried to steady myself. When Bosley realized that there wasn't some wheezing shampoo demon trying to attakc his mommy, he stopped snarling and started lapping up the water droplets on the edge of the tub and shower curtain. He looked so pleased with himself for acting the brave protector that I couldn't bring myself to chastise him. I just splashed him with water and listened to him scamper back into the bedroom.

Sigh. What a wonderful start to the day, no?

In the end, Alison and I agreed to rain check until the next time she's in town. I was disappointed since I really wanted to catch up with her. Luckily we both have phones, lol. Call Alison is the first entry on my to-do list for toay.

Since breakfast was nixed, I stayed up until my hair was dry and then crawled back into bed. Of course Bosley had other plans and continued to whine and nudge until I woke up and let him out--again and again and again. Sigh. Finally caught a few hours of sleep but woke with a horrendous jaw ache. After a little perusing in the mirror, I realized that I have some wisdom tooth shrapnel working it's way out. Apparently this is normal. Whatever. At this point I'm just drinking warm tea and ignoring the pain.

So that's it. Yet another entry about my oh-so-exciting life. I'm going to get back to writing and enjoying my ice cream and Murder, She Wrote marathon on Netflix.

Happy Birthday?

Since Bosley was rescued from a horrendous puppy mill where he was malnourished, chained and held on bare concrete, we have no idea when, exactly, he was born. His foster mommy's and vet's best guess was March 1-15 of 2007. Because of that I have no idea when to wish him happy birthday. To remedy this I've given him big snuggles and shouted "Happy Birthday!" every day since the first of March. Effective? Yes. Weird? A bit...

He hit another grown spurt these past two weeks. He's been sleeping a lot, thinned out, and moves a bit slow. Since I see him every day I'm always the last one to recognize that he's grown. He slammed up against me last night, and I realized that his back now hits my belly button. Two weeks ago, it hit my hips. Cripes! He's also up to 80 pounds of food a month.

If you factor in the bananas, oranges, apples, carrots, broccoli, spinach, and cheese, it's probably closer to 90. And yeah, he totally hearts fruits and veggies. When I'm prepping dinner, he waits until I turn my back and then snatches whatever the hell he wants right off the cutting board. Dave got him hooked on oranges and bananas. It's like crack to him. If he hears that snapping sound bananas make when you start to peel them, he flies into the kitchen. If he smells oranges, same deal. I've had to start taking his munching into account when I draw up my grocery lists, lol.

Right now the drooling behemoth is sleeping across my calves. I lost feeling in them half an hour ago. There's no moving him so I'm pinned here until His Majesty decides to wake. At least I've got my laptop with me. Oh, and the remote, cell phone, and a glass of tea within arm's reach. Heaven help me if I have to potty...

Bedrest

So Monday evening the Migraine Fairy visited and whacked me with her Migraine Stick. I really thought I'd maybe, you know, grown out of my migraine phase since it's been years since I had one. I still get the occasional killer headache but nothing like the horrendous migraines that I used to get in middle and high school where I'd black out in one eye, have nosebleeds, incessant dry heaving, etc for hours on end.

Anywho. This one was bad on a colossal scale and I spent the night vomiting/dry heaving/weeping. Bosley was super confused by the whole situation and did a lot of nervous pacing and whining. Dave was at work, and I'm sort of ridiculous about asking for help when I obviously need it. Had I simply called and said, hey, um I'm dying, he would have been home as soon as possible, but yeah, I felt guilty about asking him to come home because I'm weird like that. In hindsight I probably should have gone to the ER.

By the time Dave got home I was passed out in bed. Let's just say that he was none too pleased that I allowed myself to get to the point of exhaustion/dehydration I'd reached. Just going to vote yesterday evening almost made me pass out but I'm such a civic duty nutter that I just *had* to go.

Today I'm in still in crap shape and confined to bed per Dave's orders. I'm rehydrating, eating, and resting. For once I'm not fighting him on something. I hope he doesn't get used to it, lol.

Vote!!!

Fellow Texans, time to get out those voter registration cards (or your driver's license if you've lost your card, you know, like me) and head to your polling place! Dave and I are heading out to vote as soon as he gets home from his shift. We're voting at a community center in W. although, technically, we live in CS. Sort of. Kind of. It's hard to explain...

Oh, and am I the only person who thinks it odd that churches can be polling places? That is so bizarre. You'd think that whole separation of church and state would come into play...

Sven Says Sweat!!!

Today is the kickoff of the 70 Days of Sweat Challenge!!!! If you're curious, I blogged about this a few post ago so scroll down. Basically between March 1 and March 16 (really 77 days, but there are 7 off days built into the challenge) you challenge yourself to write 850-1500 words per day. The ultimate goal is to finish a novel during the challenge.

I have two goals. The most important is to write 1500 words per day. I don't care how those 1500 words are allocated. I just need to get them done because I've got projects lined up, and I'm running up against deadlines (internal and external.) My second goal is to finish my YA novel.

I will freely admit that I don't do well when told that I have to create x number of words in y amount of time. Between 1445 and 2100, I wrote 47 words. Yeah. I know. I had a holy poo moment too. Finally I switched on some Explosions in the Sky, closed all my browser windows, poured some ice tea, ate a handful of dried cranberries and forced myself to stop dicking around. Between 2100 and 1200, I wrote 2849 words. Woo-hoo!!!

I think I've earned a Perez Hilton break...

Stop! Drop! And Roll!

Not much to blog about today. I need to write, write, write! Still, I thought I'd leave you with this gem of an experience:

An hour ago I was making some post-marital-relations quesadillas and I caught my hair on fire. Yeah. Not fun times. I have long hair (I'm about to chop it off and donate it to Locks of Love) and I bent to set an armload of ingredients on the counter and my loose locks danced across the burner. I heard a sizzle, saw smoke, and whipped my head away from the stove. I smacked the ends of my hair with a pot holder just to be on the safe side.

I should also point out that during this terrifying episode Dave was sitting maybe five feet from me and never once realized anything was wrong.

Me: Holy shit! I just caught my hair on fire!
Dave: I thought I smelled something burning.

Sigh. At least he's calm in a crisis.

Pushed

Lately I've been doing a lot of reading about fertility and naturally that topic lends itself to the topic of childbirth. Most people who know me know that I'm not an advocate of unnecessary medical intervention. If you're in dire need of medical care or it's an emergency, then yes, absolutely, use medical advances to your benefit.

Personally, I rarely take pain meds or medications unless I absolutely need them. Currently I take the minimal amount of HRT meds to balance the hormonal issues caused by my craptastic reproductive system. I'm eligible for meds to treat hirsutism, hot flashes, etc, but I declined them. I'm not pumping my body full of medications to treat vanity issues.

As far as pain meds are concerned, I had five teeth removed (four wisdom and one tooth damaged by a wisdom tooth) and other than the conscious sedation used in the actual removal and one vicodin as I left the dentist's office, I took absolutely nothing else during my recovery. I also had a bulging disk once and took only one Skelaxin (muscle relaxer) but then trashed them because they made me feel out of control. I chose physical therapy instead and I had immediate pain relief.

Anywho. Off topic. Back on track.

A lot of the women in my infertility support group have suggested that I read Pushed by Jennifer Block and watch the documentary The Business of Being Born. Well, I did, and holy shit am I disgusted. Last summer I read a World Health Organization report ranking developed countries and maternal/fetal death rates. Quite frankly, we suck at providing women proper medical care. We have the 2nd highest rate of fetal death in the developed world but spend twice as much money on prenatal care and birth. WTF? Our rates of maternal death are among the worst as well.

It's really eye-opening when you read the research on developed nations and maternal care. Across Europe and Japan 70-80% of all births are attended by midwives; in the US only 8% are attended by midwives. Most developed nations reserve OB care for women in high risk pregnancies. C-Section rates in these countries are in the single digits (6-8%) but in the US 1/3 of all births are C-section births. Some hospitals in metropolitan areas that allow so-called "designer births" (when the woman chooses her due date) have C-section rates of 46-50%. Digest that. It's insane.

The most sobering facts presented in the documentary occurred during the interviews with prestigious OB's who freely admit that c-section rates are so high because there's less chance of litigation and it's just easier for the doctor. One doctor talks about the recent studies showing that c-sections spike at 4 pm and 10 pm. Uh-huh. He explains the obvious: some doctors just want to go home. While I applaud this OB for being honest, I thought he was a fucking prick for saying that women who champion the cause of natural birth are, and I quote, "Feminist Masochists."

Feminist Masochist. For what? Trusting that her body is capable of giving birth? For refusing unnecessary intervention?

Another well-documented point in all of the childbirth literature and research I've read is the fact that the modern medical approach to labor and delivery applies time constraints to a natural process. Rather than allowing women to progress at their own pace, hospitals have time frames for each stage of labor. You have to dilate and deliver in a certain amount of time. This is a PUSHED BIRTH.

It goes like this. You check in. Your contractions are close but you're not dilating fast enough so they push Pitocin. Because you didn't get to ease into more powerful contractions, the pain is often too much so you opt for an epidural. The epidural impedes the progression of labor so they give you more Pitocin. Pitocin contractions are stronger and longer than contractions caused by natural oxytocin so the baby experiences longer decreases in blood and oxygen caused by the contracting uterus. This can lead to fetal distress which then causes the doctor to perform an emergency c-section.

I've just desribed the birthing experiences of two very close friends (related to me in excruciating detail) and what I suspect may have happened to a third. Oh, and Pitocin usage requires constant fetal monitoring and usually the insertion of an intrauterine pressue tube monitor thing. Once you're hooked up to all of these tubes and machines you're confined to the bed.

That flat on your back and push business has perplexed me since I was a kid. When my mom was pregnant with Tricia, I was old enough to understand all that baby business and I couldn't for the life of me understand how horizontal was better than vertical for pushing an object out of a tight tunnel. Seriously, folks, I put a tennis ball in a pipe to test my theory. When it was flat, the ball was stuck. If I shifted the pipe, the ball fell out. Hmmmm. Gravity. Interesting.

The Lithotomy position (ladies, we all know this one: legs in stirrups) seems counterproductive. We know that it causes the pelvis to narrow and that it basically causes the baby to be born at an upward angle. It also encourages the use of episiotomy (OUCH!), forceps, and vacuuming. What gives?

You know, one of the best segments in the documentary is when this one OB encourages his patient to use a midwife. He offers to be the back-up physician should any need arise. (As it happens, he is needed. The midwife is so calm and professional. She assesses her patient, notes that she's 4 cm dilated, and that the baby is breech. Based on that information, she makes the decision to go straight to the hospital rather than risk the baby.)

From the moment Dave and I discussed having children, he wanted to attempt a home birth. He's also of the belief that pregnancy isn't an illness and shouldn't be treated like one. I was so relieved. I've always liked the idea of birthing at home but usually when I admit that to friends/family I get these patronizing pats or tirades on the danger, because, you know, I'm not intelligent enough to have educated myself.

Obviously if we're high risk (which is a real probability) then we're using our current OB/GYN/Fertility Specialist. If we manage to conceive and I don't have high blood pressure, gestational diabetes, or god forbid, a litter, then we'll probably use one of the midwives serving our area. Texas licenses midwives the same way they do medics and other health professionals so I'm assured of getting quality care. And, of course, I absolutely trust Dave's judgment as to the health and welfare of myself and any child we might have. I know that at the first hint of a complication, he would call an ambulance. We're less than five minutes from CSMED which has a NICU so thankfully that's not an issue.

So. That's that. Those are my thoughts on the issue. Please, no flames.

I leave you with Dr. Marsden Wagner's (Former Director of Women & Children's Health for the World Health Organization for 15 years) quote: If you really want a humanized birth, the best thing to do is get the hell out of the hospital.

One Woman's Cacophony...

Seriously, folks, I have nothing of consequence to blog about. Yesterday Dave and I picked out paint colors, priced mulch and ornamental plants, and chose the landscaping edgers we want. Bosley got two new toys, a knotted rope about 2 1/2 feet long and a squeaky bouncy ball. He went ape-shit when he realized the ball bounced AND squeaked. You should see a 120 plus pound puppy leaping and growling and running circles around a ball. It's hilarious and terrifying. Oh, and everyone warned me about Great Danes having deadly tails. They were soooo effing right. We almost lost a window and mini-blind during the Bos' Ball Dance. I almost lost an eye this afternoon; Dave is buying me goggles so I can continue working from the couch.

Steph, my SIL, and I were discussing music earlier this evening. Any time I discuss my musical tastes or share my playlists, I get these weird, WTF looks. My current writing playlist:

Hong Kong Garden by Siouxsie & The Banshees
Whatever Happened by The Strokes
An Ending (Ascent) by Brian Eno
Djobi Djoba by The Gipsy Kings
Love to Love You Baby by Donna Summer
The Greatest by Cat Power
Caughty By the Fuzz by Supergrass
Nighttiming by Coconut Records
Thais: Meditation by Yo-Yo Ma & Kathryn Stott
The Front Porch Song by Robert Earl Keen
Porterville by CCR
Inna-I-Malak by Azam Ali
Mystery Man by Terje Rypdal
Into Dust by Mazzy Star
Us & Them by Pink Floyd
Hoppipolla by Sigur Ros
Navajo Joe by Enrico Morricone
Returns A King by Tyler Bates
The Funeral by Band of Horses
So Long, Lonesome by Explosions in the Sky
Making Plans for Nigel by XTC
Storm by Godspeed You! Black Emperor
Fix You by Coldplay
The Drugs Don't Work by The Verve
Who Were You Thinking Of by The Texas Tornados
Dream by Alice Smith

I have something like 12 gigs of music in Itunes right now so I'm constantly shaking up my playlists. Even so this is how random they usually are. Dave can't stand it. I get a lot of, "Woman! Why?"

My answer: Why not?

Look, Ma! Real Journalism!

So Sunday morning (like 4ish) I was watching the recast of Saturday night's Bill Moyers Journal episode. (Sigh. Yes. I know. I know. I'm an uber-nerd. Yeah. I listen to NPR too. Naff off!)

The first segment was an expose conducted by staffers at the Seattle Times concerning earmarks. I've always been curious about earmarks, but they're a super shady slice of government pie. It's nearly impossible to glean any info about them from the yearly budget reports. After watching the segment, I understood why.

There are two particular parts of this expose that really pissed me off. Basically a member of congress earmarked millions of dollars for this helmet-mounted display for soldiers on the battlefield. Funny thing: the soldiers testing it said it was absolute crap. But because the earmark was part of the DOD budget, the army was forced to buy the displays and then chunked them in a warehouse.

Secondly, another congressman earmarked millions of dollars that forced the Marines to purchase--get this--t-shirts. You're probably thinking, so what? Well, uh, t-shirts are made of polyester, and guess what? Polyester burns. Gee. What do soldiers outside the wire not need to wear? Yeah. Flammable clothing. I couldn't believe that the reporters had to explain this for viewers. I've been accused of lacking common sense, but even I've known since I was a kid that cheap t-shirts are flammable. So yeah. The Marines purchased the shirts but then couldn't use them. Or rather, the Marines refused to wear them.

I can think of lots of better ways to spend millions of dollars of the Defense budget, like, oh, on fixing up the shatty VA system or increasing the educational benefits for National Guard soldiers. (Don't even get me started on that one. I almost puked when Ash explained how badly National Guard soldiers get shafted on that one....on a lot of stuff actually. It's despicable.)

Anywho. The second segment is the most interesting. Sarah Chayes is a former award-winning journalist who now lives and works in Afghanistan. Her experiences in Afghanistan are amazing. She went to cover the war and never left. After rebuilding towns and schools and such, she opened a cooperative to give Afghan farmers an alternative to opium production.

We don't hear a lot about Afghanistan anymore. I think a lot of people assume everything is sunshine and ponies over there, but it's far from it. I only know one person who has actually been there, but I've never asked about her experiences. I find it distasteful to ask servicewomen and men to rehash their tours of duty. That might just be one of my quirks, but whatever.

At any rate, if you have 25 minutes, watch Sarah's segment on Bill Moyers. It's awesome and seriously educational. In this election cycle, it can't hurt to be an educated voter.

Yakkety Yak

Not much to post today. I can't believe I'm sharing this story but here it is: This afternoon Bosley yakked on my head. Now, I don't know if you've ever seen a Great Dane vomit, but it's a sight both horrific and awesome. We're talking half a gallon of soupy dog food, Cheeto remnants, grass, and mud exploding on the back of my head with each lurch. For the record, he lurched 2.5 times.

You're probably asking yourself, "How the hell did the dog hit the back of her head, and why the hell didn't she move?"

Answer: I like to sit on the floor in front of my coffee table with my laptop resting on the surface, legs stretched out beneath the table. When I'm in that position, I'm basically rendered immobile. Or, at least, it's tough to move quickly. Also Bosley likes to sit next to me and rest his chin on the top of my head. I'm not sure why he does that, but whatever.

It was a nice afternoon so I left the back door open so Bos could run back and forth between the house and the backyard. It's easier than getting up every ten minutes to open the door. Normally I take away his food and water when he's racing around the back yard. (Danes can develop bloat and torsion if they do a lot of running after eatng. Bloat and torsion can be fatal and usually is.) I totally spaced today so he was able to eat and drink and run around. He raced into the living room, skidded into the couch, and then slammed his drool-dripping chin onto my head. I sighed and gave him a soft shove on the shoulder. He grumbled and burped (smelled like burnt tires, I swear) and then dry heaved. I tried to clamber away, but there was no time. I got hosed.

I'm sooooo glad that I'm not a sympathetic puker. To be fair to Bos, dog yak isn't the worst thing that I've been sprayed with in my lifetime. During high school, I spent hundreds of hours in the back of an ambulance and during that time I was hosed/splashed/sprayed/misted with various bodily fluids including but not limited to: a blood geyser caused by a shotgun wound to the head (that was my first call ever, btw), a four year old with a hellacious tummy ache and apparently a penchant for 7Up and animal crackers, the clumpy yellow contents of an exploding NG tube (happened maybe ten minutes into a fifty minute transport,) poo vomit from an elderly patient with some horrendous kind of blockage that caused her poo to literally back up and well you get the picture, and the sympathetic vomit from the medic riding the poo vomit call with me.

In case you're wondering, I don't miss those days. Not one bit. I'm quite content to concern myself the gastric explosions of Bos, on occasion Dave-o, and maybe someday kids.

Age of Consent

Lately I've been doing a lot of thinking, mainly existential thoughts of little or no use. (Damn you, Kierkegaard!!!) A few weeks ago at Ash's baby shower, I had one of those "holy shit, we're grown-ups" moments. I didn't like it. It gave me the squicks.

Sara, Ash, and I were standing in Ash's parents' kitchen, and rather than talking about the usual stuff (movies, TV, music, juicy gossip about so-and-so,) we were discussing our 401(k) plans, mutual funds, and filing Homestead papers. I know! It's sick, right? Ash was the first to catch on to the absolute ickiness of the discussion and made a comment to that end. We laughed about it, but it stuck with me. Someone, I think it may have been Ash's grandmother, remarked that she'd never seen such young women discussing those kinds of things.

Between the three of us we've mastered the Trifecta of Adulthood: Marriage, House, and Baby. Ash and I are tied; she has the marriage and baby, and I have the house and marriage. Sara has the house. Oh, and a riding lawn mower which, quite frankly, might be a better deal than a husband. At least some days, lol.

Almost two years ago, Sara made the first jump into adulthood when she bought a house. (She was 21-22ish.) A year later and aged 23, I was the second to buy a house and the first to get married. Ash (23) and Ryan married a month later and had Nick six days ago. (I hear the little guy totally rocks, by the way.)

So I don't know. Are we accomplishing the big "adult" hurdles earlier than previous generations? Are we the norm or the exception? Am I disgusted and totally freaked out by the fact that I not only bought but frequently wear (around the house, never in public) a, gulp, Fair Isle hoodie? Did my fist-pumping, Damn-the-Man-screaming, bohemian/emo youth just shoot me the finger and call me a consumer whore before making a mad dash out the nearest door? And why the hell was my youth murmuring something about Project Mayhem and soap?

When I mention these fears/worries to Dave, he tells me I'm overreacting and that this is just life. You get older. Life goes on. Yeah, well, I then have to remind Dave that his outlook is fine for, you know, someone as old as he is. (He tends to make The Face when I remind him of the age difference. Sometimes I point it out just to giggle at The Face, lol.)

Who knows. Dave's probably right. Even so, I'm clinging to the final vestiges of my youth with a death grip. And yeah, I'm totally going to mourn the day I lose the right to check the 18-24 age range box. 25-30? The HORROR!

Furry Faux Pas

*Disclaimer: This first paragraph may contain some language that offends. Seriously, though, I'm not sure the "appropriate" terms are any less crass and/or offensive.*

It's come to my attention that Bosley has absolutely no grasp on social mores. He sees absolutely no issue with flopping onto the couch or carpet, rolling onto his back and gyrating. It's like watching a Scooby Doo/Ron Jeremy/Chippendale hybrid. All guests of the house are instantly treated to an enthusiastic crotch and/or crack sniff, and the last time poor Sara came to the house, Bosley made quite a show of auto-fellating and tossing his own salad. She took it in stride, but I was mortified when he then proceeded to attempt to lick Sara's hand. Ew! I know!

I know short of making him some doggie tightie-whities there's really nothing I can do to curb his exhibitionist tendencies. Sometimes I even envy him a bit. Ah, to enjoy that sort of public freedom...

Dave and I are trying to get Bosley out more. He needs a little social interaction, but I've been wary since he tends to panic when in new situations or around other dogs. Until this week, he's flatly refused to get into the truck to go anywhere. It was an absolute nightmare to get him into the truck to go back to E-Town, or hell, even to go to the vet which is right down the street. Dave usually resorts to hefting the dog over one shoulder to get him in the truck. (Lift with your knees, Dave-O! Lift with your knees!)

Yesterday Dave and I decided to head over to Chick-Fil-A for a late lunch. On a whim, we decided we'd take Bos with us. Eventually we managed to get him in his harness--he thinks it's a chew toy, but seriously, if you have a big dog or a leasher jerker, get one! They're amazing!

Where was I? Oh, right. Bos in harness. So I walked him outside, fully prepared to drag his huge butt over to the truck, but he surprised me by trotting right over to the passenger door. I opened the door, he climbed in and we took off. Dave and I were shocked.

There was a slight moment of panic went we went through the drive-thru. The second he heard that scratchy speaker voice, Bos' ears perked and he gave that low growl he does before he starts bellowing. Luckily he stayed calm and only did a small bark when he saw the guy taking orders at window.

Oh, and the cashier girl handed Dave one of those bone shaped treats with our order. (Odd, I know, but I guess they see a lot of dogs?) Dave held the bone out to Bosley, and I'll be damned if he didn't give a sniff and haughtily toss his head. Apparently Ol' Roy treats are beneath him.

You know, I think I spoil him too much. In the beginning, Dave and I gave Bosley the best of everything because we felt so freakin' bad for him. He looked so pathetic when we adopted him because he'd been so badly mistreated at that effing puppy mill. Organic shampoo and conditioner, super premium dog food, tons of toys, the best vet, lots of snuggles--there was nothing we denied him. I realize now that I've turned Bosley into the Veruca Salt of Great Danes. "I want it now!"

All along Dave quietly warned me that all the things I found so cute in my fifty pound puppy were going to be annoying when he was one hundred pounds. Did I listen? No. Am I paying for it now? Yeah. The lesson: If we ever have kids, all things in moderation.

A (Not So) Glamorous Life

Two bits of news before the main post:

1) The Ash gave birth to The Baby Nick via C-section at 0323 this morning! He's a big boy (21 inches, 9 lbs 2 oz), and from what I hear from his uber-proud mommy, a real cutie! Congrats to Ash and Ryan!!!!

2) Apparently I dropped a plastic blister pack containing a 25 Pounds or Under dose of Heartgard on the floor. Dave saw it but didn't pick it up. Bosley, however, did find it and ate the entire thing. Yes plastic and all. Sigh. Luckily the extra Heartguard dose isn't a problem, but I'll give you one guess about who is now on Poop Watch '08. Her name starts with an "M" and ends with "aria is irked and grossed out."

Now onto the promised post by J. Scalzi. I've never read any of his books (I'm not a sci-fi fan) but I heart his blog. Recently he posted an entry on money and writing. Ah, yes, one of the evils that plagues artists, specifically that there never seems to be enough of it, the money that is.

His first piece of advice is priceless and sadly so effing true: You're a writer. Prepared to be broke. You know, I'm not sure where this romanticized view of writers lounging all day in their pajamas while sipping champagne and eating Teuscher truffles comes from, but it's so far from the truth that it's laughable. Folks, I sit my chubby butt in front of my laptop 10-14 hours a day (sometimes more if I'm on a writing jag) with no guarantee that I'll ever get paid for my work. My first published novella, Nocturnal Obsession, was written in three days, but some of my longer works (like my novel Sangre which was shopped around by my agent, generated interest from multiple editors, but never made it through the buying committee) took months of schlepping and revising and editing to finish--and never made me a freakin' dime. One word for that: demoralizing. But I love writing and telling stories so I just keep after it. I'm finally at a point where I'm making money but it's hardly enough to support me.

Which brings me to Scalzi's third piece of advice: Marry (or otherwise shack up with) someone sensible with money, who has a real job. I totally lucked out with Dave-O. He happily supported my broke ass for years before we were married and never complained. He seems to think my bad ass cooking and, uh, well, other skills, are a fair trade, but I'll be the first to admit that it was, at times, difficult to realize that I had zero income. Again, I was lucky because Dave never made me ask for money (like some asshat men do.) We paid our bills and then split whatever was left over as discretionary spending. By the end of this year, I hope to generate enough writing income to cover 1/3 of our monthly expenses. That doesn't sound like a very lofty goal, but for a writer, it's huge. And really I can't complain. I've had a relatively easy time of starting my writing career. I know writers who worked ten to fifteen years before finally getting an agent or publishing a book. I started at 21ish and sold my first book at 23. Not bad really.

The rest of Scalzi's post concerns good money management and tips that most people would benefit from using. Dave and I laughed as we went through them because we do all of them. We are so freakin' frugal it's almost sad at times. We don't have cable or satellite. We don't go out to dinner or the movies more than 4-5 times a year. We don't use credit cards. We've had the same furniture for years, and lemme tell you, it desperately needs replacing. But until we have the cash in hand, we're happy making do. I know a lot of people don't get that but we'd rather be happy with what we have than unhappy and stressed over bills for shit we don't need.

If you're interested in writer incomes and/or pay schedules here are two illuminating posts:

Jim C. Hines: The Money Post

Jennifer Jackson (Agent): Advances--What Are They Really Made Of?

Also I'm often asked about royalties. Here's the breakdown:

Digital (e-books): 37.5% of cover price (I heart e-publishing!)
Mass Market Paperback: 6-8% of cover price, but I've seen the number as high as 10% (depends on the number of units sold)
Trade Paperbacks: 7.5% of cover price
Hardcover: 10% of first 5000 copies, 12.5% of next 5000, and then 15% of everything else

Keep in mind that it gets more confusing when you factor in wholesale discounts for books sold to chain stores and such. Also you don't see a penny of your royalties until you've earned through your advance. Oh, and don't forget that out of your royalties you have to pay agent fees (15%) and self-employment taxes.

Sigh. Hardly as glamorous as it seems, eh? Still I wouldn't change it for the world. Well. Okay. I'd change the mediocre royalty checks--but that's it.

Sweatin' With Sven!

OMG! OMG! OMG! The Ash is labor with The Baby Nick!!!! Give it hell, mami!

Bosley went to the vet today. He weighs 118.4 pounds. Yes, that's right. 118 pounds and he's only 11 months old. Great Danes don't finish growing until 18-24 months. He really will be the size of a horse by his 2nd birthday. Oh, and his visit cost us $368. I know, right! His K9 Advantix is $197/six months. When the vet tech gave us the total, Dave balked and said, "Excuse me?"

Oh, and Bosley had to have a blood draw followed by the taking of his temp. Yeah, uh, I'll let you guess where they stick the thermometer. Needless to say Bosley didn't appreciate that unexpected invasion and made quite an interesting face. Dave laughed so hard he almost fell off the chair in the vet's office.

Bosley was a bit jumpy after his vet visit. He was playing with his new stuffed duck (the kind that honks) and I was trying to teach him the word for that particular toy.

Me: Bosley! Duck! Duck!
Bosley reaches down to grab the duck and bring it to me.
Dave shouts: GOOSE!
Bosley jumps four feet and almost pisses himself.

Again, Dave laughed so hard he almost fell but this time onto our bed instead of the floor in the vet's office. Dave's still chuckling to himself over that one. Sigh.

Let's see. What else? Oh. We did our taxes. I don't know why I've always been so frightened of doing them. It was really simple, even the Schedule C bit. We're getting a nice refund too. We're splitting the check and putting half into savings (probably money market) and the other half into the house. Looks like I finally get to paint the interior of the house and Dave-O gets to tackle his landscaping projects.

Oh, and as for the title, well, I decided to join the 70 Days of Sweat Challenge. Basically you finish a book in 70 days. My goal is 1500 words/day on my YA novel. That particular novel has languished on my hard drive for months, begging to be finished. Unfortunately my commitments and contracts in the erotic romance world have kept me from tackling it. By using it as my goal in the Sweating with Sven challenge I have no reason to stall. I have to get off the old keister and work on it.

Of course that means juggling my erotic romance novels and novellas with the YA, but whatever. I'm up for the challenge. Want to know what Dave-O said when I joined the 70 Days of Sweat Challenge?

Dave: Good lord, woman! Why? Ah, hell. Who cares why? I'll pick up more Dr. Pepper in the morning.

He knows me so well, lol.

Anywho. I'm off. I need to find that Scalzi post for tomorrow's blog. Oh, and hopefully I'll have super exciting baby news soon!!! Congrats Ash & Ryan!!!

Keepin' On

First off, thanks to everyone who sent emails, text messages or left comments of support. I heart you guys!

Secondly, well, seems I spoke--or rather wrote--too soon. Not long after I posted my blog on Saturday evening, my grandmother was admitted to the hospital for complications associated with a super bad case of the flu. Her blood pressure is skyrocketing and they think she may have clogged arteries in her neck.

A few hours after that, my cousin, S, had to take her infant son to the ER because milk dribbled into his lungs. (I'm not sure why, but I think it may be something to do with the fact that he was born premature.) He's seriously a miracle baby. He was born so early that he's considered a micro-preemie and spent close to four months in a NICU in San Antonio. Looking at pictures of him is astounding. My mom made little hats for him when he was born (to keep him warm) and she used a tennis ball as the model. Yeah. He was that small. When you look at pictures of him now it's amazing. He's grown soooo much! And he's freakin' cute, lol.

Needless to say, every time my phone rings and I hear my mom's ringtone, I cringe.

In the good news deparment:

Ash's love of her life, fire of her loins is home for the next 2 weeks. He's here for the birth of their son which is so effing exciting--and slightly terrifying, I'm sure.

My brother, Marcos, is getting married! Yay! They're a bit young, but when you're in love, you take risks. I think Dave is relieved to see all of my wedding planning books leaving the house in a small box bound for E-Town, lol.

I finished my edits on Illicit Bargain and sent the blurb off to my editor. It needs a little work but she's phenomenal in that department.

Dave brought home a gorgeous bouquet of tulips on Monday afternoon, just before he left for a half-shift. They are hands-down the most perfect tulips I've ever seen. The petals are a pale blush pink with just the softest tinge of saffron to the tips and the stems are a vibrant apple green. I love them. And I love Dave. He does that a lot. Bring home random gifts, that is. If I ask him why, he'll say, "I thought they looked nice and knew you would enjoy them," or he'll just shrug and say, "Why not?"

In the iffy news department:

We're doing our taxes tomorrow. I thought about going to H&R block again but then I found out that they charge by the form. We need like a million forms this year so I don't think so. I asked around and everyone recommends Turbo Tax. I figure I'm intelligent enough to read directions and/or look up tax code. If I'm not 100% certain then we'll go to a professional.

Bosley goes to the V-E-T tomorrow. Since he packs on weight like a Sumo wrestler at Golden Corral, we have to take him every few months to be weighed and have his meds adjusted. He also has to be heartworm tested tomorrow which means a blood draw. Can you say nightmare? He also knows the word "vet" which is why Dave and I have to spell it. I'm not kidding. I said, "Dave, I need to make a vet appointment," and Bosley almsot snapped his neck when he whipped it around to glare at us. So now "vet" is classified in the same column as "bath." We don't say those words aloud. Not unless we want to chase a panicking horse through the house...

All right. That's all for today. I'm going to hunt down an interesting blog post by J. Scalzi so I can reference it tomorrow in my blog. He's been discussing the need for self-employed folks (like writers) to marry well. It's generating a bit of debate, lol. More importantly, Scalzi is a hilarious writer so his posts are seriously giggle inducing. But more on that tomorrow...

Bummed

I know I said I was going to blog on self-prescribing asshats, but issues arose and, well, I'm just not in the blogging mood. In the last two weeks, I've been inundated with crap news. It's definitely affecting my writing.

First my brothers' and sister's godfather passed away. He was a rather important and constant figure in my childhood and teenage years. He was also one of my father's dearest friends, and such a good man when it came to my brothers and sister. I was shocked when I learned that he died. I knew he was sick, but he always seemed too contrary to pass. His death has revived my fears about my father's health and the long-term effects of his diabetes. But that's another post for another time...

Secondly my muse died. I mean that literally. I was basing a character in my next novella on this certain person, and yeah, he unexpectedly dropped dead. So now I've had to abandon that manuscript because it creeps me out to even think about writing steamy scenes based on character who is no longer living.

Third, on Thursday morning, I received horrible news from home. It was the kind of heartbreaking news where you can't even think of a reply. You just sit there, holding the phone and sobbing. I'm not going to elaborate on the news because it isn't mine to share and it's a sensitive subject. I feel helpless in that I want so badly to be able to take away the pain that this person is feeling, but there isn't anything I can say or do that will fix what has happened. I think that if I were in this person's position I would want privacy so that's what I'm doing. I'm not going to call or bother her. It's the least I can do.

Oh, and my brother, Joey, was laid off on Friday. He's super down about it. He really loved that job. I have no idea what he'll do now. There isn't exactly a great job market in E-Town. I think he may have to entertain the idea of moving. At least he doesn't have a family to support...

So I'm taking a few days off. I'll try to think of something witty for Monday evening. Until then I'm going to saturate myself in Dr. Pepper, Vodka, and Oreos (no, not all at once) and snuggle up between Dave-O and Bos. L8R.

My Tennis Ball. You Like?

Short post today. I was on a writing binge today and cranked out four chapters of my latest novel. Holy shat are my wrists and fingers on fire! Seriously. This is insane. Weird thing is--I'm desperate to keep writing, but for the sake of my hands, I'm forcing myself to stop.

Sigh. This is what happens when Dave is gone for extended periods of time, and I have no other way to, uh, amuse myself.

On a totally cool note, my sister-in-law, Stephanie, is like a freakin' awesome photog. During the most recent round of wildfires in CA, she took some super nifty pics. I'm talking National Geographic quality shots. She really has a knack for grabbing the perfect angle, the best lighting, and the most interesting subjects. Her pic of Max, one of their Vizslas, was featured on deviantART.

All right. That's all for tonight. I'm going to snuggle with Bos and watch some DVDs. Oh, and tomorrow I'm going to do a mini-rant on the asshats who self-prescribe fertility medications via online pharmacies. Asshats!

Bibliophile

As I'm writing this I'm staring at about, oh, one-tenth of my library collection. I can't even begin to explain how incredibly giddy I am to finally see my books on our huge bookshelf. See, my mom's family are book people. Over the years my grandparents have amassed an astonishing collection of hardbound books, most of them pre-1940, first editions, rare, or signed. When my grandmother passed away, I learned that I was to inherit their book collection. Since then containers of books have started trickling back to Texas after visits to Ohio. Mom kept them safe for me, and now that I have my own house and tons of room, they're slowly making their way here.

Dave and I unpacked 220 books the other evening. He's as much of a bibliophile as I am--actually more. He reads all the time. Me, well, I write all the time. I have a rule that I never read any non-research materials while writing a manuscript. Just the thought of subconscious influence and/or borrowing makes me cringe. It happens to writers all the time. Usually we catch it in edits but god help you if it makes it to your editor. Yikes!

So anyways... We unpack the books, marvel at the smell of the paper, the aged tinge on the bindings. It's lovely. I smile every time I find a book with a publish date earlier than 1900. I laugh when I uncover the tattered copy of Little Women that I read at least twenty times during middle school. Dave gasps when he finds a copy of Summer of the Monkeys. As I near the bottom of the last crate, I grow sad. It's been like Christmas, you know?

Dave and I now realize that we desperately need more book cases. We still have boxes and boxes of books in the garage (paper backs mainly, lots of newer fiction and dozens of EMS and college textbooks) and hundreds, hell, maybe even thousands of books still coming from Ohio.

I'm beginning to realize that Dave-O and I really need to come up with a cataloguing and shelving system for the books. Right now they're just sort of haphazardly placed on the shelves. I haven't the slightest idea how to approach this issue. My first thought was the good ole Dewey Decimal system--but then I realized that I would prefer to separate the books by frequency of use. You know, like, my favorite paperbacks on easily accessible shelves. So I don't know. We'll play it by ear I guess.

And now I'm thinking that I should check with my homeowner's insurance policy about the books. I haven't the foggiest idea what this part of the collection is worth. Sigh. Yet another entry for my impossibly long To-Do list.

Speaking of which--I should really get back to work. I received my edits for Illicit Bargain last night. The copy is fairly clean so there aren't any major revisions/edits needed. I can't tell you how giddy that makes me. I loathe edits, lol. I hate them so much that I tend to procrastinate. Of course, Dave knows this so he's been bugging me all day about getting my edits done and sent back to Kelli K, my editor. Yeah. He can be annoying sometimes, but he says he does it out of love. Yeah. Right.

So to keep the love of my life, fire of my loins off my case, I'm signing off for the night. Do svidanya!

All Quiet on the Western Front, My Beloved Treasure

Not a lot to report today. I worked until 0300, fell asleep around 4, and was up and working by 1115. I was actually quite surprised to get seven hours of sleep. Lately I've been in one of those 4 hours of sleep, 20 hours awake cycles that I despise. 'Course those wacko sleep cycles mean I've captured the Inspirado and I'm writing like a crazy woman.

Bosley took advantage of the nice weather today and spent two hours outside. He loves it out there, but man is he rough on grass! When we had the back sod put down (in August?) he would drag entire squares of sod around the back yard. I would have to chase after him, drag them back into place, and hope to god Dave didn't notice when he came home from a shift. Nowadays he's so big and heavy that his strides throw up massive clods of grass and dirt. It doesn't help that the lawn is soaked from the recent rains.

His digging genes seem to have kicked in during the last few weeks. There is nothing quite so terrifying as glancing toward the backyard and seeing your 36"tall (from feet to shoulders) Great Dane standing in a trench that's deep enough that you only see his head peeking over the sod. Seriously--our back yard looks like a shooting location for Im Westen nichts Neues. I'm just waiting for some stunt guy to start setting off mustard gas squibs.

Needless to say Dave and I are considering renting out Bosley as a gravedigger/landscaper. We have to pay for new sod somehow.

So anywho--Bos is digging today, but I can't see him because I'm not facing the back window and I'm busy revising my opening scene. He gallops throught the back door, slides across the linoleum in the kitchen, ricochets off a wall, and races into the living room. He trots over to me and drops a seven pound "gift" in my lap. At first I'm stunned. What the hell is that thing? The more I look at it, the more it starts to resemble, well, a human femur.

Suddenly I have one of those The 'Burbs moments. You know what I mean. "Ray, there's no doubt anymore. This is real. Our neighbors are murdering people. They're chopping them up. They're burying them in their backyard. Ray...this Walter!"

I jump up, take the possible femur into the kitchen and start knocking chunks of reddish clay off the outside of it. My mind is racing with paranoid thoughts. I remember our sales agent's shifty eyes when I asked what, exactly, was on this tract of land before we put our house on it. Those bastards, I think, they did build our houses on top of Indian burial grounds!

And then I realize that it's just a really strangely shaped root/stick that had lumps of clay on either end. I heave a sigh of relief, step out onto the patio, and hurl the femur stick over the back fence. That's when I see Bosley's latest trench. I tried to explain to him that the Germans aren't, in fact, advancing on our Western Front. He can cancel his order for barbed wire and scrap the plans for the machine gun nests. Im Westen nichts neues meine liebe Schaetzen, I tell him.

Anyways. So before I go I have to pass along this hilarious quiz: How Many Five Years Old Could You Take In A Fight? Try it. You'll laugh your ass off. I did.

18

Since My Last Post...

I have learned:

1) That Dave is a Rhesus monkey. Seriously. The man is a walking petri dish. In November, he brought home some vile plague/influenza/Oregon Trail-esque dysentery hybrid. I was sick for seventeen days. It was horrid. Oh, and it completely effed up my plans to spend a weekend with The Ash in Houston. There was no way I was going to risk infecting Ash since she's, you know, preggers.

2) I can buy a Decon Shower (perfectly sized to fit on our front porch) for $1095! (See Point Number One.)

3) I have the same psycho reaction to Nyquil as I do to Benadryl. As a child, I was given Benadryl twice--as in two doses over 18 years. The first time I was a toddler, and instead of becoming drowsy, I became a super-charged, babbling, rampaging terror. My mother still talks about it with a tremble of fear in her voice. When I contracted chicken pox at nine, I was subjected to oatmeal baths and that icky pink lotion to cool the annoying itch. Eventually Mom caved and gave me the Benadryl--and, well, I became a 9 year old super-charged, babbling, rampaging terror.

Sometime between my childhood and young adulthood my reaction to Benadryl changed. During my freshman semester, I couldn't sleep so Lauren (my roomie) gave me two Benadryl capsules, certain they would knock me out. Yeah. Well. Not so much. I was awake for, like, two days and had the most bizarre hallucinations. Seriously. Green elephants and talking spiders and a dancing desk. Needless to say, Benadryl is now on my "NEVER TAKE THIS" list.

It appears that Nyquil is going to be the newest addition to said list. While I was suffering from the Oregon Trail-esque plague, Dave advised me to have a few Nyquil shooters and call it a night. They put me to sleep quickly, but when I woke a few hours later and stumbled to the bathroom, I realized that something was off. It wasn't until I was stumbling back to bed and happened to look out the window that I realized what, exactly, was wrong. See I saw not one, not two, but a horde of Death Eaters (yes, those Death Eaters) in our backyard. I freaked the fuck out. I mean, I was trembling and hyperventilating and on the verge of a full out panic attack.

Dave, bleary-eyed and congested: What's wrong?
Me, whispering in a paranoid panic: There are Death Eaters in the back yard!!!!
Dave: Right. I'm going back to sleep.

He turned over and was out in a millisecond. When I asked him about it in the morning, he was like, Huh? (He does that a lot. Has lucid conversations in his sleep without remembering the next day, that is.)

4) Bosley has a drag queen streak in him. No, really. See he has this favorite sheet. (It belongs to my once-favorite set of t-shirt bed sheets. They're so pretty! They're blue with white clouds. And I'm rambling... Back to Bos and the sheet.) He used to sleep curled around it. Then he started chewing on it. Lately he's taken to wearing it. Somehow he manages to put it on so that it looks so flamboyantly camp!

He chewed a hole in one end that's big enough for his head to fit through it. When he manages to work his head through, he looks like a super hero as he lopes around the living room. Other times he wraps it around his torso toga style. On those days I address him as Emperor Bos the Munificent. He's also torn a few strips from the sheet. A few days ago I found him with a strip loosely wrapped around his neck. I panicked like an overprotective mother, of course, but he wasn't in any real danger. He seemed to like it. I realized that he looked like he was wearing a cravat. That made me laugh. I called him Fitzwilliam Darcy, Viscount Bosley that day. He liked that too.

5) Sara is one hell of a lecturer. During our drive to Clear Lake for Ash's baby shower, she filled me in on her PhD work at TAMU. It's so interesting, and more importantly, it has the potential for real impact on the economy, foreign oil policy, and that oh-so-desirable energy independence.

Sara is working on biofuels, specifically biofuels from sorghum. Apparently corn (starch-based) ethanol is crap because it's so inefficient. Cellulose ethanol is way more efficient and produces loads more energy per unit. Why haven't we, the public, heard of this alternative form of ethanol? Let's see. Idiots in DC writing energy policy without any scientific knowledge? Lobbyists pimping corn as the next big thing while pushing for initiatives and grubbing for more subsidies? I could go on....

So Sara is working on the roots of the sorghum. Her goal is to identify specific genes regarding nitrogen efficiency (because the cost of fertilization impacts the overall cost/gallon of fuel) and breed them with plants that are kickass biomass-wise. She'll either end up creating plants that use half as much nitrogen or plants that use the same amount of nitrogen but double their mass.

I know! She's so effing smart! I heart Sara! The earth hearts Sara too!

6) Ash is going to be such a great mom. I know people say that all the time, hoping they're right, but with Ash, I just know. There isn't even a shimmer of doubt. When she talks about Nick, her whole face changes. I can't really explain it, but there's this sharp glimmer of protectiveness, warmth and radiance of unconditional love, and a fierce determination to give him the best life she possibly can. It's a very moving thing to see your friend morphing into a mother.

7) The 28th is my new favorite day of the month. That's the day my royalty check arrives, lol.

8) I seem to have found my literary niche. My first erotic romance novella garnered awesome reviews, the kind that made me cry. I so wanted to brag, but I didn't. I got most of my reviews in November and I just barely got around to sending copies to my mom, lol!

Unfortunately I'm starting to panic about my second novella slated for release in November. I mean, when you get a review that calls you "...an author who has the talent to become quite a voice in erotic romance," well, that's a bit tough to top. So fingers crossed, my newest tale, Illicit Bargain, will be just as well-received as Nocturnal Obsession. (Oh, please, please, please!)

On that note--I should get back to work. I started a new novel yesterday morning, and my characters beckon. And yeah, I've finished my blogging hiatus. New entry tomorrow! Promise!

Hell In A Handbasket

So Dave-O sent me this link for this Dante's Inferno Test. Basically you answer this questionnaire and when you're results are tabulated it tells you which level of Hell you would be sent to. Dave received Level 1 which is Purgatory or basically Summer Camp for Sinners minus the ice cream sandwiches and midnight gropings behind the infirmary. All of his friends were in the 1-4 range it seems. And me? Well. Funny thing...

I've been sentenced to the 7th Level of Hell. I was shocked. Am I really that deviant? I mean, I've had my fair share of fun in my 24 years of life, but the 7th Level? Really? Jeez. I guess that just proves that bookworms really are naughty.

Speaking of HI-larious links! Check these out!

Test your vocabulary skills and earn free rice for the UN!

Take a peek at some truly hideous 1970s Catalogues. Jesus, Maria y Jose! Are these things tacky or are they tacky?!?!

Hiatus

I've been on a self imposed hiatus for the last few weeks. I've got deadlines out the whazoo and if I give myself just the tiniest bit of time to mess around with my blog I always end up on Perez Hilton or some other place I really don't belong. That said, I haven't the foggiest idea of how to pull together my list-o-blog topics. I'll just give a list of entertaining snippets.

I was supposed to spend the weekend with Ash but Dave decided to bring home some vile throat plague on Thursday. Since Ash is uber-preggers it would unbelievably irresponsible of me to expose her to this horrid pestilence so I chose to raincheck on the weekend I’ve been looking forward to for weeks.

Ash has decided that no self-respecting WASP-ish wife can have a kitchen lacking a rooster. We decided that kitchen rooster didn’t have a very good ring to it so we settled on “Kitchen Cock” instead. I quite like the sound of that. At any rate, Ash found her very own Kitchen Cock in Hobby Lobby. I can’t wait to see it.

Ash and Ryan have chosen a baby name. I would announce it—but Ash and I had this big huge discussion about a certain SCRUBS episode and I don’t want to be the one to jinx it. (In that episode, Turk and Carla are discussing baby names and decide on Tiger and Angie, I think. Carla forbids Turk from telling anyone their names in fear of ruining them. Turk, of course, tells JD who ends up suggesting the name Angie to a group of pediatric patients who are playing with a hamster that was removed from a kinky patient’s, uh, well, you know. Anywho…Carla and Turk overhear the kids calling the ass hamster “Angie” and Carla loses it.) Since Ash would cut me if her kid’s name is applied to an ass hamster, I shall remain mum.

Bosley has gotten huge. No, really. Only problem: he doesn’t seem to realize that he is the size of a small horse. He still thinks it’s totally OK to squish himself onto one couch cushion which usually entails pinning me into the other corner of the love seat. He’s also become rather possessive of me. Today Dave and I were sitting on the loveseat while we reconciled our checkbook and updated our financial spreadsheets. Bosley planted his huge bohonkus right in front of Dave and made the whiny “I have to potty” noises until Dave finally got up to let him out. Funny thing—Bosley didn’t have to potty. He just wanted Dave to get up so he could hop onto that cushion and lay claim to me. It’s not as romantic as it sounds… This is yet another reason why Dave has given Bosley the new nickname “Coitus Interruptus.”

Sara graciously donated some super awesome oak bedroom furniture to the "Furnish Our New House" project. Can I just tell you guys how AMAZING Sara looks? No, really. She was, like, glowing. Seriously. Radiant. I haven't seen her like that in a long, long, long, long time. And I totally heart her new haircut. I'm sure it's not that new but it's new to me, lol. Oh, and I can't wait to see her Halloween pics...

I’m ¾ of the way through a new novel and putting together a list of prospective agents. I’m also revising a novella for my editor and polishing a pair of smutty tales for submission near the end of the year. If all goes as planned, I should have 3-5 new novellas/novels contracted for next year. All in all, I’m busy, busy, busy!

Cringe & Insert Foot

Aw, poo. So I made a huge faux pas the other day. Sara stopped by to pick up her ladder and drop off a wedding gift (these super gorgeous, hand-painted bowls) and me being the big dummy that I am said something I shouldn't have. See Sara's bf was planning to buy her a certain birthday gift and had enlisted my help in finding exactly what he wanted. I didn't get to see Sara on her birthday (deadlines, etc) and since then we've been swamped with the craziness of life so I hadn't had a chance to speak with her. So there we were, chatting in the living room, and I asked how she was enjoying this certain gift that I wrongly assumed she had received, and yeah, all I got was a confused stare.

At that point I realized that I'd made an ass of myself. I panicked and rambled for a few minutes before Dave finally stepped in to shift the conversation topic to something else. After Sara left, I almost cried because I felt like such a jerk. Needless to say, I'll be way more careful in the future.

Sorry Sara and Clint! I am a complete dork.

Onto less cringe-worthy news...

Dad was in Tomball this week attending some kind of work conference so he stopped by the house yesterday afternoon. Bosley wasn't quite sure he liked a strange man in the house when Dave wasn't around, but after a couple of hours, they became friends. I have a picture of the pair of them snoring and drooling as they napped side by side on the couch. Dad took Dave and I out to dinner--and OMG I'd forgotten how expensive a steak house can be! Thank goodness it was Dad's treat! At least it was super tasty! Dave turned in early because he had to work today, and Dad and I stayed up watching some crappy B movie called "FANGS" about these mutant bats. It was super goofy but funny in that melodramatic way.

After breakfast, Dad headed back to E-town, but he left me a $50 tip for making breakfast burritos and coffee. Sweet, huh? I see a Lane Byrant shopping trip in my very near future, lol.

OK. I should get back to work. I've been watching Divorce Court and Judge Alex for the past few hours. Enough procrastinating. Must write.

Rainy Days & Mondays

It seems the weather and the weekday are conspiring against me. I've been writing like a fiend these past few weeks, but today I have a super case of the BLAHS. Ugh. This is totally reading weather but I've read, like, four books already this month and am so not in the mood to start another one. I've got plotlines unraveling in my head, but each time I sit down in front of my laptop I draw a blank.

And right now I'm totally watching a creepy spider battle raindrops as it descends on a precariously thin web string. I'm almost tempted to open the window and snap the line in half because I loathe that spider. OK. Not that spider in particular but the brood to which it belongs. They're built like black widows but they're brown with orange spots and have mouths that look exactly like Predator. No really. Exactly like it. A few weeks ago, four of them built their webs over the back door so I couldn't even use my backyard, and they would randomly dive bomb Bosley. A few swipes of the flyswatter and a broom fixed that....

Anyways. Where was I? Oh yeah. The BLAHS. I think I may need to recharge the creative juices. Sometimes when I'm juggling two or three projects I start running out of fresh words and sentence structures. Yeah. Not good. Maybe I'll take the evening off, go see a movie or something with Dave-O. We still haven't gone out to celebrate my birthday, and tonight is as good a night as any.

Oh, and a belated INGADINGADURGEN to you all in recognition of Leif Ericson Day last week! If you're not a Spongebob Fan you won't get that. Pity.

Canine Party Line!

Not a lot to report on this front. My test results came back, and despite my chubbiness, I have excellent cholesterol and triglyceride levels. Hell, even with my family history of diabetes, I have low blood sugar, as in almost hypoglycemic. Weird, huh? The FSH result was better than expected so now I get to start a new prescription regimen that--fingers crossed--will help me out!

I finally finished my latest novella and am currently tweaking the synopsis and blurb before I submit to my editor. I plan on re-working my urban fantasy novel and using that as a platform for querying agents. Hopefully, I'll get a start on that tomorrow or early Saturday. We'll see.

So the other night as I sat typing away at the laptop, Bosley bounded downstairs (he was sleeping upstairs with Dave) and started to do his potty dance. I let him out, gave him a treat, and then decided to peel a kiwi for a late night snack. Before I could even take a bite, Bosley decided that he wanted to go back outside. Rolling my eyes, I let him out and glanced at the clock. It was a little after midnight. I noticed that when Bosley ran outside, he went straight for the middle of the yard and started listening to the cacophany of barking dogs in our neighborhood. During one of the lulls, he started barking, then paused, got a few barks in return, and then barked a few more times. When he was finished, he trotted back inside and flopped down on a couch.

Contemplating what I'd just seen, I leaned against the wall and munched on my curiously ham scented kiwi. Since then, I've realized that he's going outside to gossip! Seriously, my dog is like Perez Hilton, lol. He goes out to get the straight cheese, tells a few secrets of his own (cringe!) and then comes back inside.

Man, I can only imagine what kinds of colorful tales he's spilling about us. Maybe he's only bragging about all the cool toys he has, the nifty treats we give him, and the veritable smorgasbord of yummies he ingests all day. Nah. Who the hell am I kidding? I know he's out there giving them all the juiciest details of his owners' bedroom antics.

No wonder all the dogs in our neighborhood give us The Look when we're checking the mail...

Better Now

I've been a recluse lately, but that's because I've been majorly stressing about a doctor's appointment. This week, I started seeing a new OB/GYN who specializes in infertility. Switching doctors is a major pain, but anyone who has ever dealt with reproductive issues will understand how terrifying it can be. Turns out I was stressing over nothing, lol.

For the first time in my life, I have a doctor who LISTENS! She walked into the exam room, introduced herself, and started chatting with me. We talked about me--occupation, family, marriage, goals, and lastly health issues. I was just waiting for her dismiss my symptoms with the usual reply, "Well, you know you are a fat cow." But she didn't even broach the subject of weight. I was the one who brought it up.

Her reply: You should lose the weight because of a family history of heart disease and diabetes. Losing weight will likely have little effect on your lack of ovulation.

Her nurse's comment: Honey, we get ladies in here every day who are pregnant or TTC who are double your size. We manage, and so can you.

Dr. A didn't try to shove birth control pills down my throat as all my past doctors have. Since I don't ovulate taking BCPs is sort of pointless, you know? That said, we did discuss placing me on them if we can force ovulation. We discussed all sorts of treatment options from medications I might try to more drastic interventions like ovarian drilling (yikes!) or a double wedge resection. Thankfully, those are last resort options. Also she ordered a full blood panel and will be calling me early next week to discuss the lab results and schedule a follow-up.

And, no, Dave-O and I are NOT trying to conceive. Dudes, we haven't even unpacked from the move. Babies are, like, way down the line. Besides, I'm in that "it's irresponsible to conceive when you're overweight" camp. I know. I know. I should support my BBW sisters, but I just can't. Just because you CAN get pregnant, doesn't mean you SHOULD. Flame on...

As I was sitting in the exam room waiting for Dr. A, I could hear the patients on either side of me. One was a youngish sounding woman who was preparing for her first ultrasound. She was on the phone and begging her husband to come, but from what I could tell, he wasn't all that worried about showing up on time. On the other side was a couple who were arguing about having to wait for their doctor. I couldn't hear much of it, but what I did hear was just terrible.

Husband: I wouldn't have to be here right now if you're plumbing wasn't broken.

OMG! I know, right! The tone he used was just, well, scathing. That statement was pretty simple, but the resenment behind it was fierce. I mean, it's pretty obvious that he despises his wife because she's infertile. All I heard after that was her crying.

My first thought was, "You're a dick!" My second thought was, "A baby ain't gonna fix that marriage."

You know I used to have these twinges of guilt because I would think, "I'm going to be the reason Dave doesn't have kids." There was even a time when I thought it would be selfish of me to stay with him since I have compromised fertility...but then he proposed and I realized that he wanted to marry me even though he was totally aware of my issues. I can't even begin to explain how much guilt that alleviated.

Also, I have to give a little shout-out to Ash. Seriously, I don't know what I would do without her. We're both in the same boat: newly married, building/trying to build families, figuring out what the hell life is about, etc. There are things that I can share with her that I can't with anyone else. It's nice to have a friend like that.

I HEART YOU, ASH!!!

Carpet Burns

So I have carpet burns on my right elbow and calf, but I didn't get them in the fun way. I stayed up all night starting a new novella that has to be submitted by September 30 for consideration in an erotic romance anthology, and when the sun came up, I decided that it was time for bed. I let the dog out, gave him a treat, and then we trudged upstairs. After brushing my teeth, I peeled off my scratchy, dry contacts, slipped them in a clean case, and clambered into bed. I had just fallen asleep when Bosley started barking and jumping and slapping the bed because he needed to go out--again.

I tried to convince him that he could wait another hour until Dave-O came home, but no, he wouldn't have any of it. Pissed and grumpy, I stomped out of the bedroom, hands extended as I felt my way along. (I'm nearly blind without my corrective lenses so the world is just a big ole blur when I'm sans contacts.)

Bosley decided it was playtime. He jumped against my back, nipped at my ankles, and was generally being an ass. Being a tired, frustrated bitch, I snapped at him to go downstairs--and he did.

As he bounded down the first two stairs, he bumped against my leg and caused me to lose my balance. I tried to grab the banister, but it was too late. Flailing my arms, I tumbled down the stairs, smacking my butt, my ribs, and cheek. At the very last second, I remembered to pull my head in and managed not to knock myself out when I slammed into the wall on the second landing. (Our staircase is shaped like a square U so you go up seven steps, then there's a landing, then you go up seven more steps and you've reached the second floor.) There I was writhing in pain and bleeding and what is Bosley doing? Barking. Not that playful bark, but that ear-splitting, stomach rattling bellow that he uses when he's afraid or warning us.

After crying for a few minutes, I pulled myself to my knees and managed to crawl down to the first floor. Bosley was still begging to be let out so I made it to the patio door, let him out, and then we headed back upstairs. Bosley seemed to realize that he caused my fall so he hung way back, letting me get all the way to the second floor before he started hopping the steps three and four at a time. I cleaned up the bleeding carpet burns on my arm and leg, rinsed the blood from my mouth (I bit my tongue, I think) and then collapsed into bed. I called Dave, wanting him, needing him--but he wasn't even close to coming home. Surprise, surprise.

I fell asleep and woke up an hour or two later when Dave finally made it home. Then I went back to sleep. I woke up again around 3. I know it's not fair and it's really ridiculous, but I'm still peeved at Dave. Every time I get hurt, he's never around. I've fallen out of showers, cut myself, burned myself, etc, and I always have to deal with it alone. I know. I know. The man works, cut him some slack, blah, blah, blah. How childish, right? But there it is.

Anywho. I should go finish dinner. I may be grumpy with him, but I'm still going to feed him properly--even if I'm hobbling around. For lunch, I made tomato basil bisque and grilled cheese sandwiches. Tonight it's braised ribs, potato salad, garden salad, and something for dessert. Pudding, maybe?

Lots to do. I'm off.

Quarter Century

Today is my parents' 25th Wedding Anniversary!! Congratulations Mom & Dad!!

Having been married just under 3 months, I find the idea of celebrating 25 years thrilling. We'll see if the attitude changes between now and then, though. :)

That's it for today. Back to the cracking that old chestnut...