Phone-a-Brother Lifeline

En route to my Starbucks' escape I call my brother, who is out of town for two weeks, which is why I am here mom- and dog-sitting.

He's a laconic person, with a dry sense of humor, and doesn't talk much. What he has is a deep chortling laugh, and I hear this laugh often during this phone call.

No, Mom never told him that if you put one of those blue toilet-bowl cleaning thingies in the toilet tank that it comes out the kitchen faucet. (I do marvel at her reasoning that the solution was to simply stop using the blue cleaning things - never mind that we were apparently drinking water coming from the toilet!) This has led me to panic somewhat, until talking to plumbing-savvy friends who assured me that what she described could not happen, sewer-pipe wise.

Yes, we agree that it is physically impossible for her television to have 120 volts going in the cable line and 120 volts coming out and have the television continue to function normally, no matter what the Comcast guy wrote down.

I report that I have shampooed the carpets (twice) and cut our mother's hair; I have loaded tax software and will try to start her taxes; I have fixed the porch light with the broken bulb stuck in it by the simple expedient of unwiring the whole thing and taking it inside to plier out the bulb base; I have taken her to the book store and to Wal-Mart. I tell him about escaping to Starbucks in the afternoons to get work done.

He laughs his deep laugh. I tell him to enjoy his remaining week away. He tells me to try to stay sane.

Purgatory Is ...

... taking your mother to Wal-Mart. To a Super Wal-Mart. When she hasn't been out of the house in a while. When it's the only major place to shop for miles around.

We Interupt This Blog to Tell You ...

... that a man in a skirt just came into Starbucks.

I realize that in some areas of the country this might not seem odd, but this is small-town Tennessee.

He is middle-aged, with a thick twang and the requisite Tennessee male paunch. He's wearing work boots, sweatshirt, hair past his shoulders and a thick mustache and wispy beard - and a skirt.

I kid you not.

Okay, it does seem to be a kilt - but it's still a skirt. I am trying hard not to stare. (Yes, I am a woman wearing pants and men's Converse sneakers, and I completely recognize the intrinsic unfairness and inherent personal bias here - but it still looks funny.)

Note: I am a native Tennessean, so give me some latitude here. Now, if one of you Yankees made fun of a Tennessean, that would be a horse of another color.

I Have a New Office - Its Name is Starbucks

I've discovered how not to go completely mad while mom-sitting when I have what should have been one day's worth of work left on my novel revision before it gets polished with an inch of its life and resubmitted to Wonder Agent. (Yes, Round 3 of the agent dance begins with an email, and with most agents you would probably have a leisurely few weeks to polish the manuscript while waiting for a reply, but this particular agent responded to my query in 53 minutes - I hadn't even stepped away from the computer - and in two days to my partial - so it has to be ready to go.)

Solution: Starbucks. It is a small Starbucks. The music is too loud. The chairs are hard. But for the price of a $2 coffee, I have bought myself an office for a couple of hours of day, and a small piece of sanity.

Thank you, Starbucks.

I'll mention you in the Acknowledgments.

I'm Starting to See Why People Read Harlequins

They're light. Completely predictable. You can skip 10 pages and not miss anything. You can feel a vague sense of comfort in knowing that the gal will always get the guy, and live happily ever after. And the predictability and blandness of the writing is nicely mind-dulling.

This after less than 24 hours in my mother's house. Because there is a box of them here.

On the other hand, if there were a bottle of gin here, I'd probably be starting to see why people drink gin.

How You Get Your Book Published

For best results, turn your speakers off and play Do You Believe in Magic by the Lovin' Spoonful instead (YouTube forced a change, alas).



This isn't a new video, but one of my favorite. Thanks to Jackson Pearce for being so creative. (She has more writing videos as well.) Her debut YA novel AS YOU WISH comes out in August and is now available for pre-order.

The Universe is Laughing at Me

First I win a contest by an author whose book I love, and excitedly open my prize hoping it is a signed copy of the book. Nope - a signed CD version that I don't know what to do with.

And this morning I win another contest. (Here I have to point out that I do not spend all my time entering contests when I am supposedly working, but when a contest pops up - especially one that involves getting a free book - and I can enter it in 60 seconds or less, I enter.) (And here I have to point out that the first contest I thought would take 60 seconds or less.)

This time the prize is a book - but one I already received a review copy of, and so hated that I wrestled mightily with my conscience (and emailed the author) before doing the review I had agreed to.

I think there's a clear message to me - no more contests! At least not until this draft of my manuscript is done.

Review - Buy this Book Now: DUST OF 100 DOGS

I stumbled across DUST OF 100 DOGS almost accidentally, lured to the author's website by a contest (I'm a sucker for contests, especially ones with books as prizes), and saw this description:

In the late 17th century, famed pirate Emer Morrisey was on the cusp of escaping pirate life with her one true love and unfathomable riches when she was slain and cursed with the dust of 100 dogs, dooming her to one hundred lives as a dog before returning to a human body—with her memories intact. Now she's a contemporary American teenager, and all she needs is a shovel and a ride to Jamaica.

And I was hooked - what a phenomenal concept. I bought the book, opened it and didn't put it down until I was finished. Can't tell you the last time I've found a book this satisfying.

Generally I'm not crazy about books that switch back and forth between viewpoints, let alone centuries - because usually I like one of the stories much more than the other, and am impatient to get back to the other POV. But author A.S. King has pulled it off. It's mesmerizing whether you're reading about young Saffron in the present day, or Emer as a 6-year-old in Ireland (an exceptionally vivid chapter you won't soon forget), or later when she falls into the pirate life.

And sprinkled throughout are "Dog Facts," moving little vignettes of the lives of some of the 100 dogs. (Painlessly imparting some history lessons along the way.)

If I were nitpicking, I would say that we had a few too many scenes of the eccentric, mind-apparently-melting Fred Livingston, and I would have liked to have seen a compassionate resolution to Saffron's mother's life, especially after the moving tale she told of her virtual enslavement as a young child.

But those are minor points.

I was surprised to find that this book is classified Young Adult (14+) - that "plus" is going to have to encompass quite a few of us.

So buy this book now. Just don't start it if you don't have time to finish it.

Why Is There Dog Hair in My Blueberries?

I understand dog hair on my clothes. Adhering itself in hard-to-reach places in the car. Collecting under the bed or behind the door, no matter how much I sweep or how often I vacuum.

But why is there dog hair (the wispy, floaty kind from the undercoat) in my blueberries?

Enough is enough.

Deciphering Cryptic Tweets

Yesterday Jamie Ford Twittered #21. That's it.

I looked at it - #21. I came back a few hours later and looked at it again. And thought.

And then I got it.

He was saying that his debut novel, HOTEL ON THE CORNER OF BITTER AND SWEET, was going to be #21 on the upcoming New York Times Best Seller's List (hardcover, fiction).

He'd been at #33 and #30, but this was quite a leap up the ladder.

As I've said before, couldn't happen to a nicer guy. And he may have just started a new trend in Twittering.

Note: If you don't Twitter or know what it is, I'm not sure I want to explain it. In essence, it's short messages you transmit to whomever is paying attention. It's free; it's fun. It can be useful but also horribly addictive. I'm still reeling over David Pogue Twittering me. (If you're looking for Jamie on Twitter, he's JamieActual, to differentiate himself from another JamieFord.)

Things I Know (Thanks, Google Analytics)

A lot of people want to know about dogs and pineapple and Russian maids and stacking firewood. But presumably not the same people.

A significant number of people read Quinn Cumming's blog, The QC Report, and search for info about her after The Goodbye Girl runs on television.

A lot of people read JA Konrath's blog, A Newbie's Guide to Publishing, and click on his links.

Some people are still trying to solve the quiz in Garth Stein's newsletter, and searching the internet for answers.

I get a significant number of readers from Twitter, Backspace, the crime fiction blog Mysteries in Paradise, and Cat Connor's I See You. And a steady stream from Jamie Ford's The Bittersweet Blog.

Teresa at The Dog Lived (And So Will I) is hooked on Google Analytics (yes, that's my fault) - so meander over and give her some new hits as she fights a certain disease with grace and humor. Jamie was kind enough to give her the Montana hit she was seeking.

People love contests.

And some people are still looking for Sarah Weinman.

It Serves Me Right

... for spending an hour and a half in the middle of a work day solving a word puzzle for a contest promoting a certain novel of which I am fond, and for feeling a trifle smug that I figured out a shortcut to solving it.

But this promotional contest often gives a signed copy of the book for a prize, and I did desperately want one. While I've bought several copies of this book for gifts, I don't have one myself. So I did the contest, and I won. And eagerly awaited the arrival of my prize. I ripped the package open to find a signed copy of the book - the CD version.

While it's a lovely gift, a box of CDs doesn't quite have the same tactile or viewing qualities of a book. I'm puzzled what to do with it. While I love to listen to books I haven't read, I've never been inclined to listen to one I have read. And giving a gift away seems rude. So I'm perplexed.

But I do realize there's a moral in the middle of all this. Possibly several. So this signed box of CDs sits on my desk, making me think of all of them.

Four Dogs and a Camera: Outtakes

American Idol: We Know the Five You'll Save

How painful to watch the bottom finisher squirm in false hopes that the judges may save him or her. It ain't gonna happen ...

... unless your name is Danny Gokey, Allison Iraheta, Adam Lambert, Alexis Grace, or Lil Rounds. Otherwise, the judges aren't going to save you. It's as simple as that.

I had expected the judging twist would be that the judges choose which of the bottom two to save, week after week, as they do on some other show I've seen (Canadian Idol, perhaps?).

But the public probably would have gone nuts with that.

Next season let us chose from some of the passed-over contestants - we'll put through Ju'Not Joyner and Rose Flack, thanks very much. And maybe that bartender pal of Danny Gokey's.

If Could Change One Thing About My Dogs

For Monty, hands-down, it would be that he doesn't bolt when he gets the chance, running merrily to the stables or the woods or the highway or the river - I don't know if he understands that apparently solid ice can break and hurl him into the icy, fast-moving water, and I won't tell you about the heart-stopping moment when I followed his giant footprints down to the ice on the river and then lost them.

For Lucy, that she doesn't get miserable and upset when it's about to storm ... or when bacon is frying ... or when a hoot owl calls.

For Bridget, that she wasn't partially deaf (a flaw in the breed, thanks to the Dalmatian bred into cattle dogs) and feel compelled to bark madly whenever she thinks she has missed something , as when you've moved quickly or made a sound she didn't expect. A close second would be her propensity to grab your pants as you are putting them on. I've tried to explain to her that this doesn't make sense - if I don't put my pants on, I am not taking her out - which she should understand as I have absolutely never gone out without my pants - but she doesn't get it. OK, she also collects shoes and dog toys, but that doesn't bother me.

For Emma ... perhaps that she didn't shed quite so much, or that she hadn't recently gotten a cancerous tumor in her mouth. Or maybe that she wasn't so damn lovable that she'll leave a hole in too many people's lives when she's gone.

Why I Don't Watch the News

Yesterday I happened to be passing by a television when the news was on, and caught a brief interview with the Alabama deputy whose wife and 18-month-old daughter had just been slaughtered in the mass killings. He said,

I cried so much yesterday I don’t have a tear left in me. It still seems like I should be able to walk into the house and my wife should be there and my baby girl should be climbing on me.

And then I cried for 10 minutes, as if sharing his tears would somehow help.

I cannot help thinking Dear God, why do assault weapons need to be legal? I don't suggest making guns illegal, but why does the general public need access to these types of guns? Because it's fun to collect them or use them on a shooting range? Go sign up for paintball. Please, no more assault weapons available for the public - no matter how long the waiting period.

Yes, this man would have killed some people with just the handgun and the shotgun, but if maybe not as many - maybe not 10 people. If he'd had to stop to reload, at least they would have had a chance - maybe some would have survived. And if he hadn't had more gunpower than the police, maybe they could have taken him out.

We can live without automatic assault weapons.

It's starting to seem that we can't live with them.

Note: A reader says purchasing automatic guns requires a six-month wait, $200 tax, and an FBI investigation, and a ban is suggested on "semi-automatic rifles that look like machine guns, but fire only one bullet with each pull of the trigger." I'm referring to weapons that shoot multiple bullets with one trigger pull. And I don't care how long the waiting period or how high the tax - I don't want these in the hands of private citizens.

Author's Word of the Week: Shelf-Elfing

shelf-elf,\ˈshelf\\ˈelf\ verb. To move your own or a friend's book in a bookstore to a more advantageous position, such as facing out, with the goal of increasing sales. Always done surreptitiously.

Etymology: Middle English, probably from Old English scylfe; akin to Old Norse hlīthskjalf Odin's seat; Middle English, from Old English ælf; akin to Old Norse alfr elf & perhaps to Latin albus white

Courtesy of Jamie Ford, who we are reasonably sure has never committed the act of shelf-elfing. (Not that he needs to, with his HOTEL ON THE CORNER OF BITTER AND SWEET at #33 on this weekend's New York Times bestseller list.)

Note: To give credit where credit is due, Jamie tells me he originally came by this phrase from his agent, Kristin Nelson - and he says she unabashedly shelf-elfs. As perhaps all good agents do.

America's Next Top Model, I'm Not

Because of a certain contest I won, I needed a photo of me with the dogs. And while I have tons of photos of the dogs, some with me, I didn't have any photo of me with all the dogs. So yesterday was photo shoot day.

And it's not easy. You have to find a reasonable spot to shoot inside a fenced area, thanks to Monty's propensity to run. If the camera angle is wrong, you look pudgy and misshapen. With too much sun, you look pale and vampiric. And because my nose is on the long side (it was quite a shock around age 12 when I saw my profile for the first time - few noses seem long when you look at them face forward in the mirror) I was insistent on avoiding profiles.

And there's the dogs. Think wrangling four small children with vastly different tempera-ments. Bridget is easy - she fits in my lap and is a cattle dog, which means she's genetically programmed to stay next to her person. Emma is passive by nature (although stubborn), and generally cooperated. Monty wanted to be next to me, with no one else near, and soon got rather bored with the whole thing. Lucy is enough of a troublemaker that she kept wanting to either slip away (which meant that many shots had me hanging onto her collar), lick my face, or annoy Monty.

Thank goodness for digital cameras.

Where Are You, Dave Kowalczyk?

I don't know you, but you were one of my blog followers. I'd noticed your photo had disappeared, but figured it was a hosting glitch. I don't read your blog often or communicate directly (okay, I am cautious with male followers), but I appreciated your link to my blog, and the readers I got from your site, Seminar of Ideas.

But yesterday I checked it out, and your blog is gone. Gone. Poof, vanished. It wasn't a blog that was just thrown together or posted on once in a while - you posted at least 30 times a month. And now you are gone.

What happened to you, Dave?

I know from your blog that you live near Chicago, with wife and kids, and were a project manager at a technology company that was planning layoffs in January. I know you are from Morgantown, West Virginia, and your brother recently got divorced. At the end of the year you talked about turning 50 in 143 days, and wanting to lose weight and stop drinking. (Yes, Google still has some caches of your deleted blog.)

Did you accidentally hit the "Delete blog" button? Did you get tired of blogging and ditch it all? Are you moving to a new blog site? Did you get laid off? Did you get sick? Did you (ulp) die?

We didn't have the kind of relationship I do with some other bloggers, whose doorstep I think I could show up on and we'd go out for coffee and be pals (fair warning, Teresa and Cat!). But I do worry about you, and wonder what happened.

Why did you just disappear?

Let Me Google That for You

Have anyone in your life who can't figure out how to find information on the internet? Do I ever have a site for you. It's called LetMeGoogleThatForYou - just type in the search terms you would use. It forms a URL, which you can test by hitting GO, and then copy and send to the offending party. (If you don't understand tinyurl, don't ask.)

If the person cannot find this blog, for example, you send them this. Or this. Or something outrageous like this (it works!).

The link pops up a Google screen, types in your search phrases, with instructions (Step 1: Type in your search question / Step 2: Click the button) and then says, a trifle snarkily, Was that so hard?

Brilliant.

And, yes, I found this in a David Pogue column.

David Pogue Twittered Me. Really.

If you're not a technophile, and you don't follow the New York Times technology column, you may not know who David Pogue is.

But for us geeks, David Pogue is the Man.

He reviews everything, iPhones and Macs and Kindles and PCs and digital camcorders, in clear, concise, insightful prose. He tells us fascinating tips and shortcuts, for computers and digital life in general. He makes funny video reviews. He sends out the wonderful weekly email newsletter, Circuits.

And. He. Twittered. Me.

I don't mean I happened to read his Twitter post. I mean, he Twittered me. Me, personally.

Earlier this evening he had Twittered

Two exciting (top secret) product unveilings next week... the same day. Which to review in the paper!?!?....oh, the delicious agony!

This, of course, can be seen by every one of his 20,808 followers. I must have been feeling rakish, because I Twittered back: David, you sly thing. Always keeping us on edge.

I had no idea it went through, because despite his guide to Twittering, I wasn't clear if this was a direct message (which he wouldn't receive because he doesn't follow me) or a generic message that he might see.

But he got it. And he answered.

One does what one can. ;)

Okay, I'm swooning. I guess I'm a Pogue groupie.

Note: For my nontechnophile friends, Twitter (which I discovered after Sarah Weinman tweeted about me) is a method of sending short (140-character) messages to anyone who chooses to follow you - so that I know what Demi Moore is reading and I see the dog-running-in-sleep video that her husband Ashton Kutcher finds funny. It's been a heady week in Twitterland - Harlan Coben and Andrew Grant are now following me. I don't know how this happened. But it's very cool. Very cool. (Yes, it's Friday night, and I'm excited about a David Pogue Twitter. It's David Pogue!)

Why I Hate Garth Stein (Not Really)

Because he sends out newsletters mid-day, with little contests that at a glance seem simple: the name of an Italian city that Denny and Zoe eventually visit. Ha! As much as I love his book THE ART OF RACING IN THE RAIN, I don't know this offhand. But my computer is on my lap, and it takes 2 seconds to find the book on Amazon and perhaps another 3 to search for "Italy" and find the name of the city. Maranello. Bam, four minutes after the email newsletter was sent, so maybe I have won, probably an Enzo hat and bookmark, or maybe, if I'm really lucky, a signed copy of the book.

Then I look more closely and realize that you are supposed to untangle nine words so their first letter spells out the name of the city, and, damn, this is part of the contest. Okay, so I know the starting letter of each word - how hard can it be? I zoom through toorr = rotor, penlas = Naples, shelci = Leschi, otocreb = October. Oynrat takes a little longer (it's Ayrton, the first name of a race car driver, you plebians). Dabaolerodl must be labradoodle, but that word doesn't appear to be in the book, nor Naples. Poetic contest license, perhaps. The clock is ticking - I forge on.

Only three words left: fatinimesng, pontatianinic, nenacuder.

I will never admit how long it took me to work out anticipation and endurance for the last two.

And then of course, you can't give up with just one left.

Finally - manifesting! - and I send off my entry. But have probably been beaten by a fourth-grader.

So I hate Garth Stein for sending his newsletter in the middle of a work day.

Update: I don't, of course, hate Garth Stein - although I'm gonna suggest in the future they pick the winner from a hat instead of first correct entry winning, which encourages poor work habits. But, hey, I won! So I get to wrangle Bridget, Monty, Lucy, Emma for a photo. After I finish work for the day.

See also Sleeping with Garth Stein

Why Does Google Think I Should Read "Fashion for Nerds"?

Google Reader has recommended some interesting blogs, and for some disconcerting reason seems to know the town I was born - but I'm a little offended that its top recommendation for me is a blog titled Fashion for Nerds.

Google, what are you trying to tell me?

Emma Takes a Swim (Last Summer)

People have been asking about Emma, here getting ready to take a swim in the river last summer (with Lucy standing guard in the background).

The tumor under her tongue, which looked like a little round red ball, was indeed cancerous - the specialist says prognosis "guarded," as it's the type of cancer that spreads and apparently can pop up just about anywhere. But she's been loving her high-protein anti-cancer diet and her energy has returned and her fur stopped falling out, so I'm being cautiously optimistic.

At 6 weeks old she was 3 1/2 pounds - severely malnourished, with just about every type of worm and parasite known to canines. She fit down the sleeve of my jacket, lying on my arm with her head poking out the arm hole. She may not make it through the weekend, said the vet. I bought baby food and canned catfood, and force-fed her for what seemed like forever. Finally she took wobbly little steps toward her food bowl, and I cried when she ate her first bites of solid food. And then she gained weight at the rate of 2 pounds a week, until she hit 50 pounds. And never looked back.

She was the favorite of the summer kids, the nephew and the exchange students and other people's kids who had nowhere to go, especially the needy and neglected ones, loving to snuggle up next to them, splash through puddles, sleep for hours in the sunshine. Now 12 1/2, she still has her happy walk, bouncy like a puppy, trotting to show you one of her favorite soft toys, and she still cries when happiness when you walk in the door.

Last summer she learned to swim - she watched the other dogs swimming and paced, frustrated, back and forth on the rocks, and once she made up her mind to take the plunge, off she went, unstoppable, determined, swimming to the other side of the lake.

It has been a splendid life, well lived, full of love given and received.

Would that most people lived so well.

I'm hoping that she makes it to summer, so she can swim to the other side of the river once again.

My Brother Made Me Bacon and Eggs

It's lovely that he did. I'm not sure why, but it was a thoughtful gesture - he knows I have trouble finding things I can eat at our mother's house.

The problem is that he made them before he left town on Wednesday, and by the time my mother thinks to mention this to me - although I have commented on the mysterious-looking food in the plastic containers in the fridge - it is Sunday evening.

I have been eating ham and cheese and tortilla chips and plain yogurt and apples and pecans, in copious amounts (thinking Feed a cold, although it is more likely a instinctive mechanism to stay calm), so despite not being at all hungry I pull out the mysterious containers and heat some eggs and bacon and eat them so he won't think I didn't appreciate it.

They are fake eggs and turkey bacon, so they taste much the same four days old, but unfortunately I cannot finish all that he prepared (enough for my four days there, apparently).

But I love my brother for having made them. And hope he knows that.