Just One of the Many Reasons Why I Love My iPhone

The voices in my head are singing These Days, by Jackson Browne

What I'm reading: Smash Cut by Sandra Brown

When they first came out with text messaging I said, "That's like going back to the telegraph days. Why would I want to do that?"

When they added cameras to phones, I said, "I like my technology simple. Give me a phone that's just a phone, for crying out loud."

When they added email, I said, "Why in Sam Hill would I want my email on my phone, and who can read stuff that small anyway?"

When they came out with the iPhone, I forgot all of that idiocy and sprinted into the twenty-first century. It's all about the music.

But, I have embraced all the other features as well. That camera comes in handy. For example, imagine how long it would have taken me to describe what we did in Jazzercise today:

This is Precariously Perky Julie demonstrating part of today's ab routine. "Make sure your head is comfortably supported by the ball," she said.

Clearly, she is insane. In what universe is anything about that move comfortable?

And this was just the starting position...imagine striking this torture pose, then doing crunches, and (yes, we used the hand weights) pec flys...

Appropriately, this routine is set to Dream Big, by Ryan Shupe and the Rubberband.

Believe it or not, I did this. It might not have LOOKED exactly like the picture... probably Julie bit a hole in the side of her cheek to keep from laughing.

But I did it.

The Queen of Pain is finishing up another Alien Birthing Ritual, and will be out for a few more weeks. Meanwhile, I'm entertaining myself by testing Julie's sunny disposition... Bless her perky little heart.

Peace, out...

Susan

Susan When She Tried

The voices in my head are singing Bad Day by Daniel Powter

What I'm reading: Stalking Susan by Julie Kramer

My summer reading project is to read the books nominated for an Anthony that I haven't already read. I'm going to Bouchercon this year for the first time, and I'm really excited.

Stalking Susan was the first of these, and I just finished it. (I may have picked it first because I'm a Susan.) Julie Kramer introduced TV reporter Riley Spatz in Stalking Susan. I expect to become great friends with Riley. In fact, I've added Missing Mark, just out last week, to my summer reading list.

At one point in the book, one of Riley's colleagues sings part of an old Elvis song, Susan When She Tried. I wasn't familiar with it, but I confess it intrigued me, so I looked up the lyrics. I just love Google. Anyway, now I have that song in my head. It makes me want to, well, try...

I was trying something yesterday, for sure...

You know how at stoplights, if you look at the car next to you, sometimes the driver is obviously singing? Occasionally it will be a nut who is using her water bottle as a microphone, dancing in her seat, and belting one out like she's the opening act for Kenny Chesney?

That person is almost always me. If you see me, please wave. I may not see you, because at stoplights I generally close my eyes and really FEEL the song.

Yesterday the song was Heaven Help Us All by Gladys Knight and Ray Charles.

Please honk if I don't see the light change. Someone usually does.

Peace, out...

Susan

Six Hours in the Twilight Zone

The voices in my head are singing Alan Watts Blues by Van Morrison

What I'm reading: Shadowfires by Dean Koontz

So, Jim and our next door neighbor are working on a privacy fence between our yards. Whatever needs doing, if Jim can possibly do it himself, he will not pay someone else to do it. He's...thrifty. That's a good word for it. We balance each other well.

Anyway, last week Jim and the neighbor both took a few days off to work on the fence. Things were moving along nicely up until the point Thursday afternoon when I looked out the back door and saw Jim sprawled on the grass. He was lying on his stomach, propped up on his elbows, in what looked like a casual conversation with our neighbor, who had knelt down beside him. I was confused, because it was blistering hot, and it didn't seem likely he'd sprawl out for a break in the sun--the shade, maybe.

I stuck my head out the door and asked, "Jim, are you all right?"

"Not really," he said calmly.

By that time I was sprinting across the yard. "What happened," I asked.

Jim nodded at the line of string that had previously been stretched tight from one end of the yard to the other, but was now lying in the grass. "I tripped over the string, put my foot down in a wet spot, and slid into a split--like gymnasts do on a balance beam," he said. "I'm not a gymnast."

We arrived at the ER at 3:45. One of the security people brought a wheelchair and helped Jim inside while I parked the car. By the time I made it through security--the fool thing kept beeping and I had to be wanded and patted down--Jim had already spoken to one of the not-very-busy clerks at the front. There was a desk with maybe six of them, and they were chatting, or staring into space--not frantically admitting patients. There were maybe a half-dozen other patients in the waiting room.

Forty-five minutes later, two people who'd come in after us had gone back, but they hadn't called Jim. "What did you tell them?" I asked.

"I told them I'd been doing gymnastics, and I wasn't a gymnast," he said.

"Oh, no, no, no!" I said, shaking my head. "You never, never joke with people in an ER. You've told them two things," I said. "One, your pain is not bad enough to effect your disposition, and two, you're an easy going guy who won't complain if he has to wait four hours."

"You thing I should do the Stingray Howl?" he asked. He was referring to the noise I made all the way to the car, all the way to the hospital, and in the ER until they gave me something to quiet me down the summer I stepped on a stingray and got stung.

"Yes, actually," I said.

He shook his head.

I sighed. "We're going to be here all night."

I went up front to speak to one of the clerks. "We've been here for forty-five minutes," I said, and my husband is in a lot of pain." This was true. The thing that scared me was that it was really unusual for Jim to go along with an ER visit. He's heavy into self-diagnosis and natural healing. His mother had six boys, and her typical response to an injury was, "Put some water on it, it'll be fine." The fact that he'd come to the ER told me that, despite his good humor, Jim was in a lot of pain.

"What's his name?" she asked and I told her. She scrolled down a list. "Is he here?" She scrunched up her face at me.

"Yes," I pointed across the room. "He's right there, and he's been here for forty-five minutes."

"I can't find him," she said, looking blankly at her computer.

Before I could launch into hissy-fit mode, a man in scrubs opened the double doors that led into the Bowels of Hell and called Jim's name.

Jim started wheeling his chair towards the doors and I skipped to catch up.

First stop was a nurse in a little room who asked a lot of questions about the injury and other related topics. One of the questions was regarding chest pains. I guess this is a typical question for men over forty who admit to having been out working all day in the sun. Jim allowed that his chest muscles were sore from the post-hole diggers, but that was all.

Immediately, she called a technician to wheel us over for an EKG.

Whatever, he was getting attention, right?

After the EKG, they sent us back out to the waiting room. About thirty minutes later, a different guy in scrubs came and got us and led us back into the inner ER. After a half-mile hike through a labyrinth, he settled us into room 15. Room 15 was at the very end of the hall, and you had to go through another room to get to it. Both rooms had sets of thick sliding glass doors, which were left open.

Thirty minutes later, Scrubs Guy came back with a chart. He looked at Jim. "You're not Amanda," he said.

Jim shook his head no.

"I got the wrong chart," Scrubs Guy said. He went off to find the right one.

A few minutes later, a Young Girl In Scrubs can in and attached the little round sticky things and wired Jim up to a heart monitor. She said, "I need to draw some blood for the cardiac panel."

"My heart is fine, Jim said. "I've pulled--possibly torn--my right hamstring."

She smiled benevolently. "We just want to make sure." She patted him on the hand. "I just need to go get something, I'll be right back."

No sooner had she cleared the door, than a different Young Girl In Scrubs came in. "Time for your X-rays," she said.

"But I haven't broken anything," Jim said. "I've got a badly strained hamstring."

She smiled benevolently. "We just want to make sure." She then proceeded to remove all the wires and sticky things that the other YGIS had attached. She wheeled him out the door with a "We'll be right back" over her shoulder.

YGIS #1 passed them on the way out. "Oh," she said. "I'll come back later. You want me to get you something to drink, maybe a sandwich?"

"Some bottled water would be great." I said. "And I know Jim would like a bottle."

"Oh, no," she said. "He can't have anything until he sees the doctor. Just in case he has to go to surgery."

"Surgery?" I asked. "He's pulled his hamstring."


"We just want to be sure," she said. "He might be gone a while. You sure you don't want a sandwich?"

I looked at the clock. It was quarter till six. I was still thinking we might pick up take out Chinese on the way home. "No thanks," I said. She showed me where the vending machine was and I bought two bottles of water.

At five after six, YGIS #2 brought Jim back from x-ray. After she left Jim said, "They x-rayed my left hip. Then they asked me which hip I'd injured. I told them neither one, but my right hamstring hurt like hell. Then they x-rayed my right hip."

At ten after six, an alarm went off. Scrubs Guy came and closed the curtain, then the sliding glass doors to our room. He then closed the sliding class doors to the outer room. The doors were thick, so we couldn't hear much from outside. With the curtain closed, we couldn't see anything, either. Me being me, I was thinking some fruit-loop had gotten a gun through security, or maybe someone had been admitted with the Swine Flu. There had to be a reason why they closed the doors, right?

For the next hour, no one came into the room and the doors stayed shut. Not knowing what was going on was making me a little crazy, and it was getting hot in there. I peered around the curtain and saw that a large cart had been wheeled in front of one side of the outer door, and a guy in a wheel chair was backed up to the other side. We were blocked in.

"I think they've forgotten about us," I said. I started weighing whether or not to go find someone in scrubs and ask if perhaps this was the case.

I heard someone hollering down the hall. Over the guy in the wheelchair's head I saw three security guards and a police officer heading into a room two doors down. This reinforced my nut-with-a-gun theory. I scooted back behind the curtain. At 7:30, a different YGIS came and drew some blood. They'd had a shift change.

"Why did someone close the sliding doors," I asked.

"We had a fire drill," she said.

"And part of the drill is to close us up back here with nowhere to go?" I asked.

"Yes," she said. "It's for your protection. WE DON"T WANT THE FIRE TO GET YOU."

I don't know about y'all, but every fire drill I've ever participated in involved getting people OUT of the building, not shutting them up in the farthest corner.

She opened both sets of doors. "It's getting hot in here."

"Listen," I said, "We've been here for nearly four hours, and my husband is in a lot of pain. Isn't there something you can give him?"

"I'll check with the doctor," she said.

"When do you think we might SEE a doctor," I asked.

"I don't know." she said, "but I'll let him know that your husband's vital signs are good."

With the doors open now, we could hear the hollering from two doors down. "Hey...hey...hey! Help Me!" some guy yelled. Continuously.

After about thirty minutes of that the guy in the wheelchair said to his wife, "I got some duct tape out in the truck."

Thirty minutes later YGIS # 3 brought Jim some heavy-duty drugs. Still, no doctor.

"He hasn't eaten since lunch," I said. "Don't you think he should eat something with that?"

"I'll ask the doctor," she said.

A few minutes later she brought him an imitation cheese sandwich and a bottle of Gatorade. I guess someone had figured out that he wouldn't need surgery.

"What's all that hollering about?" I asked.

She shrugged. "He's just drunk."

At 9:30, nearly six hours after we arrived, the doctor walked through the door. I have no idea where he was from, only that his accent made communication a challenge.

I think he said, "EKG fine, x-rays fine. Heart fine. Hip not broken."

"How do we know if my hamstring is torn, and is there anything that can be done about it?" Jim asked.

He shrugged. "These things happen. If it's torn you'll have a bad bruise. I can give you some pain medication, but it will just have to heal on its own."

"Something not quite so strong," Jim said. "Whatever you gave me made me nauseous."

"I thought your hip was broken," said the doctor. "I thought you needed something strong."

He left to get his prescription pad. We did not wait for someone to unhook Jim from the monitors. We quickly disconnected him, peeled off all the sticky things, and got him out of the gown and back into his cargo shorts and T-shirt. By the time the doctor got back, we were ready to go. The heavy-duty pain pills had taken the edge off the pain enough that Jim could stand and hobble.

The drunk was still hollering as we made out way back out through the labyrinth.

Self-diagnosis and natural healing are now our family policy.

Peace, out...

Susan

I Might Have Gone a Little Crazy Today

The voices in my head are singing One Step Up by Bruce Springsteen

What I'm reading: Living the Vida Lola by Misa Ramirez

Periodically, every telecommunications service we subscribe to stops working. All at the same time. They coordinate it, I think--AT&T, Direct TV, and--well, now it's just the two of them. We've bundled. But still, there is no logical connection to why my home phone is dropping calls like a cell phone in a dead spot and suddenly no one can hear me on my cell phone. I hear them fine, but callers cannot hear me shouting into the phone, "Can you hear me now?"

No, they can't.

And there should be no connection to either of those things that, not only did our Direct TV Receiver/DVR stop working, (the only fix for which involved shipping a new one over July 4th weekend) but the ENTIRE DIRECT TV COMPUTER SYSTEM IS DOWN, so they can't activate my new receiver even though I've called four times. Each time I call they tell me to try again in an hour.

They tell me this AFTER I have navigated through ten minutes talking to a voice activated system. (If I use my headphones, my cell phone works.)

AT&T reports that there's no trouble on my line. This despite the fact that when THEIR OWN SERVICE DEPARTMENT TRIED TO CALL ME THEY COULDN'T GET A CALL TO GO THROUGH.

I said (to the technician who eventually called me on my cell phone), "What happened when you tried to call?"

"It just clicked," she said.

"Doesn't that sound like a problem to you?" I asked.

"Well, yes, but it might not be our problem," she said.

"We're bundled," I said. "You're AT&T. What are the other possibilities?"

She couldn't think of any, and agreed to "override it" and send someone out tomorrow. If they can't find a problem they're going to charge me $85.

If. the. repairman. is. unable. to. find. the. problem. they. will. charge. me. $85 for. coming. out.

With apologies in advance to my mother, WTF???

I've had to medicate to avoid strangling the next person who crosses my path or perhaps setting my hair on fire. And, I'm pretty sure that these things are, in fact, connected.

I had a migraine cycle last week. My brother tells me that my migraines are caused by the isometric changes in the magnetic field as the poles struggle to find harmony. I have no idea what that means, exactly, but I'm thinking that changes in magnetic fields could disrupt telecommunications.

It's that, or there's a conspiracy afoot at AT&T and Direct TV to prevent me from finishing my second novel by keeping me on the phone talking to a computer for the next five years.

It's time for my next dose of pinot noir...

Peace, out...

Susan

Why I Almost Certainly Should Have Been a Natural Blonde

The voices in my head are singing Keep Me in Your Heart by Warren Zevon

What I'm reading: Trouble in Paradise by Robert B. Parker

Y'all won't believe what I did in Publix Friday... well, okay, you might. You will. Absolutely, you will...

I was making my third (and last) trip to the grocery store for 4th of July weekend supplies. I was tootling down the aisle with my cart, iPhone earbuds in, listening to The Isley Brother's rendition of Summer Breeze. I had a list and was checking it twice, when I realized that I'd forgotten the honey mustard dressing for the chicken strips.

I parked my cart at the end of the paper products aisle and bebopped my way back over to condiments. The store was crowded, and I was zigging and zagging in and out of the crowd, but not stressed as I sometimes get in crowded stores. The music soothes my soul.

Anyway, I retrieved my honey mustard and some ranch, just in case. I dropped them in the cart, and weaved my way in and out of the mothers with small children and clueless husbands staring vacantly at the shelves as if whatever their wives wanted might jump out at them.

I noticed one man squinting at me. He mumbled something, but Summer Breeze had finished, and I was now dancing down the aisle to Lady Marmalade--the one from Moulin Rouge. This is a Jazzercise song, so I truly was, most likely, dancing (just a little bit). I figured Squinty Man just thought I was a little nutty.

But Squinty Man followed me around the corner and down the main aisle. This made me a little nervous, so I turned up the baking needs aisle, thinking he would go on by.

But he didn't.

He followed me. I glanced at him, and he said something I couldn't make out. I didn't make eye contact. He was squinting harder, and I did not know this man.

Almost at the end of baking needs, he maneuvered in front of me. He said something that sounded like "milk" through Christina Aguilera's high notes. I thought, maybe he's looking for the canned milk. That has tripped me up before in this store. So I paused Christina.

"Ma'am," he said.

I smiled a helpful smile, "Yes?"

"You have my cart," he said.

I looked at the contents of the cart in front of me, expecting validation.

Oh dear.

Except for the dressings, the stuff in the cart was definitely not mine. I looked back at him, horrified. "I am SO sorry!" I said. I looked around and remembered. "I left my cart at the end of an aisle, and I forgot--"

"You have my vodka," he said.

I looked. Sure enough, in the seat where you put your toddler, he had two fifths of vodka in a brown paper bag. He'd been to the liquor store before he came to Publix. I had made off with his liquor. I do not even drink Vodka. Vodka and I had a falling out a long time ago. But that's a whole nother story.

"I am SO, SO sorry," I said. "I can't believe I did that!" I retrieved my dressings from his cart.

He shook his head and grinned. "No problem," he said. He commandeered his cart and headed back down baking needs. "Have a nice day."

"You too," I called.

Friday night Jim and I were having dinner with some friends we'll call Sandra and Wilson, because those are their names. I told them what I'd done. They laughed. Wilson shook his head and said, "I don't think I would have told that."

Other friends have made similar comments about other ditzy things I've done and told or posted. I've heard "I can't believe you admit that," a few times.

The thing is, I have to be able to laugh at myself. I don't ever want to take myself too seriously. It's a good thing, I guess...

Peace, out...

Susan

Twitter Not Your Tweet in Anger...

Lord love a duck, here's another reason why high-strung females like me ought to reconsider the whole Twitter thing. Apparently, a high-profile author who I will not name because I don't want to spread gossip and because I can SO easy see how this would (without a shadow of a doubt) happen to me if I were ever to work hard enough to become a multiple-time bestselling author whose books are made into movies, etc cetera...

Anyway, Famous Author got a not-wonderful review, and was not just ABLE, but perhaps COMPELLED to Tweet her frustrations to hundreds--probably thousands--of her closest friends. Imagine, being angry and having a megaphone, and really, that's what Twitter is, a high tech megaphone with a long, long range.

Can I just tell you how bad I feel for this brilliant author? Impulse and technology are dangerous bedfellows. That's so much worse than a reply-all accident, which is bad enough. (But really, who hasn't done that?)

Fortunately for Famous Author, in our rapid-fire-communication world, we'll all be Tweeting about something else in three minutes or less.

Peace, out...

Susan

Shoes and Online Socializing

The voices in my head are singing Til We Ain't Strangers Anymore by LeAnn Rimes and Bon Jovi

What I'm Reading: Night Passage by Robert B. Parker

When we moved, a year ago last January, Jim calculated that my shoes had cost five hundred dollars to transport, based on the number of boxes they took, truck space, mover-hours, etc. I don't know what method he used to calculate this--possibly husband math.

He staged a shoe-intervention.

He bought and installed some very nice shoe racks in our walk-in closet, and told me I could keep whatever would fit. If I wanted to buy a new pair, I had to donate or toss a pair. I muttered something like, "I should have held out for the house with two walk-in closets." Shoes are like carbohydrates and chocolate. They comfort me when I'm stressed. They fit, even if I've over-indulged in pasta and truffles. I am attached to my shoes. This is a fairly common phenomenon in women, I think.

Once the shelves were in the closet, though, my OCD tendencies made it impossible for me to keep a pair that wouldn't fit on the shelves. I couldn't have a pair sit on the floor. There must be order in the closet. (I'm sure Jim counted on this.)

I had to find new homes for several pairs. (Sigh.) I'm going to miss those oxblood snakeskin pumps from 1986. Oh well, the suit they matched went to Goodwill about ten years ago.

This morning, I had an email reminding me that five friends had invited me to join them on Facebook...

First it was the blog, then Shelfari. Then Google Reader to keep up with all the blogs I follow. I have a Twitter account, though I haven't uttered a Tweet. So far, I haven't done anything worthy of an alert that couldn't wait for a blog update. But when I run across a celebrity in a restaurant in Greenville, I am ready.

"Facebook will eat into your writing time," said Caution. "And what about Linked In, are you going to want to to that next? You have Linked In friends, too."

Caution and I aren't well acquainted, and I ignored her, as is my custom.

I set up a Facebook account, virtuously thinking I would spend an hour or so getting it set up, then log on once a day for a few minutes.

That was five hours ago, and I'm still playing with this thing. The first several messages I got were from my FRIENDS who had invited me to join, telling me that this thing is addictive, and I'd better watch out because Facebook will devour not only my writing time, but apparently also my sleep--and forget about Jazzercise.

I need a shelf for my online social sites... I'll Tweet if I find one...

Peace, out...

Susan

On the Road Again

The voices in my head are singing My Baby Don't Tolerate, by Lyle Lovett

What I'm reading: Relentless by Dean Koontz

Predictably, I had to rush right out and buy the new Dean Koontz novel (along with the new Michael Connelly, which is next up). Koontz didn't disappoint. Like most of his books, Relentless will be a Shelfari favorite. I just wish these guys could write faster.

And hey, Carl Hiaasen, I'd really like a new adult novel, please. I know your young adult books are fabulous, and the non-fiction golf thing is brilliant, but I'm neither a young adult nor a golfer. Please pull a few hilariously demented characters out of your head and get them on paper. Lickety-split.

This week I'm in Warsaw, Indiana, with Jim. Business trip for him, writer's retreat for me. Hotel rooms, I may have said before, are the absolute best places for me to write. I can't clean my house, run errands, do laundry, run out and have lunch with a friend, or any one of a hundred other things that pop up that keep me from putting words on the page.

Or go to Jazzercise, which is the one other thing I need to be doing. In anticipation of this problem, however, I ordered three Jazzercise DVDs, reasoning that I could dance in a hotel room, right?

Well, not so much, really.

I started with Street Jazz! I'm always hassling Casey for some funk in her sets, so I picked this one first. The tag line specifically promises "street jam movements using a combination of jazz dance, hip hop, and funk."

I had NO idea how much your average Jazzercise instructor has to dummy this stuff down for ex-majorettes, cheerleaders, and drill team members across the country. I have a new appreciation for the Queen of Pain and all the other aliens who translate the moves that look like an MTV video played in fast forward into something the rest of us can attempt.

If I play the DVD in slow motion, I can maybe learn a section a day. I'm trying, anyway.

The other thing I hadn't figured on was that in class, while Casey has to look at what I'm doing and not double over laughing (too often), in a hotel room, I have to watch myself. There's a big mirror. This is so not pretty.

Anyway, I'm writing, and I'm dancing. (Well, I'm moving to music, and in some cultures, I'm sure what I'm doing is called dancing.)

All is right with the world.

Peace, out...

Susan

Defying the Laws of Physics...Yet Again (Y'all REALLY Won't Believe This)

The voices in my head are singing Keep It Loose, Keep It Tight by Amos Lee

What I'm Reading: Winter's Child, by Margaret Maron

One of the most heinous tricks in the Jazzercise manual is where they take a perfectly good song, like Mary J. Blige's Family Affair, and make you perform unnatural acts to it. The Queen of Pain currently has Family Affair in her set.

Visualize yourself doing this: Put on some ankle weights--about 4-5 pounds on each ankle will do. Get down on your hands and knees. Now, stick a leg straight out (either one, cause you'll switch back and forth). Move your leg from the hip, and tap your toe out to the side, then straighten, lift, point, lower and repeat. Do this 5,000 times.

Now, with your leg still behind you, do PUSH-UPS while curling your leg toward the ceiling--yep--one of the two with a weight on it. Repeat, switch, etc. for FOUR MINUTES AND TWENTY-SIX seconds. Trust me, it will seem more like four hours. Try it.

On Monday, when I heard the opening beats of Family Affair, I reminded the QOP right off that A) my ankle weights have been mislaid, and B) I DON'T DO PUSH-UPS on account of the built in weights I sport on my chest make it impossible, from the whole gravity and physics perspective. She growled that I could do SOME of them, so I did. Three, I think. It was exhausting.

Yesterday, when the music started, she growled at me that I was going to do ALL FORTY-EIGHT push-ups. I laughed out loud. If she had asked me to run around the ceiling I would have taken her as seriously. I pointed out the obvious, and reminded her that she well knew this was not workable.

"Shut up and do them," she said. "All of them."

Here's the part y'all won't believe: I did.

Here's what I learned at Jazzercise yesterday. Sometimes you should just shut up and do it.

At the beginning of class she asked me what I'd been doing all day. "Editing," I said.

This was true--sort of--in a metaphorical kind of way. What I had been editing (or trying to edit) were my career goals. I've been rewriting the same novel for several years, trying to get the first one just right. (As I understand it, some writers put their first book or three in a drawer never to see the light of day and publish their second or fourth novel, and others write the same novel many times until they have it right. I've always thought of myself as being in the latter group.)

It's REALLY difficult to get a first novel sold in a good economy. When the economy is tight, well, it just gets harder. So, I've been trying to convince myself that I want to do something else--anything else. I have had zero luck with this. I am a writer. I need to write. I need to publish what I write, because, as Leonard Pitts allows, "...a writer without readers is like shouting in an empty room." That's where you get your loons, and Lord knows, I teeter precariously on that brink to begin with.

So today, I will just shut up and do it.

Everything you need to know about life you can learn at Jazzercise...

Well, okay, maybe not, but you can learn to pole dance (which is a good backup career plan--it's recession proof) and you get an occasional kernel of philosophy.

Peace, out...

Susan

Suicide by Grammy

Okay, so, I KNOW better than to go to Precariously Perky Julie's class. We've covered this, right? I planned ahead to go see The Caring and Nurturing One at 4:30. But then I lost track of time. Nothing to do but show up for Julie's class, knowing full well this was suicide. Lest you think I exaggerate, at one point during the class she pipes up with, "Those of you who are grabbing your heart, please make sure it's still beating."

Julie likes themed sets. Today's theme was the upcoming Grammy awards. All of the songs we danced to are nominated for a Grammy. All I can say is that the music industry appears to be experiencing an up-tempo trend. Julie was dancing so fast I couldn't see her feet move. But, she looked good doing it. I feel sure that the moves didn't look the same from the stage. I was on the front row. Honestly, I don't know how she kept a straight face.

There was one slow song--the very last one. It was a stretch/core muscle routine to Gravity by John Mayer. Nothing could have been more appropriate. Standing on one foot while contorting my body, using a hand weight to work my arms, and remembering to point my toes and "make it look pretty" challenged the law of gravity...and reason.

Julie has these pre-printed "Valentines Day wish cards" for us to give our significant others so instead of flowers (which will die) and candy (which will make us fat) our loved ones can get us a gadget that looks like a watch but monitors your heart rate and counts calories burned. If they make a model that has an alarm for when you're about to pass out, I might could use one.

Peace, out...

Susan

Cramming

The voices in my head are singing Keep Me in Your Heart by Warren Zevon.

What I'm reading: Your Heart Belongs to Me by Dean Koontz

I came across a quote today that really struck a chord with me:

"If you stuff yourself full of poems, essays, plays, stories, novels, films, comic strips, magazines, music, you automatically explode every morning like Old Faithful. I have never had a dry spell in my life, mainly because I feed myself well, to the point of bursting. I wake up early and hear my morning voices leaping around in my head like jumping beans. I get out of bed to trap them before they escape." Ray Bradbury

I think for too long I've been starving myself, always being afraid to read too much while I was writing. I had the idea it would mess with my voice. Don't get me wrong, I devour fiction. But I've been in the habit of stockpiling books and waiting until I'm in an editing cycle before I read them.

I've officially abandoned that policy, and am going to gorge myself daily with everything imaginable. I'm hoping my morning voices will wake me and haul me out of bed to capture all their insanity. Right now I'm engrossed in Dean Koontz's latest. He's one of my three or four favorite authors of all time. Who are the others? Okay, I have eclectic reading tastes. In no particular order, I also get email alerts from Barnes and Noble when Carl Hiaasen, Sandra Brown, or Michael Connelly has a new book coming out. I also love John D. McDonald's Travis McGee series.

Did I dance today? Well yes, I did. I have several sore muscles for my efforts, although, I have to say, I'm not particularly fond of the set the Queen of Pain is currently using. With one or two exceptions, the songs don't speak to me. This is unusual, as typically I really like her music.

Note: If I were the alien on the stage, I'd pick the songs I liked, not some whiny, VOLUPTUOUS woman who shows up erratically.

But I have discovered that not liking the music is not necessarily a bad thing. When the music moves me, I forget my sore muscles, and what a spectacle I'm likely making of myself, and shake shake shake my...well, you get the idea. This is a much more exhausting workout. When I don't like the music as much, I don't push myself. It's not a conscious decision, it's just the way it works out.

It's actually a good thing that she doesn't have my favorites in. I might hurt myself. I need to work up to the funk.

Peace, out...

Susan

So Much is Explained

With all the financial news, folks getting sworn in, and Brittney's latest lyric scandal, y'all might have missed the most important item in the news today.

There is a VIRUS that causes folks to be fat, and it's HIGHLY CONTAGIOUS!! You can catch it from someone in the office, on a plane, or in the mall. If you have cold symptoms, YOU may have this adenovirus. I am not making this up, and I did not hear about it in a forwarded email. It was on the news.

I tried to explain this to Casey (the Queen of Pain) today at Jazzercise, but she would have none of it. My first day back, and she had me doing pushups. I have explained to her on NUMEROUS occasions why it defies the law of gravity for VOLUPTOUS women to do push-ups, but she didn't want to hear about this either.

She may have been distracted by all the excitement at Jazzercise Fitness Center today. January is like Christmas for anyone selling skinny. They have a new program--their version of "The Biggest Loser." There are cash prizes involved, so I'm thinking I might sign up. They were selling this hard today. They also had balloons, drawings for prizes, and--get this--PASTRIES. What is up with that? It's like they were trying to pork us up as big as possible so all the pounds they sweat off us will be more dramatic. These aliens are sneaky. Anyone who doesn't understand that Jazzercise instructors are mostly aliens, please read this.

They were also having one of those of those, "haul your friends in here and blackmail them with whatever you've got on them until they sign up and we'll give you a T-shirt" deals. Hazardously- perky Julie (who owns the place) was behind the desk practically percolating with enthusiasm over all the exciting ways they want to torture us into smaller sizes this year.

I sure hope this cold I'm getting over isn't that fat virus. I could have infected a lot of people today... This could be really bad. All those women in there eating pastries and getting the fat virus... Umm, umm, ummm. They sure are going to be mad if that virus keeps them from getting skinny after all that pain and sweat.

Peace, out...

Susan

The Leading Cause of Brain Crud

The voices in my head are singing Where's the Love Y'all, by the Black Eyed Peas.

What I'm reading: A Deadly Shade of Gold, by John D. MacDonald.

The Queen of Pain accused me this morning of suffering from Brain Crud, in response to my plea for sympathy on account of having the head and chest crud for eight weeks. Now, setting aside her complete and utter lack of sympathy, she has a point. I feel like I need to take one of those things the dentist uses to clean your teeth and scrape off all the nooks and crannies of my gray matter.

At first I thought it was just a holiday, family/mall/carb-overload hangover, but I now suspect it's something far more insidious. I have television poisoning.

I typically don't watch much TV--just a few favorite shows: Boston Legal (which won't be a problem anymore as its last episode aired before Christmas), Monk, The Closer, Saving Grace, and more recently, Leverage, the new Timothy Hutton series. But over the holidays, I fall into bad habits.

It starts with watching a few holiday movies on the Hallmark channel with my mother. Nothing gets you into the holiday spirit quite like heartwarming romantic holiday fluff. Then, there are all those bowl games, and playoff games. Left to my own devices I wouldn't watch much of that, but most of the family-and-friend pool like it, so we watch.

Before long, I have a customary place on the sofa that calls to me as soon as the dinner dishes are in the dishwasher. I start CHANNEL SURFING--looking for something to watch. I become far less discriminating, although, let me say right here that if I ever type the words, "I finally broke down and watched an episode of American Idol," somebody just call up the nervous hospital and have them send a padded wagon.

Disclaimer: I mean no slight, aspersion, or snark to anyone who enjoys "Reality TV." I just personally don't care for it at all. I'm convinced it's a vast Hollywood conspiracy to inflate profits. I like my escapism with a plot...you know, something that involves writers, some reasonably talented actors, and a set. I digress.

It's not the shows that are really the issue, though I typically spend my leisure hours with my first love, books. It's the commercials. Oh. Dear. Tara.

It's so bad, that when a decent commercial comes on, I actually remark on how well it was done. This happens about once a week. The prescription drug ads are awful, but the really, really bad commercials--the ones that cause the maximum buildup of Brain Crud are the ones that include the words, "But WAIT!" You know the ones I'm talking about... the ads for things like Mighty Putty, Hairagami, and those plastic clips you put on your bra straps that guarantee to make you a cup size bigger and improve your posture. I'm also sick of seeing celebrities try to convince us that they lost 40 pounds eating Nutri System, or Jenny Craig food, or by drinking a bunch of Acai Berry Juice. Please, those people have a team of personal trainers and a kitchen staff to help them get skinny.

Now that I've figured out what caused the brain crud, it's easy to fix. It's not difficult AT ALL to turn off the TV once you realize you've fallen victim. If only all my unhealthy habits were cured as easy as picking up a remote and pressing "Off."

Peace, out...

Susan

Once More, From the Top

The voices in my head are singing Inside Job by Don Henley.

I'm reading The Overlook by Michael Connelly.

Okay, so it's January, and here's where I typically resolve to try a new diet, and to exercise everyday. As previously mentioned, I've tried them all, most recently South Beach, and I'm here to testify: none of them work. Or they all do if you stick to them, and there's the rub. When it comes to food, I have no self-discipline.

Since Thanksgiving, I've had one long food orgy, and until Monday, not one of the things I've eaten has been healthy. Hard to figure out why I've had a cold since mid-November.

So, here's my new plan: I hereby resolve NEVER to diet again. I will not try the new fad diet, whatever it is, nor retry any of the old ones. I'm setting out on a plan to eat myself healthy (really healthier, as I'm generally in great health except for the extra pounds I'm tired of toting around and the cold, but it sounds more dramatic that way).

I'm going to eat my veggies. I'm going to do the thing they've been pounding into my brain since birth and eat mostly fruits and vegetables, with moderate amounts of lean protein, dairy, and whole grains. I'm not counting anything or measuring anything, and I'll eat what I want when I want it. I hereby grant myself permission to have a cheeseburger whenever I want one.

This, I think, is the key. I suspect the biggest reason I can't stick to a diet is I despise ceding control to someone else. I hate studying books and websites to figure out what I can and can't have, then trying to cook something from the allowed ingredients that tastes good. No more.

Each week, I'll put veggies and fruits on my grocery list, and I'll eat the ones I like best. I'll prepare them the way I think sounds good.

I started Monday. So far so good. I've a had a salad every day for either lunch or dinner. I bet if I did count the calories, I'd be where most diets say I should be. But I refuse to count. The one thing I will measure is myself. I'll step on the scales once a week and not obsess.

This is my New Year's Revolution.

Peace, out...

Susan

P.S. Oh, the exercise thing... I'll be back on the dance floor as soon as all these veggies kick the cold out of my chest. The Queen of Pain is losing patience.

Stress Relief

The voices in my head are singing Saving Grace, by Everlast.

Relax, it's my iPod.

Here is a great way to relax when you're in that moment just before running through the streets of your neighborhood wearing only a Happy New Year hat and argyle socks, with a bullhorn, announcing the arrival of the Mother Ship.

I am so there--or I was, yesterday. This helped.

Turn off all the lights and light a few candles.

Start your bath, running the water a little warmer than you normally might. Pour in half a bottle of your favorite bubble bath--lavender scented is great for this. Some Lancome Aroma Calm bath oil is also nice. Throw in a fizz ball. The more products you put in the tub, the better.

Get the champagne bucket and start some chilling by the side of the tub. Sidebar: I have a reputation of ALWAYS preferring the most expensive of everything, and yet, while I've had pricey French champagne that I enjoyed, Korbel Brut (yes, I know technically it's not Champagne) is my favorite. This is an anomaly, as it usually goes for around twelve bucks a bottle.

If you've already had more than two glasses of wine, use Pellagrino instead of Korbel.

Crank up iTunes and make yourself a playlist of twenty songs that appeal. Resist the urge to fret over which songs to pick. Don't sit there and try top make the perfect Bathtub Playlist, and don't choose more than twenty. Remember, your bath water is running.

Transfer the new playlist to your iPod shuffle. The shuffle is best for bathtub use, as it's easily clipped to your bath pillow.

If you don't have a bath pillow, roll up a towel, clip the shuffle to it, and climb into the water.

Pour yourself a glass of bubbly, pop the earphones in, and turn on the iPod and the jets.

Your bath additives, activated by the jets will soon make mountains of bubbles, beyond which you cannot see. Close your eyes and sip the icy bubbly. When you start to feel too warm, hold your champagne flute over your face and turn it upside down, dousing your face, neck, and chest. Pour another glass.

Periodically peek at the mountain of bubbles. Just before they spill out into the floor, pull the plug on the tub. When the water level drops enough, turn on the cold water. This will keep the bubbles at a safe level.

Continue alternately sipping the champagne and pouring it on yourself until you feel human again.

After you get out of the tub, blow out the candles and go straight to bed. Sleep until you feel like getting up.

Disclaimer: Please do not try this at home if you cannot do it without drowning, scalding yourself, or experiencing an irreversible past-life regression.

Peace, out...

Susan

Three Words You'll Only Hear at Jazzercise

Sing it, Susan!

This, from the Queen of Pain today, as we writhed on the floor in agony while of one of those American Idol winners belted out a poor imitation of Aretha's Chain of Fools. I couldn't tell you who was singing--I never watch that stuff. I think reality TV is a network conspiracy to make more money by not paying actors and writers. I digress.

To distract myself from the searing pain in my upper thighs--officially known at Jazzercise as the side butt--and because I love Aretha, I sang with enthusiasm. It's a testament to how bad the leg routine was that no one got up and left.

The last time I sang in front of people was during our annual Labor Day Family Weekend in the Mountains. I was jamming around the cabin with my iPod, singing along with The Black Eyed Peas when most of my family bolted from their rocking chairs into the woods, where they fled the vicinity along with all creatures great and small.

Only my brother-in-law, who is a kind soul, and was particularly attached to his rocking chair (and possibly bidding on something on Ebay as his eyes were glued to his laptop) stayed behind. "You sound different with that thing in your ears," he said. Who knew?

I have actually sang on stage, though it's been a, ahh...ahem... a few years. In high school, they let me sing on stage in not one, but two musicals--Bye Bye Birdie, and L'il Abner, although, a case could be made that few of my classmates wanted to sing and dance on stage, making it hard to cast an entire musical, and parts therefore easy to land.

Nevertheless, I sing, not so much for the enjoyment of others, but because it makes me happy. They let me do that at Jazzercise, which is one more reason I go.

Peace, out...

Susan

Another Brand New Start

Monday was the first day of my brand new diet. I'm trying South Beach this time. I think I'm the only person in the known universe who hasn't, and most everyone I know that's tried it lost weight. So far, the food is surprisingly good, and I haven't had to eat anything strange.

The weirdest diet I can recall embarking on was that Beverly Hills fruit diet many moons ago. That one had un-fun side effects. I seem to remember the woman who wrote the book saying that of course you sat on the toilet all the time--how else would you get rid of the weight? Fat doesn't just jump off your thighs...

Then, there was Atkins. I am not a pork lover, and, I have to tell you, eating pork rinds and a lot of bacon was not my thing. Also, if you eat too much of the Atkins candy, you're right back in the bathroom.

I thought about getting some of that Alli stuff that's all over the TV, but have you heard about the side effects? According to Consumer Price Watch dot net, possible side effects include:

• Flatulence (Bad enough.)
• Oily anal discharge (What is that all about???)
• Loose stools or diarrhea (Yuk!)
• More frequent bowel movements (Yuk again.)
• Hard-to-control bowel movements (Now, this one would not make you popular.)

Once again, one would be spending quite a lot of time in the loo. As nice as the bathroom in our new house is, I really don't want to spend my days there. Seems like it might be difficult to balance a laptop on your knees while sitting on the toilet.

Up until now, most of my dieting has been of the garden-variety counting calories persuasion. This, I get bored with in no time flat. I hate having one more thing to keep up with. Plus, I tend to cheat. I don't look up how many calories are in each thing--I estimate. Some of my estimations are suspect. Like, for example, I used to estimate that the Carolina Club salad at Ruby Tuesday's had about 400 calories. It' s a salad, right?

According to their website, it actually has 996 calories, and as far as I can tell, that's without the dressing.

I tried eating only things that come with labels that confess the number of calories, like Lean Cuisines, but The Queen of Pain insists that I shouldn't eat food that comes in a box.

So...I've stocked the kitchen with veggies and lean protein. I bought a new set of scales, having thrown the old ones out on account of they lied. Today is Day Three, and so far I haven't cheated--really.

We'll see how long this lasts.

Peace, out...

Susan

Will Dance For Food

Yesterday, I drug myself back to Jazzercise to get to work my third resolution of 2008 to be more fit. It's nearly August, so I'm hoping the third time is the charm.

The Queen of Pain, who is normally on stage on Monday's at 5:40, was AWOL. I was put out, of course. How dare she not be there on the third Monday I've shown up this year? But, Donna, the Singing Alien was teaching, and I like her class.

Now, as I have not been in a month, after the first two songs I was, naturally, telling myself that it would be FINE for me to cut out early since it was my first day back. But then, Donna put on the dancing music. I don't even know what the song was, but it had a BEAT. And I remembered why I go.

I love to dance.

Well, that, and I have to do SOMETHING to burn off the Mega Moo Mocha Moo Lattes. I've decided to devise a point system. Something like, if I go to Jazzercise four days in a week, I can have Fettuccine Alfredo on Saturday. Or cheesecake. I'll put up posters of my favorite foods on the refrigerator...hey, whatever works.

Peace, out...

Susan

People Like Me Should Stay Out of Walmart

I avoid Walmart for the usual reasons some folks do. Yesterday, I had to choose between going to Walmart for three items, or driving ten extra miles round-trip to Target. I gritted my teeth and went to Walmart. I only needed three things, and I recited them over and over as a mantra: picture frame, Swiffers, ice cream. Picture frame, Swiffers, ice cream. Get in, get out.


The parking lot should have been a tip that things were not going to go well. On Thursday afternoon it was packed. I parked half a mile away, and hiked across steaming asphalt. Once inside, all the other reasons I avoid Walmart slammed me upside the head.


Apparently, I am in the minority: hordes of people love Walmart, and they were all there yesterday. I don't handle crowds well. Actually, to be more precise, I don't handle throngs of people milling about, vacantly starring at aisle after aisle of stuff while I try to get my three things and get the hell out of there well.


Don't ask me why, but I got a cart. You just do. I'm absolutely convinced that the greeter hypnotizes you with her eyes when you walk in, forcing you to take a cart, even if you only want THREE things. I maneuvered the cart without incident to the picture frame aisle. Some impulse that I can't explain compelled me to load up three collage frames instead of the one, single frame I needed.


I resisted the urge to plow the cart over a woman much more voluptuous than me. She was browsing lingerie, and appeared to be running a block pattern to keep me from cutting through on the way to household cleaning supplies, which was a mile away on the other side of the store. I dodged grannies, small children, and what appeared to be a family of zombies doing some sort of tandem shopping.

Five of them, obviously brothers and sisters from their similar coloring and features, walked single file through the store in lockstep. The tallest one led the group. They never spoke, and they focused on the sibling in front of them. I don't know what the guy in front was focused on, but it was serious. Occasionally, one would reach out and pick something off a shelf, never missing a stride. They didn't have carts, and may have been operating covertly to avoid detection.


After what seemed a long journey through foreign lands, I arrived in household supplies. I had to plan my maneuver carefully, and jockey for position with three hundred fifty other folks who wanted Comet, Windex, or Pledge. I grabbed the Swiffers, then remembered I needed toilet bowl cleaner refills. They were on the other end of the aisle. I fell in behind the zombies as they parted the crowd.
They needed Scrubbing Bubbles toilet refills, too. Hmm...they were near picture frames when they first passed me. They came by the Swiffers and stopped at toilet refills, which I had nearly forgotten. Would they be stopping by ice cream? What else might they need that I was also out of? At the very least, walking behind them made navigating easier. I rode their wake out of household cleaners.
The next stop was dairy. Huh. I needed yogurt, so I snagged a few Yoplaits and jumped back in line. I wasn't good at picking up things while keeping in step, but I jumped back in quickly.
On our tour through Walmart, I filled my cart with a cornucopia of things I had no idea I needed. We did parade down the ice cream aisle, and I picked up my low-fat vanilla Edy's gourmet. The zombies didn't get ice cream. Somehow, they must have known I needed it.
As the zombie line headed towards the register, I reached out and scored a bottle of Merlot that I felt sure I was going to need if I ever escaped Walmart. Had I a cork screw, I would have opened it and drank it in line at the register.
The zombies checked out with the same efficiency they had shopped. Each in turn placed their items at the checkout, then moved to the other side and waited in line while the tall one paid. I waved and smiled as they marched out if the store. "Bye, y'all," I called.
The shortest one glanced over her shoulder and looked at me as if I was a nut. Of course, she had a point.
I've decided to do all my shopping online from now on.
Peace, out...
Susan

Through the Looking Glass

So, my very good REASON for missing Jazzercise all week (even though I now have clean clothes) is that I've just returned from a trip to another galaxy. Faith, NC, may as well be another planet for how different life is there. I forget this when I haven't been home in a while.

Now, lest anyone think that I am ridiculing small towns, let me reassure all that I LOVE small towns, especially Faith. It holds a charm for me like no other place on earth. And, frankly, were it not for spending my formative years in Faith, I would no doubt be a normal person (how tediously boring!) without the neuroses from which I draw creative juice. It may not be necessary for every writer to be insane, but, speaking for myself, I would be utterly useless as a writer were I mentally stable.

I will tell y'all just ONE of the many interesting things that occurred during my recent sojourn. It involves squirrels, as many small-town tales do.

While I was growing up, my father shot many a squirrel. Along with rabbits, quail, deer--whatever. And we ate what he shot. Not all the time, of course, we had normal food as well, but, I confess that as a child, on many occasions, I had squirrel for dinner. My grandmother would skin, braise, and serve them with gravy, and usually rice. At the time, I thought absolutely nothing of it--it was a routine dinner menu. Although, looking back, I do recall that many nights Mamma had no appetite. And you can bet the farm she NEVER skinned anything.

While Daddy still owns his collection of rifles, shotguns, etc., the town of Faith has long since passed an ordinance against firing guns inside the town limits. For years, residents largely ignored this, but recently, some new folks have moved into town who tend to call the law, or, at the very least, walk over to inquire what is being shot at.

In recent years, squirrel has not been a dinner table staple, so this would not be an issue, except for the squirrels tend to dig up my mamma's flowers. This makes her unhappy, and when Mamma ain't happy...well, you know.

So, my brother-in-law bought my daddy a squirrel trap. Daddy baits this contraption with peanuts, and when a squirrel goes in, the door slams shut. When I arrived, on Monday afternoon, Daddy was aglow with the victory of a recent catch. He'd just returned from releasing the squirrel "out in the country" (which in and of itself is a joke, as Faith hardly qualifies as an urban area--I digress).

Late yesterday, as I was trying to catch up on email from Mamma and Daddy's snail-paced dial-up connection, Daddy yelled from the kitchen, "Come here, quick!"

I went running. He stood pointing out the kitchen window. "Look, he's going in!" A poor, unsuspecting squirrel was poking his head into the cage. He went for the peanut. As soon as the door slammed shut, Daddy went running out the backdoor. I followed him, aghast, as he proudly admired his catch. "Come on," he said.

"What?" I looked at him in disbelief. Surely, he didn't think I was going with him to relocate the squirrel. But he did. He put the cage in the back of the pickup truck. "Come on, you'll have to help." Under protest, I went, but only in case someone had to call 911 if the squirrel turned out to be rabid, or just plain mad about being caged and evicted, and bit Daddy.

Ten miles from my parents home, where Daddy reasoned the squirrel could not find his way back, my father pulled over, muttered at a women in the car behind us who was rubbernecking to see if perhaps he was disposing of a dead body, and released his captive. I stayed in the truck with the door locked, which was smart, because Daddy tried to open the passenger side door and give me an up-close view of the caged squirrel.

In a separate squirrel-related incident on Tuesday, my uncle, who lives outside the town limits, shot two squirrels with one shell, cunningly waiting until they were lined up, so he could take them out together.

Last night I kissed my mamma goodbye and drove two hours and fifteen minutes to the other side of the universe right after dinner--grilled hamburgers, nothing wild.

Peace, out...

Susan