1. Finish Magdalene.

2. Make some pretty things.

a) An afghan (Tunisian crochet, the only kind I like) for XX TD.

b) A Hobbes doll for XY TD.

3. Get better at the ebook formatting thing.

a) Continue self-tutoring in SVG so I can get The Fob Bible completely digitized (text, no problem, but it’s graphics heavy).

b) Give more priority to embedding fonts.

54. Shamelessly rip off RJ Keller’s 2010-in-photos idea.

65. Get my foyer, living room, and dining room decorated and my art up on the walls, including my kitschy matadors ~1950 and my cheap bought-out-of-a-car-trunk-in-a-parking-lot-but-expensively-framed Pissaro.

76. Expose my real identity to you all (in case you haven’t figured it out already and no, my real name is not famous in the least bit) and my artsy-fartsy business because I think you might like it. But to do that, I need to work on the super-outdated website.

87. Get The Fob Bible into college curricula, where I think it belongs best.

98. Implement some fun ideas I have for The Proviso et al.

109. Get back on the low-carb wagon, exercise, and load up on the probiotics/coconut oil.

110. Sit down and relax, watch a movie with Dude once a week or so.

There. I fixed it.

And I don’t even know why.

I don’t differentiate my real life friends and my online friends.  People become important to me for different reasons. This person was important to me in a lot of ways.

Happy new year.

…for the rest of the year, most likely. I reserve the right to come back and rant. It is my blog, after all.

Many projects on the table, most of which I’m behind on (oh, there’s a surprise):

• Re-doing my foyer and living room. What, you thought my DIY re publishing thing is a new development? No. I’ve been a DIYer at heart since I saw the first episode of This Old House when I was a wee bairn (as in, their first episode, too).
• Christmas chores. You all know what they are. But I’ve recently got a yen to quilt us a new tree skirt. That will have to wait until next year.
• Much cooking and cleaning in preparation for my family’s big Christmas Eve shindig. Moms, dads, inlaws, outlaws, aunts, uncles, cousins, and babies. Lots and lots of babies. Very fun having the biggest house in the family. Ah, but I love Christmas Eve, almost more than Christmas Day (you know, now that we are Santa). Also? I love my mom’s cookies. And I love my Christmas punch (see previous post).
• Probably some yard work. I really need to get out and mow my lawn.
• More weatherproofing.
• Fandamnily outing to see the Plaza Christmas lights. (Photos by Eric Bowers, KC Photographer extraordinaire who also does a lot of Manhattanscapes—you must visit his blog and galleries and message board. Really.)

(This one? 47th Street.  If you read The Proviso, you know what Giselle did near here.)

• And, last but not least, the Darling Day Job (feeling blessed at the moment).

My blue tree from the last two years turned red this year.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year from Mojo, Dude, XX and XY Tax Deductions!

So in light of today’s confessional, I need to talk about something that occurred to me Saturday and has been percolating ever since.

One reason I despise sitcoms is because so often the dad is made out to be an idiot. Yeah. He is. He goes to work (usually at a job he hates), provides for his family, and gets slammed at every turn. Why is he putting up with this?

A mobile phone commercial from a couple of years ago (I forget the provider) has stuck in my head. A middle-class black family, with the kids completely disrespecting the father for some reason, and I thought, “Yeah, that Stupid Dad thing transcends race. All dads are stupid according to Hollywood and Madison Avenue.” The only dad I can recall on TV who wasn’t portrayed as terminally stupid was Bill Cosby, but as everybody knows, he’s got very definite opinions about what is and is not acceptable behavior in parent-child relationships.

Anyway…

Saturday I went out (outside!) to blow leaves. Manual labor gives me the opportunity to let my mind wander, and I was thinking about my husband, who was at work, a typically structured corporate-type job (albeit with hours that are a bit out of the norm), one he sometimes doesn’t care for very much. But it’s secure and we have good health insurance.

I’d been spending my day fiddle-farting around. Did a couple of ebook jobs, did a little DDJ, did some cleaning, some reading… Yelled at my kids (that’s normal). I decided to go do this little chore and it occurred to me about an hour into the job that my husband is the reason I have the freedom to fiddle-fart around, arrange my day any way I want it, and…

…self-publish.

I would never have done this without him behind me. He believed in my talent when I didn’t and spent years pounding his faith into my head. He sacrifices endlessly for me financially and with his time, and this venture that would not exist without him.

No, I would never have done this on my own. It was him, his faith in me, his willingness to sacrifice everything for me. He bears my temper tantrums and my moodiness and my not-very-niceness (read: bitch-on-wheels-ness) with grace and equanimity. He comforts me and dries my tears and helps me solve my problems. He gave me children and supports them and me, helps corral them to let me work.

I’d have nothing were it not for him.

A long time ago in a land far away there lived a tiger, who had been hunting for two long days. He was very tired. So he decided to lie down in the shade of a mango tree, underneath some cool foliage, and take a nap. He fell asleep.

Presently, he became aware that something sharp kept poking into his haunches. He opened one eye to see a little squirrel digging his claws into his side.

“Say, little squirrel, what are you doing?” asked the wise tiger, who could not fault the dimwitted rodent for poking a sleeping tiger.

“I’m feeling your muscles, to see how fine they are.”

“Well, little squirrel,” said the tiger, flexing his paw, “feel my arm and then go away. I have been hunting for two days, and I am tired.  I want to sleep.”

So the squirrel felt the tiger’s muscle and said, “Thank you, Mr. Tiger. You’re very strong, but not as strong as the tiger in my glen.”

The tiger snorted, for it made no difference to him which was the stronger, and he went back to sleep.

Soon he was awakened to the feeling of his fur being rubbed the wrong way. He opened one eye. “Say, little squirrel, what are you doing now? You’re rubbing my fur the wrong way, and it hurts.”

“Oh, no, I’m not rubbing your fur the wrong way. I’m testing the resilience of the hair fibers.”

The tiger said, “Call it what you will—stop doing it.”

“Mr. Tiger!” cried the squirrel even as he continued to stroke the tiger the wrong way, “why are you angry with me? I have done nothing!”

“You have awakened me, and you are rubbing me the wrong way.  Please leave me to sleep, as I have been hunting for two days and I am tired. You have tested the resilience of my fur long enough to know now.”

“Well,” huffed the squirrel, “your fur isn’t nearly so resilient as that of the tiger in my glen.”

The tiger said nothing to that, understanding that the squirrel seemed even less clever now than he did before. “Go away, little squirrel. You are in my glen now, and I would sleep.” So he did.

It wasn’t long before the tiger awoke to find little squirrel fists full of his hair, being plucked. “Little squirrel,” said the tiger, beginning to lose his patience, “I thought I told you to leave me be. Did you not understand that I have been hunting, and I am tired? Do you not understand that I could gobble you up if you anger me?”

“Well! I never!” pronounced the squirrel. “How dare you be angry with a little squirrel like me. I have done nothing to you!”

The tiger tried to be patient, as it was clear to him that the rodent had no sense. “You have awakened me three times. When I have told you of my wish to sleep, you have poked my haunches, rubbed me the wrong way, and pulled my fur out of my skin. How can you say you have done nothing? Begone, rat, before I eat you.”

The squirrel was much offended. He glared at the tiger, propped his fists on his flanks, and said, “Well, in any case, your fur is easier plucked than that of the tiger in my glen!”

“Then go torture him and leave me be so I can sleep.” And he did.

No sooner had he fallen asleep than tiny rodent teeth bit down into the tender flesh of his ear.  He awoke with a roar that deafened even himself.

The little squirrel scampered just out of reach and the tiger, rubbing his ear, said, “You really are not very bright, are you?”

“How dare you!” squeaked the squirrel as he danced an angry jig. “I have not lowered myself to calling you names! How petty you are! The tiger in my glen is not petty!”

The tiger would have ignored the rodent as had been his intention all along, but for the gleam of wicked intent he glimpsed in the small black eyes.

He comprehended at last.  The squirrel was not stupid—just disturbed and wicked. “You have been bothering me on purpose.”

“I have not!” said the squirrel. “I have been comparing you to my tiger. How dare you not let me interrupt your sleep when you are out here in the open, at the mercy of just any squirrel. How dare you accuse me of bad things.”

“Well,” said the tiger thoughtfully. “Did you get what you were after?”

“Oh yes!” replied the squirrel with much glee.

“Good. Then you won’t mind—”

And the tiger snarfed him down. Licking his chops, the poor tiger finally got some sleep.

©2001 by um, me.
Previously published in a forum somewhere to make a point.

By the way, no, this is not about anything happening online that doesn’t happen everywhere on the interwebz every day. It was, indeed, posted on a forum to make a point, as I noted, but that was in 2001.

What happened was, today, I was organizing and I came across some old handwritten work, found that, and decided to make it a blog post since I’m too lazy to do actual blogging today. This blog gets a lot of traffic, from unbelievably diverse internet communities. If you think this story has nothing to do with anything going on in your particular internet community, it doesn’t. If you think it’s applicable to stuff going on in your particular internet community, it is.

Wendy Drolma

I don’t know this woman from Eve. What I do know is that everything about her online presence screams master craftsman and überprofessional.

Got a scene? A masquerade party? A Labyrinth con? A Venetian extravaganza? Mardi Gras? Need some sleep? Want something exquisite to hang on your wall? This is only a sampling. Visit her gallery to get the full effect.

Then buy something from her. This kind of exquisite craftsmanship needs to be rewarded.

(I may make this a regular feature.)

For every woman who’s made a fool of a man, there’s a woman who’s made a man of a fool. —Samuel Hoffman (near as I can tell)

I read this quote long, long ago, and I swear to high heaven it was in one book of Anne Rice’s vampire trilogy (maybe Queen of the Damned?).

It resonated with me then and it still does, and I finally figured out why.

This sentiment is the heart and soul of genre romance: What woman doesn’t like to think she has that much power in either direction?

To be honest, I have been given two of these puppies and I haven’t been gracious enough to acknowledge them publicly. I apologize.

So, the first one is from Rae Lori from way back in February. Aarrggghhh. So embarrassed. Especially since I like her writing voice. Very calm and sweet (what I’ve read of her).

This is the Premio Dardas Award, which…

…acknowledges the values that every Blogger displays in their effort to transmit cultural, ethical, literary, and personal values with each message they write. Awards like this have been created with the intention of promoting community among Bloggers. It’s a way to show appreciation and gratitude for work that adds value to the Web.

These are the rules:

1) Accept the award, post it on your blog together with the name of the person that has granted the award and his or her blog link.

2) Pass the award to 15 other blogs that are worthy of this acknowledgment.

3) Remember to contact each of them to let them know they have been chosen for this award.

Well, screw the rules (as usual). I’m just going to list a few of the blogs I read on a semi-regular basis, in no particular order.

Motley Vision

Thmazing’s Thmusings

Chasing the Long White Cloud

Eugene Woodbury’s Ooburoshiki Blog

Eva Gale

Don’t Publish Me

The eBook Test

Romantic Inks

Deborah Riley-Magnus, Writeaholic

Big Bright Bulb

Free Range Kids

If you’re in this list and you see yourself, considered yourself to have been tagged and you are now it. Otherwise, thank you for some awesome stuff you give me to think about on a regular basis.

Blogs are, by their very nature, niche. One person, or a group of like-minded people, write stuff that generally espouses one point of view.  Dissenting opinions are usually always welcome, but even those with opposing opinions like those blogs for whatever reason and become regulars.

Then we have the people who stumble across a blog whose agenda doesn’t coincide with their own, and they do a hit’n’run. I did this once (that I remember) and I was very embarrassed with myself. I had no reason to haul off on that guy. I went back and apologized, but the damage was done and I can’t take that back.

So here’s a study:

One message board where I lurk is an active, established community of self-publishers, and a certain couple of traditionally published authors swoop in from time to time to berate them how deluded they are. Um, okay. Thanks? If you don’t like what those people are doing/saying, don’t go there.

On a blog where I lurk, a post hit a hot button of mine, but I almost never post there and I didn’t want to do like I’ve done before and swoop in to tell them all to shove it, because, well…I’m not an active participant otherwise. Why would I do that? All I have to do is not go there.

It’s taken me nearly 40 years to learn that keeping my mouth shut gets me in a lot less trouble than opening it.

But sometimes…it’s a fight to keep from saying something.

I lost this round. *sigh*

Where the Wild Things Are.

Why?

This article and this quote:

Q: What do you say to parents who think the Wild Things film may be too scary?

Maurice Sendak: I would tell them to go to hell. That’s a question I will not tolerate.

My new author hero.

Then a commenter (on whichever blog linked it; I can’t remember) said, “Thank you for not contributing to the pussification of America.”

So…I took my kids.

3-almost-4-year-old XY TD was interested until his popcorn ran out and then it might as well have been church with better seats, for all the attention he paid. Besides, he is unscareable.

6-year-old XX TD seemed more engaged with the movie…until she lost one of her quarters. Oh the weeping. Over which I was unmoved because I TOLD her to put it in her pocket or she’d lose it. Ta da! Mama’s right again.

Me? I cried in spots. It’s a mom’s movie. Yeah, I’ve been that torn, that tired, that struggling, that scattered, that out of control.  So has my kid.

I got it.

I mean, I got what I could between trying to corral my own little Max and telling the Drama Princess to suck it up.

Okay, my last theme was annoying me to death. Could barely stand to look at it. I’m working on the sidebar now because, you know, i R a righter and I gotz me sum bookz to sell. Need to make it easy for you to get there to buy them.

Anyway, this is much cleaner and easier on my eyeballs. I hope to get back to blogging semi-regularly, too.

Yeah, the joke’s tired. Sue me.

Anyway, 3-almost-4-year-old XY Tax Deduction and I went to Hy-Vee for lunch to kill some time. I love Hy-Vee’s salad bar (best grilled chicken EVER!) and XY TD loves their pizza. And canteloupe. On the same plate.

It has been my observation that on weekday mornings at Hy-Vee, there is a large number of post-retirement gentlemen sitting around, eating their farmer’s breakfasts and gossiping shooting the breeze, cussing and discussing. They seem to be mostly together, but because of tables and space, they self-select their table companions.

It has been my observation that on weekends when we go see my in-laws in southern Missouri, and we go to the local cafe for breakfast, there is a gathering of four to 10 post-retirement gentlemen sitting around, eating their farmer’s breakfasts and gossiping shooting the breeze, cussing and discussing.

It has been my observation in re-reading the Little House books for the purpose of writing Stay, Pa Ingalls, in the winter, would head out of the house and across the street to the grocery where he would watch off-season farmers play checkers and, I assume, gossip shoot the breeze, cuss and discuss.

Women have these little conclaves, too, but other than in a church-and-crafts context, I can’t think of anything comparable to men-and-their-morning-cafe-routine.

Every time I witness this, I think, “This is the internet before there was the internet.” And it still seems to be going strong. I love it. I think it’s profound in a lot of different ways, most of which I can’t articulate.

Too bad you have to be retired (or in the off season) to have it and enjoy it.

Here’s to me and Dude, who got married 7 years ago in the LDS Nauvoo, Illinois temple (very soon after it re-opened). Yeah, we got married on a Friday. The 13th. On purpose.

And in case you think you’re seeing things, yes, this is what I posted last year. Because it’s been over a year blogging and I love him more now than I did last year.
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On power:

You have to come to it on your own, through hardship and fear. You have to know who you are and what you believe and you have to take stock of that every day. You have to walk barefoot through fire on broken glass. You have to stand up to people who frighten you under conditions that terrify you. You have to be honest with yourself about what you really want. You have to be willing to fail.

Power is acquired, earned. You’ll have many opportunities in your life to earn bits and pieces of it. You’ll make bad choices; learn from them and do the best you can with them. Do not, under any circumstances, dither over what the right choice might be every single time you’re presented with one. It won’t teach you anything and you’ll be a bore at cocktail parties.

Acquiring power is a never-ending process. Every day you have to wake up and prove to the world all over again that you deserve it. There should never come a day when you wake up and say, ‘Okay, I’m powerful now; I’m done.’ Never.

I never cottoned to the last template, especially the date thing.

I’ll leave this one up for a few days and see if it grows on me.