Never underestimate the commercial value of mental illness.
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.
Theric put up his summer to-do list. I thought that was cool. I’ll put mine up, too. Except, well, I don’t have an entry to have a baby. We are SOOOOO done with that Tax Deduction thing.
Readin’:
Torn by God by Zoe Murdock
The Seabird of Sanematsu by Kei Swanson
Fight Club by Chuck Palahniuk
The Actor and the Housewife by Shannon Hale
The Ugly Princess by Elizabeth K. Burton (OOP & no linky)
Writin’:
Work out my sticking points on Magdalene. Thing is, I know what it is; I just can’t visualize how it all goes down.
Edits on Stay when I get it back from above-mentioned editor.
‘Rithmetic:
Create a couple of new products for My Other Business That Is Not Publishing.
There are other things I need to get done, but that’s all pretty boring stuff like, “put up a shelf” sort of stuff.
June 22, 2009
I’ve been pondering a weighty topic for the last week or so, wondering why a couple of Christian concepts seem to be mutually exclusive, and, moreover, how shall *I* reconcile those?
No, I’m not telling you what they are. I ran across a passage in a book that spoke to my questions (although didn’t answer them, precisely). So I’m just going to post the passage. Character names are left out, as I want it to stand on its own without any preconceived notions.
[The man] smiled. “What does this look like to you, Miss [ . . . ]?” He pointed around the room.
“This?” She laughed suddenly, looking at the faces of the men against the golden sunburst of rays filling the great windows. “This looks like . . . You know, I never hoped to see any of you again, I wondered at times how much I’d give for just one more glimpse or one more word—and now—now this is like that dream you imagine in childhood, when you think that some day, in heaven, you will see those great departed whom you had not seen on earth, and you choose, from all the past centuries, the great men you would like to meet.”
[ . . . ]
“Ask yourself whether the dream of heaven and greatness should be left waiting for us in our graves—or whether it should be ours here and now and on this earth.”
“I know,” she whispered.
“And if you met those great men in heaven,” asked [another], “what would you want to say to them?”
“Just . . . just ‘hello,’ I guess.”
“That’s not all,” said [he]. “There’s something you’d want to hear from them. I didn’t know it, either, until I saw him for the first time” —he pointed to [a third man]— “and he said it to me, and then I knew what it was that I had missed all my life. Miss [ . . . ], you’d want them to look at you and to say, ‘Well done.’”
June 18, 2009, 8:07 p.m. CDT
I’m trying to finalize the blog theme I’m customizing, which means lots of changes in the way things look. Unfortunately, two things have happened:
1. The new theme has only one sidebar and I’m rearranging stuff.
2. WordPress asked me to upgrade to 2.8 and now my stupid widget function isn’t working. I only found out about this when Dude said, “Where’s the latest comments list?”
I’m hoping to get the thing up and running some time tonight, but don’t quote me on that.
UPDATE on 6/19/09 at 11:11 pm CDT:
1. For some reason, the “date” function on this template doesn’t work. That’ll be a dealbreaker if I can’t get it to work.
2. The “Stories” tab above doesn’t point to anything yet.
3. The blogroll is hand-coded in the other template, so I need to get that in here properly.4. I have a few other widgets I’d like to try out.
I’m tired of this template and besides, it’s getting a little too cluttered for my taste. So…for the next little while, I’m going to be working on changing it out. If you come here and see strangity, it’s cuz I’m messin’ with it.
I’m bored of this template. Now that THE FOB BIBLE is done (more on that in another post), I’m going to be switching this blog over to the template I use for THE PROVISO cuz I like it (even though it does have a black background) and it’s amazingly flexible. Also, I find this template limiting for the e-book series (eBook? ebook? e-book? e-Book? I need to define my style).
Twitter. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. My thoughts run in small bursts, so it’s perfect for me. Better than blogging. Follow me!
I’m giving up Facebook. I can’t stand it for many, many reasons, all of which would make me mad were I to enumerate them. If you friended me there, I’m so sorry. Catch me on Twitter.
I’m still banned at the Apple iApp store. However, you can still get THE PROVISO on your iPhone using the PDB (eReader) or EPUB files we offer, through SmashWords, and through Scribd.
STAY, book 2 in the Dunham series, will be appearing at all of the above venues some time this winter. Crossing fingers it’s around Thanksgiving.
That is all for now.
I have really fond memories of the house I grew up in, which does not exist anymore. I mean, well, there’s a HOUSE there, where I grew up, but it’s morphed and changed so much (not in a good way) that it might as well not exist. I think it burned somewhat at one time and was um, “remodeled,” or else it was, er, “rebuilt,” but MY house is gone.
Still, when I was a kid, I’d go to my grandma’s house and it was in what I thought was a chichi neighborhood (I don’t know, maybe it was, but now it’s a tad rundown). I would go sell my school wares around HER neighborhood cuz none of my neighbors had any money.
Now, I love architecture anyway. If I’d been more focused in school (ha!) and a little more in touch with my creative/analytical abilities, I’d have known to go to school for that, but, well, hindsight is 20/20.
Anyway, I’d go around my g’ma’s neighborhood and see all these NEAT houses of mostly the same style: 1960s ranch, with a mid-century modern (which I did NOT like as a kid, but have come to appreciate more as an adult) mixed in here and there. I wanted to live in that neighborhood so badly. To me, living in a 1960s ranch represented having “made it,” but I was 12 and didn’t dare dream any higher (even though I knew there were far more grand neighborhoods in existence and had drooled).
So fast forward a couple of years and here I am with husband and tax deductions and 2 cats, in want of a house and we moved into…a 1960s housing development with…1960s ranch types (albeit no mid-century moderns). Some are more georgian (which here means, ranch with a second story) and a couple are split ranch (of both types) and ours is a raised ranch (finished, walk-out basement).
Friday I did some yard work, which involved going outdoors. (Shocker, I know.) Once I collapsed on my front porch to rest, I looked out over my neighborhood with the old, well-kept houses, the pristine lawns, and somewhat 1960s-ish landscaping (well, hell, I planted arborvitae, so who am I to talk, right?).
This morning, my door is wide open and I can see one old 1960s ranch with the brick veneer facade and the diamond-mullioned windows and the immaculate emerald lawn. The only sound in the neighborhood are the birds and the 3-year-old Tax Deduction.
My inner 12-year-old is very happy right now.
I sorted my music by Mojo-defined genre for a change and noticed a very strange juxtaposition in the category of “’80s Pop”:
“Centerfold” by the J. Geils Band directly followed by
“Black Velvet” by Alannah Myles (don’t hate me ’cause I’m cheesy).
and I’m like, why? Why do I have these together in the same sort because they represent two vastly different phases of my life.
The remembery I associate with “Centerfold” is a roller rink. I was 13.
The remembery I associate with “Black Velvet” is my room in the apartment I shared with 3 other girls in Provo, Utah. I was 21.
That’s not to mention all the flashes of rememberies in between the Centerfold part of my life and the Black Velvet part of my life, all rich in music, rich in experience, all helping to define my personality and philosophy, riding with me through alternating giddy and painful adolescence to adulthood. (Although to be fair, I don’t remember much between giddy and painful ’cause I tend toward the melodramatic. Betcha hadn’t noticed that yet.)
I have self-defined genres that fit a certain aspect of my life. I remember nearly every song on the radio the day I sat in my aunt’s house in Salt Lake, waiting for my parents to say it was time to take me to Provo and leave me there for the next 4 years of my life, 1200 miles from home. Shit, I couldn’t wait. (Never mind I didn’t make it 4 years and ended up with a home-grown degree from UMKC.)
I also have one that chronicles the summer I was 20, feeling my oats, not a care in the world and delivering pizza on a lunch rush for fun money. I went to Europe that summer for a month with my family and I couldn’t turn around in Holland and Germany without hearing Belinda Carlisle’s “Circle in the Sand.”
I did a lot that summer. I wish I’d done more.
It’s been almost a year since I started blogging and honestly I didn’t think I could keep it up this long. Oh, wait. I haven’t. I kind of dropped off the face of the planet in early March. I ran out of things to say about the same time I started becoming a slave to my stats, falling in like with Twitter, and having had some projects to work on.
The break has been nice, quite honestly, but I do have a backlog of things to say now and after I got a tweet from a concerned tweeter inquiring as to my rightness with the world, I eased my way back to twittering too. (I do love Twitter. Facebook…not so much. Actually, not at all.)
I’m going to pick up where I left off over at PubRen and start being more of a contributor over at that juggernaut April set up, Publetariat.
Why does my child have to be told this?
…but I forgot the phone number.
Be back when I don’t feel like Teh Crud.
You know who you are.
The 5-year-old Tax Deduction has just informed me that [insert Trendy white-bread Suburban Male Name here]’s mom and dad are always fighting.
Me: So do they fight at school in front of the children?
TD1: No. At home.
Me: Is [TSMN] upset about this?
TD1: No. They don’t want to be together anymore.
Me: Oh, really? How do you know this?
TD1: [TSMN] told me.
Me: Hmm. Do YOUR mommy and daddy fight?
TD1: No. [beat] Do you?
Me: No… We discuss things.
TD1: Is that like fighting?
Me: Only if we have loud voices and yelling. Have you heard us do that?
TD1: No. And [insert Trendy white-bread Suburban Female Name here]’s mom and dad, too.
Me: [TSFN]’s too?
TD1: Yeah. They don’t want to be together, either.
Me [aside to self]: Two meanest kids in the class.
asked the 3-year-old Tax Deduction.
I blame the school system.
The XX Tax Deduction is 5 and in kindergarten. All day. She has an account she can use to pay for her breakfast and lunch, and we just put money in it from the web. Nifteee. Yet…she comes home every day and says, “I’m STARVED!” Oh, really? Have a snack.
Anyway, a couple of weeks ago, we found out she’s been throwing her entree in the trash wholesale. Every day. And she’s starved when she comes home from school? Well, lemme tell ya. Two parental unit heads blew up. So.
We cut her off. Now, she’d been begging to let her take lunch to school in her nifty Dora lunch box (not a real one, just a little play tin thing), but we wouldn’t let her. So we knew that sending lunch to school with her would be no punishment. But…she loves having breakfast at school and always eats all of it.
Bye bye school breakfast. That made her howl.
Bye bye school lunch, bye bye Dora tin-with-a-handle thing, bye bye hot variety.
Today is day 5 of bologna-and-cheese-on-white-with-Miracle-Whip, cheese cubes, and a bag of carrots. In a brown paper bag. Welcome to my childhood, kid, enjoy. She was forbidden to try to access her account and she was told to bring home whatever she didn’t eat. Today is also day 5 she didn’t eat her lunch and brought it home, ate it after school because she was STARVED and wasn’t allowed anything else until she did.
Except today… Her current best friend had his birthday party, for which his mother brought the class pizza for lunch. Since we had not anticipated such a thing happening, we didn’t tell her she could eat whatever was brought as a treat.
Even though she loves pizza above all other foods and it broke her heart to watch the other kids eat, she didn’t have any.
Because we told her she had to eat the lunch we gave her and nothing else.
Blogpal Zoe Winters is in a competition for an erotic short story contest. Let’s help her win, shall we?
Go here. Vote for hers. Even if you don’t read it, vote for it, ’cause it’s good and I wouldn’t tell you it was good if it wasn’t. I just wouldn’t say anything at all and here I am, pimpin’ for the girl!
Go! Go now!
Today, February 7, at 4:25 CST in Kansas City, it is 70 degrees outside. I got a sick kid (have had for about 3 days now). I got a list of things to do a gazillion miles long. Since it is my mission in life to give birth to a new race (Glow in the Dark) and the sun cackles wickedly every time I go outside in anticipation of what evil it can wreak upon my skin, I don’t go out unless I have to. I’m a hermit, I tell you, and I like it that way.
But you know what?
I’m missing something, I think. I had a visitor yesterday, like, came to the door and rang the doorbell adult human type of visitor. The real deal. To visit. With me.
I’ve forgotten how to converse with people. My face feels all out of whack. My voice doesn’t seem to work very well. I’ve begun to stutter. I space out faster. I don’t smile much. My small talk is microscopic. Once I actually manage to pry my mouth open, I talk in longer monologues than I used to. I mean, I’ve always felt more comfortable with the written word than the spoken—but lately I’ve just gotten downright terrible.
It’s been my goal in life to become that old woman on the block, you know, the one with the muumuu and the orthopedic shoes and the orthopedic stockings rolled down to her ankles and the funky straw hat, the one all the neighborhood kids whisper about (“I heard she’s a witch”). Mmmm, I dunno.
Mebbe not.
Pardon me, dearie, while I go stir my cauldron.
’kay, folks, my moriah at moriahjovan dot com email is bouncing because I have neglected my inbox too long.
Gimme a coupla hours, ’kay?