I love Tech Support…and by “love Tech Support” I mean “want to smack them in the face with a chair sometimes”

A while back I emailed the tech support of a certain software I’m trying to use. I said I was having problems linking to our Awesome Foundation Server. They answered back as such:

“You should be able to publish to Awesome.

This could be an issue with your permissions/Network.

I recommend to talk to your IT department and make sure all the permissions are set for you to do so.

Sincerely, Tech Support Guy”

So I go to our IT dept. and dutifully ask about the permissions. They inform me that Awesome Foundation Server isn’t the same thing as the “full” version of Awesome so check to make sure the software supports what we have (b/c sometimes software companies are tricky like that and will support paid-for versions of something but not the free version that contains limited capacity). I sent tech support a similar email to this:

“I know your software is set to work in this manner with Awesome, but we have Awesome Foundation Server (which, I understand, is diff. from the “full” version of Awesome). Is your software guaranteed to work with AFS, too?

Me”

This is what they tell me:

“You should be able to publish to Awesome.

This could be an issue with your permissions/Network.

I recommend to talk to your IT department and make sure all the permissions are set for you to do so.

Sincerely, Tech Support Guy”

Notice any similarities. Like, oh, I dunno…they’re the exact same answer? And I was like, not cool, tech support. Not cool at all.

I’m apparently to assume it was a yes, I guess. Given that my email to them contained their last message, I can only assume snark or impatience on the end of their tech support, since I obviously knew their earlier response and would identify their use of the same message. Unfortunately, their answer came at the end of a morning that had already ended my patience with work-related problems. So I responded back with this:

“Tech Support Guy,

The fact that I sent you any email at all assures that I can read—so your copy/paste of the earlier answer was both unhelpful and unappreciated. I assume your answer is that our Awesome Foundation Server is also supported, but I’d like written clarification.

Sincerely, Me”

Suffice to say there was a little more help and a lot less snark the next time they emailed me. I’m actually kinda surprised that worked.

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Why I’m not a feminist

Even though I’m pretty sure I’m going to get hate-mail over this, I’ve been seeing a lot of feminist-oriented things on my social media dashes, to the point that I think I’ve pinpointed the problem I have with modern feminism and wish to vocalize it.

It’s not that I have anything against the idea of an “empowered” woman (though that’s so vague it could mean about 20 different things), nor do I ignore the fact that modern society is still very male-leaning in social norms and some practices. But my issue with modern feminism is the way I see most feminists portray it. A prime example is the way Amanda Palmer (who’s one cool chick in general) recently defined the feminist on her Tumblr site:

 “as far as i’m concerned, the most powerful feminist can do WHATEVER SHE WANTS.

THAT IS WHAT DEFINES A TRUE FEMINIST.

this includes: wearing heels, wearing combat boots, wearing nothing, sporting lipstick, shaving, not shaving, waxing, not waxing, being political, being apolitical, having a job, being homeless, gazing at men, gazing at women, gazing at porn of all sorts, glamming up like a drag queen, going in man-drag, being in a five-way polyamorous relationship,being childless, being a stay-at-home parent, being single, having a wife, having a husband, and gazing/cooing adoringly at those that wives or husbands anywhere they fucking choose, including elevators, restaurants, puppet shows (well, maybe keep it g-rated if there are small children present), ….or on theatrical stages at fringe festivals. are we getting the picture here?? the most powerful feminist can do WHATEVER SHE WANTS. the minute you believe you’re a “bad feminist” because you said the wrong thing/wore the wrong thing/got married/chose to have children…or otherwise broke some unspecified ”code of feminism”: DON’T BUY IT. THERE ISN’T ONE. you can do ANYTHING YOU WANT. ANYTHING. THAT’S THE POINT.”

I don’t take issue with her statement that a woman can do anything she wants. It’s the omission of whether or not she should.

And that seems to be the modern interpretation of it, that being a feminist means that you can do anything you want, when you want, and everyone else be damned.

It’s an empowering idea, yes, but also very scary. There is such a lack of any mention of morality or accountability or personal responsibility, that, to take such definitions at face value, it’s not unreasonable to assume there is no mention of morals because such feminists have no morals.

…

OF COURSE FEMINISTS HAVE MORALS, YOU GUYS. Please tell me you didn’t take that seriously. Whether someone’s religious or not, gay, straight, single, [insert political party here], or anything else, everyone has some kind of moral compass which they live by. And while I don’t agree with the moral standards of everyone I meet, I can usually follow the logic of their moral code when it’s explained. So…why not mention it?

Because there’s a stigma associated with making judgment calls on someone else’s actions? Because moral standards are presumed by such feminists to be present in the first place? Because they, perhaps, assume (incorrectly) that criticism is always, in every case, under every circumstance unwarranted? I’m honestly asking to know, because I don’t understand why.

If I were to guess, maybe moral implications are ignored b/c they’re seen as a minor detail given the presumed vastness of the injustice against women (so morals are collateral damage in the great scheme of things). Maybe, like I said before, they’re assumed to be present before the argument begins. Maybe, for some, they really are annoying incidentals that aren’t seen as important (an extreme-hedonism-type of view). I dunno.

But (obviously assuming moral responsibility is important in the first place) I think it’s dangerous not to mention it. People like soundbytes, and tend to remember ONLY those soundbytes, not the context of the message it’s in. It’s not a slippery slope to think that, after repeatedly hearing the same “feminists do whatever they want” soundbyte, which lists no boundaries, people will think that’s all there is to the message, that there really are no boundaries. After all, if there was more to it, people would mention it, right?

So that’s my issue. People don’t mention or question the moral responsibilities associated with being able to do what you want, and I think they should. Because it’s a fabulous thing for women to have the same action-power, social status, etc. as men. But you’re not helping women in society by telling them to do whatever whenever with zero restrictions.

“That’s right, we’ll take back those derogative stereotypes of women! For example, take the stereotype that all powerful women are selfish bitches. We’ll prove that wrong by….doing whatever we want…without regard to…others’ feelings…or opinions……… Wait a second…”

Yup, that’ll show them, ladies.

And I get AFP’s point, above: there is no pre-set definition of what a feminist is, so you can’t be a “good” or “bad” one (though, apparently, she says you can be a “true” feminist, which implies there’re also “false” feminists running around?). But the rest of her philosophy loses me because it, like so many other arguments in favor of feminism, talk about feminism in a vacuum, like it exists without the influence from or on other things. And some of the “other things” I’m thinking of here are personal responsibilities, moral standards, the post-action ramifications—those still exist.

Trying to force what appears to be a very self-centered ideology down your “male-dominated” society’s throat isn’t going to do anything more than gag them with it; it’s certainly not going to change anyone’s minds, which is what feminism wants to do, right? Change the way men view women and in a positive way?

In a very general sense, the whole goal of feminism is for women to be on equal playing grounds (socially, politically, and economically) as men in all aspects of our lives. A related (and mistaken) assumption to this is that men have the liberty to do whatever they want, but women can’t, for one reason or another. But ladies: if you think the way to change this is to bring yourselves down to the level of “doing anything you want whenever you want,” then you’re doing it wrong. At that point, you’re striving for equality with the lowest-class of male on the societal spectrum, the ones who act in complete selfishness, without regard to how others feel or think (e.g. the man who casually sleeps with as many women as he wants b/c he views women as playthings to be used and discarded at whim). You’ve chosen, literally, the least-ideal view of man to shoot for, and that’s something to be celebrated?

No thanks. If that’s the case, I don’t applaud your efforts. I’d rather be a liberated, societally-conscious woman who does what she wants, when she wants…as long as they meet my standards of A) not hurting someone else in order to do it, and B) making the world (within my influence) a cleaner, more respectful, more loving place. And I don’t see how doing anything I want without restrictions of any kind, achieves that.

So feminists, start tagging on the conditions under which a woman’s actions actually make things better (i.e. the standards we should be working towards), and I’m on board. Until then, maybe reevaluate whether or not your actions further cement negative female stereotypes instead of making women more socially-equal with men. Or maybe just reevaluate what kind of men you’re actually seeking to be equal to.

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Things to avoid saying at the vet’s office

When taking your pets to the vet, whether for routine vaccinations or emergencies, you should realize that there are several things it would be helpful for you not to mention to the vet techs during your visit:

When the vet tech asks you what happened to your dog (b/c you asked them to look at her limp on the phone earlier), don’t get a deer-in-headlights look on your face and stammer, “Uh..she, uh….fell down…the stairs. She’s very clumsy.”

When they show you the toothbrush for brushing your dog’s teeth, do not say, “Oh I don’t need one. My toddler can share hers.”

When they look horrified at your suggestion, do not clarify by adding, “No, it’s ok! My daughter puts nasty stuff in her mouth all the time. Besides, aren’t dogs’ mouths supposed to be cleaner than ours…?” then pause and go “…Wait…or were you worried about my kid giving the dog strange bacteria? Because I don’t like what you’re implying. At worst, my daughter’s only ever eaten cat poop out of the litterbox and it was just that one time! THE DOG REGULARLY CLEANS HER BUTT WITH HER TONGUE, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD.”

When they gently stress that each dog should have their own toothbrush, do not finish their sentence by interrupting with “—because even though they’re roommates, the relationship’s not like that, amIrite?” and then wink at the vet tech.

When the vet tech tries to bring some control to the conversation by relating a humorous anecdote about brushing her own cat’s teeth, do not refer to the toothbrush as being “of the feline persuasion.”

When going over the list of expenses do not use the phrase “less-lethal,” as in “We didn’t really budget for a vet bill this expensive this month. So which of the issues we discussed earlier are less-lethal? We’d like to take off the treatment for those and see what our total is.”

When the vet tech croons over the way your simple dog quivers with fear at existing in a place that is not her home and being looked at by eyes and seeing things she’s only seen 200 times before, do not try to compensate to the vet tech for the obvious rejection your simple dog is giving her by saying, “Don’t take it personally. She’s emotionally retarded.”

When you’re paying the bill, don’t muse that “You know how they say that if a car repair is going to cost you more than the car is worth, it’s better to buy a new car? I’ll bet we could buy a lot of dogs with $400…”

Saying any one of these things will both  make the vet tech incredibly uncomfortable (especially if she’s new) and will make you look weird (though, that’s really nothing new for me).

All but 1 of these popped out of my mouth within the hour-long visit that I had this morning. And of course I was kidding. Especially with that part about Rynn eating cat poop. (She actually prefers clumps of dog hair she finds under the edges of the cabinets.) That last one actually came from Clayton, after I recounted our bill. And yeah, I know…I told him it wasn’t funny either.

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Culinary hedonism: not as great as I originally thought

Sunday’s riding lesson was the first step to a dream that I’ve had for Gabe ever since I bought him: my instructor, Equi-J, and I worked on my first musical freestyle (aka, a kur).  Sure, most of the horse people I know who’re reading this are probably like, “Wow, took you long enough…” because they’ve long since done one, but I never have, for one excuse or another.  And the music I want to use?  Super Mario Brothers.  I anticipate this to be a very fun, whimsical kur.

Though, if the kur goes the same as this lesson, I’ll have to schedule in regular airs above the ground.  ”K-A: 10 meter half circle onto centerline, V: irritated buck, X: halt, salute, X-G: 3 consecutive bucks, punctuated by angry farts of effort, G-M: 10 meter half circle and angry toss of head so Gabe can prove I’m not the boss of him…”  The test we designed is challenging–very bold for our level–and we CAN get the movements in a semi-organized fashion.  But there were times when I guess I asked too hard (or the movement required more effort that he wanted to put forth)–like the canter-trot-canter transition on the centerline, with only 2 strides of trot, that resulted in 10 (T-E-N) bucks up the centerline, with a gorgeous, accidental flying change at C.  Gonna have to mark those into the musical scale…maybe put them to the tune of the whoop-whoop-whoop warp noises.

Times like those were offset by Equi-J’s comments like, “Did you know that X combo of movements [that you just did] is in Fourth level tests?”  And I’m like, “Oh…how did it look?”  And I get the response: “FABULOUS!”  Comments like will offset a centerline full of bucks any day.

Of course, the downside to that fabulous lesson with those less-than-fabulous bucks, is that Gabe essentially got the last laugh because now my my back’s out.  Well, ok, not “can’t tie my shoes” kind of out, but it DID say “eff you” every time I tried to move on Sunday and today it’s still very angry and we’re currently not on speaking terms.  It gets harder to tell myself that it was worth it when I have to appear like I’m coolly sauntering around my office to mask the fact that if there was a fire drill, I’d just lay down on the carpet and drink a Coke because I can’t outrun anything faster than a paperweight.  I’d just have to salute the fire with my Coke can and yell philosophically-clever things like, “LET LOOSE THE DOGS OF WAR” and hope someone heard me so they could tell the newspapers how brave and philosophical I was in my final moments.

Even though my back had been doing fine up until all the bucking, I was forced to concede that being fat is certainly not helping the situation–my back frequently goes out after I ride when I’m heavier.  Nor the fact that the fatness, previously intimidated by my regular running schedule, had rallied with a vengeance after I took the month of July some time off due to laziness important other things. So I spent most of Sunday worrying about the fact that I might not be in shape enough for the Warrior Dash event I signed up for in October.

And then I realized that this wasn’t worth it.  I used to see really fit people at lunch morosely choking down their handful of field greens and then decide to splurge for the afternoon and have a Diet Coke instead of water–and I always felt superior.  Because even though they were much skinnier than me, I was enjoying the hell out of my pizza.  Then I’d look at them with pity and declare that I know I got more enjoyment out of eating that delicious, gooey slice of pizza than they did running that last seventeen miles yesterday.  I felt like my food enjoyment far outweighed their skinny enjoyment.   I’ve realized that’s not quite the case: it’s not just about the skinny.

I’ve been thin before.  And I’ve eaten great food before (everything from fried Oreos to food that’s technically called “cuisine”).  So I think I can consider myself an authority when I say that being fit is not worth that cheeseburger.  Note that the key here is being “fit” and not “skinny”–it’s a matter of feeling good physically, rather than emotional enjoyment.  Culinary hedonism is fine and all, but I’m much happier with myself when I’m fitter, whereas, I can count the number of meals I specifically remember as “amazingly delicious” using two hands and a love handle.  I spend more time in the day not eating than I do eating…so why am I letting that minority determine how I’ll feel during the majority of my time?  Doesn’t make sense.

And I don’t mean to sound like I’m a morbidly obese woman who’s growing into her couch because I haven’t moved in three months and have only survived because I trained the dog to answer the door when the delivery boy arrives–though she DOES always forget to tip 20% even though I remind her.  I’m just saying that I FEEL better when I weigh less, which I think is a safe bet to assume most people would say (regardless of how happy you are with your current size).

So back to running.  And over with the “this one meal won’t matter” attitude I normally take with food.  My fat ass is done with that.

Now, please excuse me while I go play with my freestyle.  Which, incidentally…anyone know of decent freeware that I can use to mix my kur music?  I need to be able to splice parts of songs together into one track.

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Oy vey iz mir…

This has been one of those weeks.  Had those?  Where you’re asked to work with that guy who thinks you’re a total idiot and is fond of telling your project manager so via oblique email comments, and a friend decides to rub your nose in a mistake you’ve already apologized for a couple of times over.  And the house looks like the Salvation Army moved in and then promptly exploded in a fiery mess of baby clothes, books, and a random stack of get-well cards.  Where you spend a good five minutes (do you realize how long 5 min. actually IS?) cleaning up the King Kong of poos from your kid’s diaper and then another 20 holding her down with both knees and one hand while you try to use a rubber bulb syringe to suck the boogers out of her nose while she screams like you’re killing her and then refuses to let you placate her, only to have Daddy come bouncing into the room and grin at her once and she immediately abandons the tears to giggle and coo up at him (…traitor…).  And then someone accidentally picks the wrong day to pick a fight online (as if there are right days for this?) and….

Sorry.  I’m a bit stressed.  I tend to ramble when I’m stressed.

This post is mostly just a vent, and I apologize for taking it out on you.  You deserve better, Most Highly Respected Anonymous Reader.  Let me try this again…

To summarize: Imagine starting your day like, “Today?  Today’s gonna be a good day.  I can FEEL it!”  And then you walk out your door, ferociously happy–”Havin’ a good day, havin’ a good day, havin’ a good day…”–and then BAM:

Yeah, that’s about right.

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Warning: there is scatalogical TMI all OVER this one

Last night I was fully awake at 4:30am.  Did I have insomnia?  No.  But apparently the intestines of everyone ELSE in the house did.  Start at 3am when Rynn wakes up for a feeding.  Carry the baby to the glider, turn on a recorded episode of NCIS, and notice the stench of poo wafting gently on the air.  And there, near the door, is a neat little turd pile next to a puddle on the carpet.

Because my arms are full of previously-mentioned feeding baby, I could do nothing for about 10 min. except growl angry threats at Nell, who just looked at me forlornly from her spot next to the TV.  It wasn’t until she slunk back to go sleep with Sam that I realized that apparently SOMEONE forgot to walk the dogs before bed.  I’d blame Clayton but he’s still in CA for work.

…eh, what the hell.  ALL.  HIS. FAULT.

So I just growled at the poor, sweet dog who actually tried to hold it and only last until almost 3 O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING.  I, who, though I am a Forgetter of Things, NEVER forget pet-related stuff.  Especially important pet-related stuff like taking them out to do their necessaries.  Never in the history of Me have I forgotten this!  Until last night.  When I proceed to whisper death-threats at the dog for my mistake.  Rarely do I start the day feeling like an ass quite this early.  New record.

But back to last night…Inhale aroma de’ poo while the baby feeds.  When she finishes, burp the baby, put her back in the cosleeper, and clean up the dog’s mess.  Open a window and turn on the fan to get rid of the poo stench.  Wash my hands and get back in bed.  While trying to stop hating myself for forgetting about not letting the dogs out long enough for me to get back to sleep, I hear a whimper, followed by a rip-your-throat-out growl.  Silence.  A few seconds later, whimper, growl.  Whimper, whimper, BIG GROWL.  Nell’s having nightmares again.  I get back out of bed to soothe her, realizing only as I touch her head that I’m a crouching figure, reaching for her in the dark, to wake her up from a recurring nightmare that I’ve long suspected is about someone abusing her.  Thankfully, no hands were eaten.  Back in bed.

Rynn begins to snort, much like a rooting hog, from the cosleeper.  She grunts.  I roll over, away from her, hoping she’ll get the hint.  She holds her breath and then lets it out with a wet, snoring sound.  She whimpers.  Snorts again.  Coughs, then sneezes.  Followed by her little “ooh” noise, that she does after ever sneeze because I think they surprise her every time they happen.  (I question the intelligence of my baby that she hasn’t realized that SHE’S the one making these noises…)  I sigh.  More snorting and grunting.  I squeeze my eyes shut really hard–which is pretty stupid, actually, b/c even if I COULD magically fall asleep at that moment, I’m still going to be the one who has to take care of whatever’s causing her discomfort.  So I reach over to her, with my eyes still shut, and stick my finger right into something wet and goopy.  My first thought is that I just stuck my finger in her mouth.  When I open my eyes, I realize my hand’s at the wrong end.

Back into the bathroom to wash my hand.

Pick up the disgusting baby only to realize that we’ve had our first official blowout.  Up until now, we’ve had minor leaks, the kind that sneak up over the back of her waistband and leave a tiny tan line of nasty, or that sneak out to stain the thigh hem of her onesie.  But, in accordance with Murphy’s Law, not tonight!  Strip her of the swaddle-blanket thingy that is really just one big sopping mess now and lug the chunklet to the changing pad.

Realize the onesie’s soiled, too.  Strip the baby, clean her. Throw up a little in my mouth because OH FOR THE LOVE OF NACHOS DOES IT HAVE TO BE GREEN AND SMELL LIKE RANCID MILK AND TOMATOES?!  New diaper: on.  New onesi—where’s the onesie?  A voice at the back of my sleepy mind goes, “You mean one of the onesies you washed but forgot to stick next to the changing pad before going to bed?”  Yes, brain.  One of THOSE onesies.  By the way, do you have to be such an ass?

Leave the half-naked baby, trudge out of the bedroom and into her nursery for a clean onesie.  Discover, after wading through the small pile of clean laundry that I DIDN’T wash those onesies after all, but find the next best thing: a footed set of pajamas with ducks on them.  There’s even duck heads on the feet.  How cute.

Trudge back to the half-naked baby, wondering when that dog poo smell will go away.  Open the window a little further.  Fiddle half-asleep with her arms to get them in the right holes and wonder if the night is ever going to end.  Get the baby mostly dressed and realize that she’s already peed her new diaper.  I know that, despite the fact that my child will HAPPILY spend the entire night in a puddle of her own poo, she detests being even the slightest bit wet.  Off comes the new diaper.  Clean her, stick on the SECOND new diaper, fight to stay half-asleep, and try to fit her feet into the tops of the little duck heads.  (And as I’m typing this, I notice how morbid those animal-feet PJs really are…)

Get the left leg on and snapped and realize that the entire right leg of the duck PJs is soaked.  Stare dumbfounded as I try to realize why.  Sleepily wonder how Rynn managed to spill a cup of water without my noticing.  Finally clue in to the fact that she managed to pee herself while I was in the process of swapping the first pee diaper for the second new one.  My daughter is a pee ninja.

Rynn’s, of course, now fully awake.  She gurgles and grins and coos at me b/c apparently this is some kind of fun late night game Mommy’s decided to play.  The only thing running through my head is “Clean the baby.  Save the world.”  I hear Sam stop storing and give this really big sigh, like “DUDE!  SOME of us are trying to sleep around here!”  (And don’t think that was a product of late-night imagination because there was TOTAL attitude in that sigh.)

Clean the baby AGAIN.  Like Skynet, I become completely self-aware, and realize that I won’t be able to get back to sleep at all tonight.  A glance at the clock says that we’ve now been up for an hour since we began.  Return to the clean onesie dilemma and consider sending the baby to bed naked.  After trudging back to the clean laundry for a half-hearted second look, I find an elusive clean onesie hiding underneath the socks:

Back to the bedroom, and WHY DOES IT STILL SMELL LIKE DOG POO?  Reclothe my daughter, stick a pacifier in her mouth, and tell her if she doesn’t go immediately to sleep, trolls will eat her.  Surprisingly, she complies, which makes me think she might have some redemptive intelligence after all.  And eventually, lulled by the harmonies of my dogs snoring and Rynn’s quiet breathing, I’m able to get back to sleep.  But the last thing I remember is being in total awe that for once, it wasn’t the CATS that were the problems.

Ok, that’s not true.  I also remembered about seventy other things I forgot to do before bedtime, but I refused to get back up.  Hopefully, leaving them alone won’t end up staining the carpet later.

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You say “procrastinating” like it’s a bad thing…I prefer to think of it as an art

Literary non-sequitur newsflash: The Oxford-English Dictionary recently decided that the heart icon, LOL, and OMG are now “real words.”  Sign of the Apocalypse of the Day much?  I do not heart this. 

Anyway.

The first step to getting published is getting it written.  I have to remind myself of this CONSTANTLY.  Most of the time, I find myself getting really discouraged over the fact that I haven’t been published yet.  And sometimes–but, unfortunately, not ALL the time–I remember that I’ve not yet finished the novel I’m depressed about, or haven’t queried anybody about the kid’s book I have ready, or have only sent my handfull of “finished” short stories to about 3 journals each on average.  That is not a solid recipe for success.  I frequently forget that I’m not published yet because I haven’t really followed all the steps I have to take along the way: finsih the work, query an agent/publisher, submit the story to tons of journals (b/c publishing works kind of like reproductive biology: larger numbers ensure the sucess of one or two). 

Yup.  I TOTALLY just went there. 

Instead, I want to do what all lazy writers want to do which is write my stuff, sometimes finish it, and hope REALLY HARD that I’ll make it.  This has not worked for me quite yet.

I’m admitting all this kind of like an alcoholic stands up and goes, “Hi, my name is Bob….”  I’m coming clean about my procrastination addiction.  I’ve talked about this before, though I don’t think I’ve gone into specifics about my lazy habits to this extent.  I REALLY, REALLY want to get published.  I REALLY, REALLY want my stuff out of the closet for the world to ridicule.  But I also REALLY, REALLY wish there was an easy way to do it. 

Yeah, that’s right.  I wish it were easy. “But then EVERBODY would be published, even the terrible writing…”  Right, but I’D still be published, too.  (Besides, self-publishing already takes care of that argument.)

I decided to take a break today from telling myself how much my novel sucks and how nobody with any sense would want to read it to attempt to write on it.  Because first things first, right?  I have to actually write the crap before it can be complete enough for me to ridicule its entirity.  And I realized that I have a form of writer’s block that I hadn’t really considered to be writer’s block before.  I always thought WB was when you were so overcome by the magnitude/greatness/intimidation of what you want to write that the vastness of the blank white page before you renders you unable to start.  And I always thought that was for amateurs.  I’d see advice for how to overcome WB and think, “Psh.  Losers.” 

Now, I’m pretty sure that WB ALSO includes the part where you’ve begun your story and hit that scene you Just.Can’t. wrap your brain around.  And then you decide to work on a different scene as a break…only that one isn’t clear enough for you to write either.  So you decide to work, perhaps, on a bit of dialogue…only that character isn’t talking to you today.  So instead, you tell yourself, “I just need to get back into the feel of the story.  Yeah, that’s it…”  and reread back through what you wrote.  Maybe you get distracted editing (“Did I really just use seven adjectives in a row to describe that desk…?”) or maybe you just awe yourself into a stupor (“Man, I freakin’ LOVE this!  I wrote that paragraph LIKE A BOSS.  Look at the way I described that freakin’ desk….”) and decide that Hemmingway, Faulkner, and King have nothing on your pre-published talent. 

And still, nothing gets written.

That’s the more advanced phase of WB, I think.  You’ve started but can’t move past the plot holes or the sticky spots.  So you distract yourself with other stuff, like my favorite time-waster: “thinking about your story”–yeah, still not as good as actually writing it, genius.  Or working on your plot outline or character description (or other writers’ tool)–these can be useful…UNLESS you’re supposed to be writing, in which case, yeah, not very helpful.  Or Facebooking (my second favorite time-waster). 

Or blogging.

*Ahem.*  Don’t look at me like that.

…Er, right.

I think I’ll get back to that paragraph now.

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One Track Mind

I would be lying if I said that, at this point, I was able to concentrate on anything other than the impending D-Day for more than 5 minutes at a time, so please forgive any typos I missed here–I just don’t have the brain power left to find them.  The fact that I will be an official parent in about 2 weeks is an all-consuming idea, one filled with all kinds of lists over what’s left to do and what’s been done, what baby items still need to be bought as “need-to-haves” for the first few weeks and what are 6 mo. + items, what paperwork’s been filed, and who to call when…

Though, honestly, THE most consuming idea of all of them is the birth itself.  I’m not going to try and pretend that I’m not terrified (and I really don’t mind admitting that at this point, either).  A lot of the moms I know in VA seemed totally together and planned for how they expected it to go down—they attended the birth classes (done), read the books (kinda done), made the birth plans (done yesterday), meditated/did yoga/mentally prepped (less done) and seems completely chill about the whole thing.  But despite my having gone through the same knowledge-finding actions (because I am, among other things, a DAMN fine researcher), I still can’t help but feel like I’m missing something really important, something that, once I heard it, would make this whole thing come together as officially “Planned and Prepared” and I’d be like, “OH!  So THAT’S how I’m supposed to do/handle/react to it… Oh, well that’s easy.  LET’S DO THIS.” 

But instead I just feel kinda scattered and unsure.  I know the process of birth, know the stages and the Impending Signs of Uterine Apocalypse.  I know the breathing techniques and “helpful” positions and a good deal of where the Baby Comfort Paraphernalia is supposed to go on the baby’s person.  But I’m still not sure how one mentally prepares for birth, esp. since most of what I’ve researched approaches this as a 2-step process:

• “Step 1: Educate yourself about what birth is like (process, stages of labor, medical options, etc.). 
•  Step 2: Realize that no two births are the same, so most of your rational, educated intentions are less of a ‘Plan’ and more of an ‘It-Would-Be-Nice-If-This-Happened list’ of preferences, thus rendering your Birth Plan useless.  Congratulations, you just wasted the last 4 months.”

I find myself reading and rereading the same birth stage info like something new will suddenly pop out at me.  So far, my reading would lead me to believe that birth can be analogized like riding a roller coaster for the first time.  After walking around the amusement park for hours, seeing your ride towering in the distance and becoming increasingly apprehensive about it, you finally arrive at the line.  You wait for a very long time, getting increasingly anxious as you watch clumps of people get on the ride and proceed to scream non-stop for the next 2 minutes of the ride’s duration.  Hearing the screams makes you more nervous, but the people you’re with who’ve ridden the ride before assure you how much you’ll love it after you’ve done it, and they encourage you to take deep breaths and stay calm.  They point out sections of track that you’ll be riding on (a loop here or a twist in the track there)—this is meant to reassure you, too, since you can clearly see the path you’re about to travel.  This never helps, especially when the next screaming car passes while you watch, but you take your deep breaths and tell yourself you’ll be fine, try to convince yourself that you’re excited about it.  Eventually you see the ride stop and people get off laughing.  Maybe, to make this more like birth, we’ll even analogize that they all get a T-shirt to take home.  (Because T-shirts = JUST like babies.)

However, even after my reading, here’s what the analogy actually feels like to me:  all of the above, up until the part where the clumps of new riders get on the ride.  Before the ride leaves the docking station, a huge black curtain swings shut and you’re cut off from watching any more of it.  All you can hear is the screaming for the duration of the ride.  And so, for two whole minutes, all you can imagine is that the ride is systematically removing organs from them one-by-one.  Then, when they re-dock to get off, the curtain opens and you see everybody all laughing and getting their T-shirt and trying to tame the wind-afros they just got.  Only some of them have stitches and can’t walk too well, and their T-shirts spontaneously throw up on them before they leave the docking station.  And when you look fearfully at the people you’re with who’ve ridden before, they just smile like nothing’s wrong and tell you you’re next and you’re gonna do fine. 

And then after you’ve already gotten on the ride, you totally miss the people you were with who’re all like:

 ”She totally fell for it!” 

And unfortunately, trying valiantly to derail the one-track mindset for even two seconds, is the information that my barn owner passed along this afternoon: that Gabe’s small bought of diarrhea, which he always has gotten up here in VA to a mild degree during the first month of winter for some reason,  has turned into more than a “small” bout, so his entire backside is now caked with frozen poo.  Delicious.  I feel really bad that I haven’t been out recently enough to realize it had gotten that bad—sometimes I am an absolutely terrible horse owner.   Hopefully, the huge snowstorm we’re supposed to get this week won’t be bad enough that I can’t go out and clean him off. 

Which, I just realized, should probably be videotaped, since I imagine it’d be a pretty funny video to show a 9 mo. pregnant hippo furiously scrubbing frozen poo-mess off the hind end of a Quarter Horse and then toweling it dry before the water has a chance to freeze to his already unhappy backside.  And then coating his buttcheeks with Vaseline to minimize the chapping.  Tons o’ fun, really, for both of us.  I’ll keep you posted.

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A soapbox rant on why it shouldn’t be THIS easy to get published

As a writer, writing with the intent to someday get something of my own published, I like to keep up-to-date on the current events of the world of publishing houses and trends in that field.  Couldn’t care less about current events elsewhere, like the bombs in North Russia (or was it Korea…?  Those James Bond movies have me all confused about who the bad guy is these days…), but you stick a book-related issue in there and I’m all over it.  And one of the topics in publishing that really brings out the snark in just about everybody is the idea of self-publishing: is it good, bad, very ugly; how does it affect literary agents, publishers, bookstore sales; who should do it and under what circumstances…  A very long list of questions that surround it.  Truthfully, I don’t really have much of an issue with it on the good/bad scale, since I think it certainly does have its place with certain types of writers.  But I’m not going to go into the details of when/where that place may be because I’m currently pissed off at Borders and I don’t want to lose my steam by being rational and informative. 

Or, more to the point, why start now?

I got a promotional email from Borders yesterday, which normally make me very happy.  That store makes me happy in the pants because I have always had a love affair with books.  And Borders is a place where books live.  It’s a place where I can go and pay the fee for little book slaves to entertain my imagination as long as I wish.  And if Borders wants to let me know ways to free those book slaves for a lower price than normal, I’m all about it.  But this time, my promotional email informed me about a new abomination in the self-publishing world: Borders Get Published™ tool. 

It’s software wherein you drop in your manuscript text, format it and add pictures as you like, and then it creates an e-book for you.  Then, after you buy a self-publishing package, it assigns an ISBN to the book and distributes it for you to online booksellers.  According to the site, “All that’s needed are your words and a passion to get published!”  There was more to the email, but at that point I barfed on the keyboard and couldn’t read anymore due to the need to clean-up. 

It’s like someone wandered through a bookstore and went, “You know, there really aren’t enough poorly-written, badly-edited books in the world.”  Or maybe they were just upset at the idea that only semi-talented people who could afford an editor were getting published (and even THAT’s a stretch of a statement, particularly if you’ve read the Twilight series…), and were like, “I wish the publishing world didn’t have all these ‘rules’ and hoops to jump through.  I wish it was more like the internet, where anybody can make a webpage or a blog and become famous overnight….….WAIT A SECOND! *rushes off to the Borders R&D dept.*.” 

In an interview, Flannery O’Connor once said, ““Everywhere I go I’m asked if I think the university stifles writers. My opinion is that they don’t stifle enough of them.”  And while this comment makes me snicker when coupled with the memories of getting my MFA, I think this statement is still accurate if you substituted “agents” for “the university.”  One of the key functions of an agent is to sift through the crap to find the jewels.  Their job, as I understand it, sucks.  And it does so precisely because they’re finding that needle and hopefully not getting pricked by picking it up and selling the crap out of it.  This is largely how self-publishing has become such a more prominent path, since some people get too many rejections by these human filters (or get overlooked by them entirely) but still feel their stuff is valid enough for public consumption.  And while I still hold to my earlier statement that self-publishing has its purpose, even then, you still have a fair amount of hoops to jump through to get your work published that way.  But both paths have safeguards of sorts in place that make it intentionally too tough for just ANYBODY to do it—you have to be 2,000% determined to wade through all the rejections long enough to get published via an agent or publishing house.  You have to be about 70% determined to have suffered through that, given up, and decided to do it your own damn self—in my opinion, a much lower-quality field since I believe strongly in the positive screening power of professional agents, but still worth big credit since you’re doing all the footwork yourself: the publishing, the promotion, the potential tours/signings to get your name out…lots and lots of work to do by your lonesome if you want to make any money off it.

And now any idiot who can work a keyboard can get their stuff out there, junking up the listings for other authors who might actually have done the hard work and had the talent to get their stuff LEGITIMATELY published, even as nothing more than an e-book.  This is insulting as much for the other authors out there as for the agents who (I imagine), when they saw Borders’s latest idiocy, collectively screamed, “ARE YOU KIDDING ME?” and left at 10:30am to get a head start at the bar up the block.

Like with so many other industries/institutions, let’s just lower the bar so EVERYBODY gets a piece of cake.  So we can all be special.  Because we ARE all special.  Even the ones with too much time on their hands and not enough talent to make it through the industry’s often-purposeful screening process.  And who don’t want to even go to the trouble of “normal” self-publishing routes because they don’t want to work hard enough to promote their own trashy novella that they never would’ve finished without the help of the auto-correct in MS Word.  (God help the ones who inevitably will be using Notebook because “I have really good ideas!  And that means people must know about them!”…)

Standards are mean!

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“Instead of complaining that the rosebush is full of thorns, be happy that the thornbush has roses.” –German proverb

Whoever said this proverb can go suck an egg.  This is why Hitler lost the war; not because of poor war strategy, pissing off his few allies and the rest of the world, and killing millions of people in beyond-horrific ways.  Because the Germans have crappy proverbs.  They should talk to the Irish.  Irishmen make proverbs about fighting and drinking.  MUCH better than rose bushes.

Winter has started off with a phenomenal bang, though the first official day of winter isn’t until December.  (Though, I really don’t care what you tell me—when it drops into the thirties at night for at least 7 consecutive days, it’s winter in my book.)  I’ll warn you now, this post isn’t much more than a bit of griping, so you might just want to save yourself the effort and wait until next week’s installment.  I feel like I’ve expended a lot of energy trying to stay upbeat lately, and I’m just a bit tired of it today. 

For me winter is like when you buy a dress at the beginning of spring, and all year long you wear it, each time insisting to your reflection in the mirror that “I look FRIKKIN’. FABULOUS. in this dress” before you walk out the door, and then there comes that moment in December when you look at yourself in that dress for the fiftieth time and finally sigh as you mutter, “If those panty lines were any deeper, I’d need lane markers for them.  I know—I’ll just keep my back to the wall so that nobody gets a glimpse of my backside…”  That’s what winter’s like for me.  That moment of realization that when the light fades outside, it’s a lot harder to hide those things that seem FRIKKIN’. FABULOUS. in the summer months. 

Stupid winter.  And stupid panty lines.

This week seems to be one in which the universe’s goal is to wrap itself around my face and hump my head just to show its dominance.  Lots of failed or incomplete activities that were supposed to be either done or at least mostly done by now with very few accomplishments.  So, it’s hard to stay motivated enough to try and finish them.  Lately all my inner child wants to do is sit in the road and sulk, “I never wanted to do that thing anyway…”  Nice and productive, right? 

I think the best remedy for winter is to just go to bed and wait for spring to get here.  To that point, I don’t think bears really realize HOW GREAT they have it.  Minus that whole grass-and-hair butt plug thing. 

….

Eww, yeah.  Minus that part.

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