Writing Contest Blues, Take Two

Well, some news this evening. I got another email from the contest I had entered saying that my manuscript wasn't disqualified after all.

What? you say. Can it be true?

Yes, it can. And it gets even stranger.

The mixup, as it was explained to me, was that I numbered the pages of my submission continuously. My synopsis was pp. 1-6, and chapter 1 started on p.7. Apparently the contest people wanted the manuscript to be separate from the synopsis and start at p.1. The contest judges assumed that I was over the count because they added 54 (my last page #) and the 6 pages of synopsis and came out with 60. But before it was too late one astute judge actually counted my pages and realized I was not over the limit.

Confusing? You bet! It gets even better!

You remember those single spaced pages supposedly in my manuscript that I was tearing my hair out over? Well, they were not even mentioned. They just disappeared, like a puff of smoke. Amazing, isn't it?

Yes, I'm happy I'm still in the running, even though I'm getting docked points for improper formatting. Of course, where exactly in the contest entry rules it said that page #s could not be continuous I don't know, but I missed it. Just like I missed those nonexistent single-spaced pages, I'll bet.

Oy.

It sure would be nice if the world revolved exactly as I wanted it to. Then I could go back in time, travel from one place to another in the blink of an eye, and make my windows clean themselves.

But I live in this world and there's not much I can do about it except vent when the need arises.

Like today, for instance.

Today started out good, nice weather, and son passed his Tae Kwon Do test (he's a black belt, by the way, quite an accomplishment for 12). Then I decided to clean the kitchen and discovered, to my horror, that when the faucet started leaking two weeks ago the water had made it all the way across the counter to my cookbooks. I'd had no inkling; I thought I had stopped the water before it got that far. Obviously not. So my cookbooks are at present hanging on my clothes drying rack with a fan blowing on them, and my loose recipes are spread all over my kitchen table to dry.

What a fricking mess. Worse, some stuff actually had a bit of mildew stink to it. Gross.

Could this day go downhill? YOU BET!!

I got an email this afternoon from a writing contest I had entered that my entry was disqualified for having some single-spaced text in it. Apparently this single-spaced text put my entry over the page limit when it was spread out to double space.

I'm like, no f***ing way. I checked my file and it looks perfectly fine, all double spaced. I thought I checked each page, made sure everything looked good... but apparently I missed something so obvious a third grader could have picked it out.

I'm mad. And--call it denial if you will--I'm suspicious. How in the hell could a file that is perfect on your computer be printed wrong? And if SEVEN pages of manuscript were single spaced, wouldn't I have noticed it? Wouldn't my page numbers be affected, and my total be far less than before? Wouldn't I have seen the difference at some point while printing out four separate copies of a 54 page manuscript? Wouldn't it have jumped out at me?

Wouldn't I have noticed it???????????

Okay, okay, enough venting. I know I have to wait and see what comes back to me in the mail. Of course I probably won't receive my critiqued pages until the end of next month--could they drag time on any more?

I'm so depressed. I think I'll go drown my sorrows in the nearest beer.

Yesterday I put my cat to sleep.

Luthor was old (13) and had gone into kidney failure and the prognosis was not good. So rather than stress him to the pain of tests and treatment (and having worked for veterinarians I know how bad it can get), I elected euthanasia. I felt bad about it, but I know deep down it was the right thing.

Luthor came into my life at four months. My ex-husband and I went to the Humane Society to look for a companion for our other cat. Luthor was in his little cage, rolling and purring and sticking his paws out to grab at passers-by. He was selling himself like a feathered whore on a streetcorner. It worked on us, and we took him home.

He purred non-stop almost the entire thirteen years I had him; I always figured he was so grateful to get out of the pound he never wanted me to forget it. He was tough and scrappy and loved catching birds, especially chickadees. Chickadees are so stupid; they come to your feeder by the dozens and never post a sentry like other birds will. He would wait, the picture of patience, disguised under the skirt of the Weber grill cover, and watch the birds feed. Then he'd sneak out and WHAM!!! He'd pin one of them under his paw and it was lights out for that bird.

Luthor stayed with me through six moves, childbirth, a puppy, divorce, a new dog, two new cats and a new man. There was never any doubt whose boyfriend he was though he did occasionally take a shine to a family member or friend. He came to bed with me nearly every night, snuggled as close as I would allow and purred like an Evinrude motor. He was the longest love relationship I have ever had and it was all good (except the occasional vomit piles, naturally).

I noticed last week he wasn't as glossy as he normally was. When I lifted him he seemed lighter. I began to monitor his food intake; I noticed the litterboxes had less in them. Then he stopped eating altogether, started showing weakness in his legs, didn't want to be held for more than a few minutes, and preferred hiding behind the couch to sleeping with me. And yesterday was the day, the point of no return.

Luthor, my precious one, my loverman, my Mr. Meow, my purrbox boy, my fat boy, you were so loved, and you are greatly missed. You carved yourself a place in my heart that feels weighted and sore today. I know you're in Kitty Heaven, catching chickadees and getting stoned on catnip and eating all the cream cheese and chicken you want without gaining a pound. You will always be with me, and when I pass from this place I hope you'll be waiting, ready to jump in my lap again.

I love reading people's bumper stickers on their cars. There's something about what a person chooses to put on their car that reflects who they are, to a certain extent.

Like this woman who came into my old job (vet) and on the back of her minivan there was a bumper sticker that read: I'm Just A Little F***ing Ray of Sunshine. And she fit that exactly.

I used to have Reading Is Fun right over Kill Your Television. Unfortunately when I sold the car the new owners scraped them right off.

Other fun bumper stickers I have known:

Question Internal Combustion
My Average Student Can Beat Up Your Honor Student
Don't Make Me Get My Flying Monkeys
Grandchildren Are God's Reward For Not Killing Your Kids
This Car Is Part Of A Scientific Dirt Test
If You Get Any Closer You'll Be Sitting In My Back Seat
What If The Hokey-Pokey IS What It's All About?

To be continued...

There are some things in life a mother should not have to do.

Like buy her son a jock strap.

It became evident this year that son is growing up. He's diving into the murky waters of puberty and after scores of arguments and lectures and "I didn't do it" and "NOTHING!!!" he'll emerge as a grown man somewhere down the road.

And it hit me yesterday when he got home from football practice and said, "Mom, I need a new cup. This one's too small."

I swallowed my "But you're just a baby!" comment and said we'd purchase another one.

Of course it followed, as he loves a good laugh, that he said, "Make sure it's an extra large!" (hardy har har...)

After much consideration I decided to ask sweetheart to take son to Dick's to get a new one. He didn't even blink an eye. Go to Dick's? Great! Sports stuff! Yippee!! He does come in handy for stuff like this--after all, I'm a girl! What do I know about jock straps except that they look really, really stupid on?

I explained to him that son would probably be more comfortable with him in buying such a personal item. And it's probably true. But it's also true that I wanted out of that particular situation--as a good shopper I'd probably be trying to get him to hold them up to check the fit and son would never speak to me again for the humiliation of it.

So thanks to sweetheart I can retain my motherly charm and not become son's worst nightmare. Since I'm sure I'll be a nightmare to him all through puberty, I'll take all the breaks I can get.

A Few Of My Favorite Things


Okay, does anyone but me really care what I like? Probably not, but that stupid song has been in my head the last few days and I've been thinking about all the stuff I love (and some things I don't).

Coffee--making it, smelling it brewing, drinking it. It's nectar of the gods.

Purring cats--this has to be one of the sweetest, most relaxing sounds ever.

Christmas trees--I get up early every morning just to turn the lights on and look at my tree glowing in the living room. I have a story for every ornament. When I come home and breathe in that pine scent I feel like I'm in heaven.

Sailing--when I get to sit up on the bow especially because it feels like you're flying.

The scent of books--they've always been such a big, positive, constant part of my life. Nothing else smells like a book.

Fall--my favorite season. The air is cooler and crisp, leaves are changing, the colors are gorgeous, I can wear jeans and sweaters again, and the holidays are following.

The taste of a sun-warm, fresh apple just picked from the tree.

Hugs. Kissing, too.

Stained glass windows in churches/cathedrals.

Halloween candy--why is it different, and more fun, than candy you just go buy? I don't know. But it is.

Christmas music--I have over twenty albums of the stuff.

More to follow...

Most people walk through life with their eyes shut. They have little to no interest in what goes on beyond their own three feet of personal space.

I've always been a hyper-observant kind of person, and I see things every day that most people probably ignore, turn away from or simply do not see. Most of it is little stuff, but it's still interesting to me.

This morning I was waiting at a light when a gentleman in a 50's era Lincoln Continental drove past me, talking on his cell phone. Back when that car was built, cell phones weren't even imagined.

The other day I was sitting in a McDonald's parking lot that was right next door to a Burger King. People were parking in the BK lot and going over to McD's to eat. And people were parking in McD's lot and going to BK to eat. Why exactly these people could not park in the proper lot was a mystery to me.

Once, while I was driving home a guy went over into the exit lane to pass me--apparently he was so important he couldn't wait five seconds for the guy in the actual passing lane to pass me. Okay, I'm sure anyone would have noticed this, but it is pretty amazing what people will do in their cars just because they think they can get away with it.

More to follow...

I got a new job! I got a new job!

Three cheers and a tiger for me!

I just found out the other day and I couldn't tell anyone at my work until they notified the other candidates. But I wanted to skip around saying 'I got the jo-ob, I got the jo-ob!'

It's funny how when you change jobs within your job that there is a subtle shift in the cosmos. Everyone looks at you a little different. People who never talked to you before suddenly know your name because you got the job. The people in your department treat you just a little differently--or maybe you treat them a little differently because you know you're getting out because you got the job.

But along with getting the job comes a whole plethora of worry. What if I screw it up? What if the kids hate me? What if my coworkers can't stand me/vice versa? What if I can't stand it after a month? Will the increase in pay and benefits and vacation time compensate for hating my job (if that happened)?

I know, I know. I'm putting the cart before the horse here. I just need to think positive and wait and see.

They say you can't go home again, but that isn't necessarily true. I find that my visits back to my parents tend to fall into a pattern.

First, there's the seven hour drive. I always try to get up really early so I can beat rush hour and get the better part of the drive over with before I start lagging. It seems that unless I get on the road at 4 am, however, that rush hour around here starts the second I open my garage door. This time it was six a.m. Then, no matter whether I stop to pee once or twenty times, the second I hit the PA border and see the first rest area sign my bladder cramps up and I HAVE TO pull over. I swear, it's automatic. I'm like Pavlov's dogs or something. I've been in that rest stop so many times they should engrave a plaque with my name on one of the stall doors.

Second, there's the arrival dance when I reach mom and dad's house. After the greetings--don't hug 'em too hard, they're old now--I unload the car and try to find someplace out of the way to store my stuff. It doesn't matter where I put it; the bedroom, downstairs, the moon. It's always in the way. Of course I have to pee. This can get exciting in a house with only one bathroom, three permanent occupants and five guests.

Third is the 'where the heck am I going to sleep' quandary. Usually I wind up on the couch. This time I brought a tent for me and the dog (more on this later) and there was the expected squawk from mom (You're going to sleep outside by yourself?) and the unexpected idea from dad (Hey! Maybe I'll tent out too!) and the discussion of pillows, blankets and arthritis that inevitably follows an announcement of that sort.

Fourth is the put-downs. "You're putting on weight" is my favorite, followed by "You really need a haircut that befits your age, dear." They complained when I lost twenty pounds after my divorce, then they complained again when I gained it all back. As far as the hair goes, it's a neverending battle. However this year I asked my sisters if mom and dad ever say such things to them, and the answer was "no." Gosh, how did I get so lucky?

Fifth comes the bickering, followed by eye rolling. My parents have reached an age where they don't have anything left to discuss so they argue about everything. This gets tiresome, and my sisters and I do a lot of eye rolling exercises when the bickering starts. What's even more fun is the complaining each does about the other when the other isn't around.

Sixth is badminton. We grew up in the pre-cable/video game era so we always had to entertain ourselves. In many cases this included badminton. We always have a supply of rackets, we all, always, stock up on birdies--they're actually getting hard to find nowadays--and we always fit in a game or two somewhere. We've modified our game over the years to include style points (given for the most artistic leaps and hits), swoosh points (for the best misses) and we've completely given up the net. We just stand in a circle and do a round-robin kind of thing. I think the major award this year went to my sister's boyfriend, who managed to hit himself in the face with the racket while going for a hit. Don't ask.

Among my surprises this year were tent camping with the dog--guess who laid himself right out in the middle of the air mattress?-- and having my dad decide to camp out one night with me (he's 81!!!). I alternated between facefuls of dog breath and worrying dad would drop dead on me in the middle of the night. Everything went fine, except I got no sleep and then had to drive seven hours home the next morning. But I got a heavenly reward when I sank into my own feather-top memory foam mattress last night.

Ahh.... there's no place like home.

And so we begin the 'Dog Days'.

Ah, the heat! The humidity! The strange hair styles!

I believe the reason the first two weeks of August are called 'dog days' is because the old-timers believed that the heat of August made the dogs cranky and they were more likely to bite during the dog days than at other times. I think that late summer is also peak time for rabies so there is likely a connection there as well.

What I notice about dog days around here is that, for the last few days and probably a couple more after today, we're getting an oppressively humid heat that makes it hard to even draw in a breath when you step outside. I had planned to weed my flower beds this week before vacation but something tells me that waiting until after vacation might be the wiser course. I don't know, I keep having visions of me lying amidst my black-eyed susans, unconscious from heat stroke.

And of course, dog days means that the 'five minute style' has returned. This is the hairstyle that you curl and spray and tease to perfection that falls into lank, humidity-drenched strings five minutes after you're done. I've already experienced this once in the last week, and of course we were going to a nice wedding so I actually wanted to look good. Well, a couple of gin & tonics later I forgot all about my hair and enjoyed watching everyone do the electric slide.

So hail to the Dog Days! Learn to worship your air conditioner! Find new excuses to stand in front of the fridge with the door open! Put your hair back in a pony tail and mix yourself another drink!

But most of all, enjoy it while it lasts. Fall is coming, and we all know the "W" word is fast on its heels.