Why publishing is a lot like dating

I have been wondering how to write this post for nearly six months. In case you're wondering why ye olde blog has been super pathetic lately, that is mainly why.

A long time ago, I wrote a cryptic post that suggested I had good news. April 2013, in fact. And at the time, I thought it really was good news.

We'll circle back to that in a second.

I met my husband, Gentleman Caller as he's known on these here interwebs, when I was thirty years old. That's not too old for life, but it's ancient for Mormonlife. Before I met Gentleman Caller, I went on a lot of dates. Like, a lot. I did the internet dating thing. I did the blind dating thing. I dated guys who were not right for me, and for whom I wasn't right. 

That doesn't make them bad guys. (Well, most of them weren't bad guys. I did accidentally go out with a drug dealer once. Whoops!) It just means that none of them were the right guy for me.

And then one day, I went to a friend's birthday party, and there was Gentleman Caller. And that pretty much was that.

I know some people will tell you, don't hold out for perfection. And that's good advice, because no one is perfect. But I do think you should hold out for perfect for you. Because when I think back to the relationships I tried to make work ... even though they were nice relationships at the time ... the fact was, I was sort of kidding myself.

I just didn't know it at the time.

Back to my aforementioned good news. In April 2013, I got an offer on a book I wrote from a small publisher that I really admired. The book was an LDS-themed romantic comedy--the sort of books I grew up reading from different local publishers here in Utah. I'd always dreamed of contributing to this particular niche market, writing something that Teenage Me would have liked to read. When I sat down to write this book in particular, I just had a few goals. Make it funny. Don't let it get preachy or cheesy. Hope for the best.

So when I got that email saying they had picked my book, I shut my office door and did a literal happy dance.

I called my dad. I called my best friends. I called my sister. I went out for sushi that night to celebrate.

I thought I had made it. After years of writing and trying and failing, one of my dream publishers had said, "Yes, we want you!"

Except, you've probably already figured out, it did not work out.

Here's the thing that I want to make clear. That publisher? They were not right for me. At all. Which was bitterly disappointing, because there are so many things I liked about them. But just like boyfriends of yore, there were too many dealbreakers.

That doesn't mean that publisher wouldn't be a good boyfriend to a different author. In fact, I know people who are currently very happy to be with that publisher! It just meant that they'd be terrible for me. And over the two-and-a-half years I tried to make it work with that publisher, it became increasingly obvious that we wanted very different things. Irreconcilably different things.

Without getting into the gory details, I agonized over that decision.* For over a literal year. I wanted to be published so badly, and even more than that, I wanted to be published by this publisher.

But like in any bad relationship, there came a moment where it was made perfectly clear to me that this was not going to work. And even though it was still sad, after that, it was also a relief to write to them and say that I was pulling my manuscript.

Much like you don't need to find a perfect person to be the perfect partner for you, I don't need a perfect publisher. But I do need one that is perfect for me. 

And when April 2016 came and went, three years from that original acceptance, I thought about my book that I still love, that I've subsequently paid to have professionally edited in case I want to self-publish it. And I thought about disappointment.

I'm sad that I spent so much time and mental energy on that relationship. I'm sad that I won't see that book sitting on shelves in local bookstores in my hometown, waiting for a teenage girl like my former self. I'm sad I have four other ideas for LDS-themed romantic comedies that I'm not even sure if I should start, because even though I want to jump into the self-publishing world, there are a lot of things to consider.

But I haven't had any doubts. Sadness and confidence are not mutually exclusive feelings.

Here's the thing about publishing and dating. If you had asked me, the day before I met Gentleman Caller, if it was better to be alone or in a bad relationship, I would have said "alone" with confidence. And that's true, even if I'd never met Gentleman Caller. I would have been sad, but I would have been right.

Here's the more important thing. Now that I'm married to Gentleman Caller? I can't even really remember the sadness over those other relationships, those disappointing first dates, the guys who didn't call. I mean, I remember that I was sad, but it's sort of, "Oh yeah, that was sad" sort of recollection. Because when you're in the right relationship, when you're pretty much happy every single day, do you even care about the relationships that didn't pan out? Not really.

So even if I never find a publisher who wants a book of mine, the decision to pass on that one opportunity was the right decision. And it will be sad, if I never get published. But it won't change the fact that it's better to not get published, than get published and regret it.

And it definitely won't change the fact that if I do find the right publisher someday, I'll be incandescently happy.

And I'll look back at that other opportunity and think, "Oh yeah. That was sad."



* Edited to add: I really have to give mad props to my agent, Maria Vicente, for helping to clarify a lot of these issues in my mind. She's the best! I can't believe I left her out of the first draft of this post. 

Folks, I'm an attorney, so (again leaving out the gory details) I recognized some problems and tried to offer solutions on my own. Even still, I didn't see everything I should have seen. Seek the advice publishing professionals when making a decision that could affect your entire career!

time and money

In general, you can have either time or money -- but usually not both at the same time.

I like my job -- it affords me great flexibility most of the year, which really helps when I am pursuing writing for publication. But I also do some freelance writing on the side to fund various projects (house remodeling goals) and pursuits (vacations, writing retreats, and self-publishing goals), and that eats up some of my flexibility.

The more freelance projects I take, the less time I have to spend on the kind of writing I really want to work on, which is fiction. And yet, it is so hard to consider giving up a relatively easy and consistent source of income when my brain keeps telling me, You could keep doing both if you were just better at managing your time. And on top of that, my dad's voice in my head, reminding me of what his parents always told him: You get ahead by doing more than everyone else. 

(My grandparents were the O.G. Hustlers.)

A few weeks ago I wrote about how you have to give yourself the benefit of your own time, and I still firmly believe that. And the fact is, I am pretty good at managing my time. I'm not the best, but certainly not the worst. I manage to perform all the duties at my real job (quite well, if you ask me), spend quality time with my husband, keep my house (sorta) clean, my dog healthy and sufficiently snuggled, etc.

It's just that there are only so many hours in the day. More importantly, there is only so much mental capacity before I start hitting what Nick calls my psychological "allostatic load."

This weekend, I sat down to hit my 1,000 words goal for the week. And before I knew it, I had opened up my freelance writing projects and begun agonizing over them. I've tried to build up a few pieces so I don't have to work during my busy season at the Day Job, and I haven't finished quite as many as I would have liked, and ...

The excuses mounted and before I knew it I had spent two hours writing the sort of stuff that pays me -- and found myself without the mental energy I needed to work on the sort of stuff that fulfills me.

(By the way -- I know this post is the very definition of first world problems. "Ohh, someone can't follow her bliss, boo hoo!" Just had to acknowledge that I also know I am very privileged and being somewhat ridiculous about my circumstances.)

I don't know what I am going to do about this at the moment. I know what I should do (give up the freelance work and tighten my financial belt) but it is so very hard. 

If you have any recommendations on how I find more hours in the day and more mental fuel in my tank, believe me. I am all ears.

Take your cut

How do you make time for the "extras" in your life? Once you're done with your daily adulting (working, making food, cleaning your home, laundry, caring for pets and/or children, etc.), where do you fit in the rest (working out, creative pursuits, connecting with friends, time with beloved Netflix accounts, etc.)?

My friend Will likes to say that, if he's going to get any time to work out or play guitar, he needs to do it first thing in the morning. He calls it "taking your cut off the top," and argues that much like with a savings account, if you don't pay yourself first you'll find yourself running out of what you need by the end of the day.

(PS, Gentleman Caller recently joined Will's band, Black Bess and the Butchers. If you're in the Salt Lake City area, you should definitely check them out sometime. They're musically talented and also fun to look at ... wow, did I just make that creepy for you all? So sorry.)

I usually try to find time at the end of the day or on weekends, but I am starting to realize that Will is right -- at least when it comes to the hard stuff. If I want to read or hang out with friends or veg out to a Friday Night Lights marathon, I will always have the energy for that at the end of the day. But if I want to find the time to write or go to the gym -- things I usually find hard to start but am always glad when once I'm done -- well. I might find myself completely sapped.

So I've been trying to flip that around the last few months -- gym in the mornings (sob) and writing while the sun is still out (whenever possible). In the next few weeks I might get EVEN CRAZIER and start writing BEFORE the sun is up, because Day Job is about to go bananas. 

How do you find the time for the extras in your life?

the worst dates: a rundown

1. Root beer barrels

He kept dozens of root beer barrels (you know, those old-timey candies?) in his pockets. He'd finish sucking on one, immediately unwrap the next and pop it into his mouth. He never offered me a single one and kept them tucked into his cheek when we talked he just slurped around his root beer barrel spit.

2. The writer

I thought this one might be promising, because who doesn't want to hang out with fellow writers? As it turns out, though, dating them might be a bridge too far. When I told this guy I'd just finished a college-set romantic comedy, he openly rolled his eyes and said, "Aren't romantic comedies scraping the bottom of the literary barrel?"

3. The guy who bragged about sinking someone else's shot of getting into an MBA program.

4. The guy texted me to let me know he missed me after one date.

5. The special delivery

Once upon a time, I was in a sorority. As you may know from your own sorority days (or watching Legally Blonde), sororities hold dances once a semester. My sorority generally did a formal in the fall and a cocktail party in the spring.

The spring dance of my sophomore year, I found myself without a date so my cousin Alli and I decided to go stag together. On the drive there, my friend Sadie called and asked if her boyfriend (a Sigma Chi) could bring his friend as my date. I said sure.

Alli and I sat down to our dinners. Sadie, her date, and my "date" were nowhere to be found. They finally arrived forty-five minutes late with Sadie in tears. I pulled her into the bathroom and asked what was wrong.

"They stopped under an overpass and sold someone drugs!" she said. "I just had to sit in the car and watch!"

So that's how I ended up stuck at the Provo Country Club with a drug dealer.

6. The guy who I am fairly certain only pantomimed putting money in the bill fold, grabbed my hand, and dragged me out of the restaurant before the waitress came back.

7. The poly guy

This is another online scenario. I went out with this guy 3 or 4 times and he seemed great -- cute, smart, polite. On our first date, a random barista stopped by our table to tell us, "This may be weird, but you guys are an extremely good-looking couple." (Yes, I assume the guy asked the barista to say that when I wasn't around, BUT STILL.)

We were supposed to have dinner at my house one night when he texted me and asked if he could call me. This was worrisome, obviously, because people only call when there's something bad to be said -- and after 3 or 4 dates, there really can't be anything bad.

But it turned out, this guy was just confessing that he "wasn't a player," but he also "wasn't interested in monogamy." It took a few pointed questions to get him to admit that he wasn't merely saying he wanted to keep things casual -- he wanted me to be one of his many, many girlfriends.

Weirdly though, he didn't yet have ONE girlfriend, so talk about putting the cart before the horse.

job hunting advice from Ru

If you are an aspiring author, awesome! Go you!

Here's the thing, though. Don't mention it in job interviews.

And if you want to throw it on your resume under "Interests," fantastic!

But no detail. Please, please. No detail.

Welp. I guess this is a thing that happens now.

My friend Lulu and I went to a movie this weekend. (No, I'm not going to say which one. Not relevant.)*

The main character came on the screen and I thought, "Huh, he's kind of got a weird face."

And then a few seconds later, I thought, "No. That dude is stupid hot."

A scene after that, I leaned over to Lulu. "Is that guy strangely attractive, or is it just me?"

"Not just you," she whispered back. "He's really hot. Like ... really hot."

For the rest of the movie, we whispered back and forth about the fine attributes of this gentleman. His hair. His shoulders. Forearms. Biceps. Jawline. Profile. DUDE HAD A HOT NECK, for crying out loud.

At one point he had to change his shirt, and I swear we both held our breaths.

After the movie was over, I IMDB'd it, as I am wont to do. I clicked on the name of the actor, since I'd never heard of him before. And then gasped.

"Dude!"

"What?"

"The hot guy is 51 years old!"

"WHAT?! No..."

"Yes. Seriously. Fifty-one."

And that was when I realized it.

I** was officially old.






* (Moderately shameful.)

** I am saying "I" here because I am not willing to make this statement for Lulu.

But seriously. There is nothing that really hammers the "YOU'RE THIRTY, DUMMY!" message home like realizing you're apparently attracted to 51 year olds.

Eyeball explosion

Last week, I woke up feeling like I had scratched my eye somehow. I called my pops, since he is an optometrist. He advised taking it easy--if I had scratched my eye, the pain should go away relatively quickly, as the cornea is the quickest-healing part of the body.

But by the next morning, the pain and light sensitivity weren't going away. (I'm sure my coworkers, when they saw me sitting in my office with my sunglasses on, thought I was hungover.) THAT, for future reference, is definitely not normal. If you experience these symptoms, call your healthcare professional STAT.

My dad called a fellow optometrist friend in Salt Lake to find out if he could squeeze me in immediately.

As it turns out, I had a virus that was attacking my eye and had already resulted in a corneal ulcer--basically a big, gaping sore right on my eyeball. My dad's friend had Serious Concern Voice, to say the least, and when I called my dad to report the news, he had Severe Father/Optometrist/Genetic-Predisposition-to-Panic Panic. See, left unchecked, this virus can result in permanent scarring of your cornea--as in, permanent damage to your vision.

Luckily my virus was caught early -- not early enough to save me from a few days of unpleasantness, but early enough to save me from any scarring on my axis of vision. I was sent home with a sample tube of medication right as the other symptoms (namely, your typical cold-and-flu season congestion, fatigue, and aches and pain) set in. I've spent the last 5 or so days in my house, unable to do much of anything other than put gel in my eyeball and swallow some ginormous pills. TV and computer screens irritated my eye, and reading for long periods tuckered me out. Skiing was definitely out of the question.

When you can't do anything but reflect, you tend to do a lot of reflection.

Here are some of my thoughts.

1. At the optometrist, I had the delightful experience of listening to a patient attempt to dicker over the cost of contacts, like they were a scarf at some flea market. The receptionist listened patiently, and then with increasing annoyance, as she explained that, No, you can't have two weeks' free supply just because. 

It became totally clear that this patient viewed her doctor not as a medical professional, but someone akin to the Comcast cable guy. How much can you get me for free? And if you can't get me that for free, well, I'll just take my business elsewhere! In fact, she probably would have treated the cable guy with a little more respect since you can't just wander down to Costco with a prescription for cable and get a better deal. No, when it comes to whether or not you'll get to watch this season of Keeping up with the Kardashians, you actually have to take or leave what you're offered. But when it comes to healthcare, well, there's always wiggle room -- amiright?

I am sort of sensitive to this to begin with, since my dad is an optometrist, and his tales of people trying to get the maximum for the minimum are pretty legendary. But people, if you want to treat your vision like a set of tires from Sam's Club, BE MY GUEST. Seriously. Just, if you would be so kind, have the good graces to do it in the privacy of your own home or car or at least the parking lot. I'm not going blind thanks to guy that you were too good to buy contacts from because you could save $10 online, so maybe save your bitching for a few steps outside his office.

It's just polite.

2. Speaking of the cost of vision care, eyeball medicine is expensive. Before insurance, a tiny 5 ml tube was over $300. After insurance, it was still around $120. (I'd like to work a "Thanks, Obama" in here somewhere, but I'm not sure this is the right place...)

At the Walgreen's drive through, the pharmacy asked me doubtfully, "Are you sure you want this? It's pretty pricey."

Hmm. Severe pain and eventual blindness, or $120. Dilemma.  

SERIOUSLY PEOPLE. BUY THE MEDICINE.* VISIT YOUR OPTOMETRIST REGULARLY. DON'T GO BLIND.

WHY AM I STILL ALL-CAPPING? BECAUSE PEOPLE SUCK.






* For the record, I know that there are some people who legitimately could not afford the $120, and that is a rant for a different time.

But middle- to upper-class Americans, could you all just pull your heads out for a second and stop expecting professionals, whether they be attorneys or doctors or dentists or optometrists or whoever, TO GIVE YOU SHIT FOR FREE.**

Do you work for free? No? Then why do you expect someone who committed tens of thousands of dollars and years of their life to their professional training to do so?

If you want to roll the dice on doing your own divorce or your own taxes or buying your contacts from the same retailer from whom you get cheap DVDs or meatballs in bulk, that is completely your prerogative and it might work out really well for you. But please don't compare the cost of those services to the cost of having someone who actually knows what they are doing performing them. They are not the same, and it is an insult to imply otherwise. And if doing those things on the cheap worked out for you, it's not because you are better than people who paid the freight. It's because you are just luckier.

May your luck never run out.



** To family members who read this blog, and have gotten free contacts from my pops from over the years ... or friends who have asked for, and received, free legal advice from me in the past ... obviously, this doesn't apply to you. Friends and family get discounts. Everyone else, get your credit card number ready.

Never (Again)

Today Theresa Paolo's debut novel Never (Again) comes out and she's hosting a blog hop to celebrate. I have wanted to read Never (Again) ever since I heard about it, so I hope you will too!

So is there anything you have ever vowed you'd never do again, only to find yourself ... doing it again?

1. Well, clearly I repeatedly sign up for blog hops and then post a few days late. (Sorry, Theresa! Everyone, still read her book!)

2. I am addicted to gossip websites. I read Perez Hilton daily in law school and now I've moved on to Dlisted. I love trashy magazines and if I weren't too cheap I'd probably buy them every time I went to the grocery store.

Periodically I remember this habit is trashy and gross, but at the end of the day I find nothing more relaxing that sleaze.

3. Dating websites. Oh, dating websites. I know I have never had success on you (every guy I've ever dated was someone I met in real life, not InternetLand), but when faced with the prospect of living the rest of my life surrounded by people who are either already coupled-up or gay (meaning I will never meet another straight, single man my age for the foreseeable future), I get desperate and sign up for yet another dating website.

On my most recent blind date excursion, I ran into my boss, my date "forgot his wallet," and then he asked if we could walk around Bed, Bath, and Beyond for a little bit. Apparently he needed a new toilet scrubber and wanted to check out his options.

So, dear readers, any awkward habits you'd like to confess? No? Well then, I think the only thing to do at this point is go read Theresa's book!

I won't be satisfied until I see one zombie ride another zombie into battle

Memo to the world: If you go on a blind date with a guy who thinks last night's episode of The Walking Dead, featuring zombies raining down on people as they fell through a rotting ceiling (repeat: ZOMBIES RAINING DOWN) did not have enough zombie action ...

Run.

Adventures in dating land

Anyone puzzled by why guys on first dates ask about whether you play sports? What do they think you're going to say, "Umm, yeah, I'm hoping to make varsity this year"?

No, dummy, I'm 29. I don't play sports.

And point of clarification, frisbee golf does not count as a sport.

Really, I'm just jealous because I don't know which persona I should be cultivating

Have you heard of online image crafting? It's this phenomenon where people post Facebook statuses and Instagrams designed solely to portray a version of themselves that does not actually exist.

This isn't a new thing--as long as social media has been around online, people have been (consciously or unconsciously) sharing pieces of themselves that are only the most flattering. (At least ... we hope so.)

But as more and more people Tweet, Facebook, Instagram, Vine, and blog every moment of their lives, the more people start to present not just the best possible versions of themselves, but a does not quite really exist version of themselves.

Cute photos of outfits. Kids doing adorable things. Beautiful meals. Oooey-gooey texts from a loved one. A perfectly neat office. A sweaty-but-still-adorable-nose after a long workout. A sunset with #nofilter, because if the sun sets without someone Instagramming it, was it really enjoyed?

Anyway.

This is a long post just to explain why I will never put anything online about loving the gym* or General Conference.** NEVER GONNA HAPPEN.







* Oh, the gym. How I hate the gym. It would be such a filthy lie if I ever said otherwise. It's weird to me that once upon a time, I really did love to run, because ever since I turned 19, I despise physical activity. If I were to Instagram myself working out, all you guys would see is a sweaty, resentful, uncoordinated, still-fairly-chubby girl in a free credit union t-shirt.



** This is like church on cocaine for non-Momos. I physically cannot roll my eyes hard enough at people who feel the need to Facebook about how much they love General Conference.

Oh boy

Well, things have been ... strange ... in Ru Land the last little while. Here's a rundown:

1. New neighbor drama. I shan't bore you with the details, but in essence, my neighbors threatened to sue me, I told them to go ahead (because their "case" is terrible-to-non-existent), I immediately regretted my decision (despite their terrible case), but Diego is still in full support. He hopes they do sue us, and when we win he wants to make a banner for the roof that says, COME AT US, NEIGHBORS!

2. Hannah moved out of the house and in with S'Wally. It's a sad day for me, Diego, and Spence, but a happy day for Hannah. (Well, a little sad for Hannah, too. There really aren't any better roommates than me and Diego. Sorry, S'Wally.)

Speaking of Hannah, last week was (in her words), the week of shy, mild-mannered girls politely sticking up for themselves. (See my exchange above with the neighbors.) (What? You didn't realize that real me was shy and mild-mannered? I apologize for having misled you.)

Hannah works in [censored to ensure Hannah's future employment] and has one client above all others who makes her life M-I-S-E-R-A-B-L-E. She and that client were scheduled for a review, and the client told Hannah how disappointing her performance had been, how Hannah was rude and disrespectful toward her, and how no one appreciated her enough.

Hannah (GO HANNAH!) replied, "I'm sorry you feel that way, Client, and I will work on it. But to be honest, I also feel the same way. You are very short and condescending to me, and overly demanding of my time, and I don't appreciate it. But I do appreciate all the other wonderful things you do."

Client refused to look at Hannah for the rest of the meeting.

3. New writing drama.

Oh friends. There's a reason why everything is so very secret in writing land. It's because when things suddenly change in a direction that is surprising and frankly disappointing, you don't have to tell that many people about the new circumstances.

So I've slunk off to my little corner for a week of self-pity, followed by a new project beginning this week, hence the blog silence.

What have you all been up to? Spill, spill! 

Husslin'

There is a little boy in my neighborhood named A.

At some point, A learned that the residents of the Casa De Diego, Hannah, and Ru are easy marks. He has knocked on our door selling coupon books and wrapping paper, and on more than one occasion has asked to walk Charlie or Spence (for a small fee, of course). A has also parked himself on our couch for an entire Sunday afternoon, watching Nashville with me and Diego, eating  a leftover cupcake from Echo's bridal shower, and using our wifi.

It's never been stated explicitly, but A has implied (repeatedly) that he lives in a state of mild want. Hence the guilt that makes it really hard to tell him "no."

Recently I made a deal with A, as I was getting tired of him hussling me out of all my spare $5 bills. A told me he'd been saving up for a pair of shoes, and I told him I would buy the shoes in return for X number of walks.

Unfortunately, the first time I bought the shoes, it turned out they were too small and I needed to exchange them. Double unfortunately, A has come back at least three times since we made that discovery.

Last night, A came by again, and again I explained I hadn't exchanged the shoes yet -- but he was more than welcome to start working off one of his X walks.

A shook his head. "I was really hoping to get cash. I didn't have breakfast today."

My jaw dropped -- it was 7 pm. "You didn't have lunch or dinner?"

A shrugged. "Well, yeah. But I still didn't have any breakfast. So can I walk Spence for cash tonight?"

Revenge of the Homeless

On Saturday, Diego and I went to Pizzeria Limone for lunch. (It's delicious, in case you were wondering.) I got the pera pizza and Diego got the limone. We both ate about half of our pizzas and boxed the rest to go.

Not ten steps outside the restaurant, a homeless guy around our age demanded, "Do you guys have money? I am starving to death."

(Normally, I am pretty homeless-supportive. However, a rude homeless person can go fly a kite, as far as I am concerned, and especially a homeless guy who is about 30, able-bodied, and free of the more obvious mental illnesses.)

"Sorry, I don't have any cash," I said.

"Me neither," Diego added.

Instead of nodding in disappointment, the homeless guy scowled at us. "Can you go buy me some bread? I'm literally hypoglycemic. I'm literally dying!"

At this point, he was yelling, and I was in no mood to take either of his "literallys" seriously. I was briefly shocked into silence by his rudeness, but after about a three second delay, I was ready to tell him to go ask the food bank or the emergency room for help if his life was so endangered--but before I could say anything, Diego said, "Do you want a slice of pizza?"

He opened his to-go box to show the homeless guy his pizza. The homeless guy came over and took the entire box, without so much as a "thanks."

Then Diego and I watched as the homeless guy walked up the sidewalk, picking ingredients off the pizza and throwing them at cars.

Diego's jaw dropped as we watched the homeless guy take about three bites of the pizza and throw the rest on the ground. "Seriously? That pizza was really good!" He was forlorn. I was furious.

This is a life lesson, folks. Homeless people are to be helped. Rude homeless people are to be lectured.

The best part was when I got to my car and found lemon rind on my rear windshield.

You owe my friend half a gourmet pizza, homeless guy!

That is grim

A friend forwarded me this flyer for mid-singles LDS conference in Washington state -- the idea being that if you shove enough single Mormons into the same vicinity, some of them will pair off, get married, and make Mormon babies.

Which always reminds me of this exchange from Keeping The Faith:

Anna (to Rabbi Jake): So what's your chick situation?

Father Brian: Oh, don't ask, it's not a good story.

Anna: Why?

Father Brian: Because his whole congregation is trying to set him up and it makes him very uncomfortable.

Anna: What's wrong with that?

Rabbi Jake: There's a reason pandas don't mate in captivity.

Anyway, take a good look at that flier, and please note that in addition to the fine print warning that "All divorces must be final," your choice of breakout classes include spiritual enlightenment, financial planning, or self-defense.

Self. Defense.

Won't you be my neighbor? Part 3

This part of the story requires some background information. This background information will probably kill the punchline to the joke, but what are you going to do?

Background Info Subpart A: Hannah has this friend we will call Mountain Dave. Many moons ago, Hannah and Mountain Dave began an inside joke where they would randomly text each other as if they were Native Americans. (By way of defending the inevitable criticism ... Isn't white people mocking white people who misappropriate the cultures of others in it's own way not racist? Wrap your head around that one.)

For example, Hannah will randomly receive a text that says:

Anyway, just wanted to make sure you're going to be at the next pow wow. The theme is "Heritage of our fathers, Hope of our children." Oh, and bring your own buffalo but if you don't have one there will be plenty to go around after the heritage hunt...aka shooting arrows into a chained up buffalo.

Background Info Subpart B: I complained to a co-worker, Violet, about the letter the city had sent me about my lawn and the giant pain it had been to weed the front and sides of my house. I was dreading doing the backyard with our environmentally friendly (but wildly inefficient) hand-push lawn mower.

"My husband can come over and do it!" Violet offered immediately.

Now, my first impulse was to say no. That's a big favor to ask, first of all. But my second impulse was, "Yes! That would be so awesome! I will barbecue for you and everything!"

(To be fair, the second impulse was only expressed after I protested, and Violet assured me that her husband loves projects. He would load up his lawn mower in his truck, mow the lawn real fast, and then their kid could play with Spencer.)

Background Info Subpart C: Hannah's boyfriend S.Will (standing for "Straight Will," as opposed to Diego's boyfriend, G.Will, or "Gay Will") has, shall we say, a certain ... suspicion of cops. So when Violet offered her police officer husband's services, I immediately texted Diego and Hannah the good news, with an extra warning to prompt S.Will (just in case) that no cop talk would be tolerated at our Post-Lawn Care Celebratory Barbeque.

Background Info Subpart D: Hannah, who is in all respects an excellent roommate (thoughtful friend, good cook, sharer of books, and always quick with a solid joke), does have a teeny, tiny habit of leaving the last step of a task ... undone.

She puts all the leftovers away! (But forgets the lids...)

She feeds the dogs peanut butter! (But leaves the peanut buttery spit spoon on the counter ...)

She spills coffee and wipes off the counters! (But doesn't notice it dripped down the cupboards...)

This habit has lead to another joke: THERE'S NO TIME!

Whenever Diego or I want to tease Hannah about something, we yell, "There's no time!" like characters on ER or 24. (Regardless of whether running late actually was the cause of not noticing the coffee spilling onto the floor, it seems like as good an excuse as any.) Now even Hannah yells, "There's no time!" to explain why, for example, wet, smelly towels get left on the bathroom floor after a Charlie bath.

And because there is frequently NO TIME in the mornings before work, Hannah will take Charlie out to the backyard to poop and leave the poop there to bake in the sun, instead of taking him for a walk down the street and bagging the poop to be deposited in the trash.

The poops are usually all collected and removed on the weekends, but as I said ... it's been a crazy month for all of us.

Got all that?

***

So the day before Violet, her husband, and their kid came over to help us with our yardwork, Hannah remembered all the Charlie poops and went out to the yard to clean them up and throw them away. And then she texted me about it.

Hannah: If our backyard had an Indian reservation name, it would be Land of Many Poops and Weeds. Great Sadness.

Me: There will be a mighty powwow tomorrow. We shall cleanse the earth and celebrate with roasted meats and maize, and then dance under the blue corn moon.

Hannah: Only the white law man can restore honor to our forgotten lands.

Me: As the son of the white law man plays with the dogs and blesses the nightlands with his child's laughter. (There was some Game of Thrones mixed in with that one.)

Hannah: I noticed. Please blog about this later.

Done and done.







 




 

Won't you be my neighbor? Part 2

A day after I received the certified letter from the city, Hannah and I were out working on the yard. One of our few Good Neighbors (TM -- trademarked because they are so very rare) popped over to explain, apologetically, that he had seen a car with a city seal taking pictures of the yard, and did we want any help? We said we were good, but thanks.

In order to offset the bad karma we were about to receive by unleashing dog urine on Bad Neighbor's parking strip, and parking in front of her house whenever possible (yes, INCLUDING when spots closer to our own house are available), I decided that we should probably bake Good Neighbor some cookies.

Sunday night, around 8:30pm, Diego and I walked Spencer over to Good Neighbor's house and rang the doorbell. Spence was off-leash, as I am trying to teach him (in small doses) that he is to stand by me on walks and not run off after every butterfly that catches his eye.

After waiting a few minutes, we decided they must not be home, so we turned back. As we reached the sidewalk, the door opened to reveal Mr. Good Neighbor standing there in his robe.

"Oh hey, I brought you cookies to thank you for ... ya know, being so nice and everything," I blurted out, running back up the steps and shoving the plate of cookies at him. "Sorry to wake you!"

(Here's where my brain automatically wanted to add ... Or interrupt you. Rawr. Because, come on, it was 8:30pm.)

"Oh, umm, thanks," he replied, seeming very uncomfortable. I don't know if it was the robe, but he was definitely not glad to see me and Diego standing there.

So of course Spencer chose that moment to run into the neighbor's house.

I froze, looking at Mr. Good Neighbor. He looked at me. And then I made a split-second decision, and perhaps it was not the right decision.

I followed Spencer into the house, hissing, "Spencer!" as loudly as I could--because for all I knew, Mrs. Good Neighbor was inside sleeping.

Of course he didn't listen to me. A new environment is like puppy crack -- so many smells! The dog who normally would have run over to me if I'd raised my eyebrows in our house was waaaaaay too busy investigating Casa De Good Neighbor.

After running through three different rooms (and yes, my panic grew larger every time I crossed another threshold, I finally caught Spencer and we ran out of the house as quickly as we could. Mr. Good Neighbor waved half-heartedly as Diego and I quick-stepped it back to our house.

The worst part of the story is coming up in Part 3: Ru realizes Mean Neighbor might be innocent ... but hey, still kinda mean.

Won't you be my neighbor? Part 1

Things have not been going so smoothly around the Casa De Diego, Hannah, and Ru lately.

For the last 3 - 4 weeks, the weeds in our yard have gotten out of control. I don't wish to downplay this in any way -- we've honestly joked about them becoming sentient, overrunning the house, and killing us for our worldly goods.

I don't know exactly what happened. We spent one weekend meticulously caring for the yard and it looked (briefly) awesome.

And then all three of us got crazy busy at work.

And then Diego left for a week-long vacation.

And then Hannah did, too.

And I spent a few days taking off work to write.

And the next thing you knew, the weeds were the size of a kindergartener. It was the worst it has ever been - they literally sprang up over EVERY SQUARE FOOT of lawn, killing every other plant and rising up like a botanical horde ready to invade Russia.

So Diego and I made plans to attack the yard during the long July 4th weekend. We knew it was going to be ugly, but we also knew it had to be done.

On July 3rd, Diego weeded half the yard while I was at work.

On July 5th, I was putting on my own yard-workin clothes when I got a knock at the door from the postman -- certified mail. 

One of my neighbors (you may remember her from this story) had reported us to the city for violating the weed ordinance. We had seven days to remove all the weeds or be fined several hundred dollars, and that one letter would be our only warning of the calendar year. If the weeds ever grow over 6 inches between now and December 31st, the city will swoop in, cut that weed down for us, and send us a bill for their services, plus a fine.

To say that I blew a gasket would be understating things.

I raged to Diego about how I didn't want to give our neighbor the satisfaction of watching us weed -- I would weed in the dark of the night, damnit! I would wake up at 7 AM every Saturday and Sunday to weed-wack, edge, and mow, just for the satisfaction of depriving her of sleeping in!

Because while I acknowledge that my yard was, yes, truly hideous for almost a month, I just don't see why someone would leap straight to informing the authorities.

Although, considering the source, I suppose it does make sense.

This particular neighbor is a grade-A busybody, and I have tried for nearly two years to please her. She doesn't like Hannah and I walking our dogs by her house. (She lives two doors down, which means we have to walk across the street then back across the street to get home.) She doesn't want the dogs peeing on the parking strip near her house -- which, to be clear, is not part of her property. She doesn't like anyone parking in front of her house, even though she has a carport. She will put her trashcans out two days early to prevent people from being able to get a spot. She spies on her neighbors and then brags about it. She has told Hannah that our neighborhood used to be a nice neighborhood, but it's really gone to hell in the last few years. (The only people to move in during the last few years are ... us.)

This woman has yelled at me, Diego, Hannah, Hannah's boyfriend, and various other friends who visit our house at least a dozen times. And each time, I try to find a way to accommodate her craziness.

No more. You know how Spencer has to pee between 6 and 8 times a day?

Guess where he's going to be doing it from now until the end of time.

A tale of two (central Utah) cities: An epic (ly long) blog post

My sister Echo got married a little while back. Did I mention that? She and my new brother-in-law (hence dubbed "Beta," in keeping with my "name family members according to the NATO alphabet" scheme) got hitched down in the Manti, Utah LDS temple.

Ain't it pretty? Our grandparents got sealed there many moons ago. (FYI: "Sealing," in Mormon parlance, is the religious form of marriage, separate from the civil side of things, and it only takes place in a temple. Back in the day, it was very common for people to get married in a civil ceremony, like our eloping-to-Washington grandparents, and then get "sealed" later. Now it's more common for couples to go for the all-in-one package, though going old school is still an option. Religious diversity lesson for the day!)

Now, for those of you who aren't familiar with Utah geography, Manti is a little town about two and a half hours away from Salt Lake City. E and B picked Manti for many reasons (it's pretty, it's less crowded, our grandparents grew up around there, etc.), but clearly convenience was not one of them.

Manti is about ten miles from another little central Utah town called Ephraim, which is where our hotel was. And yes, this detail is relevant.

After the ceremony, Beta's parents took his four-year-old daughter Sierra with them back to Salt Lake so E and B could have a romantic drive back to the big city for more photos and the reception. Our dad took E's car, and E's dear friend and hairstylist Broderick, back to Salt Lake. Diego (my roommate, for those of you who are new to the blog) and I stuck around for awhile to make sure everyone else got off to Salt Lake in a timely manner.

Diego and I drove across the street to the Manti Drive Thru Ice Cream and Donut Shoppe to get some burgers and fries while we waited for everyone else to finish up.

And when we got back, things were in quite a state.

Everyone had left Manti except for me, Diego, Echo, Beta, and Echo's friend Riley. And Beta had just realized that his parents had driven off with his car keys, tucked safely inside Sierra's bag.

This normally wouldn't be that big a deal -- you call them, they drive back. Except everyone turns off their phones inside the temple, and apparently B's parents had not yet turned theirs back on. Calling a locksmith was also out of the question, since Beta drives one of those fancy cars you open with a button instead of a key.

So we loaded up the bride, the groom, the dress, the giant styrofoam container of flowers (that the florists had messed up, naturally), Riley, myself, and Diego into Diego's Sentra. In case you were wondering where all of that fit, the giant styrofoam container of flowers was on my face: I had to lean the passenger side seat back in order to fit me and it inside.

It was roughly 2:00 pm at this time and everyone else had left at least an hour before. So we came up with the best plan we could think of.

Diego and I would drive Riley, E, and B up to their reception, get the keys from B's parents, drive back to Manti, and then bring his car back to Salt Lake City, arriving around 9:30 pm (if we were lucky). I would miss the family photos and neither of us would have any chance of attending the dinner reception, but we'd hopefully succeed at getting E and B their luggage for their honeymoon in time.

E was freaking out -- for many reasons. She didn't want anyone to miss the reception, one, and two, Diego and I were supposed to be in charge of going to her condo and getting all the place settings and favors for the reception. With us out of commission for Operation: Car Rescue, that responsibility would fall on our younger brothers, Charlie and Alpha. Despite insisting that an 17-year-old and 25-year-old could probably read a seating chart and do okay arranging candles and scattering fake pearls on a table top, E was pretty sure they would need help. ("Could you call Hannah? Or Abby? I'd feel better if Hannah or Abby were there to help." - E. Brides, amiright? But alas, Hannah and Abby could not help, since the only people with a spare key to E's condo were myself, Charlie, and our dad. Brothers it was!)

We set off from Manti -- and as we were approaching Ephraim, E thought she saw B's parents driving back to Manti.

So B frantically kept calling his parents while Diego flipped around and headed back to Manti. We followed that car all the way back to the temple parking lot, when we discovered they were not in fact B's parents, but just an older couple with the exact same car.

So we headed back toward Ephraim -- and as we were leaving the city limits on our way back to Salt Lake, Beta finally got through to one of his siblings. His sister texted him to let him know that they had stopped to get ice cream at the malt shop after the ceremony and his parents were there.

So we turned back around and headed to Manti. Upon arrival at Manti Drive Thru Ice Cream and Donut Shoppe, we looked around for B's family. Nada.

B texted his sister, who once again was not answering the phone. Now it was about 2:45 pm, because the speed limit between Ephraim and Manti is about 40 mph, due to an abundant lamb population that might cross the road at any moment.

B got through to his parents. "We're at the Ephraim malt shop."

Yes, folks. In a combined population size of about 2,000 souls, THERE ARE TWO MALT SHOPS. (Utah! We love our ice cream.)

So we headed back to Ephraim.

When we finally got B his keys, it was about 3:00pm, and we were due back in Salt Lake City for photos at 5:00pm. That was not going to happen, but at least we would make the dinner and our driving back-and-forth was limited to Manti-Ephraim-Manti-Ephraim-Manti-Ephraim-Manti-Ephraim, instead of Manti-Salt Lake-Manti-Salt Lake.

Did you count an extra Manti-Ephraim back in there? Well NO YOU DIDN'T, because obviously once B got his keys in Ephraim, we had to drive back to Manti to drop the happy couple off at their car, and then head back through Ephraim to get home.

That day, my friends, was my Vietnam.

And it wasn't over yet. 

About an hour into our new drive home, Charlie called me. "Did Echo change her locks?"

I thought about it. "Yeah, she lost her keys awhile ago. Why?"

"She never gave me a new key. When are you going to be in Salt Lake?"

The answer to that question was, In an hour and a half. "Call Dad," I said. "He left first, I don't know how you beat him back."

Unfortunately, once Charlie called my dad, he found out that our dad (who had left in the first wave of modern-day pioneers) had decided to treat Broderick the Hairstylist to a scenic tour of central Utah. After all, they'd left first!

Note to all friends and family of future married couples: NEVER TAKE THE SCENIC ROUTE.

So Charlie and Alpha sat outside Echo's condo until my dad arrived at roughly 4:45 pm. That gave them fifteen minutes to get the decorations and place settings and get over to the reception in time for family photos.

Diego and I dropped Riley off at her car, ran into Echo's to change back into our respective suit and bridesmaid dress attire, and hauled off for the reception center. Despite promising my dad we would not speed (sorry, Dad) we were only running thirty minutes late, which I would consider an impressive feat.

About two blocks from the reception center, stuck in downtown Salt Lake City traffic, I looked over at Diego and said, "Did you hear me telling my brothers that they needed to grab Echo's iPod?"

He looked back at me. "No. Were they supposed to?"

The answer to that is yes. E had actually picked our late grandfather's birthday for her wedding date, and as he'd been a jazz musician during the Depression, she wanted a playlist of 20s and 30s era jazz playing during the reception.

I texted Charlie. Did you get the iPod?

No answer.

Diego stopped the car outside the reception center. "You get out, I'll park."

"Okay." I jumped out of the car and leaned in through the window. "Do you have your iPhone? Download as much jazz as you can!" And then I ran into the reception center.

(You want to know the mark of a solid friendship? Tell your friend something that arbitrary and unexplained, and then watch them do it anyway.)

Any fun wedding stories you'd like to share?

Awww, the new Shapeface Family. All's well that ends well.

The thing about online dating

I have a big pet peeve when it comes to an online dating profile: A list of things you hate about people who are on the same site as you, and nothing else. (I hate the following: Slutty pictures! No pictures! Poor grammar! Etc.! So hit me up if you're not like that :))

Look, I get it. Online dating is the worst. The unmitigated, unqualified worst. But no one wants to date the person whose only personality description is "here is the stuff I hate."

I say this, knowing that I will soon be accused of the same behavior. But ladies and gents of Blogland, after a few rounds in the Online Dating Trenches, I feel like it is my obligation -- nay, my sacred duty -- to let you all in on a few tips to improve your own online dating misadventures.

Or at least, provide you some amusement.

1. For the gents: Do not post pictures of yourself with guns or dead animals on your dating profile.
For the ladies: Do not agree to meet a man who posts pictures of himself with guns or dead animals on his dating profile.

Friends, I don't have particularly strong feelings about guns or hunting. I do have a very strong feeling about the HORDES of young men who feel like it is appropriate to advertise how many guns/kills you have to anonymous women who are already 10% convinced you might be a serial murderer.

I saw a profile with the tagline, "Looking for my princess." And his profile pic was, I kid you not, him looking through the scope of an automatic rifle. Just think about how that looks to a stranger. For one minute.

I am potentially willing to date someone who hunts. I am not willing to date someone who thinks their best look is a picture of them dressed like the Unabomber, holding aloft a still-bleeding deer head. Do you see the distinction?

Thank you.

2. For the gents: No one cares about how many cars/motorcycles you own.
For the ladies: Do not agree to meet a man who has more pictures of his cars/motorcycles than of him and his friends.

Guys, what would you think of a girl who had pictures of all her shoes or dresses or books or whatever on her dating profile? Not much, right?

Exactly.

3. If you have to describe yourself as "nice" ... you aren't. If you think you're only looking for "nice" ... try harder.

If you're about to go on a three paragraph rant about how girls treat nice guys like crap and how guys are so shallow that they overlook nice girls ... newsflash: You aren't a nice person. Nice people don't make sweeping generalizations about others. Nice people aren't insanely bitter. Nice people don't consistently fail to identify their own flaws in dating and blame everything else on others.

And also, nice people are not entitled to getting a date, much less getting into a real relationship.

If the most you can say about yourself is, "I'm nice," then no wonder you're single. You are not owed romance because you meet the baseline for basic human decency. No one ever dated anyone for their "niceness," they date them because they are interesting. If you want a boyfriend/girlfriend, be interesting, not entitled. Mere kindness (assuming that you are actually kind, and not a closet lunatic) is the lesson you should have learned back in kindergarten.

4. For the gents: Don't call women sluts. Ever.
For the ladies: Don't date guys who call women sluts. Ever.

This one should be a no-brainer, but apparently it isn't: even Snow-Freaking-White doesn't like the word "slut." You want to decide which girls, based on their photos, are sluts and which ones aren't? Awesome. You want to declare yourself a Slut-Free-Zone? Cool.

Just keep in mind that even the "non-slutty" women don't really appreciate having their entire worth determined by some guy who has never even met them. All you're going to attract with that tactic is women who base their self-esteem on the high or low praise of men ... which might have been what you were going for, consciously or not.

Any advice you'd like to share with the universe, friends and readers?