stops and starts, puppies and books

Sometimes it feels like writing flows like a river. My current book idea is not like that.

Two days ago I was writing (trying to catch up on my JuNoWriMo goals) and I realized I'd made a huge mistake with my character's motivation. And it was both exhausting and exhilarating -- exhausting because I had to go back and fix what I thought was settled, but exhilarating because I finally realized why I couldn't get over that 20,000 word hump.

When I finish this book, it will be the fifth one I've written. And yet somehow, it is different and no easier than those other four.

I think that's the funny thing about creative pursuits versus other pursuits. Every year so far in my legal career, I become a slightly better lawyer. My drafting gets better, my research gets more efficient, my confidence grows.

But every creative projects is like a whole new animal, something that has to be tamed in a different way.

I'm not sure I've ever blogged about this, but recently Gentleman Caller and I got a second dog--Scout. (For pictures of Scout, check me out on Instagram @cleverpseudonymgirl.) And not to make everything in my life relate to everything else, but the difference between Spencer and Scout could not be more stark.

Spencer was a naughty puppy, of course. All puppies are naughty. But Spencer, in his soul, is a snuggler. When he was little and needed to be walked at 5 AM, as soon as he did his business, we would fall back asleep for another two hours, resting on the hammock on the porch when it was warm, or with him curled up on the pillow next to my head if it was cold.

He loves going on runs with me. He loves riding in the car with me. He loves watching TV with me. Basically, whatever I want to do? Spencer wants to do.

Scout is not that way at all. In her heart, she's a ferocious hunter. When Scout needs to be walked at 5 AM, she is go-go-go-going after that. She wants to run and play, and if I try to put her back in her crate so I can sleep some more, she will wail like this is the worst thing that has ever happened to her.

Scout likes to run. And find sticks and rocks and hide them in her cheeks. And then run some more. And also run? And jump.

But even though she and Spencer couldn't be more different, I am so happy they are both my dogs.

In a way, I'm glad I am wrestling my new WIP into submission at the same time we are trying to train Scout. Because she reminds me that some little beasts just need more patience than others.

Everything is awesome

I'm luckier than most people, I know. I intended to write this "count my many blessings" post a few days ago, but unforeseen circumstances arose and I thought a public bragathon would be in bad taste.

But I really wanted to share a few things with InternetLand.

Age 30 was pretty great to ol' Ru over here, and I feel I'd be remiss not to acknowledge it.

I finished my most recent book. I got into PitchWars and made a great friend in my mentor, Emily Martin.

 
AND THEN ... I signed with potentially the coolest agent ever, Maria Vicente.

[There was no silent-screaming-excitement GIF beautiful enough for this moment. Just imagine whatever you consider to be simultaneously the most exciting, the loveliest, and the most Zen, and insert it here.]

[Have you done it?]

[Thank you and namaste. Eeeeeee!]

Seriously, check out her Instagram. She's smart (duh), she loves my book (what?! get outta town...), and she loves cats and books and Buffy and comics, what else is there to know?!

OK, here's a GIF anyway.

YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY

That secret news I keep alluding to over and over again? Well, that's still a secret, unfortunately, but I still feel pretty good about it. And someday I might actually be able to tell you all about it!

I think I am both the fox and the girl in this GIF.

AND THERE'S MORE!

I skied several black diamond runs. (Yes, they were at Brighton, a fairly easy ski resort. Yes, I fell down a lot. No, neither of those facts changes my level of smug self-satisfaction.)

I taught a class on descriptive writing at LDS Storymakers. I ran a dirty dash 5K (poorly, but completely). I finished remodeling my kitchen! I had no new fights with my neighbors. I baked several lovely cakes! Spencer is snuggly and happy as always. I was financially responsible (mostly) and if I do say so myself, I'm kind of knocking it out of the park, Secret Day Job-wise too.

Things are not always perfect (understatement alert) but my family is the bomb.

I have really great friends across the board. If I could give them all Leslie Knopeish nicknames, I would, but this post would become absurdly long. So let's leave it at this, friends and family: I COULD JUST HUG ALL YOUR FACES OFF!*

* IF I DIDN'T GENERALLY HATE PHYSICAL CONTACT!

So until next time (hopefully sooner than a month from now), this is Ru, expressing her thanks to the universe and signing off.

This is just because it's adorable.

Banana fana fo fana

Diego adopted two rescue kitties this weekend.

So far, Spencer loves them. The kitties ... sometimes love Spencer. Sometimes they hate him. Sometimes they are indifferent to him. (Cats, amiright?) But Spencer always loves them. Last night he spent about an hour grooming (read: licking) one of them as it purred in delight.

Spencer's new theme song: We Can't Stop (Loving the Kitties) by Miley Cyrus

Right now their names are either Taco and Tim Gunn, or Fergus and Sebastian.

Please feel free to weigh in on the debate.

Announcing ... something very exciting

Friends, countrymen, citizens of the Internets:

I have a website.

www.ruthannesnow.com

If you've checked out my tab on 30 by 30, you will have noticed two things. One, that I'm almost 29 and a half, and I still haven't come up with thirty goals. Two, that my very first goal on the list is "publish a book."

I hope you know that, when I am doing a terrible job blogging, I am working on some of those goals. Or watching TV. Both worthy pursuits.

As we all know, in 2013, you've got to have an online presence in addition to being a good writer. So in addition to stepping up my writing game from "enjoyable hobby" to "serious pursuit," I have tried to tweet more (But it's hard! I much prefer reading everyone else's tweets!), created a Facebook author page (Gag, I know, I hate me too), and hired my dear sister Emma (Eep! A real name!) to build me a bitchin' website.

Now, I'm not artistically inclined, personally, which is why I am so delighted that Emma and her cohorts are Squarehook (like them on facebook here) are. They took all my random ideas (I like things that are simple and black and white, but I like bright colors. Not too many bright colors. Photos of downtown? Not too many pages. But enough pages. Oh, and a Spencer logo!) and turned them into a pretty sweet website, if I do say so myself.

Not only is the website aesthetically pleasing, but it's pretty functional, too. Squarehook specializes in mobile-accessible websites, meaning that my site will not look all wonks when viewed on a smartphone or tablet. And soon, Emma is going to teach me how to update everything on my own, so I won't need to pester her every time I want a change. (Thanks, Emma!) Squarehook both designs awesome websites, and creates a user-friendly tool so customers can become mini-webmasters themselves.

The website is, of course, a work in progress, in that I hope it someday describes my books, or includes quotes from (or about!) my books, but for now, I'm pretty dang pleased with how everything has gone.

If you could check out my website and let me know if there's anything you think I'm missing, I would seriously appreciate it. (Also, if you have any ideas for goals for me? Completing my list of goals should seriously be part of my 30 by 30 ...)

And if you have any website needs of your own, be they big or small, please check out Squarehook. You will not be disappointed.

Edited to add: Emma's office number is 801-386-9828, and she would love to talk to anyone who is interested a potential website. She wanted me to make sure you all know that they have a wide range of prices (heck, that's why I went to them), so really, no project is too small.

They call me Stacey, they call me Jane

I have a secret.

My name isn't Ru.

ARE YOU SHOCKED?

I know, you're totally not.

Slowly but surely, I've got to transition from semi-anonymous-girl to ... slightly-less-anonymous-girl.

It's probably always going to be important for me to keep my writing life separate from my self as LawyerGirl. I hope this doesn't come as a shock to anyone, but most writers don't make much money. Even if I didn't love being a lawyer (which I do), I would need to keep my day job. You guys, I

More than that, I am not into ... whatever it is ... that causes people to want to share all their personal, intimate details on the internet.

And Then She Was Like Blah Blah Blah: Funny Stories, No Relationship Problems or Naked Toddlers (TM).

But when it came time to pick a pseudonym, I kind of didn't know what I wanted. I mean, the goal is to one day be able to sign this name on something, and I knew it would be weird to sign Cindy Lightballoon or whatever.

So I picked ...

RuthAnne Snow.

People who know me in real life might be rolling their eyes right now, thinking I've made some sort of pun -- and if that's you, shhhhhh, keep it to yourself. My life as LawyerGirl depends on a ladies-n-gentlemen's agreement with all you folks, so be cool, okay?

But I'm actually not making a joke at all. Ruth Snow was my grandma's name. And that seemed like a better choice than any other I could have made.

So if you all could help me transition into the world of Sort Of Identifying Myself, I would really appreciate it. If you could "like" my (gulp) Facebook author page, I would be eternally grateful.

https://www.facebook.com/RuthAnneSnow

(PS - In case you, like me, never quite got the deal with "liking" things on Facebook, here it is. Amazon and Google factor in Facebook likes when they calculate where you fall in search results. REALLY. So here's to pimping ourselves out!)

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.

M is for majestic

"You know, that dog of yours has a real majestic stance when he pees. You should get a picture of it sometime."

- Pops

I shall try.

O is for over-exaggeration

I periodically tell Spence that if he ever poops on the rug again, bites me, runs in the opposite direction when I tell him to come, or proceeds to hide in Diego's room (both Spence and Charlie consider Diego's room, and particularly under Diego's bed, a place of magic and wonder), I will slit his throat, skin him alive, and wear his pretty little fur as a scarf. Sometimes just one, sometimes all of them.

I sure hope I break this habit if I ever have a kid. I don't think CPS would understand my penchant for drama.

L is for Leuly

My sister Echo (not her real name, we've discussed this before, yes? email me if you need her real name) works at a new company called Leuly. Leuly creates websites for businesses that are easy to update yourself -- so no outsourcing your day-to-day web needs. Leuly sets everything up for you, teaches you how to use it, and lets you roam free, free as a bird!

If you or anyone you know has some website-creatin needs (established businesses as well as those looking to start one, like a writer wanting to promote your work or a new college graduate thinking of alternatives to slaving away for the man), contact Leuly, follow them on Twitter (@leulyweb) or like them on Facebook. Right now they're giving away various free service to loyal followers in an effort to build up their clientele, so toady up!

"Soon you will know the midnight poop cry."

That's a direct quote from Hannah to me.

See, this morning around 3 AM, little Spence started whining in his crate.  I assumed he wanted to sleep in my bed, since he is spoiled, but after springing him, he seemed uninterested in doing anything but pacing, so I put him back in the crate.

Where he whined.

For three more hours.

Meanwhile, I (being heartless) yelled at him repeatedly to just stop and go to sleep already.  Because surely he was just whining because he was being a brat.

Around 6 AM, I'd had enough and took him to the bathroom so he could grab a drink, thinking that might settle him down enough so I could have a half hour more of sleep.

But as soon as I put him down on the linoleum, his ass literally (thanks, Chris Traeger*) exploded. Apparently you can fit 15 pounds of poop into a 10 pound bag.


(Sorry for the imagery there, but I believe in accuracy.)  (Also, thank you, Spence, for not pooping on me while I carried you to the bathroom. I know you probably wanted to.)

He's off at the vet's now, getting checked out, and I feel pretty bad about making him wait those extra three hours to relieve himself.

But as Hannah said -- this is a mistake a pet owner only has to make once.






* For your viewing enjoyment (never fear, there is no poop):

A conversation: End of the world edition

Person 1: If you were living in zombie apocalypse, and it was just you and Spence trapped in your house, and you ran out of food, would you eventually resort to eating Spence?

Me: No.

Person 1: Seriously? The alternative is starving to death.

Me: I know, but I wouldn't. I mean, Tom Hanks almost drowned for a volleyball, I'm not eating my dog.

A new development in the world of Spencer

I am anti-dog clothing.

My sister and mother knew this, and still decided to give Spencer clothes for Christmas.  (A puffy vest and an argyle sweater, respectively.)

Strangely enough, Spence seems to be surprisingly into wearing clothes.

Even weirder? They calm him down, much like Charlie and his Thunder Shirt.  Spence took four naps yesterday.

I don't know how to resolve this dilemma.

Calm, happy Spence ... versus being that girl who dresses her dog.

It's a toughie for sure.

You wish you looked this good in argyle.

While I was in San Fran, Spence was getting Biblical

Text from Charlie and Alpha to me while they were puppy sitting -- I hope you find it at least half as funny as I did:

How think ye? If a Charlie have an hundred Spencers, and one of them be gone astray, doth he not leave the ninety and nine, and goeth into the mountains, and seeketh that which is gone astray?


And if it so be that he find it, verily I say unto you, he rejoiceth more of that Spencer, than of the ninety and nine which went astray.

My new most embarrassing moment story

Subhead: Settle in for a long haul, friendos.

Today at work, we had our office Christmas party.  About a week ago, a coworker popped into my office to let me know that at this office we give gifts to -- and I quote -- "members of our team." The gifts didn't have to be elaborate, he explained, just something little, like a bottle of Martinelli's with a bow.  Since he knew it was my first year at the office, he just wanted to give me the heads up.

My team consists of another attorney, an analyst, and a secretary. But I supposed I should probably also get something for my trainer and the other two people he is training.

Add with me, people.  That's 6.

So I asked my crafty sister Echo to make 10 presents, on the off-chance I was under-estimating.  She made some cute little Oreo Pops, which is basically an Oreo on a sucker stick, dipped in white and milk chocolate, then rolled in crushed peppermint pieces.  Darling, no?

I set off to work this morning with some cellophane-wrapped gifties, feeling mighty satisfied with myself.

And when I flipped on the light in my office, I found that I had already received five presents from people who weren't on my list.

Sidenote: You might be wondering why, at this point, I didn't run to the store to buy more presents.  The short answer is that I have a client I have been trying to talk to all summer long about his case.  
I periodically call or email him to see if it's a good time.  It never is.
Who decided to email me the morning of the Christmas party and say he'd "pop in sometime today to talk"?
You guessed it.

So for roughly twenty minutes, I sat and panicked in my office. More gifts arrived.

Every person who brought me a homemade jar of jam, banana bread, and gift box from Bath and Body Works received a bag of Oreo Pops.

And my anxiety ratcheted up-up-up, because how the hell am I supposed to multiply a finite number of Oreo Pops?  

That's when I remembered Echo's original plan.

"Why don't you just get people a package of Twizzlers and write 'Twiz the Season' on a sticker?"

Though it seemed cheesy to me at the time, I seized on Echo's idea and proceeded to text and IM every person I could think of who might be able to run to All-A-Dollar and buy 10 packages of Twizzlers and Christmas package stickers.

Finally I got in contact with Charlie, who agreed to head to All-A-Dollar after a meeting with his graduation counselor.  The only problem was that put his arrival at my workplace around 2pm.

Sidenote: Why is that a problem, you ask?  Well, because the Christmas party was scheduled for noon, with everyone leaving the office afterward as a gift from our boss.
Why is that not a problem?  Well, because I could just sneak the Twizzlers into offices and pretend that they arrived in the morning, like all the other, more thoughtful gifts had.  
Genius.

So I sat in my office, trying to work, trying to ignore the growing pile of presents on my desk, and waiting for the Mystery Client.

This is how things looked BEFORE NOON.  I didn't even have the heart to take a picture of the final haul.

Finally it was time for the Christmas party, and I trudged off to a sumptuous feast, all the while trying to avoid eye contact with the coworkers who had bestowed me with homemade fudge, only to be rewarded with a big, fat nada.

And then, in the middle of a musical number -- seriously, my coworker's children came and SANG -- Charlie texted me.

"Done early. Where do you want me to deliver this stuff?"

Now, the most important of my little plan was that no one realize (a) I came grossly underprepared to show my love for my coworkers the day of the Christmas party and (b) some people got Oreo Pops, and some people got cheap bags of Twizzlers.

So I texted Charlie back, "Leave the bag on the curb, I will come out and get it when I can get out of this party."

Sidenote: Why didn't I just stand up, walk out, and meet Charlie outside?
Answer: You try walking out of your boss's recitation of "Tilly's Christmas" by Louisa May Alcott.


And because I know Charlie, and I know he's never met a plan that he didn't think he could improve somehow, I texted him again.  "Seriously.  Leave them on the curb."

***

At this point, it's incumbent to switch to Charlie's point of view.  For fairness' sake.

Charlie arrived at my place of employ and stared at the curb nervously.  Do I really leave this bag on the curb? he wondered.  I mean, I know my sister who has worked here for a year told me to, but this is a [big secret, people] GOVERNMENT BUILDING.

According to Charlie, there were three squad cars of cops chilling in the parking lot.  And he just couldn't take the chance.

***

Here's where we switch back to my point of view, and I argue that "three squad cars" was most likely one pudgy member of Highway Patrol, and that even if dropping a plastic bag is suspicious, IT WAS A PLASTIC BAG OF FULL OF TWIZZLERS.  What's more, my government building doesn't even have metal detectors, because in New Denver, packing heat is strongly encouraged.

In short, I can say with total confidence that had Charlie dropped a bag of Twizzlers on the curb, not one damn thing would have happened.

But Charlie felt like he couldn't take that chance. So he popped into the building and left the bag with the front desk secretary. Who proceeded to come into the Christmas party and deliver them to me.

In the middle of a musical number.

In front of LITERALLY every single person I work with.

Who could all see that I had clearly forgotten to plan appropriately for gift giving.

And that I bought their presents at ALL A DOLLAR, as the plastic bag was so proudly emblazoned.

After the luncheon was (mercifully) over, I skulked off to my office to slap Santa stickers onto bags of Twizzlers, shove them into mail slots (since there was no point in being sneaky anymore), and make my escape before I had to talk to anyone.

To make things even more amazing? As I was leaving, I saw that the other attorney who started with me last January gave everyone CDs.

C-freaking-Ds.

And as I drove back to home my home, roughly twenty minutes after my escape, the Mystery Client (remember him?) called.  He had not received my email that I was leaving for the day at 2pm.  He was in my office. And he wanted to meet.

Sidenote: You would think that my most embarrassing story would now be over.  You would think that, and you would be wrong.


As I wallowed on the couch tonight, nursing a giant Diet Coke and holding a snuggly Spencer on my lap, Hannah came home and I proceeded to tell the tale.

"Wait," she said as I explained what Charlie had bought at All-A-Dollar, "why Twizzlers?"

"So I could write, 'Twiz the Season' on the sticker," I explained.

"Oh. So did you do that?"

Awkward pause.

No, my friends, I did not.  In the midst of my anxiety and frustration, I forgot to write the cheesy line that was the whole point of getting Twizzlers to begin with. I put the sticker on the Twizzlers, stuffed them into boxes, and ran for my life.

So tonight, all over the greater New Denver Valley area, my coworkers are looking at the presents they received from their colleagues and wondering, "Why the eff did that girl give me Twizzlers with a Santa sticker?"

And now my humiliation is complete.

the things to do

Do you ever look at your life and think, "I know this is all manageable individually, and yet collectively, I still feel like I've bitten off more than I can chew"?

The Casa

• Needs to be rewired, but according to the electrician I met with yesterday, will cost 50%-100% more than I originally budgeted.
• Did you know I have a rose archway?  I do.  I also don't know anything about roses, much less climbing roses.  But I do know my archway is severely overgrown and it has come time to hack away at it arbitrarily.

 

We're going to take over! Just like in The Happening!

• I need to get a door for my office.  And posts for my porch.  I'd explain this in greater depth, but basically now I walk through Diego's room to get to the office.  And my house is in danger of falling down in the next snowstorm.  No big.
• I also need to get serious about cleaning my room and organizing my office.  Enough said about those topics.
• (As a final note, does anyone else find formatting bullet points on blogger extremely difficult?)

Work 

So ... much ... needs ... to ... happen ...

Christmas

What is a girl with no money to do when it comes to Christmas shopping?  You might suggest something like thrift stores or homemade goods, but I have some really materialistic siblings, and that is not going to cut it. 

I can imagine Christmas morning, Echo offering me some DVDs, new earrings, and sweater ... and I give her the calendar I made on my iMac and printed off at work.  On the color printer. 

No, friends. Just no.


Writing

Remember what I just said about the office?  Well, back when I thought I'd only have to spend X on new wiring, I bought myself a lovely new computer for my office. As it turns out now, that was a poor choice.

But I digress.

When it comes to being creative, I need to have organized space.  (When it comes to being a lawyer, however ... well, let's just say my office does not reflect that personal ethic.)  But I am currently overwhelmed about the piles of books and electronics piled up in the office.  Am I the only one who has an extremely difficult time getting rid of wiring?  It's like hoarding for the electronics generation.  Who knows when I might need that Nokia phone charger again!?

And cleaning with Spencer running around is one of the greater banes of my existence.  I will be organizing a file cabinet ... he will be chewing on paperclips.  I will be trying to figure out why I have 15 ethernet cords.  He will be chewing the ethernet cords.

It's not a good combination.

But ... for all of you who were wondering when I'm going to get back to the subject heading of WRITING ... I do have a new sassy idea that I'm pretty stoked about.  So my writing to-do list looks like this:

• Sass up first 10 pages of old project, send to final agent.  If said agent does not care for said project, investigate Kindle Direct Publishing.  (Yes, it's happening.)
• Evaluate NaNo project.  (Official final word count?  21,000 words.  Yes, I'm terrible.  Suck it.)
• Start new project.
• CLEAN OFFICE.

 In no particular order.

Spencer

Yes, he gets his own to-do list.  You see, little Spence knows three tricks -- sit, down, and shake.  He's masterful when it comes to those tricks. An Olympian, if you will.

But does he come when called?  Only if you have cheese.  And can I get him to settle down when I want to eat dinner unimpeded?  Certainly not.  These are issues I must address if I want to be a good pet-owner.

And while I know it's frivolous, I also want him to learn to play dead if I point my gun fingers at him and say, "Bang!"  Because that is just damn adorable.

Finally, and perhaps most importantly, I have made a grievous error in my pet training.  Namely, I believe that people and pets should maintain separate sleeping spaces.  It's fine if you believe otherwise, but I think my bed should be a HUMANS ONLY zone.

But when Spence was neutered, he came home really dopey and in pain, so I let him sleep on my bed.  And the next night, when I realized he couldn't fit his coned head into his kennel, I let him sleep on my bed.

And this went on, for two weeks, until the cone and his stitches were no more.

So now, even though I don't want my dog to sleep on my bed, much less a dog that is inclined to start pacing three or four times a night to sleep on my bed (and yes that happens), Spence knows that if he starts whining at 3am every morning, my sleep deprived brain will inevitably cave and let him sleep in my bed.

He had a taste of the good life, my friends.  And there's no going back.

Which means every morning l blearily wake up for work with paws and puppy breath in my face, and mentally (and verbally) berate myself for cracking again and perpetuating the whining = special treatment cycle of bad behavior.

But at 3 am, I can be convinced of pretty much anything.

I need to figure out a way to make this not happen any more.

So I guess this all boils down to me saying that CHANGE SPENCER'S BEHAVIOR PATTERNS may be Number 1 on the To Do List.  Perhaps even before "prevent house from falling down."

I told you, I'm serious about this sleeping space issue.

Thanks-Winning

Today I am grateful for:

A cozy house

An interesting job

An apparently infinite supply of patience for blowhards

Library cards

Pub trivia

Good friends

Good family

Crunchy leaves

Flight vouchers

&

Spencer Pie

What are you grateful for?  PS, Thanksgiving is an awesome holiday, which puts me in a splendid mood -- so don't worry, if you're thankful for Etsy or bejeweled headbands or estate tax reform, I won't judge you for this week and this week only.

SOUP!

I'm not much of a cook, so when things turn out right, I have to share.  If you're looking for some tasty, probably unhealthy, fairly easy to prepare sustenance in these chilly autumn months, let me recommend the following BEER CHEESE SOUP!  Mmmmmm.  I made it for the dad and bros and they loved it.

Well, my dad and I loved it.  The brothers grunted, which I interpreted as love.

(Now, if only I had some really arty pictures so someone would Pinterest the shenanigans out of my blog ...


Just kidding.)

I got this recipe online and then tweaked it a little (due to some previous mishaps with soup, and also some failure on my part to plan ahead for the correct ingredients).  Here's the altered version, since that's what I made, with instructions:

Ingredients:

• 1 1/2 cups diced carrots
• 1 cup diced onion
• 1 1/2 cups diced celery
• 3 cloves garlic, minced
• 1 teaspoon hot pepper sauce (And perhaps some more, depending on your preference -- I threw in some more Franks Red Hot at the end.)
• 1/8 teaspoon cayenne pepper
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• a dash of black pepper (In my book, a "dash" is three cranks on the pepper shaker.)
• 2 cups chicken broth
• 1 bottle of beer (I used Diego's last Corona -- sorry Diego -- but I think any beer should do.)
• 1/3 cup butter
• 1/3 cup flour
• 4 cups milk
• 6 heaping cups shredded sharp cheddar cheese (WARNING: Do not buy pre-shredded cheese. Buy a block of cheese and grate it yourself. Pre-shedded cheese is usually coated with something so it won't clump together in the bag, which means getting it to melt into the soup is a nightmare.)
• 1 tablespoon spicy brown mustard
• 2 teaspoons Worcestershire sauce
• 1 teaspoon dry mustard

Directions:

1. In a large saucepan over medium heat, stir together chopped carrots, onion, celery, and garlic. Pour in chicken broth and beer, add  hot pepper sauce, cayenne pepper, salt, and pepper. Simmer until vegetables are tender but still a little crunchy, about 10 minutes. Remove from heat.
2. Heat butter in a large soup pot over medium heat. Stir in flour with a wire whisk for about 3 or 4 minutes. Gradually stir in milk, whisking to prevent scorching, until thickened. (Mine never looked all that thick, but I think that's OK.) 
3. Turn heat down to low and gradually stir in shredded cheese.  Stir until all the cheese is melted into the milk mixture.
4. Stir veggie mixture into cheese mixture. Stir in spicy brown mustard, Worcestershire sauce, and dry mustard. Adjust for hot pepper sauce. Bring to a simmer and cook 10 minutes.
5. Serves 8. Buy some bread bowls if you feel all fancypants, which I did.

Am I the only one Zen around here?

Hypothetically, if Diego, Hannah, my brother Charlie, and all our friends were to dress up as characters from The Walking Dead on Halloween when kiddies come the Casa to collect their treats, do you think anyone would get it? Or would we look like a bunch of sweaty Southerners who happen to be friends with a sheriff?

Keep in mind, I'm fairly sure we could scrounge together two cop outfits, a fabulous white trash hunter ensemble for Daryl, an old man hat, and buckets of fake blood.

As a sidenote, any other Walking Dead/Breaking Bad fans notice that Merle Dixon has blue crystal meth in his pack?  It's good to know that Walter White's business venture spread from New Mexico to Georgia before the inevitable zombie apocalypse.

 ***

Speaking of Halloween, go visit my little sis's blog HERE and commiserate about she might not be able to use the best costume ever next Monday. Poor sis, I wish I could have given you more advice on how to dodge civic duty.

Spencer pie

Whenever I let Spence drive with me first without stuffing him inside a cage, eventually he climbs onto my lap.  (I know, danger, blah blah.)  I usually allow this because it's preferable to me strong arming him into the passenger seat while driving with one hand.

I used to think that Spence did this because he loves me and stuff. And then Diego and I took a trip to Home Depot, and within five minutes, Spence was climbing all over Diego.

As it turns out, Spence is just attracted to power.  Vroom vroom!

Home Depot update? Working dryer, still-not-working shower head.

It's so awesome being awesome

Am I right, or am I right?

I feel like there's a haiku of vanity in there somewhere.

Anywho, my house has been defrosted after the furnace incident and we are gearing up hardcore for the Halloween season.  Note the decorative candle?  Oooh, it's so creepy and so cozy all at once.

What are you going to be for Halloween?  I'm kinda torn.  I've got Spencer's outfit picked out (I've decided that dressing pets is only degrading to the pet on non-Halloween days) but struggling to decide on mine. 

Don't worry, I won't steal your ideas.  I'm honestly honest like that.