Jan Dunlap's Blog, page 7

Warm woolen mittens…

I’m sorry, but there will be no new post this week. For the last 24 hours, I’ve had a continuous loop playing in my head of Julie Andrews singing “My Favorite Things,” and it has rendered me incapable of any coherent thoughts. As always, I am filled with incoherent thoughts, but I promised myself I would try to never publish them.

(Yoda was right, though – there is no try. You either do or you don’t. And sometimes you feel like a nut, and sometimes you don’t. So now we know which side of the fence I fell on….)

The singing started yesterday morning when I took the dog for a walk in the sleet. Then it became snow. Then, in my head, Julie Andrews began singing about warm woolen mittens and snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes. I explained to her that right now, in early April, those are definitely NOT my favorite things, but she’s still singing.

OH! OH! She just stopped!

Oh NO!

She stopped because now I’ve got Lamb Chop and friends in my head improvising on one of their favorite tunes: “This is the song that never ends.” But now it’s “This is the winter that doesn’t end, it just goes on and on, my friends…”

 

 

 

 

Saved by the Geek

There’s a reason the Geek Squad is called the Geek Squad.

Last week, my laptop kept trying to convince me that my antivirus protection had expired.

You’re UNPROTECTED! read the pop-up screen.

Thirty years of caution automatically kicked in before I realized the computer was referring to itself, and not me.

Your subscription has EXPIRED!

“No, it hasn’t,” I pointed out to the screen. “I have a three-year protection plan that runs another two years.”

Since the screen didn’t reply and kept popping back up every time I tried to get rid of it –which was not only annoying, but still gave me a little instinctive jolt every time I saw it – I connected with the Geek Squad at their website and explained the problem.

“We can fix that,” the agent told me, and proceeded to open a conversation window to walk me through the session.

All the people who work for the Geek Squad are called agents, by the way. They wear white shirts and black ties like they’re members of Great Britain’s MI6 or the FBI. I don’t know what the CIA people wear, and I don’t want to know, because then they’d have to kill me.

Agent Megan went to work remotely on my computer.

That doesn’t mean she ‘sort of’, or ‘remotely,’ worked on my computer, it means she worked on my computer in real time by accessing it long distance.  (Which reminds me – what is unreal time?)

Long story short, Agent Megan fixed my laptop and got rid of the annoying message. Before she concluded her service call with me, she asked if I had any more questions for her.

“Ask her how to avoid materializing in solid substances when teleporting,” my husband and daughter suggested.

“I am not going to do that,” I said. “She’ll think I’m wacko.”

“Go on,” they urged me. “She’ll laugh. She’ll know it’s a joke. You’ll brighten up her day.”

I typed in the question, feeling like an idiot. How do you avoid materializing in solid substances when teleporting?

Agent Megan replied: Teleporting gets complicated. You might try new batteries or adjusting the space-time continuum setting. And may the Force be with you.

Seriously? Teleporting, computers, and the Force – it’s still all Geek to me.

Owling in the night

Photo by Bob Dunlap

Last night, I went owling at 2 in the morning.

It wasn’t my idea, I have to confess. Gracie – our dog – was sick, so I got night duty, and at 2 am, she needed to go out.

Much to my delight, it was pleasant and not frigid, totally quiet and peaceful. And in the distance, I heard an owl hooting. I frequently hear the Barred Owl who lives in our woods, but the owl I heard calling last night was a Great Horned Owl. Someone told me once that everyone in America lives within range of a Great Horned Owl. I don’t know if I believe that – I lived in Arizona for four years, and I find it hard to believe there were Great Horned Owls hanging out in the cacti, but then again, I don’t know that there WEREN’T Great Horned Owls there, either. Everybody likes a winter break in Arizona, right?

So there I was, standing on our corner at 2 am listening to an owl. Then another owl answered and I got to eavesdrop on a hauntingly beautiful conversation.

Owls – gotta love ‘em. Especially at 2 am.

(And if you haven’t yet downloaded a FREE Kindle copy of the first book in my Bob White Birder Murder Mystery series, time is running out! The deal expires Sunday night, March 24. Get The Boreal Owl Murder here before it flies away!)

FREE Kindle of The Boreal Owl Murder!

Click here for your free Kindle March 20-24

The Birder Murders started here!

Since my first Birder Murder is all about a hunt for a Boreal Owl, I’ve really been interested in all the sightings this winter of the owl on Minnesota’s North Shore. To begin with, the owl is normally exceptionally hard to find, which is one of the reasons I wrote about it – it was a mystery waiting to happen. This year, Christopher Wood, one of the expert folks from the Cornell Lab of Ornithology and eBird Project Leader, came all the way out to see one, and captured (as video) the bird while it was hunting. He graciously said I could share it, so here it is. Cute little guy, wouldn’t you say?

The owl, not Chris. Though since I didn’t meet Chris personally, I guess I can’t completely rule out it might apply to him as well. Chris, next time you’re out here, let’s do lunch. (And thanks to my son Bob for allowing me to use his photo.)

Anyway, I wanted to share the video since it’s a rare look at the Boreal Owl. And to celebrate our owls even more, I have a SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT to make next week – so be sure to check back!

In the meantime, here is the beginning 0f Chapter 1 of The Boreal Owl Murder, the beginning of Bob White’s birding adventures. Enjoy!

I used to think that there was no such thing as a bad birding trip. I’ve been birding for almost twenty-six years – since I was eight years old – and I’ve always had a blast when I go birding. Sure, it’s Minnesota, and I get mauled by mosquitoes, soaked in the rain, sunburned in summer and frozen in the winter, but, hey, I get to travel all over this great state and eat all the prepackaged donuts I want from out-of-the-way gas stations.

What’s not to love about that?

And it’s a fairly inexpensive hobby, too. The birding, I mean, not the donut-eating.

Of course, sometimes there are additional costs – like having to pay for speeding tickets from driving all over the state to see rare birds that get reported on the state birding hotline. But I’ve been working on reducing those costs. I just remind myself, “Bob, let someone else do the driving.”

Anyway, I love to go birding. Unfortunately, though, I now know that there is such a thing as a bad birding trip. It starts when you find a dead body instead of the bird you’re chasing, and then, when someone starts shooting at you, it really goes downhill.

Losing an hour? Not a problem for the sloth

http://creativecommons.org/licenses/b...

Shoot. I just looked at the calendar and it’s true: we change our clocks this Sunday, which means we lose an hour.

This is so not what I wanted to hear. I can’t get everything done in a day as it is, and now, I’m going to lose an hour.

I wish I were a sloth. Sloths don’t worry about losing an hour. I don’t think sloths worry at all…about anything.

Sloths just sit in a tree for hours, breathing. Sometimes they move an arm. Sometimes they move a leg. Mostly, though, they just sit. Or maybe they’re sleeping, I’m not sure. Twice a year, I go to the Como Zoo and Conservatory in St. Paul to enjoy the tropical plants and flowers, and there’s a sloth in one of the display areas. Every time I go, it’s in the same position.

“Is it dead?” I asked one of the zoo attendants the last time I visited.

“Oh, no,” she assured me. “Sloths just don’t move much. Once a day this one comes down to do his business, and then he goes right back up. It takes him about an hour to get down and back.”

I looked at the sloth, who was in the tree, about eight feet off the ground. “An hour?”

“Yeah, and that’s when he’s in a rush.”

I noticed that the sloth didn’t have any kind of tether to the tree, and there were no barriers of any kind keeping it contained.

“So I take it you’re not worried the sloth is going to sneak out that door right over there when no one’s looking?” I asked the attendant.

She laughed. “It would take hours for the sloth to get there. I’m pretty sure someone would notice.”

So, you see, sloths aren’t exactly the speed demons of the world. Nor do they have pressing concerns. As a result, they have this really short list of things to do every day: slowly eat, slowly digest, sleep, maybe come down the tree to do their business. They don’t read email, run the vacuum, go to work, lift weights, do laundry, pay the bills, volunteer in the community, walk the dog, recycle recyclables, shovel snow, or take the car in for an oil change.

They don’t even brush their teeth, for crying out loud. And flossing? Never happen. All those little things we humans do that suck away our time are totally unknown to sloths.

Which probably means they don’t care if they lose an hour when we change the clocks this weekend. Time is irrelevant to them.

I wonder what that would feel like – to be oblivious to time.

You know, I bet I could sit in a tree and just breathe. It’s nice and toasty warm in the Como Conservatory, too. It would be like living in the temperate tropics instead of the hanging-on cold of a Minnesota March.

Anybody know where I can get a sloth costume?

The bottle gives me a lift after doing my taxes

I just finished doing my taxes for 2012 and it wasn’t pretty.

I drove over 1000 miles promoting my books, gave away a dozen copies as donations to charities and book contests, slaved over writing my fifth Birder Murder to get it to my publisher on time (barely!),  and even got dressed up and put on makeup for 21 public appearances.

And I didn’t even clear $1000.

Sheesh. Whoever thinks they’re going to become rich working as an author must be named James Patterson, or Stephen King, or Janet Evanovich, or J.K. Rowling. To be honest, I knew that becoming a published author wouldn’t be my ticket to fame and fortune, but I thought I’d be at least making a little more money at it by my fifth book.

So you know how I deal with this little disappointment?

Hint: Blue and dancing.

CantonRep.com / Bob Rossiter

Yes, I simply remember the hardy soul I saw working Thursday afternoon on the corner of our local shopping area. It was the dancing shampoo bottle advertising a sale on haircuts at the neighborhood Great Clips.

“That could be me,” I tell myself when I think my writing career is in the tank. At least it’s not ten degrees above zero at my workplace, and I don’t have to breathe in car exhaust. Yup, an author’s life looks pretty good compared to being the Dancing Shampoo Bottle. Although, if I were the person inside the bottle, I would get to dance all day and wave at everyone passing by, which would be very friendly and calorie-burning, both of which are good things. And I bet that some of those people driving by would probably be thinking “that could be me,” and I would, therefore, be making them indescribably happy with their chosen occupations (unless they were the people who work as the mascots for Burger King or the Michelin Man, and then all bets are off.)

So, thank-you, Dancing Shampoo Bottle. I feel so much better.

The fried chicken fairy strikes again

http://creativecommons.org/licenses/b...

My dog believes there is a fried chicken fairy.

I’m beginning to believe it now, too. This morning, for the second time in two months, Gracie (my part black lab/part garbage disposal) found pieces of fried chicken during our morning walk through the neighborhood. Gracie loves fried chicken, and if she could, I think she’d be hotwiring every vehicle in sight in order to drive to the closest deli for fried chicken.

“Give me a box of fried chicken,” she’d say (though it would sound more like rrrruff!) as she plastered herself against the deli case.

“For here or to go?” the overworked deli clerk would ask, thinking to herself that she really needed to find a different job when the customers started looking like dogs.

As it is, I buy the deli chicken for dinner about every six weeks, and I give Gracie the meat from the drumsticks and wings, even though she’d much rather eat the whole thing, bones included.

So finding complete chicken pieces on our morning walk must be like winning the lottery to her. She grabs those pieces and starts crunching before I even realize it’s in her mouth. Seeing as I need my fingers for typing and other manual tasks, I don’t try to pull the chicken out of her mouth. But it makes me crazy that she’s eating it, because I’m afraid it’s spoiled and will make her sick. It’s been left outside for who knows how long, for crying out loud. True, it’s colder outside than the inside of my refrigerator’s freezer compartment, but still, I don’t want her eating anything when I don’t know where it came from.

Speaking of which, how in the world the fried chicken ends up along the sidewalk is beyond me. I just can’t see any of my neighbors tossing chicken pieces out in their yards, especially when it’s been below freezing for the last few months.  We may be Minnesotans, but I don’t know anyone who’s picnicking at ten degrees Fahrenheit. Do people drive into our neighborhood to throw out the fried chicken they can’t finish?

Or is there really a fried chicken fairy which Gracie has conjured through her own wishful thinking?

Hmmm.

I wish, wish, wish there were a pina colada fairy…

Happy Valentine’s Day to my plumber

We’ve had some remodeling and updating done in our home the last few months, and I’d like to offer this poem as a way of publicly thanking my plumber for all his hard work.

A Valentine poem for my plumber

We love our new toilets,

We really do!

They flush fast and clean,

All thanks to you.

The sink in the kitchen

Works like a dream,

The hot water’s hot

And I even see steam!

The new bathroom shower

(A joy to behold!)

Is such a nice change

From all the old mold.

Our pipes are all working.

Our water flows clear.

The next time you’re over,

Let’s have a beer!

Can’t sleep? This won’t help!

Jordyn Redwood is my guest today and she’s the author of the pulse-pounding medical thriller series the Bloodline Trilogy. Proof, the first book in the series, was released last year and received a starred review from Library Journal. Many, many readers were kept awake all night because they couldn’t put it down. Now, the second book, Poison, was just released Feb 1, and it’s about a frightening hallucination that has materialized into a full-fledged, physical embodied serial killer. Ooooh, that sent shivers right down my spine! So much for getting any sleep tonight. Let’s get to the interview.

Jan: So, Jordyn, I know you’re an Emergency Room nurse, and I’m guessing that’s as much of a roller coaster ride as your books. Are you an adrenaline junkie?

Jordyn: Yes, absolutely. What I try to do is bring my readers on the thrilling up and down journey that working in the ER can be—only with gripping fiction.

Jan: Fiction is good. The ER – not so much. I hate going to the ER. Every time I go to the ER, it means somebody is really hurting, and sometimes that somebody is me. Are you by any chance a chocolate addict?

Jordyn: To the dismay of my personal trainer, I will have to say yes. Though not a fan so much of chocolate ice cream or chocolate cake, but will not turn them down if offered.

Jan: Are you paranoid?

Jordyn: Are you trying to determine my mental health? What will you do with said information? Turn me into the FBI?

Jan: Is that a question or a request? Wait a minute, I’m the interviewer. I’m asking the questions. You have to answer them.

Jordyn: In all seriousness—I would say I’m a little bit superstitious. I don’t like working with a full moon (the celestial body kind) in the sky. I don’t like the number 13, so I’m not crazy about the year 2013. In fact, my husband wanted to go to Hawaii this year to celebrate our 15th wedding anniversary, and I said we’d wait to do it for his BIG birthday in a few years because I did not want to be flying over the ocean in a 2013 year.

Jan: I heard that you hid knives beneath your sofa cushions. Is that true? And if so, what does it say about you?

Jordyn: Always be prepared. That’s all I’ll say about that.

Jan: Exactly how frequently do you think about killing someone

Jordyn: Fortunately or unfortunately, my suspense mind is always working, so I may not be actively plotting a character’s demise, but I am always thinking about suspense turns to every day common events.

For instance, one night I came home from work around nine o’clock pm. This was two hours earlier than normal. I came through the garage so I knew my husband’s car was there. The front door was unlocked (which I hate!—maybe add that to the paranoid piece) and my husband and children were gone (hello, children should have been in bed) with no note.

Jan: Sounds suspicious to me. I bet they went out for ice cream cones. Chocolate ones.

Jordyn: Oh yeah, you know that will be the beginning to one of my novels someday. It was so Linwood Barclay, I knew I’d be using it.

Jan: There you have it, folks. If you want to be scared sleepless, read Proof and Poison. And be sure you don’t sit on Jordyn’s sofa cushions. Until my next author interview..