Jess Riley's Blog, page 7
May 11, 2012
50,000 Talking Dogs
On Friday I made an author visit to my youngest crowd ever:
the second-grade classroom in which my friend Leeann teaches. It was pajama day, the last hour of the last
day of one of the last weeks of the school year. After I had a seat in the reading nook,
the kids gathered ‘round and asked lots of excellent questions, including:
“What’s it like to be an author?”
"Where do you live?”
“Where were you born?”
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“Do you have a dog?”
“Does she have a goldfish?” (Whispered to the teacher.)
“Do you have a husband?”
“Did you always want to be a writer?”
“Do you have any kids?”
“If you had some, would you be inspired by them?”
“When are you having a baby?”
“How old are you?"
When I told him, his eyes popped and he yelled,
"That's five years older than my mom!"
One little girl smiled coyly at me and said, "You're
pretty."
Another girl in thick glasses and freckles sidled up to me
and absently scratched my leg like a cat for what felt like five minutes. I
didn’t want to make her feel strange or awkward for scratching me, so I just
kind of endured it while the boy to her left folded himself into Child’s Pose
to cope with his restlessness.
I really enjoyed myself, including our group storyboarding session
at the end. (The title of our book? 50,000 Talking Dogs ... owned by an alien named Paul Stanley from Planet Blastoise). Afterwards I signed autographs.
One serious young man named Gary instructed me to re-do my signature, this time
in perfect cursive. Of course I obliged, because he was an eight year-old named
Gary.
On the way home I missed my exit and drove the wrong way for 7 or 8 miles until I realized the sun was setting on the wrong side of the road.
This Tuesday, I’m blogging at the Girlfriends Book Club, and next
weekend I’ll be judging the Edible Book Challenge at the Oshkosh Public
Library, which should be another fun event. Somewhere in there I’m also wrapping up a
grant proposal, finishing novel edits, moving my office, planting my garden, getting a haircut, and kicking-off
a living room renovation because I didn’t learn my lesson with our winter
remodel. Oh, and I just found out I'm going to have another nephew this fall!
Happy Mother's Day...Happy day.Subscribe with Feedburner
April 27, 2012
Something is Afoot. Or Anovel, actually.
Two more grant proposals to go this season; when I'm not focused on them, I am drastically revising a novel I originally wrote in 1999. Originally called The Cool Side of the Pillow, it is now Mandatory Release, now undergoing its third or fourth major overhaul. I refuse to let it die because I love it, my agent loves it, and some of my beta-readers liked it better than Driving Sideways. Also, it has the first sex scene I'm comfortable with my mother reading.
(Though I don't think I'd integrate that into the marketing plan..."All sex scenes in this book are mother-approved!")
Anyway, I applied for a grant to expand my research and editing, and I'm even visiting an open house at a prison for correctional employee week. I'd rather go to Europe to develop a sequel to Driving Sideways, but unfortunately, the new book features characters who work in a prison, not a patisserie.
I know. What was I thinking?
Regardless, I'm having so much fun with it. I haven't cracked this one open since 2008, so it feels like reading a new book. (Did I actually make a joke about Larry King's scrotum? Why yes, there it is in chapter 28!)
If I weren't so impatient, I might adopt this strategy for all of my future novels: set them aside for several years before that final edit so they feel fresh and I can look at them with a critical eye, mercilessly gutting scenes that feel stale or pointless.
I'll be in the market for a web developer soon, so if you can make any recommendations, please let me know. (I still have events on my website from 2009. Think of all the celebrities who were still alive back then!)
There is also the possibility that my cover art will be designed by the same person who did the covers for some of Dr. Oz's books. I'm trying really, really hard not to "Squee!!!" about that here.
I can't wait to release this one into the big, wide world.Subscribe with Feedburner
March 10, 2012
Dorothy continued, plus events
Time for an update. First and foremost, Dorothy is recovering! Just DAYS after her surgery, she was back in our offices. She moved more slowly, and her speech was badly damaged, but … she's taking speech therapy, and a month after her stroke, she's making great progress.
I'm starting to think that if we ever took a direct nuclear hit, Dorothy would be the sole survivor, slowly wading through the rubble looking for someone to talk ask whether it looked like it was going to snow …
… nuclear ash.
In other news, I will be busier than a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest for the next month (to quote my Dear Ol' Dad), working double time to meet some upcoming deadlines. I was just charged with creating a two-hour training webinar in two weeks; while I'm perfectly happy developing the content, I can't help but imagine future trainees listening to the thing thinking, "Damn, this woman sounds twelve years old." Thankfully, the archive will be password – protected and well-hidden from the general public.
This Tuesday night (March 13) at 6 p.m. I'll be a guest speaker at the UW-Oshkosh Women's Center (800 Irving), part of their "Crucial Conversations: Women & Leadership in the 21st Century" series. I'm meeting a friend for a drink beforehand to celebrate her recent book deal, so my presentation could be more interesting than usual.
In truth, I will be drinking something non-alcoholic. Because once in awhile, I make the responsible decision so I don't make a fool of myself. I do that enough already without help from alcohol.Friday I'm blogging at the Girlfriends' Book Club, so check it out. It'll be something about writing & politics or Facebook-related FOMO. And no, it doesn't stand for "Freak Out, My Onion!" Anyway, if you're free in the Oshkosh area Tuesday night and have a vagina, entered the world through one, or love someone who has one, please come to my talk. Empty rooms make me sweaty and sad. Also, if you want to learn what FOMO really stands for, you know where to find me on Friday.
February 9, 2012
For Dorothy
Dorothy is now 90. Every day she shuffles in around 2 pm to empty our office garbage cans and clean the office kitchen. You can usually count on having your concentration derailed when she arrives with her questions about whether or not it's going to snow or rain, but you smile and politely engage. She's not the 'cleanest' of cleaners, and we had to have a discussion with her after a fruit fly infestation about actually changing the garbage can bags rather than simply picking the trash out by hand. (I'm guessing this had something to do with her frugality.)
Sometimes her personal body odor is such that you have to breathe through your mouth. But we keep her on because it makes her happy and gives her purpose, because she needs the money, and because it keeps her going.
You worry about her, living alone, walking all those icy blocks home. Once I gave her a ride home when I saw her shuffling down the snowy sidewalk.
Her only son lives in South Carolina, and she's told me all about him. I also know about her brother, who died just a few years ago, her neighbors, and what she does over the holidays. She had open-heart surgery a few years ago, and came back to work as if nothing had happened.
She baked sugar cookies with lard, and we bought her a Christmas gift every year. One year, worried that her black cardigan was looking a bit too threadbare, we all chipped in to buy her a new sweater ... that she promptly returned.
It was easy to make her laugh.
She was a fixture at our office, always there with a key in case you locked yourself out of the office en route to the bathroom, always there after we returned from summer break, happy to see us and ready to get back to clucking about her strange new neighbors or the general state of things.
I've blogged about her twice before. (Click through for some fabulous Dorothy conversations.) And now I'm so glad I did. Because I just learned that Dorothy had a stroke this week, rendering her unable to speak.
Today around 2 pm I stopped working on the project at hand so I wouldn't seem impatient when she came in, and prepared to greet her with conversation. But 2 o'clock came and went, then 2:30, then 3 pm, and 4 pm...no Dorothy.
Last week we chatted for a longer period than usual, about whether or not it would snow over the weekend. I promised her I wouldn't let it, which made her laugh -- one of her hearty, patented cackles that last much longer than the joke deserves. After she left, I actually felt it might be the last time I'd ever speak with her. I smiled at her just a little longer that day, because I knew it on some level. Premonition, intuition, I don't know...but I am glad to have known Dorothy.
(Although knowing Dorothy, she'll be back to work in a matter of weeks; but our office is moving in a few months. I'll miss her, either way.)Subscribe with Feedburner
February 3, 2012
It's 420, Baby!
I'm feeling really old and mortal these days. This morning I sent J this text: "I just counted 10 squirrels out the window, including a little blond one! :-)"
J: "Wow, popular place!"
Me: "They're racing all around. Lol."
Yeah. I even added the 'LOL.' So it's come to this. This will probably be the highlight of my Friday. It's sad, is what it is.
Last night while watching TV, a commercial for the Medical Alert system came on. I sighed and said to J, "If we don't have kids, one day I'll have to ask my siblings which one of them would like to be the primary contact for my Medical Alert system."
He found this hilarious. I did not.
The worst part is, I'll be fortunate to live that long and to even afford a Medical Alert system in 2052. I sure hope they still have a functional electrical grid and Social Security in 2052, otherwise I won't be able to use my system. I might even be dying in a gutter somewhere, hit by a hover-car on my way to buy more cat food. And I won't even have a cat.
I spoke with my agent yesterday--the novel is still out on submission, though if it were up to me, I'd multiply the number of editors that currently have it by eight. I would carpet-bomb New York City with it, put it on billboards, print it on Starbucks coffee sleeves, hire Joe Pesci to do my follow-ups in person. That would get some shit done.
I've been having heart arrhythmias lately, and thanks to an article in the latest Shape magazine, I'm convinced I'm going to die by Memorial Day. Why do they print articles about cheeky young spin class instructors who have arrhythmias 1% of the time only to find out they've developed enlarged hearts and need a transplant or they're going to die!?!? Why, Shape magazine, WHY!?!?! Is this responsible journalism? I'm thinking of submitting an idea for a story called, "One Day You'll Get in a Car and Have an Accident." Or maybe, "There are Polyps Growing in Your Colon (And They're Going to Kill You)."
*sigh* Well, all I can do is distract myself with another grant. The good news is that this time, it's for myself. A prestigious literary support grant. Total long-shot, but ever since I won a $50 grocery sweepstakes last year, I'm convinced that hey, you don't win if you don't try!
So go try something today. Be a winner.Subscribe with Feedburner
January 20, 2012
The Great Remodel of 2011, Before and After
You live with perpetual, inconvenient renovations!
J bought the house we now inhabit back in the late nineties for $40,000. It was built in 1885 and stood vacant for 13 years before he bought it.
Guess what happens when you buy an ancient, 13 years-vacant farmhouse that used to be a rental unit for $40,000?
You live with perpetual, inconvenient renovations!
Now don't get me wrong. I no longer mind the DIY. I'm learning a lot, and we're slowly making our house exactly the way we want it. Also, two words: sweat equity. (Mostly sweat--have you ever hand-scraped Nixon-era carpet pad some genius glued and stapled to the pine floor boards below? In five rooms? It was so old it crumbled into yellow, rubbery dust. Masks were worn. Sneezing commenced. Knuckles and knees were bruised. Curses lingered in the air.)
My father-in law, hard at work...standing where a shed used to be attached to the house. My brother-in-law looks thrilled to be standing where our new driveway will be poured.
View of the same back door last summer. We painted it purple, just for kicks.
Since we bought the house, we've sunk an additional $70,000 into it. First, we started outside, with a new roof, new siding, new porches, new driveway, new exterior doors and windows, landscaping, and a brand-spanking new garage. With a magic door that opens at the push of a button!!!
Hey, I have a great idea! Let's side the house in February!
A cute 'lil birch now grows where two hulking Box Elder beasts used to.
Then we moved indoors, installing a tankless water heater, energy efficient furnace, beadboard wainscoting in the kitchen, new appliances, and *drum roll please*…our fall project: a complete remodel of the entire second story of our house. (We recently got a new computer and I lost most of my before photos in the transfer, but you'll get the gist.)
This is an actual, unadulterated photo of our "daily-use" bathroom prior to the remodel (minus the mirror). I had to switch to waterproof mascara because anytime I stood in front of the mirror to apply make-up, I wept copiously.
Again, the toilet, which is only code-compliant on the planet "Crap Cobbled Together by Someone With Hand, Brain, and Eye Injuries." Here were the things that crossed my mind the very first time I laid eyes on this engineering marvel: "There's a toilet in the wall. Spiders. Gross. Disgusting. Bugs. Ewww. Those lazy bastards. There's a toilet in the wall."
In the days before The Great Remodel, there was a Great Purge. In the Purge, I hauled almost every piece of our old furniture to the curb. Countless trips to Goodwill and electronics recycling drives were made. It was time. Most of that stuff had moved from house to house to house with me since college. I finally got rid of the twin bed I'd had since I was three.
I was ruthless in my culling. I became a hoarder's worst nightmare. I even tried to convince J to throw away an oil painting done by his grandmother, because a) it is buttass-ugly; b) it's not done by my grandma; and, c) I have a heart made of obsidian and/or am part robot. I let him keep it in the garage, partly to assuage my guilt that I threw away other personal belongings of his when he wasn't looking.
This looks safe, doesn't it?
You have to add a few charming yet unnecessary touches. I'm ashamed to tell you what this switch plate cost. So I'm not going to.
Everything in this picture is new except the windowpanes. Also, I've developed a fondness for wrought-iron.
I love this hallway now; it used to be a big landing with tons of wasted space. I wish I had a before photo, so you could see how ridiculous the layout was.
The "new" spare bedroom, which is empty from The Great Purge. That door is brand-spanking new. That space used to be a closet. I am standing almost where the old entrance was; just three months ago, your only way in or out of this bedroom was through the adjacent walk-through bathroom. So if someone was dropping a deuce and you really wanted to get downstairs, you just had to wait awhile, Nelly. You were trapped.
This might be my favorite room. Once a small, grubby bedroom with peeling walls and a bare, dangling lightbulb that screamed "CRACK DEN!", this is now my walk-in closet / dressing room / ironing and folding station. I can iron a shirt, put on some slacks, and lie down to do celebratory floor-angels on the fluffy new carpet if I want. See that post-demo photo above featuring the shovel? I'm standing in the same spot.
During the demo, we found a decorative old metal grate that we'll clean, repaint, and install over the cold air return at the base of the linen closet; until then, Daisy will continue to sniff the hole cautiously and growl at it in warning so it doesn't suck her down into the furnace.
Oh Pottery Barn, I finally know yee.* (* I spelled "ye" with an extra "e," because otherwise it would sound like, "yeh," and I want to be clear. I mean "YEE.")
This glass door is so new it still smells like silicone caulk and solvents. Still, I'm trying not to lick it whenever I walk by.
I no longer cry when I put my makeup on here. I sing. Which is really hard when you're applying lipstick. See that custom linen closet? It's a pass-through; I can reach through and wave to J in the bedroom, while he's shelving freshly folded towels on the other side. Right, J?
Remember when you were a kid and your Dad said that one friend of yours had a face like a bag full of doorknobs? I know! Me neither! But look—now I have an actual bag full of doorknobs!!! This is one of our last tasks; first we have to finish painting the doors.
J and I leveled the floor and laid this grout-free Duraceramic tile ourselves, which was an adventure. (Helpful tip: Leveling compound is NOT supposed to be lumpy when you pour it on the floor.)
No more toilet in the wall! Trust me when I tell you I now hear a chorus of angels singing Hallelujah every time I sit down.
~~~~~~~~~
So there you have it. We'll be turning our attention to the living room, downstairs bath, and kitchen this summer.
Or next. The adventure continues.
January 18, 2012
Looking for Ms. Vadino
January 3, 2012
I Gave Birth to This Blog (For You)
Anyway, hi! Welcome back to the place I infrequent. How were your holidays?
My Christmas was chock-full of kiddos, as Christmases are wont to be. So naturally, conversation during one get-together eventually touched on the fact that I remain securely in the "Godmother, I love you THIS much!" card section at Hallmark. I got a bit of ribbing about the barren state of things, tick-tock and such, though I can't imagine this type of teasing lasting many more years. (Though science continues to advance...Onward, science!)
At one point, I good-naturedly countered with, "With my luck, our kid would totally be an asshole!" And the conversation only devolved from there.
I am closer to 40 than 35, which means there is a 96% chance I will hear this from my doctor should Things Get Real: "If your ovaries have not yet crumbled to dust and actually Leggo a viable Eggo, you are a higher risk than a credit default swap circa 2005 … also, are you aware that if you do conceive, your preggo-pendi will likely become a perma-pendi?"*
I can imagine myself examining the ultrasound results with my doctor. "Ah," she'd say, "See that? You can already see the laryngeal birth defect forming …"
"What does that mean?" I'd say, sitting up, fighting panic.
"Just that your child will never be able to form the words 'I'm sorry,' 'I love you,' 'please,' or 'thank you.'
It also means he'll probably try to set the dog on fire, steal money from his grandparents, deface church property, and there will be rashes. On a weekly basis."
And I'd anxiously pull up my elastic-waistband pants and leave, huffing to J on the way to the car: "That's the last time we get an ultra-sound from someone in the WalMart parking lot!"
*"Pendi" is my aunt and uncle's shorthand for "pedunculus," defined by the Urban Dictionary as follows: "a frontbutt on women (and some men), the pedunculus is the last fatty roll before the vagina." You're welcome.
~~~~~
In totally unrelated news, I am mulling some changes to this blog, because if I'm totally sick of looking at the layout, I can only imagine the guttural revulsion you're feeling by now. So, here are some new names I'm considering for the site:
1) Tight slacks.
2) I wanted to call this "Two Dinks and a Dog," but some non-posting asshole already bought that domain. (Yes, the whole sentence. Maybe I'd use underscores for spaces.)
3) That's not chili!
And now that my most entertaining neighbor is dead, what should the focus of the blog be? Lifestyle, writing, food, gardening, mommy blogger with an invisible child named Sebastian, who is allergic to soy and enjoys crafting with felt? Maybe a weekly interview with J while he reacts to something strange I make for dinner ("Yes. There are definitely subtle notes of construction adhesive at work here, though the overall mouth-feel is playful, strangely evocative of crushed tapioca"). Maybe I could give my dog a monthly guest slot, though every blog she posts would just look like this: "Bark-bark-bark-bark-bark-bark-bark--sound of butt scooting across carpet--bark-bark-bark-bark-bark--sound of retching--bark-bark!!!!" So that would get old after awhile.
Lately I have been in a state of EXTREME anxiety concerning a project at work, so maybe I could document my meltdown? I have a feeling it could be spectacular! Would I be fired if I put this footnote in my grant proposal: "As you can clearly see, the client did NOT trust my professional opinion or provide timely, detailed information. Therefore, instead of a well-developed proposal that could result in meaningful change in our community, you are being presented with a charcoal rendering of Ed Helms' profile, a strangers' grocery list that I found in a parking lot, and a selection of my Best Blogs from 2006. Enjoy!"
Here's what I'm thinking: Meltdown Monday, Testy Teste Tuesday, Wow-What-a-Weave! Wednesday, Thin-Skinned Thursday, and Found in the Fridge Friday.
Or we could stick with the current sporadic, unpredictable, rickety-ass schedule. Which is kind of fun, because who doesn't like surprises?
December 22, 2011
Patience, Old Grasshopper
Last night I made the mistake of stopping at Target on my way home from work, when every other resident of my community got the same idea at the exact same time. I only ended up with a handful of things in my cart, because the store was out of several key items on my list. This Christmas, if anyone asks you during an after-dinner trivia game, "Which major U.S. retailer was completely out of Rolos three days before the second-largest candytastic U.S. holiday?" you can now answer with confidence.
The lines to check-out were endless, streaming into jewelry and inappropriate tween wear. I wove my cart through the herd and settled into Lane 8, which only had three shoppers in front of me. However, Lane 6 only had one shopper! And she was already checking out! Oh, joyful, speedy day!
Quickly, I steered my cart into Lane 6. Which was when time waded into a pit of molasses and started to sink. After five or ten minutes of mouth-counting, the clerk finished sorting the ninety dollar bills the woman before me had laid on the counter. And then the shopper asked the clerk: "Do you have a pen?"
Holy, sweet, innocent baby Jesus, do you have a mother^&#@ing pen?!?! That's right neighbors, Speedy Gonzalez was paying for a portion of her purchase with a check! A check! Like they used all the time back in 1982! And she was penless, despite having a purse the size of a Buick on her shoulder.
"Do you want to apply for a Target credit card to save 5%?"
"No, but why don't you slowly read me the fine print anyway?"
"Sure!" After the clerk finished reading, she pulled out a massive abacus to complete the transaction, while the shopper fished through her purse for some glass beads and decorative feathers with which to finish paying for her items.
"Do you need to see my driver's license?"
"No, as long as your license number is on the check."
"I want to show it to you anyway, but it's expired."
"Oh, well why don't you run down to the DMV to renew it, come back, and finish paying for your things? I can wait!"
They were completely oblivious to the orgy of frustration and impatience seething within me. The only clue was the twitching of my left eyelid; the sales associate in Lane 10 noticed, however, and started winking back at me. I wanted to throttle both of them, or gently ask if a swift foot to the taint might help speed the whole process along. I could suddenly see the merits of a concealed carry permit. But I took a deep breath, pulled my phone from my purse, checked the time, and settled for sighing heavily.
In Lane 8 next to me, twelve shoppers who'd arrived at the store after I'd switched check-out lanes had already paid for their purchases, and returned home. Several of them had already eaten spaghetti for dinner and were now cuddled on the couch with loved ones, watching the X-Factor finals.
Eventually, I paid for my own items, and eventually, I got home, made dinner, and watched a nature show on PBS because I am old.
Still later, the universe decided to teach me a few lessons about patience when I found myself upstairs in my painting clothes at ten p.m., numbly applying second coats of white paint to window and door trim, my taskmaster cracking a bull whip over my shoulder and shouting things like, "You've got a drip! Catch it, catch it!" and "Sand with the grain! With the grain, I say!!!"*
Patience. It's what I really want for Christmas.
*J really isn't this bad, though I have been banned from doing any touch-up painting on surfaces at eye-level. My evil plan to get out of tedious detail-work by pretending to do things poorly is working…
Subscribe with Feedburner
November 30, 2011
Half-Assery Abounds
We also realized that we have no stairwell clearance for a new queen-sized mattress, so we had to break down and order a spendy Sleep-Number bed, sight-unseen. My heart still hasn't recovered from that unexpected additional expense. Also, we've never even tried one out! We just bought the mattress, one easy online click, because we knew we'd be able to get it up our steps. Just another one of the many joys of living in a 125-year old house built when people and their dreams were much, much shorter.
I console myself with the knowledge that in three weeks, we'll be able to stop sleeping in the living room, stop living like hoarders, and move back upstairs to sleep on a REAL (Sleep-Number) bed again.
Things I've learned during this remodeling project:
If your floor leveling compound is lumpy when you pour it on the floor, you did something wrong. Perhaps God is angry at you.If I ever hear Bob Seger, Foreigner, or Warren Zevon again, it'll be too soon. We should have gotten a Menards "Big card" YEARS ago.Open a few windows when you're priming walls and ceilings, unless you don't really want the brain cells dedicated to math and/or critical thinking.When your vanity counter top for some reason fails to overhang the vanity cabinet, it looks like shit. Get your husband to glue some kind of jerry-rigged pieces of plastic he found at work to the backsplash. Nobody will know.
There are always more cracked stair treads beneath the old carpeting than the one you are aware of.Don't paint yourself into a corner, get up to date on your Tetanus shots, and buy a humane bark collar for your dog. Your contractors will thank you.
Subscribe with Feedburner
