Off to See a Guy About a Thing

Inspirational song: Rock and Roll Never Forgets (Bob Seger & the Silver Bullet Band)

I've been waiting more than a week to tell today's story, but it did not end like I expected it to. Now I have to rethink it. Friday a week ago, we got a call from my dad, saying that he had a lead on a school bus that had already been converted into somewhat of an RV. The brother of dad's friend was looking to sell one cheap, and we thought we were unbelievably lucky to find a bus on which much of the work was already done. My man called for directions, and arranged for us to come up today to see it. We knew very few details before today, mostly that it was a 1966 Ford, and while it may have been a great vehicle to take on family vacations or scuba diving trips once upon a time, it had not been so much as cranked over once in the last decade. Still, a bargain is a bargain, and we were in a position to be able to take a Saturday to drive to the Sandhills of North Carolina.

We were able to sweet talk the Bonfire leader into letting the dogs out mid-day, but Murray requires far more attention than that, so he rode along with us. There's an old picture of my brother from before I was born, when my parents went on a long car trip, and they made a cool play area for him in the back of the station wagon, with blankets, toys, and comic books, and he was leaning against the back window with a big smile on his toddler face. (Ah, the days before kids even wore seat belts.) Murray had a setup just like that for the drive. We put one of his beds inside his open crate, and brought snacks, chewies, and cleaning supplies. He was a great car dog, and he loved roaming the hills in North Carolina, sniffing strange smells buried under acres of oak leaves. His favorite parts were when the delicious snack foods fell off of mommy's fingertips into his mouth in the car, and when the flock of guinea fowl wandered up to him in the hills and teased him. He heard the call of the wild today, and the call sounded like tame birds.

We spent a couple hours with a very nice couple (mostly with the husband, the wife had to leave halfway through for her book club meeting), looking the bus over, and trying to see whether it was going to be functional for our uses. At some point, it was under a shelter, but the shelter lost its roof years ago. There was rust on just about every single panel, and the wheels appear to be made of solid rust. Even with jumper cables, the men couldn't get the engine to fire up. If we had a year and a half to devote to repairing, sandblasting, welding, and painting, then this would be a really fun project. The interior may have been converted decades ago, but now the paneling is worn out and the foam is rotting. I could enjoy starting over and making it hip and pretty inside. But we have no place to store this bus, no place to work on it, and we don't have the several thousand dollars it needs in material investments. I don't think we are going to make an offer. 

We detoured on the way home, through the town where we used to live, when the kids were little. It amazed me how many places I recognized, even in the surrounding countryside. We were driving in the middle of nowhere, and highway intersections were so familiar I thought I had been on them just last month. We drove past both houses we occupied (one cul-de-sac apart from each other), and cried over trees that were cut down and fences we built that did not age well. We drove past landmarks and old haunts. And we were so happy to find our favorite Carolina barbecue joint was still in business (it was a hole-in-the-wall kind of place, and it was fabulous--still IS fabulous). It might be the last time we go through there, and it was a fond farewell. I'm glad I haven't forgotten it yet.

Premiere Day

Inspirational song: Don't Fear the Reaper (Blue Oyster Cult)

It's been a long time coming. When I was barely a teenager, I wrote the first short story that I liked enough to share with my friends. I loved writing, and being good at it carried me through school (even when I was too lazy to start my essays sooner than the night before their due dates). When I was in my early twenties, I wrote a few that I liked enough to put up for judgement in a semi-annual mixed-media arts and crafts competition. Most of them were well-received. Then I had a long, dry spell, where all of my stories stayed locked up inside me, growing and morphing in my head, until I bored with them and laid them to rest. Occasionally I tried to pull one out and turn it into a long-form work of fiction, but so far nothing has ever made it all the way to book length.

Then I started these nightly passages, and I learned how much I can say in a very short space. I rediscovered my love of brevity. I adopted the habit of daily writing so fully, I decided it was time to start freeing those fictitious prisoners in my mind. Last fall, I had a couple random images that kept appearing when I closed my eyes, so I gave them a chance to tell me what they wanted to say. One was a story so abrupt, it was over and done in four paragraphs, ending on a discordant jolt. The second arrived at essentially the same end, but with peaceful acceptance and consent. I loved them. I was finally ready to share fiction with the world again.

A family friend turned me on to a new literary magazine, called Ant vs Whale. It celebrates the greatness in very small things. I was certain it was the perfect venue for the premiere of my tiny stories. I sent both of these first stories in to them, and today the first one has appeared on their website. It's called The Seat, and it is a bittersweet look at old age and the end of life. Please go over and read it. The full issue, that also includes my darker story, The Farm, will come out on Monday.

Ant vs Whale - antvswhale.com

Along for the Ride

Inspirational song: Say You Love Me (Fleetwood Mac)

I'm going to be taking a lot of sick days over the next month or two. My plan is to continue to write every night as usual, so that I never fall out of the habit. But a few times it may be little more than a check-in, just so you know I'm still alive. I have scheduled Phase One of the upcoming procedures, the scope that has to happen before the surgery (Phase Two) can happen. It's like that feeling when you have boarded the little boat for a water ride at an amusement park, and the kid running the ride has pushed you into the stream. Your boat and those around you jostle for positioning, and you bounce and rock, but you feel the inevitable pull of the current and you know there's no backing out at this point. That's how I feel about asking for surgery. I am fully committed now. I feel the rocking of the boat, I can smell the water, the petunias hanging in baskets at the loading dock, and the creosote-soaked timbers making the structure of the ride. It feels real. There will be some frightening moments to come, but I am not turning back. I hope that when the ride is over, I am happy and relaxed. I've been uncomfortable for a long time. I'd like this discomfort to stop.

I have a lot of friends who have offered endless kind words as I have gone through this. I am happy for their support. I'm not scared, per se, but I am nervous enough about the next several weeks that I won't turn down anyone's good vibes, whatever shape they take. I'm happy to have prayer warriors on my side, to have notes of comfort, or even good-natured teasing. Support is support and I accept it. I don't know how free I will be with the medical details, however I have written in the past that I refuse to pretend that mammograms are horrible for comedy's sake. I think the same goes for colonoscopies. (Don't be afraid, people. You sleep through it. It isn't traumatic. The worst part is the drink you have to take, that tastes beyond awful.) But saying I'm having it and describing it in detail are entirely different things. I'll play it by ear, how much I will tell.

I had many moments of doubt since I asked for the referrals to the specialists. It seems like such a drastic step, to have a big chunk of my large intestine removed. But then I have weeks like this, where I limp around and dip into the leftover pain pills. I spent most of the day on the couch, covered in cats (Zoe and Alfred sleeping so close they were touching!), and all of this infirmity is wearing away at my self-esteem. I ought to be up and at 'em in the Park, and I'm just not. Tuesday night I was driving home alone, swearing the worst words I know, at the top of my lungs, every time the car hit a little bump in the road. I can't pretend that medical intervention is optional. The boat is in the current, and the ride has begun. I hope it's fun.

Goodbye Girl

Inspirational song: Don't Let Me Down (The Beatles)

I'm supposed to be scheduling screenings and surgeries, but apparently all I'm doing is failing at phone tag. I'm not comfortable, and I'm disappointed that I'm getting delayed. I'm starting to dip into the pills prescribed at the beginning of this latest flare up, and I'm about a paragraph and a half from my next one. As soon as it hits my stomach, all thoughts of writing and returning voice mails will fly out of my head. Oh, who am I kidding? There are barely thoughts of writing right now. But at least then my belly won't hurt.

We got a clearer view inside several of the houses we have been flirting with over the last several weeks, by proxy. The house I was most interested in changed from being "for sale" to "taking backup offers," while my realtor and my daughter were en route. We are not ready to make an offer on anything this soon, especially from long distance. So much for that house. Another that seemed like an interesting project turned out to be a house that really should be scraped off of its crumbling foundation, and put out of its misery. There was a third option (isn't that how it always is on television?), that was really interesting, but the house and the lot were so small, there was very little room to expand. I was desperately eager this morning, knowing that our realtor was going to get us more information about these places. Now I'm depressed. House hunting is a long process. It's all greetings and goodbyes. You fall in love at first sight a hundred times, and ninety-nine times you either have your heart ripped out of your chest when another lover steals the object of your desire, or you see them for who they really are, and you leave in disgust.

I'm back to where I was before: waiting. Just waiting. Waiting for surgery, waiting for a house to come on the market that I love, and waiting for my condo to be ready to sell. Ah, well. I'm good at waiting. Haven't I proved that irrefutably by now?

Just Lucky, I Guess

Inspirational song: Lucky Star (Madonna)

I lost my monthly dice game tonight. It's what happens almost every time, and I'm okay with it. I go into it knowing I'm only fronting five bucks, and I get more time of enjoyment out of that five dollars than I would with, say, a venti vanilla latte for the same price. I get to see more than a dozen of my favorite women in town, and I get a change of scenery. I even get to loosen the reins a little, and allow myself a cola that is chock full of genetically modified high fructose corn syrup, for fun. I just rarely come out of these nights with my five dollars, although once in a while I get lucky and lose more games than anyone else, thus earning myself my money back. I hope wherever I move next, I can stumble upon an established bunco group whose waiting list to join isn't long, or find enough people interesting in starting one of our own.

I've been thinking about luck a lot lately. No, I haven't won the lottery, nor am I likely to. I never play more money in it than I could stand to lose in the pocket of a coat sent to the cleaners. My odds of winning big are infinitesimally small. But I've looked at the things I've gotten to do and the souls I've gotten to meet, and I realized that I've already beaten all the odds I'm going to. Even having someone like Rabbit in my life, who was literally whisked away from the grip of death by the man who refused to let the Barstow animal shelter euthanize her because they were out of cage space, counts as a jackpot win in my book. I look at my human family, and know that I'm already a winner, many times over.

Daughter number one and I were talking about something we both really want to happen for her. There is absolutely nothing I can do to assist. It's all out of my hands. I told her that if it would make a single bit of difference, not only would I cross my fingers, but I'd also scrunch up my eyes and wish harder. Then I said I'd wish on the first evening star, and I'd make a wish when I find a loose eyelash or when my necklace clasp gets to the front. She said she'd "accidentally lose" a bunch of pennies heads up in her house to be found later. And then we laughed about how superstitious people can be, including our own selves when we were children. And then we sighed, knowing none of these things will make a damned bit of difference to the outcome we both want so desperately.

Construction Update

Inspirational song: The Song That Never Ends (Shari Lewis and Lamp Chop)

Remember that construction project we have going on halfway across the country? The one that was supposed to take "four months" when the first restoration company was cleaning up after the biblical flood in Colorado in September of 2013? Yeah. It's still in progress. I went to a big box store today, while daughter number two was at the same chain in Boulder. We were trying to pick out a bathroom vanity and tiles for the fireplace surround. Haven't we done this before? Yes, several times. With several different construction managers, providing several different products, all vaguely in the same theme. You know how you get a favorite variety of a favorite brand...let's say you really like a certain scent of deodorant. You buy it three times in a row when you need it. And then one day it doesn't exist anymore. So you pick a new one, for three rounds, maybe four, and then it doesn't exist either. And so it goes. You're always having to find something new. Apparently this is the same marketing strategy employed by manufacturers of building products. As soon as you select a certain kind of tile and a certain finish of flooring, it ceases to be available. No, it doesn't help that the products never get ordered, for fun reasons like, "the construction company made it as far as putting up drywall, and then they walked away from the project." I have had to make these same decisions over and over. With the current manager, I have given him a total of six options for dark finish, click and lock, bamboo floating floor. I sent him links to acceptable choices from Home Depot, Lowe's, and Lumber Liquidators. He didn't order. So then I chose three sample boards at the locally-owned distributor that I was told was a good source. That was October. Last year I was told that "Home Depot doesn't have them in stock anymore," and last week I was told "Atlas doesn't have the boards on display right now." How exactly does one become a construction manager and not know how to order the supplies your homeowner wants? I'm just suspicious enough to wonder whether he doesn't want to order bamboo floor for me because he wants to use a cheaper product. He tried to convince me it was an upgrade, but we politely pointed out that we were replacing rather expensive travertine tile with a much less expensive bamboo. It was most definitely not an upgrade.

I'm so tired of this project. It has dragged on almost a year too long. I have other things that I need to get to, and I need my daughter to be able to move back into her own home. If we could just get one condo complete, we could start to move forward with our lives. I have started packing boxes around here (a couple more today), and I'd like to be able to turn my attention to finding a place where I can send all of these things. I don't even know yet the exact city where we are going next. It all seems to hinge on getting the condos done first. It would help to be able to sell one of them, so we have a chunk of cash to plunk down on the next house. But we absolutely cannot sell and move on until they are completed. So tomorrow, I'll be back at the big box store, making sure the man agrees with the bathroom vanity we picked, and checking out ceiling fans. And if past is prologue, I will be doing it again in a few weeks. Or a few months. It is the song that never ends.

Grotesque

Inspirational song: Wonderful World (Sam Cooke)

I got away with way too much in high school. I rarely did my homework, but I did well on all the tests, so I was never pressed on the things I didn't turn in. I was a golden child who got straight As and participated in all the interscholastic meets and music competitions. I could fake my way through most class discussions, based on a quick glance at the texts. I'm not sure how I convinced my teachers that I had read all of the assigned literature, when I hadn't, even back in the days before I knew Cliff's Notes existed (I rarely read those, either). I have been telling myself for 30 years that someday I will go back and read all those classics that I was supposed to have read as a much younger woman, but so far, I'm still dragging my feet. One would think that if I expect to be a serious writer that I would devour everything I could get my hands on, but one would be wrong. My reading tastes are as far away from classic fiction as they could be. I'm either gorging on political or scientific articles, or I'm compulsively snacking on the junk food of the literary world, romance novels.

I was a little better about reading my assigned books in college, primarily because I had no choice. The kid who skated through literature classes got it in her fool head to be a humanities major. Not only did I have to read all the books assigned to me, I had to pull them apart and compare them to other works that I was also expected to know intimately. (It was a proud moment when I actually did successfully link a piece of short fiction in my Russian lit class to a passage in Zorba the Greek, to the approval of the professor. I should have been able to do that at the drop of a hat, but that one time stuck in my memory because I had so many gaps in my repertoire that it wasn't as easy as it should have been.) I think more than anything, all the books I half-read for college just left me with a list of books that I have to complete before I die. At the rate I'm reading them, I will have to live to be 120, by necessity.

I discovered a "new" author quite by accident today. She's not really new. She died before I was born. But having learned recently that I really like telling dark (sometimes violently so) short stories, I wonder how I made it this far never reading anything by Flannery O'Connor. I've known of her for years, but I never even pressed myself to find out a single title by her, much less read her work. I am about to make up for that lack. I found a recording of her reading "A Good Man Is Hard to Find," and then I listened to a 35 year old classroom recording of people discussing "Good Country People," and I realize I have found my soul mate. I would say that she is who I want to grow up to be, but I'm already older than she was when she died of lupis in her 30s. I may be exaggerating my talents to say I should pick up where she left off, but it is incumbent upon me at least to try. My modern sensibilities have been shocked slightly by the bald treatment of racial issues in the stories I've found so far, but I'm getting the idea that she would be pleased to shock me. The biographies I'm finding keep using the word "grotesque" to describe the world about which she wrote. I haven't seen that yet. Her characters aren't ugly, what I would consider grotesque. They are just stripped clean of their disguises. I can't wait to read more. She's going to be the first name crossed off of that list of authors that I should have read long, long ago.

The Cat's Pajamas

Inspirational song: Johnny Come Home (Fine Young Cannibals)

I'm enjoying a lull in the action. We survived the frenetic holidays and the often-rough resettling phase before that, when the man came home. Coming very soon will be packing and hard work going through our punch list of deferred maintenance so we can put this house on the market and take the next leap in our nomadic lives. For today, we let a few things slide. Today felt like an all-day pajama party, despite the fact that there was no party, and neither of us spent the day in PJs. We even took care of grown-up tasks (specifically, the man worked on taxes and he dragged me down to his level). Maybe it was just because he was home all day, and it felt like playing hooky. It was a good chance to refill the reserves. And now that the day is almost over, that man is indeed back in his jammies, sacked out on the couch. He's sharing a fleece blankie with me, with his loyal cat Zoe pinned by his side. Do we know how to party on a Saturday night or what?

I can't tell yet what sort of winter it will be. We had an early cold snap, but it has been so warm down here for weeks that the Park is opening up like it is already spring. We were shocked to realize that the peaches are already blooming, and it is still January. Anything can happen yet. We could have a repeat of last year's damaging ice, that made it this far south a year ago next week. I think I would prefer to do without that. I'm trying to scale back most of my gardening, on the assumption that I won't be here for an entire growing season this year. That doesn't mean I want to see downed branches or blown buds. I wish I knew how to spread a word of caution to all those little sleeping plants who think it would be a great idea to wake up in the middle of the night (winter), and giggle and tell stories when they should stay dormant. To be fair, I'm always seeing tea olives and azaleas blooming in December, this year and in years past, and they always manage to come back strong. I know I should let it go and trust. This happens often enough,and the plants know how to handle it. I'm a natural worrying mommy, but I do have history. You go one season with four peach trees and not a single fruit after a late-season blizzard, and you never really recover.

Now that I'm thinking about it, am I too old for a real pajama-slash-slumber party? Do you ever hit that point? It was suggested that the mah jongg master and I needed to take the show on the road, and go visit one of our favorite mah jongg playing partners. I can imagine that turning into a late night of girl talk. I wonder what kind of bargain I'll have to offer the man to work that one out. I'm sure it will involve me being left alone with his high-maintenance dog for several days. At least the man taught me how easily entertained Murray is. Is it wrong to find it so amusing watching a dog chase a cat's toy?

Good Things to Come

Inspirational song: I Can't Tell You Why (The Eagles)

Well, that's a drag. I have a lot of new and exciting things going on, and I can't share any of them yet. One of the secrets is an ongoing process, that means big changes for us on a grand scale. Every time we work on the process, I have to keep my mouth shut (or fingers still, to be more accurate). I'm not known for keeping secrets well, so not discussing each step is hard for me, but for now, I'm remaining mum. At least, I'm remaining vague, which knowing me, is a victory in itself.

Now tonight, a little bit of good fortune might (might!) be dropping out of the sky on us, and again, until I know for sure I have to sit on the news, for fear of jinxing it. Someone close to me contacted me with a hell of a lead, and maybe in a week or so, I can talk about it. For now, I'll just bounce around the house and wonder whether it's too good to be true or not. I doubt I will sleep well tonight, but that's not new. I haven't slept well in ages.

It's three weeks into 2015, and I'm already feeling optimistic about this year. It feels like I've shaken off all the horribleness of last year and the last few months of 2013. Things are picking up. Even if the only progress was getting a few lines in a literary magazine, that would be enough to feel like I'm in a whole new space. (That first link should be active at the end of next week, by the way. It's a teeny tiny story, but it has rocked my world having it accepted somewhere. Now I have to write a short bio for them, which is terrifying and difficult when I'm trying to figure out which secrets to continue to keep.) Good things are coming, though, I can tell. I can't tell you why I think this, but I am hopeful.

Coincidentally (ATK #10)

Inspirational song: Lucky Ball & Chain (They Might Be Giants)

Yesterday, while my friends and I got caught up over rounds and rounds of mah jongg, the topic of my dietary restrictions came up a few times. The mah jongg master asked me how well my husband is tolerating my strict rules. She asked whether he's the kind of guy who just eats whatever is put in front of him, or is he complaining about my grain-free kitchen. The man and I chuckled over that question, as we ate tonight's new creation for dinner, and I smiled to myself again when it was all we could do to maintain our grown-up dignity and not lick the plates clean at the end of the meal. (I might have failed just a little on that part.) I'm not having any trouble convincing the man to eat my grain-free cooking, no. It doesn't hurt that I'm really on my game these days, coming up with new recipes. (That, and I promised him that I am not going to be bossy about anything he has outside of the house, as long as I don't have to worry about cross-contamination in my own house. I got into something bad over the last couple days, and I've paid for it all day with headaches and stomachaches to beat the band.)

Growing up, my dad always seemed to have the news playing on the television anytime I wanted to watch some kid- or teen-friendly show. I used to get so worked up, arguing melodramatically that I was missing my favorite show, and I had no good answer when he'd tell me that the news was his favorite show. Darned if I didn't grow up to find out the news was my favorite show for years too. Every night I'm home, I make sure I watch the local news at 6, and the national news that follows. Tonight, as I often do, I walked away with the TV still going, and Wheel of Fortune played in the background while I tried to ignore it. But oddly, as I was preparing dinner, the opening puzzle was the exact thing I was planning to serve, and it was an incredibly uncommon food. It was the strangest coincidence. Here, let me show you what I made and give you the simple instructions, so you can see why this was weird.

I had pork chops, and was planning on making some sort of sauce/chutney with a fresh peach, when I heard some game show contestant say, "caramelized peaches with fresh rosemary." Really? Well, I suppose rosemary would be the right flavor addition, if you say so, Pat Sajak.

I put a fat tablespoon of butter in a small saucepan, and cut up one fresh peach into very small segments (peel left on), and simmered it over low heat, covered, until the peaches softened, about five minutes. I added a tablespoon of brown sugar, a dash of sea salt, a little dried rosemary (all I had), and a sprinkling of dried sweet basil. I stirred it occasionally, continuing to simmer it, covered, on low.

I had a pan that still had a little bacon grease left from this morning's meal, and I used that to saute a couple pork chops, seasoned with salt, pepper, celery seed, ground coriander (of course, my favorite), and basil. Once they were well-browned, I topped them with the caramelized peaches. That easy, and oh, so good. And not a single peep of protest from the man who was dragged into my grain-free domain. Quite the opposite, actually.

Cheesy and Useless

Inspirational song: Song in My Head (String Cheese Incident)

I can't do it. I just can't. I had a terrific day, learned a lot, and had an amazing time reconnecting with the mah jongg ladies after a painfully long hiatus. But I came home exhausted and a bit loopy, and I am finding it difficult to write anything except a diary entry. I think I will spare everyone a literal rundown of my day. It mostly dealt with important (but private) paperwork and scheduling. I am going to take a pass today and file the events of today along with the properly signed and notarized forms we brought home.

On a side note, quite by accident I learned that there was a reason Wallace and Gromit were obsessed with Wensleydale cheese. I bought a tiny little wedge of Wensleydale with cranberries, some of the most expensive cheese I've ever acquired, and I have been told I'm not allowed back to mah jongg without more of it. It's my new signature dish, apparently. Move over twice-baked cauliflower and the most delicious, elaborate salads of all time. Cheese is king now.

Crowded

Inspirational song: Start Me Up (The Rolling Stones)

I decided to be an early adopter of a trend today. I saw a Kickstarter campaign I couldn't resist. The cartoonist who draws the Oatmeal and a couple of his friends got together and designed a card game called Exploding Kittens. The cartoonist drew all of the art, and the friends designed the game. They went to Kickstarter in search of a mere ten thousand dollars to use to develop the game, perhaps to use to print off several decks and try to market and sell them. I don't think they quite understood the appeal and power of the Oatmeal. Within eight minutes -- that's right, I said eight -- they had hit their goal, and by the time I saw it an hour or so later, they were zooming through the two hundred thousands. It was over three hundred thousand by the time I finished pledging my money (by which I mean purchasing a deck, because that's the "reward" for sending in a pledge). When last I saw the page, it was well over $1.1 million, and it hasn't been a half of a day yet. How in the world could I possibly not participate in this trend? I, of all people, need a game that involves Exploding Kittens. That's my whole raison d'etre.

I was a good girl today. After weeks of being stuck, I pulled out one of the longer stories I've been sitting on, and I pushed past a block. It's still in an embryonic state (zygote, really), but it's about 45% longer than it was this morning. I lay awake last night, regretting having a cup of coffee with dinner, but not really upset, because a lot of my "whys" and "hows" were answered. I alternated between composing and researching today, and I am very pleased to be two or three steps farther along my thousand mile journey. I'm not going to focus on how much more is ahead of me. I'm going to be happy that I am moving again.

I'm not letting myself combine those two paragraphs, so don't worry. I'm not going to let myself even wonder about a Kickstarter or other crowd funding of my own. I don't want you to think I'm going to hit you up or anything. I'm not. Right now the support I want is feedback, not funding without a tangible product to offer back. If the day comes that I have a completed book to sell, I'll nag you then. You're off the hook for now. But when that deck of Exploding Kittens shows up, I'll be looking for a crowd to play it with, so you might not be entirely in the clear.

Goodness and Light

Inspirational song: Chandelier (Sia)

I made a promise to myself that I would end up here every single night, and I haven't broken it yet. But don't think it isn't hard for me sometimes, to stop what I'm doing when I'm on a roll, and write. I've been nagged at parties, and people have attempted to shame me for being on my phone, but I've posted on time. I've felt sick, sore, tired, and mad, but I've put out a blog when I said I would. I've been at concerts, movies, all-night drives, and even on airplanes, but I kept my promise. Tonight, I was focused on the internet, but I don't think I'm wasting time. I am finally finding houses that are in our price range (at the top of it, if the argument the man and I had tonight about budgeting is correct), and they are in the areas where we want to look. A friend of mine told me that a lot of new houses are on the market, and perhaps that is true. I just hope it is a sign of a trend, that will continue at least until we are in a position to make an offer on a house. That's still months away.

I got an email last night that made me a very happy woman. Over the holidays, I submitted two incredibly brief short stories, to a literary magazine. The magazine's niche is glorification of tiny little works of art, so these were perfectly targeted submissions. Last night, I was told that they want to put both of them in their winter issue, due out on February 2nd. They also informed me that they want to post one of the stories, the longer one, on their website a week in advance of the publication date of the magazine. I am over the moon at this news. I was very proud of these stories when I wrote them, and opening up my fragile heart to the possibility of rejection was difficult for me, but I held my breath and sent them in last month. I'm going to wait until they actually appear before I post links, but as soon as they are officially published, I will share. I don't want to get too terribly far ahead of myself here. I almost kept the news to myself, but since I had an ebullient moment on Facebook last night, I knew I had to pony up with details or I would have been raked over the coals by several of my supporters. (And believe me when I say they are brief -- the shorter of the two is four paragraphs long.)

I have other things in the works, but nothing is ready to see the light yet. This is enough for now, and I will turn my attention back to home listings. I am going to keep looking for cute little bungalows with sun porches. The right one is out there for us somewhere.

On the Edge of America

Inspirational song: Part of Your World (The Little Mermaid)

Imagine being very young. Like young enough to pretty much get that you exist, but there are still lots of things to learn about all the moving pieces in the world around you. You're small, but your upper body is very strong. You are aware of your legs, but they don't do what you tell them to do, and more than anything they just sort of get in the way as you pull yourself around on your hands. You live outside, and you are learning how to fend for yourself ever since you stopped living nestled up close to the warm mama and the other bodies who smelled just like you.

Then one day, you were just hopping along, bouncing on that bottom that you only sort of feel, near the hard place where the loud, shiny boxes went zipping by, when one of those loud boxes suddenly stopped. You got whisked away from the muddy spot where you were minding your own business, and stuffed into a cardboard box. Then there was a blur of movement, voices, touching, poking and prodding from a man who wanted you to lie still on his cold, hard table, and then there was food. Lots of food, and you didn't have to root through mud or grass or trash to find it. That guy who put you into the box showed up almost every day to feed you and talk to you and wash your fur a lot. One day he put you up on wheels, and after that, you found out what it was like to run.

You thought life was going pretty well, and then there were a whole lot more changes. You spent two whole days inside a plastic box. Your ears felt funny, and you were sleepy, but you knew the air kept smelling different every time you woke up. You met new faces, including a tall lady, a whole bunch of small, fuzzy cats, and two dogs who were the most amazing friends ever. The cats seemed to avoid you, the dogs taught you all sorts of sneaky tricks, and that tall lady took a long time to figure out what to make of you. She made you wear pants, but she seemed to get upset every time you pooped in them, even though you barked every time to let her know you filled them like you thought she wanted. And every time she said, "Yay, pee!" the smile never seemed to reach her eyes. But for all that she wasn't very good at getting you in and out of your magic wheels, she did pay attention to you, and put yummy nuggets of food in your mouth (things that were way more interesting than the dry food that the man gives you everyday).

Now imagine one day, the man and lady put you in the back of the giant, white moving box, and they took you and those other dogs to a magical place you had never imagined before. The last time you rode in this rumbling box, you went to a place called "the Mountains," where there were hills to run on and bear poops to sniff. But today, the drive was much shorter, and you ended up at a place the humans called "the Beach." You had come from mountains, so they weren't so different. But beach was something you never knew existed. Beach had smells you never thought of, that were salty and fishy and wet. There were shells and rocks to sniff, other dogs to glare at, and so many birds to chase. There was a lot of cold water, and the cold water chased you. That wasn't fair! You walked every morning with the man, but walking here felt different. The air was misty and you wanted to investigate everything. The girl dog wanted to walk along the surf forever and never stop.

If this was your reality, would you have any idea how far you had come? Would you realize how lucky you were, to start where you did, and end up on the Edge of America, where the fancy dogs play?