Category Archives: Lifestyle & Worldview

A Day In The Life

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It’s Monday again. Back to work for most, but some of us never really stopped.

When I tell people I’m the Managing Editor for a publisher, it’s hard to define what that means, so I thought I’d give it a shot here. I’m kind of exhausted just thinking about it, so let’s see how I do.

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The “editor” part is easy enough to understand. I edit books, working with the authors to get them all bright and shiny and ready for publication, both for my Limitless/Crave authors, and a select group of indie authors.

The “managing” part is much harder to describe. In short, I coordinate with a team of authors, editors, proofreaders, formatters, cover designers, marketing professionals, and the publisher’s executives to move a book through every step in the process, from submission to release.

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Honestly, I wear so many hats that most days I am technically nine feet tall. 

My first step every morning is checking email, and what I find there sets the tone for the rest  of the day. Email might include:

  • Receipt of a manuscript I was expecting for my editing schedule
  • Lack of receipt of said manuscript, or an email explaining why I don’t have it and begging for “one more day”
  • An author with a happy announcement
  • An author upset about something
  • An author upset about everything
  • Other team members being upset about the upset author
  • A long email exchange brainstorming new title ideas for a book or series because the original one sucked
  • A completed edit from one of my editors to be sent along to the proofreader
  • People inquiring about openings in my editing department…often misspelled and poorly punctuated
  • Drafts of cover blurbs to be reviewed/revised, and sent to upper management for approval or rejection
  • Exchanges with authors about release dates
  • Someone asking the same question I’ve already answered six times, as well as posting the information in one of our author groups
  • Messages from the cover artists asking where the hell the blurb is for the current project
  • An author announcing they have a great idea for a new series, and should they write it now, before they complete the series in progress? (No.)
  • Discovery that a newly-signed manuscript is 340,000 words, roughly four times longer than we’d prefer, followed by convincing an editor to tackle working with the author to divide it into palatable bits

And that’s just for starters.

I check the contract status report. If new books are on there, I have to log them all and start planning their edits, proofs, and creation of their book cover art and blurbs. If the author is new to us, I have to email them a welcome, list of instructions, and an overview of our editing process. I also have to check the budget, because none of this stuff is free.

I check the cover design status sheet. Once a book has a release date set, it needs to go on this sheet, and I send the assignments to the artists, giving them ample time to complete  the project.

I cross-check all my spreadsheets. Book log (which has columns for every step in the 13348883_10208326038441047_398668350_nprocess), blurb sheet (which shows release date and where we are on the writing of the blurb for the online listings and cover), contract sheet, cover design sheet, budget, release calendar, and my personal calendar. Doing this helps me spot inconsistencies or places I dropped a step along the way.

We have Facebook groups for our authors, promotion, a separate group for the authors with our Crave imprint, a readers’ group for Crave books, a group for the authors in our 13 and Carnival horror anthologies, and a readers’ group for them as well. I need to monitor all these, answer questions, cheer-lead a bit, and occasionally smooth ruffled feathers.

Our anthologies are almost a separate process, and somehow I ended up being primarily in charge of coordinating them. I work with the authors of previous anthologies, our marketing team, and the executive team to decide on a theme for the collection, work out submission, editing, proofing, and release dates, write the call for submissions, receive the submissions as they come in, work with submissions to determine which to include in the anthology, notify the authors (chosen and rejected), add newcomers to the relevant Facebook groups, assemble everything and send to the editor…

Are you tired yet? I am.

I love email and Facebook messages. I’d far rather do all business this way, but our CEO often prefers to call and run through a list of things rather than try to sort through email. Her brain works on approximately 48 tracks at a time at 9000 miles per hour, and shifts direction so suddenly and frequently I have permanent whiplash. There are also a few authors who require lengthy discussions or who comprehend complex conversations better by phone. I do it, but every phone call leaves me dying for a very large adult beverage. (I’m not a phone person. I literally only talk to the husband by phone, and that’s extremely rare, as we usually text.)

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Once I’m sure no part of this house of cards is in danger of immediate collapse, I can tackle my own daily editing project. Yes, it’s rare for me not to have an edit on deck. Right now, my first truly open date is in September. I figure out where I need to be in the current edit to remain on track to complete by deadline–because I DO NOT miss deadlines.

While editing, I have to keep an eye on email, because it never, ever stops. With authors all around the world, time zones mean nothing. I used to keep email open all the time, but for my own sanity, I had to start logging out in the evenings, being sure authors know they can reach me by Facebook messages if I’m awake, in case of emergency.

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Editorial Assistants Oliver and Mozzie

Don’t forget I work at home, which means occasionally breaking for laundry, unloading the dishwasher, a snack, a shower, letting the dogs in and out and in and out and inandout, feeding the dogs, making dinner, telling the dogs for the billionth time to shut the hell up because the neighbors are actually allowed to enter and leave their own homes, sit on the porch, or drive their vehicles, though they would not be if I had any say in the matter.

 

Only when email is relatively quiet and I’ve met my editing goal for the day and no dumpster fires are currently in progress can I ease back a bit and do what I do in my off time, which right now is knitting and Netflix. Still, I have to be available for time-sensitive author-wrangling and question-answering, so I use the pause button and stitch markers a lot.

While it can be a bit overwhelming at times, and there’s never a dull moment, I can’t imagine having any other job, unless maybe professional beverage-tester at a beach bar somewhere is an option.

With all this going on, you can probably figure out why I’m unofficially retired from the Author gig and focusing on blogging, though I’m writing a lot more in the blog than I have on novels over the last few years. Which, I think, is how it’s meant to be.

Time To Unwind

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For most of you, today is part of the weekend. As I’ve mentioned, though, publishing is a 24/7/365 business, so it’s rare to have any real downtime, but I turned in an edit yesterday, a day early. While I have to remain “on call” and monitor email for potential dumpster fires that need extinguishing, this is as close to a day off as I get.

Tom and I have a couple of big household chores we plan to tag-team tomorrow, but I’m more or less caught up for today. While I could get a head start on those tasks, I’ve decided to savor an afternoon with far fewer demands than usual.

Which means knitting and Doctor Who.

Since I’ve been knitting only a few weeks, this is my first official scarf, and only my second real project aside from practice swatches. It definitely has mistakes, but as I know from crochet, part of the learning curve is making mistakes and learning how to fix or minimize them. Overall, I’m happy with the progress.

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This is a feather and fan lace style knit scarf, and you can find this pattern HERE. I’m using Chroma Worsted Superwash Yarn by Knit Picks (70% wool, 30% nylon) in “Vermont.” I’m really loving this yarn!

Whatever you’re doing today, remember to take a little time to take care of yourself! We all need a little time to relax and indulge.

Is It Yarn O’Clock Yet?

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Working at home is wonderful. Keep my own schedule as long as I get the job done, have my canine sidekicks/entourage with me all the time, no business casual or makeup, no commute.

There are some drawbacks, though, such as never really being “off,” the interruptions to do things like tend to the dogs–who are rather high-maintenance–Netflix, snacks, and Facebook.

Lately, my biggest distraction is…

Yarn.

If you’ve followed the blog, you know I’m a lifelong crocheter. (That word looks wrong. Trust me…I’m an editor and words are my business. But it’s not wrong. A person who crochets.) Then a couple of weeks ago, I began teaching myself to knit, first with some ragged, misshapen swatches, then a pretty decent-looking dishcloth which shall never see a dish because I spent hours on the thing, dammit.

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I’m a yarn hoarder. For crochet, though, I tended to stick to more basic brands, with Caron Simply Soft and Deborah Norville Everyday Print Yarn being a couple of favorites. I like to make big crochet projects, and balancing quality and cost is essential. But I always coveted some of the lovely boutique yarns many of my knitting friends used.

As I slowly build my knitting skills, I look for patterns that are very clearly knitted and don’t resemble any crochet style. If it looks like crochet, I can crochet something similar a hell of a lot faster than I can knit. It will be a long time before I knit consistently and quickly enough to justify doing an afghan.

Which means I’m doing small projects–again, sloooooowly–and I can justify buying more expensive, indulgent yarn.

Last week, I found Chroma Worsted Yarn by Knit Picks. It’s 70% wool, 30% nylon, and super soft and not at all itchy-woolly. And here’s the kicker…so many beautiful colors!

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More expensive than I’d usually buy, but as slowly as I currently knit, it will take me several decades to finish a scarf, so I decided to indulge. I bought five balls each of Vermont and Drawing Room.

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Vermont on the left has soft tones of pumpkin, teal, rose, and a heathery purple. Drawing room is grays and sage and lavender and aqua and cream. OMGGorgeous!

I needed a pattern that would work up not too slowly and wouldn’t look too much like crochet, and I chose a fan-and-feather scarf. I don’t wear scarves, but whatever. I might make an exception for this.

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Not blocked, of course, until it’s done (some time in 2056, I estimate). Experienced knitters will see the error where instead of two rows of knit followed by a row of purl I did a row of knit and two rows of purl, but I decided to leave it and keep going. 99.9% of people would never notice. This is in the Vermont yarn.

But that’s my dilemma. I have an edit I must finish today, and the work emails continue to flow, but this yarn is calling to me. I needed a new challenge, and knitting is challenging and satisfying. So is editing, but editing doesn’t involve oh-so-lovely yarn.

Now I have to be a grownup and put on my editing tiara, finish the edit, return it to the author for review…and then I can play with the beautiful yarn.

Classic: Risky Research

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The following is a post from my old blog, Fermented Fur, written in February of 2009 when I was doing research for my first book. Some of my fellow authors have been discussing research, and–as usual–I have a unique, slightly warped view of things, so I decided to find and share this post. Authors, is this how you feel when you research?

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(Note: The scenario below took place only in my own imagination. So far. Really, this couldn’t happen. Right???)

Heading out to the garage, I am, as usual, blissfully unaware of my surroundings. I know this isn’t very street-smart. Experts are always saying people should be especially alert while going to and from their cars, whether at home or in a public lot. But there’s way too much going on in my head, so I’m generally busy up there pondering imponderables and composing future blogs, which is also one of the primary reasons I fall down so much. That, and the drinking, which isn’t a factor at this particular moment.

Approaching the corner of the garage, the lid of one of the trash cans raises up a few inches, and I see a pair of shifty eyes and hear, “Psssssst. Hey, over here.”

Realizing that it’s unlikely that Oscar the Grouch has taken up residence in my trash can, I am somewhat suspicious. Most people I know don’t lurk about in trash cans.

Clutching my keys, which experts also claim can be an effective self-defense weapon, I ask, “Who are you, and what do you want?” Because if there’s somebody hiding in your trash can, these are things you need to know.

“I’m Blaster625, from the Anarchist website. I hear you have some questions about incendiary devices.”

“Wait, how do you know that?”

“I have my sources.”

“I was doing a lot of research yesterday, and visited a lot of websites. Some of which, I must say, were more than a little disturbing. Are you from one of them?”

“Maybe. So, I hear you need to blow up a bus.”

“No, Blaster, I most certainly do not need to blow up a bus. I’m doing research for a book I’m writing, and my bad guy is going to try to kill someone by blowing up his bunk in a tour bus.”

“Yeah, sure, right, whatever. About blowing up this bus, though…”

“I do not want to blow up a bus. It’s for a book.”Ballot Box Bunny melon bomb

“Look, if you’re going to keep saying ridiculous shit like that, I can’t help you.”

“Fine! I don’t want help from some wacko anarchist who hides in trash cans and says corny stuff like ‘psssst.'” And what are you, about 15? Shouldn’t you be in school or at the dermatologist or something?”

“No school today. It’s an in-service day for the teachers. I mean, the establishment.”

With that, I stalk back into the house, telling Mr. Blaster he’d better be gone when I come back. I’m thinking I need to get the mat-splitter from the dogs’ grooming utensil basket, as it is the closest thing to a deadly weapon I own. I haven’t read any expert opinions on the viability of a mat-splitter being used in this manner, but it seems like a safe bet.

Making my way back to the garage, mat-splitter tucked in my coat pocket, I’m much more aware of my surroundings than I had been earlier. I notice a brief flash of movement by the garage.

“Look, Blaster, I thought I told you to get lost.”

Suddenly, I am blindsided and find myself sprawled on my back in the icy driveway, a large, masculine figure pinning my arms to the ground. Ordinarily, being pinned under a large, masculine figure has the potential to be of significant interest, but in this case the black body armor is spoiling the mood.

A second riot-gear-clad form steps from behind the garage and says, “Good work, Corporal. Search her for weapons.”

Hauling me to my feet, the Corporal quickly locates my mat-splitter and confiscates it. “What’s this?” he asks. “Some sort of torture device?”

“My dogs think so,” I reply.

“Should’ve known. You anarchists are all sick and twisted individuals.”

“It’s for getting mats out of the dogs’ undercoat, you moron.”

“A likely story. Should I bag it as evidence, Captain?”

The Captain considers this for a moment and says, “Sure. Can never have too much evidence against anarchists and terrorists, I always say.”

I snatch my purse off the ground and whip out my cell phone. The Corporal slams me back against the garage and grabs it from my hand. “Won’t do you any good, sister. We froze your service.”

“What the hell??? Are you people out of your fucking minds? I’m trying to go to work, here.”

The Captain stomps over to me and leans way too far into my personal space. “We know what you’re up to, lady, and you’re not going to get away with it.” He hasn’t actually pulled the assault rifle from the holster over his shoulder, but he looks like he’s thinking about it.

“What I’m up to? Trying to get in my car and go to work?”

“Do you deny that you just met with a member of an anarchist group known as Blaster625?”

“That kid? Well, he was hiding in my trash can when I came out here a few minutes ago. I told him to get lost.”

“Was that before or after he gave you the instructions for building a pipe bomb to blow up a tour bus?”

“He didn’t give me any plans. I don’t want any plans!”

“Uh huh. Then why were you visiting all those bomb-building websites yesterday?”

“As I explained to Blaster-Boy, I am writing a book, and my bad guy is going to try to off my lead male character using an explosive device planted in a tour bus.”

“That’s what all the terrorists say.”

“I think I’m going to have to ask to contact a lawyer.”

“Suspected terrorists don’t get lawyers. We just send you to Gitmo.”

“No, you don’t. George isn’t president anymore. They’re shutting that place down.”

“Well, I haven’t gotten a memo about that yet, so I’m still going with ‘lock ’em up and throw away the key’ till I hear different.”

“This is ridiculous! I swear, if Ashton Kutcher climbs out of my trunk and even whispers the word ‘Punk’d,’ we’re going to discover just how effective mat-splitters are as an instrument of torture. I can’t stand him anyway, except for when he’s playing Kelso. All I did was Google some sites so I could make the bomb part of my plot sound plausible.”

“You did do that, and you also wrote to a couple of bomb squads and asked them about jurisdictions and investigative process, as well as how to blow up a bus.”

“I never asked how to blow up a bus!”

“Did too.”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

“Jesus H. Fucking Roosevelt Christ on a Crutch, what is wrong with you people??? I never asked how to blow up a bus.”

“Did too.”

“Arrrrrggggh. Look, do you want to search my house? You will find nothing there even remotely incriminating.”wile-e-coyote-tnt

“Already did.”

“You did? When? How? How did you get past the dogs?”

“Last night, and your dogs are real nice. Probably not terrorists. They like cookies.”

“Might’ve been the last cookies they ever see. So if you didn’t find anything, why are you here?”

“Can’t be too careful.”

“Look, do you want to see the novel I’m writing? Would that help at all?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. What’s it about?”

“What difference does that make?” Sigh. Blank looks from the Corporal and the Captain. “Fine. The male lead is a musician, and someone is trying to do away with him, and so the male and female leads have to figure out who it is so they can live happily ever after.”

“Sounds like a romance. I don’t read them girly-books.” This, from the Captain.

“Oh, for crying out loud! You don’t have to read it, you asshat! I’m just trying to prove to you that I am really writing a book.”

“Well, okay. Are we going inside so I can visit with the doggies again? That little gold one is real cute. He drools kind of a lot, though.”

“No, I am going to get my laptop out of the car and show it to you.”

“I kinda wanted to go inside. It’s cold, and I have a couple more cookies for the dogs.”

“We are not going inside.”

“Fine.”

I approach the car, with the Corporal hovering over my shoulder, and retrieve my laptop from the back seat.

The Captain says, “Corporal, I want you to open up the computer. Don’t want to give her any chances to try something funny.”

The Corporal looks worried. “What if it blows up? I don’t want to get exploded.”

“That’s the kind of funny stuff I’m talking about. Not that it’d be funny. No, not funny at all, blowing up a federal officer.”

“I really don’t want to open it.”

“Oh, just open it, you big baby. You’re wearing body armor and that Darth Vader mask thing. You’ll probably be fine.”

The Corporal doesn’t look reassured, but does as the Captain ordered.

Nobody gets exploded, and in a few minutes, they are perusing my novel-in-progress.

“I was right,” says the Captain. “This is a girly-book.”

“Yes, it is. I am a girl,” I point out.

“Kinda hard to tell in that coat.”

“Go to hell.”

“Now, that’s not nice. We’re just protecting America, you know.”

The Corporal has been reading avidly, scrolling down at considerable velocity. “Are they going to have sex? ‘Cause it sure sounds like they want to.”

“Yes, they are,” I say. “But I’m not up to that part yet. I’m still working on the bomb thing.”

“When you get to the sex part, can I read it?”

“No, not unless it’s published and you fork over full retail price. Now, are you two going to go away? I’m going to be late for work. And give me back my mat-splitter. Darwin’s been running in the mud, and his britches are becoming a mess.”

The Captain gives this some thought, reluctantly hands back my canine torture device, then says, “I guess we’re done here. You don’t seem to be an imminent threat. But we’re watching you.”

I sigh. I’m free to go about my business, but now I’m on some sort of Federal Watch List or something. I’m disconcerted to learn that my home, cell phone, computer, and – apparently – my dogs can be compromised so easily just because I clicked on a few web links and sent a couple of emails.

I’m starting to think I should just write porn and leave the suspense/thriller genre to the terrorists.

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Dinner Bites Back

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Sometimes, even though you’ve caught up on work and have no legitimate reason, you simply don’t feel like cooking. Yesterday was one such day.

We’re normally pretty frugal, cooking at home and eating leftovers until they’re gone, even if it takes four days. But I looked at the fridge yesterday, found a whole lot of “meh,” and decided we needed something else. Something not currently in the house, made by someone who was not me.

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There was at least one other option…but takeout seemed to be the way to go.

Next, we had to figure out where this dinner would come from. Wanting something non-pizza-related, it also needed to be somewhere convenient for Tom to stop on the way home from work, and where I could order and pay online, because if I had to talk to a humanoid on the phone, I’d probably decide a baked potato and steamed veggies was an acceptable meal after all.

Applebee’s it is, then.

I decided on the caprese mozzarella chicken, which is grilled chicken, fresh mozzarella, grilled onion and tomato, served over garlic mashed potatoes.

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Because I was paying (since it was my idea to get takeout), I also splurged on an order of chicken wonton tacos, because the crispy-crunchy wrap amuses me.

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I’m a gastric bypass patient (November 2001), so any restaurant meal is two to three meals for me. Besides enjoying leftovers later in the evening or for lunch the next day, it helps me justify the cost of ordering out.

Tom arrived with dinner, and it was delicious. I ate two of the tacos and half the caprese mozzarella chicken. I expected to feel really full, because it was a considerable amount of food for my modified tummy.

What I did not expect was the pain.

A few times over the last couple of years, I’ve had some kind of idiopathic gastroenteritis, when my intestines are inflamed and feel like they’re full of ground glass and rusty barbed wire, but this wasn’t it. General Thanksgiving-level fullness was combined with bouts of stabbing pain.

Even now, fifteen or so hours later, it’s not completely resolved. There is a lingering fullness and occasional flashes of “ouch,” but nothing is spewing out either end, so I guess this is progress.

At the height of last night’s gastrointestinal crisis, I almost threw the leftovers in the trash, but I didn’t. Why not? Well, there’s no way in hell I’m eating it, that’s for sure. But I figure if my guts rupture and kill me with caprese-induced peritonitis, Tom will have evidence for his wrongful death lawsuit.

I probably should’ve just scrambled some eggs.

Dogs And Books And Yarn

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I haven’t missed a day of posting since I started Furwood Forest a little over a month ago, but I was stumped what to write about today. I have over 500 posts archived from the old Fermented Fur blog, but nothing was catching my attention as something I wanted to post.

Mozzie and Oliver, AKA The Direwolves, weren’t cooperating, which was downright inconsiderate. They’re made of cuteness and shenanigans, and the least they can do is provide blog fodder. I’m their mama, nurse, activity director, chef, concierge, stylist, entertainment committee, teacher, referee, jungle gym, therapist, and maid. All I ask is for them to pull their weight.

Fine. I guess their snuggles are payment enough.

In desperation, I went outside and captured some video of them playing with their Romp-N-Roll Jolly Ball. Luckily for all of us, they’re adorable no matter what they’re doing.

 

While many of you are enjoying something I’m told is called a “weekend,” Tom is at work, and I am about to do the same. If you weren’t aware, I’m the managing editor for Limitless Publishing–and our new imprint, Crave–so I work at home with my Direwolf assistants.

I’ve already conquered Mount Email, and will continue to do so, but aside from managing the editing and proofreading staff, working with designers to assign our book covers, overseeing the creation of cover blurbs, overseeing all stages of production of our horror and romance anthologies, and a bunch of other publishing-related chainsaw juggling, I also edit, both for Limitless and select independent (indie) authors, and that’s what’s on the agenda today. I need to finish a first round of an edit and get it to the author for revisions.

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True story.

Once I achieve the day’s work goals, it’s on to the reward portion of the day, doing what I want. Currently, this means watching Doctor Who–which I’ve never watched before–and working on my knitting.

I’ve crocheted since I was a kid, but knitting is a new challenge. I’ve only been at it about two weeks, and have only worked on swatches of different stitch combinations so far. This is the most recent swatch, a “seersucker” diamond pattern, which came out fairly well.

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I still have a hell of a time casting off at the end of a piece, which makes no sense, because it’s insanely easy. Do two stitches, pull the first loop over the second and off the needle. Yet I can’t get that first loop off in one piece without losing the second one. I resorted to just sliding both stitches off the needle and using a crochet hook to pull the second stitch through the first, then putting it back on the needle. I’ve concluded I knit too tightly, and am trying to adjust my technique.

Last night, I started what might be my first “real” project, though it’s still just practice of basic skills before I move on to more complex stitches. Technically, it will be a dishcloth with a dog on it, though I am still befuddled why anyone would spend time making something pretty and then use it to scrub barbecue sauce off a plate. I have no idea what I’ll do with it, but washing dishes isn’t on the list of options.

It should look something like this:

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And this is what I have so far:

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See? The bottoms of the little puppy paws are beginning to appear.

Thrilling day? Maybe not, but I like quiet and peaceful creativity. Yes, I have some household chores to do, and puppy interaction, dinner to make, and tonight I’ll have my customary bedtime adult beverages because the brain-train has to be derailed at least a little or I’ll never get to sleep.

Some people pack their (for me, theoretical) weekends with activities, but that’s not my life. I like it calm and tranquil and quietly satisfying.

Having said that, The Direwolves will probably stage an insurrection this afternoon or commit some other act of chaos. But until then, I have a steamy mafia princess story to edit.

And probably a snack.

Apocalyptic Creativity

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As readers and writers of post-apocalyptic fiction, we’re all preparing for the inevitable. For some, this means, “I should probably consider buying some bottled water and maybe a flamethrower.” For others, it’s more like, “I have an underground bunker in the woods behind my house crammed full of toilet paper and fifty-pound bags of rice, and I don’t even like rice.”

We all know what we should stockpile. The obvious supplies include food, water, weapons, ammunition, medical supplies, tools, things to make fire (nobody wants to be chilly during the apocalypse, and raw snake tastes terrible), fuel, and coffee—because if the apocalypse starts before ten a.m., I’m going to be at a serious disadvantage.

Everybody knows about that stuff. Which means when some moron decides to hide the fact they’ve been bitten, turns, and eats everyone in their hideout, there’s bound to be a good bit of those obvious survival supplies there for the taking. So I think we should consider the less obvious, but very useful, items we should have on hand to make our zombie apocalypse experience more “hey, this isn’t as bad as I thought it would be” and a lot less “oh, shit, I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t be able to see my own intestines.”

To compile this list, I did extensive scientific research, by which I mean I posted about it on Facebook. In no particular order…

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Underpants: This is a no-brainer. Nobody likes dirty underwear, and once you turn your only pair inside out, unless an unexpected lull in the fleeing and head-chopping allows you free time to do laundry, you have a problem. And considering the number of times you’re going to walk around a corner and end up screaming, “Aaaahhhh, zombie herd, and I left my flamethrower in my other purse!” you can assume there will be a lot of soiled undies. You’re going to need plenty of spares.

Icy Hot: What with all the machete-swinging, running away, and climbing ladders because zombies don’t understand how ladders work, you can bet there will be a lot of sore muscles. It’s also possible the unspeakable Icy Hot stench will mask your Juicy Human smell. But if it turns out Icy Hot is like barbecue sauce or bacon gravy to zombies, you’re totally screwed. Further research might be required, though I suspect test subjects will be hard to find.

Note: Under no circumstances should the Icy Hot be used in any proximity to the underpants (see above) unless the whiner in your group really needs to be taught a lesson. It’s also an acceptable consequence for the guy who asks everyone you encounter, “You been bit?” because the zombie apocalypse is no excuse for sloppy grammar.

A Golf Umbrella: Sure, they’re big and bulky, and when a major downpour occurs they’re always in the back seat of the car you didn’t drive that day, but they could be very Umbrella_zombiehandy. Not only would a golf umbrella keep the rain off, it provides shade if your apocalyptic adventure is happening where it’s hot and lacking in leafy trees. You can use the pointy end to stab a zombie in the eye-hole (Pro-tip: Close umbrella first), and should the guy next to you suddenly erupt in a fountain of blood and chunks of innards, you can use the umbrella to shield yourself from the gore as you run away. Hey, he was pretty much dead already; you couldn’t have saved him. The zombie apocalypse is no time for sentimentality.

A Small, Light-Powered Calculator: Life in the apocalypse is essenially one giant story problem, and who has time to sit down and scratch out math problems in the dirt with a stick? Maybe some of you can do math in your head, but I find numbers way too slippery, and possibly evil. When we encounter a swarm, I want to be able to quickly calculate how many zombies each member of my group needs to kill. Why? Because if someone isn’t doing their fair share of zombie extermination, I need to know who to trip the next time we’re forced to make a run for it. It’s called “survival,” people. Don’t judge. Also, it’s important to know how to equally divide seven cans of creamed corn among eleven people, because you know someone’s going to cheat.

Several Whoopee Cushions and/or Cans of Spring-Loaded Snakes: It has been pointed out to me that the zombie apocalypse can be a bit grim and depressing, and everyone could benefit from some laughter. Except me. I hate practical jokes, and I’ll stab you in the neck with a rusty spork, which would make me laugh, but you probably wouldn’t appreciate it.

Disclaimer: They say laughter is the best medicine, but I don’t think that works with zombie bites, so you should probably cut off your hand if you’re bitten, just to be safe. Or, you know, whatever body part is affected. Unless it’s your head. That seems counterproductive.

A Bouncy Castle: This is tangentially related to the items above. No, you can’t be expected to pack a bouncy castle, let alone inflate it, but ever since the second episode of Fear the Walking Dead in which the featured family was peeking through the blinds at the neighbor’s kids playing in a bouncy castle while someone with a distinctly zombie-like appearance approached, I’ve wanted to see a bouncy castle full of kid-sized zombies. I mean, how awesome would that be?

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Bonus points if it’s a zombie themed bouncy castle!

I was woefully disappointed, so if you do encounter a bouncy castle, fill it with tiny-human zombies if it doesn’t already contain some, because that is an opportunity that must not be missed. And if you have a cell phone with any battery left, take a damned picture, because when someone re-invents the internet—possibly Al Gore’s grandson—I absolutely need to see that shit.

Car Air Fresheners (But not the pine tree kind. I hate those.): Despite the abundance of clean undies, assuming you took my advice, bathing is going to be a relatively infrequent thing. Everybody knows from years of research (watching campy horror movies), the instant you take off your clothes, whether to bathe or have slutty teenage sex, that’s when the bad stuff happens, so most people won’t often take that risk. You need these air fresheners—I suggest something like “ocean breeze,” personally—to mask the funky aroma of your travel-mates as you continue your endless search for a safe place to hide out.

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What would zombie air freshener smell like? Do we really want to know?

Yellow Pages (assuming you can find any, because everybody just Googles stuff now): An alert aficionado made this suggestion, and it has a lot of merit, as long as you’re not in a major metropolitan area where phone books are six inches thick and weigh forty-three pounds.

First, you can strap them to your forearms as makeshift armor. Studies show the majority of zombie bites occur on the hands and forearms. I might have made up these studies, but I stand by their validity. Also, if you failed to find someone who got eaten before they used up all their stockpiled toilet paper, pages from the phone book could be a substitute. Perhaps best of all, you’ll have a handy guide to the location of all the liquor stores sporting goods stores.

There are several intriguing variations, as well. If you enjoy, for example, crossword puzzle books, you have a source of entertainment on those rare zombie-free evenings. For younger survivors, consider coloring books (don’t forget the crayons!) or connect-the-dots books, but be sure you get small-sized ones or they’ll be too big to strap to their kid-sized arms. I hear some of you shouting, “Sudoku!” but I’m ignoring you. From what I understand, those puzzles involve numbers, and I’ve already told you how I feel about math.

This list is just the beginning. Be creative! Look around you and imagine how ordinary items, things you’d never think would be essential to your post-apocalyptic survival—possibly with amusing side effects. What would you include in your Z-Day supply stash? I’m going to go look in my junk drawer and that weird box in the hall closet and see what other useful things I can find.

PS: As you see in the header, I wrote a couple of zombie books. If you’re interested, you can find them HERE.

Perpetually Pursuing Perfection

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Like most of my family, I am an over-achiever. If I do something, I don’t want to be pretty good. I want to be an expert.

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When I was a journalist for Indy Car Racing Magazine and essentially lived at the Speedway the entire month of May, I could tell a Lola chassis from a Penske from the other end of the straightaway, and even the model year. I could identify a Chevrolet engine from a Cosworth the second it fired up.

You’d think this kind of obsessive, determined, perfectionist nature would make me a great athlete. I guess it could have, but I dislike perspiration, and competition makes my stomach hurt.

My brain needs to be busy all the time, learning and perfecting new things. Editing is the perfect job for me, because I learn something new with each manuscript, whether it’s a fact learned from the story itself, or a better way to structure a sentence.

Which, as I described in this post earlier this week, is how the whole knitting thing started.

I’ve crocheted since I was a kid, meaning I have 40+ years of experience. I briefly experimented with knitting maybe seven or eight years ago (probably longer, since I’m old and even 1990 doesn’t sound like that long ago) but never pursued it.

Now I’m back at it, and the over-achieving perfectionist in me is getting mouthy.  “I’ve been knitting for almost an entire week! Why is this not perfect? Why can’t I knit intricate cable designs yet?”

Never mind that I can’t change colors yet, add or decrease stitches, or any of about a million other skills I still need to master. I want to know it all. Right. Now.

Why can’t I make these yet? Why??????

I’m purposely, against everything I stand for, moving slowly in my knitting evolution, trying to refine basic skills before tackling the next thing. As you can see from the images below, the white stuff being some practice swatches and the green one being my first soon-to-be-completed piece, I’m working on straight, flat, single-color skills at the moment, nothing more than knits, purls, and casting on and off.

The green thing is allegedly a dishcloth, according to the pattern. I don’t understand why anyone would spend hours making something so pretty just to scrub melted cheese and congealed grease from a plate, though, so this is something else. Not sure what yet. Maybe a hot pad or trivet. Or the first item in Lori’s Knitting Museum. I also didn’t use kitchen cotton yarn. It’s regular old acrylic.

I went to the craft store a few days ago and bought a beginner’s kit. It has a couple different size metal needles and a lot of little gadgets and gizmos of which I do not yet know the purpose, but I’ll get there. I also got a pair of bamboo needles, in case I decide I like them better. I have a full set of bamboo crochet hooks, which I have never used. They were free, though, so I don’t feel too badly about that. Who knows? Maybe knitting needles are different.

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One thing is certain. There are zillions of needle options. Metal, plastic, or wood. Long, not-so-long, double-pointed, circular, in sizes from itty-bitty to bigger than a broomstick. I just know every new project will involve new tools, because it’ll be a while before my knitting kit is as comprehensive as my crochet kit. Anybody have old knitting gear they don’t use? I will accept donations! 🙂

I’ve learned this all by myself, using website diagrams, YouTube tutorials, the book that came in my knitting kit, and trial and error. Which means I’m probably doing a shit-ton of things wrong.

I was texting my friend Jess, who is an experienced knitter, a few nights ago. I need to get her on a plane to NC to tutor me. She asked me if I was an English or Continental knitter. How the f*** should I know? What does that even mean? 

Sigh. Google.

Turns out I’m a Continental knitter, using my left hand to handle the yarn, which is an easier method for crochet people to learn. And then my brain was happy because I learned something new.

The pattern I got has three “dishcloth” patterns, which could be hot pads or place mats or scarves, depending on how long it takes before I get bored and want to make something else. I’ll make one of each, then move on to something with another challenge in it. Color change, adding or decreasing stitches, something pretty or fancy.

I need to hurry up and become an expert knitter, though, because about five years ago I bought a set of Tunisian crochet hooks and two books, tinkered with a few basic stitches, but sort of lost interest. Now I want to be an expert at that too.

That Time I Might Have Been Replaced By An Alien

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These two posts appeared a few days apart in 2010. The only significant changes since then are I do cook and bake more often, I now prefer rum to wine, I no longer apply eyeliner to go to the store, and we did escape Minnesota for the more hospitable clime of eastern North Carolina. Oh, and no aliens or clones showed up to help us pack. Stupid aliens.

If It’s Not Aliens, It’s Something Just As Bad

 

Dear FFFans,

Try not to panic, but I have reason to believe Lori has been abducted and replaced by a simulacrum.

Erth

Creatures of interest in possible abduction

Earlier this morning, she professed her determination to remain on the Sofur, reading smut on George-the-Kindle all day. In fact, last night, she had this conversation with Tom:

Lori: I worked my ass off today. I’m not getting off the Sofur at all tomorrow if I can help it.

Tom: Do you really have to get off it? You’ve got the computer and George right there.

Lori: Yeah, I love it. It’s like Command Central.

Tom: So, why get up?

Lori: (points to the right) Because the bathroom is over there. (points behind) And the kitchen is back there. (pauses, considering) But seriously, if I had a mini-fridge and a potty-couch, I’d never have to move.

She is, obviously, quite committed to her Sofur Slugdom.

Yet this morning, she did some disturbingly out-of-character things. Before 10 a.m., she put on jeans. While it is true many people leave the house in their plaid flannel jammie pants, she never does that.

She also applied eyeliner, because if she doesn’t have on her terribly dated eyeliner, she claims to be unable to recognize her own face.

Then, she put on shoes. Shoes.

She drove to SuperTarget and began buying (brace yourselves) ingredients. She has a powerful, nearly pathological aversion to ingredients, because those imply an intent to cook, which she avoids at all costs. Yet there she was, with her red shopping cart, cruising up and down the aisles, selecting ingredients.

She is now, as we speak, in the process of making vegetable bison soup. And chocolate chip banana bread. Both. From. Scratch. Read those last three words again. It’s the only way you might start to believe them.

I don’t know how she’s going to accomplish this, but must assume by the end of the day there will be a huge cauldron of soup (because she can’t make a small batch) and a loaf of chocolate chip banana bread.

It’s terrifying, actually.

On top of that, she was seen emptying the canister of the vacuum, implying that she may actually make use of it sometime today, probably when BroZarkWin are outside. Why would she do that? She’s developed the inability to see dog hair on the carpet, much to Tom’s everlasting disappointment. But the evidence speaks for itself.

Are you hiding under the bed yet? Should we suspect a doppelganger? Alien possession? Pod people? Some sort of personality-altering brain worm?

If you weren’t already prepared to barricade yourself in the basement, you should start collecting boards and nails and enough supplies to last you till this situation is resolved. (There’s no telling who might be next!)

And the most unsettling part of the story is about to be revealed.

She did not stop at the Liquorette on the way home, despite having barely a single glass of wine left in the fridge. True, there is bourbon, but still. Wine is yummy. She loves wine. Currently, Alice White Lexia, to be exact. Yet she did not stop to visit Tim and Bill and Young Guy and Woman With The Long Hair, or any of her other Liquorette friends.

If this bizarre behavior continues, I’m going to count on you to mobilize the Men In Black. There’s no way Tom is going to do it. He’s going to think this impostor is a definite improvement.

The fate of this household – or possibly the world – is in your hands.

 

 

All Clear

For those of you who took Tuesday’s advice and boarded yourselves in the basement and are reading this on your smart phones, it’s safe to come out now.

It seems I entered some sort of fugue state a few days ago, and while there I – or someone impersonating me – made a full cauldron of soup (Yes, a “cauldron.” What else could it be?) and chocolate chip banana bread.

She/It also vacuumed copious amounts of dog hair from the carpet, and did not guzzle any wine. I know – it is still freaking me out a little bit.

I’m still unsure if it should be attributed to alien abduction or a doppelganger, but the point is I’m back now. I’m sure you remember me. The cynical, self-centered, apathetic, lazy, wine-swilling, reclusive bitch with all the dogs. Yep, that’s me.

I was probably returned because I had to go to the dentist yesterday, for what was the final time, regardless of the opinion of the staff at Otsego Dental. What alien or doppelganger wants to sit through a “full mouth debridement?” Probably none, and definitely not the one who had gained temporary control over my brain.

Hell, I didn’t even want to be there. I don’t know how long a regular dental cleaning takes. I can, however, testify that a full mouth debridement takes an hour and a half, and leaves your gums looking and feeling as if you’re suffering from an advanced case of scurvy.

This is what happens when you have not had your teeth cleaned in eight years. The procedure is apparently only slightly less involved than excavating a pachycephalosaurus from a 75-million-year-old fossil bed. I can definitely confirm that it uses many of the same tools.

So, I have returned. The best part about the whole situation is that there is still plenty of soup and some chocolate chip banana bread left. Whoever was handling things in my absence sure made some yummy stuff.

And if she’d show up again for a while when it’s time to bulldoze junk out of my house so we can get ready to sell it, that’d be awesome, because that’s one part of the whole “Leaving Minnesota” adventure that I’m dreading.

You may now return to your regularly scheduled, non-basement-hiding activities.

 

Taxation Procrastination

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My job is handled as freelance or independent contractor, which means nobody is withholding anything toward my taxes, and this is the time of year I dread. Time to do the tax return. I’m putting it off as long as possible, but I’ll need to cave soon because we need to know how much more money we need to funnel into savings to pay what we’ll owe.

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I’ve always done our taxes, which is kind of insane, given that I could most kindly be called mathematically remedial. I lost checkbook privileges in 1990, shortly after we bought our first house. We were buying a lot of stuff, and I neglected to write down about half of this and couldn’t be bothered forgot to balance the checkbook for four months. This resulted in some unfortunate consequences.

This task was a lot less difficult and unpleasant when I worked a regular, tax-withholding job. Now, I know I can deduct certain expenses related to my job, such as my Office 365 subscription, book marketing and promotion, and theoretically part of my internet charges and mortgage. I’ve never figured out how to do this because it seems very complicated and I suspect it involves numbers.

All year, I funnel as much of my income as possible into savings, so I can give it all back in April when I pay taxes. I leave enough in my checking account for my personal expenses. I also keep enough on hand to pay for a lot of dog stuff, including vet visits, grooming, their freeze-dried raw dog food, and the spendy but healthy chew treats I order from Best Bully Sticks.

At times, this all feels really stupid. I work long days simply to save enough to pay the taxes on the money I earn. I look at the savings account, and think, “Wow, that’s enough money for a really nice vacation, or a new deck, or to upgrade the kitchen, or do some landscaping.” But…no vacation, deck, kitchen, or landscaping for us. The savings account will by empty on April 15, and the only thing I’ll have to show for it is not being in federal prison.

Um…win?

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I know I get benefits from the taxes we pay. Roads, parks, schools, a military to defend me, social security (which would be extra great if I could foresee any time we would actually be able to retire), public libraries…

But I also get arrogant, self-serving, clueless politicians with hidden agendas. And I do not get any sort of guaranteed healthcare, aside from a small subsidy to assist with my insurance premiums.

Friends in other countries are horrified when I tell them how much I pay per month for my health coverage, and how little I actually receive for this. Yes, I have insurance so if I am struck by a meteor or contract leprosy, we might not lose the house. But a minor hospital visit is still a hardship.

No wonder people go to Canada for prescription drugs and Mexico for surgical treatment.

I had a paragraph here about the current political climate and administration, but it made my guts feel like they were full of ground glass and barbed wire, and the last time I went to the doctor for that it cost me $4000, so…

Sometimes, I think about giving up the job and just taking a few private editing jobs for “pocket money.” But I’m in that gray area where that would mean paying a lot less in taxes, but I might not be able to help out as much or afford some of the dog-related luxuries–like regular grooming and vet care–that I currently finance.

I don’t know. If I were better with math, I could crunch the numbers and calculate whether working as much as I do is as beneficial as it should be. I do enjoy the job itself, and it keeps me busy and (mostly) out of trouble and allows me to feel less irresponsible when I hit the “buy now with one click” button on my Amazon cart full of a bunch of new dog toys.

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Click it. Go ahead. Cliiiiiiiick it. It’s for us, right? Of course it is. Click!

Maybe I can get Mozzie and Oliver designated as editorial assistants, then all their food and toys and treats could be business expenses. Oliver is a standard poodle and Mozzie is a golden, so they collectively have enough intelligence that I should probably just hire them to do my taxes.

Worst case scenario, if the IRS comes to haul me away, they could distract them with their cuteness and give me time to escape.