It's funny. Nearly every week or so I get a phone call or perhaps an e-mail from a newspaper, a magazine, someone asking me to write for them on a weekly basis - without pay. Hello! Who in their right mind would write for anyone on a professional basis and not be paid? Well, obviously someone willing to sacrifice everything they needed in order to get exposure - but isn't that what these blogs are for? I don't get paid to write here - and here's the great part, I don't have an editor to please! It's me. It's just me. I always please me - well, most of the time. There are those moments when even I get angry enough to take myself out back - I threaten, but I don't actually do it. I'm not really all that scared of me.
This week it was a publication from a school - often it is. Being a professor of English has a great deal to do with that- they wanted me to write something funny, maybe add a little contest, a little work, a little adventure for the students - - and like every other college in the country, they didn't want to pay a penny for it. Just a smile, a thank you, perhaps a cup of coffee for me when they bag me someday and force me to come talk to their alumni group because of all the praise I was getting for the column. Oh, or maybe they believe that the exposure, the thrill of the ink will be my motivation. Nope - pay my bills thank you. Then we'll talk.
I'm not mean. I'm really not mean at all - if I had millions in my bank - if I had even hundreds of thousands in my bank (make it easier on myself), I would write for free. I would give it away more often, it would be a privilege and an honor to be hustled around the globe to talk for nothing - but that just isn't in the plans today....maybe the Vanderbilts will adopt me and keep me, then I can - I'm good for a few soirees and I can always hold my own in a well orchestrated conversation, be it religious, political, analytical - doesn't matter. I'll even discuss quantum physics with an air of authority - you just have to know more than I do to catch me when I lie through my teeth, or say something completely off just to watch your reaction. (Now, that's mean, but it's in me - bred that way.)
OK, so maybe I look sweet and people think that I'll be an easy pushover -which by the way, here's the secret, if you're a kid, or this is for an Armed Forces paper - I'm probably going to say yes. I'd write for the Stars and Stripes for nothing. I'd write for Highlights, kid's readers, maybe even some animal magazines - but not for long. After my work became so popular, so demanding, so incredibly irresistible, that the readers demanded more, more - got to have more they'd beg - then, I'd have to get compensation. The Army would simply have to fly me out to Ft. Wainwright to see my baby, or I could go to Washington D.C. and get over to the two major military stations there - see the boys and girls I love so much - I'd do that. (Anyone out there with that sort of pull? Call me!) Other than that, I do have a price - not a high one, I've done so much for so long with so little that I can do just about anything with nothing nowadays - old saying, but a good one.
Just pay me, OK. You'd expect it. I expect it. I have a teenage monster to feed. I was suppose to be emancipating her, but she's decided to hang on a bit longer. Work got in the way - in that it wasn't fun like she thought it would be. She's back home and I'm picking up the slack on that one. You remember the day you thought about growing up and then changed your mind don't you? It was a great day - I crawled back in bed and slept a little longer that morning.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Monday, June 25, 2007
Scorpio-Scorpio!
It's funny. I pick up a book about Astrology and find that I'm no longer a Scorpio - much like the planet Pluto is no longer a planet - too damn bad, after 45 years of being who I was when I was born, I have no intention of accepting the Archer's bow as my sign - I am the killer insect, thank you. Some of the newer books claim that November 21 is the last day of Scorpio - don't turn your back too soon. The books are wrong!
Born at 2:56 p.m. on the afternoon of November 22, 1961, I literally was born 4 minutes before the cut off of the great Western horoscope zodiac sign of Scorpio - but I am a Scorpio. Don't fool yourself, never try to outwit, outplay, or outdo me - you'll find my pyrate's smile to be somewhat flattering as I nod your way, pretending to allow you to pass unscathed - you won't pass at all, not without being stung first. I don't say that because I'm vicious, mean, nasty, outrageous, or evil - I say that because it is my very nature, down to my core, to be first - I push myself, I don't need anyone else to do it for me. I have this thing about losing, I don't do it well. I don't play chess - I devour. Therefore, I choose most often not to play anyone - except my son, because he's so tender - irresistible, and if he's foolish enough to ask me to sit across from him - I will stomp his heart out - and then buy him ice cream. I think the boy just probably likes his ice cream, and being the Aries that he is, he doesn't mind running fully into a hornet's nest to get it.
Scorpio just suits me. OK, you're not into it, but I am to a degree - I wasn't, not until I began studying it in college, and found that not only do I fit the mold perfectly for what the Zodiac calls the 3rd Scorpio, those born at the end of the time period reserved for the sign, I am also the epitome of the sign's femme fatale when it comes to getting exactly what I want, when I want it, because I want it, and the good thing is - I'll make you think and feel that it was your idea! Don't worry, I'm actually quite tame - when left alone. As a partner I find it absolutely imperative that my partner be as loyal, and as monogamous as I am - which if you had to rate it on a scale of 1-100 you had BETTER not be less than a 99, because I'm not about to cheat, and I'm not about to give in, and I'm not about to stop loving, caring, caressing, dancing, smiling, or making love at all hours of the clock, so you should know that you will be expected to return each and every ounce of devotion that I conjure up for you...but then again, I've been celibate for over 8 years - care to guess why? I haven't found anyone who would be willing to be as faithful as I would be - so I've just kept it simple - I'm with me!
Because so many legends and rumours fly over the internet and in books about the mystery of the Scorpio woman, her allure, her luster, her decision to become powerful, her will to stay at the top always - you would do well to read a few sections online before taking her on as your lover or even as your friend. Jeannie (my best friend) has been my best friend for almost 30 years and there's a reason for that - she's never stop loving me. She and I are both water signs, she being the nurturing of the two of us - she can tell you that I piss her off more often than not, but my will to survive and my devotion to her as a friend will always outscore the alternative. My other two best friends were both Scorpio women, make that three - and my best boy/friend, he was a Cancer, another watersign. Without exception, the Scorpio woman simply must be the hardest woman to get to know - but if SHE accepts you, (friend, lover, companion) you will be loved fully, always, and without ceasing - in fact, you may become so loved that you can't see straight, or breathe again on your own. Be very careful what you wish for.
There is a flip side - Scorpios, (and I am NO exception) will not forgive easily - not forget ever. You've heard that saying "Hell hath no fury than as a woman scorned" - it was written because of a Scorpio woman - and it is most actuate. There should be another saying, another proverb written for the Scorpio woman for when she chooses to love - that would be: "Eternity holds no time to that of a Scorpio woman's patience" we will wait - we will, and we're usually the one in the corner, wearing something slinky, something black, something just a little - interesting. Don't stare long, once your gaze is caught it's a lot like Hotel California - You can check out any time you like, but with a Scorpio woman, you can never leave.
Born at 2:56 p.m. on the afternoon of November 22, 1961, I literally was born 4 minutes before the cut off of the great Western horoscope zodiac sign of Scorpio - but I am a Scorpio. Don't fool yourself, never try to outwit, outplay, or outdo me - you'll find my pyrate's smile to be somewhat flattering as I nod your way, pretending to allow you to pass unscathed - you won't pass at all, not without being stung first. I don't say that because I'm vicious, mean, nasty, outrageous, or evil - I say that because it is my very nature, down to my core, to be first - I push myself, I don't need anyone else to do it for me. I have this thing about losing, I don't do it well. I don't play chess - I devour. Therefore, I choose most often not to play anyone - except my son, because he's so tender - irresistible, and if he's foolish enough to ask me to sit across from him - I will stomp his heart out - and then buy him ice cream. I think the boy just probably likes his ice cream, and being the Aries that he is, he doesn't mind running fully into a hornet's nest to get it.
Scorpio just suits me. OK, you're not into it, but I am to a degree - I wasn't, not until I began studying it in college, and found that not only do I fit the mold perfectly for what the Zodiac calls the 3rd Scorpio, those born at the end of the time period reserved for the sign, I am also the epitome of the sign's femme fatale when it comes to getting exactly what I want, when I want it, because I want it, and the good thing is - I'll make you think and feel that it was your idea! Don't worry, I'm actually quite tame - when left alone. As a partner I find it absolutely imperative that my partner be as loyal, and as monogamous as I am - which if you had to rate it on a scale of 1-100 you had BETTER not be less than a 99, because I'm not about to cheat, and I'm not about to give in, and I'm not about to stop loving, caring, caressing, dancing, smiling, or making love at all hours of the clock, so you should know that you will be expected to return each and every ounce of devotion that I conjure up for you...but then again, I've been celibate for over 8 years - care to guess why? I haven't found anyone who would be willing to be as faithful as I would be - so I've just kept it simple - I'm with me!
Because so many legends and rumours fly over the internet and in books about the mystery of the Scorpio woman, her allure, her luster, her decision to become powerful, her will to stay at the top always - you would do well to read a few sections online before taking her on as your lover or even as your friend. Jeannie (my best friend) has been my best friend for almost 30 years and there's a reason for that - she's never stop loving me. She and I are both water signs, she being the nurturing of the two of us - she can tell you that I piss her off more often than not, but my will to survive and my devotion to her as a friend will always outscore the alternative. My other two best friends were both Scorpio women, make that three - and my best boy/friend, he was a Cancer, another watersign. Without exception, the Scorpio woman simply must be the hardest woman to get to know - but if SHE accepts you, (friend, lover, companion) you will be loved fully, always, and without ceasing - in fact, you may become so loved that you can't see straight, or breathe again on your own. Be very careful what you wish for.
There is a flip side - Scorpios, (and I am NO exception) will not forgive easily - not forget ever. You've heard that saying "Hell hath no fury than as a woman scorned" - it was written because of a Scorpio woman - and it is most actuate. There should be another saying, another proverb written for the Scorpio woman for when she chooses to love - that would be: "Eternity holds no time to that of a Scorpio woman's patience" we will wait - we will, and we're usually the one in the corner, wearing something slinky, something black, something just a little - interesting. Don't stare long, once your gaze is caught it's a lot like Hotel California - You can check out any time you like, but with a Scorpio woman, you can never leave.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Mom, I got a TRUCK!
My son cracks me up! The boy calls me at the strangest of times, he's in the Army, he should be marching or something - it was 5:00 a.m. his time - he was too excited for his own good. He was telling me, in the overly hypertensive way that he explains any and everything new and exciting to him, that he was driving a new Dodge! A truck! He was driving it all over the town of Fairbanks, and he didn't have to give it back to its owner for 10 days. The boy was in Heaven. He's wanted transportation in the Klondike for months. Transportation other than the Stryker tank/vehicle that he drives when he's actually being the greatest soldier on the face of the Earth that is.
"Mom," he cried out "I'm in Anchorage." He's stationed 6 hours away in Fairbanks, this was a concern for me. He continued: "My buddy came through the dorm asking if anyone wanted to take him to the airport, he was going on leave - Hell yeah! I got out of bed faster than snot! (his words) I was there man! I was there!" Then there were some screaming noises, hoots, and a few more obscenities that I don't wish to bore you with - the Army doesn't curtail the language thing - and it's clear that they may actually encourage it. Reuben excels in explicit exchanges. What had apparently happened was simple: The buddy needed a ride to the airport, trusted my son to take him, handed his keys to my boy, and went to Birmingham - probably praying that his insurance carrier never got the call that he was filing a claim on an occasional driver from Fairbanks while he was doing a little R & R in Alabama. The minute the buddy stepped foot out of his truck, the truck was gone! Gone as in 10 days of wasting gas, driving endlessly through the highs and hills of the never-ending mammoth that is Alaska - Reuben's always wanted to see exactly how far it was from Fairbanks to Anchorage - June is a good time to test that in a borrowed truck.
Makes me think - would the Army buddy had been better off taking a cab? Doesn't Fairbanks have a metro bus that picks up and takes people from point A to point B when necessary? At least one thing is certain - the mileage on the Dodge will have increased and the smile on my son's face will not have decreased - not for some time.
"Mom," he cried out "I'm in Anchorage." He's stationed 6 hours away in Fairbanks, this was a concern for me. He continued: "My buddy came through the dorm asking if anyone wanted to take him to the airport, he was going on leave - Hell yeah! I got out of bed faster than snot! (his words) I was there man! I was there!" Then there were some screaming noises, hoots, and a few more obscenities that I don't wish to bore you with - the Army doesn't curtail the language thing - and it's clear that they may actually encourage it. Reuben excels in explicit exchanges. What had apparently happened was simple: The buddy needed a ride to the airport, trusted my son to take him, handed his keys to my boy, and went to Birmingham - probably praying that his insurance carrier never got the call that he was filing a claim on an occasional driver from Fairbanks while he was doing a little R & R in Alabama. The minute the buddy stepped foot out of his truck, the truck was gone! Gone as in 10 days of wasting gas, driving endlessly through the highs and hills of the never-ending mammoth that is Alaska - Reuben's always wanted to see exactly how far it was from Fairbanks to Anchorage - June is a good time to test that in a borrowed truck.
Makes me think - would the Army buddy had been better off taking a cab? Doesn't Fairbanks have a metro bus that picks up and takes people from point A to point B when necessary? At least one thing is certain - the mileage on the Dodge will have increased and the smile on my son's face will not have decreased - not for some time.
The Big House!
My friend Niki and I like to pretend. We like to go to open houses, not only on Sunday, but anytime we see an open sign, or sign showing that a home is a model home, and we like to go into it with the pretense that we're rich and famous and we'd like to consider it for a purchase. You know, for the kids, because we couldn't possibly live in such a small house of say 3000 square feet. We much have the Chateaux!
Going to model homes on Sunday must be a way of life for some families - a form of entertainment. I like to stand back in the dining area and listen to the families coming into the house and watch the kids screaming and running up and down the stairs "calling" rooms, and claiming their space. We did that. When I was a kid, we would go to homes on Sunday after dinner and we'd pretend it was our house - or going to be. Like the kid I was in the 1960's, Niki and I go and look, pretend, wish and dream - making statements to each other, but we don't even try to fake out the mortgage guy, the realtor, or the person showing the open house. We're beyond that. We just lie to each other, and try to out do each other when it comes to the lawn being just so, or the master bedroom's closet being far too small for all of our clothes. We can't buy this one I'll say, because the island in the kitchen is too close to the cabinet. We can't buy this one she'll say, because the fireplace doesn't have the right ambiance. Not conducive to the lifestyle we have been accustomed to. (Then we smile and giggle just a little before we leave)
Today's last home was a bit different - it felt like I could actually get it someday - someday meaning after the first of the year when my books are mainstream, and the contract for the next three books are picked up. Maybe, just maybe, we actually walked through my future home. If we did, I'll be living on Carriage Way in Oklahoma City, rather than in the high rise condo I have been so painstakingly looking for in Chicago - IT may become my fantasy home, the one that got away - or perhaps I'll end up subletting for a few months each year to write and/or get away from the brats. That's it - the house I looked at today was big enough, 3600 square feet, to be in the house with the kids, and not even realize it - not if they were on THEIR side of the house. We could draw a line really - they could have the South end and I would take the North. I guess the kitchen's island, which isn't too close to the Galaxy-Black granite cabinet, could be Base. We could keep our hands on it and be safe - like in that game Tag - you have to have a Base...never mind, I'm digressing, just trying to take you with me down that memory - you get it.
This house had 3 garages, but one of them was separate, apart from the house, had it's own drive to it - that's where the Christmas stuff would be stored. You have a 3600 square foot house and you're going to have a 12x15 storage unit for your seasonal needs. The 2nd living area is the "Christmas Tree Room" in our family - always has been. Recently the poor thing has been stuck in a corner, squashed against the bricks in the den, or between the dining room and the hall because there wasn't room to walk around it properly otherwise - not in this house, it has its OWN room - maybe I'll get another tree for the formal dining, just to keep the squishing tree tradition going! Family traditions shouldn't die just because I can afford a bigger house!
If this were, or going to be my new house - I'll be happy when I see myself in the overtly deep Jetta spa in my bathroom - candles burning, bubbles bobbing, steam rolling - and Buble on the CD...NO one better interrupt this woman's pleasure - well, someone, but not a kid! Like the moment the dog makes the sighing sound, the sign that they've retired for the night - this woman will make the aaaaahhhhhhhh "I'm-in-the-tub-now" sigh, and that's all she wrote. (All she wrote, get it, I'm an author - all she wrote! Never mind, it was funny, I laughed.)
Going to model homes on Sunday must be a way of life for some families - a form of entertainment. I like to stand back in the dining area and listen to the families coming into the house and watch the kids screaming and running up and down the stairs "calling" rooms, and claiming their space. We did that. When I was a kid, we would go to homes on Sunday after dinner and we'd pretend it was our house - or going to be. Like the kid I was in the 1960's, Niki and I go and look, pretend, wish and dream - making statements to each other, but we don't even try to fake out the mortgage guy, the realtor, or the person showing the open house. We're beyond that. We just lie to each other, and try to out do each other when it comes to the lawn being just so, or the master bedroom's closet being far too small for all of our clothes. We can't buy this one I'll say, because the island in the kitchen is too close to the cabinet. We can't buy this one she'll say, because the fireplace doesn't have the right ambiance. Not conducive to the lifestyle we have been accustomed to. (Then we smile and giggle just a little before we leave)
Today's last home was a bit different - it felt like I could actually get it someday - someday meaning after the first of the year when my books are mainstream, and the contract for the next three books are picked up. Maybe, just maybe, we actually walked through my future home. If we did, I'll be living on Carriage Way in Oklahoma City, rather than in the high rise condo I have been so painstakingly looking for in Chicago - IT may become my fantasy home, the one that got away - or perhaps I'll end up subletting for a few months each year to write and/or get away from the brats. That's it - the house I looked at today was big enough, 3600 square feet, to be in the house with the kids, and not even realize it - not if they were on THEIR side of the house. We could draw a line really - they could have the South end and I would take the North. I guess the kitchen's island, which isn't too close to the Galaxy-Black granite cabinet, could be Base. We could keep our hands on it and be safe - like in that game Tag - you have to have a Base...never mind, I'm digressing, just trying to take you with me down that memory - you get it.
This house had 3 garages, but one of them was separate, apart from the house, had it's own drive to it - that's where the Christmas stuff would be stored. You have a 3600 square foot house and you're going to have a 12x15 storage unit for your seasonal needs. The 2nd living area is the "Christmas Tree Room" in our family - always has been. Recently the poor thing has been stuck in a corner, squashed against the bricks in the den, or between the dining room and the hall because there wasn't room to walk around it properly otherwise - not in this house, it has its OWN room - maybe I'll get another tree for the formal dining, just to keep the squishing tree tradition going! Family traditions shouldn't die just because I can afford a bigger house!
If this were, or going to be my new house - I'll be happy when I see myself in the overtly deep Jetta spa in my bathroom - candles burning, bubbles bobbing, steam rolling - and Buble on the CD...NO one better interrupt this woman's pleasure - well, someone, but not a kid! Like the moment the dog makes the sighing sound, the sign that they've retired for the night - this woman will make the aaaaahhhhhhhh "I'm-in-the-tub-now" sigh, and that's all she wrote. (All she wrote, get it, I'm an author - all she wrote! Never mind, it was funny, I laughed.)
The Joys of Publishing
Yes, yes, the joys of publishing your fourth book - they don't hold a candle to the thrill, the excitement, the unbridled fear that you experience the first time you step out and decide to go that last step and PAY someone to publish your book because NO ONE seems to be interested in publishing it...sadly, I know that feeling well. The really cool thing about being a self-published author is the control - not that you actually have any, but you can lie to your friends, community, people on the street - anyone willing to listen really, and you can tell them all about the control you have. You can tell them that the publishing company has to wait on YOU to be ready to go the next step, that you have the last say, that you proofread, and that you edit, and that you are the master of your own destiny - not one bit of it is truth, but if they're not into paying someone to produce a book they won't know.
The first time I threw in the towel on trying to find a real house to publish my books was in 2005. I realized that sending out manuscripts to agents or potential agents just wasn't cutting it. I didn't even get the descent courtesy from most of them to even write me back a nasty little letter saying no thanks. All I got was dead-air, white space, nothing, time just wasting away - finally I had stopped the waiting game. I took my forehead off the wall, found myself looking up self-publishers on the internet and settled on Xlibris because I didn't like the names of the other publishers. I didn't like Author House for instance - too boring. I didn't like First Books - that said to the world that I was a new author. At least with Xlibris I had the chance to break the ice with someone who questioned the pronunciation of the name! I could spell it out for them, take the second or two to get their attention, maybe start a conversation about how they, the bookstore, could be willing to purchase or order a few of my books to put on their shelves. At least I had that.
So, Xlibris it was. Little did I know that Xlibris, for all it's fancy-schmancy name would be hard to work with - hard to manage at times, and certainly not willing to cooperate with ME the AUTHOR of the book I PAID them to publish. The first experience was a roller coaster to put it bluntly. I learned so much that first time around that the 2nd and 3rd times I went in fully armored, and with an attitude of the Grand Bitch just so I could get through the first few layers of watchdogs they put on the phone who are paid to not let you through to the people who actually do the work on the books themselves - or the finance people. Trying to get answers about the amount of books actually printed was a nightmare.
My first book "With a Little Faith" came back with so many errors after I had sent it off nearly error free (English professor, I do actually proofread my work) that I was compelled to not only complain, but threatened to fly to the Philippines where it is worked out to rip off a few heads. The distance notwithstanding, was not the issue. The issue was that my book, my baby, was being subjected to a rewrite or at least a once-over that included changing words. It was explained to me that several passages of the original had been lost in a "glitch" and that the editors had repaired my book. I asked for it to be changed, but it was not. The book was printed, and 37 typographical and/or grammatical errors later - I was livid. Not to mention the book was not the size I had asked for. It was the size I had marked down, but not the size I had subsequently spoken to the leader of the project about - after I saw the prototype. Oh, and speaking of the prototype, it took six extra weeks from the time I was told it would be in my hands. That made my 2nd editing go a bit faster. I was unable to go through the book entirely due to the fact that I was going on the Montel Show to showcase it in less than a month.
Well, needless to say - I did cry when it came out. Both because it was out, and because it was out with errors. Sort of like seeing your child for the first time and realizing its has a bigger nose than you thought possible, you cry - you're excited, but you're thinking "Where did that come from, is it going to go down?" There it was - in it's glory - yes, I got the e-mails for months. "I thought you were an English professor" and "I found a mistake in your book, you may wish to contact your editor." Thanks. Nothing like being reminded 300 times a week that you were the ultimate one in charge, you were responsible, it was up to you, after all didn't you say you SELF published?
Well, this time, the fourth time - I'll have a bit more say. I had a little more say after we were on Oprah, Montel, Maury, and a few other shows. After the 50th book signing at military stations, and after about 20,000 books were printed - and only 12,000 paid for - that's the other thing about self published books, you really DO NOT KNOW, and you can't know, how many books are actually printed. You'll never know how many of your books are really sold - you can't. How can you know? You can't stop them from printing and if they simply don't report to you - you won't know. The fourth time, this time - a little different. I'm going into it knowing the ISBN will be picked up by someone down the road if only because the others were - it works that way. Having the book out there, ready, on the shelves and in the system makes it easier for an agent, a producer, a film maker, anyone to pull it off the computer, buy it from Amazon, and make a decision about it - that goes for real publishing houses too. They can track the sales from Amazon, anyway - because THEY report correctly.
This fourth book? What will it be about? Oh, you're reading it. My blogs! Sort of like a modern day Erma Bombeck. She was my hero - always will be. What a gal - what would she say about the way self publishers treat their clients? Probably something funny, probably something profound, but she'd smile a bit too, because it wasn't available when she was writing - the pain of waiting and the game of kissing tail was a monopoly of a collective few - we've come a little way - soon, we, the self published authors may be the norm. But, will any writer REALLY be considered NORMAL? Gosh, I hope not.
The first time I threw in the towel on trying to find a real house to publish my books was in 2005. I realized that sending out manuscripts to agents or potential agents just wasn't cutting it. I didn't even get the descent courtesy from most of them to even write me back a nasty little letter saying no thanks. All I got was dead-air, white space, nothing, time just wasting away - finally I had stopped the waiting game. I took my forehead off the wall, found myself looking up self-publishers on the internet and settled on Xlibris because I didn't like the names of the other publishers. I didn't like Author House for instance - too boring. I didn't like First Books - that said to the world that I was a new author. At least with Xlibris I had the chance to break the ice with someone who questioned the pronunciation of the name! I could spell it out for them, take the second or two to get their attention, maybe start a conversation about how they, the bookstore, could be willing to purchase or order a few of my books to put on their shelves. At least I had that.
So, Xlibris it was. Little did I know that Xlibris, for all it's fancy-schmancy name would be hard to work with - hard to manage at times, and certainly not willing to cooperate with ME the AUTHOR of the book I PAID them to publish. The first experience was a roller coaster to put it bluntly. I learned so much that first time around that the 2nd and 3rd times I went in fully armored, and with an attitude of the Grand Bitch just so I could get through the first few layers of watchdogs they put on the phone who are paid to not let you through to the people who actually do the work on the books themselves - or the finance people. Trying to get answers about the amount of books actually printed was a nightmare.
My first book "With a Little Faith" came back with so many errors after I had sent it off nearly error free (English professor, I do actually proofread my work) that I was compelled to not only complain, but threatened to fly to the Philippines where it is worked out to rip off a few heads. The distance notwithstanding, was not the issue. The issue was that my book, my baby, was being subjected to a rewrite or at least a once-over that included changing words. It was explained to me that several passages of the original had been lost in a "glitch" and that the editors had repaired my book. I asked for it to be changed, but it was not. The book was printed, and 37 typographical and/or grammatical errors later - I was livid. Not to mention the book was not the size I had asked for. It was the size I had marked down, but not the size I had subsequently spoken to the leader of the project about - after I saw the prototype. Oh, and speaking of the prototype, it took six extra weeks from the time I was told it would be in my hands. That made my 2nd editing go a bit faster. I was unable to go through the book entirely due to the fact that I was going on the Montel Show to showcase it in less than a month.
Well, needless to say - I did cry when it came out. Both because it was out, and because it was out with errors. Sort of like seeing your child for the first time and realizing its has a bigger nose than you thought possible, you cry - you're excited, but you're thinking "Where did that come from, is it going to go down?" There it was - in it's glory - yes, I got the e-mails for months. "I thought you were an English professor" and "I found a mistake in your book, you may wish to contact your editor." Thanks. Nothing like being reminded 300 times a week that you were the ultimate one in charge, you were responsible, it was up to you, after all didn't you say you SELF published?
Well, this time, the fourth time - I'll have a bit more say. I had a little more say after we were on Oprah, Montel, Maury, and a few other shows. After the 50th book signing at military stations, and after about 20,000 books were printed - and only 12,000 paid for - that's the other thing about self published books, you really DO NOT KNOW, and you can't know, how many books are actually printed. You'll never know how many of your books are really sold - you can't. How can you know? You can't stop them from printing and if they simply don't report to you - you won't know. The fourth time, this time - a little different. I'm going into it knowing the ISBN will be picked up by someone down the road if only because the others were - it works that way. Having the book out there, ready, on the shelves and in the system makes it easier for an agent, a producer, a film maker, anyone to pull it off the computer, buy it from Amazon, and make a decision about it - that goes for real publishing houses too. They can track the sales from Amazon, anyway - because THEY report correctly.
This fourth book? What will it be about? Oh, you're reading it. My blogs! Sort of like a modern day Erma Bombeck. She was my hero - always will be. What a gal - what would she say about the way self publishers treat their clients? Probably something funny, probably something profound, but she'd smile a bit too, because it wasn't available when she was writing - the pain of waiting and the game of kissing tail was a monopoly of a collective few - we've come a little way - soon, we, the self published authors may be the norm. But, will any writer REALLY be considered NORMAL? Gosh, I hope not.
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Not Tested on Animals!
I picked up a bottle of Aussie brand shampoo - some of the best hair products are wearing purple. Just thought I'd let you know. One of the things that I found rather odd or off about the shampoo was their company or corporate claim that the products made by Aussie weren't tested on any animals - but it was OK for me to use. I thought about that. We can slaughter pigs, chickens, cows, goats, and sheep - but we can't shampoo or condition them - that may harm the animal. People cut off the feet of chickens for voo-doo, they chop off a rabbit's foot for good luck - at least they used to in the day - but we've actually stopped shampooing and we've stopped conditioning the hair of the hare! Does that concern anyone besides me?
Rats can run around in little mazes, be injected with steroids, the various viruses, AIDs, Hepatitis; monkeys too - but don't clean them. Don't put gel on their fur - don't deodorize them, and for gosh sakes don't put mousse on a mouse. This actually made me stop and think before I bought the product. I stood there in the aisle at Target - deciding rather to support the continued effort of animal friendly Australians, or to go with my gut instinct and buy the junk whose company's owners could boast about holding down the little varments and cleaning up their act before injecting them with something lethal - I want clean dead animals, I don't want dirty, stinking, filthy dead lab rats....lather, rinse, repeat!
OK, I'm lying, I didn't take more than a few seconds to think it over before laughing to myself, making myself look like the idiot I am - and I moved on. I moved to the checkout stand, but when I got home, I exploded into adventure. I grabbed the dachshund (well, he's 1/2 dachshund and 1/2 beagle) and I threw his tri-colored butt into the tub. I started the luke warm water flowing, and much - much- much to his chagrin I poured a healthy amount of Aussie shampoo onto his animal body! I worked that liquid goo into a plethora of foaming lather and I scrubbed the dog clean. There wasn't an inch of mutt left that wasn't interrogated, manipulated, forced into bubble-mania froth - that dog was tested! The 3-minute condition was another story, he did actually refuse to stand still in the knee-high water long enough for that to take effect. He had the 30 second conditioning, but he got conditioned by-golly!
After a tight toweling, and a few wiggle shakings that dogs do, throwing their ears into helicopter spins - the dog was pissed. He was clean as a whistle mind you, and he had been cleaned by some of the best human-tested products on the face of the Earth, but he was spotless. He smelled good too - but he didn't care. He's not really talking to me right now. My other dog Faith, she took the thrashing and the growling from Matrix to mean that her fate may very well be sealed - she may be next. That wouldn't be necessary actually, my fun was over. I just wanted to prove it could be done. Sort of like when chickens cross the road - to prove to the armadillos and the skunks that it can be done!
Rats can run around in little mazes, be injected with steroids, the various viruses, AIDs, Hepatitis; monkeys too - but don't clean them. Don't put gel on their fur - don't deodorize them, and for gosh sakes don't put mousse on a mouse. This actually made me stop and think before I bought the product. I stood there in the aisle at Target - deciding rather to support the continued effort of animal friendly Australians, or to go with my gut instinct and buy the junk whose company's owners could boast about holding down the little varments and cleaning up their act before injecting them with something lethal - I want clean dead animals, I don't want dirty, stinking, filthy dead lab rats....lather, rinse, repeat!
OK, I'm lying, I didn't take more than a few seconds to think it over before laughing to myself, making myself look like the idiot I am - and I moved on. I moved to the checkout stand, but when I got home, I exploded into adventure. I grabbed the dachshund (well, he's 1/2 dachshund and 1/2 beagle) and I threw his tri-colored butt into the tub. I started the luke warm water flowing, and much - much- much to his chagrin I poured a healthy amount of Aussie shampoo onto his animal body! I worked that liquid goo into a plethora of foaming lather and I scrubbed the dog clean. There wasn't an inch of mutt left that wasn't interrogated, manipulated, forced into bubble-mania froth - that dog was tested! The 3-minute condition was another story, he did actually refuse to stand still in the knee-high water long enough for that to take effect. He had the 30 second conditioning, but he got conditioned by-golly!
After a tight toweling, and a few wiggle shakings that dogs do, throwing their ears into helicopter spins - the dog was pissed. He was clean as a whistle mind you, and he had been cleaned by some of the best human-tested products on the face of the Earth, but he was spotless. He smelled good too - but he didn't care. He's not really talking to me right now. My other dog Faith, she took the thrashing and the growling from Matrix to mean that her fate may very well be sealed - she may be next. That wouldn't be necessary actually, my fun was over. I just wanted to prove it could be done. Sort of like when chickens cross the road - to prove to the armadillos and the skunks that it can be done!
You'd Have to Understand My Parents.
To try and explain my parents to you in a blog would be really hard to do. You'd just have to know them, know the type of person, the country souls that they are - in order to fully grasp the reasoning behind SO MANY things they say and do. Sometimes I stand back, shake my head, and just walk away. Other times I laugh boldly, and throw out a suggestion, something bringing them both back to the 21st century, because clearly, like you're precious parents probably, these people are from WAY OUT THERE.
This morning I drove the nearly thirty miles to the "farm", which isn't a farm, but an overgrown patch of grass out in the sticks that is literally surrounded by acres and acres of other people's patches of grass that is overgrown, thicketed, bordered by trails and endless winding gravely roads that lead to absolutely nowhere. If I told you the name of the township that they lived in you couldn't find it - except that it does actually have a strong connection to the historical Route 66 with its round red barn, and the borders which were ever important on the day of the land run for the unassigned lands, what most people believe to be the ONLY land run in Oklahoma, dated April 22, 1889. There were two subsequent land runs, no one really knows that fact. Nevertheless, this is the place, the spot that my parents decided was perfect to settle into about 22 years ago, and like the mud they live on top of, they are not going anywhere soon. They are stuck in their ruts, and the word "impasse" just won't scratch the surface to their stubborn nature when the topic of moving comes up.
Having explained that, I can now tell you that I found my dear mother at the kitchen table, which is never ever used as a table, but as a storage for food that could be easily stored in the cupboard dad made for her about a month ago. The cupboard, more or less an overtly ornate armour, suitable for display, as dad does happen to be a top-notch cabinet man, actually sits inside the closet where the washer and dryer would be, if they weren't out in the barn. Are you getting this? Do you understand? OK - there she is, at the table, and she's sewing - - wait for it, a new dust collection bag, one that fits a Rockwell drill that must be at least 30 years old. Why is my mother sewing a new canvas bag for my dad, and why is she using his old jeans to do it? Because the cat (Pretty Kitty, a 16 year old delicate feline) has killed yet another 1-pound pack rat out in the "shop" where dad stores his tools, and the rat's family has eaten through the canvas (rather than using the handy zipper at the base of the bag) to get to the sawdust that is inside the bag, rather than using the sawdust that is so readily already spilled out onto the floor of the shop under the table saws. Why must rats be so inconvenient?
Mom's making a dust collection bag out of jeans. Dad is de-ticking the 16 year old cat, but not sure if what he's pulling off of her is an actual tick, or if it is part of her body, a tumor or something, he's not a vet, but he's examining it - and muttering something. The house REEEEEEKS of a strange bacon fat odor, something that I'm not used to because I don't eat that stuff - and since their bacon comes from the real farmer down the road - it smells differently than the bacon that I would buy if I bought it - if I ate it, I don't. It sticks in the air, hangs there and won't let you go when you walk through the aroma like a paste over the stove.
Don't get me wrong. I love my parents, but if I were to call them and say "Hey, what's going on, what are you guys doing today?" I wouldn't hear a pair of happy, chirpy voices from folks in their 70's looking to have a little Saturday adventure in town - they're not the opera type, the concert type, the shopping type, they're not even the going to town type - except on those rare occasions that something they bought in bulk runs out. What I got was an old man muttering about a pack rat in the shop. It had more than 5 pounds of cat food stored away in a hidey-hole, and looks like the dang thing took a screwdriver, a watch band, a few nuts and bolts, and what appears to be a sock, but my dad didn't get the flashlight to work, so he couldn't tell. Didn't matter the cat killed another one. This one makes 4 now, in a week. She's old, but she's good.
Mom, on the other hand told me she was sewing - me, I assumed it was a dress.
I just went by to check up on them, skinny man - maybe 120 pounds at over six foot, and mom sometimes forgets to wear her knee brace when she gardens. I just never know what I'm going to get, see, hear, or find out when I get to their place - except one things always certain, they're still in love.
This morning I drove the nearly thirty miles to the "farm", which isn't a farm, but an overgrown patch of grass out in the sticks that is literally surrounded by acres and acres of other people's patches of grass that is overgrown, thicketed, bordered by trails and endless winding gravely roads that lead to absolutely nowhere. If I told you the name of the township that they lived in you couldn't find it - except that it does actually have a strong connection to the historical Route 66 with its round red barn, and the borders which were ever important on the day of the land run for the unassigned lands, what most people believe to be the ONLY land run in Oklahoma, dated April 22, 1889. There were two subsequent land runs, no one really knows that fact. Nevertheless, this is the place, the spot that my parents decided was perfect to settle into about 22 years ago, and like the mud they live on top of, they are not going anywhere soon. They are stuck in their ruts, and the word "impasse" just won't scratch the surface to their stubborn nature when the topic of moving comes up.
Having explained that, I can now tell you that I found my dear mother at the kitchen table, which is never ever used as a table, but as a storage for food that could be easily stored in the cupboard dad made for her about a month ago. The cupboard, more or less an overtly ornate armour, suitable for display, as dad does happen to be a top-notch cabinet man, actually sits inside the closet where the washer and dryer would be, if they weren't out in the barn. Are you getting this? Do you understand? OK - there she is, at the table, and she's sewing - - wait for it, a new dust collection bag, one that fits a Rockwell drill that must be at least 30 years old. Why is my mother sewing a new canvas bag for my dad, and why is she using his old jeans to do it? Because the cat (Pretty Kitty, a 16 year old delicate feline) has killed yet another 1-pound pack rat out in the "shop" where dad stores his tools, and the rat's family has eaten through the canvas (rather than using the handy zipper at the base of the bag) to get to the sawdust that is inside the bag, rather than using the sawdust that is so readily already spilled out onto the floor of the shop under the table saws. Why must rats be so inconvenient?
Mom's making a dust collection bag out of jeans. Dad is de-ticking the 16 year old cat, but not sure if what he's pulling off of her is an actual tick, or if it is part of her body, a tumor or something, he's not a vet, but he's examining it - and muttering something. The house REEEEEEKS of a strange bacon fat odor, something that I'm not used to because I don't eat that stuff - and since their bacon comes from the real farmer down the road - it smells differently than the bacon that I would buy if I bought it - if I ate it, I don't. It sticks in the air, hangs there and won't let you go when you walk through the aroma like a paste over the stove.
Don't get me wrong. I love my parents, but if I were to call them and say "Hey, what's going on, what are you guys doing today?" I wouldn't hear a pair of happy, chirpy voices from folks in their 70's looking to have a little Saturday adventure in town - they're not the opera type, the concert type, the shopping type, they're not even the going to town type - except on those rare occasions that something they bought in bulk runs out. What I got was an old man muttering about a pack rat in the shop. It had more than 5 pounds of cat food stored away in a hidey-hole, and looks like the dang thing took a screwdriver, a watch band, a few nuts and bolts, and what appears to be a sock, but my dad didn't get the flashlight to work, so he couldn't tell. Didn't matter the cat killed another one. This one makes 4 now, in a week. She's old, but she's good.
Mom, on the other hand told me she was sewing - me, I assumed it was a dress.
I just went by to check up on them, skinny man - maybe 120 pounds at over six foot, and mom sometimes forgets to wear her knee brace when she gardens. I just never know what I'm going to get, see, hear, or find out when I get to their place - except one things always certain, they're still in love.
Friday, June 22, 2007
MATH is a Four-Letter Word
Being an English major - well, an English professor, I have a tendency to not want to work mathematical problems in my head. When the need arises (because math happens to the best of us) I usually do OK writing out the problem, working it slowly, double checking to make sure I haven't carried over the wrong number or taken away a number when I'm suppose to be adding a number, and then I just throw up my hands and hand the checkbook over to the banker and say "You get paid to do this!" - and I just let him work through my mess.
I have a couple of accounts. One I don't mess with. It's the REAL account as I call it. The other account is a little checking that I use strictly for Ebay purchases, online payments for books, and other things I simply can't live without and have to get on sale - otherwise I feel as if I'm paying full price, and the Scots in me just gets all riled up. I love, love, absolutely LOVE www.half.com, and if you haven't gone - go! The 2nd account is the one that I mess with and mess up all the time. I can't seem to make it to the bank on time every time and it causes problems. It's not entirely my fault - I went to school to learn Humanities not Math. I do Math, but it's more like the way I speak Spanish - only when I have to, and only under stress as well as duress.
It would be great if during the 1960's someone thought to teach me Spanish, my educational path led me through my own native language, the history of it, the usage of it, the syntax, and the breakdown for every single type of clause plausible - but no one thought it good to teach me Spanish. I have tried. Oh, I try - and the students I teach who are natural Spanish speakers - they laugh at me. "Oh, Miss Stringfellow, you're so funny, so cute. Do you know what you just said?" I don't think I want to find out - I probably insulted their goat or something. Most of my kids had a pet goat - which of course they weren't allowed to have in city limits so they kept it inside - YOU do the math on that one. I laughed at them when they came to school and used the old excuse of their goat ate their homework. They weren't lying.
So my checkbook was out of whack because of the automated withdrawal from the gym that I no longer attend. My banker explained to me that putting money in my account from the other account would be best - so we set that up. Overdraft protection. God, I love my banker - he's so smart. I needed this in the 80's when I was young and stupid, now that I'm old and stupid, it's a great security blanket. $250 worth of screw ups....all covered. But I know I still won't be able to make it to the bank fast enough for it to count. Somewhere down the line someone will call me and say "You might want to raise that O.P. to about $300, maybe more, what do you think?" Or, here's a suggestion Jude, stop buying so much on Ebay! Oh, I shutter to think that! No, I can't do that. My post man would think I was mad at him personally. We see each other every day. Sometimes he stands around and waits for me to open the boxes and the packages to see what I got for nothing - plus shipping and handling.
English is good. I like English. Often (in these blogs, too) you'll question my use of the language. You'll say "Hey, she's an English professor, why would she say something like that?", but if you do - and you will - I'll just laugh at you and say something like "At least I left your goat out of it!"
I have a couple of accounts. One I don't mess with. It's the REAL account as I call it. The other account is a little checking that I use strictly for Ebay purchases, online payments for books, and other things I simply can't live without and have to get on sale - otherwise I feel as if I'm paying full price, and the Scots in me just gets all riled up. I love, love, absolutely LOVE www.half.com, and if you haven't gone - go! The 2nd account is the one that I mess with and mess up all the time. I can't seem to make it to the bank on time every time and it causes problems. It's not entirely my fault - I went to school to learn Humanities not Math. I do Math, but it's more like the way I speak Spanish - only when I have to, and only under stress as well as duress.
It would be great if during the 1960's someone thought to teach me Spanish, my educational path led me through my own native language, the history of it, the usage of it, the syntax, and the breakdown for every single type of clause plausible - but no one thought it good to teach me Spanish. I have tried. Oh, I try - and the students I teach who are natural Spanish speakers - they laugh at me. "Oh, Miss Stringfellow, you're so funny, so cute. Do you know what you just said?" I don't think I want to find out - I probably insulted their goat or something. Most of my kids had a pet goat - which of course they weren't allowed to have in city limits so they kept it inside - YOU do the math on that one. I laughed at them when they came to school and used the old excuse of their goat ate their homework. They weren't lying.
So my checkbook was out of whack because of the automated withdrawal from the gym that I no longer attend. My banker explained to me that putting money in my account from the other account would be best - so we set that up. Overdraft protection. God, I love my banker - he's so smart. I needed this in the 80's when I was young and stupid, now that I'm old and stupid, it's a great security blanket. $250 worth of screw ups....all covered. But I know I still won't be able to make it to the bank fast enough for it to count. Somewhere down the line someone will call me and say "You might want to raise that O.P. to about $300, maybe more, what do you think?" Or, here's a suggestion Jude, stop buying so much on Ebay! Oh, I shutter to think that! No, I can't do that. My post man would think I was mad at him personally. We see each other every day. Sometimes he stands around and waits for me to open the boxes and the packages to see what I got for nothing - plus shipping and handling.
English is good. I like English. Often (in these blogs, too) you'll question my use of the language. You'll say "Hey, she's an English professor, why would she say something like that?", but if you do - and you will - I'll just laugh at you and say something like "At least I left your goat out of it!"
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Bring Your Dog To Work Day.
Didn't you know - today was Bring Your Dog To Work Day - at least that's what I told my boss when I showed up to his Farmers Insurance agency with Faith. He laughed - took it well, he's cool like that. The building's occupants have been entertained and in one case outright amazed! The front door opened and an Australian man looking for a certain business came into the common lobby. He stood back and looked first, thinking something to himself before approaching and before sheepishly inquiring - "Is, is, is that Faith?" I smiled. Yes, this is Faith. He laughed out loud, immediately causing the dog to bark, dogs do that, they panic a bit when someone bends over laughing and grabbing their knees - she barked, he laughed again, my boss motioned for me to go to the lobby so he could finish his call. No doubt the service center for Farmers wondered where Will was calling from.
Faith is a cave-dwelling dog. She sits under or she'll lay under the desk, a chair, the bed, something where she can hide her head from the general public. We laugh at her quite often as she actually is the World's Most Photographed Animal, and here she is hiding - we should put a little pair of Ray Bans on her so she looks the part of the celebrity avoiding the paparazzi. She's hiding - shhh, don't look! She has in the past, come to my work place quite often, and in the past 15 months we have been working very closely together, so when I took the position recently to be Will Liebl's Agent Producer - something of a change for me, but definitely a change for the yellow one. She felt left out, left behind, forgotten. I'd come home and she'd burrow under the bed even further so I could reach her - only coming out when it was time to eat, go outside, or go to bed - she sleeps on top, but she still tried to avoid me due to her feelings being hurt a little. So, this morning, I used the words - gave the command "LET'S GO" and she was up! She was out of the house, in the drive, running to the car, and hopping like mad! She was really ready to go! She likes going - doesn't matter where, she likes going.
The work place is calm - we sell insurance. We have had some fun with the clients, and no doubt we'll use her status in the future to lure and persuade those hard to reach clients - come in, see the dog! She won't try to sell you anything - righhhhhht....pet the puppy!
Go ahead, ask your boss if you can bring Fluffy to work - see if he/she lets you. Just be sure and stop by your Farmers Insurance agent first to pick up that $1,000,000 umbrella policy for the hands that may suffer the worst from it. Heck, bringing my dog to work is a lot safer than bringing the kids. I used to tell the apartment managers to forget about the pet deposits, that kid-deposit needs to be enforced!
Faith is a cave-dwelling dog. She sits under or she'll lay under the desk, a chair, the bed, something where she can hide her head from the general public. We laugh at her quite often as she actually is the World's Most Photographed Animal, and here she is hiding - we should put a little pair of Ray Bans on her so she looks the part of the celebrity avoiding the paparazzi. She's hiding - shhh, don't look! She has in the past, come to my work place quite often, and in the past 15 months we have been working very closely together, so when I took the position recently to be Will Liebl's Agent Producer - something of a change for me, but definitely a change for the yellow one. She felt left out, left behind, forgotten. I'd come home and she'd burrow under the bed even further so I could reach her - only coming out when it was time to eat, go outside, or go to bed - she sleeps on top, but she still tried to avoid me due to her feelings being hurt a little. So, this morning, I used the words - gave the command "LET'S GO" and she was up! She was out of the house, in the drive, running to the car, and hopping like mad! She was really ready to go! She likes going - doesn't matter where, she likes going.
The work place is calm - we sell insurance. We have had some fun with the clients, and no doubt we'll use her status in the future to lure and persuade those hard to reach clients - come in, see the dog! She won't try to sell you anything - righhhhhht....pet the puppy!
Go ahead, ask your boss if you can bring Fluffy to work - see if he/she lets you. Just be sure and stop by your Farmers Insurance agent first to pick up that $1,000,000 umbrella policy for the hands that may suffer the worst from it. Heck, bringing my dog to work is a lot safer than bringing the kids. I used to tell the apartment managers to forget about the pet deposits, that kid-deposit needs to be enforced!
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Boys and Their Boogers.
I simply love my kid. I really do, but when I went to the car detailer today he told me not only that I had a kid, he was actually able to tell me that it was a boy. I asked him how he knew because I didn't have anything, not one thing in the car that remotely looked like a boy had been in the car. I have a few girl things - perhaps the detailed minded detail man assumed those items in the back pouch of the front seat were mine. His answer - BOOGERS. You have a bunch of crusty old boogers on the right side of both the driver's side and the passenger side. He then made it clear that he'd never assume I was the nose-picker in the family. He stated that more booger-seats come from boys than girls, and when the boogers are on both seats in virtually the same pattern (I think the man watches CSI) that he assumed again, that I had a boy. A tall boy he added - because the boogers were pretty low on the edge of each seat.
I tested the man's theory. I called a few of my friends who had boys and girls both. I asked them to let me talk to their kids, not to them, they wouldn't have admitted it if they were putting the nasty, sticky, gooey, nose mucus on their seats - kids will cop to anything if you make it fun enough. Sure enough, the boys won out over the girls 11 boys to 2 girls. That means either the other 4 girls were lying - or they don't do that sort of thing. I know these girls, they lie, but something tells me that this time they were JUST as amazed as I was. How many boys over the age of 15 did I speak with - 11. EVERY boy stuck their boogers on their parents' cars. EVERY boy without exception. Their parents were more than shocked - well, they were out-and-out, flat-busted amazed at what they had been subjecting themselves to because as one of the moms told me, she had to sit in the passenger seat of her own car on several occasions and now she's thinking she has streaks of grossness all over her clothes and legs - old or not, there may be a transfer.
How come we don't see that fact on CSI - speaking of CSI. I want Mac Taylor to do a segment where he's investigating a murder, and the suspect is unknown, but they DO KNOW that he or she was in the car JUST before the murder took place. (Lie and wait sort of thing) Mac could find fresh boogers on the side of the driver's seat and Stella could give him that upper-lip curled look of hers. She could shake her head and say "How did you know that?" Mac could be honest and say he doesn't always have a tissue handy when he's out in traffic - flinch! Oh, that would be priceless - another in depth human trait of yet another character - revealed, and now we love the guy that much more. Could be a skyrocket for the ratings - air it during Sweeps Week!
I paid the man. I drove my freshly cleaned Focus home (His name is Steve, named him after Steve Irwin in fact). I thanked Steve for being so patient and forgiving of my son. Then I got on MySpace and looked for my 3rd "friend" RUBY. We talked.
I tested the man's theory. I called a few of my friends who had boys and girls both. I asked them to let me talk to their kids, not to them, they wouldn't have admitted it if they were putting the nasty, sticky, gooey, nose mucus on their seats - kids will cop to anything if you make it fun enough. Sure enough, the boys won out over the girls 11 boys to 2 girls. That means either the other 4 girls were lying - or they don't do that sort of thing. I know these girls, they lie, but something tells me that this time they were JUST as amazed as I was. How many boys over the age of 15 did I speak with - 11. EVERY boy stuck their boogers on their parents' cars. EVERY boy without exception. Their parents were more than shocked - well, they were out-and-out, flat-busted amazed at what they had been subjecting themselves to because as one of the moms told me, she had to sit in the passenger seat of her own car on several occasions and now she's thinking she has streaks of grossness all over her clothes and legs - old or not, there may be a transfer.
How come we don't see that fact on CSI - speaking of CSI. I want Mac Taylor to do a segment where he's investigating a murder, and the suspect is unknown, but they DO KNOW that he or she was in the car JUST before the murder took place. (Lie and wait sort of thing) Mac could find fresh boogers on the side of the driver's seat and Stella could give him that upper-lip curled look of hers. She could shake her head and say "How did you know that?" Mac could be honest and say he doesn't always have a tissue handy when he's out in traffic - flinch! Oh, that would be priceless - another in depth human trait of yet another character - revealed, and now we love the guy that much more. Could be a skyrocket for the ratings - air it during Sweeps Week!
I paid the man. I drove my freshly cleaned Focus home (His name is Steve, named him after Steve Irwin in fact). I thanked Steve for being so patient and forgiving of my son. Then I got on MySpace and looked for my 3rd "friend" RUBY. We talked.
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