Wednesday, November 25, 2009

Geneaology, schmeaneology.

I've never cared much about where I came from. I'm a lot more interested in where I'm going, right? Right?

I seem to be alone in this mindset. My mom's family is very "relation-oriented." On a trip to England with my cousin several years ago, we just had to stop at the Isle of Man for a couple of days to do some geneaological research. Not to mention it was January, on an Isle, and therefore "freezing cold" doesn't do the weather justice. At one point, I ducked into a library to warm up for a moment. While I sat, vigorously rubbing warmth back into my hands, a patron came into the library and was greeted by the man behind the counter.

"Hello there! I haven't seen you in awhile!"

"No, no, been busy and whatnot. Thought I'd pop in for a moment, let me eyeballs thaw a bit."

I couldn't have said it better myself.

All in all, the trip to the Isle of Man was worth a couple of days' sojourn from the mainland. It is an adorable place, seemingly untouched by technology. Did I learn anything of interest about my family? No. But I enjoyed myself.

I was talking on the phone with my paternal uncle the other night. He asked if I was done with school.

"Yep, I've got my master's in hand, all is good. Now comes the fun part of paying off the loans."

Uncle Ronnie launched into a very long story about a cousin of his, who I remind him so much of. "My cousin was really smart, like you, and loved education. In fact, I saw a picture the other day, and said, 'Wow, he looks just like little Katie!'"

He?

"His name was Ernie. He'd be your uncle, I think. Uncle Ernie. Boy, you are just a spittin' image of your great Uncle Ernie."

I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Well....wonderful!" I said, forcing enthusiasm into my voice. I was sincerely hoping Uncle Ernie was very feminine-looking. It would be somewhat of a salve to my ego.

I relayed this story to Mom. She regarded me.

"You really do, you know. I saw a picture of him once."

I sighed. Oh well, something to add to the Match.com profile - "has close-knit ties to her extended family."

Saturday, November 14, 2009

The weight of empty pockets

I have found a new inspiration for losing weight.

Being broke.

Yes, ladies and gentleman. I have reached the point where I really don't look all that hot in my clothes, and I don't have the money to buy bigger clothes. I've got some dang cute clothes in boxes in my shed that I haven't been able to wear in years, and it would be like winning a free shopping spree if I were able to wear them. And, I'm guaranteed to lose a few pounds when I open the boxes after a brown recluse comes scuttling out and bites me and I land in the hospital for a few weeks while I'm being detoxified.

This needing to lose a few is a really great thing to happen to me. I needed a fire lit under my rear, and not having clothes to wear to work is a blazing inferno underneath my flat cheeks, misshapen from hours and hours of being planted in a desk chair.

Plus, working out is a great stress reliever. I realized I needed to do something after I threw a hissy fit at one of my coworkers, delivered in a style of passive-agressive silent slamming papers on counters that I think I really should patent.

This is a GREAT time in my life to jump back on the "my body is a temple" bandwagon. I can hear my mom groaning - Mom, I promise not to turn back into workout Nazi. But the holiday season is here again, and this year, I can't eat jack crap anyway thanks to my wheat allergy. What better time to not want to eat jack crap?

So, I'm posting my starting point here - 162. (For the record, 10lbs of that is metal from my hip replacements. But, it's weight that is on my knees and ankles and feet, so I'm counting it.)

Stay tuned! 140, here I come!

Sunday, November 1, 2009

Halloween Horrors

Last night was Hairy S Truman's first Halloween with me. I don't know how he spent Halloween last year - being chased by crazy owners trying to get him to mate with a girl doggie so that they could sell the puppies for hundreds of dollars? Being chased by twenty other orphaned weiners in the backyard of the dachshund rescue?

This year, Trumie spent one hour and fourteen minutes locked in my guest room. The kitties were locked in the craft room. I sat in the living room, bags of candy ready.

Truman barked. And barked. And barked. Continuously. For an hour and fourteen minutes. Between trick-or-treaters, I dashed down the hall to check in on him.

My guest bed had dog poop, dog pee, and dog vomit on it.

Truman cowered underneath the bed, shaking.

"Oh, Stinky man, come here," I said, reaching for the dog. He darted back underneath the bed, as scared as he was the first day I brought him home from the rescue place.

This isn't good. I worked for a year to get him to settle in and trust me. I'm not going to undo it for a night of giving away $50 of candy that my stupid gluten intolerance won't let me even sneak a piece here and there.

I was finally able to pick up the dog and I brought him out to the living room. I put him in his bag (a pink shoulder bag a 'la Paris Hilton) and let him hang out on my shoulder for the next hour.

"What a cute puppy!" the children squealed after I opened the door. I bent to put candy in their sacks. They were more interested in petting the dog. For the love of Pete. You mean to tell me I could have saved $50 on candy and just let kids pet my dog?

Between door bell rings, I cleaned up the poop, stripped the sheets off the bed (and forgot to wash them, I'm remembering as I write this. At least I remembered to toss the poop before answering the door).

At about 8:15, Truman had had enough. He was wiggly and wanted to run around. I still had a fair amount of candy left, but "42nd Street" was starting on PBS and I was getting hungry for dinner.

I turned off my porch lights and let Trumie out of his bag. He squirmed around, licked the freed kitties' rears for them, and ran up his stairs onto the sofa to see what I was having for dinner. I curled up and counted my night's visitors. 80. Not so bad. But what to do about the leftover candy?

I briefly considered unloading it on the office Monday morning, but I hated to see that much money go to expanding my coworker's waistlines.

The Time Machine! I jumped off the sofa and dumped the candy into a plastic sack. I tied it real tight and stuck it into the back corner of my freezer. I'm already three bags of candy up for next year! Come to think of it, I might have found a new investment model - buy Halloween candy for next year at this year's prices, and just stick it in the freezer.

But, as mom says, what if the candy is nasty by next year? Well, then people won't come to my house anymore, thereby obviating the need to by any candy at all.

On second thought, $50 is a small price to pay for seeing cute little kids dressed up in ridiculous costumes. Entertaining for me, character-building for them: Halloween is a win-win situation.

My skin, it's too thin.

So now I've gotten two rejections on my spy-thriller novel. One would have thought I'd have racked up a lot more than that by now. Since these rejections were based on the first 3 chapters (or my whole book) they take a lot longer to get the "no" back than if I was pitching to agents who only wanted a query letter. Those agents guarantee you a "no" before you're completely sure if your email actually sent or not.

Nothing stops me in my tracks faster than a "no." This is my mother's fault on two levels:
1) She trained me so well as a child that to me, "no" means "no." I don't ask someone else, I just stop the behavior. And

2) Mom always told me (and still tells me on a daily basis) what a wonderful, perfect person I am, and that everything I do is perfection. Imagine my surprise when grumpy agents deprived of oxygen in their Manhattan skyscraper offices say my stuff is "not for them."

So, I've been conveniently losing myself in craft-show season, telling myself to knit more kitchen towels. They're heinously ugly, those crocheted-top things that women over sixty hang from the doors of their ovens, but they sell well, so, what's one to do. Not like my stack of papers/novel is going anyplace any time soon. Woe is me LOL.