All Adither

Facebook. I love you. And I hate you

I've had a Facebook account for years. Since the beginning of the internet practically. Though my FB page sat dormant until recently, when I received a few "Friend Requests". 

I quickly accepted, because who doesn't need more "friends"?

A few of the folks I "friended" were old classmates. Which was all well and good. I kind of enjoyed watching their "status updates" and discovering where life had taken them. Occasionally, I "commented" on their "status" or on their "photos" and felt like we had a rapport, where there had been none in the hallowed halls of the BURNING HELLFIRE that is called high school.

But then I started realizing that there was a huge contingent of my high school acquaintances on Facebook who had NOT sent me "friend requests". I would see them commenting on my "friends'" Facebook entries and notice that they still insisted on using the same nicknames that flew like pesky swallows around stuffy classrooms and ricocheted off the lockers at lunch. Glimmer. Deter. Squash.

And I threw up in my mouth a little. Then I swore to J. and whomever else would listen that I was DONE with Facebook. That it made me too queasy. That it made me feel like a fifteen-year-old again, worrying about why I had no nickname and about who hadn't "friended" me. Because, if they didn't "friend" me, I certainly was NOT about "friend" THEM.

Yeah, totally stupid.

My Facebook hiatus lasted about 12 hours. I started in again, rationalizing that I would just check Facebook once a day and if I saw a comment from high school UNfriends and they utilized any nicknames whatsoever, I would avert my eyes and rapidly scroll down the page.

That didn't work either.

I am FASCINATED with Facebook. The roiling cauldron of people from my past and present is too bizarre to ignore.

So here I am, back where I started. An FB junkie. And not at all happy about it.

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Obligatory thankfulness post

Actually, all snark aside, I'm feeling extremely grateful today. For these things and more:

• J.'s being here for 4 full days of vacation without having to go into the vortex that is a law firm

• Our good health

• Rice socks and soft beds

• Red wine

• The sweet people who read my blog

• Books

• Electronics

• Whole Foods

• Glitter

• Hot coffee

• Whiskers on kittens

• Slippers

• Naps

• Jazz (not Smooth)

• Sunshine

• Clean bathrooms

• My family

• Teeth whiteners

• Lip gloss

• Pop tarts

Happy Thanksgiving.

How do you?

How do you make yourself eat bananas?

How do you not swoon over stylish, well-cut clothes with top stitching and fancy zipper pulls? It's all so shallow and stupid, but you can't help yourself.

How do you force yourself to like playing with your kids? They're your kids and you adore them, but you are not at all keen on hopping across the floor on pillows trying to escape imaginary crocodiles.

How do you stop daydreaming your way through the hours?

How do you keep away the revolving thoughts of death, of not existing, that push through your mind on a creaking, endless turnstile?

How do you stop wanting more?

How do you put down the cookies?

How do you remember anything at all without writing it in at least five places?

How do you keep the wonder alive?

How do you find enough energy?

How do you?

What do these things mean?

They mean that I met my BFF Tricia for tea and dessert tonight and did not sit down to write a proper post.

Try me tomorrow for Cat Video Friday.

Succinct

Two big issues I struggle with are my rather extreme height (though this is less of an issue than it was when I was, say, 16 and I hated EVERYTHING and just wanted to be NORMAL. Now it's more a matter of inconvenience than acceptance.) and my son's food allergies.

Both were summed up succinctly for me this week.

1. A few days ago I was getting out of my car in Ballard (a neighborhood in Seattle) and two stonerish guys passed me. One of them said, "Whoa. Tall." And I just had to snicker to myself. Because of all the stupid comments and insults I've heard over the years, Whoa. Tall. is definitely the most concise. Kudos to you, Bill and Ted.

2. When I received the written report of Fruit Bat's food allergy results yesterday, I shook my head. I knew they were bad.

But, Shite.

The good news is, it looks like he can eat all the grey alder and silver birch he wants. Mmm, fiber.

And, really. I don't want you to feel sorry for us. This is what it is. It's our reality. We can deal. It's just that numbers are so stark and cold. 

So aggravatingly succinct.

Critique my query?

Well, hello again. Today's post is all about me and my fiction. (As opposed to the lovingly crafted missives I usually compose about Dominican orphans. (Which is not at all funny.))

As some of you know, especially if you follow my Twitter grumblings, I'm on round 56,324 two of sending my manuscript, The Mating Habits of Fireflies (formerly titled The Goodness of Meredith Beam) out to literary agents.

The query letter is very important to this process. A well written query can open the door, so to speak, can cause a busy agent to consider your work. Or it makes them gag and cross shred your dreams into their recycling bin.

Either way. You have to have a good query.

I loved my Round One query. And it had a great response ratio. Something like 50% of the agents who read it asked for partials (the first three chapters) and several even asked for fulls.

My novel has changed pretty drastically, though. So my query had to change too.

Two thoughtful women have critiqued this for me already, Bethany and Tricia. But I'd love anyone else's opinion. Especially on the section where I've summarized the plot.

So, here goes.

Dear Fancy NY Literary Agent:

Meredith Brown has always taken her goodness for granted. She’s been a respectable wife, a decent teacher to her gifted students, and a biddable daughter.

Until recently.

Overwhelmed by infertility, the responsibilities of trying to sober her mother-in-law, Leola, of a Xanax addiction, and the downturn of her relationship with her pathologically steadfast husband, Jay, Meredith does something she shouldn’t. She runs away.

Schlepping along for the ride is Jay’s brother, Brian, a mercurial slacker who has a substance abuse problem of his own and a fixation on Meredith that threatens to pull her marriage past the point of no return.

Instead of gaining the perspective she hoped for by fleeing, Meredith quickly realizes that her entire identity is at stake as she enters a labyrinth of temptation and reexamination of her black and white views of the world.

A little about me: my short stories have been published in Phoebe, The Florida Review, The Colorado Review and Night Train. The Mating Habits of Fireflies, in an earlier form, was a contender in Amazon’s Breakthrough Novel Award and received a highly favorable review from Publisher’s Weekly.

The Mating Habits of Fireflies (which I like to think falls into similar niches as The Dive from Clausen’s Pier by Ann Packer and Good Grief by Lolly Winston) is complete with a word count of 80,300.

I have enclosed a few sample pages for your perusal.

Thanks for your consideration

Angie M., Extreme Wannabe

Autumnal

We went on a great little hike yesterday. Our trail wound through the Arboretum near the University of Washington and over several floating bridges to a small, marshy island.

It was family time embodied. And I wasn't at all angsty.

Deep breaths.

Hello date stamp. I accidentally activated you and I'm too lazy to Photoshop you out.

I'm too sexy for my Costco

I needed some stuff yesterday, so I went to Costco.

I stood in line under the bright lights, behind someone buying a dump truck full of toilet paper and next to another someone loading a 70-pound box of Cheez-Its onto the conveyor.

And I thought, there is nowhere on earth less sexy than Costco.

Not that I'm particularly focused on my allure while running errands, but the 100-count boxes of tampons along with beeping forklifts and screaming toddlers just kills any momentary flicker of cool I might be lucky enough to experience while roaming the towering, shrink-wrapped aisles.

Oh, sure. Costco carries roses and cashmere and wine. But you have to load it into a cart the size of a tank. Along with your crock of Beano and magnum of fish oil.

And then there's the Costco "restaurant". A candle-lit bistro with a single gerbera daisy on each table it is not. Here you have your hard plastic benches and your massive slabs of dripping cheese pizza and your churros that are as long as...well, they're long.

Costco simultaneously grosses me out and lures me into into its echoey, merchandise-packed bowels. Whenever I'm there I can't help wishing I were, instead, strolling from small, aesthetically-pleasing shop to small, aesthetically-pleasing shop with my baguette, flowers and merlot slung over my shoulder in a canvas bag.

We're Americans, though. So we make our Costco runs and buy our cantaloupe-sized poppyseed muffins and then have to get our clothes at Costco too because they sell plenty of (only) pants with waists whose measurements are double the inseams.

And if we're having a day when we feel remotely sexy, just the slightest bit fetching, and we come out to our car, among acres of other cars, where a crow has taken a giant crap on the back, right window... we are, once again, humbled.

Ooh, I'm artsy

I was standing in my kitchen Thursday night around 11 o'clock. I'd just finished working on Scholastic book orders for Fruit Bat's class and was waiting for Trixie, my rice sock, to take a few spins around the microwave.

I was thinking about J. coming home (he's been gone since Thursday morning) and how every time he leaves and then returns, we go through this period of re-immersion, where the kids and I have to (get to) adjust to his presence around the house again.

It's always great to have him home, but hard too. I've gotten used to doing things my way. That is, when I'm not doing things Kitty Cat's way. 

And then he comes in with opinions and ideas. To which I often react defensively. Defensiveness always goes over well.

So when we see him tonight, I will cast aside my pissy and vinegary self for sweetness. I will nod and smile when he makes suggestions. I will do my best not to look so damn haunted. Because withdrawn and spooky are kind of turn offs. 

For most people, anyway.

Sloooow Cookin'

I was talking to my mom about blogs a couple days ago. She has taken a real interest in my blogging career, where career means bringing in a teensy (but appreciated!) sum from my Blogher ads while scrabbling to land paid blogger jobs.

Anyway, I often give her recommendations of bloggers to peruse. This particular time I said, "Have you gone to Derfwad Manor yet? You know, Mrs. G.? She's so good. So, so good."

Today I'm super proud to be featured on Mrs. G.'s Slow Cook Thursday. Go check it out here. And when you're done reading Slow Cook, keep scrolling. You'll like what you see. She's one of the best of the best.

If you're here from Derfwad and would like to read a meatier post, click here. Or here.