As anyone who’s ever tagged me for a meme knows, if I don’t answer right away then I never do. And to be honest, I never answer right away, usually because I can’t think of what to write. By the time the words would have come to me, I’ve usually forgotten the assignment. (Incidentally, this is not very different from my middle school years, when I procrastinated on my homework until long past the expiration date. Of course, back then I could blame it on friends, lack of motivation, and an unhealthy interest in a certain few boys who, in turn, had no interest in me whatsoever.)
But when my friend Robin Bielman awarded my blog — and six others — the lovely badge to the left, I knew I couldn’t ignore it. Sheer terror had much to do with my dutiful response, since Robin knows where I live, she could totally take me in a fight, she knows several of my more potent secrets, and she critiques my writing. There was more to it than lack of courage, however. I loved the spirit of this award, which was designed to acknowledge bloggers who tirelessly entertain near-strangers with regular, good-quality content — and all for free.
It’s deciding which worthy bloggers deserved the honor next that gave me the most difficulty, of course. How is it possible to narrow down my favorite blogs to just seven, even when accounting for those who had already received the badge from someone else? And how could I do that without hurting the feelings of those who were left? After all, I think everyone on my blogroll is deserving of recognition. And so I grabbed all of the eligible names from my sorely outdated list of links, shuffled them in a high-tech fashion, and chose the top seven. If you have the opportunity, please take a few moments to check out the following blogs, as well as the ones from my blogroll that ended up later in the randomized list and so didn’t get chosen this time around. I bet you’ll find some fun new reads that way.
And now, without further fanfare, I hereby present the I Love Your Blog badge of honor to:
Katie from Cactus Kate for her gorgeous photographs and awe-inspiring gardening abilities
Sandi Kahn Shelton for writing posts that never fail to make me laugh and, on some occasions, tear up
Alyson Noel from Tales from the Real OC (Really!) for her fun updates, insights into the life of an author, and many cool website recommendations
Chemical Billy for writing drop dead gorgeous prose that makes the world around her come alive for her readers
Eileen Cook from Just My Type for finding the most random, bizarre, and entertaining links to pass on to the rest of us. I don’t know how she does it!
Emily from The Sassy Lime for being such a sweetie, and for her cheerfulness in the face of near-constant pain
Thank you, ladies, for your inspiring, entertaining, and always-interesting posts! Please pass on the blog love by putting the badge of honor on your sites and awarding it to seven other deserving bloggers.
Five evenings in a row I have waded through our yard in bare feet, stopped before one of our two overburdened fruit trees, and plucked plumped-up plums or peaches from the branches. I eat as if standing over a sink, bent at the waist and legs spread, letting the sun-warmed juice pour out of the wounds I make in the fruit’s flesh and drip into the summer-thick grass. A peach stain on a T-shirt can mark it for life, but in this desert the grass is greedy for moisture.
While the plum tree has been in business since long before we bought our house, the peach is a new addition, tucked into the ground just three years ago. The woman at the garden center instructed us to nip off all infant fruits for several years so the tree could settle. I would not have obeyed, but the decision was made for us. Until this summer it withheld its treasures from us, choosing instead to grow and spread. And this year, like a gift, it is heavy with peaches, small and sweet and beautiful.
We have more, though, than our twin trees, all flourishing in turn, overlapping their seasons so we always have something fresh and delicious from last frost to first snow. The sugar snaps this spring grew fat on their vines as the tomato plants rooted and flowered. And when the peas withered and died in the summer heat, the tomatoes took over, the plants filling with engorged red orbs.
In July the tiny green globes on our neighbor’s apricot tree, which graciously spans into our backyard, swelled into sweet orange fruits, just waiting for my hands to pluck and eat, one after the other. And eat I did, pulling the fruits from the sun-dappled branches overhead, closing my eyes as the flavor burst on my tongue.
The apricots have long since ceased production and the last of the peaches went to my parents last night. Soon our plum tree will be free of fruit, the bounty shared with friends and family and neighbors, but the first of our cucumbers is now begging to be picked. This evening we will have salads in celebration.
Some people own stoic mansions hidden behind sweeping gates; swimming pools brimming with cool, blue water; low, shiny sports cars that hug the curves in the road at any speed. But a garden and fruit trees are, to me, the greatest of luxuries.
So I’m strolling down the hotel hall* in my new black flipflops, and as I round a corner it occurs to me that I’m humming “It’s a Hard Knock Life” from the musical Annie (which, by the way, I haven’t seen since elementary school). Suddenly I’m searching the area for a crowbar, a jackhammer, a radio – anything that will pry, pound, or flush the bubbly tune from my cranium. Nothing. I’m stuck. Only hurrying with my ice refill, slapping back down the hall, and throwing myself at my exhausted iPod or the hotel room’s tiny clock radio will do the trick. Until I find out my husband has Phil Collins’ “One More Night” in his head. Goodbye, show tune. Hello sweet, sappy ’80s ballad.
Most of the time it seems like my life is accompanied by a soundtrack not of my own choosing. In college, I once underwent three months in Mexico singing either “Celito Lindo” or the original version of “Macarena” in my off hours. A couple years ago, I spent a weekend rafting on the San Juan River doing everything in time with the decidedly uncatchy “Amie” by Pure Prairie League. Infectious melodies regularly add to my insomniac misery as I sigh through hours of wakefulness with songs ranging from Jack Johnson’s “Good People” to Beck’s “Hell Yes” running an endless loop in the background. And I can never think of the musical West Side Story without suffering a deluge of show tunes, most especially “America”. It’s amazing how often that Romeo and Juliet adaptation comes to mind simply because I try to resist all thoughts of it.
My brother recently proved to me that the best way to lodge a song in someone’s head is to sing only part of it, stopping midway through – preferably in the middle of a word. This way the person’s brain is forced to continue the melody, starting over and over, until it finds a satisfactory ending. Like Sisyphus and the rock, a satisfying climax never occurs. No wonder it’s death to my peaceful mind when I switch stations partway through “The Milkshake Song”. I assure you, however, that I haven’t listened to “It’s a Hard Knock Life”, either in whole or in part, since a friend last subjected me to her cheerful off-key rendition months ago. So what brought it up?
I’m sick of my usual “ear worms” as they’ve come to be called, and am hereby suggesting a trade. I tell you what I have in my head, and you tell me what you’re singing. (Chances are, it’s now one of the songs I’ve mentioned above. I’m so sorry. Truly.) Or are you one of those lucky people who isn’t subjected to fourteen straight hours of “It’s a Small World After All” just because a coworker finishes a story of running into an old classmate in the deli section of her grocery store with a cheerful, “It really is a small world, isn’t it?” If so, not only are you part of the lucky 2%, but you’re really missing out. I mean, you actually have to turn on a radio to hear a little music. Really, I feel so much pity for you.
*Yes, we’re already on vacation, and have been for a while, which is why I haven’t been haunting the blogosphere as much as usual. Expect more of the same over the next several weeks. Not that blogging’s been totally off my mind, of course. Hubs and I already stayed several nights with the delightful, talented Robin, and I’ll meet up with a few others at the RWA conference next week. If you’re going, too, maybe I’ll see you there! (In the meantime, though, be sure to check out Pam’s posts on preparing for Nationals.) So, really, you are far from forgotten, even when I myself am far from a good network connection.
I live in a tourist town, which means that in certain seasons we are overrun by camera-toting sightseers intent on packing in as much adventure as their credit cards and cranky kids will allow. From early spring to late fall work hours increase as many businesses close later, grocery stores morph into scary places filled with clots of vacationers and their cockeyed carts, and our favorite restaurants are inundated by sun-stunned visitors escaping the heat. Shortly thereafter I begin to have nightmares in which our house is taken over by unwelcome tourists who feel that we are unreasonable for not letting them wash their Hummers in our backyard.
Whenever possible during these crazy months, hubs and I escape our personal half-acre of paradise to take pictures of other wonders and spend time with someone else’s tourists for a while. Although the scenery’s different, many of the tourists look exactly the same, as we’ve discovered by traveling widely. This year it will be California. Last year it was South Carolina. In August. In record heat.
After growing up in a Midwestern city that attracted many businesses and college students but nary a tourist, living in a place like this has been an experience. When your daily life is someone else’s vacation, you learn a lot. For example, I’ve learned when to visit the grocery store, which streets and restaurants to avoid and, most importantly, how to dress like a local. The last skill has netted me requests for directions in several neighboring states, Philadelphia, Boston, and Madrid. It may not be handy if you don’t know your way around the town you’re visiting, but it can help you avoid getting scammed by people who take advantage of clueless travelers, and it can net you better service in restaurants, bars, and grocery stores.
Giving the appearance that you’re at home isn’t that difficult. The number one rule is: Avoid wearing fanny packs. Locals and attentive tourists alike have beheld the horrors of such adornments in large concentrations, and so they do not use them. This is not to say that fanny packs don’t have their perks; if your butt is too flat, for example, they provide the illusion of bulk. Since I’ll never have that problem, I eschew them altogether. Rule number two: Be nice to wait staff and other service people. Also, drive like you have at least a passing familiarity with traffic laws. Walk with confidence, even if you don’t know where you’re going, and learn to look but not gawk. And finally, for the love of God, do not take video footage of buildings, mountains, trees, or other unmoving objects.
See? It’s not too tough. For bonus points, don’t use a local’s garden hose to wash your car without their permission. They don’t like that sort of thing.
Ever get lost in your calendar and become convinced it’s another day? Several weeks ago I spent an entire Thursday sure it was only Tuesday. Every time I remembered, it was like this little bonus. Today, however, it didn’t work out so well, as it was Friday in my mind while everyone else was slogging through another Wednesday. Every hour or two something would happen to remind me that I was the one who was confused. The frequent jolts back to the Land of Reality were unpleasant at best.
If anything, this evening’s activities made the condition worse. Nothing says the weekend has arrived like an evening get-together on a friend’s back porch, complete with margaritas and snacks. I’m now at risk of not going in to work at all tomorrow morning, and have instructed one of my coworkers to call me if I don’t show up. I almost hope she doesn’t; I could use the sleep.
Please understand — I really like my job, and I love most of the people I work with. But, Lord help me, I do despise my alarm clock. And so I yearn for the weekend with every fiber of my being, just so that I can wake at dawn out of habit instead of obligation, which probably explains my confusion about the days — it is my body’s way of telling me I need a Saturday, no matter what the calendar says.
The chronological confusion has only worsened since our evening margarita consumption, not just because of the alcohol but because of an incident that occurred shortly afterward. Now I’m not even certain what year it is. 1989? 1991?
Here’s why, and this one’s really embarrassing, so be gentle. Turns out there’s a New Kids on the Block, version 2.0, complete with a group blog wherein each member signs his name with an exclamation point. (Yes! You, too, can read blog entries from Danny!, Jonathan!, Donnie!, and Joey Mac!! Isn’t it exciting!) They even have new music, which is where my chagrin kicks in, because to my everlasting shame I found myself almost sort of kinda tempted to tap my foot to “Summertime” when it played on the radio a few minutes ago. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not about to go buy the cassette tape and listen to it forty-eight times in a row like, uh, some people I know did during their first round of popularity. (Hey, I never claimed to be proud of my middle school years.) But it was kind of catchy. It also whisked me right back to the late eighties, a time I try not to visit all too often.
Before being reintroduced to NKOTB this evening I still knew what year it was, even if I couldn’t always pinpoint the day with 100% accuracy. Now I can’t even be certain of that much. At least I have music and margaritas to console me. Sing along with me, will you?
The first is universal, the second is lucky, and the third is capable of canceling out the pleasure of the other two. Oh, the project started out just fine, as all bad ideas do. I sliced open the box, pulled everything out, and got cozy on the floor with all the necessary ingredients: a rubber mallet, a screwdriver, and the recently unboxed parts — including the deceptively labeled ‘Assembly Instructions’. Which is where the project hit the skids. Because as it turns out a job illustrating for this particular company does not require an actual working knowledge of basic drawing skills. My friend Christa has freshman art students who can draw better diagrams than these. Let’s take the ‘cord management system’, for example. Despite the fancy name, which must have required at least mild ingenuity on the part of the writers, the illustrators did not deem it necessary to actually label it on the assembly diagram, which is just not fair. This left me to guess, and guessing + me + hardware = trouble. Which is why it took me over an hour and assistance from a friend with an honest-to-God engineering degree to finally get the thing fully built. Even he was bemused by a few of the directives, so I finally ended up skipping several of the more confusing ones. So far the cart is still standing and the world hasn’t crashed to a halt, so I think I’m safe.
Okay, I know I’ve been known to hyperbolize on occasion and I sense that you think I’m doing so now, but I assure you I’m not. And so, for your viewing pleasure, I’ve scanned step one. There are seven more where that came from, but I think this one gets the point across nicely. Just click on the photo if you’d like a larger version. It still won’t make sense, but at least you can say you tried. You can even attempt to find where the elusive ‘cord management system’ is if you’re feeling ambitious.
The good news is that sharing this with you has cheered me up considerably. Indeed, now that I’ve begun to move past the irritation-at-self-and-others stage of this trauma and the cart is fully assembled, I have started to develop a little affection for these instructions — even if the illustrators did cheat. I can even appreciate the fact that no one was injured during the cart-building process.
This will never be my favorite company communique, however, despite its total lack of sense. No, that honor is reserved for the single sheet my husband pulled from a box before assembling the simple wooden magazine rack contained within. The page has resided on our refrigerator ever since:
Oh, dear. You’ve really done it, haven’t you? You just fell prey to one of consumerism’s biggest myths — the resealable bag — and now you’re staring at your new purchase, wondering how to get the thing open. What was it? Cheese? Cereal? Doggie treats? Come on, you can confide in me.
Well, no matter what it was, let me tell you a little secret. You are not alone. Those so-called easy-open/easy-close bags? Yeah. They aren’t. And the directions? Ignore them; they encompass only a fraction of the steps you’ll have to take in order to use your product. But I’ll tell you what. I like you, I really do. And so I’ll give you a hand. I’ve been duped, too, after all. I understand. And so, for your tutelage, I will provide sample package directions, followed by the actual steps for opening, and then closing, such bags. Advanced users may wish to skip to steps seven and ten, respectively. Oh, and one more thing, from me to you: next time don’t believe the hype. Okay? No more buying products just because of the package’s ingenious engineering.
What the directions say:
To open bag, tear along dotted line.
What the directions mean:
Search in vain for mythological pre-torn notch said to enhance tearing power.
Give up. Use force in attempt to create notch.
Bandage bleeding finger.
Attempt to break into bag with teeth.
Make appointment with dentist to have chipped tooth repaired.
Study bag, looking once more for notorious notch or tear strip. NOTE: The red dashed line along the top is not a clue. It is only there to taunt you.
Use scissors.
Pull bag open.
Perform victory dance.
What the directions say:
To seal bag, press closed.
What the directions mean:
Clear seal strip of any obstructions, such as product residue, fingers, and air.
Line up both sides of strip.
Press strip closed.
Tug package opening gently to ensure that seal worked.
Repeat steps 1-4
Vow not to let a simple plastic bag defeat you.
Line up both sides of strip.
In surge of pragmatism (or is it despair?) press along just two inches of strip, so you haven’t wasted energy when seal continues not to function.
Test to ensure seal.*
Give up and tape, staple, or clothespin the @&*% thing closed.
*In the unlikely event that the seal works on the smaller section, continue as follows: Finish pressing along strip. Test seal. Realize you forgot to squeeze out all the air. Attempt to open only a small section of strip. Fail. Pick up spilled cheese, cereal, dog treats, etc. Discard. Squeeze air out of bag and begin again from step one above. Repeat as necessary until bag is sealed. NOTE: You may wish to simply skip to step ten.
The orange barrels are lovely to behold, that is true. They glisten in the sunlight as they line either side of the lane down which you meander. Our town is known for its natural beauty, but nothing can compare with the delight of two straight rows of fluorescence leading you toward your destination.
This is what I must assume you are thinking, since you are driving seven-and-a-half miles per hour down said lane.
Or perhaps you find construction fun, and are slowing down to relive the Tonka trucks of your youth.
My husband has suggested that drivers like you are daunted by the road work — by the cones and the barrels and the orange signs — and while I believe that that is generally true, I know that in your case this cannot be the holdup. You see, I grew up in your fine state, and I know for a fact that Ohio, too, undergoes construction projects. Big ones. Extraordinarily massive ones brought on by weighty snow, speeding semis, and ice-cracked asphalt.
So here is what I would like to know: How much moolah would it take to get you to pick it up a little? Just to, say, ten miles per hour instead of seven and a half? Because I wish to see my cats and my house and my husband again before the turn of the century, and I’m not sure ninety-two years is enough time.
Doesn’t get a lot more direct than that title, now, does it? So why are these things on my mind? Well, first of all, YA author Diana Peterfreund recently opined that blogs are not the ultimate marketing tool. Now, I’m going to have to agree with that. Everybody knows that skywriting has that slot, with blimps coming in a distant second. (Clearly I’m a big fan of flight.)
But when it comes to authors and blogs, I have to admit that I had not read a single book by most of the authors whose blogs I follow until after I began to read their online musings. I found most of them through comments or blogrolls on others’ sites, and followed them to their webly homes. (Yes, I’m perfectly aware that this makes me sound like a stalker, thank you very much.) I liked their writing, and I found that I rather liked them, too. Or what they let me know of them, at least. And who doesn’t want to read a book by someone who seems nice and turns out decent writing on a semi-regular basis? Of course, I had to find them first, which as Diana points out is often difficult for someone whose only publishing credit is a blog — or, I would add, for a published author whose books one has not yet read. Indeed, I usually find the more dedicated bloggers, either through their active participation in the blogsophere or through recommendations by other bloggers. Like much of the best marketing, it’s all about word of mouth. If bloggers are just sitting there waiting to be discovered but are not participating in the blogosphere, it’s probably not going to happen until or unless a bigger force — such as a recently released book — brings readers to them.
So, where am I going with this? Well, everybody knows I’m a fan of reading, which means that my default birthday/Christmas present is a gift card for a bookstore. And when it comes time to spend the loot, I often look to my RSS feeds first. I like to support my favorite bloggers, and I know I’ll get some good reads at the same time. Even as I type this, books by Jill Shalvis, Lani Diane Rich, Eileen Cook, and Samantha Graves (to name a few) are headed my way. These authors’ books are all new to me, even if their blogs are not. And I’m already saving up for another round (which will probably include some of Diana’s books).
To be fair, I also have a habit of looking up my favorite authors’ websites and indulging in their blogs as well, should they have them. In that case, the books led me to the blogs, and not the other way around. But blogging has helped me discover some amazing writers, ones whose books I probably wouldn’t have noticed on those crowded bookstore shelves had I not already known their names from blogging.
Am I alone here? If not, then stop by Diana’s blog, add her to your RSS reader (because you’ll probably want to), then buy her books to prove her wrong. Or hope that I sell the mess I’m currently working on, and then don’t buy the book because you get my blog for free. Your choice.
And because I am queen of my own blog (aren’t we all?), I will indulge my urge to continue pontificating by pointing out that brownies are evil, terrible things. Especially when warm and gooey and filled with chocolate chips. I went into this afternoon’s staff meeting with just one chin, and after an hour sitting within reach of a plate of the malicious goo, I walked away with four more chins. This is not a good look for me. Plus, my neck is getting tired from swinging that extra skin around. I’m just saying.
Your turn. Do you read your favorite bloggers’ books — assuming they have a book out? If so, which came first for you as a reader — the book or the blog? Or, alternatively, what is the most evil food you know? C’mon. Spill.
I no longer trust beautiful handwriting simply because of its beauty. Like disciples of graphology, I once thought of it as one indication of a person’s personality, a beautiful soul spilling out in ink or graphite. But I’ve since met several cruel women with remarkable penmanship—graceful, flowing, elegant, and fancy — perfect for a 19th century manuscript, a wedding invitation, a special occasion font — and I know now that it is no indication whatsoever.
In a way I’m relieved to have my childish beliefs contradicted. Although I can rule out my former yardstick as a potential judge of character, it means I’m no longer out of the running as a good person. I only hope others realize it, because if monkeys were given pens and taught the alphabet, their results would probably resemble my sprawling, jumbled, inconsistent half-script. Last week, when my boss decoded a note I had left for another employee, she explained my messiness to her in a conspiratorial whisper: “She’s a writer”. I’d love to agree with her assessment, but I know it’s not the case. I’ve simply never been the kind to flounce, even in ink.
On occasion, I try to remake my handwriting, as if it will turn me into someone as elegant or as neat as the lines on the page, but if penmanship doesn’t reveal if a person is good or bad, it still must reveal some inherent details, because my writing style is as stubbornly connected to me as my freckles and weird little toes. Someday I may even find that obstinate constancy comforting.
As anyone who’s ever tagged me for a meme knows, if I don’t answer right away then I never do. And to be honest, I never answer right away, usually because I can’t think of what to write. By the time the words would have come to me, I’ve usually forgotten the assignment. (Incidentally, this is not very different from my middle school years, when I procrastinated on my homework until long past the expiration date. Of course, back then I could blame it on friends, lack of motivation, and an unhealthy interest in a certain few boys who, in turn, had no interest in me whatsoever.)
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