...that I do

I write. I have always written. I've published a few cheesy little vampire-and-werewolf supernatural romance fiction which is amusing to me, since the werewolf is asexual and there's really not a lot of romance in them, but they're still selling. Granted I'm only netting anywhere from $5 to $17 bucks a quarter now, but hey. Published. Legit published, not vanity press or self-published.

I'll never be famous, though. First of all, the two "books" combined are probably only 100 pages, are only available as ebooks, and are now almost three years old and I haven't written anything since. I'd like to be writing but you can't force that kind of thing. If I try chaining myself to the computer and staring at a blank Word document all that really happens is I waste several hours playing The Sims 3, or working on getting a perfect 3-star rating on every level of Angry Birds.

Anyhow, even if inspiration struck and I suddenly produced a thousand page doorstop of a book and people loved it and it sold for millions and movie rights were bought and everything I would probably still not be famous because I don't have an interesting background.

I grew up such a boring kid. Only child, no tragic divorce or custody battles in my youth. My parents were very definitely my parents -- no bastard, me. No secret adoption. And no, I was not actually stolen nor bought from Travellers/Rom/Whatever we're allowed to call people who used to be called Gypsies.

No parties. No arrests. No experimentation with sex and drugs. The "wildest" thing I ever did was go to science fiction convention and sleep under tables because we couldn't afford a room. And a few times my parents (or at least my father) were at the con somewhere, too. So. Not exactly a huge act of rebellion. I even bought a sword one year with my parents consent and a promise that they'd pick me up after the con because there was no way I'd be able to take the bus home while carrying a sword.

I don't actually remember a lot of my childhood because it was unremarkable and I needed that memory space for more important things. Like quotes from "The Simpsons" or information about the original series of "Doctor Who". There were things that happened, sure, but none of it was interesting. I never found a dead body. I didn't see my best friend killed in a tragic incident involving a train. Never a victim of crime.... I went to school, I got great grades, I got into computers in 5th grade. I went to summer camp to learn how to ride horses (I know, right?!). I learned to ride a bike. I had my tonsils out. I learned to drive a car. I learned to drive a standard transmission. I dated people. I broke up with people. I hated high school. I had a tumor removed from my left lung. I had a Goth phase (technically incorrect to call it a phase because is 30-some years and counting really just a phase?). I went to college. I majored in mass communications with a focus in film.

That is, in a nutshell, my whole life. There's no real timeline to it. I can only tell you in vague ways when things happened because it doesn't matter. Also, there are huge amounts of "memories" that might not even be mine. I have a great imagination and have always been a reader so there are a lot of things that I "remember" that could be any of the following:

• A story my mom told me.


• Something I read.


• Something I made up.


• Something I made up based on something my mom told me or that I read.


• Something that actually happened to someone else.

Notice that "something that actually happened to me" isn't on that list.

I will never be famous because I can't write an autobiography because it would have to be co-written by my mother, who would have to follow every paragraph I wrote with "No, that wasn't you. That was a story I told you about your aunt's best friend's little sister" and "this has no basis in reality whatsoever". She probably also remembers a lot more embarrassing things that no one really needs to know about.

(Dear mom: this is not an invitation to recount those stories about me running around the house naked when I was two. That is not what the comments section is for. Seriously.)

So basically if I tell you a story about my childhood don't take it as fact. I'm not lying to you. It's the truth as far as I can tell. I write fiction because I have no reality to write about. Except posts like this. And I can't give you any sort of factual guarantee about this.

...That I Cannot Do

I can't dance.

I know that's the sort of thing a lot of people say and most of the time they're being self-effacing and they're a) adequate, b) better than average, c) really good and trying not to brag. Sometimes they say it because they're exceptional and trying to pretend they're just normal. Sometimes they say it and they mean "I will attempt to dance but I will look like a Bumble Ball and people may be injured." Usually the people who say "I can't dance" are also silently saying "but I will" or "but I will if I really like the song and don't care if I look silly."

I mean I physically and/or mentally cannot do it. There is some sort of massive disconnect in my brain that will not allow the muscles to move in any way when there is music playing. Oh, sure, if I'm at a show that's standing room only I might sway a little, but that's usually because I'm really tired and losing balance, or (more often than not) trying desperately to see around a lot of people who are way taller than me because I'm pretty sure there's a live band on stage and I would like to obtain visual confirmation of this fact.


VNV Nation is on the stage. Really.

Anyhow, I don't know why I can't dance. I know I'm capable of having different parts of my body doing different things at the same time. I can drive a manual transmission. I can play violin. I can knit. I can read, knit, and watch TV all at the same time. (I could possibly even knit and drive stick at the same time, but my current car is an automatic so I have no way to test this theory.) But once music comes on I lose the ability to move anything below my neck. Kittiboi has tried to get me to slow dance -- you know, just cling to the other person and sway? -- but the only thing that happens is my feet cement to the floor and he's left trying to support my entire weight with his hands in my armpits.

THIS IS NOT SOMETHING I DO ON PURPOSE, PEOPLE. It's involuntary. Maybe I was an opossum in a previous life and I still retain that "go limp and play dead" response to situations that make me uncomfortable. Frankly, I think we should just be grateful that I don't lose control of my bladder and I can still breathe on my own.

...That I Love

My dog. This is probably a given if you've read this blog or looked at my Flickr account or the fact that I have a Tumblr devoted entirely to Welsh Terriers, but we didn't always get along.

When Cardiff first came home he was a teeny puppy. I took a week off work to get him settled in, comfortable, and start training him. We would practice in the house with a collar and leash. We would go into the yard for scheduled potty training sessions. It was slow and he was stubborn and probably a little scared, but we got through it and I thought we had something pretty solid.

And then he seemed to really bond with Kittiboi and turned into a total monster with me. He would chew on my hands and wrists and sleeves. He ruined my favorite shirt by jumping and tearing it. Walking him was almost impossible for me. Instead of walking he would just jump constantly and bite and pull. Kitti thought I was being too soft on him. I was not kind at all. I got Alpha with him. I even went so far as to roll him a few times and growl. I talked to the vet. I looked online. It wouldn't stop. At one point it was so bad that I couldn't sit in the living room. He would jump and pull and growl and snap at me. My hands were raw, my clothes were being ruined, and my heart was breaking. He would only leave me alone if I stood unmoving in the middle of the dining room. It went on for months. I seriously wondered if we'd made a mistake.

And then one day, for no reason other than maybe just a little maturity kicked in, it stopped. He would walk with me. When I sat down, he came over to be petted. He turned into a lovely, cuddly, friendly dog.

About that time we bought him one of the Loofa dogs. He loved it. He carried it around the house, played with it, slept with it, and turned it into shreds. So we bought him another. And another. And another. And then we had to stop getting them for him because they'd only last about a minute (That's not hyperbole. You would have time to hand him the toy and he'd tear a hole in it before you could throw away the tags).

For years about the only toy that he couldn't destroy in a matter of minutes were things made of heavy braided rope. Lightweight rope, like the ones made of polar fleece, would last, but after a few days he would untie the knot and unbraid them. He's outgrown that and now it takes a good two or three months of heavy playing to demolish one.

He's four now -- almost four-and-a-half -- and he's still a lovely, cuddly, friendly dog. The neighborhood kids love him. The doggie daycare loves him. The staff at the vet's office loves him. Total strangers think he's keen because he's just so good-natured. He goes flat when he sees another dog. Not submissive, just friendly. He always lets the other dog be "bigger" when they meet. He also doesn't put up with "bullying" at the dog park. If he thinks another dog is getting too aggressive, he breaks up the fight by distracting the dogs involved. He's distracted dogs who weren't aggressive, but were just coming across as intimidating to a smaller or less-secure dog.

Although, if we're being honest, he can be a little bit of a bully himself.

But what I love about him the most right now is that he's got a tiny obsession with a new toy. It's just a stupid Hartz ball that I picked up on a whim at the grocery store. He will flop down on the floor and just chew and chew and chew for hours. You can throw it and he'll bring it back, but then he starts chewing again. About the only time you can throw it is when he drops it and it rolls away. But you gotta be fast.

He's obsessed, but not Obsessed, if you know what I mean. You can take the ball away and he sulks for a few seconds, but then he's fine. He's not possessive or weird or refusing to let go of it. It's just his super happy fun ball. Not that one.

( Click here for Photos )

{Take the 100 Things challenge!}

I'm gonna do this. Kittiboi, the partner-in-crime, has had to do a journal entry every day as part of his English class and it's hard, but I think it's good for him. I think the idea of writing something substantial nearly every day will be good for me, too. I can't promise it will be every day. I can't promise it'll be interesting every time, but I can promise it'll be something.

I'm going with a really vague "100 Things about..." with no commitment as to topic. So call it "100 Things About Things" if you like.

I'll be posting them here (as public entries), and mirroring them on A Strange Day.