Be-Mused — Karen Templeton

As of November 12/2005, you can find my blog here.

See ya in the new digs!

Well, technically I am, or I wouldn’t be writing this, but the brain is definitely still back in Sleepy Land.

Anyway, you can read my latest ramblings over on Romancing the Blog .

So go. Read. Comment, if the mood strikes.

School’s closed for Veteran’s Day, so Dad and Mom slept in. Actually I got up at 6, wandered groggily around cyberspace for a while, then went back to bed. Next thing I knew, it was 9:30. And let me tell you something, it’s moments like that when I do not, in any way, shape, form or fashion, miss having little kids/babies in the house. I just miss the little kids/babies. They were fun. Getting up at six a.m. was not.

Had a bizarre dream, this one involving one of my books. Dreamt I got my first Russian translation, a weird little hardback with a picture of some decked-out princely dude on the back, very 1964. So I figured it was one of my royalty books. Wrong. Apparently, judging from my hero’s name (Rod Bradenov !!), it was ANYTHING FOR HER MARRIAGE. Granted, Rod was a prince among men, but the regalia was a bit much.

And if I get copies of a Russian translation today, I’m gonna freak.

A couple items in the AOL headlines are worthy of comment, just because I can. One was the headline “Little luxuries you can afford — $200. and under gifts for everyone on your list.” Okay, in my book? A “little” luxury is an 18 buck box of chocolates. By the time you get to $200., you’re verging into you’re-my-slave-for-life category. Although judging by the prices in many of these catalogues that will keep finding their way to our house, I guess lots of folks drop that kind of money on a single gift (the number of toys over $100. is astounding!). I just don’t know any of these people. Perhaps I should work on that.

The other I’m-not-even-gonna-go-there article was an invitation to see Heidi Klum’s post-pregnancy body. Now, really, why would I do that? Or are they trying to plunge 20 million women into simultaneous depression?

Have to make a decision about my blog today, so any input from y’all would be helpful. I’m going to make it “official” by making it part of my website, but I’m not sure what “extras” to consider. I don’t want to make this too fancy — I don’t think it’s necessary — but are there doo-dads and gee-gaws on other peoples’ blogs that you really feel enhances the experience, making it easier to participate? Would you like to be able to subscribe, for example, so you’d get a notice when I’d added an entry? Do you like a banquet of smilies from which to choose?

Let me know.

For several weeks, a strange, pink, obviously-meant-for-a-guy (even though it’s pink) T-shirt has been keeping the box of Splenda, basket of drawing stuff from #5, dust bunnies and super-sized jug of Snuggle company on our dryer. Today, #3 comes to me, shirt in hand, to say that, yes, it’s his, but — he says his father asks — would I like it to sleep in?

Huh???

Never, not once in twenty-seven years of marriage, have I slept in a T-shirt. How can the father of my children, who has slept beside me for that entire twenty-seven years, not know this???

But I exacted my revenge later. You see, my husband has a sneeze that rivals a call used to begin a cattle drive, usually delivered with no warning, when my back is turned. That I have withstood, in the last twenty-seven years, roughly 8,756 of these sneezes without having a coronary is a miracle in itself. Well, tonight I got him back, thanks to a brain-rattling sneeze of my own, three feet away from him while he was washing dishes.

God, that felt good.

On a completely different subject. . . For reasons known only to my publisher, they decided to re-issue an English (as in, British) edition of PLAYING FOR KEEPS last month under the title SEX IN THE SUBURBS, Vol. 2 (Vol. 1 being Jennifer Skully’s black comedy for HQN, SEX AND THE SERIAL KILLER. Don’t ask, it wouldn’t do you any good, anyway.). So today my obligatory three copies land in my mailbox. Now normally I never read the my books once they’re in print, because I’m neurotic enough without finding goofs in the final product that I can’t change. But for whatever reason, I happened to open this book, of course immediately spotting a place where the copy editor changed something, I asked to have it changed back, but somebody decided to let the CE’s change stand.

The heroine’s ex is this very down-to-earth, blue-collar Hispanic guy. Not exactly crass, but not what you’d call polished, either. In response to a jibe from the heroine, his response was supposed to be, “Jesus.” CE changed it to “Jeez.” I stetted it, but. . .there it is.

And whose name is on the cover again?

Jeez. . .us.

Okay, if I said “stems and leaves,” what subject would immediately spring to mind? Betcha it wouldn’t be fifth grade math. Unless you’re the parent of a recent fifth grader, at any rate. So yesterday, kid comes home from school, I go through the “What homework do you have?” routine, he says, “Math. Stems and leaves,” at which point his 21 y.o. brother groans. Loudly. Since this is the kid who actually did well in math, I’m thinking this is not a good omen.

An intuition borne out when, some time later, Small Child storms back into my office, very put out because “I need help and Dad has no clue what to do.”

Not that my having a clue is a given, either. But I’m the Mother, cluelessness is not an option. So I ask for the book, sending up a pray to be struck with sudden and profound insight. What I’m struck with is the profound realization that a) this is one stupid math assignment and b) I’m glad I’m no longer eleven. All I can say, between the two of us, we got through it. The “why” of it, however, still eludes me.

Aren’t fifth graders supposed to be doing things like long division????

Speaking of stems and leaves (the real kind), a little man rang our doorbell the other night to kindly inform us that the pair of 40 foot ash trees in our yard were in very sad shape and would we like him to trim them for us? Um, these trees passed “in sad shape” years ago. More dead wood than living, lopsided, the lushest growth over the roof (what was up with that?). But the prices arborists or whatever the heck they’re called want to trim 40 foot trees are enough to give a person a heart attack. But this wasn’t an arborist, this was a little guy with a chainsaw, a pickup and a son. His price, we could handle. And while he was at it, we’re having the tree currently hugging the chimney whacked back so we can actually use the woodstove this year. And it’s not as if we don’t now have the wood. . .

And on a final note (and I can talk about this because the husband not only doesn’t read my blog, he wouldn’t have any idea how to even find the thing), I thought I’d get him a World Atlas for Christmas, since he’s constantly moaning about not having one (yes, he’s geeky like that, but we all love him for it). We used to have one, which, like the Windex, disappeared. Unlike the Windex, this thing weighed as much as a Hummer, so how it walked out of here is anybody’s guess. Anyway, commending myself for my perspicacity, I logged onto bn.com in the wee hours of the morning (don’t ask), thinking, easy-peasy, they probably have a really nice one that doesn’t cost as much as our first car (since the one in the National Geographic catalog did). And I’ll even get free shipping!

Uhhh. . .hmmm. . .

Who knew everybody and his dog puts out a world atlas?

Damn. And that was supposed to be the easy gift. . .

So today, with the cold-fog more or less cleared from the brain and in the stark light of day, I got a good look at the sink in the upstairs bathroom. Euuwww, in a word. And since the bathroom fairies are obviously hanging out with the dinner fairies in a galaxy far, far away, I hauled out the Soft Scrub and the Lysol cleaner and had at it. Wasn’t until I was putting everything back in place on the sink, however, that I noticed our Olay soap had been embellished — I assume in keeping with the most recent holiday theme — with a broad grin and two cute little snaggle teeth.

The resulting chuckle made up, at least somewhat, for the missing Windex. Why the Windex is missing, I have no idea, since it’s not as if any of the usual suspects ever actually clean.

Officially started Christmas shopping yesterday. Online, of course. God, however did I manage in the days before Click and Spend? Not that I don’t enjoy the occasional foray into the brick-and-mortar madness, especially in those last, heady days before the Big Day itself — something about that glazed, frantic look in everybody’s eyes just says “Christmas” like nothing else — but I sure do love opening the door every few days to the Fed Ex or UPS guy and having Christmas delivered to me.

Realized that Thanksgiving is two weeks from Thursday. How the hell did that happen???

At least that’s what it feels like. Man, go lie down for a few minutes, wake up two hours later wondering who slipped what into my Pepsi One. Dreamt I was in a dance studio, trying to perfect my grand jete (”big leap,” FYI). Not sure how old I was supposed to be (the “now” me or the “when I actually used to do this stuff” me), but mm-mm, I sure did look fine in my leotard. Which I guess answers that question.

Hmm. Surveying my desk (yes, the one that had been completely clean two days ago), I see. . .five catalogs, my Novelists Inc. dues notice, a Special Ed re-evaluation questionnaire I really have to finish for #5, one copy of Consumer Reports (their annual Electronic issue — anybody need to know anything about TVs, VCRs, cameras, and any number of gadgets whose purpose, sad to say, totally escapes me, I’m your gal), an empty water bottle lying forlornly on its side, the aforementioned Pepsi One can (still half full on account of that two hour nap), a few address labels, a stack of scrap paper, a Post-It pad, a red pen, a plain old pencil, and five of my favorite Zebra F-301 pens. My desk as one of those “I Spy” pictures. I like it.

Only 7 days until the world gets to read a new Romancing the Blog column from moi. Only problem is, I can’t decide what to go on about. Not that I don’t have ideas, or even mostly-done columns. I simply don’t know which one is. . .right. Like having too many shoes that all go equally well with the outfit. Yeah, I know, life’s hard.

Since I played the restaurant card last night, I’m stuck with doing dinner tonight. Hold the sympathetic groans, however — we’re talking toss a chicken in the oven, leave it there for two hours to cook. Some rice, some frozen vegies, we’re good. It’s not the cooking I mind, anyway — it’s the deciding what to cook that gets me. Really, if the dinner fairy would simply fill the fridge with assorted dinner stuff, all neatly labeled as to what was for which night, I’d be happy enough to oblige. But after twenty-seven years, it gets old. And, at 53, I’m nowhere near done yet.

My mother’s frozen dinners are becoming more appealing by the second. In the meantime, there’s a chicken downstairs whose time has come. . .

Had to lie down three times today (when the body says, “Knock it off,” I’ve learned to listen), but I finally got through the galleys for the March book. Turns out I used “just” roughly five million times. I’m usually more aware of repetition (since it’s a huge pet peeve), but I was brain dead when I wrote this book, and clearly still brain dead when I read the line-edits, and somehow, I missed them. Allllll of them.

I see a really, really nice holiday gift in my editor’s assistant’s near future.

Faced a dilemma today, the same dilemma I face every time I’m under the weather (which fortunately isn’t very often). See, my hair is wavy enough that, if I don’t “do” it with the curling iron, I get all these little crinkles. Which would be fine if the crinkles didn’t peter out at the ends and look, well, like I didn’t do my hair. The thing is, though, the more of an effort I make to at least pretend I feel normal, the more normal I feel. Never been much into Death Warmed Over look, go figure. However, if I look fine, then everybody else assumes I am fine, and my fellow inmates have a hard enough time with the concept of Mom being sick without faking them out.

So I didn’t do my hair. Slap a little green makeup on me and I could do a mean Margaret Hamilton, but at least everybody left me alone.

Oh! Oh! On a much brighter note — has anyone else tried the Dove Minature ice creams? We (okay, I) got a box at Sam’s yesterday. There’s strawberry, chocolate and vanilla, wrapped in luscious chocolate, and they’re only 60 calories each. Yeah, yeah, eating just one (or two, or three) is a bit of a challenge, but hey. It’s better than scarfing down an entire Dove bar to the tune of 5000 calories or however much it is. I think I’m in love.

Can’t wait until I can actually taste them.

D0n’t mean to be neglectful, really, but have been dealing with a head-cold the past couple of days that has clogged my brain. Not that I’m on death’s door or anything, but things like making the kid’s lunch — or blogging — are proving daunting, just at the moment. So I’ll be back soon, in all my witty glory, as soon as I can sit up for longer than five minutes without wanting a nap.

And today’s blog entry title is courtesy of #4, who, as a tot, would look up at us with a glower and mutter, “I’m nizzible and sick.”

Yeah, it’s like that.

In preparation for going over my galleys for A HUSBAND’S WATCH, I had to clean off my desk, which is actually one of those long white buffet tables they sell at Sam’s. The detritus included the old dictionary and falling-apart thesaurus, at least six spiral notebooks, two stacks of contest-bound books and the relevant paperwork, three royalty statements, a contract, a handful of catalogs, two bottles of nail polish, a “cheat sheet” of teenage slang I printed off AOL, revision notes for the WIP, various books that had nothing to do with anything, and enough writing implements to outfit a class of twenty-four.

I’m about to go blind from the glare of the morning sun bouncing off the white surface.

But weirder than that is this feeling that I’ve somehow swept away half my brain in the process. Where’s my nice, cozy clutter? Or, more to the point, where’s my life?

Have to tell on myself, though — last week I lugged the laptop to jury duty (waste of time, I was there for an hour, followed by a half hour two days later, and now it’s over), only to open it and realize to my horror that everything I’ve eaten by my computer for the past two years was in plain evidence. As opposed to any letters on the keyboard, which wore off probably three months after I got the thing.

If you want a good laugh, and aren’t bothered by off-color humor, head on over to Shannon Stacey’s blog , and her monthly commentary on the search phrases that show up on her stats page.

I guarantee you’ll never look at a Swiffer the same way again.