We’re heading out. Today’s the last day of mud season, so tomorrow we get to ride!

Because I always forget how to pack over the course of the winter, I’m currently running around like a starving racoon chasing a hot dog on a string, so I’m reposting a list I did from last summer.

A few things women need to know about four-wheeling:

* Make sure your personal grooming has been meticulously attended to before hitting the trails. Tick check is significantly more humiliating if you look like you’ve been drinking gorilla milk.

* Pay special attention to that upper lip and eyebrows. Trail dust clings to even the finest of hairs, and you do not want to arrive back at camp—or at a trailside restaurant—with an Adolph ’stache and a unibrow. Trust me.

* Pack an empty cup with your gear. It is almost impossible to hang your ass over a log without encountering suspect foliage, even more suspect insects or pissing all over yourself. But any woman can pee in a cup. Of course, you then have to stand around wondering what the hell to do with the cup.

* At some point—generally when facing a large amount of water or mud—the guys will say “ladies first”. This is not an act of chivalry.

* It’s natural to be a little paranoid about being in the forest with starving wild animals during those days of the month, but take comfort in knowing that—in your current mood—you’d scare the crap out of anything smaller than a full-grown rabid Kodiak anyway.

* Four words: Really. Good. Sports. Bra.

Today’s my fifteenth wedding anniversary.

 Fif. Teen. Years.

 Dayum. And in two years, there will be undeniable evidence that I’ll be old enough to be the mother of a high schooler.  In four years I’ll be sharing my car.

  :ignore: 

 Enough of that.

 So yesterday the husband had one mission: take the tall kid to the powersports shop and buy him a helmet. That’s it.  But of course the short kid wanted to go because the tall kid was, and I did mention the short kid’s gloves might not fit him this year.

Team Technicolor is no more. He bought them all new gear, and it all matches. Well, technically the short kid didn’t get a new helmet—he moved into his brother’s.

Yes, the tall kid’s now in an Adult L and the short kid (the seven year old) is in a youth XXL. I’m still surprised he can hold his head upright.

 Now I’m off to brainstorm titles. And synopsize.  :write: 

 (I do NOT understand why sometimes my smilies work and sometimes they don’t, but I’m blaming gmail.)

Honest.

I couldn’t do my letters to the Idol because we watched it during a late dinner so I couldn’t write in my notebook. For some reason I can’t do them after—they have to be a stream of consciousness thing. David Cook rocked—and totally lived up to Cowell’s awesome challenge. It’ll no doubt be a David vs. David final. (We never watch the results show, which is on right now.)

I can’t access my damn gmail. It’s been getting glitchier and glitcher and now I’m really aggravated. If I owe you an email, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. I’m working on it.

Lots of non-blog related things, what with the bathroom remodel and getting ready for the first ATV trip of the season. (Both boys outgrew their gear, dammit.)

I also need to write a synopsis.

How hard can it be to find a black, zip-up hooded sweatshirt? I think I have a better chance of a hoarde of agents and editors descending upon my home, clamoring for my grocery list, than I do of finding a black hoodie.

Having exhausted my usual retail haunts (yeah, that would be Wal-Mart), I ventured reluctantly to one of my personal levels of hell—a hoity-toity women’s clothing store at the outlet mall.

Me:  Do you have any black, zip-up sweatshirts?

Clerk: I don’t believe so, but we have some lovely yellow ones on the clearance rack.

 Me:  I don’t want yellow. It has to be black.

Clerk: Why?

Me:  (refrains from saying “Because I said so, dumbass”)  My ATV is black, and my helmet, gloves and goggles are pink and black, so yellow wouldn’t go.

Clerk: You could get a pink one.

Me:  A pink sweatshirt would show the dirt too much.

Clerk:  Dirt?

Me:  Yeah, like mud, trail dust, the occasional bug smear.

Clerk: Perhaps you’d like to try a men’s store? Or…(*pauses*)…Walmart?

 Me: (refrains from saying :censor: you, lady)  Good idea! They’re friendly there, and they don’t charge an arm and a leg for factory seconds and last year’s cast-offs. You have a nice day, though.

 I hate shopping. Seriously. That’s why my jeans are faded beyond stylish and I own three pairs of shoes.  :gaah: 

 So today marks the start of my diet new eating lifestyle. Only took me about two hours to figure out how many Points (tm or r or something) to charge for a “splash of milk”.  Sitting here with a small DD iced coffee rather than a large is not making me happy, so I went to get a little lolcat pick-me-up. What greets me? 

more cat pictures

Sometimes, when it comes to professional envy, the hits just keep on coming and it’s hard to keep on going. And it doesn’t matter how much you like and/or respect the author, when somebody gets a deal with an editor you want or a house you want or beats you to the punch with a similar premise you’d thought unique, there’s some teeth grinding, some pen tossing and some throwing of the hands into the air.

The first thing I do to drag myself out of the pit of despair is skim through one of my all-time favorite writing books, Way of the Cheetah: How to Boost Your Productivity by Lynn Viehl. Especially this part:

How long do you think a cheetah would survive if he saw other cats bringing down bigger/juicier/tastier game and thought “Well, that’s it, I’ll never be able to hunt as well as they do. I quit.”

Inevitably, rational thought and reluctant self-awareness will crash the pity party and I’m forced to deal with my wait for meeeee whining with a checklist. (Let’s call the lucky deal-getting author Jane Doe, just to be original.)

1. Did Jane Doe work on six different books in the last three days because she can’t decide which path to take? (Probably not.)

2. In the last week, has Jane Doe accumulated more word count with blog posts than with manuscript pages? (Probably not.)

3. Does Jane Doe sit with a notebook and pen in her lap and pretend she’s writing while watching TV? (Probably not.)

4. Does Jane Doe do anything and everything—from fighting dust bunnies to running errands to chatting on the phone—before she sits down to write? (Probably not.)

For me, the hardest thing about professional envy is the moment when I have to admit that, no matter how lucky Jane Doe might seem, agents and editors didn’t line up outside her door with little deli number tags, dying to get their hands on her unfinished ideas.

The trick is to turn that moment into motivation.

=

=

Fine. I went.

I had to have a tetanus shot.

And I have to take Augmentin for 10 days, which the nurse cheerfully informed might make me feel nauseated, and I will almost certainly feel, because of the shot, as though a large man punched me in the arm.

It’s all Angie’s fault. She knows why.

Pretty, isn’t she? Serene, even.

It’s a lie. She’s a vicious, feral jungle cat who will—suddenly and without remorse—shred the finger off the person who feeds her. Yeah, that would be me. So what happened?

I was letting her bite me, and then she really bit me. I know, huh?

Since Jinx was a wee baby kitty, she’s liked to chew on the ends of my fingers, especially my nails. So it was no big deal, until she turned her head, lined those vicious back teeth up with the first knuckle of my right middle finger and tried to get the marrow out of the bone with one bite. Punctured the skin on both sides, but tore the skin on the top of my hand. And I’m not sure if she bruised the joint somehow, but I can’t bend it. I woke up this morning to excruciating pain and…redness.

(This is where I have to pause to assure Jaci and Angie I’ll go see a doctor. At some point. Maybe.)

So now I’m going to go brave a load of dishes because open wounds love nothing more than hot, Dawn-sudsy water. And then will come the liberal alcohol dousing. Once I’ve stopped screaming and picked myself up off the floor, I’ll see if I can hold a pen any better than I can type.

And I’m not letting that little ginger witch chew my nails anymore, dammit.

Dear David Cook: (”Hungry Like the Wolf — Duran Duran—SQUEE!) Ohmigod. I hated it. I’m so sorry. Especially the “doo doo” parts. I can’t believe it, and I have so much guilt.

Dear Syesha Mercado: (”Big Wheels Keep On Turning”…or is it “Proud Mary”?—Tina Turner) That whole dance routine bridge was tres corny. Seriously bad. And I liked the first half much more than the second. Beware the channeling of the screeching monkey.

Stop DVR playback for Celtics scorecheck…resume playback…

Dear Jason Castro: (”I Shot the Sheriff”—Bob Marley) I was too busy pointing and laughing to write a letter to you. Still am, actually.

Stop DVR playback for Celtics scorecheck…resume playback…

Dear David Archuleta: (”Stand by Me”—Ben E. King) Dude, I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but you’re my favorite at the split tonight. But you need to work on that wheezy, audible inhaling. Very distracting. But well-sung, froggy.

Dear David Cook: (”Baba O’Reilly”—The Who) Oh hai, you’re back! I thought we’d lost you. That was pretty good, I thought, and my husband, who—unlike me—actually has familiarity with The Who beyond the CSI theme, said you done good. But who the is Baba O’Reilly?

Stop DVR playback for 4th quarter Celtics…

Will watch the rest during lunch. Go Celtics!

Edited to add PART 2:

Dear Syesha Mercado: (”A Change is Gonna Come”—Sam Cook) That was pretty. Unfortunately for you, you’re probably going home no matter how ridiculous Jason is because there seems to be a conspiracy to ensure Jason wins just so my husband’s head explodes.

Dear Jason Castro: (”Mister Tambourine Man”—Bob Dylan) If it’s such a favorite classic, why don’t you know the lyrics? You should have rocked out some Springsteen, dude.

David Archuleta: (”Love Me Tender”—Elvis Presley) If I stuck a post-hole digger down my throat, I still couldn’t have triggered as strong a gag reflex as your performance did.