Ms. Harris Has Left The Building...

/

We're car shopping. For the most part, I am holding it together. 

I hate car shopping. Every car rides the same to me. I feel bad for the salesperson in the backseat, leaning forward to say, "You can really feel the difference in acceleration on this model," because no, no I can't. The acceleration on this car feels exactly the same as the acceleration on the other five cars I just drove, from the Kia to the BMW. No difference at all. 

I'd prefer to test drive in anonymity. I don't want to be pandered or sold to. Just let me get in the car, take it around the block, and leave the lot to ponder my decision. 

"I need to be famous," I told Blair as we drove to yet another dealership. "Famous enough so that I can have my people inform the dealership ahead of time that they are not to speak to Ms. Harris unless she speaks to them first."

"Or make eye contact," said Blair.

"Yes! No eye contact," I agreed. "And they can't stand too close to me."

"Grounds for termination," said Blair.

"Absolutely! They need to be told that if they make eye contact with Ms. Harris or in any way acknowledge that they are breathing the same air she breathes, Ms. Harris will immediately leave the lot and ask one of her people to see to it that their ass gets fired, pronto.'" 

"That actually would be an improvement on what we're having to deal with now," said Blair. (We'd just returned from a not-so-fun visit to a Toyota Dealership.)

One more weekend of car shopping ought to do it. Then we'll make our final selection and I won't have to be on a car lot again for another ten years. 

Ms. Harris has left the building...

Cheers,

Dena

 

Funny of the Week

/

I bought a bootcamp Groupon with my friends Christie and Kay. We're the oldest in the group, with the other women being in their mid to late 20's. Our strength coach is 28. Last week, Christie, Kay and myself were milling about, waiting for class to start. The other girls weren't there yet. The coach came out and said, "Hey, where are all the young does tonight?" 

Uh... hello??? Want to try that one again? 

We were teasing him and giving him grief and he was blushing slightly as he waved his hands in the air and said, "No, no! You're misunderstanding me." (PAUSE) "I LOVE older women." 

Duuuuude. Noooooooo. 

The rest of class we'd glance over at each other and say, "You see any young does? No? Me neither. Just a bunch of old hags here tonight." 

We're old and we're mean.

Cheers,

Dena

Wanted: One Writer's Theme Song

/

The good news: I've been talking with my editor at Ten Speed Press and we think we've nailed down the next great cat book idea. (I'd tell you, but then I'd either have to kill you or sic a herd of wild Maine Coons on you.) I need to present her with an outline and sample chapter before it's a definite go, but it looks like it will happen. 

The bad news: I fear my novel writing will suffer (i.e., "disappear") as I pour all energy into writing the cat book. 

It's not the end of the world it that's what happens, but I would really like to attempt a balance between the two books, making the time to work on each. For this to happen, I need to set boundaries around how I spend my time. And what better way to gain clarity on what's important and what's not than to make a list? 

NOTE: I need a theme song I can play whenever I make a list. I make them so often, it would be great to have musical accompaniment. Remember the Picture Pages theme song (see below)? Something cute and fun like that. Anyone out there care to work on that for me?

Read More

Send Help, I'm Nesting

/

I think I would write better with authentic Turkish spa towels in the house, don't you?Ahem.

I have become obsessed with buying new bath towels, making sure all the crumbs are cleaned out from the silverware drawer, and finding a painting for the blank wall in the hall. Life holds little meaning or value unless and until each of these things gets done RIGHT NOW.

A friend asked the other day over coffee, "What distracts Dena?"

Uh, nesting. Whenever I'm feeling less than self-confident in my work, I battle the strong, strong urge to organize each and every aspect of my life. Somehow, I seem to believe that a tidy bathroom and freshly purged CD collection will bring about the clarity needed for me to get back to my writing. 

The unfortunate thing for those around me (read: Blair) is that I'm a, well... less-than-nice person when I nest. It's frustration. I can't get the dialogue in my scene to sound the way I want it so I channel that anxiety into a migraine over the fact that (sob!) the damn cat hair keeps piling up and the tupperware keeps falling over inside the pantry. 

The obvious answer--and the only answer--is to sit my butt in the chair and write. Write bad scenes, crappy dialogue, cliched plots, doesn't matter so long as it's writing. Writing is the only thing that will calm my racing heart when I see a water glass left out that hasn't been put in the dishwasher or fingerprint smudges on the glass door. 

Naturally, writing is the last thing I feel like doing. It feels more pressing--and useful--to scour overstock.com for deals on Egyptian cotton bath towels. Surely I would write better scenes if only I weren't forced to use threadbare towels each day and instead started the morning with a nice, fluffy cotton wrap. 

Okay, I see your point. Just one more swoop through overstock.com and then I'm going back to writing. 

I really want those towels. 

Cheers,

Dena