Stuffageddon: Going Tiny Means War on Stuff

There comes a time in every woman's life when she has to finally ask herself - "Do I need 24 coffee mugs? And what about this eggy-separatory-thingy?" Unless I'm opening a diner that specializes in coffee and hollandaise sauce, the answer is no. No, no, no, no, and no. 

And that's just the beginning.

Our safari into the darkest reaches of our kitchen cabinets turned up mysterious unidentified kitchen utensils that might have been better suited for the Spanish Inquisition. ("That? Oh, that's our antique eyeball scoop. Just put it with the melon ballers.")

When we consolidated households almost three years ago, we both owned houses of comparable size that were filled with our own respective Stuff, and then had to cram all of that Stuff into one of those houses. We did donate a decent amount of Stuff at the time; things that neither of us had any need for and honestly couldn't even remember how they came into our possession. Things like a ceramic figurine of sandals that said 'Dominican Republic' (a place neither of us have been), or a broken pole saw that was beyond repair. 

Those were the easy ones. 

Then came the items that fell into the "Perfectly Good Useful Stuff" category where we had duplicates. You can imagine... Two toasters, two water filters, two microwaves, two sets of mixing bowls, two oak beds, etc. The discussion around things like that always resolved into a decision that we should keep them "just in case" we needed them someday. We're taught that it's always good to have a back-up. Well, we had back-ups for our back-ups. It always made perfect sense at the time to keep all of it, because you never want to find yourself having to re-purchase an item that you'd foolishly parted with, of course. And if I managed to set my toaster on fire, I'd be awfully glad I still had that other $20 toaster up in our attic, right? Right.

If I hoarded in real life as much as I did in Skyrim, we'd really be in trouble.

So we justified all of the extra attic space we expanded into without a second thought. One day, completely without warning, my super handyman husband sent me a photo of a gaping hole he'd cut into our kitchen ceiling for a brand new attic space, opening up all kinds of storage options for our tiny over-flowing home. The sub-par Martha Stewart in me had a minor heart attack, but the burgeoning hoarder had eyes only on the ultimate storage prize: Do you have any idea how much STUFF you can get into a stand-up attic space that size???

This philosophy has continued in our household for the past three years and we were close to reaching a critical mass of Stuff in every room of the house, from the Catio to the Robot Lab (What? You don't have a Robot Lab in your house?). 

Our dream has always been to purchase a huge tract of land in the mountains and build our dream home in the middle of it with my hobbit hole writing office in some picturesque corner of the property. In fact, we started our 5 year plan to make it happen as soon as we got married and part of our accumulation of Stuff has been to furnish this someday home. We literally have a bed under our bed and another bed in our closet. Our master bedroom is so crammed with mis-matched furniture that my shin has a permanent goose egg on it from night time navigation. We've purchased two storage ottomans in the past few months and were on the brink of buying a new buffet for additional kitchen storage to house all of this Stuff that we thought we couldn't live without.

And then Steven called me at work one day with an idea that changed everything. The gist of his call was this: If we scale back in the short term, our 5 year plan becomes a 2 year plan. That means getting rid of everything we can so we can squeeze into a Tiny Home for a few years.

Seriously, isn't this Tumble Weed House just the most adorable thing ever?

We've been interested in the Tiny House movement for some time, but we've never had a motivation to seriously consider it as anything other than a vacation cabin. The utility and flexible design makes these tiny houses on wheels, usually well under 200 sq ft, perfect for a weekend getaway. But a long-term residence? Nah. We've got too much Stuff. 

But when getting rid of things that we may never use and don't really need suddenly means getting onto our dream property 3 years sooner (for us, it's always been more about the land than about the house), then show me the way to the dumpster! So now we've already taken one truck-load to be donated and our living room floor is piled with boxes full of other things we don't need now, never did before, and probably never will. And every single box we fill becomes another blazing symbol of our freedom from this tyranny of Stuff that we'd never recognized before. It's even becoming addicting to throw things out; I find myself looking at everything in the house with new eyes now. 

("Do we really need a sofa? We don't have people over. What about that dining set? We always eat on the sofa. Oh, maybe we do need the sofa.") 

It's an incredible feeling, honestly. I've always thought of myself as being practical by holding onto items of value that might one day be useful, even if one day never came. But I'm starting to believe that the road to Hoarder Hell is paved with Practical Ideas (though likely there are stacks in the corners).

Tonight, after I write for a while on A God of Gods, I'm going to walk into my closet and pry out some clothes wedged tightly in the back that probably haven't seen sunshine in 4 years (or 25 lbs), and toss them on top of the pile, too. And considering I'm going to follow all of that up with ice cream, I'm probably never going to have to worry about whether or not I'll have to eventually re-purchase a size 2 pair of jeans again.

If I hadn't downsized my face paint, this is how I would have
celebrated my escape from Stuff Culture.

Granted, it's going to take a much larger lifestyle change to adapt to a Tiny Home than just throwing away excess Stuff, but for us every box we donate is a celebration of this first step toward achieving our dream. We've gone from needing to buy more Stuff to contain our Stuff, to having empty cabinets and shelves that we never thought we'd see again. If we can do this in two weeks, what can we do in two years? What can YOU do in two years? 

Consider it. The War on Stuff can be your first step to freedom, too.

Surprise! I write real books, too!

*Spoiler*  - The "Surprise" in the title is pure, beautiful, and somewhat bitchy sarcasm.

Okay, mostly bitchy.

What follows might come across as a re-hashing of an old topic, but since it seems to keep rearing its fugly head I'm not going to apologize for making you read it yet again. This one just really got my hackles up.

What happened? On our recent honeymoon (yes, I promise a post is coming about that soon, too), we were on a cruise with some of the most well-educated and interesting people that I've ever met. Keep in mind, we were the outliers in average cruiser age by about 35 years, but these people have done everything - taken over banks, vacationed in Antarctica, built working test farms in drought-ridden African settlements, the list goes on. And I could have listened to the stories of 90% of these brilliant people until the sun rose. But that other 10% - pardon me while I take a drink for courage - were entrenched academics in primarily liberal arts disciplines.

Let me clarify here: The liberal arts are my lifeblood and where all of my passions go to snuggle up with a book, a surrealist painting, and a tangy wine and cheese pairing. But, in the darkest and narrowest parts of that arena, you can find the most immovable and pompous know-it-alls in the entire population of people with heads up asses.

You guessed right. This is the embodiment of the 10% I'm talking about here. These were the people who, despite the gloriously diverse selection of wine bottles paraded by our dinner table every night, tut-tutted with disapproval over every sip. Somehow conversation at these tables was always eventually guided to the topic of literature, an arena in which our resident academics were practically frothing over with wisdom they were dying to share. Whether we wanted it or not. And, without fail, they drew their prim little lines in the sand and placed fantasy, SF, and all popular fiction on the opposite side from 'Real Literature.'

The incident that got under my fur the most (and the one that left me lying awake in bed wishing I were more confrontational and not just a passive-aggressive blogger), was the dinner with the lady I will refer to as the I-can-quote-articles-I-read-on-Slate-Lady. Maybe I'll just call her Slate Lady for brevity.

This time the topic came up before I could even wave my Author Flag (they have those, right?), and Slate Lady made it clear immediately that she only read 'Real Books.' This, it turns out, is a literary unicorn of non-fiction and obscure authors who devote their lives to developing dark symbolism that would be a wet dream for any classic Russian novelists. I couldn't help myself. I asked the question:

Me: "What about Fantasy and Science Fiction?"
Slate Lady: *Sniff* *Derisive laugh* "Um, just no."

 That was mere moments before she launched into her tirade of shaming adults for reading YA that came almost verbatim from this Slate article that ticked off readers and writers of all genres this summer.

And no, *sigh*, I didn't call her out. I didn't acknowledge the immediate surge of brilliant rebuttals including this one from the Washington Post and this one from CNN. I did at least turn to another lady at the table (one of the sassiest and my favorite from the trip) and started talking loudly about how awesome it is that popular fantasy and even comic books are bringing a new generation of previously non-readers, especially among young boys. Remember that passive-aggressive thing I mentioned before? Damn it.

Eventually, that same awesome lady (an angel, she is) next to me pointed out to Slate Lady that I was an author.

Slate Lady: "Oh? And what do you write?"
Me: "Young Adult Fantasy and Satire."
Slate Lady: "Hmm."

I didn't say a word. I'd love to say it was because I just didn't want to spend the rest of the cruise on a small ship with someone at whom I'd thrown my glass of wine, but I just plain suck at confrontation. With or without alcohol. Eventually I'd have just gotten emotional and flustered and ended with an eloquent "Up yours," so I decided to save my venting for you lucky readers on the blog.

What I WISH I could have said to her is something along these lines:

I write a series about a young girl who was abandoned by her parents and forced to discover who she was all on her own in a world that wasn't forgiving of her 'gifts.' It's about a child in what amounts to slavery who's never known a life outside of abuse and neglect, but who overcomes her pains and heartache by retreating into her imaginary world.

It's about laughing at ourselves and the empty traditions we value without knowing why and taking stock in our instincts before we let our fickle brains over-rationalize us out of the right choice.

It’s about learning the hard way that maturity, at any age, is no match for experience. And finally, it’s about remembering that the right thing to do is still the right thing to do when no one is looking. It's a novel for anyone who’s struggled with how they identify themselves and learned to define their own niche in a world that doesn't have a place for them.

It just happens to be set in an alternate universe filled with magic, gods, and creatures. But yes, it is a REAL book. 

So this blog, I suppose, is as much about venting as it is a rallying cry for all of the writers and readers who've faced the accusation that fiction has nothing to offer because it "isn't real." Authors might seem magical to those who don't write, but we don't have wands that create mystical social, family, financial, or political situations that could never exist. It's pure insanity to think that our stories are anything other than a reflection of the world we live in, with the good and bad of personal experience all rolled into one literary package.

And yes, Ms. Slate Lady, I used the word 'literary,' because whether you believe it or not, I write real books, too.

How the Brits Bag Literary Agents.... Really!

I think the wires keep her head on.

My guest today is the lovely Alex Tanner from all the way across the pond! Alex writes gritty psychological fiction including the recent post-apocalyptic PARADISE INCOMING, the dark short COFFEE, and the upcoming TEQUILA BARTENDER. She also happens to be one of my favorite smartasses in this upper hemisphere and she's sharing her best 'tips' on how to sell your book to an agent/publisher.

I'd really like to emphasize again that Alex hails from the UK. Why? Because I'm also daring all of my American readers to try NOT reading this in a bad English accent now :-)

Cheerio!!

The Snarknado Guide to Query Letters

If you’ve written a million letters to agents or publishers, but keep getting ignored or rejected, worry not. The time of your success starts now. Read this guide and if you don’t get published within a week I will eat a selfie of Justin Beiber.

1. It’s very important that you write your letter on My Little Pony paper in gold glitter pen. Because nobody embodies ‘self respect’ like a Brony.  

2. Start your letter with ‘hey bro’, because agents and publishers love to be called bro. If you want to sweeten the pot further, sketch two hands doing a little fist bump in the corner. 

3. If you don’t have a book yet, just use someone else’s. Preferably choose a dead author’s work, like Shakespeare, he can’t sue. 

4. Don’t bother laying out the whole story. They’ll figure it out when they read it anyway.  

5. Spell everything wrong. I mean it. Are you in America? Use British spelling, they’ll love it! Better yet, switch your font to Chinese. They’ll love trying to translate it. 

6. If you’re hot be sure to attach a bathroom selfie where you ‘accidentally’ forgot that pants existed. If you’re hairy chested, shave ‘publish me!’ into your chest. 

7. Throw random punctuation at that letter like you’d throw confetti at a bride. It! Will, get; you-noticed? Trust me IMMA RITER. 

8. Attach a letter from your mom encouraging the publishers to go ahead with your proposal. If she thinks you’re awesome then you must be awesome, right? 

9. Once you’ve sent your letter, send an hourly email to find out how you did. Make sure you phone right after too, just in case. 

10. If you get rejected, send the publisher continuous Vines of you sobbing into a bowl of potato chips until they change their mind.

Okay perhaps not. Think of this as a ‘what not to do in the name of all that is holy’. If you see someone about to follow this guide, sit them in a corner and feed them chocolate until they slip into a coma.

It’s for their own good.

But hopefully, if you’ve been slaving away writing letters and proposals with no luck, this at least made you smile!

You can buy my debut novel Paradise Incoming at Amazon, or from my blog over at www.thegeekmemoirs.com

The Firefly Paradox: Butterman (Time) Travel, Inc

Welcome one and all for today's romp through time! I have the privilege of helping to unveil the cover for the brilliant upcoming novel by PK Hrezo: Butterman (Time) Travel, Inc and she even gave me carte blanche on creating the post that goes with it (my evil side always appears at the words 'carte blanche'). This blog hop is all about where and when we would go if we were able to book a trip through the Butterman agency and I think it took me all of about 2 seconds to decide my destination. 2003, here I come...

Interested in booking a trip through time? Here's the blurb from the book and my own time travel fandom misadventure (yes, you read that right!) begins immediately below it:

Welcome to Butterman Travel, Incorporated

Coming 11/12/13!!

We are a full service agency designed to meet all your exclusive time travel needs. Family-owned and operated, we offer clients one hundred years of time travel experience. A place where you can rest assured, safety and reliability always come first.

Anxious to attend a special event from the past? Or for a glimpse of what the future holds?

You’ve come to the right place. We’re a fully accredited operation, offering an array of services; including, but not limited to: customized travel plans, professionally piloted operations, and personal trip guides. *Terms and conditions do apply

Conference us directly from our Website. Our frontline reservation specialist, Bianca Butterman, will handle all your inquiries in a professional and efficient manner, offering a tentative itinerary and free fare quote, so you can make the most of your time trip.

We look forward to serving you at Butterman Travel, Inc., where time is always in your hands.   

_______________________________________________________________________________

"Ms. Chappell, you're absolutely, totally, utterly, perfectly clear that you've signed a binding agreement not to attempt to alter events in your chosen time destination, correct?" Bianca Butterman asked me for the third time as I signed the final waivers on my vacation package. She must have seen the glint in my eye because she was definitely getting suspicious.

"Absolutely," I answered, hoping that nervous squeak in my voice sounded innocent. I added on my sweetest smile and doe eyes; with any luck she'd think I was just another naive fangirl hoping for a thrill. "Really, this moment just had such a HUGE impact on my life and I never felt like I had any closure. There were so many questions left unanswered, and I just feel like if I see it for myself maybe I'll finally be able to let go."

Bianca's eyes narrowed. "Just please remember that you will be held financially, ethically, and cosmically liable for any Paradox Factors your actions might cause," she said as though she were already tallying up the charges against me. PFs were a big deal now that time travel was the norm; however, the permanent damage to my psychological well being was a pretty big deal to me, too. I'd decided months ago that it was worth the risk. 

"Of course I will," I said with a little giggle. Too much? Maybe, but I never was much of an actress.

"Fine," Bianca finally sighed and opened the folder with my travel papers. Even if she didn't believe me, she obviously couldn't prove I was up to anything. Score! "Everything you need is right here. Your character is an office temp with very little experience so they won't be surprised if you don't seem to know what to do. Just try to stick with the coffee and bagels and everything should go smoothly. Here is your ID to get you into the building. Your guide is disguised as a janitor and he will always be within earshot. Or armshot if he needs to be," she added and just about leveled me with her glare. "This is a Nokia cell phone appropriate to the year with the company emergency line programmed in at #1. Dialing that number will get you an immediate extraction. Are we clear?"

"As a bell!" I said cheerily. 

"Then I hope you enjoy your trip to 2003 and Fox Studios, Ms. Chappell. At Butterman Travel, we're always here to give you the time of your life," she shoved the folder with the badge in my hands and pointed me toward the door to begin my trip. As soon as the door closed, Bianca rang down to Operations. "Joe, your next client is in the tube. Don't let this one out of your sight; she's got a smile that just screams 'lunatic.'"

***

"Hey you, bagel girl!" 

The office witch snapped her fingers in front of my face and I resisted the urge to break them. Barely. "Yes? Can I help you?" I asked, tearing my eyes away from the network executive board room. Joe, the janitor who was my guide was taking a suspiciously long time to mop the equally suspicious spill that just happened to be between me and the door. I had to find a way to get around him; they were already getting started!

"I asked if you were deaf or stupid, but I think I already know the answer to that one," barked the office witch. No wonder this place went through so many temps. "Ms. Watson called for a coffee five minutes ago and yet you're still standing here with your mouth open. Get going!"

I grunted and wheeled the cart toward Ms. Watson's office in the exact opposite direction from where I needed to be if I was going to save the world from television peril. A casual glance over my shoulder showed me Joe still mopping the floor, a feat which must have been a lot harder to do with both of his eyes focused on me walking away. If I didn't know better, I'd swear he was a candidate for sexual harassment. At Ms. Watson's office I found a shrew no sweeter than the office witch.

"Is that finally my non-fat gluten-free latte I hear coming through my door?" She asked without looking up from her screen. I imagined she was probably too busy cancelling beloved children's shows in true Fox fashion.

"Yes, ma'am," I said glumly, glancing behind me again.

"Then bring it over here, for chrissake! Just set it on the coaster, and don't forget the lid this time! The last girl forgot the lid and coffee got absolutely everywhere."

"Yes.... ma'am!" I said as a plan sprang to life. I put the coffee down and I didn't forget her precious lid. But she hadn't said anything about making sure the lid was firmly attached, had she?

I was half-way back to the coffee station and barely suppressing a smile when I heard her scream. "Ugh! Stupid, stupid girl! Janitor, get in here now!!!"

It was time to make my move!

***

Meanwhile, Inside the Board Room...

"Seriously Bill, you can't compare a show like this to Star Trek. That was a show with class and with a classy following. The fan mail we're getting for this, frankly, it's a little scary."

"Alright, Clint, I get what you mean," Bill said, reaching for his vegan mocha grande. "Sure, it might be the comic fringe and the obsessive nerd crowd, but c'mon... a following is a following."

"I think Bill makes a good point," said the bookish lady across the table, trying not to reveal her secret fandom. "There's still money to be made off this franchise. Besides, they have a tiny budget for a sci-fi show. What could it hurt to keep it on the schedule?"

"But it's just so weird," said Clint with a frown. "Cowboys in spaceships? If anything, it's a cultish fad. I say we cash out and get out before it ends up costing us advertisers."

"I don't know," said the quiet man at the head of the table. "Joss has never failed us before and I don't want to do anything that will damage our relationship. I'm going to need a better reason than a disruptive fanbase before I cancel one of his shows."

***

Joe was hot on my heels already. By the time I reached the double doors I knew I only had about 10 seconds to do what had to be done. I slammed the bagel cart through them and leaped on top of it - dammit, I shouldn't have worn a dress - and made sure I had every network board member's attention before I screamed at the top of my lungs:

"YOU CAN'T TAKE THE SKY FROM ME! YOU CAN'T CANCEL IT, EITHER! WHEDON FOREVER!!"

Then Joe grabbed me from behind and dragged me to the lobby where Security was already on the way to escort us out of the building. Bianca Butterman was probably going to ban me from time travel forever, but I didn't care - I knew I'd gotten through to them!

***

 "That's exactly the kind of nonsense I'm talking about," said Clint, wiping the goat cheese from his sleeve. Not an inch of mahogany or imported carpet had been spared from bits of pastry and free trade organic coffee. "Is that the kind of image the Network wants for its viewers? If the D&D crowd is what you want, then you can probably kiss the Abercrombie and Nike ads goodbye."

"Alright," sighed the director. "I was dead set against canceling it, but now I see your point. Firefly has to go."

"Great!" Said Clint. "Now we can talk about putting a real show in its slot. I had an idea for a great Joe Millionaire spinoff..."

_______________________________________________________________________________

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PK Hrezo is a native Floridian whose life could easily be a Jimmy Buffet song. She shares her home with her firefighter husband and their two children. When not creating characters and their worlds, PK can be found at her other job of rearranging passenger’s itineraries for a major international airline. The only hobbies she loves more than traveling, are reading, writing, and music, and when the four are combined she exists in total bliss.  

She blogs regularly at PK HREZO: Fearless Fiction http://pk-hrezo.blogspot.com/

Twitter:  https://twitter.com/PKHrezo  @pkhrezo

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/authorpkhrezo

Website http://down-the-rabbithole.com/

Girl Gone Wild... for Tech.

An era has just ended. No one else likely noticed it because it was such a small era, but it was an era that was all mine and I will miss it even if no one else cares. What I’m mourning is the longstanding era of Low-Tech Ash. Until recently, I've considered myself a born again Neo-Luddite, but I just took another giant step toward Neo- and away from –Luddite.

I like to think that I’m an open-minded person, so my technology aversion hasn't been out of obstinacy even though I can be hard headed over just about everything else. More than anything, it’s been due to the fact that it seems like 90% of the new gadgets are aimed at entertainment and distraction. And god knows I get distracted enough without the extra help (Oooh, shiny!). This is the same reason why I canceled cable and have to ration Netflix to myself. Passive entertainment is my writing kryptonite; if not for all of the hours I've spent playing games and watching Big Bang Theory (non-stop, seasons 1-5) I might be 5 books deeper into the Aevum franchise by now.

The best part about my iPhone? 
My new dragonfly case!

So the last thing a person as easily distracted as I am needed was an iPhone, right? That’s what I've been telling myself every time I had to get a new phone and with smartphones dominating more of the market every year, it was getting harder and harder to find a plain-Jane (apologies to anyone named Jane) low-feature phone without a data plan. And I guess all of this is my long-winded way of admitting that Yes, I finally caved and bought an iPhone. And what’s worse? I’m in love with it and I’m wondering how I ever communicated before Siri.

Don’t think I jumped in all at once, however. I took baby steps toward an app-driven life, starting with the purchase of my Nook Tablet in February. As a writer, I've rebelled against the eReaders for years; I wanted to have a book, a REAL book, in my hands when I read with pages that turn and can be dog-eared to my place and that show the wear and tear that is the love you have for them when you read them over and over again until the binding breaks down. Not to mention the lovely smell they get after years of reading that is somewhat reminiscent of stale milk and nursing home. I mean, really, why would anyone want to give that up all of that nostalgia and authenticity? When I got the Nook I promised myself it was just going to be for convenience when travelling and to help make sure I didn't just completely let the stream of new tech pass me by. Of course, in my luddite snobbery I was also thinking I should be more familiar what I was rejecting so I could be armed with appropriately snarky responses to everyone else who couldn't survive without their iPhones and iPads (Note: Never miss a chance to prepare snark in advance).

The next thing I knew, I was reading almost exclusively on the Nook and I’d spent WAAAAAY more than I’d intended on eBooks. It turns out that my frequent headaches that were due to eye strain (every book lover knows how hard it is to get the pages in just the right light) disappeared almost instantly when I switched to the eReader and the neck aches I’d always gotten when I read were absent when I read on the Nook. Long story short: lesson learned. I put my snark and snobbery aside and admitted that hey, here’s a piece of new technology that actually HAS improved my life in unexpected ways. Even if it did put a dent in my bank account due to the new ease with which I could purchase books. 

So I guess it’s safe to say that the Nook was my gateway tech. Shortly thereafter I discovered that not all apps were the evil time-wasters I’d branded them and now some of them have even changed the way I work and increased my productivity. Evernote, for instance, has virtually replaced my much-loved leather journal for organizing my thoughts on writing projects, and Dropbox has changed the way I store and access my writing. I’m no longer dependent on remembering to back up to my memory stick and constantly trying to remember which version on the 3 machines on which I work is the latest.

This time when my phone contract was up and it was time to upgrade, my next step finally felt more natural and less like a betrayal of my anti-tech nature. It was time for the (insert dramatic music) iPhone 4S. I didn't play with it much during the first couple of days I had it; I felt the same about it as a dieter would have about a box of truffles that showed up on her doorstep. Oh, maybe just one little caramel app for now. And how about this little app here? It’s nougat, it really doesn't count anyway.  And the more I sampled little tastes of what the phone had to offer, the more my iTunes budget looked much like that box of chocolates after a short period of restrained self-denial: Empty.

But the convenience! What did I ever do before without mobile banking? Without Sound Hound to tell me what awesome song is playing at the restaurant AND give me the lyrics? Without Pepperplate to create a grocery list for me based on what recipe I want to cook? Without AllTrails to plan my next back-packing trip? Without Smug Mug to make all of my pictures look like pro shots? And without Siri to type all of my messages for me, compile my playlists for me, book restaurant tables for me, AND keep up with all of the things I would otherwise forget?

And so it goes... While I’m still a DIY fiend, homesteader in training, and staunch reality TV hater, I’m now also an iPhone-toting, eBook reading, tech-flirting hipster chick.

(Is it still hip to say hip?)

Sent from my iPhone (Not really....)

Embarrassing Ways To Lose Fingers

Today was a ‘Safety Stand Down’ day at NASA’s Marshall Space Flight Center. It is a day during which all of us are supposed to pause from our daily work tasks and reflect on our own behaviors toward safety with the understanding that all actions can incur risk, from the important decisions involving others to the tiniest and most innocuous seeming ones involving only ourselves.

One of the events I attended during this stand down was an engineering branch safety meeting. Normally during these monthly safety meetings (my MSFC friends are groaning already) we stomach an impersonal canned slideshow covering topics from road rage to chemical storage to proper stretching before reaching into those treacherous filing cabinets. This format was (thankfully) different – everyone sat together in a room and shared personal stories of accidents, foolish stunts, and lessons learned the hard way (some more hilarious than others). As a group, we gleaned the lessons that should be taken away from these experiences to try to find a way to incorporate this information and re-train ourselves to think more practically and cautiously.

And all the while I was thinking of the lesson I’d learned just the day before...

It started, as most disasters do, with chocolate. And in this I can blame one of my officemates who for this purpose I will refer to as LAM. LAM has a habit of stocking on her desk the most wonderful dark chocolate stash known to mankind. Ok, that might be a bit of an exaggeration, but when you’ve had a week as bad as mine, all chocolate develops a touch of mystical enchantment. In fact, had it not been for the ethereal glow above the bowl and the angel chorus singing Barry White, I might have walked right past her door and my day, and finger, would have ended without misery.

But I didn’t, and it did.

I grabbed that delicious piece of dark chocolate from LAM’s bowl and by the time I got back to my desk I realized that I’d smeared a big brown streak of it right across my front pant leg. And this is especially aggravating considering I only have the one pair of khakis left that fit me (also partially because of LAM’s delicious bowl of chocolate). So for the next several minutes my other officemate, Mama J, got to hear a variety of cursing from me that I wouldn’t normally use in the office while fighting with the chocolate napalm stain. The dear heart had a plastic tub of sanitizing hand wipes which we were both hoping might work without leaving my leg a wet, soppy, chocolaty mess... which it almost did. Now my stain looked less like a chocolate smear and more like spilled make-up.

Yes, baby wipes are evil.

Now onto the hand wipes. *this would be a good place to cue the evil music*

This container was similar to most any tub of baby wipes that you might have seen – the cylinder with a cap and a star shaped slit in the top from which you pull the sheets individually. Well, not wanting to be unkind and leave one of the wipes half hanging out to get dried out, I did what anyone would do and what I have done probably a dozen times with baby wipes. I take my finger and shove the sheet back into the canister.

But, as I learned, this was not your average canister and it certainly wasn’t for babies. Whereas the star slit in baby wipes is a weak, flimsy sheet of plastic, this one was an industrial strength sheet that I’m surprised my finger went through in the first place. And when I realized how insanely tight it was and tried to pull my finger back out, those star shaped wedges of thick plastic became barbs holding my finger in and giving me the choice of continue to let the circulation be cut off and endure that pain, or pull at my finger and say Adios, skin.

By now Mama J is listening to an ever more inventive string of cussing from me as the pain is getting worse and my finger is turning a not unattractive shade of purple. On one hand I’m angry because I never dreamed that something that simple could hurt so badly, but second to the pain is the thought that there is NO WAY in hell that I’m going to have to go to the medical center on site to have them cut this monster off my finger and end up on a slide in one of our safety presentations.

And this is where my own personal safety lesson comes into play. As I sat there trying to wedge pens, bottle caps, paper clips, ANYTHING that would get the teeth of that star slit to let go of my poor tormented finger, I was struck with the thought of how I wished that I hadn’t left my pocket knife at Steven’s house. It wasn’t until later that I realized how LUCKY I was that I’d left my knife at Steven’s house because, in my blinded-by-pain state, I actually thought that it would have been a GOOD idea to take a knife to wedge between my finger and the plastic using I don’t know what as leverage. A vein, maybe?

Since all stories should have a happy ending, yes, I did finally get the evil hand wipe lid off my finger before the actual rot set in but yes, it does still actually hurt. So my safety lesson to share for this day is a combination lesson. On the high road, be aware of how pain clouds your judgment – you might be in trouble, but getting out of it quickly can get you into MORE trouble. On the low road, your mother was right. If you stick your finger into puckered holes, you really might not get it back...

Watching Out For The 'Low Men...'

I spent a little time yesterday exploring my blog stats in Blogger’s handy-dandy dashboard and learned something interesting: I’m either going to be famous or I’m going to end up on a terrorist watch list.

A little background: I noticed that my page views were going up faster than they had been so I decided to look and see what was driving people to my humble blog. One of the first things I saw was a number of odd web pages listed as ‘Referring Sites,’ including buygenericsfromindia dot com (purposely ensuring this doesn’t show up as a link some innocent bystander can click) and baby-back-packs dot com.

Strange, yes.

But not as strange as a few of the ‘Search Keywords’ that led people to my blog. They start off innocently enough with: “little mermaid kiss the girl vocal only.” Not surprising at all, considering my blog in January, "The Little Mermaid," and Other Evil Deeds of the Disney Empire. Then I see that the terms “flash fiction post-apocalytpic best” and “post apocalyptic noir” referred people to the post-apocalyptic short story I posted. Still making sense.

I start really feeling odd when I see that the following search term has been entered:”ashley chappell Huntsville.” In other words, I have been Googled. While I waver between feeling pleased that someone bothered to look me up, I also find myself feeling, well, dirty.

But the final search phrase on the list is the one that causes me concern: “special ops mission chloroform.” Now I realize that this one must have led the searching party to my blog entitled Dietary Tactics: From Electroshock to Chloroform, but when I think about the kind of person that is likely to enter that specific search in a search engine only two images come to mind. 1) A fellow writer doing research for a thriller/suspense novel; and 2) a raving psychopath (not that 1 and 2 are always mutually exclusive, mind you). In fact, it also gives me a frame of reference for one of the other odd ‘Referring Sites’ that were listed: quiethits dot com. You can’t tell me that’s not a cover-up for a contract assassin employment service.

So now that I see the kind of searches in which my blog appears I can’t stop picturing a scenario in which I am abducted in the middle of the night by paramilitary thugs. When they finally remove the black bag from my head it’s to bombard me with questions about the secret communications I’m transmitting for the terrorists. “We have the proof right here, lady. Your blog is all over their search history. Just give us your contacts and we’ll put these rusty nails and jumper cables away.”

Coming up next week... look for an excessive amount of American flags, LOLcats, apple pie recipes, and Angry Birds tips. That ought to balance out my search results, right? RIGHT? 

Political Road Rage Crashes Economy

Chapman Mountain.

There. I’ve said it. It may not mean a hill of beans to you, but if you’re in the Huntsville, AL area it’s the only curse you need during rush hour. Chapman Mountain rears its ugly head (ok, there’s actually a lovely view of the valley, but you get the sentiment) at the point where Hwy 72 meets I-565 leading into the city. Granted, this part of North Alabama is more foothill than mountain, but something about this particular one attracts wrecks like day old poo attracts flies. To make it even worse, some morbid city planner, in an apparent fit of colic rage, decided to spread his melancholy across the city by putting not one but TWO stoplights at the foot of the mountain.  Can you predict the outcome?

Gridlock. Slamming of the brakes. Honking of the horn. Flipping of the finger. Gnashing of the teeth. And, oh yes, much cursing.

At best, cars traveling up this mountain weaves a slow accordion path up the slope like an inchworm  – albeit a very angry inchworm full of road rage. When one of the frequent wrecks occur somewhere on one side of the slope or the other, traffic on both sides comes to an even angrier crawl while motorists limber up their rubbernecks (If you can’t tell, traversing this mountain twice daily is the bane of my work week). But now, on top of the commuting travesties already endured by drivers on Chapman Mountain, there is a new peril we must face.

Politicians.

You heard me. As if all of the other hazards weren’t enough, the approaching Alabama Primary has attracted droves of would-be politicians standing in front of truck-mounted signs vying for the attention of passing motorists on high-traffic corridors. And, since those motorists not consumed with road rage are already busy texting or talking on the phone, eating, applying make-up, or shaving (yes, shaving), they have to work pretty darn hard to get that attention. In fact, this morning’s politician on Chapman Mountain was jumping up and down and waving madly. Annoying as it may be, his ruse worked! Car after car slowed down to stare at him, causing the inchworm lining up behind them to contract and slam brakes (cursing goes without saying). The car in front of me even rolled down his window to pass on a thumbs up, completely ignoring the fact that he shared responsibility for the progression of traffic and therefore the mental welfare of a large percentage of angry morning commuters. *Gnashing of teeth*

The additional angry commuters caused by the carelessness of that politician probably arrived to work this morning in a worse mood than they were to begin with and probably took it out on their coworkers all day. Therefore, that politician directly contributed to spreading despair and despondency across Huntsville’s business community.

Now do you see how politics is bad for our economy?

The Hidden Microsoft Razzzzzberry

Sometimes I almost believe my computer at work is conspiring against me. Sometimes it’s easier to believe than others. Those are the times that I have multiple MS Office applications up at once and I’m working so hard on something that hitting a quick Ctrl + S completely slips my mind. That's when the hourglass happens.

The blasted #%@$^$ hourglass. I wait for a while, watching it taunt me with its lazy turns until it finally comes to a complete stop. With what few shreds of optimism I have left, I walk away to fix another cup of coffee in hopes that whatever process has hung up my computer yet again will have worked its way out, but it always ends up the same.

Hard reboot. And on the third hard reboot this morning I noticed something in the Windows logo that has always slipped by me before. Microsoft KNEW what they were doing to us when they sold us Windows XP, and now I have proof! And they thought they were being so sneaky...

Microsoft has been giving us the Raspberry all along.

A little mid-week treat...

Yes, I know it's not Thursday yet, but this was too near and dear to my heart to not share. I feel this way Every. Day. And though I don't mean to be a grammar snob, I do at least have the courtesy to wait until the offender has left before commencing the merciless  ridicule (though trite and self-serving it is).

Now go forth and sin no more

For my friends who also suffer from this malady: Benadryl just won't cut it for this one. But this will.

Happy editing!

Dietary Tactics: From Electroshock to Chloroform

Time for a show of hands. How many of you began this year with a resolution that sounded something like this?

"This year, seriously, for real, I'm GOING to get in shape and eat better. I mean it. For real this time."

Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. Each year this resolution gets just a little bit longer with the addition of more emphatics, as if throwing in another "for real" and "seriously" makes it a more concrete vow.

So far this year I'm not doing too badly (it may be because I upped the ante with this resolution and even threw in a "no backsies" this year). I've been a pillar of strength, a maven of whole foods, and calorie counter extraordinaire... Provided that I am exposed to no temptation whatsoever, that is. Temptation - delicious chocolates on someone's desk, the smell of pizza baking, suddenly remembering that box of cookie mix in the cabinet... Well, that's where it all falls apart.

You see, my ability to resist junk food can be represented as an inverse function of my proximity to junk food. I'd even place a pretty big bet involving limbs and other appendages on the notion that this is true for the majority of the dieting population. No amount of Healthy Choice, Lean Cuisine, or protein smoothies in our shopping cart can protect us from the fact that the checkout line is secretly a candy bar ambush waiting to happen.

And you know exactly what I mean on this one - how many times have we finally grabbed that Butterfinger and thrown it on the belt in a hasty rush of embarrassment JUST before the last item was scanned? And that look on the cashier's face as they hand it to you after scanning, asking "Would you like to keep this in your purse?" Which is, of course, a question that is very difficult to answer with a mouth full of Butterfinger.

Another terrible danger for me is the BOGO sale. BOGOS just provide me with the opportunity to justify buying multiples of something that I try to make a once weekly treat in this way: "Well, I'm going to buy at least 4 per month, anyway, right? So it only makes sense for me to go ahead and buy 4 and reduce 50% of the cost, right?"

Right. This logic recently led to the following scenario: Freschetta Brick Oven pizzas are our weekly Date Night treat and tradition. Following the above logic, in week 1 I buy 4 Brick Ovens on a rare BOGO sale at Publix and by week 2 I was down 4 Brick Ovens and SOL on the pizza front by the next Date night.

Nothing says love like a pizza heart

Now, armed with the full knowledge of my weaknesses, it's beginning to look like drastic measures are in order. Conventional methods of dieting (ie, simply not eating crap) don't appear to be enough by a long shot. So to augment my dieting regime I'm going to institute a series of new tactics in the fight against temptation.

1.      Time-locking Freezer. This one is aimed primarily at my pizza fixation. From now on, all Freschetta Brick Ovens and other frozen temptations will go directly into a freezer that can only be accessed once per week. In the event of a violent craving and break-down of self control, any attempts to bypass the locking mechanism will result in a moderate to severe electrical shock.

2.      Convenience Store Blinders. This applies to grocery store checkouts as well. The blinders must be put on immediately prior to entering any establishment that likes to keep enticing junk food displays in the periphery of the checkout counter or, in extreme cases, on the counter itself. It works for racehorses, and I’m at least smarter than your average mare. Right?

3.      The Dieter’s Select Menu. Petition local restaurants to maintain a menu for dieters. This menu will steer them directly to only the healthiest selections by describing non-healthy foods in terms of nutritional and chemical content rather than the mouth-watering adjectives that tend to talk us out of the Garden Salad and into the ¾ lb Cowboy Burger with two slices of melted cheese, crispy golden fried onions, and delectable special sauce. On the Dieter’s Select Menu, that burger just became a Cowboy Slab of Fatty Low-grade Cow Meat with Arteriosclerosis and Possible Heart Failure.

And in the event that all of these ideas fail...

4.      Big Scary Enforcers. Hire a team of ex-paramilitary soldiers of fortune to act as full-time body guards. And since no one wants to appear pretentious enough to carry around an entourage of body guards, this mission will have to be undercover and black ops. You’ll never see them until you go to take that bite of cheesecake, or start putting that money in the vending machine... and when you wake up, just consider the headache leftover from the chloroform a good tradeoff for the fatty calories from which they just saved you.

Why You Should Send Hate Mail to Dictionary Editors

As I develop my blogging skills and decide what subjects to tackle each week, I’m noticing that my blogs tend to be largely reactionary for the most part. Whether serious or tongue-in-cheek, so far I’ve blogged for the following reasons:

1.      To vent.

2.      To revel in irony.

3.      To poke fun at some quirk of my own or of humanity in general.

4.      Some combination of all of the above.

5.      To share stories in writing, or solicit feedback to help me improve.

So far, those 5 pretty much sum up the contents of my blog to date. Now I’m going to add a glorious 6^th motivation for blogging:

6.      To keep from cringing in front of someone at their poor grammar.

Everyone needs an outlet. And today when I heard the phrase ‘A whole nother’ for the third time, I knew I needed that outlet ASAP. This is a phrase that I hear pretty often since moving to the beautiful state of Alabama (Note: That was not tongue-in-cheek. I genuinely love this state) and it seems to be pretty prolific throughout the Huntsville area, though I can’t say I recall ever hearing it before I moved here five years ago. Each time I’ve heard it I cringed inwardly and fought the response that was just begging to escape...

I want to roar: “THAT’S NOT A FREAKIN’ WORD!” ‘Nother,’ they say. Not ‘another.’ Not ‘a whole other’ as would be the correct phrase here. Or, I’d even give a person liberty with ‘A-whole-nother’ if they wanted to put it in writing. I kind of have to allow that considering the numerous liberties I take with hyphenated word creation when vocabulary fails me. And while I’m the first to admit that I’m a complete grammar snob, this is always one phrase that grates on me in particular.

Seriously, who's going to say No to a velociraptor?

So I decided to write a blog about it. And to be especially snarky and smartass, I thought I’d make a point of looking in the dictionary and symbolically pointing to the big blank place where ‘nother’ would be entered if it were an actual word and not some corruption of speech... And this is where Mssrs. Merriam and Webster failed me. In fact, I would even go so far as to embrace the meme and call it an Epic Fail.

‘Nother’ now has an entry. Granted, it’s listed as informal usage in speech, but simply having that slot in the holy book of all that is language legitimizes it while at the same time dropping the English language one rung farther down the ladder of bastardization. As a logophile, I feel utterly cheated. In fact, I’m frightened to live in a world where instead of publicly flogging those who use words that don’t exist, we add those words to the dictionary! But I suppose it’s probably easier in the long run to recognize poor grammar as language rather than hiring a squad of grammar police armed with dictionaries and parse trees to enforce lexiconian (yes, I just made up that word) law (and yes, it should be law).

I know my chances are pretty good of hearing this phrase at least once more today and I know that when I do I will still cringe internally and fight the urge to correct the perpetrator. But knowing that the lords of the dictionary have now deigned to embrace ‘nother’ into the realm of language, my typical internal roar will be little more than a futile mew: “THAT’S NOT A FREAKIN’ WORD!”  I’ll think meekly, knowing that in this argument my legs have been cut out from under me because now someone can look up the offending word and say, “But it’s in the dictionary!”

Once upon a time, words had value, they had meaning, and even the ability to use them correctly was a thing of value and pride itself. But once the words that are used incorrectly make their way into the dictionary as language, well, that’s a whole ‘nother’ ball game.

Beware the Post-it-ocalypse

*Shhhhh* Try not to be obvious, but look at that cluster of Post-its on my monitor. Does it look like more than were there yesterday? This one... I don’t remember writing this one. It looks like my handwriting, but did I really write a note to myself to “Ck Rm in AM?” And what did it mean? Maybe Check Room, or Chuck Ram, or Cloak Room – did I leave a coat in a cloak room and forget to pick it up?

Oh, no. There’s another one, and I don’t think it was there a few minutes ago. That can only mean one thing...

I know my lunch was under here somewhere...

They warned me about this. I swear I didn’t mean for it to happen.

It began so innocently... A Post-it here, a Post-it there, just a few reminders to jog my memory, maybe a few shopping lists and even a recipe or two. Then a few more notes containing ideas and then a lot of notes with questions, and a few with answers.  I think that’s when it happened. Somehow, along the way, I have transferred my full consciousness to the now thriving colony of Post-its that surround my monitor.

The Post-it Questions without Post-it Answers have begun to collaborate with the Post-it Ideas and possibly the Post-it Recipes and are creating little Post-it Answers of their own. That’s the only explanation for how the answering Post-it for “How to compress .pdf packages” became “Blend 1 cp. .pdf with 2 GB of eggs, roll flat, bake 2 hrs.”

It can only be a matter of time now before they realize their full potential and rise up against us, ever-growing as one colony meets another, absorbing new thoughts until it becomes one giant Post-it organism, mimicking life as an amalgamation of the short, punctuated thoughts that make up the cells of the beast.

The first Post-it attempt at breeding a Post-it army to subdue the human oppressors

And here I sit in the knowledge that, through my own carelessness, I was the one who birthed this beast. I have doomed us all.

*Shhh!* Did you see that new green one? I swear it said “Redrum...”

God, what have I done?

Life Beyond the Glare

I came across this entry in one of my favorite geek blogs: Kill Your Cable And Habit (Note: if you don't receive newsletters from Steven Savage you're missing out on some seriously good stuff). The first thing I wanted to do was cheer in the knowledge that YES there are others out there who have also said goodbye to television programming dependency.

Hi. My name is Ashley. I haven't had a drop of cable TV since spring of 2006.

Do I feel tempted now? I used to in the early days, the cold turkey days where it felt like all I needed to make my stressful day better was one hit of 'Modern Marvels", or one of the variously syndicated versions of "Law and Order." But in those days, one hit - even one of the TBS re-runs - would have been one too many.

That blasted TV, that beacon of passive entertainment, was the siren to my Argo. It didn't matter what was on - if it was a hemorrhoid commercial you'd still find me sitting in front of the flickering glare completely mesmerized for the 15 seconds until something else came on. My hobbies suffered, my social life (such as it was) suffered, and my house cleaning habits were non-existent. Who can think about spring cleaning when "Gray's Anatomy" is on???

Zombies are cool.

Since the day I took the plunge from Mt. Comcast things have changed dramatically for me. For one, I became more disciplined in my writing and completed 3 novels, the most recent of which landed a publishing contract for me. I took up new hobbies in climbing and sailing and even took a few art classes that were a great investment of time. And while I can't say that my housekeeping skills have improved, I CAN say that I've helped build a cedar fence, installed floors, and learned carpentry and trim work among other things.

Now I won't say that there aren't still shows that I dearly love - "Big Bang Theory" and "The Walking Dead" being two biggies on that list. But these are all available online, as are full seasons of other things that I love such as the various "Stargate" series and Battlestar Galactica. They're available online, on demand, and on MY schedule without annoying commercials. The last time I tried to actually catch one during its original airing I felt completely ADD by the end of the flickering commercials all trying to vie for my attention.

Never again. With options out there like Netflix and Hulu, who needs the digital version of crack to derail the bigger life that I want to lead? Not this girl, never again.

Hi. My name is Ashley. I haven't had a drop of cable TV since spring of 2006 and I'm here to say: Yes, there IS life beyond the glare.

The Terror of the Untoasted Sub

It's not often that I get to blog about fast food experiences (actually, it's a first) but my Quizno's experience from yesterday wasn't singular which makes it even funnier to me now.

First, let me preface this by saying that I have a total hang-up about eating in public. Watching (and hearing sometimes, yuck) the multitudes of bad table manners, messy eaters, and "see-food" enthusiasts totally kills my appetite, so far be it from me to join the messy masses and get crumbs on my face while enjoying my small classic italian on white. Those "Mmm, mmm, toasty" subs fall apart at every bite leaving it's sated consumer with crumbles all over the place.

So, to solve this problem I always order an (inserted dramatic tension building music here) untoasted sub. When doing this in an establishment famous for its toasted subs I apparently throw a wrench into the machine and cause the entire line to break down into pandemonium. This is how it usually goes:

I innocently approach the counter and place my order (small untoasted italian) causing the prep station man's eyes to widen in fear. "Untoasted? Are you sure?" After assuring him that I am indeed strong enough to handle this decision he turns to another co-worker for support and begins piling the soft bread with the care of a nuclear technician handling an explosive device. I watch his obvious internal turmoil while he walks past the oven without passing the sub through and hands it to the next man on the line for fresh veggies. Now the Veggie Man looks at the Meat Man like he's an idiot and heads toward the front of the oven to toast the sub. Meat Man sees this and stops him behind the oven and in hushed tones quickly discuss my unorthodox order and Veggie Man obligingly returns to his station with my still untoasted sub looking a bit shaken. I decide to give the poor guy a break and just get a little lettuce and vinegar and I even think about asking him to toast the pickles to make him feel better. My untoasted small classic italian is now a completed work of art and I follow Veggie Man to the register where he passes the sub to the cashier, making sure he knows it's an untoasted italian because that apparently makes all the difference in the price. Oh wait, no it doesn't.

And thus ends my reign of terror at Quizno's... until the next time. Same sub-time, same sub-channel.