Mysterious Editors & Other Baffling Phenomena

Okay, so it's been a while.  I got sucked up into all sorts of projects and stuffs (and, okay, I have spent a good chunk of time just being lazy :P).  However, I've decided today is a good day for a rant.  I've been reading all sorts of books on my kindle lately, all of which claim to have an editor.  Some of them do, and some of them are quite good.  Most really don't.  Needless to say, I've started wondering about these mysterious editors, particularly considering the amount and sorts of errors and trite/awkward plot devices I've seen in self-published books.  I've come to refer to these errors as baffling phenomena simply because, at best, they make me scratch my head in amazed wonder (not the good sort) and at worst, I shudder in fascinated horror.

Mysterious Editors
I've spent a fair bit of time pondering these mysterious editors and come to many different conclusions, some of which are quite insightful, most of which are not so much.

1)  Never hire the monkey editors.  They still haven't managed to write Shakespeare, so it's doubtful they'll make the best editing choices either.  Same goes for your dog.  You may think you commune with your dog, but hand him a manuscript, and you'll quickly see what he actually thinks about your writing (trust me, I've tried.  Took forever to get all the little bits off the floor)

2)  Great, great aunt Gertrude may love you, but telling everyone that her beautiful niece/handsome nephew is just such a talented writer doesn't constitute good editing.  Especially if she forgot her bifocals when she read your manuscript and is trying to set you up on a date at the time.

3)  Throwing back whiskey or beer or fruity drinks with umbrellas at a bar with a group of friends--okay, that can be fun, but not if you're trying to get feedback on your manuscript.  Something seems to happen in between that first drink and say, oh, the tenth.  While the philosophical ramblings about your character's motivation, in between verses of "Mony, Mony," might seem profound at the time, you probably shouldn't have worked them into your story.  Especially that metaphor about life that involved putting skates on an elephant and riding it across Iceland.

4)  Unless your good friend actually is an editor, he or she is probably not going to be a good editor.  In fact, it's more likely that he or she will simply stuff your manuscript under the bed after shuffling it around the house for months.  That's only after using it as a coaster, floss to get little bits of food out of his/her teeth, a scratchpad near the phone, and a doorstop.  Finally, said friend will grow aggravated at continually moving the thing around the house, and voilà, it's collecting dust bunnies.  Five months later, you ask your friend what they thought, and he or she frantically tries to read the whole thing in two hours.  Consequently, they tell you "one word is misspelled on page 247, otherwise it's the best thing I've ever read!  Publish it now!"  I'm sorry to tell you, your friend lied.

5) The clerk at the local convenience store/grocery store/Wal-Mart is not a good choice for an editor, no matter how friendly the clerk might seem.  Here's a test for just how much help you might get from the clerk.  Take a six pack of import beer up to the counter.  

• If the clerk wishes he/she were old enough to buy beer, then no, not a good editor.  
• If the clerk scrunches their nose and says that his/her favorite beer is Natural Light/Old Milwaukee/Budweiser/Sam Adams, then no, not a good editor.  
• If the clerk says he or she's never heard of that beer, then no, not a good editor.  
• If the clerk asks what the beer tastes like, then gets baffled when you start describing/comparing it to other beers, then no, not a good editor.  
• If the clerk says they like said beer almost as much as (insert another import beer), then you might have found yourself an editor. 

This is a scientifically proven test with empirical evidence based solely on my beer preferences.  Trust me, this is the best way to find your own, personal clerk-editor.  

6)  Your astro-psychic-clairvoyant phone operator does not make a good editor.  She charges too much, so you'll just lose money once you publish your manuscript.  I owe mine $872, and I've yet to make any money on my manuscript.  However, she did foresee great things in my future. Or was it grate?  Not sure what the things are.  I hope it's not the window roller downer thingy my husband bought for the old Ford he's working on.  While it is a great thing, since I can now roll my window down, I was really hoping for something a little bigger so I could at least pay her bill.

I know I've barely addressed the numerous editor options many writers use, nor have I given any sort of useful advice, but I'm busy right now checking to see if the local crop duster has any feedback on my own manuscript.  For now, I'll move on to. . . 

Baffling Phenomena
I won't even get into the vast array of grammatical and mechanical errors like ending nonquestion sentences with a question mark, total oblivion regarding the hyphen, an inability to recognize compound words. . .because, well, it would be a bit boring.  However, I will address some of my favorites that I've come across.

1) Multiple personality disorder main character.  Sometimes the main character has one name, and sometimes the main character has another name.  The most baffling instance of this was when a female main character switched from a female name (Cara) to a male name (Kyle).  Needless to say, for a short period of time, I thought perspectives might have switched, and I was reading about an entirely different relationship.  Sadly, I did not come to love Cara/Kyle.  She/he were far more interesting in the plots I developed.  My favorite was zombie Cara/Kyle who bids on and wins Lady Gaga's meat dress for her date with Tad Hamilton.  Both only have eyes for the ribeye and spend the night slowly grilling Cara/Kyle's dress until they look deeply into each others' eyes. . .and then Cara/Kyle devours Tad, picking her teeth with the bones.  Well, she is a zombie. . .

2) Horrendously trite/illogical/biologically incorrect plots.  I'll sum up my recent favorite (yes, I read the whole book just because it was such a train wreck).  

• First, the main character suffers from amnesia (I haven't decided whether amnesia beats the flashback yet or not).  
• Then, while trying to unravel the mystery of what happened to her, in events unconnected to the main plot, she is stalked and her former best friend's husband (no, she doesn't remember the best friend) hates her.  Both of these subplots are built up.  She makes a phone call, and both are suddenly solved!  Hooray for the phone call resolution!  Yes, have hope!  If someone hates you, just make a phone call!  That person is just waiting to embrace you and be your best friend.  What?  You only heard a stream of swear words and then were hung up on when you called?  Inconceivable!  According to various plot lines, you should have a new BFF!  
• On top of that, the whole reason for the amnesia and her family fleeing and living in hiding is because her father never reported the self-defense killing of a schizophrenic man.  
• But wait!  I don't know if you know this or not, but if you have unprotected sex, the very next day you'll have morning sickness and know you're pregnant!  
• Cue happy ending because you now have your memory back, you are married to the gorgeous man who waited around for you for four years after you disappeared on him, you are having a baby, your parents are dead, the mentally unbalanced biological father you never knew you had is dead, your stalker's in jail, and you've just discovered your parents lied to you your entire life!  But you're so happy!

 3) Wonderfully inappropriate word choices/spellings.  I'll share three of my absolute favorites from the past week.

• all be it.  Yes, someone actually wrote and published a book with all be it rather than its better known pseudonym albeit.  I really have nothing more on that one.

• sour kraut.  Being a good, German girl, initially, I was horrified.  But then my mind started going.  Suddenly, I was imagining Fra Sour Kraut, the stern, aging spinster.  She'd had love once, but Herr Brat Worst walked out on her when she refused to compromise her principles.  Unexpectedly, Colonel Mustard walks into her life, and before she knows it, her heart is opening up again.  Just as Mustard's on the verge of proposing, Herr Brat Worst walks back into her life, begging for her forgiveness!  Who will she choose?  How will she choose?  Will she be happy with a condiment when she could have the whole sausage?

•  wonton.  Unfortunately, when describing a sexually alluring and open woman, that is not the correct word.  Instead, I was left imagining the main character fried and dunked in duck sauce.  I wondered, briefly, if a person could wrap themselves in a wonton bow.  Then I got hungry for crab rangoons and Szechuan Chicken.

Alright, by now you've probably picked apart my own writing.  I apologize in advance for all of the errors.  Right now, I'm just too lazy to edit myself.  I tried to hire an editor, but perhaps Comic-Con is not the appropriate venue in which to seek an editor either.  I really did have higher expectations for Wonder Woman.  

 
 

My Fit's Fit or Things You Should Not Run Over

So I'm a little slow (huge understatement) in getting a new post up.  I've been working on a bunch of different writing projects and right now, the thought of doing more revisions on either one makes me want to hurl--sorta the same way our dogs did yesterday after I gave them zucchini.  From the looks of what came back up, they weren't fans.  That or I gave them indigestion talking about writing.  That also could be why Jeremy's hiding out in the bedroom right now :P

But anyway, I decided that my most recent car experience deserved its own entry.  Let me just get the setting right.  It was a beautiful May day.  Flowers opened their delicate blooms and pollen saturated my nose.  Between the allergy meds, trying to finish spring semester classes, trying to get ready for summer classes, frantically pulling together a summer reading program for kids, getting in all the dental appointments I'd put off, and also having to write a conference paper--I was pretty irritable (that's an understatement.  I used a lot of four letter words frequently).

The Scenario

But I digress.  I was on my way home from the conference.  It really was a wonderful conference that I attended with several co-workers, but I'm not a morning person, and I'd had to get up at like 5 a.m.  It was now 5 p.m., and all I could envision was arriving home and the tasty beer that awaited me.  That's when disaster struck! (ba ba ba boom--great sound effects, huh?).

I was following this large, (really large as in dump truck size) truck, merrily making my way back home through the middle of nowhere Georgia.  Pleasant conversation flowed through the car as everyone relaxed, knowing they'd be home within an hour our so, the day done, the brain shut down.  Suddenly, there was an extremely large mechanical part stretched out across the road in front of me.  My eyes widened and I gasped in horror!  Okay, not really.  I stared at the thing and realized there was no option other than for me to run it over.  I did.  

This would not be a problem for most vehicles, but I, as you know, have a Honda Fit.  Fits do not have the highest ground clearance.  I quickly discovered, as my passengers and I bounced up into the air, along with every item in all eight of the Fit's cup holders (yes, I move a lot of empty cans around the cup holders), that a Fit does not fit over what turned out to be the drive shaft of the very large truck hauling a load of chicken poo in front of me.  In fact, along with the bouncing, the bottom of my car emitted many disturbing crunching, rending and other unwordable noises.  Needless to say, my heart was racing, and numerous four letter words (words that I've repeatedly tried to eliminate from my vocabulary with no obvious success) spewed from my mouth.

The Denial

I pulled over onto the first dirt road I found.  I and my passengers wandered around the car in a daze--or maybe that was just me.  Fluids gushed from underneath my car.  Pinkish looking fluids.  In my panic, I convinced myself it was only antifreeze--I'm ever the optimist when it comes to the most irrational things one could be optimistic about.  What to do?  We were like 10 to 15 miles, in both directions, from a town.  Call Jeremy!  So what if he's an hour away; he'll fix it!  So I call Jeremy and explain what happened.  He immediately assumes it's my fault (I will never shake that whole backing into my father-in-law's car thing).  I assure him that it definitely is not (which is validated in short order when the truck driver returns to the scene), and we proceed to try to determine what might be wrong with my car.

Me: I think it's just antifreeze.  It's a sort of pinkish color.  Yep, I'm sure it's antifreeze.

Jeremy:  What does it feel like?  That doesn't sound like antifreeze. Have you tried to start your car again?

Me: No.  I head back and turn the key, hearing the click, click, click sound a car makes when it's low on oil.  Oh crap.

Jeremy: Well?

Me: Meekly explaining the reality.

Jeremy:  Go check the fluid leaking out.

I walk back to the front of the car, lean down, and touch the liquid.

Me: It feels . . .  greasy.  It's not antifreeze, is it?

Jeremy: No, not antifreeze.  Have you looked under your car?

Me: No.

Jeremy: Why don't you look under your car.

In my head, I'm thinking, no don't make me do it!  I love my car; it's my baby!  I can't bear to think about my car in pain (or me without my car)!  I peer under the front, and it's like a massacre's occurred underneath.  There are torn pieces of metal, bent at odd angles, fluids dripping here and there, jagged bits hanging down like it'd been disemboweled.

Jeremy sighs once we've completed the all-inclusive, over-the-phone, car evaluation and tells me he's on his way.  We're over an hour from home, so I settle in for the wait.

The Graduation

That's when the fun begins.  Apparently, it was high school graduation night.  There was about an hour and a half to kill before the ceremony started.  My breakdown at the end of a dirt road soon became grand central station.  People stopped by to share their condolences, chat with neighbors on the way to graduation, reminisce. . .  This was all well and good, but all the local police officers were already engaged at the graduation!

Within about forty-five minutes, the party was over.  Everyone took off for the ceremony, leaving my passengers and I, once again, pacing around a dirt road.  On the plus side, one police officer had arrived on the scene.  On the down side, there was nothing he could do--he was a town cop and had to wait for the sheriff and state patrol to arrive.  So, all of us stood around, silently waiting. . . doo, doo, do, do, doo.

The Theory of Evolution

And then the driver of the truck in front of me comes back.  He admits that the drive shaft came out of his vehicle--the vehicle directly in front of me (so not my fault!).  He really was a very nice man, but I had no clue what he was talking about most of the time.  He kept talking about "apologists."  From what I surmised from the ensuing conversation that unfolded, they had something to do with negating the theory of evolution--or maybe it was the opposite and they supported evolution and were all wrong.  I admit, my mind was a bit fried, and all I really could ascertain was that the theory of evolution was wrong.  Yes, I admit we all mentioned we were coming home from a conference.  I admit the word theory was thrown out there.  But we are all English geeks.  Literary theory.  While I do know a fair bit of Darwinian theory, considering the angle of the conversation, I was fairly certain that would not earn me any brownie points.  So, for the next half hour, we all learned about creationism and the flaws in evolutionary theory.

The Conclusion

Enter State Patrol officer.  State Patrol officer spends like ten minutes on the scene, and then he's set.  Huh.  All that for. . . that?  But wait, still no tow truck.  The tow truck guys are. . .yep, at the graduation.  Over an hour and a half after this all starts, Jeremy pulls ups.  Five minutes later, the tow truck from the town ten miles away pulls up.  Sigh.  Just get me home to that beer.

The next day, I'm trying to sort everything out.  The car repair place told me my transmission had a huge hole in it.  The insurance company claims they have no police report and that my claim was closed--by me.  Huh?  I spent the next two days getting my claim reopened and a crash report--crash reports apparently are no longer free and only available from buycrash.com for $5--I did give a moment of silence over that one as I contemplated the irony.  Then I wait for the insurance adjustor who finds nearly $3,000 more wrong with my car.  Then I wait.  Need a part--won't come in til Monday.  Then I wait.  Everything's good, except the transmission isn't shifting like it should.  Then I wait.  One month later, I finally have my car back and am wondering what jacking it up would do to the gas mileage.

Kitchen Remodling 101

We’re finally getting around to our first, huge, project in our house—remodeling the kitchen. 

Right now, I have no kitchen.  There is no sink—the only sink in the house is upstairs in the bathroom.  There is no stove.  There’s a crappy table in my unheated hallway (it was 49 degrees in there this morning) that has the coffeepot, microwave, and various other kitchen items.  Also in my hallway is the refrigerator, though, at this point, I don’t really think it needs plugged in.  The bedroom is now functioning as the dining room, my office, and dog toy repository.  This morning as I made my way to my office area, I accidentally kicked a bone across the floor, tripped over a dog, and kicked an empty metal dog dish across the floor.  Jeremy grumbled and mumbled, but hey, he didn't need his alarm clock this morning.

So, here’s what I’ve learned over the past 2 weeks of having no kitchen.

1) When 2 people who keep really different hours are continually stuck in the same room, 1 of them (namely Jeremy) is going to get very grumpy. 

Okay, so I like to stay up very late.  I like lots of lights on.  Jeremy seems to think it’s time to sleep when the sun goes down.  Here’s pretty much how our conversation goes almost every night.

9 pm—Jeremy: you’re not going to be up all night again, are you?

Me: No, I shouldn’t be up very late at all. 

Now, here’s where the first problem comes in.  Jeremy thinks it’s already late at 9:30.  I think 1 or 2 am is very late.  I concede the difference of opinion in my head, and decide, without informing Jeremy, that 12-12:30 is what he must consider “late.”  I know that I will be up until at least 12-12:30, so therefore, I won’t be up very late.

11 pm—Jeremy: Are you going to shut the light off soon?

I gauge just how sleepy he sounds.  If he sounds really sleepy, I figure I don’t really have to provide much of an answer because he’ll be back to sleep soon.  If he sounds more awake than asleep, I’m going to have to placate.  Crap.  He sounds more awake.

Me: Yep, I’ll shut it off in a little bit.

This seems to make Jeremy happy.  This also makes me happy.  I know he thinks that a little bit is within the next 15-20 minutes.  I know that a little bit is whenever I decide to shut it off.  I also know that I am really pushing it if it’s still on in an hour, and he’s not sleeping soundly.  I’m really hoping he’s sleeping soundly by then because I’m still wide awake.

12 am—Jeremy: I will be so glad when the kitchen is finished, and you can move everything back out there. 

By now, Jeremy’s wide awake again and glaring at me. 

Jeremy: You are really messing up my sleep.  This cannot keep happening. 

Since he’s awake, Jeremy decides to get up and work on painting the cupboards and cupboard doors.  Off he goes.  Hmmm, I am suddenly feeling very sleepy.  So, in the middle of the night, he’s working on the kitchen, and I’m sleeping.  He seems to think that I am extremely disruptive, but really, if you look at it, I’m just prioritizing his time and making him more productive.  He’s actually finished painting half of the upper cupboards, which was supposed to me my project.  Hmmm, I think I need to keep him awake all next week, and then maybe I’ll completely get out of that project!

2) Chef Boyardee gets a little old after so many meals

I never really thought about just how little there was to eat if you only had a microwave in a freezing hallway to cook with.

Jeremy: Can you make me something to eat?  (This was after almost 2 weeks of no kitchen.)

Me: What?

Jeremy: What is there?

Me: Spaghetti Os?

Jeremy: Anything else?

Me: Burritos?

Jeremy: Do we have anything that doesn’t end in “o?”

Me: Pot pies?  But they have to be microwaved.

Jeremy: I hate pot pies in the microwave.  Could I have them on a real plate?

Me: No, there’s too many dirty dishes right now that I need to lug up to the bathroom.

Jeremy: What else is there?

Me:  Ravioli?

Jeremy sighs.  Is it the big ravioli or the mini ravioli?

Me: Mini ravioli.

Jeremy: I’ll take that.  Can I have steak tomorrow?

Me: Sure, but it’ll be on a paper plate.  With a plastic knife.  Or you can eat it with your hands.

Jeremy: I don’t care.  I want steak.

Me: With spaghetti o’s or ravioli?

3) Jeremy has to have some sort of noise going at all times.

In the summer, I love the portable air conditioner in the bedroom.  It’s one of the few rooms in the house that's cooler.  I don’t mind the noise the fan makes because it’s doing something—namely making it so I’m not sticking to the furniture.  Right now, I absolutely hate that fan.  Jeremy starts up just the fan part of the air conditioner every night; he says it helps him sleep because it drowns out the noise.  Unfortunately, the table where I work is now located right next to the fan, and the thing is loud as crap.

Jeremy:  blah, blah, whoooooosh, blah, whoosh, whoooosh, blah.

I’ve pretty much picked up about every third or fourth word he says from across the room.

Me: What?

Jeremy: whoosh, blah, whoooosh, whoosh.

Me: What?

Jeremy, louder: blah, blah, whoosh, whoosh, up late?

Crap, now I know what he’s asking.

Me: What?

Okay, so maybe the fan does, at times, have it’s advantages.

4) To Beverage or not to beverage

We were looking at new appliances.  One of the problems we have is that, since the house still has no central heat or air, only a few of the rooms have heaters or air conditioners.  The kitchen isn’t one of them.  This means that in the summer, the refrigerator fills up with beverages and stuff from the garden, leaving little room for anything else.  We decided that one of the investments we would make is in a little, under counter, beverage refrigerator.

Jeremy: So, we’ve decided on the one that has two drawers?

Me: Yes, that looks like the best one.

Jeremy: I think so too.  One drawer for me, one drawer for you.

Me: No, one drawer for soda, one drawer for everything else.

Jeremy: No, I get my own drawer.  I’m going to fill it with Mt. Dew and beer.

Me: But we should have one for soda, and then one for beer and wine.

Jeremy: No, I get my own drawer, and, since they have locks on them, I’m locking my drawer.

Me: But that’s not fair!

Jeremy: Yes it is.  You always drink all my beer.  Then, when I want a beer, there’s none left.  This way, I’ll always have a beer when I want one.

I really don’t have any way to dispute this fact.  I also do not like Jeremy’s idea of his and hers beverage drawers, mainly for the fact that I know that it’s imperative that I have access to all the beer.  I decide my best course of action, for now, is to say nothing and instead plot my takeover of his beverage drawer.

5) Jeremy lied

We’re sitting around our very empty kitchen, looking at the half painted cupboards.

Jeremy: I figure the floor should be done by the end of next week.  A couple weeks after that, the countertops should be measured, and then another week or so, and they’ll be in.  Then another couple of weeks after that, the appliances should arrive.

I know I’m not very good at math, but even I can add this one up.  2 weeks already done with no kitchen.  3 weeks before the floor and counters are in.  2 weeks before appliances/sink are in.

Me: Wait!  That’s a total of 7 weeks!  You said it would only be 5 weeks without a kitchen!  I thought that was bad enough!

Jeremy: I lied.  I figured it would be at least 7 weeks, but I figured it was best to give you the lesser amount of time.

Me: We have 5 more weeks of spaghetti os?  5 more weeks without a sink? 

Jeremy: Ummm, yes.  But think how nice it will look once everything is done.  Plus, you’ll finally have a dishwasher.

Me:  That means you have five more weeks of me stuck in the bedroom

Jeremy: Once the floor is done, I think I’m moving you back out here.  I need sleep.

6)  Protective surfaces

You are going to pick up the chairs when you slide them out, right?

Me: Yes.

Jeremy: Because you never do.

Me: I’ve never had to worry about it because the floor was so scruffy.

Jeremy: Well, now it’s going to be nicely finished, and I do not want you scratching it all up.

Me: I’ll pick up my chair.  I won’t scratch up the new floor.

Jeremy: Is this going to be like how you will use the handles on doors once they’re painted?

Me: No.  And I do use the handles on the doors.

Jeremy: Right.  So that’s why there are dirty, little fingerprints all around the door handle over there.

Me: Most of the time I use the door handles.

Jeremy: If most means never, then yes, you are right.  You’d better pick up some of those furniture pad things that go on chair legs.  Like 100 of them.

Me: Isn’t that overkill?

Jeremy: No.  Not around you. You're a clod.  Just like your dogs.    

I really can't argue with that.  I'm really not all that spacially aware, or, most of the time, aware.  It's how all sorts of dings and dents have gotten in various, odd places around the house--like the ceiling.

Jeremy: Did you check about how we can protect the floor around the dog water dish?  I don’t want water spots all over it either.

Me: Sort of.  There are a lot of forums where people posted the same problems.  There were mostly really bad solutions.

Jeremy: Like what?

Me: Immediately wiping up the floor every time the dog gets a drink, putting a cookie sheet under the bowl, putting tile under the bowl. . .   There was also a guy who taught his dog to sit after getting a drink, and he’d wipe her chin off every time.  There was another woman who taught her dog to rest his chin on a towel in front of the bowl after getting a drink.

Jeremy: Do that last one!

Me: Right.  I’ll get right on that one.  Until then, you can wipe their chins off after every drink.

2 weeks down, 5 more weeks to go.

Time to go stock up on beer.  On the plus side, I don't have to worry about the beverage fridge right now because I can just keep the beer in the hallway.  And I'm drinking it all myself! 

Purse Hell

It all started because I needed to replace the purse I've been using for the past 4 years.  Yes, I know, many women love purses.  I don’t understand purses.  Is it a recessive gene thing that just never surfaced?  All I wanted was one, small, black purse with a couple of small compartments I could shove the cards I carry and my cell into.  I don't need anything big because there's not a lot I carry with me.  Half the time, I just shove my cards in my back pocket and go.  

I began my foray into the nightmarish world of purses with a sampling of various sites that sell them.  Little did I know what I was getting into. For example, on Zappos.com, there was one section devoted to Bags and Handbags.  Okay, simple enough.  I click the link and suddenly there were like 50 more links!  How many “bags” does a person actually need?  Their heading, once you get into the “Bags & Handbags” section, is: “Bags & Handbags: It’s like having an extra set of hands.”  Really?  That just sounds creepy.  Now I’m imagining some sort of alien hand, sort of like the “baby” in Alien, exploding out of a purse waving my debit card around at a store.  Or maybe it’s Thing from The Addams Family jumping out and skittering around my car.

 

The first could be very bad, especially if it eviscerated people.  I’m not sure how you apologize for that one—“I’m sorry, my extra set of hands seems to be on a murderous rampage today.  I guess I should have brought the bag with the Hamburger Helper hand instead. Let me help you with those intestines.”  The second might be kind of fun, since Thing just kind of trotted around doing his (or is Thing a girl?) own thing.  Maybe I could freak people out enough that the one checkout line open at Wal-Mart would clear out so I could get through faster. 

But I digress, back to the categories.  Holy crap!  Just on Zappos, there were 5 subcategories under Bags & Handbags: Bags, Handbags, Travel Bags, Outdoor Bags, and Wallets.  And it was the same at every site I visited—mind-boggling purse & bag categories.  Who knew?  Where to start?  I scanned through all of the types under each category.   A hydration pack?  A Lumbar pack?  What in the heck were those?  My curiosity got the better of me, and I had to click the links.  Hmm, the hydration pack definitely did not fit my definition of a bag and was really not very interesting at all.

Here’s the hydration pack, basically a fanny pack that holds two water bottles.  As if the fanny pack wasn’t bad enough.  I guess I could see a use for this if I were athletic.  But I’m not.  The only place I’d have to wear this would be in my walk to the mailbox or to my car, and I’m pretty sure neither requires two bottles of water for the trip.  Plus, this ugly thing costs $42!!!  I think I’ve just discovered my new get rich scheme.  I’ll just buy a bunch of cheap fanny packs, attach some cheap cupholders, drink the water out of some Perrier bottles, and voila!  With the Perrier bottles, people will look cultured while wearing their hydration packs, so I think I could sell them for at least $50.  For a measly $800 and the ultimate hydration pack couture and sophistication, I’ll drink two bottles of Dom Perignon and pop them in (hey, somebody has to offset the cost of the Dom I’m drinking).   

Then there was the lumbar pack.  No details were really given, except for the features.  Apparently, this little beauty lets you “ditch” the hydration pack.  I spent (wasted) far too much time studying the lumbar pack (okay, so it was only about 2 minutes, but still. . . ), the only thing I could determine was that 1) it had completely enclosed compartments for the water bottles and 2) it was yet another fanny pack, only this one sold for a mere $55.  I thought about devising another get rich scheme, but really, when you’ve developed one fanny/hydration/lumbar pack, you’ve pretty much designed too many.

My venture into the world of purses, so far, had been a miss.  While they may be clumped into the purse and bag category, my initial explorations simply did not fit into my view of a purse.  Never a quitter, I soldiered on, valiantly clicking links for hobos (apparently not a homeless, migrant type with a handkerchief bundle on a stick hopping the rails), satchels, clutches, evening bags, totes, shoulder bags, fabric bags, leather bags, occasion bags, messenger bags. . .  Sigh.  No one seemed to be selling the bag I was really looking for, the barf bag. What they were selling was a huge selection of really ugly, really expensive "bags."  The fact that someone actually designed and sold these bags for astronomical prices astounded me.  I found myself wondering if a person actually needed to know how to sew in order to be a designer because, if not, I felt pretty sure I could whip up 100s of designs over a weekend.  And, given the high ratings many of these bags had, there actually were people out there (color blind or just plain blind) who would buy them!  All I would need would be a $10 investment in a few art supplies, then when people ask me what I do, I could say "I design handbags."  Maybe I could get my mom to make them-- after all, she was the only reason I passed the sewing part of home ec in high school. 

I decided, after looking at page after page of purses, that I should really share some of the best.  So, without further ado, here are some of my absolute favorite finds.

Amerileather Multicolor Kaleidoscope Tote: $63.99 

Yay!  Only $64 for, well, a gaudy, plastic colored disc covered purse.  Supposedly, it's actually made out of leather.  Somewhere, a cow is screaming for vengeance.  This little number is for the "girl" (for some reason, purse descriptions like to appeal to girls and not women--my guess is because "girls" are more likely to make really stupid choices, like spending $64 on some child's art project) whose really into Joseph's Technicolor Dreamcoat, but can't actually afford the coat.  Or possibly the girl who always wanted a purse that looks like some bizarro fish coughed up its scales on it.  Hint: if you take a spoon to it, the scales'll pop right off.




Jessica Simpson 'Ruffle Me' Tote Handbag: $59.99

Where are the ruffles?  I see no ruffles.  What I do see is snakeskin.  Yep, the description confirmed it.  This delight's color is natural python, and it's made of pvc.  Nothing says high style like slinging a fake snakeskin purse (with no apparent ruffles) over your shoulder.  Now, I might be the only one, but snakes pretty much make me scream and run in the opposite direction, especially when they're hanging out of one of my dog's mouths.  Also, I'll just chalk this one up to Simpson's confusion: tuna=chicken, ruffles=snakes.






Ed Hardy 'Jolly Roger Anna' Tote Bag: Today $58.99

Nothing says pirate like swords, cannons, eye patches, and . . . a sequined purse with a "tattoo."  Even better is that you can also get it in gold lamé.  Would this make me look cool on Talk Like a Pirate Day?  And what the heck is a Jolly Roger Anna?  Was it supposed to be Jolly Pollyanna?  That would be a completely different thing, plus, she wasn't so jolly after she was paralyzed when she fell out of the tree.




Dolce and Gabbana Floral Print Canvas Tote Bag: $533.99 

Really?  $534 for something that looks like a horrendous, 1960s style couch upholstery?  Crap.  I really need to hit the thrift stores fast.  You can pick up whole couches there for really cheap and just strip the upholstery off them.  Who knew they could be such a goldmine!  And stupid me, I just gave my wealth away in college every time I moved and couldn't find a truck to borrow.  I better get on facebook and see if I can find the one roommate I bailed on after she quit paying rent (yes, it's always easier just to move out on a bad roommate than to kick them out).  To think I just left all that furniture there!  I'm so kicking myself now.






'Joyrider': $154.99

What is that thing stuck to the side of this purse?  I think it's a bunny head.  Or maybe an albino pig.  What woman--excuse me, girl--would want to carry a polka dotted monstrosity with a head popping off the front?  And look at the way it stares at you!  The eyes just follow you around the room.  You think you've escaped, and bam, you turn around and find your purse staring at you. I think the purse is stalking me! I'm gonna have nightmares about an albino rabbit/pig/mouse trying to kill me and take over my identity (it probably would be sorely disappointed because I'm not the most exciting person).  It could really happen, after all, the purse is an extra set of hands.  Maybe it's got the hands from Idle Hands inside, bent on murderous destruction.  It is called Joyrider--riders are the loa Gods in Voodoo that can take over humans, so it's probably a possessed purse.  And here you thought it was just a sickeningly sweet little handbag.  Well, now you know.


Rock Bag: $170 

Big Bird called.  He's extremely pissed off that you stole his feathers.  He'd really like them back and dyed back to their natural color.  Yet another baffling purse name.  Rock bag?  The designers do know what a rock is, right?  Solid, dense piece of compacted earth/minerals/lava that comes in various sizes?  Feathers are not so much a part of rocks, unless they're fossilized or you're decapitating poultry on a large, flat rock.  Do they mean rock and roll?  Again, I'm not sure how feathers go with rock music either, unless you're maybe going back to the 80s hair bands.  But, even so, they were much more into hairspray and makeup than feathers. Maybe they let Jessica Simpson name their purse.






Cheetah Bows $138 

At least this purse is exactly what it says it is.  It's got a delightful cheetah print with lovely red bows scattered across it.  Nothing says cute and cuddly quite like a large, predatory cat and bows.  Heck, stick bows on anything, and it just makes you want to snuggle it up.  In fact, I think I'm going to go find myself a grizzly bear and stick a bow on it.  I will love it, and hug it, and name it George.  What?  You say the bear will rip me apart?  That's just silly!  It can't with the bow on it.  Besides, I'll just let the alien hand out if things get nasty.



Well, we've come to the end of my guided tour of the House of Horrors . . . I mean purses.  I know that you are now so much more enlightened than you ever thought to be.  Keep an eye out for my new line of overpriced, hideous, er, I mean delightfully whimsical and sophisticated handbags coming to a store near you!  Maybe next time I'll give you an inside tour of the world of shoes, since I now need to replace most of mine (okay, roughly 4 pairs) because the puppy keeps eating them.

Where the Paved Road Ends

A few weeks ago, I decided I wanted to take a new route home from work.  I meandered around looking for a new paved road to try and finally found one.  So I was driving along, looking at, well, mostly pine trees because that's pretty much most of rural Georgia.  All of a sudden I saw that my wonderful, poorly maintained, paved county road was about to end.  Of course, Jeremy told me that I should not take my Honda Fit on dirt roads, especially since it has tiny tires, is not 4 wheel drive, and has about 1 foot of clearance.  Of course, I figured the dirt road looked pretty good, so why not?  After all, it couldn't go on that long, and then I'd have to hit another paved road.  So after very little deliberation, off I went down the dirt road.

I was happily traveling along, when suddenly I came across a giant puddle (in retrospect, it might have been approaching small pond size) that stretched from one side of the road to the other.  I stopped briefly and pondered the puddle dilemma.  How deep could it actually be?  I thought.  I doubted it was very deep at all.  I didn't want to turn around and go all the way back either, so my logical conclusion was just to head to the side of the road and go on through.  As you have probably learned from numerous other posts, my logical conclusions are not always the best.

I put my foot down on the accelerator and eased over to the side of the road.  I was heading through the puddle, through the puddle . . . stuck.  In a puddle.  On the side of a dirt road that had very little traffic and was probably a good half hour from my home.  What to do.  I got out of my car, waded through puddle, turned around, and stared at my car.  Just as I was concluding that staring at my car from the road was not going to get me anywhere, I saw a school bus heading very rapidly toward the puddle I was now standing next to.  The school bus went through the puddle, and, as you can imagine, dirt road chic was what I ended up wearing.  It was not until that moment, dripping mud and puddle water, that I finally remembered I had my cell phone, so I waded back to the car and called Jeremy.

Jeremy: "This is Jeremy." --He always answers the phone like that.  I'm not sure why.  Who else would it be?  Not like any of the dogs are going to answer the phone and do anything besides breath really heavily.
Me: "It's me.  I have a little problem."
Jeremy: "What?"
Me: "I'm sort of stuck."
Jeremy: "You're stuck?  Where?  How did you get stuck?"
Me: "I tried to go through a puddle on a dirt road, and I got stuck."
Jeremy: silence. sigh.  "Didn't I tell you not to drive the Fit on dirt roads?"
Me: "Yes, but the paved road I was on ended, and the dirt road looked just fine when I got on it and. . ."

Jeremy: another long, loud sigh. "Where are you?"  See, this was yet another problem.  I was just meandering around roads, so I knew how I got to where I was, but not so much where I was.
Me: "I'm not sure."
Jeremy: "What do you mean you're not sure?  What did the road sign say?"
Me: "I decided to take a new way home, and when I turned onto the road, I didn't pay attention to what it was called."
Jeremy: "So, you are stuck in a puddle on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere, and you don't know where you are?"
Me: "Yes, that pretty much sums it up."

Jeremy: in a very disgruntled voice.  "Let me go find some stuff, and I'll head over in the truck.  What way do I need to go?"
Me: "You go . . . . and then you go. . .  and then you go. . ."
Jeremy: "Where?  What way were you going?  Where do I go after. . . ?"
Me: "I'm somewhere between Cochran, Easman, and Hawkinsville.  But I'm not quite sure where because the road kinda twisted around a little."
Jeremy: "Alright.  It's gonna take me at least 45 minutes to find you.  I'll give you a call when I start getting close."  Then I hear a click.  He's apparently a tiny bit perturbed with me.  Good thing he's got a drive ahead of him to cool down a bit.  He should just think of it as a new version of Where's Waldo?  Where's Lisa?  Maybe this will make him get me that GPS I've been wanting.

After Jeremy hung up, I started to get a little bored.  Contrary to what you might have thought, there really is not a whole lot to do when stuck on a secluded, dirt road.  I began contemplating just where exactly things went wrong, how much it was going to cost to get all the mud off my car at the car wash, and how very poorly designed Honda Fits are for mudding.  I basically decided that this was, in no way, my fault, but Honda's own design flaw.  I also wondered if it was feasible to add 4 wheel drive to a Fit.  As I was sitting there, suddenly, a beautiful, brilliant green John Deere tractor slowly pops up over the horizon and stops behind my Fit.

Mr. Tractor Driver:  "Looks like you're stuck.  Need a tow?"  I could comment on how Mr. Tractor Driver was so stating the obvious, but, really, what do you say to a person who submerges a good chunk of her very clearly non-dirt road friendly car?  I tried to explain my stupidity to Mr. Tractor Driver in a way that made me look slightly less inept, but really, there's no way to cover up that fact.

Mr. Tractor Driver: "I got a chain.  Had to pull somebody else out of there this morning."  I was instantly delighted.  Yay!  I wasn't the only one!  "You know," he continues, "It's much better in the middle.  If you had just gone through the middle of the puddle, you would have been fine."  Great.  Wonderful.  I had briefly thought about going through the middle, but no.  I had to pick the wrong way.  In so many different ways.  Mr. Tractor Driver hooked my car up, hopped in the cab, and within minutes, my little Fit was free!  I could finally head home!  I gave Jeremy a call quick to let him know he didn't have to come find me after all, and then I was off.

Later that night we were heading out of town.
"Stop at Shorty's first," Jeremy says, "I need a soda."  I head toward the dirt alley across from our back driveway.  "Where are you going?"
"I'm going to Shorty's," I reply.  Where else would I be going?
"You're not taking the Fit on another dirt road."
"It's an alley in town!  I am not going to get stuck in the alley behind the convenience store!"
"I don't care.  No more dirt roads for the Fit.  If you would have listened to me to begin with. . ."  I sigh and turn onto the street to take the paved roads to the convenience store.
"So, where are you not going to drive the Fit?" Jeremy asks in his I'm talking to a child tone of voice, which is very annoying.
"On dirt roads.  But what if it's been really dry?"
"No."
"But what if it's the only way to get somewhere?"
"No." 
"But--"
"No."
"You're no fun.  How am I supposed to find neat new roads to take?"
"That's what the truck is for.  That's why it has 4 wheel drive.  Not the Fit."
"But you never let me drive the truck."
"I did once, and you squealed the tires in the Home Depot parking lot."
"That was an accident.  I hadn't driven it before.  Does that mean I get to drive the truck more now?"
"No."

Guess it's back to figuring out if I can outfit the Fit with 4 wheel drive.  I bet it'd be the only one too!  Too bad I still have to watch out for armadillos.  I think that's why my mufflers a little rattly.

Random Conversations

The Shape of Things

Jeremy is obsessed with making the yard as green as possible, watering, fertilizing, more watering, moving sprinklers all across the yard, and most annoying to me, incessantly talking about the lawn and grass.

“Blah, blah, fertilizer, blah, blah, grass isn’t dark enough, blah, blah, should I fertilize again?”  Jeremy asks.

“I don’t know.  I know nothing about grass, other than it’s green.  Or brown like here in the summer.”

“I thought you said not to fertilize again.”

“I did?  Was I listening to you?  I don’t know.  You can if you want.  The yard looks like it’s pretty green to me.”

“What?  It looks like a large rhombus?”

“Like a large rhombus?  How’d you get that one?  I said. . .”

“I dunno.  I was just surprised that you used rhombus.”

“I know what a rhombus is.  Well, I know what the shape is.  I don’t know why it was important that I know how to calculate its area or volume.”

“You just divide it into two triangles,” Jeremy responds.

“I didn’t say I wanted to know how.  A rhombus is just a diamond anyway.  Why don’t they just call it a diamond?”

Jeremy just stares at me like I’m a dunce.  I don’t see what the big deal is.  Why make up a whole new name for a shape when an easier one already exists?  “I am not having this conversation,” Jeremy says.

“Well, it is just a diamond.”

“I said I wasn’t having this conversation.  I’m done with this one.”

“Besides, our yard isn’t a rhombus shape anyway.”

“That’s a tree,” Jeremy says.  Or at least that’s what I think he says, but I’m too busy contemplating the whole rhombus/diamond thing, and I think I missed half of what he said.

“No, that’s a cone.”

“What’s a cone?”  Jeremy asked, obviously confused.

“A tree is a cone,” I reply.

“How is a tree a cone?  A cone tree you mean?”

“No, a cone—as in if you enclosed a tree, it would be in a cone shape—well, an inverted one.”

“I am so done with this conversation too,” Jeremy says, taking a large drink of his beer.  That’s good because I didn’t really have much more to say about yard objects and geometry anyway.

The Sky is Falling

Jeremy’s walking down the stairs and happens to look up at the ceiling part of the landing.  He pauses and stares.

“How’d that hole get there?  I don’t remember that hole being there before,” he says, standing a studying the hole for a while.  I remain silent and inch down the stairs slowly.

“I wonder what happened.  Maybe I just never noticed it before.”  I’m free!  No one ever has to know!  Except then he looks at me, and I start giggling.  Jeremy’s eyes narrow.  “What did you do, and, more importantly, how did you do that?”

“Well, I was carrying the bed frame upstairs, and I accidentally jammed it into the ceiling.  I’m surprised you didn’t notice all the bits of plaster on the stairs.”

Jeremy sighs, looks down at the stairs, looks at me, and scratches his head.  “At least I can fix this one.  That wouldn’t be the case if you had jammed it into the woodwork.”

“That’s how I jammed it into the ceiling.  I was being really careful about the woodwork, and I sorta forgot about the ceiling. . .”

“You are such an idget.”

A Whole Lotta Chicks

After we put in the fence this spring, Jeremy decided he was finally going to try raising some chickens to see if that would take care of the whole farming itch thing he has going.  He spent hours researching the different types and which ones would be best for both eggs and meat.  He ended up ordering something called “Austrolorps  (I’m not even going to look it up to see if I spelled it wrong because that would be way more time than I care to invest in the subject of chicken breeds).  But, he could only order them in batches of 25, plus, they throw in a free “exotic” breed chick, and, as we discovered once they arrived on Monday, a spare Austrolorp in case one dies.  So, instead of just the few chickens he was going to try keeping, we now have 27 baby chicks.  In the dining room.

At 7:53 am on Monday, the phone rang.  It was the post office letting Jeremy know his chicks had arrived.  Jeremy goes vaulting out the door—you’d think he’d won the lottery or something.  10 minutes later, he’s back with a very loudly “peeping” box.

“They don’t actually open until 9, but I think they wanted me to come pick them up right away.” 

“Really, you think?  I don’t know why.  They’re so harmonious and melodic, I would have guessed they would have wanted to keep them around all day.”

“Yeah, they are a little loud,” Jeremy says.

“A little?  I think our neighbors can probably hear them all the way in here.”

“It did sound like a lot of chirping.  Maybe someone else had ordered chicks too,” Jeremy responds.

 I just look at him.  Yes, that’s it.  Everyone in town has ordered chicks online, and they all arrived on the same day.  “I’m fairly certain that you are the only person, probably ever, in this town to order baby chicks for postal delivery.”

I let Jeremy open his wonderful new package and take them into the dining room, where he has a giant aquarium set up for them.  Soon, he’s back.  “You’ve gotta come see the chicks!”  Okay, I will stop playing my time wasting game, and go check out the chicks.  Oh, look, one of the 27 is completely distinguishable!  I immediately pick it up.  It looks like a little chipmunk, tan, with a few dark brown stripes running along its back and up its head.

“Put that one down,” Jeremy says.

“Why?”
“You can tell it from the others.  We are not having a pet chicken.  And if it’s a rooster, we’ll be eating it.”

“I’m going to give it a name.”

“You cannot name any of the chickens.  Especially that one.  They’re food,” Jeremy says in his most commanding voice.

“They’re so cute!  And fluffy.”

“Put it down.”

“I think it’s name will be Spike,” I say, ignoring him.   “Spike the Super Chicken. 

“Super tasty,” Jeremy says.  I frown at him and decide I’ll just stay quiet on this subject for now.  After all, I’m still working on the miniature donkeys and the fainting goats.

A few hours later. . .

“I wonder if I can buy that piece of land behind us and raise a pig on it,” Jeremy says as he checks chicken butts (don’t ask, but apparently something bad can happen to little chick butts if they get stressed out).  Really, I think?  A pig in the back yard?  We haven’t even got the chickens out of the house yet.  I keep this to myself as I watch Spike puff up his chest and push all the other little chicks out of its way at the feeder, despite the fact that he’s significantly smaller than all the rest.

“Sure,” I say, “you can have a pig.”

“Really?” Jeremy looks surprised.

“Yep.  And I’ll name him Wilbur, and a spider will come along and write ‘Some Pig,’ in its web.”

“You are not going to name the pig, and the pig is not going to be a pet.  It’s going to be food.  Just like the chickens.”  I decided he’s completely missed my literary ingenuity.

“It’s from Charlotte’s Web.  Didn’t you ever read Charlotte’s Web when you were a kid?”  I ask. 

“Yes, I read Charlotte’s Web.  But I was ignoring you for obvious reasons.”  Hmmf.

“You can get whatever animals you want.  However, I’m going to read Animal Farm to them, so don’t be surprised if there’s a revolt and the pig takes over.”