Category Archives: Hysteria

Is there a support group for those of us not ready for technology?

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My DVR was really pushy.  It controlled my life.  On its own, the DVR decided what shows it would allow me to watch.  On Wednesday evenings, I have both Criminal Minds and Law and Order: SVU set to tape at eight o’clock CST.   However, once college basketball season started, there were often games that evening.  I have a first world problem: I can tape only two shows at the same time.  For that reason, I had to decide that I wouldn’t tape Criminal Minds so I could tape basketball.imagesThe DVR disagreed.  As soon as I set the timer, the DVR would change it so I was taping  Criminal Minds and SVU was put on the conflict list.  Every time.  Often fifteen times a week.  FInally, I had to wait until eight, delete  Criminal Minds, and record SVU.  

Last night, the DVR said, “Not so fast, lady,”  Yes, being a very polite unit, it always calls me “lady”.  It took me seven minutes to stop  Criminal Minds and start recording SVU

And it seems that my particular box has a time limit:  I can only keep programs for forty-eight hours or they will be erased–unless I do a six punch process to save the program until I can watch it.  For that reason, when I taped something Friday evening and planned to watch it Monday, it would be gone when I was ready.  In fact, between Friday evening and Monday morning, the DVR usually deleted fifty percent of the programs I wanted to save to view on later.  Perhaps the DVR felt as if it were helping me, telling me I should be writing, not watching televisionimages

Other than the efforts of the DVR, there were other problems with the machine. Dana–the woman I talked to–told me to go to the the business office and pick up a new box.  I did.  It took me ninety minutes, but I got a new DVR and rushed home to hook it up.  Took fifteen minutes for it to download everything and get itself ready.

And the first thing I saw was a black screen.  Printed on it was this message:  Your recorder state-board-of-regents-roles-responsibilities-1-638has not be cleared for use.  Please call the cable company at 800 xxx-xxxx.  Found the phone and dialed.  I reached the State of Utah DIvision of Higher Education.  Twice.  I was not happy.  Yes, the Utah Department of Higher Education.

Well, all in all, I got it fixed, have tried to remember the programs I watch and have set them.  Was it worth the time and energy?  Yes, I must confess, I’m addicted to television and do love my DVR, unless it overrides my choices.

Do you have a story about technology fails?

The horror of another move

http://www.dreamstime.com/-image21984494I’m one of the most disorganized people you’ll ever meet, probably due to my dyslexia.  Of course, I blame everything on my dyslexia, even allergies and bad hair days.

However, most people don’t know that I am sadly clipboardorganizationally handicapped because years ago–in high school but I’m not going to tell you how long that was–I forced organization on myself by using color codes and clips and folders of neon hues and clipboards and file cabinets and, most recently, baskets.

Second only to disipline, what I hated most about teaching school was having to organize.   I usually had at least three preparation, sometimes as many as six  which meant all those sets of worksheets.   Keeping where each separate worksheet I had for each class–well, my brain was tangled by the end of the day.  I’m surprised I made it for so long.

For years, I used totes, just like Gussie Milton in my Butternut Creek toteseries:  one for school, one for church, one or two more for different groups I belonged to.  I just grabbed one as I headed out the door.

My church friends JoAnne and Ro came over last week to help pack.  For the last ten years I’ve used plastic baskets and woven baskets to keep things straight at home.   When baskets2JoAnne entered my study, she said, “I didn’t think there was anyone in the world who had more baskets than I do.”    I must have fifty or more of all sizes and shapes.   They are color coded:  purple baskets in my Kansas State study, yellow and orange baskets in the room divider in the hall which match the shower curtain in the hall bathroom,  red and blue baskets on top of the kitchen shelves because they’re pretty,  woven brown baskets in the dining/living room, and cheap white plastic baskets in the closets.

I hasten to add, I’m not compulsive.  I’m dyslexic and have not a pilessmidgen of the neatness gene.   Such handicaps require desperate measures so I don’t end upliving beneath piles of  receipts, old manuscripts, unfolded laundry, and cat toys.

How do you organize yourself?  I’d love to learn a new way.  And, if you need some, I have lots of baskets I can give you.  Just pick them up before I move.

 

The definition of insanity . . .

noisy neighbor 2Some of you may remember my postings on Facebook nearly a year ago about the new and very noisy neighbors upstairs.  We lived in this apartment for six years with no problem with the family upstairs.    A few months after George died, that family left and the cacophonous family with enormous horse feet moved in above us.  For a few months, I joked about this on FB.  Then, working with the manager of the complex, I thought the problem was solved.  I even took them cupcakes to thank the two boys (ages seven and nine, probably) for being so cooperative.   I even signed a lease for another year because I’d thought the problem was sloved and I’ve always heard, “Don’t make a big decision like moving within a year of the death of a husband.”

The noise started again exactly two days after the lease took effects:  a kickball game with the two sons and their very large cousin.    I complained, the parents told the manager they paid rent and could do whatever they wanted in their apartment.  Other tenants told me they referred to me as “the ** * * * downstairs.”

I didn’t believe I could leave.   The cost of breaking the lease and moving was more than I could afford.   Also, my health wasn’t good enough for me to consider moving.  Moving is my least, least, least favorite thing in the world other than people who put nuts in fudge.

In May, the management moved the family to another apartment. Peace, blessed peace, reigned for three weeks.  Then another family moved in with a sweet little girl and an eleven-year-old boy who has springs on his feet, a living, constantly in motion pogo stick.   This time, I addressed the problem immediately.   On the second evening of broomcontinuous thud, bang, thump,  I pounded on the ceiling with a broom–a signal the preceding family ignored.   Within seconds, I heard a knock on the door.  It was the father, a young, tall and muscular young man.

First, he lied to me, said they were all watching a movie when I pounded on the ceiling.  Yes,  I pound on the ceiling because I’m attempting to build my upper-body strength.   Then the husband attempted to intimidate me.  He leaned over me, obviously much stronger and healthier than I.   He said he liked his kids to be rowdy and didn’t care about me.  Then he said, “If you think there’s a lot of noise now . . . ”  He stopped and glared at me.  I took that as a threat that I’d better shut up or he’d join in the running and jumping.

definition of insanity 2I was hysterical, a little crazy.  Went into my apartment and shook.  Then, I experienced enlightenment.   “The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.”  Those people upstairs were never going to be quiet.  Never.   They wouldn’t change but I could.

The next day I started looking for a place in an independent living center.  My criteria were   1)  pet friendly   2)  swimming pool    3) Cat-tree affordable.

The next week, I found one.   I’ll be going from a three-bedroom apartment (or, as our friend Ron always said, “A one-bedroom, two-study apartment”) to a one bedroom with heated pool and accepting of the cats.    The Salvation Army is going to haul of some furniture off in August and friends are coming to help sort and pack and carry to Goodwill or the dumpster.   I move in early September.  Yes, it will cost.    I’ve blogged on the fact that I’m very, very cheap and paying to break the lease is painful.  However, I decided my mental/physical  health and my ability to write come first.  It’s difficult to be creative when there’s a kid overhead wearing cement blocks on his feet and doing jumping jacks.

One of the best parts:  the apartment is only three minutes from church.

That’s what I’ve been doing for two weeks:  making changes and writing novels.   I’m happy and optimistic.

Any experiences you’d like to share about your neighbors?  I hope they are all good.

Scaredy cat

I’m always to impressed in a movie when people are held hostage and the hero says, “I’ll stay with you if you’ll let the women and children go.”    What a strong, compassionate–and just a little hot–man.

Heroes–like the teachers at Sandy Hook Elementary School who attempted to stop the gun man, who shoved children in closets, who took the shots to save the children from death–they were admirable, true heroes.  I’d like to be that strong.

But would I be like that?  Could I be so brave that I’d trade my life for the life of another person?    I always hope that if I were in such a situation, I’d step forward and speak to the hostage taker in such  soft, dulcet tones that I’d calm them or sing Amazing Grace with so much emotion that the person would realize the need to turnaway from the dark side.  Perhaps such loving foregiveness would shine in my face that  the criminal would suddenly recognize the need to change  his life.

I’d like to so but I’m not at all sure.

haunted barnMany years ago a fifth-grade student talked me in to going into a Haunted House around Halloween.   He promised me it would not be scary   (Hint:  never trust the word of a fifth grader about if anything is scary or not)  But I believed him and we went inside what was a converted barn.   I was just fine and not a bit frightened with the first few stops.  But then a cobweb-covered ghost lying in a casket sat up.  I knew very well this was a teenage kid wearing a costume.  I knew there was nothing supernatural here.   I understood all of this. frightened woman running Nevertheless, as soon as that ghost sat up, I screamed and ran, shoving  small children out of my way.  I pushed aside a sobbing little girl.  I reached the door first and rolled it open, never stopping in my panic.  In that moment I didn’t care if the ghost got everyone else as long as I made it out of the haunted house alive.  ( In the interest of accuracy, I must state I never looked like the picture on the right.)

I am filled with deep shame as I confess this.    But I still hope–given a chance–I have the courage to save an entire island from the heavily armed revolutionaries.   Yes, I could do that–as long as the action doesn’t take place in a haunted house.

Have you experienced any moments that showed a really admirable side of you?  Or, perhaps, a negative?  Please tell me–especially the negative side.  It would make me feel so much better.

 

 

I’m not a fancy lady

The Romance Writers conference is in July.  Because I’m a RITA finalist, I have to come up with something  to wear.  Looking in my closet, I realize my wardrobe consists of jeans and knit tops, many with Cardinals or Power Cats on them.    I once had a pretty, flouncy dress.  I wore it in 1999 when I was a Golden Heart finalist and in 2004 when I was a presenter during the awards ceremony.  This spring as I cleared out closets, I thought, “I’ll never wear this again because ‘fancy’ doesn’t fit my life style.”  Some lucky woman bought it at Good Will and I’m out looking to replace it.

The search has been distressing but had it’s moments of fun.  I tried on a lovely black sequined dress which did not  look like me.  As I left the dressing room, I ran into Tracy Wolff–one of my favorite writing friends–and had such a great conversation that people came over and said we sounded as if we were having fun.  I’ve been pondering if they really meant, “You’re too loud.”   She got some great and very bright clothes.  I got a pair of jeans.

A few days later, I went to lunch with the beautiful and talented Katie Graykowski who offered me a couple of her fancy outfits.  Thanks, Katie!  Katie is gorgeous.  She’d look great in red velvet but it’s just not me.

Then I had an idea!  I had a black top with black beads around the top in my dresser.  I’d never  worn it because, yes, it’s fancier than I am.  Sadly, that shirt had been ignored for  so long that one-third of the beads had fallen off.  

How would you describe yourself?  Are you fancy or comfortable or do you just not care?

No blog today–too busy doing the happy dance

I sat down this morning to complete the blog post I’d started for today–and received a call that The Welcome Committee of Butternut Creek is a RITA finalist.   For those of you who aren’t members of Romance Writers of America, the RITA is an award for the best books for 2012.   It’s a wonderful honor that I’ve dreamed about getting for years and years and years as has every romance writer.   That call completely blew my plans for the morning.  I’ll have something up Friday when I can regain my poise and settle down in a chair.

Hot, sexy covers and Facebook glitches

My good friend Kathy Bennett and I met nearly seventeen years ago at a writers’ conference in Dallas and we’ve kept up with each other as we worked to publish.  A retired police officer, Kathy writes great novels which draw on those experiences.   

On her blog, Kathy has an interesting interview technique.  She questions us in her interrogation room, then writes a police report about her guests.  It’s really creative and lots of fun.   She invited me to be questioned and I had a great time.   Sadly Kathy doesn’t archive these so it’s gone forever. 

I write the sweet books, the books where hero and heroine feel an attraction and kiss, but that’s it.  In my books, the characters never take off any article of clothing except hats, coats and shoes.   As far as the reader knows, my hero may shower in his pajamas.

The day the blog was up, I publicized it on Facebook and Twitter.   Later that evening, I went on Facebook to check my announcement and discovered it  was accompanied by the sexiest cover I’ve ever seen:  a well-shaped, curvy female body in almost no clothing and what wisps she wore were were red and lacy.  I flipped out.  Remember, I write the SWEET books in which everyone is fully clothed.  I could only imagine what my readers would think!  And my editor!  And my church friends.  Oh, my!

First I attempted to delete the picture but couldn’t because the little delete arrow didn’t show.   With that failure, I sent a hysterical message to Kathy and begged her to take that picture down.    Kathy leaped into action and tried to delete it but she didn’t have the button either and one of her pretty covers–with no nearly-naked people–showed on the page she could see.  

As always, Kathy was lovely and did everything she could from California while I worked hard in Texas but we never figured it out.   She felt terrible about it.   After I calmed down, I assured her we’d laugh about this–some day.  And I do not blame her.  I blame a Facebook glitch.

Little by little, that cover dropped down the page, shoved lower by new messages.  In fact, as small as the thumbnail was, I’m not sure anyone saw it.  No one wrote me accusatory letters or even mentioned the cover judgementally. 

Oh, wait, not true.  I just got a couple of emails.  One was from Roy, a friend from seminary and a minister.  He said he’d seen the cover a couple of times.  Fortunately, he was not incredibly shocked and still seems to be speaking to me.  My friend Marylin wrote she was sorry to have missed it.

What happened?  I don’t know.  My guess is that somehow a glitch on Facebook changed the image but we’ll never know.  Fortunately, it’s so far down the list, no one will see it now.  I hope.

Unless you go all the way down to that date (which I’m not mentioning) on the Facebook page.  Please don’t.