Day 40, 179 To Go

I will tell you right upfront that there are folks out there in Readerland who are going to find these posts tedious.  I'm sorry for that, but I'll do my best to keep them interesting.  They're going to serve two purposes: (1) To keep The Husband apprised of daily doings, and (2) to retrain Yours Truly, or maybe just teach, because I have never been really good at keeping this blog this up to date, into updating more often.

The Husband headed to Afghanistan proper on Tuesday, sporting a new haircut (it must be a guy thing).  Communication between us will be cut drastically, so think of these posts as getting to listen in-- sort of-- on conversations.  I'll try to leave out the really mushy parts, but if something slips in now and then, you'll just have to suck it up.

The Monday before he left I came home from work and potted the rest of the plants and flowers I'd bought at Home Depot and Lowe's over the weekend, then repotted a few that i decided had been poorly placed.  In a spurt of stunning design decisions (okay, maybe just plant placement -- ha ha), the front of the house and back patio 

ended up looking pretty good.  I planted a little pomegranate tree in the southeast corner and took a couple of the celosia aside to put in a green pot that I gave to Dad last night for his patio.  The rest of the plants are on  the stone patio I assembled awhile back, which will eventually (uh...) be covered by a sort of "screenhouse" I plan to build to deter the grasshoppers that ate Every. Single. Living. Plant. in the backyard last summer, including something like six or seven small trees.  That will NOT happen again in 2013.


At lunch today my friend Clara and I went to Farmer's Market, where I indulged in locally grown tomatoes (until mine grow, and let's face it, I probably won't get that many), a cucumber, and a loaf of Stone Junction Olives and Italian Cheese bread by the Guadalupe Baking Company.  I dipped into this right after taking the photo, and WOW!  Yeah, it was that good. 

Finally, yesterday Clara and I went to investigate a sign that has appeared on a certain long-empty building that used to be the former home of Walmart.  We both agreed that having this store close to us, as in seeing it Every Single Day, is probably going to be hazardous to our wallets.  It looks like it will be awhile before it opens, so we'd better start saving up now.

While on vacation in Virginia with The Husband the week before last, I got bit by four, yes, FOUR ticks.  Setting aside the fact that by the time I realized the fourth one was biting me I was physically freaking out, my medical manager here was not pleased when he looked at my arm (bite #2) and the back of my neck (bite #3).  Although the other two bites seem to be healing/disappearing, these two are hanging around and red and lumpy.  It's interesting to hear "Humor me and take some doxycycline." from a medical practitioner.

Okay, it's late, and I'm tired, courtesy of the antibiotics.  I'm going to toss in the photos but not proofread.  I proofread too much, which is probably why I don't write nearly enough-- I'm too busy proofing as I go instead of when I'm finished... or both!

Day 15, 204 To Go

For those who don't know, my husband and fellow author Weston Ochse, is in predeployment training.  He left on March 17 and headed for the east coast, and somewhere toward the end of April, he'll leave there and spend six months on an all-expense paid trip, courtesy of Uncle Sam, to Afghanistan.  Although he's been gone for work before (what those of us in the military call "TDY" -- Temporary Duty), before his leaving this time around we have never been separated for more than two straight weeks.  Because he is a government civilian, Uncle Sam cannot legally deploy him for more than 179 days.  But when you add in the predeployment training and the return "check-in" time, today marks Day 15 of a total of 219 days that he will be gone.  I will fly to Washington in April and spend about a week with him, but I still count those in the total because, hey, he's not here.  He's not home.

So, follow me along on my adventures with him.  And please keep your fingers crossed that there will be very few days like yesterday.  Thank you, Universe, but that was quite enough for at least a few days!

The Sharp Knife of a Short Life...

This is the title of a song that keeps playing in my head.  It’s an excellent, sad song by The Band Perry, and I have it on a CD, but I heard it on the radio for the first time yesterday, not long after I went to the military funeral of a woman who was only five years younger than me.  

I won’t identify her here, but a lot of friends and acquaintances will know who I’m talking about.  She was likeable and beautiful, slim with white-blonde hair and a confident manner.  She was in the Army and I remember walking next to a couple of guys in our old building maybe six or seven years ago.  She was about twenty feet ahead of us and one of them commented that “She’s the only woman in the Army who can make BDUs (Battle Dress Uniforms) look good.”  In the memory booklet at her funeral, her birthday was listed as “Sunrise” and her death as “Sunset,” and I could picture her life like that, a sun rising and blazing across the sky in a too-fast semi-circle before it sank out of sight.

She and I were never close, although we worked together years ago and liked each other.  We’d talk now and then, comparing notes about the agony of kids turning into teenagers and the hope of teenagers turning into responsible adults, and we always said that one of these days we’d go to lunch.  We never did, and one of those days will now never happen.  She died in another state and left behind two dark-haired, handsome sons who had grown into exactly what she had hoped.  To all accounts she was happy and looking forward to the future, to her sons, to her parents, to buying a house in one of those sun-soaked states where it’s warm almost all the time.

To my knowledge, she was never on Facebook.  God, how I wish she had been.  Maybe then I, and so many others who knew her, could have kept in touch and offered her the words of support and comfort she must have needed.  Maybe we would have seen how far she’d sunk into self-despair, and how she must have been drowning in whatever demons finally overwhelmed her.  People always say that suicide is a selfish thing for someone to do, but it only seems selfish if you look at it from somewhere other than that person’s point of view.  From where she was two weeks ago today, perhaps she thought that other people in her life were the ones who were selfish, who couldn’t give her a bit of their time, their attention, their love, their friendship.  It was heartbreaking to sit in the Chapel and listen to so many wonderful memorial words, to hear an Army LTC’s voice break when he said “She was my soldier,” and see that same man’s eyes tear up when he addressed his words toward the flag-covered casket and closed with “You’re relieved.  We have the watch now.”  She was loved by so many, but she must have felt so utterly alone at the end, so unbearably tired, that she chose not to keep going.

The edge of that sharp knife in someone’s life is coated in regrets, in “someday we’re going to” and “one of these days.”  Don’t let that edge turn and cut you or someone you care about.

HUMANS HAVING DOGS: BIRTH CONTROL, DAMMIT!

A Dog…

Is not JUST a dog.

It is not disposable.  When you get a dog, it becomes a family member.  It wants your love and attention.  It wants to play and cuddle.  It needs to be fed, watered, petted, played with, and kept out of the weather.  It needs good quality food and a sheltered, dry place to sleep.  It needs training and regular vet care.  It has LOTS of energy when it’s young, and maybe extra energy longer depending on its breed.  Above all, it worships you and wants to please you so badly it will keep trying no matter what, to the very last breath it exhales.

If you get a Dog…

This is that fuzzy, shedding warm body--
on the large side-- in Amy Breckinridge
Smith's lap!

It may slow down a little, but it will never really grow up.  You should be willing to live with the equivalent of an affectionate, mischievous and perhaps over-sized toddler for however long your dog lives.  You should be willing to clean up the things that come out of both ends.  You should be willing to give baths and wipe away eye boogers, clean out ears, cut toenails, and even brush its teeth.  You (not the dog) should learn to keep the trash covered or it’ll end up all over the floor, put away your shoes or they’ll get chewed, and come home on time or your neighbors might hear frustration barking and you might step in a surprise when you open the door.  You should be ready to give it more vet care as it gets older no matter the cost, and know that it might get sick and need extra help.  You should love it enough not to dump it in a shelter because it got too big, got old, or sick, or too tired to play with your kids anymore.  You should welcome a fuzzy, shedding warm body onto your lap.  And above all, you should be willing to accept tons of exuberant, wet dog kisses.

A beautiful old lady dumped in a
shelter on Christmas Day, 2012

 

You should have the brains to plan ahead and know how your future will affect your new family member: What happens when the dog gets bigger than you thought it would, you move or move in with someone, develop an allergy, get married, have a baby, have another baby, go away to school, take a job overseas, or join the military and deploy?  And if the unthinkable happens and you really can’t keep this dog that treasures every second it spends with you, can you put forth the effort to find it a home with someone else who will love it for the rest of its life? 

Or will you simply break its heart?

If you had a child and had to downsize your house, would you drop off your child at an orphanage that might kill him or her after only a couple of days?  Your dog is part of your family.  It adores you, feels loneliness and anxiety when you leave, feels pain in both its body and soul when it’s hurt, and will feel terror if you abandon it. 

A Dog…

13 (yes, 13) year old female Great Dane
dumped at a shelter on January 10, 2013

Is not something to chain to a tree or toss outside in the yard.  It’s not okay to leave it in cold or freezing temperatures, the rain or snow, or the blazing sun and suffocating heat in the summer.  It’s not okay to forget to feed it or give it fresh water.  It’s not okay to let it suffer and be in pain because you don’t have the money to take it to a vet.  It’s not a piece of trash to be pushed out of your car in the park or at a rest stop, or turned over to a shelter when it’s 10, or 12, or 15 years old.

And a Dog is NEVER a target for your anger or aggression.  

It is a living, breathing creature that depends completely on you for EVERYTHING.  From the second you decide to exert ownership over a puppy or an adult dog, its fate is completely and utterly in your hands.

So think birth control.

If you can’t love your new puppy or dog forever, if you don’t have the patience to train it and deal with the things required to take care of it, if you can’t stay in its life for the long haul, then save some poor dog the misery and put the equivalent of a condom on yourself:

Don’t get one to begin with. 

Yvonne Navarro

January 09, 2013

The Next Big Thing!

Hi all.  It's been a busy time since September, with family medical issues as well as life in general keeping me from Rambling at you as much as I would have liked.  Now, however, it would seem that I have been tagged with the writer's equivalent of a virtual chain letter, so below are my answers to "The Next Big Thing," a Q&A blog that's been going around the Internet for quite some time.  I'm coming in on it at the tail end, so unfortunately I have no one to tag at the end of the questions.  I did ask six people, but of those six, only three answered-- they either said no or had already participated.  The other three didn't bother to respond at all, so maybe they're sitting somewhere poking pins into a doll that represents me for trying to get them involved in it to begin with.  In any case...

Behold my answers!

What is the working title of your next book?

Concrete Savior

Where did the idea come from for the book?

Concrete Savior is the second book in a series called The Dark Redemption Series.  The idea for the entire series was germinated from a Wayne Barlowe painting showing a fallen angel contemplating a snow white angel’s feather.

What genre does your book fall under?

When I wrote it, I thought horror because that’s always been my chosen genre.  When it was bought by Pocket Star, the editor told me it was urban fantasy.  At the time, I didn’t even know there was such a thing as an urban fantasy genre.

What actors would you choose to play the part of your characters in a movie rendition?

Brynna would definitely be played by Keira Knightley, and in my mind, Eran Redmond was played by Hugh Jackman.  Okay, so I’m a huge Hugh Jackman fan, but seriously, in poking around the Internet I ran across a photograph of Jackson wearing very bookish glasses.  It made him fit the role of Redmond perfectly. 

What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?

A fallen angel returns to Earth seeking redemption and a return to her original angel status.

Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

It was represented by the FinePrint Literary Agency.

How long did it take you to write the first draft of the manuscript?

About four to five months.  It was a pretty tight deadline.

What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

I’m really not sure.  HIGHBORN, the first book in the series, was published in 2012, and CONCRETE SAVIOR came out in 2011.  As I said about, I didn’t even know there was an urban fantasy genre, so I haven’t paid much attention to it, and I definitely haven’t read anything in it.  When I wrote HIGHBORN, I was simply writing the story I wanted to tell.

Who or what inspired you to write this book?

Pretty much covered that in the second question.

What else about the book might pique the reader's interest?

What different about the series is the main character, who goes by the name Brynna Malak.  Reviewers have called her “refreshing,” because there is nothing sappy sweet or “do gooder” about her.  She’s spent millennia in Hell as a demon dedicated to destroying souls, not saving them.  Now, even though she wants redemption, she has to learn to deal with the humans she despised for so long.  But tolerance is not enough-- she has to learn like them before she can make herself help them and, just maybe, re-earn her path to redemption.

Questions?  Dump them in a comment box below and I might have answers.  (Don't bother with that Secret to Life thing though; it's already been covered by someone else.)

"Live, from California, IT'S... HAUNTED MANSION!"

And the road to hell is paved with good intentions.

Maybe that should have been the title of this blog.  You've heard me say before that I'm going to be better about posting here, and every time I say that, I SWEAR it's true.  I just get so caught up in the so-big life that's going on around me, and frankly, there's just not enough me to keep up with work, house, writing, artwork, Facebook, Twitter, Blogger, and the demands of everyday life.  I try, I try!

So what's been going on since August and my last post?

We celebrated Ghoulie's third birthday.  Ghoulie is our youngest Dane, the blind puppy that was nine months old when we made a 4,000 mile car round trip in less than five days to pick her up on the other side of the United States.  Since then she has terrorized us and the other two Danes, loved all of us, and entertained us to no end with her constant grumbling and growling, the way she flails around like a mixed martial arts fighter, and especially the way she charges up the stairs, spins at the top, then guards them by hopping around like a noisy, snarling jumping bean at the bottom.  She especially loves Wes, and cries like an overjoyed lost baby when he comes back from a business trip, sitting and hooking both front paws over his forearms until he gives her enough kisses.  Yep, she's special.

Goblin (who as you might recall from August just turned nine years old) went with us to the Toro Loco Challenge in Eloy, Arizona on September 15th.   Check my Facebook page for the details on why the poor old guy couldn't finish the race, plus some great photos of the fun we had.  He's such a super sweetie.  I'm hoping for lots more years of lovin' from my gentle giant.

Right now, this very second, The Husband and I are at the Haunted Mansion Writers Retreat in Marin County, California.  This is our second time around and things are actually quite a bit scarier this time around.  The house and surrounding heavy woods are lovely, the weather is spectacular.  See that second floor bank of windows above the door in the photo?  That's our bedroom, a nice big room, carpeted and bright, with a fireplace that even though it no longer works just sets the tone for the whole experience.  We're having a blast and having fun and laughing a lot.  But there's also a darkside to this place, a REAL darkside.  There's no sense in me rehashing everything here when you can read the firsthand stories right on the Haunted Mansion Blog.

All kidding aside, this is also a scary-ass place, folks.  The ghosts are real, the fright is real.  Read that blog up there, and know that the humor you encounter every now and then is sometimes the thing that keeps up sane.  This is the last night here, and historically the most active.  That concept is pretty damned terrifying when you consider what happened last night to one of our friends.  Again, read the blog to find out the details.

Stayed tuned.  And keep your fingers crossed for us.

Goblin's 9th Birthday

"I am an Animal Rescuer. I have patted a mangy head with a bare hand. I have hugged someone vicious and afraid. I have fallen in love a thousand times. My work is never done, my home is never quiet, my wallet is always empty, my heart is always full."

"Rescuing one dog may not change the world, but for that one dog, the world will be changed forever."

Today is my Big Boy, Goblin's, 9th birthday. He spent the first 16 months of his life thrown in a backyard, underfed and starved for attention. When we got him, he was completely untrained. Well, except that the numbskull I got him from had taught him to jump and put his paws on her shoulders-- nothing else. He was terrified of The Husband and most men and showed it with fear aggression. The night I brought him home he crawled onto the couch, then curled his lip at me because of what he thought I might do; I wiped the snarl off his muzzle with my fingertips and it never came back. He was afraid to eat and would just stand over 3 out of 5 meals, staring at us in fear.

Now he's just a Big Grizzled Smush Bug who waits for me to come out and tell him to finish his food ("You'd better get that piece, or I'll get it!"). He's not completely without fear, but he's probably as good as he will ever get. He snores and makes other bodily sounds that are not so attractive, but we love him anyway.

In short, he is an Awesome Rescued Great Dane. 

No Better Time Than Now...

... to save a bit of moolah on some great dark fantasy and horror titles!  Think Christmas shopping.  No, really-- it's only five months away and there are some AWESOME bargains to be found here.  Speaking of an awesome bargain, The Husband's incredible short story collection, Multiplex Fandango (25% off!), is one of them.  So check out the goods and splurge splurge splurge!

Kill Me Now, Buttwad!

I must have a sign across the front windshield of whichever car I happen to be driving on any particular day.  (Friends, take note and be cautious about lending me your vehicles.  Unless, of course, you are feeling particularly adventurous or are counting on your insurance company to provide you with an entirely new ride.)  This is a sign that I can't personally see, but there are Buttwads out there galore who can and who seem to take immense pleasure in follow its directions literally. 

Take, for instance, the woman driving the little gold four-door job on the day I had my hip pre-op appointment slightly less than seven weeks ago.  Miracles can happen in the space of a single second, and it is truly a miracle that I made that appointment.  See, I was on the bypass, in the left turn land by the East Gate of Fort Huachuca.  The light turned red, and we in the turning land got our green arrow.  I wasn't even the first to turn.  Nope, not first, or even second.  I was THIRD.  So as I'm trundling up to turn left, here comes Little Miss Gold Car, who blows the red light at a fast and furious sixty-plus miles per hour.  She never even hit the brakes.

One second.

Yep.  One second more would have put me right in front of her, and she (and her passenger) would have solidly embedded themselves and their gold car into the passenger side of my Charger.  The Charger is a no-kidding heavy ride wearing a beautiful coat of metal-flake red, but at that speed... can you say "rollover?"

And then there's today.  Coming off Post again, this time driving the Montero, I had the green light.  I was in the correct lane, the one to go straight.  I headed into the intersection at about 20 mph or so (not having to stop because the light was green and stayed green, and not going very fast because this part is coming out of a 15 mph gate exit).  And when the red Nissan SUV accelerated and TURNED LEFT DIRECTLY IN FRONT OF ME, I had to slam on the brakes so hard that the passenger back seat lock released and it slammed into the back of the front passenger seat before bouncing back again.  (Thank God there was no passenger in it!)  And you know what?  The young male Buttwad driving the Nissan looked me straight in the eye, SMILED, and never broke eye contact during his entire turn.  Yep, he turned in front of me and kept smiling at me the entire time he was trying to kill me!

And then, about 45 minutes later, there was yet another Buttwad who decided that a yellow light on Coronado does not mean slow down.  Nuh-uh.  It means Speed The Hell Up And Run Through The Intersection On The Red Light So That The Vehicle Turning Left Has to Slam On Its Brakes.  This guy could even be called a Buttwad Squared -- B2 -- because he was driving a (white) BMW.  And did I mention that not long after they built this intersection (where Walmart and Lowe's are across from each other), there was a vehicle accident so horrible that people had to be airlifted to Tucson for  treatment despite us having a hospital only five minutes away?

So I warn you all:

PROTECT YOURSELVES -- BEWARE OF THE BUTTWADS IN SIERRA VISTA!

And you might have someone else check your windshield and make sure you don't have a sign like mine.  (Which, by the way, I borrowed from http://killmeenow.blogspot.com/ -- thanks!)

We Can Rebuild Her!

If you're wondering why I haven't been posting for the last six weeks, it would seem that the hip bone is connected to the brain bone which powers the writing bones which trigger the finger bones to type.

I'm sure you're wondering precisely how this can be.  It's not such a stretch, when you factor in a 9 inch incision, a big hunk of metal and plastic (as in a Zimmer Kinectic Total Hip), and a full set of stairs that laugh in the face of new body parts.  Lindsey Wagner/Jaime Sommers may have been all new and bionc-y when she woke from her transformation, but I, alas, was not.  The hip part wasn't really too bad, except for about a week of when the pain meds just seemed to stop working, in totality.  We had about six really unpleasant nights (we being me and The Husband), but he stuck it out.  Unfortunately sometimes really awesome career opportunities poke their heads up at really bad times, and I made him go on a trip to NYC to meet with his editors, etc.  That left me alone for about four days with paid help to feed the Danes (and, bless her, sometimes she fed me, too).  The entire hip thing wouldn't have been so bad had it not been for the bout of severe anemia.  Let me tell ya-- I'd replace the other hip before I'd go through that again.  It wiped me out, kept me in bed, and made me literally spiral into exhaustion just for trying to rearrange the pillows behind my back.  To be blunt, it SUCKED.  Between the hospital stay (and an emergency room x-ray to check the hip since the pain was so bad) and two weeks later, they pumped four units of blood into me and insisted I take an enormous iron pill (hey, hey -- 278% of your daily recommended allowance of iron!) every day for 30 days.  Today, by the way, is the last one, and I thank everything possible for that because these things will really twist up your digestive system.

So that's my sad and sorry story.  Am feeling better finally (yay!), although each physical therapy session (twice per week) wipes me out.  This worries me as Monday sees me back at work with PT on my lunch hour twice per week.  Okay, I admit I don't want to go back to work, but I really have no excuse.   I mean, brain power isn't governed by leg and hip exercises, right?  Bleh.

I'd still rather stay home and eat bon bons all day.  Okay, and maybe write some cool stories and stuff.  And yeah, maybe paint some cool stuff.  After all, I do have this awesome and fully furnished art studio in the next room that's just crying out for me to create a something-- a painting, a drawing, ANYTHING.  It has a few more things that need to be organized and put away, but oooooh, the temptation.  The want.

But still, there's this thing I have to work out and get out this week for sure, no excuses, that might hopefully work its way into something much, much better.

So much to do, and so little me.  How am I ever going to fit a full time job back into that??!