TMI

Or, Too Much Information for those not obsessed with acronyms. I love acronyms, and drive my family half mad with them. Anyway, I just saw another example of why I am soooo very paranoid. The news just had a story about Twitter, and how some people have had their houses broken into after they posted that they would be out of town for two weeks on the site. Oh wow. That's the equivalent nowadays of putting up a banner that says "I'm gone, the dog is a wussy, and don't forget the diamonds in the bedroom." on your house. Connectivity is great, but like anything, you have to be sure who you're talking to. Eavesdropping has expanded beyond sitting on your front porch and peering at the neighbors through the hedge.
So many people think that your computer is some kind of magic portal that only you and your select friends can access. No no nooooooo.....Every penny ante hacker would love to get their hands on YOUR stuff, if only to mess with it and make your life harder. Everyone needs to practice their hobbies; hackers and phreakers just have the unfortunate need to practice on other people's stuff. And sometimes it's not even necessary to be that computer literate.So much information is posted about people online, of their own doing, that it would be a cake walk to track them, just by joining sites and sifting through their blogs, pictures, profiles and tweets. I periodically google my name and the family's names to see what kind of stuff is out there, to keep track of it all. Try it on yourself someday. If you haven't been a master of disguise online, you might be amazed at what you can find. I once did a friend a favor and followed her husband's footsteps online, no passwords, no access to his computer directly at all. Let me put it this way; if there was a vice, he had it. And I found damning proof of it. I'm not a hacker, not by any stretch of the imagination. I'm very diligent, and know a few cool tricks, is all. And I always wear protection-several layers in fact-when I send the computer online. Firewall, private browser, pop-up/drive by/spyware blockers, all go active. NORAD probably doesn't have the level of paranoia I do. Like my mother always says: Just because I'm paranoid doesn't mean they're not watching me!!

On a different note, the writing is over the hump I created last week. I was feeling very Igor-like by yesterday morning, lugging this great growth around on my back, twisting my face up into a rictus of a smile and drooling a lot. I made myself sit down and push through it later in the day, and came away, well, not exactly smiling, but satisfied with the few pages I managed to put down. I seem to have a strange problem with getting my characters out of or into rooms. It's like they want to stand there for pages and pages, meticulously describing every little minute detail of where they're going and what they feel about it. After putting my hand on the small of their backs and pushing them through, they do just fine, the pace resumes, plot ticks along nicely, conflict and resolution flow and meld. It's almost like it's too much commitment for them to go somewhere else. Or maybe I've made them too comfy where they were. But, through the door they went, and now they are finally FINALLY face to face with the guy that pretty much started the whole mess in the first place. He tried the bait and switch already, and now he's cornered. Or IS he? *cue evil laughter*

Silence is Golden

And duct tape is silver.................

I couldn't figure out why for the last two weeks or so my muse has been reluctant to play, to say the least. I have written and erased so many lines, my backspace button is getting shiny and worn through. I finally realized it was.....

Mommy, can I have a Popsicle?
Mommy, can we go to (fill in store name here) so I can see if they have something I will bug you to buy me?
Hey mom, check out this cool thing....

And then when I've had enough, I say--'I'm going downstairs to write, you need me, come get me.' hoping I'll have some peace to think in.
And then I'll sit there for an hour waiting for someone to come and interrupt. When I give in an come upstairs, everyone is crashed in front of the tv, usually the stupidest thing on satellite blaring at full volume. Then I get irritated and turn it off, trying to put some good old fashioned summertime back in summer. 'Go outside, do SOMETHING!' I say.
Then the voices start.
'Mommy, what do tapeworms think?'
'Can I have ice cream?'
'What is your Visa password?'
'Can I order this cool thing off this dubious internet site?'

I love my kids.
Really. Truly. But sometimes I wish we lived in Mayberry and not in the sticks. Then they could go bother Mr. Greenjeans once in a while, and roll hoops down Main Street with the Rascals. Then maybe I might get some writing done. After I bake the pie, that is......

Indepen-dance

Independence can be a very personal thing. One person's slavery is another person's freedom in possession. Believe it or not, all people like to be owned. It's a very safe way to live. The only difference between anyone is the point where you draw that personal line in the sand and say "I would do anything for love, but I won't do that..." (thank you Meatball!) That line is where you dance, proclaiming your independence from ________. Fill in the blank with whatever "that" you won't do. Me? I've railed against all kinds of things in my misbegotten youth: The Man, conventional thinking, western medicine, you name it. In the last year, I have focused on one simple thing to fill in that blank.
Fear.
I have declared my independence from fear.
I've heard the advise that you should do one thing a day that scares you. While not quite going to that level, I've come pretty damn close. I've done things and had things done to me in the last year that I was so afraid of I couldn't even think about them without having a panic attack. I won't bore you with the stupidly mundane, but i will give the short list:
Dentist-haven't been for twenty years. Had my first cleaning and partial root canal this week. Didn't pass out even once.
Airsoft-Joined a group of uber-testosteroned young men and shot at each other, sometimes drawing blood, twice a month for a year. Even joined a team and played at an invitational.
People-I'm awkward. Raised by wolves. Can't have a conversation without inserting foot deeply in mouth. I've talked to more people and made more contacts this last year than ever before. Didn't get my house TP'd once.
Just Did It-Started and am on my way to finishing my first book. Learned how the mower works. Shaved my dog. Many many things I would have put off indefinitely, I did. Without thinking it to death. FBI still not taking away my birthday.

I know that all of this is just the beginning, and I'm both tired and glad. May the good times roll, and the force be with me.
And you.

Send lawyers,guns and money

Today, I was a fugitive from the law.
The law was unaware of it at the time, but it still involved sneaking around town using back roads and using my best evasion tactics.
It was nerve wracking and invigorating at the same time. Ok, maybe I was feeling a bit paranoid, but my expired inspection sticker seemed to be twice it's size and blazing neon yellow, screaming out to any police in a five square mile radius to "Bust her! Ticket the infidel!!"
And to top it off, I couldn't find an inspection station that wasn't packed to the rafters with the same shifty eyed on the run people as I had become.
I guess I have to start making better to-do lists....

Fear and Loathing in Northern Virginia

I don't get it.
Really, I don't.
I've lived here for longer than any other place I have ever lived for my entire life, and I still don't get NorVa.
Maybe it's my Long Island birth, or my Midwest upbringing. Possibly it's my lack of hometown, giving me a jaundiced eye on a place that seems to harbor an unusually (to me) high number of generational residents. Ah, let's not forget the untoward aversion to McMansions.
Or maybe it's the question.
The one that I've been bombarded with from the first time I had a conversation that went farther than 'how are you-fine-have a nice day'.

"So, what do you do?"

Now, you have to see this from where I was coming from at the time. We moved here right after 'Navy Days', ten years of ships, boats, and dockyards. Men were sailors, women (except for the odd clerk) were moms. That's just how we rolled. So the question of careers leaned more towards the ascent through the ranks for the husband, and had nothing to do with mothers leaving home to have a career. Oh, there were women who worked, but mostly that was just to make ends meet, and mostly involved the Commissary or the Exchange. Career? Hah, try moving to a different state every eighteen months and see how that works for you.
So when I was questioned about my occupation, I answered the same way I do on my taxes. Homemaker, or some variation on it, not thinking about the social suicide I just brought down on my head. The immediate dismissal that I invariably received startled me. I had people turn their backs on me, walk away, or turn to the person next to me and start a conversation in the middle of my response.

Whoa.
Hello.
Welcome to NorVa.

I don't care what you do. I'm not impressed. I couldn't give a flying flaming rats rear about your earning potential, college degree, or security clearance.What I do care about is 'Who are you?' How do you live your life? Are you a racist, atheist, sadist, devout Hindu? Do you hide your dreams, or share them with your cat? What is your favorite book and why? Is that your natural hair color? Did you ever have an abortion? Do you remember your dreams? How do you feel about pudding?

I would not do it differently if given a choice. I'm not sappy or sentimental for the most part about my kids. I'm too much of a realist for much romanticizing.It's not all about 'the children, think of the children'. I knew before my first was born that someone would have to raise her, and considering that I made her, I wanted it to be me. I give it my all, even though the kids would rather be given less time and more money with the age they are at now.
So I've come up with a coping mechanism. Every time someone asks me nowadays 'so, what do you do?', I turn around and walk away. I'm a big one for preventative maintenance.

I still don't get this place, though.

Benchmarks

Ever reached a goal and realized that it wasn't a goal at all? That it was but a benchmark, a place you put a tag into to remember the spot by, and keep going? I thought I had a goal to reach, and it has turned out to be a benchmark. Writing my first novel-length story, I knew I had to have a minimum of 50,000 words to be considered an adult sized book, and not a young adult . Well, I set that goal, thinking it would be a struggle to reach. That 50,000 is an awfully big number, said I. You're going to have to stretch some things, said I.

Nope.

I made that goal yesterday, and blew right past it.


The ending is forming in my head, but it is still in it's infancy on paper. Ok, word processor. Yet there are still things I know I need to go back and fill in, holes that I left in plots, emotions that still need fleshed out. Twice my original estimate is sounding about right, if I continue the way I have been. By no means will it have an unwieldy heft, like something akin to Tolkien, but I don't think I'm looking at a thin book here. More muscular, if you will, without going that creepy extra mile to bodybuilder covered in veins look.

Oh, and I have to thank Joe, who gave me some interesting conversation this morning-dreams are a magnificent thing. The houses you built in your sleep fascinate me.

Atlas sneezed

Cursed is the person who is adaptive, intelligent, observant, and engages their work ethic daily. I would like to say that the work on the bathroom is done and looks fabulous. Not far from it, but still not done. Several things managed to rear their ugly heads the moment I decided to concentrate on other things than writing, and mostly derailed my good intentions. Such as the innocent call to the electric company that resulted in the replacement of the entire breaker panel/hot feed into the house. Then the husband going out of town for a week and the yard growing a foot the day he left (I swear I could hear it growing!!) Mow, mow, and mow again...Oh, and don't let me forget the four pieces of wood furniture I got in a moment of insanity, unfinished of course. Self sabatoge, who me??
And what have we learned from this, boys and girls? No matter the intent, don't let anything talk you into abandoning a dream to take care of "just one or two small things". Those one or two will turn into a great sucking void that will take all of your time and energy until you have nothing left for yourself. I have had to force myself to realize I'm only one person, and can't do it all myself, not in a tight time frame. I have gone to the extent of walking around saying "I'm just one person, I'm just one person" to myself as I'm trying to take care of an entire weeks worth of contractor work in one morning, on top of cleaning up and planning dinner. .*sigh* Still getting used to the concept, bear with me.
I'm back to writing now, making room for it every day. Regardless of the progression on the rehab of the house, I make myself attend to my writing every single day. I can fix up a house, but if I let my dreams fall apart again, I don't know if I can put them back together anymore.