Hello, all– I’m… okay. So it was like this.
I was up until all frickin’ hours of the night, editing Ethan Gold, when suddenly I heard a chatbox open. Oh crap– who’s up right now?
Check the two e-mails, and oh, wait, it’s FB. Oh! Hi, Wt Prater— howyadoin? Now, Wt is one of those quietly happy online presences. He doesn’t jump up and down and spread glitter on the masses– he writes and is exuberant about what he’s done and posts blogs and sometimes tries to help me help myself by getting involved in the community.
And he wanted to know if I’d do an interview.
For the record, (and my husband knows this) if you want me to do something for you that involves sex or romance, by all means, ask me after one in the morning.
So tomorrow, I’m going to do an interview on Write on the Edge at 8 pm PST. Now, Vicktor Alexander who did this interview right here, is going to be on the interview team, and he and his cohost will ask me questions and I will try really hard not to sound like a moron! (That’s gonna be tough– trust me. I don’t even want to think about how many ways I can screw this up!)
And the questions? Okay– some of the questions I turned down were, “Who would play you in the film of your life?” (For the record, Raven Goodwin, and I don’t care if the skin color doesn’t quite match, she’s fabulous, funny, she can display pathos and sympathy, she can sing and I can’t, she doesn’t apologize to anyone for her shape, and she’s as young as I think I am. So there.) Or there’s always, “How are you at discipline? What do you do to promote writing every day?” (To which I’d respond, “My discipline is terrible– I can’t walk by the computer without opening it and working on a project. Wait, was that what you meant?”) Or there’s always, “How do you feel when you finish a book?” (Dance to THIS song.) And the time honored, “How long do you wait between projects?” (About as long as it takes to dance to that song.) So, you know– if those are the questions I skipped, God knows what I’ll say to the ones I took! (Please let it be funny, please let it be funny, please let it be funny!)
So, you know. It could be entertaining.
Now, coincidentally, today, when I got home from Target, where all evil spawns and they only want your money if you slice open your wrist to prove the blood is yours (I’ve got issues– I need to rant!) I got the prettiest thing in the mail. Did you see the pictures? Because if you didn’t, you can still order the paperbacks of Country Mouse/City Mouse combined here and here.
So, I’m thinking… well, how do I orchestrate a giveaway. Now I think I’ve got it– and I’m going to have to limit my venue because, frankly, I can’t count all the replies on Twitter, FB, and the blog feed on GR and here, so I’m going to make it you have to reply here.
I will send a free copy of Country Mouse/City Mouse to the commenter who either A. Tells me what their favorite answer from the interview was, or B. Gives me a question they wish I would have been asked, C. thinks of a creative punishment for the Target executive who ordered the new credit card machine because it’s ruining my life (more about that in a second), D. Identifies the source of the funk coming from my son’s laundry (again, more of that in a second, E. Tells me they teared up over this, F. Tells me where Left on St. Truth be Well made them cry, (and don’t lie, I know it hit some of you like this) or G. just stops in to say hello. (Okay– that other stuff was mostly for my own benefit.)
Anyway– since some of the answers are based on the interview, (which you’ll be able to listen to as we’re taping, at 8 pm PST, OR listen to in the archives) I’m going to hold the contest open until Sunday, 7pm PST. I’ll ship anywhere but Russia (because seriously, I don’t want you imprisoned) and throw in the bookmarks of your choice (because hey, bookmarks, I haz em!). If I get more than FIFTY replies, I’ll throw in another book, after I scrape myself off the floor in complete and total disbelief. Oh yeah– I’m going to use a random number generator to pick the number, and post the winner when I blog on Sunday. If the winner doesn’t get back to me in two days, I’ll pick someone else, ‘kay? Cause that’s as long as I can remember anything, but basically? I’m just sort of bribing you to listen to the podcast so you can laugh at me! (Sense. I haz it!)
How’s that? Did I cover all my bases? Listen to me blather, comment on the blog, win a copy of Country Mouse/City Mouse in print! Ta-da!
Okay– on to putting on my Ranty McRantypants–are we ready?
First of all…
Today, we played another rousing game of WHAT THE HELL IS THAT SMELL?
It involved the laundry, and when I opened the overfilled basin, this stench emerged… oh Holy Gawd and Jebus his only! It was this amazing combination… ozone, corn chips, mildew and dog pee– *gag* *hurl* *tamp down on the nausea*
It made my eyes water.
And then I started loading the drier.
Now, given that these were Big T’s clothes, I got halfway through with my gorge still rising (and people, you’ve been there for some of the things that don’t make me vomit, so you know this has got to be bad) and I made him come out and fill the drier.
And he figured out what had happened.
He’d tried to was a GIFUCKINORMOUS load of laundry on the small load setting. Yes folks, apparently when your washer’s motor is trying to commit suicide, it smells like ozone, corn chips, mildew and dog pee.
And now you know.
errrrrrrgggg…
And I continued to try to edit all day. This was interesting, because I’d promised I’d take the kids to Pinkberry (from whence we get the smiling pictures of my lovely children) and then to shop for school supplies at Target, (you guessed it!) and we had to do this before Squish’s soccer practice at 4:30.
Should be easy, right? I mean, I was out of the shower at 1. Squish was out at 1:30. Zoomboy was… still looking for his shoes at 2:30. I was standing right next to him when his brother found them under the computer–where he’d just been. I flicked him in the head. Because. Just… just because.
And then we get to Target…
And I throw a fuckton of all the things into the cart, and pull out my perfectly valid and well funded pice of plastic to pay for the fuckton of all the things in the cart, and I get to the cash register with half an hour to spare.
But Target, you see, has just replaced their credit card machines with new ones. These new credit card machines don’t take PIN # over 7 digits. My PIN is 8 digits. So I’m fucked. So I try to get it to go to credit.
And it won’t take the credit.
So I’m fucked.
And I put in another card.
And it won’t take the other card.
So I’m fucked.
So I go over to the bank machine to get cash– and it gives me cash, because according to it, I’ve got plenty of cash, but the cash machine takes six dollars out of my account for me to get enough cash to pay for the fuckton of all the fucking things.
So now, I’m fucked again.
I snarled at the girl behind the counter. I don’t know if she meant to make me feel shamed and dirty because her charge machine was not doing its job, but she did, and I was furious.
And Squish was late to soccer, where her dad, the assistant coach was on time. And we forgot the ball.
And I overcooked dinner and the dog peed on the floor.
So there. *fume*
Can I take my Ranty McRantypants off?
Because if I’m going to be a charming author and not free-range dino-bitch tomorrow for my interview, I need to hang around in my underwear, take a nap and let my flaming bitch parts breathe.
