Today call me named

Today call me named. No one’s actually asked, but I’ve decided to explain the origins of my blog and why it is (or isn’t) what it is (or isn’t).

What’s that? You don’t care? Then you’re in for a treat. Because it’s a long story!

(I can shoot for brief but the tale involves my writing and I’m generally wordy.)

Yes, it all started when I was ten (sorry, brevity) and I wrote these words in my diary:

When I grow up, I want to be a teacher. And a writer. Like Judy Blume.

Thirteen years later, I was teaching high school English, living 50% of a sweet diary dream. Each semester, my students and I read. Wrote. Discussed what happens to a dream deferred. (It dries up like a raisin in the sun, don’t you know.)

I  absolutely loved my career but as my 40th birthday loomed, I began to worry about my own potential raisining. And that’s when my husband offered me the ultimate birthday gift – a leave of absence to explore the remaining 50%:

Being Judy Blume.

I’d spent my life eating more words than food (and I like food a lot); so I naively suspected I’d be decent at the writing gig. Except for the part where I knew absolutely nothing.

I also had no writer friends, no blog, no Twitter. (Can you imagine?)

To learn, I devoured – among other books – Stephen King’s On Writing, MittlelMark and Newman’s How Not to Write a Novel and Janet Evanovich’s How I Write. I scoured Jeff Herman’s Guide to Publishers, Editors and Literary Agents, dog-earing pages with biographies of agents I longed to query. After I figured out what a query letter was.

LESSON: Carve out time to both read and write every day. Otherwise, you’ll do other things. Like eat.  So I read and wrote and read and wrote and sometimes even ate.

I’ve shared my marathon story before, and the fact that I let my hapless training provide the metaphor for a presumably humorous memoir of a midlife crisis. But it was in Mr. Herman’s guide that I discovered one of my first-choice agents – Stephany Evans of FinePrint Literary Management – who’d recently run her own first marathon.

LESSON: Thoroughly research agencies and individual agents either in printed guides, on websites, or both. Learn the agents’ interests, what genres they represent. Be specific, honest, and don’t force a fit. Ultimately, you’ll want a meeting of minds and goals.

Having completed both race and memoir (hooray!), I followed the guide’s instructions and – per Ms. Evan’s specifications – emailed my query. (I also may have vomited from nerves.) She replied the same day: “Obviously this is a project I’d be interested in. Let’s have a look.”

Obviously? Try luckily, because the topic of my book coincided with a shared passion. However, I’d capitalized upon this fact in my query because I’d done my homework. Hard.

Ms. Evans requested a copy of four chapters and a complete book proposal.

LESSON: Create at least a preliminary draft of this package (minus an individual agent’s preferences) before querying. Such preparation would have saved me a great deal of last-minute panic. (And or nausea.) Jeff Herman’s guide provides examples of book proposals for non-fiction work and submissions of fiction. You can also find samples online.

I scrambled to create a book proposal/chapter package, and sent her my soul marked Requested. Then I pinched myself to check if I was dreaming. Still. My work was raw. Within six months, I’d rushed to produce a manuscript which I submitted without feedback or editing. The response was kinder than I deserved:

“The narrative is unfocused. I regret I cannot offer you representation.”

LESSON: Do not query too soon. Take time with your project. Ask other writers you trust for advice. Then revise revise revise. And repeat.

I thanked Ms. Evans for her consideration and expressed my hope that she’d be willing to work with me again. Her reply? “I’d be happy to look at something new. But memoir is a tough sell unless you’re an expert, a celebrity, or have a completely original platform.”

The good news: I’d made an actual connection. In the publishing world. Holy crap!

The bad news: I had to write a new book. Probably fiction. Holy crap!

LESSON: Don’t give up. Although my initiation required blood, sweat and tears (literally), it was also characterized by hubris and inexperience. I’ve since discovered that scoring a request to review my work the first time out was a fluke. However. It opened a door into which I later stuck a fictional-foot that’s still trudging down the road toward publication.

Because I wish you more luck and fewer missteps on your journey, I’ll post Part II of this story soon. I may even tell you how this blog got Named.

What’s that? You still don’t care? Nevertheless.

To be continued…

Today call me unromantic

Today call me unromantic. After all, it’s almost February 14^th and you know what means:

That’s right. Absolutely nothing!

I’ll admit to being a fan of generosity and I think it’s sweet when people acknowledge their loved ones; I therefore wish Godiva Chocolatier, FTD Florists, Kay Jewlers, and our economy all the richest spoils of the day.

But I hope you can forgive Bill and me for dispensing with the mad rush as we do most years; besides, of course, the first time we spent Cupid’s big day together, all dewey-eyed and hand-holding and breathless.

We were at Gladstone’s 4 Fish in Malibu and we faced a long wait for a table since we’d arrived without reservations. I mean, who needs food when you are feasting on each other? Fa la la and pass the complimentary peanuts!

After we’d unshelled and sucked down half a barrel, the host informed us he was setting up a banquet room for six other hapless couples who had  also planned to live on love that night. He asked if we’d like to share the room and feast together.

So we did.

We gathered, fourteen strangers around a table, making introductions, ordering cocktails, selecting appetizers; all of us convinced we were – among these couples and, for that matter, everyone – the most in love. The most lucky.

So we were.

That was seventeen years ago.

By our second February 14^th, Bill and I were focused solely on finding an apartment so we could be the most lucky every day!  Our third found us saving for a wedding. On our fourth, I was pregnant. Fifth, nursing. Sixth, knocked-up again. And then the next year also nursing, and etcetera.

At some point (sorry Hallmark!) we even traded investing in greeting cards for college funds. (Not really. We’re banking on the lottery. Or lack of interest.)

But either way, we long ago got real. And here it is:

Bill and I can clean up nicely. People who know us see a neat home and bright smiles, seemingly-organized couple-ness. Now, cue Barry Manilow singing Looks like we made it. (Or not. What?)

Still, underneath most families’ glossy surfaces lies some mess. Occasional mayhem. Frequent unrest. We are, at the end of the day, mere human beings; sharing a roof and space day in, day out.

Let’s face it: Life’s chaotic. And if you’re trying to do it right, you may have a junk drawer.

Or a junk closet.

Maybe even a junk garage.

(And if you do not have at least one of these things then you couldn’t be married to me.)

I think the key is finding someone whose  thatisawful you can tolerate and whose thatisawesome you embrace.

And then?  You simply hold on for the ride.

Because no matter how much green you spy over the fence, the grass – upon closer inspection – is simply peed on in different spots.

(Should I make t-shirts? Bumper stickers? I may need to pay for college if the kids get all, “We want high learning,” and I’ve lost that lottery ticket in the junk drawer.)

So on this February 14^th, Bill and I may sneak away to a restaurant. (Not Gladstone’s. We’re too old to share a banquet room with strangers.) Or we may simply enjoy a glass of wine and have some catch-up conversation. (If we’re not too exhausted and I’ve remembered to brush my teeth.)

But this is something we try to do whenever our busy schedules align. We don’t want to relegate the appreciation of each other to a few holidays each year.

You probably don’t, either.

Instead, we try to express our gratitude year-round.

You probably do, too.

Yes, mutual admiration may be the glue that keeps us all together. Alongside the junk drawers and closets, of course. Which means tomorrow night, as with most others, the last words we’ll speak out loud will be “I love you.” Because we do. Every day. Not just February 14th. Looks like we made it.

And also this: Happy Valentine’s Day, honey.

Let’s cue up Fringe and try to stay awake ’til ten o’clock.

Today call me well-aimed

Today call me well-aimed but at the same time, perhaps, ill-timed.

I have a post up at Aiming Low, one of my absolute favorite sites on the whole, wide interwebs. I wrote about aging, kind of. And how I’m not doing it as gracefully as I’d like. Please click here to laugh at me. (Or to let me know if you want in on the group Botox rate.)

But wait!

I have a up post at Mama Wants This too; and it embraces a completely different sentiment. I wrote about finding grace in the chaos that attends bringing a second child into the family. If you missed it, please click here to cry with me. (Because my babies are getting older, too.)

I know. I’ve become increasingly demanding in my old age. Still. I remain – as ever – grateful for the loyal support of my readers.

You are all simply fabulous. And ageless. And I mean it. But what are you still doing here?

Go. Here and here. And might I suggest you do this now?

Because none of us is getting any younger…

Today call me wanted

Today call me laid

Today call me laid but I’m referring to grammar; more specifically to the infinitives to lie and to lay. So if your Google search brought you here for something sexier, you’re in luck. There’s nothing hotter than the proper conjugation of verbs.

(Besides sentence diagramming or an explication of Moby Dick, am I right?)

Forgive me for taking the time to address the lie/lay debacle in a blog post. You’d probably rather read about my crock-pot chicken recipe or how my crippling fear of success leads me to sabotage myself with grammar-related musings.

(Wait, you wouldn’t? Well, okay! To my point.)

I’ve noticed a decent percentage of people misusing to lie (as in “to recline”) and to lay (as in “to place or set”). And since the English language is replete with homonyms and homophones, it’s no wonder there’s confusion among the masses.

Still. As a former English teacher, let me lay it out there:

You don’t tell a dog to lay on its bed; nor do you lay down for a nap or lay out in the sun. In the present tense, the proper conjugation for the infinitive to lie is lie or lies.

So.

I want my dog to stop humping me and lie down so I can lie on my bed to take a nap because it’s only 65 degrees outside which, for southern Californians, is so cold we will not lie in the sun. (Brrr!)

In the present and future tenses, no one lays down to rest.

I lie, you/we/they lie, he/she/it/lies down. Or out.  Or yowsa, this stuff is hot!

Now. Here comes the past tense of to lie to mess with us.

Yesterday, my dog lay by the fire while I lay on the couch watching The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills in which the ladies lay on the beach in Hawaii because life is hard.

Yes, indeed. The past tense conjugation of to lie is lay.

I lay, you lay, he/she/it/we/they lay.

Crap, right? Whose idiot idea was this? Maybe the guy who wrote Moby Dick, I don’t know. I do know if it sounds weird, it’s because so many people use it incorrectly.

But what about laid? you ask. And I’m glad you did.

The verb to lay, as in “to place or set,” is unsettling because the present tense is lay and the past is laid.

So.

You can lay your winter coat right there (brrr!) and join me as I lay placemats on the table and fold this laundry I laid on the guest-room bed three days ago.

Did I just blow your mind?

It gets even sexier when we add participles into the mix. Not to mention conditionals and perfects and futures and ohmygodnowondernooneknowswhatherightwordis!

So rather than alienate you completely, I’ll close with a few more of the most common conjugations. Then you can send me specific questions and/or death threats via email, Facebook or twitter.

——-

To lay (as in to place or set):

Today I lay, you lay, he/she/it/lays, they/we lay our heads on his chest. (Whose chest? Let’s say Ryan Gosling’s.)

Yesterday, I laid, you laid, he/she/it/they/we laid our heads on his chest. (Because why not yesterday, too?)

Tomorrow, I will lay, you will lay, he/she/it/they/we will lay our heads on his chest. (When is a bad time, really?)

The key is the direct object being laid, or placed. And the object is our heads. And the heads are lucky.

——-

To lie (as in recline):

We addressed present and past already so let’s skip to the future.

I will lie down on the bed. You will lie, he/she/it will lie down. We all will lie down. Why? Because we’re exhausted by this post.

I/you/he/she/it we are lying down. I/you/he/she/it were lying down. Still with me, yes? Also still exhausted.

Now it gets tricky:

I have lain in the sun for two hours, so I am burned. By noon tomorrow, you still will have lain in the sun less than the cast of Jersey Shore.  But he/she/it/they have lain together so many times on that show no one remembers who’s gotten laid by whom.

I know. Completely crazy, right? I mean the verbs. Not Jersey Shore. They’re awesome. Obviously.

So. Do you all hate me sufficiently yet?

Good. Now let’s talk Moby Dick…

Today call me tamed

Today call me tamed, for at least a little while; which is not to say my life’s what you’d call calm. Not exactly.  But I have been lately striving to balance all there is to accomplish within these too-brief waking hours. And I dare say, I’ve made progress. Or regressed, as it were.

Surely I could spend every minute writing posts or revising novels, but I’d still find more words to be worked at the end of each day. If I set about only reading and commenting on other blogs, new posts would appear before I finished those awaiting my attention. And were I to devote myself strictly to being the consummate wife, mother, homemaker? I’d never surface for air.

(Also, please don’t call me Shirley.)*

In truth, it’s unrealistic to choose a single path and seek perfection. We’re family members and friends; co-workers and partners; inside and out of our homes, we trudge through the mundane in order to free ourselves for the sublime.

Balancing pieces of ourselves, we weigh priorities and shuffle to-do lists addressing each responsibility as it becomes eminent.

(Except maybe the laundry. As it turns out, laundry can wait.)

And while stumbling through this life hoping for success and shaking off failure, I occasionally meet someone who makes me smile and nod and think. A person who forces me to laugh out loud (but never LOL) and who tugs at my heartstrings (or in this case, my ovaries).

Yes, KLZ of Taming Insanity has a two-year-old and a newborn so adorable I’d gladly trade kids. (Jack and Karly, if you’re reading this? I’m joking. I wouldn’t be glad. Mostly.)

KLZ was among the first to offer support and advice when I was flailing around blog-land and Twitter;  and I admire her authenticity, her humor, her strength. At this moment, besides juggling Taming Insanity, Eli Rose, Twitter and Facebook, she’s welcoming a new baby, a new home, a new life.

Therefore, it’s my honor to lighten her load with a guest post today. Click here to read my take on the wonderful world of blog comments. And don’t be afraid to LOL. Just be sure to spell the words out, or I’ll assume you mean Lots of love.**

*That was for you, Dad.

**That was for you, Linda.

And to everyone else: Let’s all regress together.

Today call me inspired

Today call me inspired and I hereby deem the time is ripe to simplify, simplify, simplify!! (But can we agree this philosophy does not apply to punctuation?) I’ve long been tempted to travel down Thoreau’s spare path; then I remember Walden Pond probably requires a lot of sweeping. Plus it may be difficult to get pizza delivered to the waterfront promptly.

Nevertheless. I’ve decided to overlook such negatives and also the fact that HDT left stiff (ish) transcendentalist boots to fill. (Gardening and Civil Disobedience? Let a girl catch up!!)   I shall henceforth trim the fat around here (figuratively, of course. I like a well-marbled steak) and to that end let’s examine the remaining aspects of my life where I hoard excess.

….Children: I’m not raising kids, I’m shaping future contributors to society; creating happy, healthy, generous teenagers who appreciate Modern Family, recite state capitals in alphabetical order and place dirty socks directly into the hamper!! So in the interest of simplification, I’ll ignore their laundry-related shortcomings. Because if Phil Dunphy can pare life down to six keys, so shall we.

….Marriage: Who am I kidding? After seventeen years, we’re already simple. Bill likes chipotle flakes, Chardonnay, jigsaw puzzles and me. I like string cheese, Cabernet, HGTV and him. I think he’d agree there’s nothing much we need to cut. (Except maybe the puzzles. They really clutter up a counter.)

….Friends: Old friends and new, Facebook friends and twitter; blog friends, friends who text and friends who (whywhywhy) repeatedly try to connect by telephone. But y’all? I can’t quit you. So I just won’t answer your calls. Sorry, ladies. Simplicity’s taken me from Luke Warm to Ice Cold, yo. (And also made me too fond of parentheses!!)

….Writing: I revise the old and compose the new; help others edit manuscripts while dissecting my own. I work my blog and guest posts, spewing words across the internets. But anon, I can’t abide stopping the madness. So let us dwell in the land of lesssweeping and morepizzadelivery. (Also, anon cancels out the yo. Am I correct?)

To recap: I’m eliminating clean socks, jigsaw puzzles, phone calls, housekeeping and cooking. (Sorry, well-marbled steak. Ice Cold!!) But I’ll be one step closer to the uncluttered heart of my inspiration.

I’m speaking of a certain 93-year-old who knows what matters and keeps life simple. He refuses to stop learning and remains curious about the world. He’s open-minded and embraces differences; never sidesteps an opportunity to grow or try something new.  He’s a man who built a house with his father but who also learned to email and Google before I did.

He loves his wife, his dog, his family and every day wakes up grateful for his freedoms and humble about his gifts. His politics and religion embrace the Golden Rule and he can rock a joke, spin a yarn and drive a golf-car like a pro.

This man spent last Sunday with all four of his great-grandchildren who are blessed to enjoy their singularly wonderful patriarch.  When he turned ninety, these same kids conducted an interview about his life from 1919 through the new millenium. Each of them questioned him about being an immigrant, about watching history evolve beyond imagination, about becoming a journeyman of this earth. We recorded the session and hope to recreate it at his centennial celebration.

Until then, I’ll pause each January 13th to thank Knute Anderson: For his unfailing support and his lessons in joy; for teaching me to whistle and reading me Heidi; for inspiring me to simplify, simplify, simplfy!!

Henry David Thoreau’s got nothing on you,  Grandpa. Except for maybe a prison rap.

So happy birthday, GGpa. Now and always.

And text me when you finally get your smart phone, yo.

Grandpa steals a bite of Grandma’s birthday sundae. Because when you’re 92 and cute you deserve hot fudge, too.

Fact: All Creatures Great and Small love Knute.

Grandpa and the ladies: My lovely grandmother, Renis; me (bending awkwardly); and my sister, Nancy. She got those legs from Knute. Grrr.

P.S. And this is important: The K is not silent. Because when you’re 93 and cute, you deserve to have every letter in your name pronounced.

(!!)

Today call me mediocre

Today call me mediocre, a well-established fact. But you may not know this label takes some effort.

In truth, it’s really difficult to let a day that started out so promising slip below the bell curve as quickly as I did. This time I succeeded in under fifteen minutes. Or maybe sixteen, I can’t count.

I’m getting a head cold and we’re out of NyQuil. Naturally.

Anyway, I’d started out productive – writing, editing and revising; taking down Christmas decorations (fa la la la la). I juggled laundry and dishes and bills; ensured there were enough leftovers to heat for dinner so I wouldn’t have to cook later on. I was organized and prepared. You may have heard me roar.

How wonderful to be so very competent, no?

After picking the kids up from school, I assessed their homework load and was pleased to discover it light. At the same time, I received a text from my husband saying he’d be home late. Like really late. Like you’re on your own tonight late.

No problem, I thought, my confidence surging. I’ve got this.

I had it. I did.

Good thing, because my dear friend Diane was having surgery the next day (or today or maybe yesterday depending on when you read this) and I (a giver) had invited her over for some pre-op support and perhaps a glass of wine to calm her nerves. (Side note: Givers like wine, too.)

So at 5:00 PM, I checked email to be sure all my ducks were in a row. But apparently a few crappy ducklings had waddled from the pond and were on their way to being feathered roadkill.

First, the good news: I received the thrilling message that a post I’d submitted to the fabulous humor site Aiming Low was going to be published. Hooray!

In less than an hour. Wait, what?

And I should whip up a post here sending my readers there. Like soon.

No problem, Julie. You’ve got this. You do.

Except my son decided it was the perfect time to completely redo his 8th grade science fair proposal. From scratch. And he needed my help. Like soon.

Then my daughter said, “Huh. I forgot. I have a social studies report due. Like tomorrow.”

At this point my eyes started to tear up, which was helpful in avoiding the gaze of my dogs who were sidling up to me drooling for dinner.

Projects. Proposals. Posts. Puppies.

Doorbell.

Diane, of course. Ready for wine.

As she stepped through the door I calmed her nerves as follows:

Holy Crappy Ducklings (or equivalent)! Bill’s working late! Jack’s science fair project sucks! Karly’s failing social studies! And I have to whip up a post about Aiming Low!

Diane followed me through the kitchen as I tried not to hyperventilate.

“Relax,” she said. “You’ve got your post right here.”

And she’s right.

I had it. I did.

—–

So please head to Aiming Low. Like soon. And if you leave a comment, I’ll give you tickets to Jack’s science fair.

Or not.

Today call me home

Today call me home, as in “There’s no place like.” Except Judy Garland was sixteen when she filmed The Wizard of Oz. And at 43, I remain completely creeped out by flying monkeys so I’m in awe that a young Judy could utter crap like “We’re not in Kansas anymore” probably multiple times from various camera angles with only the tiniest tremble of her lip. Which I know is off topic, but still.

It’s good to be back from over the rainbow. Or down from those chimney tops. With or without a pair of ruby slippers. (For the record, I’m without since I left mine somewhere. Naturally.)

And although I fear hot-air balloons even more than flying monkeys, my life’s motto might as well be “Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain.” Except instead of “man” we could substitute any number of conflicts I tend to ignore while en route to the Emerald City.

Because Dorothy’s hair sure looked pretty after those Oz-zy stylists worked her over. And those luscious curls (in place of girlish braids) must have been decent compensation for the disillusionment she felt upon discovering the Wizard was an aged bald man and the Tin Man already felt love and the Scarecrow came with smarts and the Lion…well, the lion wiped his nose with his own tail so let’s leave him out of this, shall we?

Where was I?

Ah yes. Home. At By Any Other Name. Which may shock those of you who witnessed the spread of my guest-posting net across the interwebs last year. In fact, in 2011, I “traveled” approximately nineteen times. And since I’ve written only 82 posts in my blogging career (Hooray, underachievement!) I’ve had roughly 23 percent of my words published elsewhere.

Yes. I consulted a calculator. Because this trembly-lipped sixteen-year-old paid no attention to that math teacher behind the desk.

So now, I’m Glinda the Good Witch floating around Blogtown in a magic bubble I pop wherever I’m invited. Except Glinda probably took a lot of showers and owned at least one pink ballgown and the same cannot be said for me. Sartorially, I trend toward Wicked Witch for sure. And also in my aversion to water. Maybe.

Anyway. My desire to help other bloggers and my inability to say “no” (except twice and you know who you are and I’m sorry it was unavoidable because of timing and pleasedonthateme) has rendered me the girl most likely to be written about on the inside of a bathroom stall. Finally! I mean, “Oh, no! A loose reputation!”

So today I am

A. Thanking my readers who traveled where bluebirds fly alongside me (especially in light of my irregular bathing).

B. Advising those of you who are new here about where else you might find my posts.

C. Expressing gratitude to my hosts. You shared your brains, your heart, your courage. And I loved your homes. For real.

For me, the best part about being a guest (besides free snacks) is trying on different writing styles (and maybe your bathrobes). I got to step outside my “Today call me____” theme once or twice. Or nineteen times. Or 23 percent. Or shutupIhatemath.

So. Here are the links to my guest posts in order of their appearance:

Marvi Marti

Mommypants

In These Small Moments

Taming Insanity

Kludgy Mom

Diary of a Mad Woman

Diary of a Mad Woman

Lessons from Teachers and Twits

What She Said

Things I Can’t Say

The Suniverse

Erin L Margolin

Sellabit Mum

Sluiter Nation

Mommy Shorts

The Flying Chalupa

Mommypants

Momma Be Thy Name

Dances with Chaos

I’m humbled by this list. Truly. But as I enjoyed everyone’s 2011 recaps, I realized some of my best work lives elsewhere. So please consider visiting the posts you may have missed while checking out these most-spectacular blogs.

And to my beautiful hosts: I’m honored you let me burst my bubble at your place. You can borrow my ruby slippers any time. Just as soon as I can find them. And as long as you agree to pay no attention to that woman behind the curtain.

At least until she’s finished up her shower.

Today call me present