It’s nearly our baby’s 12th weekaversary, and I’m back on the blog. I’d have been here earlier, but I’m too lazy to type one-handed, and since I have our little one in my other hand most of the time (when I’m not at work, that is) that’s my only option these days. And so in lieu of my own hobbies, I’ve been catering to The Schnooks’s. She’s developed an extensive collection in her three months outside the womb, including:

1) Filthifying fresh diapers

2) Conversing with her mobile

3) Using the promise of smiles to coerce adults into making silly faces and ridiculous sound effects

4) Ignoring the cats

5) Getting kicky to music

6) Ogling books^[1]

7) Eating^[2]

Mainly, though, we are her hobby. Whatever we do, she must do it with us, and she must have our undivided attention the entire time. And so we read her piles of silly books full of rhymes and colorful pictures. And we sing rock songs, unplugged and with questionable skill (but plenty of enthusiasm). And, of course, there’s the usual daily maintenance.

But those details can wait. First, a FAQ. After all, I had one when announcing her impending birth, so why not a reprise?

1) You couldn’t possibly have named her The Schnooks, right? Right.

2) You do know that schnooks is unflattering – ‘pitiable and gullible little simpleton’, I believe it means? *Sigh* Yes. Now we know. But we didn’t have a clue when hubby made up the nickname^[3] two days after her birth. We just thought it was a miniature version of schnookums. Which actually isn’t a word, according to my spell check.

3) Stats, please! Here goes: 7 pounds, 8.5 ounces at birth. 20 inches long. 15 hours of labor. Loads of brown hair that defies gravity without the help of gel. And most definitely a girl. At three months she’s in the 50th percentile for weight, 75th for length, 90th for head size, and a whopping 99th for hair circumference. If they measured hair circumference.

4) How’s she sleeping? Maybe I should have put this one first since that seems to be everyone’s number one question these days. The truth is, I’m scared to say, since I don’t want to jinx things. The last time I posted a bragatory status update on Facebook she didn’t sleep for two nights. So I’ll just say…plenty. She’s sleeping plenty. Thank you so much to the gods in charge of sleep cycles, firm mattresses, and alarm clocks, amen.

5) If she’s keeping you so busy, how are you able to blog right now? It’s my new strategy: I wrote most of this long-hand with my writing group, and am pushing my WPM skills to the limit entering this while she takes her (very short^[4]) morning nap.

Anything else?

1. yay! [↩]
2. sumo wrestlers would envy her physique [↩]
3. or so we thought… [↩]
4. usually half an hour if we’re lucky. In fact – no kidding – she slept for 33 minutes and is now stretching and eating her hands and starting at me expectantly. Which means that I’m back on baby duty. Why, yes, it is before 9:00 on a Saturday morning and we’ve already been awake long enough for her to play, then get tired, then take her first nap. Before The Schnooks I rarely saw the world beyond my eyelids by this time of day. [↩]

Kristina! Her comment on Marilyn Brant’s hilarious guest post was selected by Random.org as the lucky winner, which means Kristina will receive the signed copy of Marilyn’s wonderful new book According to Jane.

Didn’t win but still want to pick up a copy for yourself, or maybe as a holiday gift for someone special? Cruise on over to Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble, or your local independent bookseller. And while you’re waiting for it to arrive, don’t forget to check out Marilyn’s blog for updates and more chatty, fun posts!

Please welcome guest blogger Marilyn Brant, who is not only a lovely friend and avid blogger, but also author of the hilarious, romantic, and moving new book According to Jane. The story of a young woman who receives advice – some good and some questionable – from the spirit of Jane Austen, According to Jane won the Golden Heart, the top award for unpublished romance novels, quickly setting Marilyn – and her book – on the path to publication.

I loved According to Jane when I read it and can easily give it my recommendation. Read on to see how you can win a signed copy of your own! But first, Marilyn has a few things to say…

Over the past few months, Caryn and I had a running email conversation that went something like this:

July

Caryn: “Hey, when According to Jane comes out, how about doing a guest blog on my site? Maybe about what it’s like to be a debut author? Something fun like that?”

Me: “Oh, sure. Sounds great! Just let me know a good time. We can chat about it some more after I get back from the RWA conference. Did you know I have to bring bookmarks and postcards and all sorts of stuff this time? Even ARCs. Oh, there are gonna be a few extra meetings this year, too.”

Caryn: “Really? Like what?”

Me: “A bookseller/librarian gathering, a Book 3 planning session with my agent, a few publisher-hosted events. I get to meet my publicists…”

Caryn: “You get to meet your publicists? In person?”

Me: (nodding) “Kinda cool, eh? My publisher takes that whole marketing and selling thing pretty seriously.”

August

Caryn: “How’s it going — busy? Still want to blog next month?”

Me: “Yeah — to both questions. It’s weird, though, you know? There’s a LOT to do before a book comes out. I’d almost go so far as to say it’s an ENDLESS stream of work… Having a release date looming at the end of September is making my life surprisingly stressful. I’m not really sleeping.”

Caryn: “That’s not good.”

Me: “No. Um, not to change the subject abruptly or anything, but do you have any idea how to make a magazine-quality PDF for an advertisement that’s going to run in a national print publication with a readership of over 10K?”

Caryn: (squinting at her computer) “What?”

Me: “That’s okay. That’s okay. Never mind…” (pause) “How about newsletters? What have you heard about the pros and cons of email marketing?”

Early September

Caryn: “So, did you want to set a date for your blog visit now?”

Me: (fighting to breathe from underneath a suffocating stack of advanced reading copies for reviewers, unmailed prizes to contest winners, thank-you cards, 45 single-spaced pages of interview questions, promo details and Book 2 revision notes) “Huh?”

Mid-September

Caryn: “You okay? Maybe it’d be better to have you guest blog later — you know, AFTER the release. When things calm down a bit for you.”

Me: “OMG, OMG. They’re putting my BOOK on the SHELVES. In STORES!! And LOOK! Amazon reviewers!!” (pointing at the screen in a state of near-delirium) “They RATED it. With STARS! I mean, I knew they did that, but did you see what that one person from Seattle said about my main character?! It was NOT nice! But then this guy from Boston wrote in, and he said…” (wandering off to click obsessively at the different pages showing the Amazon rankings and review comments for the week of September 29, 2009)

Caryn: “Marilyn? Hello? Helllooooo??! You still there??”

Early October

Me: (in a stream-of-conscious monologue to anyone who stood still long enough to listen) “…and I have to do a few book signings THIS WEEK!! And a library presentation! And did you know how popular book clubs are?! I’ve been invited to SEVEN of them already! Why do people keep asking me if I’m okay? I’m FINE…really, totally fine…hey, are those chocolate-covered espresso beans? Could I have, maybe, a handful of those NOW? Also, who knows how to find out first-week sales figures? Someone here has to know that, right? Right?!”

Caryn: (muttering to herself) “I’m not even gonna try to email her…”

Late October

Me: “Oh, whoa. When did fall start?” (glancing around with the surprise of a revived coma patient) “That’s strange.”

Caryn: “So, you seem a bit calmer now with the release behind you. What’s it like being a debut author with your book out and everything?”

Me: “Hmm.” (trying to think of an apt comparison, given my rather fuzzy recollections of the past 4 months) “Well, even though I read Pride & Prejudice & Zombies, I’m hardly an expert on the living dead…but, given that it’s Halloween week and all, this might be the best way to explain it: You know how zombies are portrayed as sort of alive in that they’re wandering around, mindlessly doing lots of unnatural things but, mostly, they’re in this trance-like state of un-restfulness and their people skills really suck?”

Caryn: (typing back worriedly) “Yeah?”

Me: “Well, I think there may be few parallels…”

Hope you all have a Happy Halloween, Everyone! To Caryn and to those wonderful friends who put up with my crazy pre-pub zombieness this summer and fall, thank you!

Love Marilyn’s writing as much as I do? Leave a comment below to enter to win a signed copy of According to Jane. One winner will be randomly selected from all commenters on the evening of Sunday, November 1st. Can’t wait for Sunday, or maybe you want to get an early start on holiday shopping? Pick up a copy today!

When I was six, I thought grownuppery would happen at nine. At nine, I thought thirteen was the age of adulthood. At thirteen, I knew I was at the pinnacle of wisdom and maturity – if only my teachers and parents would acknowledge that I was their equal. Once I got over that assumption, I always aimed a few years ahead for the exact moment when I would become an adult, or at least behave like one. Now, at 33 and expecting a baby of my own, I pretty much feel like a kid most of the time. Except for one thing: I now read the directions that come with my toys. Which is how I found the following misdirections this morning in the packaging for my camera’s battery charger. This multi-folded bit of paper assures me that I am not yet an adult – after all, adults should be able to process even complex directions such as this:

When the charging is complete, the LED light will turn orange. As(sic) this point, the battery can be removed for use. It is recommended, however, that you leave the battery connected to the charger for another 30 minutes to ensure a full, or “topped off”, charge. It is best to remove the battery after charging but it is ok to leave the batery(sic) in the charger for a short time because the micro processor controller will reduce voltage loss.

Um, wha–? Take the “batery” out when? After the light turns orange, or a half hour after that, or after it’s finished charging, which is when, exactly? And if it’s supposed to come out a while after the light turns orange and there’s no buzzer or beep or bloop to tell me when that happens, how do I know? Do I time it? Do I watch the battery charge? That’s guaranteed to be a fun time.

And that is why I read the directions: They make me feel young. And they amuse me severely.

Frequently Asked Questions:

1) How are you feeling? Queasy and tired, thanks. And you?

2) How far along are you? 18 weeks. And, yes, still regularly visited by the quease. The second trimester is a myth. So is the “morning” in morning sickness. Just so you know. Oh, and I have to pee. Again.

3) When are you due? February 11 – give or take a few days. Yes, a Valentine’s baby. No, Cupid and Valentine are not naming options.

4) Okay, so are there any names that you do want to use? Yes.

5) Well, what are they? A surprise. They are a surprise. They are also subject to change. We’ll announce in February.

6) Girl or boy? Yes, we hope so. Oh, you mean, which one? We’ll know in a few weeks, but we have some preliminary results. We’re just waiting for backup to know for certain. Don’t want to announce one and have it turn out to be the other after all.

7) So you’re going to find out? Yup. That’s the plan. I never was big on surprises.

8) Will you tell us? If you ask nicely. I’ll probably announce it on Twitter and Facebook first.

9) Is this your first? Yes. Otherwise you’d probably have seen me mention other children a time or two.

10) So is this why you haven’t written in a while? Or, visited my blog? (Not to sound pouty, but… Yeah, among other things. Like the flu (which is no fun without Dayquil, let me tell you). And multiple internet outages (still). And a very busy time at work.

Other than the occasional college hand-me-down, garage sale find, or unnecessary kitchen appliance, my main contribution to our household’s decorating scheme comes in book form. Hardcover, paperback, electronic – if you can read it, I’ve probably owned a copy. Sometimes two or three due to forgetfulness and a variety of gift-giving occasions.

I could blame my long-ago English major for the glut, but my Intro to Shakespeare and Literature of the Romantic Era classes are only partly responsible for the jaw-dropping array of books that took over our back bedroom almost the moment we moved into this house. Piles upon piles soon spilled over the floor, most scattered and tumbled on a search for an unread volume or a beloved favorite. I could have hidden bodies under my Jane Austen collection alone, and no one would know. Not even the most dedicated English lit major could have read all these in four years, plus done all the requisite essays, coffee shop stops and poetry readings, and no sane professor would have required it.

No, a closer diagnosis of the problem actually comes down to one word: Obsession. Since I am a book collector with a typical collector’s zeal for accumulation and a horror of thinning the masses, my toppled stacks have only grown larger and more intimidating over the years. I suspect they brought others into the fold the way all the best cult members do, and naturally some of the more prolific ones bred, so there were soon tiny Little Golden Books running around everywhere, flashing their yellow foil spines and colorful covers. At least the Poky Little Puppy appeared to be house-trained or we’d really have had a mess.

And so over the course of the last several weeks I sorted and stacked and piled and boxed, employing a ruthlessness the strictest anti-clutter guru would applaud. Soon only my unread books and favorite re-reads remained, fluffing out a goodly number of shelves in place of the photos and knickknacks that used to occupy those slots. The second-tier books – the ones I liked but see no need to re-read – I farmed out to friends.

In the end, I dumped the final rejects, those even my friends wouldn’t take, into several crates bound for the library. This gave me a little twinge since it’s a bit of a moral dilemma. My soul could be in peril if I foist off my least favorite tomes on these unsuspecting librarians and their patrons. But then, someone must have seen something in them, or they wouldn’t have been printed in the first place. That’s what I tell myself anytime I encounter a book that doesn’t lift my balloon, at least: Someone must have thought it was good.

The upshot is that we’ve reclaimed a room. I also have a tidy little tax refund for a charitable contribution plus an entire set of shelves dedicated to unread wonders, making new book selection easy. Now the hard part: only buying the essentials until I’ve pared away the unreads. Wish me luck and a great deal of fortitude on that one. I’m going to need it.

I am not a girly-girl. I’ve never treated myself to a manicure, I have less interest in shoes than most men, and my blow dryer last saw action several months ago when I removed one those flashy stickers some companies like to plaster all over their products. And yet.

And yet I am all about rainbows and butterflies and chirping birds and, yes, flowers. Not on t-shirts or binders or anything plastic and decorative, you understand. Just in reality, in this dimension.

Which is why I’m loving this summer so very much. Flowers are everywhere, blatantly growing and spreading and blooming. Three volunteer rosebushes sprouted in my vegetable garden, globe mallows are sweeping up and down the hillsides, and wild irises are grinning like lunatics in the mountain sunshine. It’s an obscene rainbow of blossoms carpeting everything outside of town except the rocks and asphalt. It’s like the Disney Channel, except no princesses.

What’s great about flowers, beyond the fact that they are nice-looking and they usually smell good and they stand still when I try to take pictures of them, is that they make no pretense whatsoever. They are all about the pollination, their petals and perfumes and colors brashly yelling, “Come and get it!” to any passing insects. It’s hard not to admire such honesty, especially when packaged so prettily.

Alas (if one can use such a word in 2009) this year the ridiculous abundance that overtook the local flowership completely skipped every fruit tree I know and love. Our neighbor’s apricot, which hangs halfway into our backyard, always produces enough to make any self-respecting fruit-lover sick to her stomach. This year, though? Only leaves. The plum tree? Nothing. Peaches? Not a one.

Only the Bing cherry in our front yard deigned to bring forth anything remotely edible – lots and lots of gorgeous cherries, swinging merrily in the early summer breeze. No doubt they were delicious, too. I wouldn’t actually know, you see, since the birds cleaned off the branches exactly one day before I planned my harvest. They did look yummy, though, plump and juicy and deep, sweet red.

Hrm. Now that I think about it, I take back what I said above about liking birds. Greedy little suckers. Flowers, though. Those I still adore. And rainbows and butterflies, of course. And once our trees start making fruit the way God and the garden center that sold them intended, I’m sure I’ll start liking them again, too. Check back next July, and I’ll let you know.

Obligatory flower photo. This one’s in our front yard.

I’m seeing a new dentist. I suppose that makes it sound like we’re dating, but it’s actually more serious than that – This guy, after all, has greater responsibilities than selecting a restaurant and picking up the check.^[1] In short, his duty is to make sure I keep my teeth as long as possible.^[2]

Until last Monday it had been, oh, a while since I last seated myself in a pleather dental chair. But just over a week ago I took a loaded clipboard and a cheap black pen from a friendly receptionist, plopped down in an empty waiting room, and began to fill in approximately three thousand blanks while waiting for my name to be called. Turns out the paperwork required for a professional floss job is more invasive than a dating service questionnaire. They requested info on everything but my astrological sign^[3] and whether or not I want children someday^[4]. Even my marital status and social security number were up for discussion.

Of course, it would have gone a lot faster if a) they’d shown a little restraint in the inquisition department, b) I wrote as speedily – and as legibly – as I type, c) I could have stilled the jittery knee on which I’d balanced the clipboard and d) my own list of dental-related questions would have shut up as requested. How often do you have to floss in order to say you do it regularly? I found myself wondering. Is monthly enough? Will weekly work? And What are the moral implications of lying to my dentist about the last time I had my teeth professionally cleaned? Do you go to hell for that, or is it an understandable white lie? Do all your teeth fall out in retribution? And, finally, the tiny, niggling little If I lie, will they find out and dump me?

Still wondering if I’d gotten all the answers right, I handed the clipboard back and then dug through my bag for Meg Cabot’s latest, Being Nikki – a fun, but not particularly deep or intricate sequel that’s perfect for waiting room reading. And then they called my name. Swallowing hard, I gathered my stuff and followed the hygienist into the back.

With all the nervousness and questions, it’s no wonder the visit itself was pleasantly anticlimactic: Two hours of scraping and polishing and rinsing and digging and, yes, pain. Most importantly, though: No cavities. My teeth felt loose and puffy afterward, and encased by the same tingling ache I always experienced for days after I skipped my eighth grade history class to have my braces tightened.

I wrapped up the appointment by solemnly swearing to become better acquainted with dental floss, then gathered my stuff and beat it to the receptionist’s desk, where I set up my next appointment. Six months and counting.

Turned out I wasn’t done, though. As I swished through the waiting room and toward the door, still running my tongue over my newly sparkling teeth, one of the hygienists called me back to personally tell me goodbye and invite me to return, saying that I was fun and a pleasure to work with. I felt absurdly pleased, like a kid who wins high marks for cooperation on her third grade report card.^[5] Though I can’t say I enjoyed the visit myself, I can’t complain – I do still have all my teeth, after all, and that is the goal.

1. Do men even do that anymore? [↩]
2. Bonus points for accomplishing the goal with a minimum of pain. [↩]
3. Gemini [↩]
4. Yes [↩]
5. True story. [↩]

I bought a tub of cottage cheese the other day, which means my weight loss plan finally has a chance of working. I never would have made the connection, except the other night hubby and I were in a restaurant and, while I was trying to decide which delectably greasy item to order, guilt nudged me toward the “On the Lite Side”(sic) portion of the menu. You know, all that heart-healthy, tasteless crap they dish up just so they can say they cater to everyone. It was there that I saw the key to effortless weight loss. It’s a trick that all restaurants seem to know, yet women’s magazines still have not picked up on: eat cottage cheese. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, according to menus across the country, one scoop of cottage cheese is all you need in order to stay healthy and lose weight, no matter what accompanies those blessed curds. And the good news is, all restaurant diet plates come with it, so you’ll never be without this magic gut-shrinking agent. And to think, you’ve been lied to all this time: Dieting is not about the portion size, the fat content, or even those now-meaningless calories (or kilocalories for those sticklers out there).

Skeptical? Itching for more specific proof than “every restaurant’s doing it”? Fine, then. Just witness this listing under the diet section of the restaurant menu mentioned above: ½ lb. ground top sirloin with a side of peaches and cottage cheese. And, no, I swear to you I’m not making this up. In fact, I just called the restaurant to verify, in case it was actually supposed to read “Mixed salad greens tossed in a light vinaigrette dressing, accompanied by a side of steamed broccoli and a dish of low fat cottage cheese”.

Since all evidence points to syrupy canned peaches, and we all know a whopping ½ lb. serving of beef doesn’t fit into traditional heart-healthy parameters, it must be the cottage cheese that makes this dinner choice “lite”. Which is the reason I had no worries about the contents of my plate at a family barbeque I attended on Saturday. All I had to do was add a spoonful of the miraculous side dish, and I could eat whatever I wanted. In fact, when I weighed myself that night, I had actually lost weight. It’s a miracle.

My kind of diet: Cheeseburger, baked beans, brownie and, of course, cottage cheese (which makes it all good for me).

“There’s a rattlesnake up ahead,” the man said, eying the camera I’d slung around my neck before I set off on my hike. “Just thought you’d want to know.”

“Really?” Wow. That hadn’t taken long. I’d been in Tucson about four hours, and already people were warning me about snakes. I adjusted the brim of my baseball cap so it blocked the afternoon sun, then tugged one of the straps of my backpack, sliding it off my shoulder. “I’d better change lenses, then. Where is it?”

The man’s wife grinned in understanding, her eyes mirroring the enthusiasm that must have been in my own, while the guy half-turned away from me and gestured up the narrow gravel path. “Up there about a hundred feet. On the left.”

I thanked them and nodded goodbye as they passed, then dug my telephoto out of my day pack, which was now hanging from the crook of my arm. I pushed my discarded lens into a thick sock to protect it, then gently rolled it into the bag.

Camera clutched in my hands tourist-style, I crept along the trail, alert for any movement, heart hammering in a rhythm that was half nervousness, half excitement. I passed several statuesque saguaro, then a cactus flower blooming a cheerful hot pink in the April sunshine, and made a mental note of both. I’d come back after I found the snake.

Only, there was no snake. I went my hundred feet, more, and…nothing. Disappointed at missing such an opportunity, I changed to my macro lens (for closeups) and strode back to the flower I’d seen. At least it had stayed put for me, posing prettily all the while.

Once on the trail again, I paused often for pictures. One such stop required a few illicit steps off the path, but the flowers were worth it. And just ten to fifteen feet further were more, clusters of huge lavender thistles and delicate cactus blossoms.

Already planning how best to photograph the flowers, I picked my way through the shrubs and rocks, then stopped short — three steps from a Western diamondback. It was coiled behind a paddle cactus, its tail hidden and silenced, its slitted eyes watching me warily.

Adrenaline washed through my paralyzed body in a cold tide. A cacophony of unprintable words screamed in my mind. Slowly, steadily, keeping one eye on the snake, I backed up, foot by careful foot.

Around a bend and out of sight I slid my pack off my shoulders, pulled it open with trembling fingers, and located my telephoto lens.

Pit viper or not, that snake was mine.

Excitement, fear, adrenaline — something had my hands quaking so violently I knew I’d never get a clear shot without help, so I yanked my tripod out next, opened it at top speed, and fastened my camera into place. I lowered the pack to the ground and swiveled back toward the bushes where the snake hid, then slunk forward, hoping that the rattler hadn’t fled, that I was not too late.

It hadn’t, and I wasn’t.

Western Diamondback Rattlesnake
Click here or on picture for larger image.