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.

For the past several years I have volunteered at the local high school, advising a number of very talented students in the creative writing club. This year I mentioned NaNoWriMo to several of them. Word spread, and now we have a large group of students who are all determined to write an entire novel this month. Only problem? Some of them had no idea where to start. Since I’ve dealt with this same issue, I made up the following list for them. Since many of you write — books, term papers, blog entries, thank-you notes — I figured I’d share the list with you as well. Have favorite ways to jump start your writing? Please share!

1. Go back to when everything last worked and to see if you went off-track.
2. Skip ahead to what you do know and write that. Sometimes you’ll find that the scene you agonized over really doesn’t need to be there, or in the meantime you – or your subconscious – could think of a good way to fix it.
3. Think of ways to make your characters’ lives worse, then implement them. It’s hard to have a book if you don’t have conflict.
4. Make a list of all the scenes that have to happen in your book. Good. Now you know where you’re going, and you have a goal. Start figuring out how to get from your current scene to the next one.
5. Read what you’ve already written to get back into the groove. Danger: Don’t let this lead you to edit too much; it’s possible to spend all your time polishing the first three chapters and never get anything else written. You’ll have a great beginning, but you won’t have a book.
6. Write with someone else. This can often be inspiring; when others around you are being creative and productive, it’s hard to keep your own pen off the page.
7. Writer’s block is often caused by fear. It may be fear of writing something imperfect, fear of what others will think, fear of rejection, or even fear of success. What are you afraid of? Sometimes just knowing will help you conquer it.
8. Remind yourself that this is only a first draft. Most books go through many, many revisions, so if it’s not perfect the first time around that’s normal. You don’t have to show anyone until you’re ready.
9. Perhaps you’ve lost sight of your characters’ goals, motivations, and conflicts. What would your character would do next in order to reach his/her goal? Now prevent him/her from it.
10. Watch a movie or read a book for inspiration. Sometimes the creative well just plain runs dry.
11. Brainstorm with someone.
12. Or, the reverse could be an issue: Perhaps you’ve talked about your book too much and now it doesn’t seem fresh or fun anymore. If that’s the case, try going in a new direction to freshen it up a bit, and keep it all to yourself for now.
13. 90% of all people who begin a novel never finish it. 85% of all those who began NaNoWriMo last year never finished. Beat the odds no matter what, even if means writing utter crap. You can always revise later.
14. Reexamine why you’re doing this in the first place. Write your motivation(s) on a sticky note and post it next to your monitor.
15. Sometimes having too many options can cause a block. For example, should the character be an architect or a plumber? Should his/her parents be divorced or still together? It’s difficult, but make a choice and stick with it. If you still can’t decide, write each choice on a piece of paper, fold up the pieces, throw them in a hat or bowl and draw one.
16. Set a timer and tell yourself you’ll write for this amount of time, no matter what – but that you’re allowed to stop after that if you want to. Anyone can write for 15, 30, or 60 minutes if they put their minds to it. Take a break to eat or do something fun, then set that timer again.
17. Develop a writing routine – light a candle, write at the same time each day, choose a special writing chair, etc. Just going through those motions can tell your brain that it’s time to write.
18. Shake up your writing routine. Write at a different time or place.
19. Allow yourself some awful first sentences each time you begin a new writing session. After all, quite often the hardest part is just getting started. Once you’ve warmed up, it usually becomes much easier.
20. Next time you write, try stopping in the middle of a sentence, paragraph, or scene. This way you’ll know where to begin when you come back to it.
21. Write daily. Make it a habit. Often the longer you go between writing sessions, the harder it can be to get back into it, and the more time you’ll have to psych yourself out.
22. Tell everyone your goal so that you are held accountable. Then you have no choice but to get something down.
23. Start with success: Do something important but easy, such as finding a good last name for your character or doing some simple research. This gets you back into your story, and the success is often motivating.
24. Sometimes you just have to get yourself out of your own way. Take a shower, do the dishes, knit a scarf, take a long drive, play a computer game, hike, run, swim…Do something that keeps your hands and body occupied but your mind free. Then assign your brain the task of thinking about what to write next.
25. Disconnect your internet, so if you’re ever tempted to conduct another email check you have to get up and walk over to the modem to plug it back in. Quite often your willpower will return before you set aside your laptop or notebook.
26. Think of what you could be doing that you want to do even less – homework, cleaning house, writing that thank-you note to your Great Aunt Pearl, whatever.
27. Give yourself silly goals such as finding random words in the dictionary and having to use them, or starting the first sentence with the letter A, the next with B, the following with C, etc. The challenge can help get your mind off your fear and spark your creativity.
28. Open a new document or turn to a clean page in your notebook. Anything goes when you’re starting fresh. If you like what you come up with, you can always add it in later. Sounds silly, but it’s actually one of my favorite — and most effective — methods.
29. Type with your eyes closed. This can remove inhibitions.
30. Begin a free-write with, “I don’t know what to write,” and go from there, writing whatever comes to mind but slowly working your way into examining your book and then, perhaps, starting to write it again.
31. Interview your main character, or write a monologue from his/her P.O.V.
32. Keep a notebook by your bedside, in your car, in the bathroom – wherever you’re likely to get an idea. When one comes to you, take a moment to (safely!) write it down. Next time you’re stuck with your writing, look through your notebook for ideas.
33. Maybe you’ve gone the obvious route with your writing, and you’ve ended up boring yourself. Throw something big into the works to change things radically: someone new (dead or alive) turns up, your character finds out a devastating secret or is suddenly faced with what s/he most fears, the hero fails at an important task.
34. Make a list of 20 things that could happen next. Cross out the first 10-15 since those are often the more obvious choices, then consider implementing the last few.
35. Let your subconscious do the work. Long before you sit down to write, give yourself a problem that needs to be solved, anywhere from “What should I write next?” to “How should my protagonist react when s/he finds the dead body?” Think about it from time to time. By the time you write, a solution will often present itself with minimal effort.
36. Eat, go to the bathroom, and do any urgent business before writing. That way you have no reason to get up from the keyboard once you start. Just make sure you don’t put writing dead last, or you may never get to it.
37. Whatever you do, don’t delete! If you really don’t think it’s worthwhile, cut it from the manuscript and paste it in a new one so you can put it back in or use it in something else. Sometimes all you need is a little perspective, and that can take time and distance. If you’re stuck, go through your file of deleted scenes for inspiration.
38. What do you like about certain books/movies? How can you incorporate that into your own work in a creative way? What do you hate about particular books/movies? How can you write it better, and with your own creative twist?
39. Work on something else for a while. Ever have several books going at a time, reading whichever one interests you right then? The same can work with writing.
40. Remember that writing is hard. Just because it doesn’t always flow, it doesn’t mean you’re blocked. So realize that it might not be easy, and work through it. After all, things that are worth it rarely come easily.
41. Examine your attitude before you go into it. Are you expecting to have a fun, productive writing session, or are you expecting pain and blockage? Your brain often delivers what you expect.

It seems I am in A Phase. Over the weekend I waved a cheerful goodbye to two unfinished novels, then dropped them off my nightstand. The week before that, I got twenty-three pages into another before dumping it onto my library donations pile without so much as an apology. This morning I broke up with a fourth, a best-seller with reviews that swore there was no way I would not love this book. After forty-eight pages I gave up and searched my pile of unread books for yet another victim.

Most of the time I go through books the way I would eat chocolates if my hips allowed it. I finish one and delve immediately into the next, savoring the characters, the plot, the clever turns of phrase. Each time I exercise or clean house or push a squeaky-wheeled cart up and down the grocery store aisles, I plug into an audio book, letting stories wash over me. When hubs and I take our canvas chairs to a nearby overlook to watch the sun set over the desert, we often tote along something to read aloud to one another.

But I cannot, no matter how much I try, completely lose myself in reading while I am in the middle of revisions. Once I spend hours analyzing each sentence of my own work, the picky part of my brain is turned on. From then on, every bit of writing I encounter, whether it is mine or someone else’s, is routed through my editing filter.

That is happening now. The obligatory six weeks have passed between the draft I wrote this summer and the edits required to start submitting it. Now, after several days spent performing major surgery on my novel at every opportunity, my brain has once again turned into an Equal Opportunity Editor, and I’ve gone from eager-to-read to impossible-to-please. The quality of my reading does not matter. If I am spending hours each day examining my own writing, then by habit I will analyze every other sentence to waltz my way as well. Only blogs, it seems, are exempt, perhaps because the style is so different.

My inability to switch off the ruthless reviser inside me is exhausting and inevitable, and totally unfair to the author of whatever pleasure reading I attempt. Worse, my inability to relax with a good book feels unnatural and somehow very wrong. Reading, after all, is what led me into writing, and now writing is preventing me from enjoying reading.

I’ve gone through this before, and I know that it will end. Within days of finishing edits, I will be able to see an adverb without feeling the impulse to ink it out. I will once again have the patience to read backstory — it is, after all, sometimes necessary. I will not automatically pause after I read each line of dialogue, wondering if it should be reworded to make it sound more authentic. I will, in short, be able to lose myself in a book again, which is the best possible incentive for finishing revisions. I’m already saving several books I know I will love for after edits, as a reward.

The second best incentive, for the record, is getting to begin a new story. My next book has already begun to evolve in my mind, and I cannot think of it without a little zing of excitement. But first, revisions.

Last Sunday morning as my bare feet slapped across the scorching pavement between the ladies’ locker room and the edge of the community pool, I spotted just one empty lane. I moved toward it quickly, claiming it as mine, then slid into the chilly water, shivered in anticipation, and dunked my head. The moment I rose I wiped the water from my face, strapped on my goggles, and took off toward the deep end -– to be swamped within seconds by the swim-capped middle-aged women on either side of me as they splashed past in unison.

Their wake left me floundering in a choppy sea, and by the end of lap one I had small craft warnings going off in my brain. Seizing any excuse for a break, I slogged  back to the shallows and grabbed my water bottle, then watched in dread as my neighbors, clearly friends who had decided to work out together, executed time trials in tandem, arms and legs cutting through the water with perfect precision, churning up the water around them.

Drink over, I spent the next several minutes flailing between them, my velocity in the storm-tossed water approaching that of a half-squashed beetle. Meanwhile, the ladies pushed out lap after lap of Butterfly. If you’re not familiar with this awkward stroke, let me give you a little history: Despite what the link above claims, it was actually invented in the sixteenth century as a form of torture, and is now employed by swimming snobs and fully appreciated only by those who have mastered it. (For the record, the latter also applies to complex guitar solos and making pastry from scratch.)

The situation deteriorated around the eighth lap, when I helped myself to a flimsy kickboard for a few rounds. How is it possible to grab a sturdy, self-respecting kickboard actually capable of keeping my front half afloat any day except the very one when my ego -– and my ability to keep from asphyxiating on chlorine and water -– are most on the line? Even without the continuous shower from the ladies in the next lanes, the kicking would not have lasted long. At least with freestyle and breaststroke, I could spend most of my time with my head in the water, hiding my shame.

Around the fourteenth lap I began to take on water, and soon had a puddle the size of a baby pool sloshing inside my goggles. My arms, which have no respect for authority, began to tire despite my threats, and when I had thrashed once more to the deep end of the lane I clung to the wall and turned to decipher the clock on the side of the pool house through the foggy lenses. I nearly cheered. Three minutes to go.

Which is when the Wonder Twins decided they’d had enough of swimming and headed for the locker room. Now, if only I’d gotten everything else in line — the goggles, the kickboard, my arms — I would have had a very nice 180 seconds of swimming ahead of me.

Five evenings in a row I have waded through our yard in bare feet, stopped before one of our two overburdened fruit trees, and plucked plumped-up plums or peaches from the branches. I eat as if standing over a sink, bent at the waist and legs spread, letting the sun-warmed juice pour out of the wounds I make in the fruit’s flesh and drip into the summer-thick grass. A peach stain on a T-shirt can mark it for life, but in this desert the grass is greedy for moisture.

While the plum tree has been in business since long before we bought our house, the peach is a new addition, tucked into the ground just three years ago. The woman at the garden center instructed us to nip off all infant fruits for several years so the tree could settle. I would not have obeyed, but the decision was made for us. Until this summer it withheld its treasures from us, choosing instead to grow and spread. And this year, like a gift, it is heavy with peaches, small and sweet and beautiful.

We have more, though, than our twin trees, all flourishing in turn, overlapping their seasons so we always have something fresh and delicious from last frost to first snow. The sugar snaps this spring grew fat on their vines as the tomato plants rooted and flowered. And when the peas withered and died in the summer heat, the tomatoes took over, the plants filling with engorged red orbs.

In July the tiny green globes on our neighbor’s apricot tree, which graciously spans into our backyard, swelled into sweet orange fruits, just waiting for my hands to pluck and eat, one after the other. And eat I did, pulling the fruits from the sun-dappled branches overhead, closing my eyes as the flavor burst on my tongue.

The apricots have long since ceased production and the last of the peaches went to my parents last night. Soon our plum tree will be free of fruit, the bounty shared with friends and family and neighbors, but the first of our cucumbers is now begging to be picked. This evening we will have salads in celebration.

Some people own stoic mansions hidden behind sweeping gates; swimming pools brimming with cool, blue water; low, shiny sports cars that hug the curves in the road at any speed. But a garden and fruit trees are, to me, the greatest of luxuries.

It is a coincidence that I contracted the flu yesterday, just hours after a library copy of Breaking Dawn — the fourth and final book of Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight series — fell into my hands. The fact that it is also a weekend (which means I don’t have to feel the guilt associated with staying in bed for two days in a row, sucking down grape juice, popping pills and reading the 754-page tome) is just one more bonus but, yes, it is still a coincidence. If my weekend were a recipe it would require the following ingredients: one part restlessness, two parts reading machine, and four parts cat bed, since the three felines have apparently decided either that sleeping on The Couch of Death is passé or that I am more generously padded than said couch. (And, let’s face it, the latter is probably true.) The past two days have also been comprised of stoic suffering and an attempt to be a pillar of strength in the face of adversity. (How am I doing so far?) Also, I’ve been watching way too many Vlogbrothers videos.

This means difficult times are ahead for our house. Remember that vacation I just took? The California one that not only necessitated camping supplies, beachwear and winter clothes (since, hello, San Francisco is really cold in the summer) but also a full conference wardrobe and makeup? Well, since Thursday was a catch-up day (which mysteriously did not include unpacking) and Friday was a work day, my bags have spent the past several days sitting in my bedroom, conveniently located at an angle guaranteed to make hubs trip if he should get up in the middle of the night. And since moving makes my skin hurt when I’m sick, unpacking isn’t going to happen this weekend, either.

The good news is that I can’t procrastinate forever because my work wardrobe is severely limited while most of my favorite clothes are wrinkling inside a garment bag. So what’s the holdup, other than my schedule, my symptoms, and too many meds? Laundry. Because all those suitcased clothes are destined for a good washing. It is ridiculous to hate doing laundry. I have it so easy compared to anybody else in the history of the universe. For one thing, I have machines to do it. For another, said machines are located in my kitchen, which is just down the hall from a closet that houses a large stash of empty hangers. Also, long ago I made it a policy to never buy anything that requires an iron. And, finally, it’s a weekend, so I can stick around to change over loads. See? Not a big deal. Except it kind of is somehow. So while I feel like an over-entitled gen-X middle-class American whiner for saying that I hate to do laundry, well, there it is.

As for writing about the trip itself, well, I stink at trip reports. I usually find them boring to write, and if I’m bored, you definitely will be. The good news is that you have lots of options if you want to know what hubs and I were up to. For one thing, I’ve already processed many of the 950+ photos from our trip and uploaded them to my phlog. (Phlog = photoblog.) So as a bonus not only do you get visuals, but I also have inane little paragraphs captioning them. The first picture is, predictably enough, of the Golden Gate Bridge. The next one, which is much cuter and lacking both the color orange and any sign of motor vehicles, will be up on Monday. Until then, this link probably won’t work. New photos up every Monday, Wednesday and Friday from now until my photos, the internet, or I end.

And if your nosiness concerns the conference I attended in San Francisco, you could revisit the links given in the previous post or the blogs belonging to the lovely and talented Alyson Noel, the vivacious and scarily elusive Melissa Blue, and the super-sweet Melina Kantor, all of whom I also had the pleasure of meeting at RWA and with whom I wish I’d had the chance to spend a lot more time. By now some of them have probably addressed the conference more thoroughly than I. Either way, their blogs are still worth the visit.

Disappointed by my reticence? Fine. If you have a specific question about our vacation, put it in the comments and I might answer it. Unless, you know, you want me to just write about the whole thing, in which case I earn a free pass to ignore you. And if there are no questions then I’m off the hook, so yippee.

Wow! Look at the thick layer of dust on this here blog! Sorry about that. The conference ended this weekend, and now we’re off to Yosemite and the long drive home. Will post again later this week. In the meantime, here are a few of the many bloggers I met while in San Francisco. If you get a chance, cruise around their blogs for a while, or at least stop by to say hello. They are all talented writers and incredibly fun to talk to in person. A few of them are slow to return to the blogosphere, too, but that’s just because we had so much fun. If I left your name out, worry not — I’ll get you later…

Robin Bielman
Pam Writes Romance
Jess Riley
Joanne Rendell
Marilyn Brant
Eileen Cook

So I’m strolling down the hotel hall* in my new black flipflops, and as I round a corner it occurs to me that I’m humming “It’s a Hard Knock Life” from the musical Annie (which, by the way, I haven’t seen since elementary school). Suddenly I’m searching the area for a crowbar, a jackhammer, a radio – anything that will pry, pound, or flush the bubbly tune from my cranium. Nothing. I’m stuck. Only hurrying with my ice refill, slapping back down the hall, and throwing myself at my exhausted iPod or the hotel room’s tiny clock radio will do the trick. Until I find out my husband has Phil Collins’ “One More Night” in his head. Goodbye, show tune. Hello sweet, sappy ’80s ballad.

Most of the time it seems like my life is accompanied by a soundtrack not of my own choosing. In college, I once underwent three months in Mexico singing either “Celito Lindo” or the original version of “Macarena” in my off hours. A couple years ago, I spent a weekend rafting on the San Juan River doing everything in time with the decidedly uncatchy “Amie” by Pure Prairie League. Infectious melodies regularly add to my insomniac misery as I sigh through hours of wakefulness with songs ranging from Jack Johnson’s “Good People” to Beck’s “Hell Yes” running an endless loop in the background. And I can never think of the musical West Side Story without suffering a deluge of show tunes, most especially “America”. It’s amazing how often that Romeo and Juliet adaptation comes to mind simply because I try to resist all thoughts of it.

My brother recently proved to me that the best way to lodge a song in someone’s head is to sing only part of it, stopping midway through – preferably in the middle of a word. This way the person’s brain is forced to continue the melody, starting over and over, until it finds a satisfactory ending. Like Sisyphus and the rock, a satisfying climax never occurs. No wonder it’s death to my peaceful mind when I switch stations partway through “The Milkshake Song”. I assure you, however, that I haven’t listened to “It’s a Hard Knock Life”, either in whole or in part, since a friend last subjected me to her cheerful off-key rendition months ago. So what brought it up?

I’m sick of my usual “ear worms” as they’ve come to be called, and am hereby suggesting a trade. I tell you what I have in my head, and you tell me what you’re singing. (Chances are, it’s now one of the songs I’ve mentioned above. I’m so sorry. Truly.) Or are you one of those lucky people who isn’t subjected to fourteen straight hours of “It’s a Small World After All” just because a coworker finishes a story of running into an old classmate in the deli section of her grocery store with a cheerful, “It really is a small world, isn’t it?” If so, not only are you part of the lucky 2%, but you’re really missing out. I mean, you actually have to turn on a radio to hear a little music. Really, I feel so much pity for you.

*Yes, we’re already on vacation, and have been for a while, which is why I haven’t been haunting the blogosphere as much as usual. Expect more of the same over the next several weeks. Not that blogging’s been totally off my mind, of course. Hubs and I already stayed several nights with the delightful, talented Robin, and I’ll meet up with a few others at the RWA conference next week. If you’re going, too, maybe I’ll see you there! (In the meantime, though, be sure to check out Pam’s posts on preparing for Nationals.) So, really, you are far from forgotten, even when I myself am far from a good network connection.

I live in a tourist town, which means that in certain seasons we are overrun by camera-toting sightseers intent on packing in as much adventure as their credit cards and cranky kids will allow. From early spring to late fall work hours increase as many businesses close later, grocery stores morph into scary places filled with clots of vacationers and their cockeyed carts, and our favorite restaurants are inundated by sun-stunned visitors escaping the heat. Shortly thereafter I begin to have nightmares in which our house is taken over by unwelcome tourists who feel that we are unreasonable for not letting them wash their Hummers in our backyard.

Whenever possible during these crazy months, hubs and I escape our personal half-acre of paradise to take pictures of other wonders and spend time with someone else’s tourists for a while. Although the scenery’s different, many of the tourists look exactly the same, as we’ve discovered by traveling widely. This year it will be California. Last year it was South Carolina. In August. In record heat.

After growing up in a Midwestern city that attracted many businesses and college students but nary a tourist, living in a place like this has been an experience. When your daily life is someone else’s vacation, you learn a lot. For example, I’ve learned when to visit the grocery store, which streets and restaurants to avoid and, most importantly, how to dress like a local. The last skill has netted me requests for directions in several neighboring states, Philadelphia, Boston, and Madrid. It may not be handy if you don’t know your way around the town you’re visiting, but it can help you avoid getting scammed by people who take advantage of clueless travelers, and it can net you better service in restaurants, bars, and grocery stores.

Giving the appearance that you’re at home isn’t that difficult. The number one rule is: Avoid wearing fanny packs. Locals and attentive tourists alike have beheld the horrors of such adornments in large concentrations, and so they do not use them. This is not to say that fanny packs don’t have their perks; if your butt is too flat, for example, they provide the illusion of bulk. Since I’ll never have that problem, I eschew them altogether. Rule number two: Be nice to wait staff and other service people. Also, drive like you have at least a passing familiarity with traffic laws. Walk with confidence, even if you don’t know where you’re going, and learn to look but not gawk. And finally, for the love of God, do not take video footage of buildings, mountains, trees, or other unmoving objects.

See? It’s not too tough. For bonus points, don’t use a local’s garden hose to wash your car without their permission. They don’t like that sort of thing.