Road Trip

Normally, whenever I take a road trip I keep a journal where I sketch things of interest, writing about things I see or do and include ticket stubs, postcards, maps, and so on. My last road trip was to Las Vegas. I could fill my entire journal just on the architectural details such as bathroom tiles, lamps and door knobs.

Yes. Door knobs. I loved the entrances to the Excalibur. The door handles looked like swords. Just grab the hilt and open the door. I could almost picture myself pulling the sword out of the stone as I entered and stepping into a magical world of knights and fair maidens. The Rio has tropical birds. There is something about grabbing the head of a bird to open a door that is vaguely unsettling. Then again, we went there to see Penn & Teller. That show was amazing, thought provoking and vaguely unsettling. I love a show that makes you question what you think you know.

The lamps were amazing. From the hemispherical lamp over the registration desk in Caesar’s Palace that was inset with beautiful scenes in glass to the tail lights that lit the Harley Davidson Café, the utilitarian objects had been made into magnificent pieces of art. And for Sin City, most were vaguely, or overtly sensual. Don’t believe me? Check out the lamps in the Ben and Jerry’s in Treasure Island. They looked like something Madonna wore in her lingerie phase.
　

And then there were the bathrooms. Again, something utilitarian became a work of art. The themes of the hotels carried over into the bathrooms. The floor in the Excalibur bathroom looked like slate slabs with a trim of broken pieces of slate around the edges. Even the tiles around the mirror in some little shop I ducked into on Fremont street were beautiful.

Then there were the skylights. In Excalibur, there are stained glass looking skylights that would have looked at home in a medieval cathedral. The Mandalay Bay has a glass dome that had a view of the tower with the name ‘Mandalay Bay’ in huge letters. In case you forgot where you were, I guess?

And then there were the carpets… WOW! I'll save the carpets for next time.

Pens and Needles

Yes. I do needlework and I write. They are much more similar than they might seem. Gramps used to call storytelling “spinning a yarn” or “weaving a tale”. Different plot lines in a story are called “threads”. My cats love to bat at the computer keys as much as they love attacking balls of yarn. Okay, that one is a stretch.

But imagine a sweater. Once you have decided on knitting a sweater, you have to determine the size, gauge, color, texture and pattern, keeping in mind who you are knitting it for. Writing a story is the same. You have to determine the size. Will you write a novel or short story? In knitting, gauge is the number of stitches per inch. So do you want large stitches or small? Are you writing for adults, and therefore can use large words? Or for children with simpler language?

Changing the color or texture of the yarn in a sweater can drastically change it’s appearance from a bulky natural-colored wool fishermans knit to a lightweight dark-colored smooth cardigan. Changing the color and texture of writing can mean the difference between a sorta creepy ghost story or a disturbingly graphic murder mystery.

The same consideration is put into designing the pattern for a sweater as for determining the outline of a story. How wide do you want the sweater? What is the scope of the story? How long? How are you going to close it? Buttons? Zipper? The hero wins the girl? Tangled plot lines and twisted cables? Multiple plots and intarsia? You can’t knit a stitch or write a word until you know.

Stitch by stitch, word by word, you plod along. And just when you think you are done, the hard part begins. Tying up all the loose ends. That applies to both knitting and writing.

And you have to do all that while keeping in mind who is going to wear the sweater. Who is you intended reader?

This is one major difference worth noting. When you are editing a book and decide a section doesn’t fit the whole, you can cut it. It’s nearly impossible to cut out a section of a sweater and replace it.

Still, there are so many similarities that I think about knitting when I am writing and I think about writing when I am knitting. And often I think about writing about knitting.

Hmmm…. I wonder if I can knit about writing?



And for those who asked, Wiggle-Butt has pulled through his ordeal from eating a box of raisins, although he now needs several medications daily. That Dog and I thank you all for your concern.

Egg Decorating

The theme for this year’s egg decorating contest was Dr. Seuss. As usual, the entries were amazing. I had expected a dozen Lorax eggs since that movie just came out, but only one person made a Lorax. I suggested, and was very vocally voted down, that half the entries should be disqualified since they weren’t actually characters from Dr. Seuss books. But the majority said it was the spirit of the theme that was important, not the author. So P. D. Eastman, Maurice Sendak and forgive me but the guy who wrote Make Way For Ducklings were represented. There was a Star-Bellied Sneech, Yertle the Turtle, Horton and a clover flower with a fuzzy white spot on it for the Who that Horton heard. There were two Thing Ones but no Thing Twos. The winner was one of the non-Seuss characters, a dog in an egg car from Go, Dog, Go!

I suppose I should mention that all those crazy egg decorators are related to me. And this year, none is under the age of eleven. Even the eleven-year-old will turn twelve in a few weeks. Every holiday that a lot of the family gets together we have some sort of themed contest. One Christmas the theme was Gingerbread House. My daughter, who was working construction at the time, actually built a gingerbread house complete with plumbing and electrical fixtures. Another year the theme was snowmen. My brother cheated. He came down from the mountains with actual snowmen in an ice chest.

Halloween pumpkin contests are usually fun as the contest is different. Where all other contests have a theme and you can use any material, for Halloween, there is no theme, but you have to use an actual pumpkin. Mom won one year by making a pumpkin pie but we stopped that by having a pumpkin chunkin’ contest the day after. We climb on the roof and see who can chuck their creation the farthest. Gotta love the sound when they hit the driveway.

You might think that our family is very competitive, but in fact, these contests are really the only time we compete. It is simply our break from the very cooperative way we live the rest of the time. We are so close that our kids don’t refer to themselves as this family or that family, but simply as “the cousins”. As in “Me and some of the cousins are going skateboarding.” As much as we cringe at how they mangle the language, we have to smile at how close they all are.

The dog with no name

I knew when I saw the sign I was going to end up with him. A young woman was walking a timid Queensland Heeler with a sign around his neck: “I’m a stray. Please take me home.” I made the mistake of talking to her. The young dog, probably about a year old, showed up on her doorstep several months earlier. She said she tried to find his owner but signs and a newspaper ad didn’t work. She tried to take him to the local animal shelter but was told they could only keep him seven days. She planned on keeping him, but her landlord found out and gave her 24 hours to get rid of the dog since she already had three other dogs. So she showed up at the park in Lodi where a four day festival was taking place and walked the dog through the crowd. My kids weren’t around at the time. One was taking a workshop on tightrope walking and the other was learning a few new balloon animals to add to her repertoire.

A few hours later, I was feeding the dog the sandwiches that were supposed to be our lunch. Over the next three days, everyone at the festival helped out, bringing food, spare dishes, and thanks for helping to rescue the dog. We tried out several names. Since Queensland is in Australia, Boomerang was the front-runner until I said we could call him Boo Boo for short. He panicked whenever he heard Boo Boo, tucking the little stump of his docked tail in as tight as it would go and trying to hide.

For a week we tried out other names, but nothing seemed right. When he was happy, his entire back end wiggled, so my daughter suggested “Wiggles.” My son vetoed that name. When I took him in to the vet for a check up and shots, we had to choose a name for their records. I’m not sure exactly how it happened, but his veterinary records list his name as “That Wiggle-Butt Dog From Lodi.” It was supposed to be temporary, but we never did decide on a name. He seemed to answer to everything from That Dog to Lodi to Wiggle-Butt or Wiggles.

As cattle dogs tend to be, he became very intense, staring at people in the eye for hours on end. His favorite game was to herd all the neighborhood kids into a tight group by nipping at their shoes. He was by far the smartest dog I had ever owned. He would pick out specific toys from his bucket when asked ‘go get your bear, rope, ball, tug-tug, Frisbee…. He knew our names. He always won at hide and seek. I would make his stay in one room while the kids hid then say, “go find Kerry” or “go find Brian” or even “go find the kitty.” And he would bypass the others to find what I asked him to. As is common in his breed, he became deaf at a young age. He quickly learned sign language. At last count, he knew about 40 signs.

When the kids moved out, he got so depressed that I got him a puppy, huge dog, easily twice his size who was already a few years old. He had been adopted and returned several times as being ‘untrainable’ but That Wiggle-Butt Dog picked him out at the pet adoption fair and would not let us leave without him. A new word was introduced into his vocabulary: ‘your puppy.’ He taught his puppy well. No touching food until Mom says ‘go eat.’ Sit quietly when Mom brings the leashes. Stay off the bed until Mom is asleep. Important things a good dog should know. Unfortunately, the puppy loved to be chased and as a cattle dog, he loved to chase. Visits to the dog park were hilarious as the little cattle dog chased the huge chow-shep mix for hours until they were both exhausted.

Then a few years ago, he developed a strange lump on his belly. A biopsy showed it was cancer. The lump was removed, but we were warned it would probably come back. And two years later it did, only this time, it was very aggressive and fast. At the same time, the puppy developed a huge cancerous growth on his leg after having several growths removed from his face. Because of their ages, about 16 and 13 years, we decided against aggressive treatment. The dogs have their pain meds and are spoiled rotten. They no longer have to wait until they think I am asleep to be allowed on the bed. Walks are too tiring, so they get to go on rides which usually end up with me buying them ice cream cones or tacos.

The puppy started having seizures. That Lodi Dog can no longer get up the stairs when I let him outside. I know it is time to let them go to the big dog park in the sky, but I can’t bring myself to do it. One more day, I keep telling myself. Another day and I will be able to decide on a name for That Wiggle-Butt Dog From Lodi.

Backup Blues

I finally just about finished the rewrite of Butterfly’s Daughters. After my first group of readers’ suggestions, I completely rearranged how it was organized. Then I read through it and discovered I had somehow lost the conclusion to one of the subplots. Big build-up about sheep dying in the canyon and then…nothing. Hence the ‘just about finished’. I debated just cutting subplot completely but it is important in showing how slow and methodical one character is, as opposed to another who jumps in and looks eventually. And usually only after explosions, broken bones and police involvement.

“Why don’t you just go to your back up and just put it in?” you ask.

I was afraid you’d think of that. Hemming and hawing aside, I lost it. It was on a USB drive on a bracelet. I was out with my authors group and just in case my bag was stolen or lost, I didn’t want to keep it in my computer bag. I didn’t notice I’d lost it for WAY too long. I really need to back up more often. So if anyone in Oakland, Castro Valley, Hayward, Berkeley, Pleasanton, or the San Jose ice rink finds it, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE look at the file named if found please call. Or maybe San Leandro? Could be in the Emeryville IKEA. Or theater. Did I have it at the Ripon Almond Blossom Festival?

The purpose of wearing it on a bracelet was supposed to be a reminder to back up often. It was a great idea and the drive was comfortable, reasonable and proceeds go to a great cause, child literacy and encouraging young people to write. Check out the Office of Letters and Light. Great group.

Meanwhile, I will be attempting to recreate the end of that subplot. I’d like to order another bracelet flash drive but they don’t have them any more.

Needle Therapy

My doctor was showing me some exercises to get my hand back up to speed. He ended by saying I should do some exercises to develop stamina in my fingers after not being able to use them for quite some time. “Like knitting? Playing piano? Typing?” I asked and he said that would be great. So now while I am sitting on my couch, watching TV for a couple of hours and knitting a sweater for my niece, I can honestly say I’m not being lazy. I’m doing doctor ordered physical therapy.

I also heard that chocolate and red wine were good for heart health. In moderation, of course. Who can knit with a whole bottle of cabernet in them? So a couple of truffles and a glass of wine? Just trying to stay healthy.

I also heard that many injuries are caused by ‘weekend warriors’, people with rather sedentary jobs who overdo activities on weekends and get hurt. So limiting my weekend exercise to walking from the couch to the fridge or microwave and back is simply my way of preventing sports injuries.

I also heard that getting out on a regular basis to enjoy social situations is instrumental in maintaining a positive mental attitude. So my weekly BINGO night bolsters my mental health. Especially when I win. Come on, caller. I need a G-49!

Another way to keep good mental health is to have pets. With as many pets as I have, I should be in perfect mental health, except they drive me crazy. Especially Barstow, my BIG chow/Shepard/Swissie mix. He thinks he is a lap dog and likes to sleep under my desk. Unfortunately whenever he hears a noise, he stands up and whacks his head on the underside of the desk. Then he looks at me like ‘why did you hit me?’ Stupid dog. I’m going to have to look more into that one.

Drugs and other ways to make money

One Handed

After months of dropping things from dishes to stitches I finally had the surgery to remove the lump from my hand. My left hand is currently buried under a thick layer of bandages. Instead of a hand, I have a gauze club with a thumb. You have no idea how many things you use two hands for until you don’t have two hands. I couldn’t even figure out how to unfasten my bra. It sure gives me a greater appreciation for my lovely sister-in-law who lost her left arm to cancer several years ago. I spent a week with her last summer and it didn’t seem to slow her down. And I couldn’t even open a can of pet food. Sorry, guys. It’s going to be dry food for a few weeks.

It’s bad enough trying to type with one hand, but when you have angry cats wondering why they are on prison rations batting at the keyboard to get my attention, getting anything done is a joke. After I nearly lost a whole chapter when my big tomcat stepped on the ‘Backspace’ key, I gave up editing my current novel. Besides, the Rachael vs Guy Celebrity Cook-off was abut to begin. So I sat down on the couch and automatically grabbed the knitting bag. GAACKKK! I can’t knit with one hand! No wonder the doctor gave me so many drugs. So I won’t think about all the things I can’t do.

And who needs a huge bottle of Vicodin? I can’t even take a whole one without falling asleep for twelve hours. Half of one twice a day cuts the pain fine and makes me only a little loopy. I asked my daughter, who is a jailer and so I felt would know people who know people, what I could do with all these pills. Just joking, of course. “How much can I get per pill?” She asked whether I wanted juice or ramen packets. “Juice is a lot more valuable because they can make pruno out of it. You know, jail-made alcohol.” Turns out Vicodin is a valuable commodity. The hard part is tapping into the jail distribution system without getting my daughter fired. There goes that drug-induced idea.

Maybe I’ll just take another pill and sleep. Just to get me another day closer to getting the bandages off.