Plot Maps - More Fun than a Barrell of Monkeys

After going to a party over the weekend and asking a friend if she used a plot map when writing her novels, I wondered why I had asked that since I have rarely used one when writing mine. I generally use a simple spreadsheet and just make random notes in it so I have a vague sketch of what the heck is going on - otherwise I wind up rewriting the damn thing twenty times before the novel is even half done.

So today I decided that for my upcoming book, I was going to sit down and write a plot map. I forgot how much I love plot maps. Not only do they force you to think about what it is you're going to say, you can say things like "hot monkey sexand "Cheez Wiz" in your notes and no one cares (luckily they were not in the same section - because that would be gross). I don't get that very often in my regular line of work. No one wants to hear about Medicare and hot monkey sex in the same sentence.

Anyway, it's a really nice brain break. Of course, once you actually get to the guts of writing the thing and tying the parts of the story together, that can get annoying. But worthwhile. I wish I'd written another plot map sooner.

Oh, and yes, I did get off my virtual butt and google BAFTA. So instead of thinking, "what is that?!" I now think, "Ugh, another award ceremony? Thank God I wind up drooling on myself before I can watch TV at night."

I'm fairly convinced that very few normal people watch award shows and that viewing is probably limited to famous people who couldn't be there for some reason or members of the press who couldn't be there. The normal people who watch them are probably watching them to get a glimpse of someone particular. So there.

Does that mean we're done being sick?

These last two weeks have sucked. Week before last, Evelyn had a delightful ear infection. That's cool - we go to the pediatrician, have it checked out. She needs antibiotics, we get them, we're good. Cool...let's move on.

Then Wednesday late she has a mystery fever. We decide to keep her home Thursday (24-hour rule: must be fever free for at least a day). Only I've got a fever, too. So my husband stays home with both of us. Did I mention I love my husband dearly?

He stays home, Evelyn gets better. I, however, do not. My fever gets higher and higher and my back and stomach are killing me. Finally, I give in and go into urgent care. Did you know you could get strep in your kidneys? And did you know it hurts? It could've been worse. On the pain scale, I'd put it under a seizure, childbirth, shingles and being lanced by a stingray, with childbirth being least painful and the stingray being the most. Maybe around the same as having chopped off part of the tip of my little finger, but not as sharp. (Note to self: do not cook when you have shingles in your eye.)

Awesome. I get antibiotics. We send Evelyn to school Friday and happily attend a large party on Saturday full of children. Yay! But everyone's healthy! We have a great time and the kids go to sleep way too late.

We wake up Sunday. Hmmm, Evelyn looks exhausted - bags under her eyes, rubbing them a lot. Today we will have naps! A few hours later, "OMG, IT'S PINKEYE! PINKEYE! BURN EVERYTHING!" Another trip to urgent care. Another trip to the pharmacy for antibiotics. Now sounds like a damn good time for a pizza - no one has eaten, I sure as hell am not cooking (afraid to touch anyone's food). So I swing by Dominoes on my way back.

I pay for pizza, turn to leave and...the pizza sales out of the box, flies a few feet and splats on the ground. I had no clue a pizza could fly like that. So start snorting and giggling and go in to apologize, then help clean pizza off the sidewalk while Evelyn's demanding to know why I threw her pizza.

Dominoes generously makes me a new one, on the house. I tip them a lot and leave.

The End.

This post brought to you by, "You've got to be flipping kidding me," and "What the hell is BAFTA?" (mostly because I don't know what the hell BAFTA is...I suppose my buddy Google can tell me)

Hedgehog Day

I almost accidentally created a new blog, blogger. Just so you know, I'm probably your bestest tester - I will PROVE to you beyond a shadow of a doubt that if you try hard enough (or don't even try), at least one user will wind up with a thousand blogs simply due to inability to tell the difference between new post and new blog.

Anyway, today is Groundhog Day. Or, if you're my daughter, Hedgehog Day. She asked me this morning if you rubbed the hedgehog if you'd get a better result. Ahhh, no. What I didn't tell her was that rubbing for a good result usually only works well if you're holding onto a magical lamp or another person. Clothing is optional, though not recommended.

What was I saying again?

Oh, yeah - six more weeks of winter apparently. Whatever. It usually takes a while for spring to break winter's back anyway. And you can't be sure it's happened until you smell it outside. The world always smells subtly different when the seasons are changing, but if you smell it you know. Winter smells cold and sharp and icy whether there is ice on the ground or not. Spring smells like just a hint of sweet and warmth tinged with ice. Summer is sometimes dry and dusty smelling, though usually in St. Louis it smells hot and moist and sultry. Just outside the doorstep you're surrounded  by the scent of our star magnolia (aka, the soaptree). The fall is rich, cool and mossy-wet, like decaying leaves crunching and smooshing under your feet.

I miss summer. But until it comes, I will just have to steam the bejeezus out of myself at the YMCA when I work out. Then in July, I can steam the bejeezus out of myself by running outside. It's win-win.

No more sparkly wine and nachos...because I'm old.

One thing about aging (and no, I'm not that old, even though sometimes I feel kinda old): my body and my mind usually feel just like they did when I was in my 20s. But, you feed my body crap and it will feel like the garbage dump it is. Case in point: my husband is out of town. So last night I indulged in some terrible, terrible TV/movies, as well as some sparkly wine (awesome stuff from a winery up the street) and nachos.

I'm not sure whether it was the fact that I rarely drink or the fact that I don't often eat junk food or the fact that I lifted weights yesterday afternoon for the first time in a long time before skating with my kids (also, first time since high school!). But holy mother of Maug, I wanted to die when I woke up.

There was no hangover-like headache, thank goodness. So I'm pretty sure it was a combination of weight lifting and nachos. Nonetheless, my husband wasn't here to make fun of me. Since I love him and miss him (he's on a guys' vacation in San Diego this weekend), here's our back and forth so I can pretend someone's actually around to make fun of me, other than my kids, who would get in trouble:

Me: "Oh, God, why the hell did I eat that many nachos? And why did I lift weights? Why?"

Him: "No kidding. You can't even tell. Just do what I do and eat nachos all the time. You develop a tolerance. And here's a secret: if you don't lift weights, it won't hurt."

Me: "You're an ass. If my arms didn't ache so much I'd go over there and smack that stupid grin off your face."

Him: "Ooooh, oooh, you mean this one? The one I'm making fun of you with? That one?"

Me: "I despise you."

Him: "I love you, too."

Fin