I've been gone a month!

Hi there good people. Lost track of time -- will happen to me in the spring -- not because I was sitting around and watching the mosquitoes carry the dog off every night (well, I have been doing that, and it's terrifically entertaining) but because I've been busy writing. That's right. I've been busy -- writing.

Just finished a pretty good edit of a rewrite (again) of Seeing the Light, and I like this version. A lot. Have it with readers, and am expecting responses the end of June.

Started coming up with some options for a minor clean up on aisle four. That would be Manhood Road, with a second chapter that sucks the big one, and that needs to be fixed.

And I've started working on Virago. Again. This novel is driving me nuts, and I can't figure out why. Howeve,r must keep hacking away at it.

Had to take my big computer in for a tune up. I'm not so dedicated when it comes to learning how to care for my computer. I'd rather pay someone to do it for me. I was silly enough to ask the guy who tidied what he had done, but faded to black almost immediately when he began describing, in great detail, what I could do to make my Mac run faster. Guess that means another tidy session is in this computer's future. Ah well, it's working just great now, and I'm happy about that.

Am preparing for a trip to Winnipeg the end of this month. I'm going on a four day writing retreat, to spend time with my Banffers, and am really looking forward to it.

Concerning hockey -- which I started the blog with, way back in June of 2006 -- the less said the better. The Senators got their asses handed to them in the last game (caught the last period. I'm not quite so dedicated when it isn't the Oilers) Boys, you have to pull up your socks. You looks like duffers out there. And you aren't causing any riots on Whyte Avenue, and those kids will use any excuse to riot. Won't they? I thought I read that somewhere. Pick your newspaper.

And concerning my "makeover." Yes, I've decided it's time to look like someone to be reckoned with, and am taking the appropriate steps -- which for me was hiring someone to help me, because I'm so pathethic with this stuff. (Read I don't really care, just as long as the clothes are clean (mostly), which does NOT give a great first impression.) We've done my hair, and my make up (don't even start with me about this! I'll figure it out, really I will.) and then moved on to clothes.

First she gutted my wardrobe. I was shocked, looking at some of the stuff I had hanging in there. I honestly thought it wasn't THAT bad, but looking through someone else's eyes for a moment sure clued me into the fact I hang on WAY TOO LONG. So, the dress that I wore to my daughter's high school grad is now gone, plus every other dress bought in that era. The only one she let me keep was my funeral dress -- and that's only until I can replace it. My god, I wasn't even doing funerals right! Gack!

Then we went shopping. I was almost immediately pissed off and overwhelmed, but she gently smacked me in the back of the head, told me to get over myself in her sweet way, and I managed to pick out a bunch of really nice things that I can wear just about anywhere. (Except the garden. I got to keep those clothes.)

It's funny how a person's mind works, though, isn't it? Before the buying but after the wardrobe gutting, I went to one of my daughter's ball games, and dressed in every rank and ancient piece of clothing I could find. I didn't really think about it -- just kept the (disgusting) blue jeans on that I was wearing that day, and the tee shirt, pulled my hair into a ponytail, and put on the coat I always wear to her cold games, because my mittens are in the pocket. (That coat has to be ten years old. At least. And a Zeller's bargain basement purchase, to boot.) I picked up my daughter, and after she told me about her day, she really looked at me.

"How did you get to keep those clothes? she asked. She is following the overhaul with a great deal of interest.
"I didn't show her these clothes," I admitted. "Big deal, though. It's just a ball game."
"Turn left," she demanded.

We'd reached the intersection that would take us either to the ball barn, or to my place. I didn't turn left. But I should have. She was right. I looked like crap.

I sat through two ball games, knowing that THAT was the way I looked to people when I don't give a thought to what I put on before I leave the house. After I took her home, I threw away the coat (after rescuing the mittens from the pocket) promised myself the jeans would never see past our fenceline again, and that I'd find a better way to do my hair. I can't keep doing that to myself. I deserve better.