Category Archives: just for fun

Tuxedos don’t have belts, and other petty complaints

So, I’ve been doing a lot of reading during my extended hiatus. A LOT OF READING. I’m sort of embarrassed to admit how many books I’ve read (just shy of triple digits) in the four months since I decided to take a break not just from social media but from writing as well.

Oh. Hadn’t I mentioned that last part?

Right. Well, sometime around the beginning of August, I also gave myself permission not to write. At all. Because life has been . . . hmmm, let’s just say this hiatus was a much-needed respite from the fire hose of guilt and pressure that is “I should be writing.” While not actually getting any worthwhile writing done.

My creative well was so depleted that if you threw a stone into the maw, two and a half days later you’d hear a faint echoing “plink” as it hit bedrock.

So I quit. Temporarily.

Instead, I’ve been devouring books, mostly romances, like they’re chips — if I liked chips, which I don’t particularly, so maybe more like they’re cheese (mmm, lovely melty cheese) — and as soon as I finish one I dig into another. Immediately. Pausing only to give it a rating and quick note in my “have read” spreadsheet. And while they’ve all sort of run together, which was my intent with this approach, I can’t help but have noticed a few things. A few oh-so-very-petty, yet irritating, things.

Mind you, there are major, significant world event type things irritating me too [understatement]. But since I don’t want this to become a political blog, I am instead going to vent about trivial, insignificant, petty things. In books.

All this steam has got to go somewhere. Think of it as an Airing of Grievances a few weeks early. Festivus!

I feel the need to pause here to say I LOVE the romance genre, completely and unapologetically, in all its permutations. I love writing it and I love reading it. The romance genre has saved my sanity, or at least my emotional wellbeing, more than a few times over the years. Especially the past two years. Do not make the mistake of thinking this post is dissing the genre. I will fight you.

That said, onward to the petty complaints referenced in the post title.

Like tuxedos. Specifically in romance. You know that scene, where the woman is all eager to undress her suave and ridiculously wealthy tuxedo-wearing date and in her excitement her fingers fumble with his belt. Or maybe he deftly unbuckles his own belt.

*SCREEEECH*

That’s the sound of me getting thrown out of the story. Because tuxedo pants don’t have a belt. They just don’t. They don’t even have belt loops. If the handsome sexy competent man in your story is wearing a belt with his tuxedo, and roughly half of them are lately, I’m sitting here wondering whether he got it on clearance at Skeeter’s Suit-Mart. It sure as hell isn’t Armani or Tom Ford, and certainly not Kiton or Brioni.

Writers, please stop doing this. It’s embarrassing.

Does Idris wear a belt with his tuxedo? No. No, he does not.

Speaking of clothing and removing it, what is the deal with all the wrap dresses? I don’t think I’ve ever seen a wrap dress for sale in a store, let alone actually seen anyone wearing one. This has become so inexplicably prevalent, I asked my adult daughter, since she and her friends DO all wear dresses, whether any of them actually wore that style. She said no, not that she’s noticed. She doesn’t like them, herself. And then she said, “Can she really be a heroine if she’s going about in wrap dresses?” Exactly. Who the hell wears clothes that are likely to fall off with the next deep breath?

To me, this has become shorthand for lazy writing. I get it, you want your hero to be able to give one little tug of a belt (again with the belts) and have the woman’s dress suddenly fall to the floor, so you put her in a wrap dress. Come on. Might as well put her in a bathrobe. If your guy is half the man you’ve written him to be, he can handle some buttons or a zipper. Perhaps even a cowl-neck.

Why do so many writers use the word ground when they mean floor? If someone removes an article of clothing and tosses/drops/throws it on the ground, I’m wondering when exactly they left the building. Or if someone slides their back down the wall, usually in despair, and hits the ground instead of the floor . . . wait, was that an outside wall? Are we now dealing with skin abrasions from brick or stucco?

I mean, really. Descriptive words matter.

But dialog and actions matter more. You can’t just tell the reader that a character is smart or funny or controlling . . . and then never have them say or do anything remotely smart or funny or controlling. Suspension of disbelief isn’t an absolute, no matter how much we wish it were.

For instance, if your character is super-intelligent, I don’t expect them to do stupid knee-jerk stuff that most people outgrow in middle school. I also expect your thirty-something character to have a level of emotional maturity beyond that of a teenager. Like using common sense instead of making highly unlikely assumptions. And maybe once in a while, when it really matters, asking the obvious questions and waiting for an answer.

Likewise, if your character is an alpha control freak running a multi-billion-dollar company, I expect them to spend at least some time, y’know, running that company. Having meetings, evaluating reports, taking phone calls, sending texts or emails. Managing even a small company is a ton of work. At a minimum, your alpha control freak should occasionally spend a few minutes at least thinking about it.

Side note: It’s perfectly fine to write a billionaire character who is laid back and content to have someone else run their empire while they jet off somewhere with their new love interest. Just don’t tell me that character is an alpha control freak.

Side, side note: If your billionaire does jet off to somewhere in a private plane, and it’s a plane big enough to travel vast distances without re-fueling, it probably has two pilots, not one. And if you opt to describe logistics (maybe don’t?), that big old plane can’t land just anywhere, definitely not on some tiny private island that doesn’t have a decent sized airport/runway and some way to re-fuel.

Hey, I did warn you this was going to be petty. Petty, petty, petty.

As for being funny . . . sigh. Look, humour is hard. It’s subjective, yes, but it’s also extremely difficult to pull off in writing, especially in a novel-length work. It’s painfully obvious when you try to be funny and it falls flat. The best comedic writers I know are also more intelligent than most. Not everyone can do it. I sure as hell couldn’t.

But it seems everyone is trying these days, as apparently “romantic comedy” is the hot new trend. Well, one of them. It’s not enough to write a few jokes as part of a meet cute in the first chapter and then have the rest of your RomCom be nothing but soul-destroying angst. Not that there’s anything wrong with soul-destroying angst. But it’s not comedy. Defining it as such just makes you look bad.

This trend has gotten so out of control that, after reading way too many RomComs that simply aren’t, I don’t even want to risk anything with that label. It’s cringe-worthy.

Speaking of false advertising . . . DUETS. Fucking cliffhanger duets. For those unaware, a duet is one story, split in half at a cliffhanger moment, and then sold as two books. For basically twice the price. It’s not a continuing series with the same characters. It’s not connected stories with different characters set in the same world. Both of those are fine. A duet is ONE STORY split into TWO BOOKS.

This is such a rage-inducingly-bad idea, I’m not even sure I can write about it without losing my temper. Suffice to say, there are some very talented writers doing this and I really wish they’d knock it the fuck off. Because I’d love to read their work but refuse to support this trend.

Whoops. That last complaint wasn’t quite as petty as the others, was it? Maybe I should stop before I come up with other not-so-petty writerly complaints. Or before I work my way up to world events.

In other news, I’ve slowed down the mad reading dash through my electronic TBR pile (only 12 books in November!) and am gradually, somewhat tentatively, getting back into writing my own fiction. After all, a hiatus eventually needs to come to an end or it is not, by definition, a hiatus.

I’ll be trying not to make any of the extremely petty mistakes listed in this post. I’m quite confident I’ll make others — just as petty, if not more so — and that one day someone will tell me all about them. As they should.

Anyone else have grievances they’d like to air? We’re celebrating Festivus all month over here.

 

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Filed under health and well-being, just for fun, writing

What’s in a name, anyway?

In December, when everyone was here for my birthday, my son-in-law suddenly asked, in a teasing way, “So, how old are you now?”

I had to pause and think about it, as I always do. Part of this inability to remember my age is that my birthday is at the end of the year and it’s not a simple matter of subtracting one year from another, because 11.5 months out of 12 that answer would be wrong. The bigger part of it is that my age doesn’t really matter to me and never has. The entire year I was 39, I told several people I was 40. Only to realize, the next year, that I was . . . 40 again.

Anyway, he laughed at my hesitation and said, “You know, when we [doctors] evaluate people for memory issues, there are two indicators that people are in real trouble– when they can’t remember their age or their name.”

I protested that I did NOT have memory issues. [Note: Quietly deciding not to do something people think you should do and have repeatedly told you to do doesn’t mean you’ve “forgotten” it.] [Yes, I have always been willful.]

He relented and said it wasn’t exact age so much as not being able to remember their birthdate. I’ve never had any problem remembering that, thankyouverymuch.

What I didn’t tell him is that when it comes to my name, I might be in trouble.

There just aren’t very many people who call me by my “real” name, anymore (this is not a complaint). My kids call me Mom. My mom and sisters and a few close friends call me an abbreviated version of my name. My long-time online friends refer to me by the initials BCB, and everyone else knows me by my pseudonym. Honestly, I have to concentrate sometimes to remember which name to use when I’m making an appointment to have my hair cut or my furnace serviced.

Do I need to create some quasi-official ID to reflect all these different names, so when the surely inevitable day comes that someone questions my mental acuity there will be a comprehensive record?

“I know what the chart says, doc, but I’m not confused. Really. I estimate that 80% of the people I know actually do call me KD James.”

*sigh*

Speaking of names, several years ago the standard advice for writers was to create a google search for your name (or your pseudonym). Not sure why everyone thought this was necessary — I don’t really care whether someone online is talking about me — but I did it anyway.

It’s rare that I get a notification. When I do, it’s usually just telling me that I’ve published a new blog post. Or, more likely, it’s to tell me that Kevin “KD” Durant and LeBron James are in the news at the same time. Makes me wonder whether they get notifications when I put up a new blog post.

Several months ago, I got a different kind of notice. Someone had created two new characters for a board game called Dead of Winter: one was named Meryl Wolfe and the other was, ta da, KD James. I was busy and ignored it, but I got another alert a couple weeks ago when someone was selling their game upgrade.

And I started to wonder . . . is this just a weird coincidence or did someone actually name this character after me?

Here’s a screenshsot from Plaid Hat Games’ website:

She looks just like me, right down to the blood-stained jumpsuit I usually wear around the house. Positively uncanny.

It’s hard to read, but apparently the game is about an apocalyptic zombie virus and this character is a “CDC Official.” But I can’t tell what sort of role she plays. Is she a good guy who finds a cure for the virus? Oooh, or maybe she’s a bad guy who spreads the virus? I hope she’s not merely a hapless bystander who dies inelegantly. Or do the players get to change the role each time?

I’m not a gamer — my kids tried to teach me to play Werewolf and it didn’t go well, given I couldn’t stop laughing at the narrator’s oh-so-dramatic voice (honestly, it’s a fun game, you should try it) — so I’m not entirely sure how that works and whether roles even can change.

Now, I don’t think I know any game developers but I guess it’s possible one has heard of me? KD James isn’t a particularly common name, as evidenced by my lack of google notifications.

Nah. It’s probably just a coincidence. But still. Wouldn’t that be cool to have a game character named after you? I suppose I’ll never know. Unless the person who created the character is reading this post . . .

Anyone want to fess up?

 

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Filed under just for fun

Whole lotta nuthin’ goin’ on

Geez. Apparently I haven’t had anything to say in recent months and some of you are about to demand proof of life. This tends to happen when there’s either too much or not enough happening in my life. Oddly, this time, it’s both. I’m not sure how to explain that. Not sure it would matter to anyone if I could.

Yes, I’ve been writing. In a distracted-by-interruptions sort of way. Like tonight (Friday), for instance. My daughter is on her way from Boston to the Cape for a long weekend, as her husband is doing a two-week stint there to finish up his residency. My son and his wife are out of town for a wedding. So I figure this is a good time to get some writing done. Right?

Then I get a text:

DD: On the ferry on way to the Cape.
Me: Great! Have fun!
DD: Well, IT got a little wet in my backpack walking to the wharf. Sorry ☹
[I’m not sure what she’s talking about, but I reply . . . ]
Me: Uh oh
DD: It’s just around the edges of the first 100 pages
DD: Gives it character? I hate messing up books

OK, typing this out is too time-consuming. Here, have some screen shots:

And we go on like that with silly word-play for a while. As you do. And then a little bit later, she sends this:

Why yes, I DO use up my annual quota of exclamation marks in text messages. And now I’ve got that creepy song about the Edmund Fitzgerald stuck in my head. Not helpful, brain.

Obviously, some of these distractions are unavoidable. I’m never going to ignore my kids when they text or call me. (She texted a few minutes later to say they were docking, in case you were worried.)

In related news, and speaking of distractions, after seven years of living in other states, my daughter and her husband are finally moving back to THIS state. I am absolutely thrilled and can’t wait for them to get here. In two weeks! *GASP* How did time fly so quickly? It seems like just last week instead of last summer that this decision became official.

Anyway, they’re coming home and then, two days later, as an interlude before starting new jobs . . . they’re leaving Jenny the dog here with her BFF, The White Ninja (and me), and going on an epic three-week road trip. To Points Unknown. Or so they say.

Given their history, I assume they know exactly where they’re going and that it involves proximity to BEARS, and they decided not to tell me their plans so I won’t worry. Please. Like that’s going to stop me.

Provided they survive close encounters of the BEAR kind, upon their return they’ll be living with me until they find a house to either rent or buy. This wasn’t their original plan, but the housing market here is insane. To say it’s a “seller’s market” is a vast understatement, especially in the area they want to live. It might take a while to find something.

This will be interesting. In a good way! Probably. I hope.

So I’ve been preparing for long-term houseguests. Little things like cleaning out the fridge and freezer and pantry, throwing away things that are expired or unidentifiable or inexplicable, so no one dies of food poisoning. Or shame.

I’m also clearing out some closet/cupboard space so they have room to put stuff that isn’t going into storage. When my daughter was here for a quick weekend visit toward the end of April, I convinced her to help me clear off a shelf in the under-stair closet since it held a few things of hers.

Although mostly it was my detritus, like this, which I thought some of you might find amusing:

Yes, that’s a bottle of Crème de Menthe. See the little Georgia liquor tax stamp? I’m not even going to tell you how long ago it was that I lived in Georgia. Suffice it to say, it’s so old it turned blue.

And then there was this little gem that I didn’t even know was IN that closet, shoved way in the back.

Not only do I not know how old it is or where it came from (I’ve never been to Puerto Vallarta), I have no explanation for why no one ever drank it. Too late now.

This is what happens when you have too much room for storage. Things just expand to fill all the available space and then “out of sight, out of mind” takes over until you need that space for something else. Or until you’re in the mood, as I have been lately, to purge all the “crap” from your life and simplify.

What else has been going on . . . Oh, my son-in-law was here for a long weekend in early May for job-related doings, and I made two big pans of lasagna (Ed Giobbi’s recipe, which is a ton of work but so worth it). Doesn’t it look good? It was.

 

My daughter was not happy to miss out and wanted her husband to bring some back on the plane. Yeah, right. I sent her the recipe.

Oh, here’s another distraction, even as I write this: My Bossy Older Sister just texted to tell me her son, who lives in NYC, was texting her about the free ebola on the subway.

Me: WHAT?!

Oh, turns out she meant free ebooks (thanks auto-correct) courtesy of the NYPL, celebrating the new free wi-fi on trains. Here’s a pic of the “book train” my nephew was on, which is pretty cool:

Are you starting to see why I haven’t posted for a while? There’s a lot going on but none of it is particularly interesting, let alone blog-worthy.

But I’m plugging along with the current story, in spite of having NO IDEA what I’m going to do with it once I’m done. I suspect that’s part of why it’s taking so long to finish. I’m dragging my feet — er, fingers? — and putting off that decision.

There’s so much uncertainty hovering over this particular project and it has me feeling all ambivalent and lacking momentum and at the same time completely stressed out.

One of my writer friends summed it up well a week or so ago in a group forum when she said she felt stuck because she couldn’t decide what to do with her story once she was done– whether to query agents or self-pub. In my mind I was all, “YES, EXACTLY.” But I didn’t say anything because I have no advice for her. It’s the kind of decision a writer has to make for herself. I know all the options, all the pros and cons of each, have read ALL the facts and opinions out there. And I can’t fucking make up my mind. Or rather, I make up my mind only to change it the next day, or the next hour, each time absolutely convinced I’ve finally made the best choice for this story. And then change my mind again.

I can’t adequately describe how frustrating this is. I’ve faced decisions in my life that were difficult, or that made me uncomfortable even when I knew what was for the best. I’ve honestly never encountered a decision like this where the sides are so evenly balanced that I don’t know what to do. Yeah, I’m a mess.

I know, I know. Cue the tiny first-world-problem violins. I need to just finish the story and THEN decide what to do. I’m trying. Actually, I’m very near to being done enough for delta readers.

And really, I need to hurry up and finish before my distractions manifest in physical form.

In two weeks.

I’m just glad they’re not arriving via ferry.

 

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Filed under blogging, just for fun, parenting, writing

Winter Storm Advice for Southerners

Ah, here we go again. Wintry precipitation is imminent here in the South and people are reacting with their usual calm indifference.

Not.

The typical attitude down here is actually really interesting, a weird hyper-anticipation that I haven’t seen for any other type of weather. The energy is almost tangible. It involves a combination of both panic and elation, depending on your age and the likelihood of skipping a few days of work or school. And whether you own a device suitable for sledding.

The forecast this time (ever-evolving and subject to last minute change) calls for either 4-6 inches of snow or a bunch of sleet followed by a layer of snow. So not nearly as bad as freezing rain, but just the right combination to cause all sorts of problems for those venturing forth to traverse our many hills. Also, power outages. Because that always happens.

In addition, it will be unusually cold afterward, with low temps forecast to be 9 on Saturday and 0 on Sunday (Fahrenheit). Apparently, our all-time record low is -9. Downright balmy, for this Minnesotan, but almost unheard of here in NC.

To give you some perspective, this is from our local weather people: “In 130 years, we’ve only been below zero four times in Raleigh, and we’ve only hit zero four other times.” –WRAL

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So in honour of all this shivery news, today I’m re-posting something I wrote a few years ago, when we were expecting an icier storm. Given that my blog followers have somehow multiplied 10x in the past year, one or two of you might not have seen this. The advice is mostly for writers, but I’m sure all you non-writers can adapt it for your own use.

*   *   *

From February 2014:

We here in the South are supposed to get some nasty weather later today. Several inches of snow followed by the dreaded coating of ICE. Or so they say. But even 1/4-inch of ice is cause for concern, as that’s enough to bring down power lines. And when the forecast predicts there will be a significant coating of ice over a large geographic area, well, it means people here are sort of freaking out.

I grew up in Minnesota where winter was just something that happened every year. Cold, snow, wind, even ice. It wasn’t really a big deal.

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But I’ve lived in the South long enough to know how traumatic and disorienting it is to suddenly have to cope with the arrival of something other than daffodils in early February. So I decided this was a good time to give you all some advice about how to prepare for and handle icy winter weather.

This advice is specifically directed to all the writers out there. Because I know how vulnerable we writers are when faced with the harsh implacability of the real world. We need all the help we can get.

At this late date, mere hours before the onslaught of precipitation, if you haven’t yet made a trip to the grocery or liquor store, you’re flat out of luck. Believe me, those shelves are bare. And honestly, if you’re a writer and you don’t have at least a week’s worth of liquor stocked up at all times . . . what kind of writer are you, anyway?

You’re going to have to make do with what you have at hand. So let’s start with some basics.

Run the dishwasher. Yes, really. Do I even need to explain this? Do this now while you still have power.

Do a load of laundry. If you lose power, in the winter, even in the South, it’s going to get cold in your house. You might need to actually put on a pair of pants. I know, desperate measures. But if someone needs to come rescue you, for whatever reason, clean pants are a lot easier to explain than . . . well, that’s sort of the point. Clean pants won’t need explanation. Unlike your current laundry pile.

Make soup. Yes, soup. Surely you have some quantity of chicken or beef in your freezer, festering, waiting for you to do something with it. So make soup. Right now, while the stove still works. Add some thyme and sliced carrots and barley. Dumplings, even. Yes, the prospect of eating cold leftover soup is rather unappetizing. But it’s infinitely more palatable, and less life-threatening, than eating thawed raw meat.

Hard boil some eggs. You do have eggs, right? The unequivocal accompaniment for bacon? Same concept as the soup. No one wants to eat raw eggs. Hardboiled eggs are a good source of protein and . . . other stuff. You can even use the egg decorating dyes and stickers leftover from last Easter to add some festive colour to your power outage.

Take a shower. I know, it hasn’t even been a week since the last one. But weather extremes sometimes cause people to have to interact with strangers — calm down, this is just a possibility and not some dire portent set in stone — and it’s best not to frighten the neighbours unnecessarily.

Update your spreadsheet of food sources. Speaking of neighbours, I assume you’ve been keeping stats about which ones might be the best targets in terms of easy takedown and tender flesh. Avoid drug addicts and alcoholics and extreme athletes who tend toward gristle. Families with small succulent children are likely sources. Um, wait. Sorry, that’s advice for the zombie apocalypse. Heh. Never mind.

Locate sources of combustibles. Identify which neighbours have random unattended cords of firewood. Or a less than sturdy weathered deck. Or a rotting fence that’s on the verge of falling down. I know you’ve been too distracted writing the latest story to stock your own woodpile, so you’re going to need access to a supply of seasoned firewood that doesn’t necessitate taking an axe to granny’s rocking chair or the dining room table.

Keep your curtains closed. People will tell you this is a buffer to keep the warm air inside, or to keep the cold air outside. Nonsense. This is to keep your neighbours from spying on you to determine whether you have any small children or meaty pets. What? You think they don’t have their own spreadsheets?

Have a backup heat source. Speaking of pets, it has been scientifically proven by people who wake up in the night, sweating, with a cat plastered to their side, that cats generate enough BTUs in one night to power a small country. Of course, if you show any sign of wanting them to keep you warm, they will ignore you. Indefinitely. So be clever. Tell them how pretty they are. Dole out treats judiciously. Lull them into a state of complacency before you burrow your icy cold hands into their soft warm stomach fur. Caution: Be sure you’ve stocked up on antiseptic and bandages before using cats as a heat source. As with any heat source, use proper ventilation at all times.

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Wear a hat. If you lose power, you will be cold. Wearing a hat, especially if it’s a particularly stylish hat, will make you feel better and keep your brain warm while the rest of your body slowly freezes to death. Also, socks are something to consider if you are overly concerned about retaining use of your lower extremities.

Download more ebooks. You’ve charged up your ereader of choice, right? So you might want to stock up on new stories to read during the impending power outage. Might I suggest my latest novella? Coincidentally, it’s a short sweet story of two people who get stuck in a remote mountain cabin during a snowstorm. Perfect reading for this weather! Ahem.

Play games! After hours (or mere minutes) without electricity, your laptop and cell phone batteries will die and you’ll no longer be able to play Words With Friends. Okay, settle down. I know this seems like extreme hardship. But this is a great time to dig out the actual Scrabble board game that you forgot you even had. You live alone? No problem. You can play with yourself! Er, that is, play against yourself. And since those pesky tiles will slide all over the place if you move the board, you’ll burn calories and generate heat by running back and forth from one side of the table to the other as you take turns. This is the perfect opportunity to use all those creative words the #%$^@ computer says aren’t really words, or to play words that go off the grid by just one space. Or three.

Write!! Of course, this should be the first thing on any writer’s list of things to do during inclement apocalypse weather. Of course it is. Who needs a computer, anyway? Did Plato have a computer? Did Shakespeare? Austen or Hemmingway? Did Franzen— okay, never mind. Harsh weather is punishment enough. But seriously, severe temperatures and lack of electricity are not sufficient reasons to stop writing. Dig out that pad of paper and a pen. Or pencil, if the ink and quill have frozen. Who cares if your handwriting is indecipherable? You’re going to re-write the damn thing anyway, right? This is your chance, maybe your only chance, to experience first hand that whole romanticized starving artist living in a freezing garret with a broken heart and shattered innocence and surviving on a heel of moldy bread and cheap bottle of wine lifestyle we’ve all heard so much about and foolishly envied.

Um, you did stock up on the broken heart and cheap wine along with the bread, right? I figure there are some basic survival techniques I just shouldn’t have to enumerate.

So, good luck surviving the impending weather. At the very least, wrap up your sense of humour in a soft wool scarf and offer it a dram of the finest whisky. After all, the chances are slim to none that you’ll make it through this storm intact without it.

 

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Filed under just for fun

Yet another incident of critters in the fireplace, dammit

How to rescue a tree frog you discover jumping around and climbing the inside of your glass fireplace doors at midnight and driving the cat insane, in just 10 Easy — oh, who am I kidding — in 30 Not-So-Easy Steps:

1. Spend 10 minutes debating whether the frog is capable of getting out on its own. Remember the squirrel that died in there on top of the damper a couple years ago and how awful it smelled. Also, death flies. Resign yourself to performing sooty acts of heroism at midnight.

2. Put the cat in the bathroom. This is important, as the cat is faster than you are and she has been stalking that stupid frog for 20 minutes. She really wants that frog.

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3. Retrieve the cat [see above re: faster], who now knows what you’re up to. Put her in the bathroom, again.

4. Decide you don’t particularly want to touch the frog. Get a paper towel.

5. Realize a dry paper towel will stick to the frog and you will have to touch the stupid creature to pry off bits of paper towel upon release.

6. Go back into kitchen and return with a damp paper towel.

7. Reassure the cat that NOTHING IS HAPPENING OUT HERE CALM DOWN.

8. Try to find the stupid fucking frog, which has now disappeared.

9. Find the flashlight. Hope it works.

10. Spend five minutes cursing the now absent frog, wondering how it is even possible for a frog to climb a two-story house and get past the supposedly critter-proof chimney cap and survive the drop and still have enough energy to torment the cat and then be wily enough to HIDE FROM YOU WHEN YOU’RE TRYING TO SAVE ITS STUPID LIFE HERE GODDAMMIT.

11. Take a deep breath and back away to reassess frog/fireplace logistics and have a sip, okay maybe a couple big gulps, of wine.

12. Reassure the cat once again that THERE’S NOTHING INTERESTING HAPPENING OUT HERE ISN’T THE BATHROOM LOVELY AT THIS TIME OF NIGHT OH JUST BE QUIET PROBABLY THE NEIGHBOURS CAN HEAR YOU.

13. Open the glass fireplace doors even wider and stick your head inside because you are now determined to save this frog like it is the only frog left in your entire ecosystem and the fate of the known world hangs in the balance. Plus, DEATH FLIES.

14. Realize the frog is quietly crouched three inches from your face on the front edge of the door frame staring at you like WHAT THE HELL EVEN IS YOUR PROBLEM WHEN IT’S BEING SO FUCKING COOPERATIVE SITTING THERE PATIENTLY WAITING FOR YOU.

15. Gently pick up the frog and wrap the damp paper towel lovingly over its filthy little ash-covered body.

16. DO NOT DROP THE FROG.

17. Try to ignore how it feels like you’re holding an eviscerated still-beating heart as the frog thumps against your palm and loosely curled fingers and tries valiantly to escape.

18. CHRIST DO NOT SQUISH THE FROG.

19. Head to the back door and freeze with your hand on the knob when you abruptly realize you can’t put the frog on the deck because there’s a BIG ASS SCARY SPIDER THAT HAS BUILT A MASSIVE WEB RIGHT THERE NEXT TO THE DOOR FROM WHENCE IT HAS BEEN TERRORIZING YOU FOR THE PAST WEEK. FUCK. THAT. WAS. CLOSE.

20. Mutter increasingly vile curse words under your breath as your heart rate returns to somewhat normal and you once again reassure the cat that THIS WILL BE OVER ANY MINUTE NOW JUST HANG ON DAMMIT STOP STRIPPING THE FINISH OFF THE DOOR.

21. Carry your throbbing bundle-o-frog to the front door and open it and gently DO NOT FLING THE FROG RECKLESSLY INTO THE NIGHT YOU MONSTER gently place it on the front step and tell it to go now and live free and TRY NOT TO GET EATEN and maybe USE BETTER JUDGMENT next time when confronted with a chimney because you’ve just gone to GREAT LENGTHS to save its stupid life PLEASE AND THANK YOU and hope no one is out there walking their dog who might witness you having a one-sided conversation with a goddamned frog on your front stoop in pajamas at midnight and decide to stage an intervention.

22. Nonchalantly, like you didn’t see that curtain twitch in the window next door and you do this ALL THE TIME YOU’RE A WRITER DAMMIT YOU MAKE STUFF UP FOR A LIVING WHAT DID THEY EXPECT ANYWAY, go back inside and close and lock the front door.

23. Close the glass fireplace doors.

24. Open the bathroom door and STAND THE HELL BACK. [Note: it is important to do steps 22 thru 24 in this precise order.]

25. Dispose of all frog related evidence and wash your hands. Thoroughly.

26. Place an apologetic offering of kitty treats on the hearth, which will be totally ignored due to lack of movement and also a heartbeat. Cats are barbarians.

27. Refill your wine glass and offer up a sardonic toast to the Frog Gods and their DEATH FLIES BRETHREN. Imbibe freely.

28. Pretend to be impervious to the cat glaring and sulking and withholding all signs of affection for . . . looks at clock . . . well, for however long it takes.

29. Take a picture of the cat, still stalking that stupid damned frog at noon the next day.

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30. Write a blog post about it, because of course.

 

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