The Quincy Writers Guild’s conference Wordstock was a success. I was going to tell you all about it, because, you know, I was one of the presenters and all, but it turns out there were some technical difficulties getting the photos and stuff ready for the blog–and I mean technical, people. As in, my mommy (Hi, MOM!) took all the photos and has since been visiting my Gram, a woman who still considers her 20-year old coffee maker to be a state-of-the-art technological marvel. In other words, all my photos are trapped in the Netherworld of Technology, also known as The Bottom Of My Mom’s Purse (a truly dark and scary place). So we’ll talk about that at a later date, possibly as early as Thursday or as late as next Tuesday (or whenever my mom excavates the camera from her purse). (No pressure, Mom!)

I did it!

If you remember my rather modest goals from last week:

Hmmm.

Whaddya think? I have some problems with it, as a whole.

First, the hat. I mean, I know I have a huge head, but man oh man, there is nothing like a cowboy hat to make that sucker look the size of Pluto. Not quite planet-size, but still damn big.

Remember, this is my father’s hat. My father’s. On him, it was not planetoid-sized. But I’m something of a more delicate flower. And, as such, I have not yet developed the gumption to wear the hat out in public. Plus, the hat is snug. I have no doubts that it would stay firmly in place if I were to take off at top galloping speed on a horse. But if I were to take off the hat, like at a restaurant? Major, super, colossal hat-hair. Not good.

And the belt? Lord, I need help with the belt situation. See, I’m a woman of many hips and muchas thighs. What those health-conscious people like to refer to as a ‘pear.’ (Tangent: I married a cinnamon stick, the third, under-discussed, food-shaped body type. Holding out hope the boy is more cinnamon-y than pear-ish. So far, so good.)

Anyway, back to the belt. What this pear-ness means is that, when I have a belt on and things tucked in, I’m looking a little lumpy. The tucked-in shirt always blouses up, muffin-like, erasing whatever I’ve got that passes for a waist. So, as you can see, I try the not-tucked-semi-tucked look here. The success of this is, well, mitigated, don’t you think? I’m open to suggestions on how to resolve this issue. Anything short of plastic surgery, which is not in my current budget.

The long shot is better. The jeans are pretty good, don’t you think?

These photos are courtesy the Lovely Mary. She took them at work for me, because there’s something about a small editorial office that says Fridays is Casual Cowboy Day, don’t you think?

The image thing is becoming a pressing issue. In less than a month, I will go to the San Francisco Writers Conference. I will talk to editors and other authors and, of course, my agent, because my agency is holding the whole thing. And when I tell people I write New Westerns, I need them to believe it–not even a flicker of a “Really? Huh,” to cross their minds. I need to own my look by then, because otherwise, I’m just playing dress-up and that’s just silly.

So let me know what you think. Keep it clean and positive, please. I’m plenty neurotic all by myself.

I’ll be honest, Loyal Readers. I’m talking to you, family and friends who have dutifully checked out this site once a week for almost two years now. That’s 90+ blogs if you’re keeping track at home, although I wouldn’t have the first foggy idea why you would do that.

Honestly? I’ve got nothing. Sure, I could detail awkward social gatherings (another two down!) I could take pictures of my dogs. Again.

Ahem.

But that’s not what you really want, especially you, NEW readers. You want humor. You want giggles. You demand them. And who am I to deny you a little levity?

So, I’m re-posting. “How to Wrap a Present in 29 Easy Steps” was first posted on Dec. 4th, 2008, and I still think it’s just about the funniest thing I’ve written. I’ve added a photo now and an update at the end, so it’s a “second edition,” if you will.

Without further ado (as if this hasn’t been enough ado!), I present “How to Wrap a Present in 29 Easy Steps” for your reading enjoyment!

In my capacity as Authorial Mom, I thought I would offer these 29 steps to easier, more beautiful presents. Just follow this easy program to achieve the same kind of Christmas Satisfaction that the Authorial Mom basks in practically year-round.

1. Buy awesome gifts that your child(ren) will love, like the aircraft carrier complete with die-cast planes and helicopters, real aircraft sounds, and a control tower.

Yeah, like that one.

2. Hide it in the garage and pray your child(ren) won’t notice it.

3. Assemble your wrapping supplies: Festive paper, sharp scissors, and clear tape.

4. Realize someone used your best scissors to mutilate crayons. Decide to forge ahead anyway.

5. Heft aircraft carrier out of garage. Realize that it’s 2 1/2 feet long and 9 inches tall at the tower. Not exactly regularly shaped. And because you bought it for a song at a thrift store, it did not come with in-store wrapping, or even a box. Its only covering is a garbage bag.

6. Begin frantically tearing through your insane stash of boxes accumulated over a lifetime of hording for something big enough to fit an aircraft carrier.

7. Repeat process with festive holiday bags. Again, come up short – literally.

8. Decide to make your own box, just like your father-in-law does.

9. Mutilate six boxes trying to find enough matching parts to encase an aircraft carrier.

10. Give up trying to match box sizes after giving yourself the mother of all paper cuts. Go get a glass of wine and a band-aid. Several band-aids.

11. Newly fortified, return to the battle scene. Begin taping box parts around aircraft carrier.

12. Realize control tower isn’t removable. Remove it anyway (using the tips of your ruined scissors) and tape it to the side.

13. Run out of tape.

14. Get another glass of wine while tearing the house apart for more tape. Settle on packing tape. It’s still clear, after all.

15. Return to the battle scene. Experience a pang of liberal guilt for giving innocent child a war toy for Christmas. Finish wine and get over it quickly.

16. Begin wrapping festive paper around jerry-rigged box-like covering.

17. Run out of festive paper, leaving a three inch gap between edges.

18. More wine as you debate how to cover the gap.

19. Settle on using different festive paper. Reason that Santa has to improvise, too.

20. Another paper cut.

21. The secret to beautifully wrapped presents is the crisp creases on the edges. Realize that there are no edges on your aircraft carrier you can crease the paper on without poking the tower out through the side.

22. Poke the tower out through the side.

23. Begin rooting around for Christmas ribbon to wrap over the hole the tower made.

24. Find acceptable ribbon. Begin wrapping around carrier.

25. Run out of ribbon.

26. Realize that all children like bows. Dump out whole bag of bows and apply liberally.

27. Stand back and, glass of wine in hand, admire your dedicated handiwork.

28. Overcome by holiday spirits, go lay down until Christmas is over.

There! Wasn’t that easy? And the true reward for all your hard work will come Christmas morning, when your child(ren) will rush down, see the highly festive package under the tree, demolish the whole thing in under three seconds, and spend the rest of the day building sheds for trains he already has out of the mutilated box parts and bows, leaving the aircraft carrier to collect dust in the corner. Finally arrive at:

29. Next year, all the presents will be in garbage bags. With a bow.

Update: The child ‘drives’ the air-craft carrier around the dining room, landing planes, trains, and occasionally automobiles on its deck. Despite the scars left from wrapping the damn thing, it was still the best five bucks I ever spent at a thrift store!

The Authorial Mom will be taking next week off and spending it with as many of the child’s grandparents as possible. So, let me take this moment to say, Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and HAPPY HOLIDAYS!

Halloween is nigh approaching. How can I tell? The signs are all there.

The pumpkins are getting all gussied up.

We grew these pumpkins ourselves. They were ours to do as we saw fit with. And we saw fit to do this with them:

I’m particularly proud of this one:

And on the other side:

Yeah, that’s right. I did that one.

This pumpkin is proud. And Loud.

Those pumpkins got off easy. Just a little makeover. Some pumpkins weren’t so lucky.

The horror. Oh, the horror.

You’ll note that I’m not removing any pumpkin parts. I was emotionally scarred by being forced to carve my own pumpkin in Girl Scouts in second grade. I nearly threw up in my pumpkin. Ever since, I’ve kept a safe distance.

That face–that face will haunt me for at least four more days.

Really.

Other signs of the approaching Halloween? My son’s teeth have been possessed by wiggly, giggly spirits. These relentless spirits are going to wiggle and giggle those two teeth right out of his head, just as soon as he lets me near his mouth.

He’s four and a half years old. This seems early for multiple teeth to be on their way out–and multiple teeth to already be coming in–but he did get those teeth at–you guessed it–four and a half months. So it’s all good.

Things got really, really scary this morning. At almost the same moment, evil spirits possessed both my head and my computer.

Not really. But perhaps the spirits did, in fact, possess my son, who launched a dog toy at the computer. So you’ll have to forgive me it there’s anything a little wonky about today’s posting, because, trust me, there’s a lot wonky going on at my house.

I blame Halloween.

Is . . .

Is . .

Is . . .

Is . . .

Is . . .

Is . . .

Is . . .

Um, okay. That’s cute. We’ll allow it.

Is . . .

Um, well, that’s a dog sniffing for ground squirrels. Still cute, though. We’ll allow it.

Is . . .

Oh–wait–what?

Okay, that’s a zombie on a spit. That is not a thing of beauty at all. Unless you’re my neighbor, in which case zombies on a spit are, in fact, joys forever.

Is . . .

Hmmm.

That answers that question. A thing of beauty is a joy for about four days.

And then it’s a solid weekend of yard work.

Oh, stop being such a fatalist. I’m talking about home improvement projects.

Before:

During (phase one):

During (phase two):

After:

We’ve never done wallpaper–and yes, I’m counting border in that category–before. I think it turned out well.

It’s not done. Any experienced home remodeled knows that the project is never, ever done. There’s this:

Note the baseboard–it’s still in the garage. Also, note the shocking lack of bookcases. And, of course, the pictures. See all these:

Some part or whole of all those pictures in all those frames have to be decoratively applied to walls.

Like this original work I bought at an auction:

I thought over here would be nice, between the window and the tall case, right over the chair:

But you know what my four-year-old son said when I asked if he liked it there? And I quote: “Not so much.” This is the problem with raising a boy with taste. Everyone’s a critic.

Still, this week, I sat in my office, finished the Vegetarian book, and started Redeeming Vicky.

For every ending, there’s a new beginning. Even with home improvement projects.

Back at the ranch, other stuff is going.

Last weekend, we got the heck out of dodge and went to Peoria. Why, you ask? Because many, many people have asked why the heck we went to Peoria, often while wearing the same expression one might have when they discover that their neighbor clubs baby seals as a hobby.

Three reasons:
1. It was close. In a Prius, it took less than a tank of gas, round trip. Less than five hours total driving time.
2. There was an orchard–Tanner Orchards. The website said ponies and barrel trains, which didn’t actually start until Sept. 1, but there were apples, my son’s second fruit of choice (strawberries are first), goats to feed, and a kick-butt playground. We played for hours.
3. They have baseball. The Peoria Chiefs are a Cubs single A farm team. We just missed seeing Carlos Zambrano’s rehab stint. Plus, they also had a kick-butt playground. And fireworks. And Dippin’ Dots. And a big dalmatian for a mascot. Frankly, when you’re four, it don’t get no better than that.

But wait! There’s more!

I taught the fourth session of my new ESL class last night. Eight people so far, from all corners of Asia and South America. The levels vary from advanced beginner to advanced plus. (No, I didn’t come up with those designations. Yes, they’re real designations.) I used to teach five hours a day, five days a week with the same class. Now? Two hours a day, two days a week. I get finished with my opening activity, and only have 20 minutes left. Reentry is occasionally a little rough, but otherwise it’s going well.

This afternoon, I’m going carpet shopping with my mom and gram. Why? Because my gram is the kind of woman who believes, deep down in her soul, that a nice house has carpet in the kitchen. And there is no talking her out of this travesty of woven fabric. Trust me, I’ve tried.

I’ve got shrubbery to put in the ground (pictures forthcoming next week) (I hope), and walls to paint (ditto). Can’t do that until the floor dries.

Gratuitous floor pictures:

Before . . .

During . . . (Note the primed walls and painted ceiling. Do not note the temporary light fixture.)

After. Ooooh, pretty. It almost makes up for the odor of urethane that has permeated every single thing in my house.

Toss in some dishes in the sink and mounds of laundry, and it’s just another week here at the Anderson homestead.

Really.

So, I give up.

I’m on Facebook.

I fought this for as long as I could. The list of reasons why is long, starting with the most obvious one to me: I’m not that interesting. Really. I bore myself, what with the sitting around and typing all the time. Nothing about my life could be described as ‘fabulous.’ (I happen to love my life, but ‘fabulous’ it ain’t.)

My other major concern was privacy. I’m a naturally paranoid person, and there are a lot of, um, interesting people out there I’d just as rather not have in my living room, either in person or on the computer.

But the numerous workshops I went to at the RWA National Conference two weeks ago pretty much made it obvious that, as a free, easy, and accessible marketing platform, you can’t beat Facebook. Build your brand, I heard over and over again. Be accessible to your readers.

And if you can’t beat them, join them.

And I’ll say this. So far, it’s not so bad. I’m ‘friends’ with a whole slew of people I went to high school with, but haven’t talked to in ten to fifteen years. There’s something powerfully nostalgic about seeing what people who are firmly tied to a time and place in my psyche are doing. It’s great to see the guy who wanted to be a surgeon when he grew up is actually a surgeon, or the guy who wanted to be a firefighter is an actual firefighter. It’s weird to see people, who I know broke up after high school, married with babies to people I don’t know at all. (Yes, I’m aware I did the same thing. It’s still odd.) As sappy as it sounds, it makes me happy to know that a lot of these people turned out okay. Same for some people I went to college with. People get married, have families, and do the best they can. Just like me.

However, thus far, I’m friends with people who know or knew me in some way or another. That’s fine. I have no other possible readers with whom I should be building my brand. (Update: For all those who are interested, it will be two to three months before I hear anything about editors. Most likely. Can you cross your fingers that long?) But being that ‘out there’ still makes me nervous. I already got an email from some guy (I’m guessing) who just said, “hello sara.” Um, hello? My name has an ‘h’ on it? Says so everywhere? Clearly not someone I know, and making ‘friends’ with strangers is not my strong suite. Ask all four of my friends these days.

But I’m trying. I’m stepping out of my comfort zone, one baby step at a time (name that film!). So, if you want, you can come be my friend. I promise not to think you’re, um, interesting. Unless, of course, you are.

My Karma is happy. I got second in the Fire and Ice Contest! WOOOOHOOOO!!

I had such a great day–meeting with my agent, talking to people–that I didn’t want to win first. It seemed like it was asking too much of ‘good luck.’ It’s like after I finaled in this contest and was signed by the agent on my birthday, people told me I needed to buy a lottery ticket. But that felt greedy. I want to keep the balance, so second is the way to go.

Met some really nice people. Having a great time. And drank a lot of champagne at the reception.

More later!