Facebooking my Likes

The sidebar ads on Facebook are very revealing about who we are as individuals. Apparently, the little ninjas who live in the Facebook website are constantly deciphering our private info and comments, and figuring out what we should be interested in at our age, what our likes and dislikes are, and whether or not we need weight-loss help.

Yes, the one ad that keeps popping up on my screen would be a new diet plan. How do they know I continue to struggle with this last ten pounds? Do they have a two-way mirror built into the site? The diet ad that I clicked on the other day certainly was going where no woman has gone before. It didn’t say I would lose weight by sleeping, eating what I like, or taking pills. It actually said healthy foods like Sweet potatoes, Millet, Avocados, nuts, and Quinoa were something I should get into. I don’t even know what Millet and Quinoa are! So that diets a bust. If she’d said I had to wear Ostrich feathers and soak in a bath of soybean oil, I wouldn’t have been any less willing to try her ideas.

What’s doubly strange is that the next ad I see is usually for food products. I’m pretty sure those delicious cupcakes in the full color photograph are not made with Millet or Quinoa. Obviously those ninjas are slightly sadistic.

Then there are “Sleep Aid” ads. Are all women my age having sleeping problems or do the ninjas somehow sneak out of the computer and watch me during the night? That could account for strange sounds I sometimes hear coming from my office across the hall. Which also could be why I can’t sleep!

The ads for writers are obvious. The ninjas have read my bio. They know I have a novel and that I’m constantly looking for new ways to advertise and publish. Except their ads are usually for some quack place that says they can turn me into a best-selling author overnight. Sort of like those art ads they used to have in the back of the TV Guide. Draw this skunk and we’ll tell you if you have talent.

Another ad that keeps popping up on my sidebar is “What Would Magnum Do?” How the ninjas know that I still have a thing for Magnum is beyond me, but confusing him with Jesus is slightly bizarre. This company sells t-shirts and stuff out of Detroit, which sounds fishy in and of itself. I’ve heard Detroit is a ghost town and on the edge of complete annihilation, but here is this thriving t-shirt business trying to hock Magnum P.I’s image on Facebook to a lonely, tired, overweight, starving writer. How cruel is that?

Unknown Languages & Decoder Rings

Archeologists have again made an amazing find. They discovered a letter at a 17^th century dig site in Peru, and have concluded that it is written in an unknown language that hasn’t been spoken since who knows how long. They can’t really say for sure cause no one has ever seen or heard of it before. That makes for a very confusing conclusion on their find. But since it’s unknown to them, it must be at least hundreds of years old, if not thousands. Most things archeologists find are. Obviously. They are archeologists after all. What fun would it be if they found a letter that was say…two weeks old? Not very fun. And they certainly couldn’t publish their findings in the Journal American Archeologist. Once again, those wily archeologists held off telling anyone about their cool find for two years or more, just so they could surprise us all in the JAA. Of course, most people don’t have a subscription to the JAA, so we have to hear the big news on yahoo.

This letter contains a column of numbers written in Spanish and translated into an unknown language on the other side. I don’t know how many of you did this very thing when you were kids, but making up secret languages is not that hard. I used to do it all the time. If my secret notes were buried under bricks thirty-five years ago and just discovered today, I’m thinking the paper would look way more tattered than this note. Did you notice how little wear and tear there is in the photo? Really?

This letter was supposedly hiding under a pile of bricks at the site of a collapsed church that had been inhabited only by friars for the past two hundred years. The piece of paper has no holes, isn’t falling apart, and is just a little stained in the creases. That is some preservation!

I’m not saying they aren’t right, but maybe they should look into another, much simpler, explanation. Are they quite sure local school children weren’t playing hide-and-seek while the highly trained team of archeologists went for burritos at lunchtime? Cause that would be my guess. Unless they had a Pizza Hut nearby. They may have gone there.

Completely Random Autumn Thoughts

Autumn hit like a ton of falling orange and red leaves this week. Which makes me wonder if a ton of leaves would hurt as much as a ton of bricks—if they fell on me. I’m thinking not, but I could be wrong. I wasn’t much into science in school.

The gray skies and changing colors seem too soon this year, but I know we’ve had the trees dump all their plumage early on in September before. It makes it much harder to find the pup’s fragrant offerings in the yard, until I slip and slide through them. But that’s life with dogs.

Otherwise, fall’s bright colors floating down on the still-green lawn is actually quite lovely. Autumn is my favorite season. It just never seems to last for a fair share of the year. The colors come and go so quickly and everything turns to brown overnight.  

I’ve been working on my sequel to Entangled this past week, trying not to be distracted by the colors outside my window or my dogs persistent begging to go for a walk. Like they need walks. I feed and water them. What else do they expect? Attention?

I’m still waiting for that breakthrough moment when I suddenly have my entire plot and everything figured out and take off typing like a maniac. That would be nice. I’ve had that with books before, but so far this one is not cooperating. I’ve even dreamed plots before. Which is great, because you can work while you sleep.

Maybe I need to do more research. I do know that eking out one sentence at a time is painful. Especially when I go back and delete it later anyway.

Speaking of research, I haven’t once visited the new library in town. I know it’s probably just the same as the other county libraries around the southern suburbs, but the building is new and is being paid for by our tax money, so I should probably look inside one of these days.

Autumn also means that road construction is in full swing. Our neighborhood is overrun right now with dump trucks, cement trucks, tractors and men with shovels. It’s louder in my yard than a jet airplane landing strip. They’ve torn up nearly every foot of road and sidewalk for blocks and blocks and now are slowly piecing it back together again, like a giant jigsaw puzzle that was chewed up and spit out by a Doberman. More tax money at work for our good. I thought the five-foot wide blacktop sidewalks were great, but someone decided little narrow cement sidewalks would be much more pleasing to the eye. I just don’t know where the neighbor children will park all their toys and bicycles now.

Another happy thing about Autumn is that new episodes of my favorite shows are finally here. Chuck starts its new season tonight on NBC. Just in time too, cause my other favorite show, The Closer, just finished its short season last week.

Is it just shows that start with a C that I like, you may ask? No indeed. I like shows that don’t have reality “stars,” no one has to eat bugs to continue to the next level, no one gets a make-over, no one cooks up jambalaya or pot stickers for a live audience, and no one has a special talent that involves dancing, tightrope walking, or sword swallowing. In other words, I like "real acting." Is that an oxymoron?

My autumn ramblings must come to an end. Back to work on my book.
  

Ps. Stay tuned! In the next few days, some fellow bloggers will be interviewing me and doing book reviews for Entangled. Today is the first. Check out my author interview at "One Writer's Journey" and leave a comment for a chance to win a free download of my ebook.

Mud Bunny Spa

The Grouches "Mad at MS"

This past Saturday I participated in the Mud Run Twin Cities benefiting the National Multiple Sclerosis Society. Our team of six brave--or foolhardy women--however you choose to look at it, joined the fray of hundreds of eager teams chomping at the bit to run approximately six miles of wickedly rough and steep terrain, dotted with dozens and dozens of mud pits, puddles, boulders, logs, hurdles, and military style obstacles. Sound like fun yet?

When I first signed up, I naively believed the word "Mud" in the title was just one of those unnecessary adjectives writers tend to throw in to spice things up--maybe describing what could happen if it rained. Like some people call their porch a "Mud Room." Is this room literally filled with mud? No. Not so with the Mud Run at Trollhaugen Ski Resort. It is literally filled with mud. The entire woods--FULL OF MUD. Mud holes, muddy rocks, muddy ponds, mud bogs, mud puddles, mud paths, mud slides.

I remember getting dirty as a kid. I don't remember ever getting this dirty. I didn't know it was possible to get this dirty. Even that guy on "Dirty Jobs" never got this dirty.

I wore military jungle boots and pants because that's what the website suggested as appropriate attire. My teammates did not take the suggestion to heart as I did. They wore tennis shoes and wimpy little capri pants. What can I say? They were lucky to come out of the woods still fully clothed. The mud bogs very nearly sucked our legs off, much less our shoes. But I was totally prepared. I've watched The Princess Bride many times and know all about lightening sand, flame spurts, and rodents of unusual size. The only one of those we didn't deal with was the R.O.U.S's -- but that's just because they obviously had all died in the mud bogs. The smell of dead things and sewage was unmistakable as we crawled under logs placed across the water and let the slime ooze over us. What a special treat that was.

I was glad to hear on the morning news that this is "National Spa week," although our team started a day early. I'm pretty sure Saturday's mud baths will prove to be tremendously helpful in giving us all younger looking skin. The decaying properties alone should peel away years and years. Of course some of our teammates can't afford to peel away too many years or they'll be back in high school. I received an added spa bonus. The blonde highlights in my hair were magically turned to orange from the mud. So, I even got a free hair color change just in time for fall. Is that awesome, or what?

The Mud Run was hard, painful at times, and definitely down and dirty, but it was also fun and exciting to run with a team of women who "had my back." I'm quite sure that if I fell from the rope wall, they would have helped me limp to a waiting ambulance. After all, when my jungle boot was sucked down to the bottom of a mud bog, they did stop and pull me out. I don't know how they managed with those wimpy tennis shoes though...

It's Hip To Be Square

Labor day is a holiday for many and a work day for those with jobs. Which is actually a good thing since we're in such an economic turndown, or depression, or whatever they choose to call it these days. The people without jobs probably call it, Crapola-on-a-stick, in celebration of Labor Day also being the last day of the Minnesota Fair.

I went to the fair last week, while it was still hot enough to bake chocolate chip cookies on the sidewalk. I'm pretty sure that was how "Sweet Martha's" kept baking during the power outage that day. Other places were closed for a time, but not the cookie house. They were handing out cookies faster than condoms from a high school nurse.

My friend and I were able to do something that has always been a dream of mine--(actually more of a nightmare)--Square dancing. Yes, you read that right. An old man (much older than me) literally yanked our lemonades from our hands and pulled us up on the stage in forced participation of a rousing semblance of the Art Linkletter Show.

Four of us women contestants, four feeble, crusty, male dance partners with sweaty hands, and one obnoxious "caller" with a microphone, was all it took to bring out the hidden dancer within me. I know I've stated before that Baptists Don't Dance, but you should have seen me. I'm sure it was an awesome sight to behold. I definitely had my Square on.

The short little, gnarled man I was paired with had one snaggle tooth and possibly a glass eye. It stared unblinkingly as we turned to "face our partners," making me look away like my dog does when we have stare-downs. His hands were twisted with arthritis, but he gripped my fingers tight enough to keep me from running off. He wasn't much of a talker, but when I asked him directly, he informed me that he'd been square dancing for twenty-eight years. Obviously he liked his women in twirly, ruffled skirts and peasant blouses.

I'm still not sure what a "dosy doe" is but if Simon Cowell had passed our way I think he would have given us a yellow ticket to go on to the Hollywood phase of Square Dancing.

We spent many long, hot hours at the fair that day, collected free stuff, ate greasy stuff, and bought a can of dried salsa that will probably outlast my future grandchildren, but the highlight has to be our moment in the spotlight, up on that little round stage, dancing a square and wishing I could be anywhere else but there. It was awesome. And now I no longer worry about square dancing nightmares cause I've lived it and survived. But the glass eye thing could haunt me for a while yet.