Counting the Seconds

Well, there are three and a half hours left 'til the midnight deadline. Two-hundred and ten minutes. Twelve-thousand and six-hundred seconds until rejection. But it's okay. I've already been working on another submission and there are a couple more topics I'm considering.

I just have to remind myself that each time I submit a story, each time I write a blog post, even each time I post on FaceBook, I'm practicing, learning, and improving. At least I should be. Some lessons are harder than others.

The hardest lesson for me is to walk away for a while before coming back to it and editing. And then to wait even longer before I hit send. I'm usually too excited. As a result, once it's posted I usually find a typo, or five. When I read it fresh my mind sees what I think it says rather than what it actually says. I also do better edits on the written page. So I think this year I will purchase a printer.

Okay, it's now three and almost a quarter hours. One-hundred and ninety-three minutes. Eleven thousand five hundred and eighty seconds until D-day.

I wonder if there are any last minute reprieves. Maybe a midnight stay of execution...

Her Royal Majesty, Goobrella, Queen of Gooberdom

Hear ye! Hear ye, one and all! By the power vested in me, by myself, I hereby pronounce this proclamation: From henceforth, and forevermore, be it known that the woman you know as me, will be called Her Royal Majesty, Goobrella, Queen of Gooberdom and all its inhabitants: the Goober-babes, the Goober-heads, and their alien offspring, aka the Gooberlets. (Behind closed doors her closest friends may address her informally as GooberLou.)

 

News flash: I am such a goober—it's shocking, I know—however, it's true. I've just been able to keep this revelation from most of you. In case you are one of the many I have deceived, and you need proof of my gooberness...

 

At the request of a multitude of adoring fans I have been asked to change careers to Published Author.

 

Okay, that just might be a slight exaggeration...Truth be told, it was an inferred comment, made in passing by the non-English speaking guy who does my nails, and three Facebook Friends—who are not my Mother—or related to me in any other way.

 

As I recall, the exact statement was, "Oh, you funny. You write more."

 

So taking career goal advice from my four trusted advisors, I have written more.  And last February I submitted a piece to the scrutiny of professionals--a nerve wracking ordeal to say the least. To share is to make yourself vulnerable, and making yourself vulnerable is not for the faint of heart. When you Dare to Share, you run the risk of rejection. Of course, the possibility of rejection is true of every aspect of sharing, not just writing.  Anyway, I took a deep breath and held it while I reread the submission guidelines. Then, blue in the face—and ready to pass out, I reached a trembling hand toward The Button. Closing my eyes tighter than a misers fist, and a split second before I gasped for fresh air, I tapped send.  Then I gasped and wondered what I had just done.

 

Amongst the submission guidelines they drop a little tidbit of information about the process and tell hopeful authors that they do not provide rejection letters. They go on to state, "If you have not heard from us within (insert their formula for the given timeline), you may consider the lack of communication as your rejection." Dusting off my knowledge of algebraic equations, I calculated the deadline for my submitted work, and placed it on my iPhone calendar with the following paraphrase from A Knights Tale: Unless you have heard otherwise, your submission "has been measured, weighed, and found lacking." And then, because I am a Pollyanna at heart, I changed the Rejection Day notation from mid-August to the end of August, and I tried to forget the date.

 

For the most part I have been successful at not obsessing—stop laughing,  I am capable of not obsessing!  The proof?  For the past couple of months I have only checked my inbox for a response three or four times a day.

Okay, okay, 3-4 times hourly.

 

But I'm not obsessing.  Really. I’m not. Some days I just feel more insecure about basically baring my soul to a total stranger.

 

Today, as I checked, and did not find the long-hopped for email, I remembered the Rejection Day Deadline (as predetermined by the aforementioned algebraic formula) was sometime this month; but, I could not remember exactly when. [Actually,  I can—and do (it’s tomorrow), I just want to remain in rejection denial as long as possible.]  In order to confirm my knowledge that it is actually tomorrow, I could simply click on tomorrows date. Or, I could really torture myself, and click on every day (I started this post mid-month, so there were more days with which torture could be exacted).  But rather than checking the day I thought it was on my calendar, or clicking on every day, I decided to perform a topic search on my sent emails. 

 

My shaky hands betrayed me and touched more typo keys than normal. When I finally had the correct letters, in the correct sequence, typed in the search box, and hit search, five emails popped up.

 

Unfortunately not a single email contained the original submission.

 

Acccck!!!!  Panic ensued.

 

I checked to see if I had moved the email to a different folder for safekeeping.  Several folders later, close to tears of frustration. I still had not come across the original submission email. One of the emails noted I had submitted it in February; however, it was not the original.  What I found were five emails I sent and received—between two of my accounts so I would have an email trail. 

 

A sinking feeling started in the pit of my stomach and my legs became as heavy as the Easter Island Statues....What if I never submitted story?! What if I only thought I had?!

 

Only a goober would spend the past five months obsessing over a response/non-response to an email that was never sent. Hence my above mentioned proclamation.

 

But then I remembered something:

 

I submitted the story while visiting their submission portion of their website—I didn’t submit the story from my any of email accounts; therefore, there would not be an email trail!   Which is why, in addition to editing the story in draft form, I had sent it back and forth between the different email accounts. I knew I'd need an email trail to confirm I submitted the story.

 

Now, I fear I will fall into the trap I attempted to avoid after all—I seem to be ramping up the obsessive checking and rechecking for an email response.  And I try not to think about the previous months lack of a response being indicative of a passive rejection. Realistically, I know it's probably already been cut. However, I am a Pollyanna and Cockeyed Optimist all rolled into one.  Maybe, they don't notify anyone until the deadline is over. But what if they do notify people before the deadline…and I didn't make the cut...

 

It has been a longer-than-usual month of August here in the Gooberdom.

 

And the month is not quite over yet.  Not until midnight.  On Wednesday.  There is still plenty of obsession time in the Gooberdom—at least 53 goober-hours and 46 nutcase-minutes.  And counting. Let me check once more time

Showdown at The Sonic. (I'm doing my "Flynn" impersonation.)

All I wanted was a DDP and a ice cream cone before Happy Hour ended. 

Me:  I'd like a vanilla ice cream cone and a Route 44 Diet Dr Pepper, please. That's all. Thank you. 

Respectful. Clear and concise. They shouldn't have a problem. 

Boy:  That was a cone and a large coke? 

Me:  No. That would be a Route 44 Diet Dr Pepper and an ice cream cone. 

Boy:  A cone and what else?  

Me:  (This is Texas--Home of What-a-Burger and Dr Pepper.)  a Route 44 Diet Dr Pepper. 

Boy:  Diet Dr Pepper. Anything else?  

Me:  (checking the screen and seeing only the drink on the order). Yes.  I don't see the ice cream cone. 

Boy:  Oh. You want both? 

Me:  (gritting my teeth). Yes. Please. 

Intermission (I listen to the orders being placed from the cars around me and marvel at the accuracy with which the boy understands the garbled orders.) 

Girl:  (attempting to hand me a melted ice cream cone first) You got the cone and the Diet Dr Pepper? 

Me:  Yes. But I'll take the drink first so I can put it in the holder. 

Girl:  (Tilted Dog-head look). Wha--? 

Me:  I need the drink first so I can place it in the holder and have my hands free to juggle the dripping cone and the money. I can't hold the dripping cone, and the drink, and the money all at the sane time. Not enough hands. 

Girl:  (Continues to attempt to give me the dripping cone)

Me:  No. I'll take the drink first. 

She eyed me. I eyed her. The ice cream dribbled down the side of the cone. Finally, she reholstered the cone and gave me the drink, so I could place it in the holder, so I would have both hands free to pay and accept my drippy cone--which I had to attack at once because she gave it to me sans napkins and the drip was perilously close to the paper holder that keeps her germs off my food and my ice-cream off her fingers. 

I feel just like my GrandMother:  Shaking my head and wondering why the youth of today won't listen to the Voice of Reason. 

Although I call it a win for me, it was really a draw--just ask my Brain Frozen ice-cream head.  :-) 

I Dream of Willy Wearing a White Stetson

At 4am Mommy awoke from a dream in which Willie wore a white Stetson.  No. It was  not a cold sweat. And, no, it was not Duck Dynasty Willie. Nor was it Free Willie the whale. It was Chilly Willy, the shivering cartoon penguin of Mommies childhood. And she was relating. 

Mommy attempted to look  at the weather icon on her iPhone thinking it  must be in the sixties at a minimum (or should that be maximum?) but she had some eyesight difficulties. No, her eyes were not still sleepy. And no, her eyes are not too old for the minuscule iPhone screen--at least not with her readers and the appropriate arm length. Mommies eyesight was blurred--not by tears--but by the condensation caused by the meeting of the outside temp and Mommies personal internal inferno. 

In nature, when two totally different temperature fronts collide they can form a hurricane.  Luckily that did not occur; however, Bandit used his puppy dog-eyes, and the Hurricane Formation Theory, in his feeble attempt to explain away The Great Shoe Liberation from the Shoe Basket.   Unfortunately, he pushed the limit when he tried to link the spontaneous  Shoe-Blankie Hoe-Down that occurred when the  chair blankie mysteriously joined the shoes in the middle of the floor.  Like Lucy, Bandit's  got some 'splainin' to do!

However, the blankie did come in handy, although it was just beyond Mommies reach (note to self:  teach The BaldOne Boy the limitations of Mommies Reach).   

Finally, Mommy saw the temp. Imagine her surprise at learning she too needed a blankie at only 73F!  Mommy has become soft (not referring to her personal insulation!) and  a tad bit spoiled by the Texas 100s. Mommy, turning into Willy's long-lost icicle twin, finally succumbed and walked the remaining foot to the Hoe-Down, re-corralled the errant shoes, and detained the lightweight blankie.

The NekedBoy that sleeps with Mommy is quite happy now. Mommy is toasty as well.  And Chilly Willy and his White Stetson have been banished.  

Thankful for the Cooling Rain

(Disclaimer:  this is a total word-for-word ripoff of my FB post this morning, so if it appears familiar....)

Thankful this morning:  For cooling rain (self explanatory). For good eyesight (that caught the slightest movement as The BaldOne snuck back into the house as I deposited my purse and iPhone in the SUV while he went potty in the cooling rain).  For Doc's awning (had to air up not one, but TWO, slow-leaking tires in the cooling rain). For a faulty memory (that actually remembered my Supervisors telephone number--which evidentially did not make my recent contact purge--so I could call in for a few minutes time since I was going to be late because I had to air up the two slow-leaking tires in the cooling rain). But I'm especially thankful for my Stan Borum Memorial umbrella that kept me dry during my hike in from the full-to-the-gills-because-I-was-late-after-calling-my-supervisor-to-request-time-for-airing-not-one-but-two-slow-leaking-tires-under-Doc's-awning-after-the-BadBoy-snuck-back-into-the-dry-house-while-I-stood-in-the-cooling-rain-parking lot to my office (appropriately named Tge Swamp Room).  

I truly have much to be thankful for. Thanks for reading this tongue-in-cheek post. 

I deal with cool rain better than the stifling heat that is normally Texas. 

Let the rain-expected-all-weeklong week begin! 

My What's DAT

The Saints may have Who Dat? but I've got What's DAT?

My DAT would be Dream Analysis Time. I'm sure losing at Bunco while eating pizza and brownies had nothing to do with this dream....

It started off at a Woman's Conference (I just played Bunco with 11 other women), during which I looked after an elderly woman less able to get around than me (it's time for another round of shots for my knees so I'm the decrepit one of the group). It was raining out side and, although we were wearing our rain gear during the walk from our cabins to the dinning room (preparedness) her tray was sopping wet so I was drying up the puddles of water (being a caretaker). It was our last night so we were talking about packing and our respective drives home (we talked about recent vacations during Bunco). She and I were the last to leave dinner and I was concerned her cabin was too far away, so I told her to wait there and I would return with my SUV. She spied another woman awaiting a ride and we hitched a ride with the third lady (it's good to have resourceful friends).

The next morning was bright, clear, and hot as the Boys and I pulled away from our cabin (we've had a string of >100F days and I'm ready for the promised rain).  My iPhone rang and I looked at my dash to see who it was.  When I retrained my eyes on the road I realized I was on an unfamiliar road near Bryan-Collage Station (we were talking about BCS at work the other day) and we were fast approaching a river that had overflown the bank. I slammed on my brakes and turned the steering wheel to avoid my front tires entering the floodwaters (Turn Around, Don't Drown). Unfortunately the flash flood had eroded the soil beneath the road and we were swept into the rushing water as the road crumbled (helplessness). 

The next morning was bright, clear, and hot as the Boys and I pulled away from our cabin (we've had a string of >100F days and I'm ready for the promised rain).  My iPhone rang and I looked at my dash to see who it was.  When I retrained my eyes on the road I realized I was on an unfamiliar road near Bryan-Collage Station (we were talking about BCS at work the other day) and we were fast approaching a river that had overflown the bank. I slammed on my brakes and turned the steering wheel to avoid my front tires entering the floodwaters (Turn Around, Don't Drown). Unfortunately the flash flood had eroded the soil beneath the road and we were swept into the rushing water as the road crumbled (helplessness). Fighting down my rising panic, I verbally told myself to "remain calm." Then, while I still had power, I rolled down all the windows, ensuring ample escape opportunities for me and the FurBoys.  Then I unsnapped my seatbelt and turned to the backseat. 

My dreaming mind analyzed my dream and said:  if this is a long road trip Moggy would be in the crate with his bed and litter box. But if this is a short road trip he will be in a carrier on top of the crate and I can just grab the carrier. So in this dream he will be in his carrier. 

And that was when I woke up. 

I've always been analytical, but I usually just feel and see my dreams. In this dream  I'm seeing themes of helplessness, loss (control, physical functionality, the elements etc.). But I'm also seeing flexibility and the ability to formulate new plans in the face of danger, disappointment, and adversity. 

 

That's my take on my DAT. 

Either that, or I can no longer eat cheese pizza and brownies before I go to bed.

Waiting...

I'm not a waiting-patiently-with-a-smile-on-my-face kind of girl. I'm more of a desperately-trying-to-avoid-jumping-to-conclusions-and-flying-off-the-handle-to-make-a-stupid-decision-I'll-regret-later kind of girl.  Some days it's hard being me. But it's even harder being me trying to be patient.  It's a lesson I've yet to begin to learn, let alone master. 

Come on people.  I'm not getting any younger here....

It doesn't matter if I'm waiting for a life changing decision to be made, or I'm standing in the line at the grocery store. I just hate waiting. It's also one of the reasons I'm late--I hate to wait on people. But I don't want people to wait on me either. If I'm late, start without me. 

I've noticed my frustration level is lower when I have something to occupy my time while I wait. Which is why I frequently have a book to read or play a game on my iPhone/iPad. Of course, then I become engrossed in whatever I'm doing--and I lose track of time. Which makes me late. 

It's a vicious cycle. 

A cycle which I contemplate as I try to patiently wait.  Grrrr....