Another reason why I love Ken Cannon

Today Ken Cannon went with two of our boys to see the new James Bond movie.  When they returned home, I asked how they liked it.

BOY:  We liked it, but Dad didn't.

ME:  Why?

BOY:  He thought it strained credibility.

How can you not love a man who, after watching James Bond movies his whole life, gave this one a thumbs down because it wasn't believable?

This reminds me of when I went to see the first Mission Impossible movie with the Coach, who watched quietly until that part where Tom Cruise is sort of flying in front of the train.  That's when the Coach snorted and said loud enough for many to hear, "Oh, right.  Like THAT could happen."

Because you know.  The rest of that movie did not strain credibility.

Now comes the missing part

Last night I dreamed I opened the front door and my old dog Brutus raced outside and down the street like a greased pig at the Iowa State Fair.

So here's the deal about Brutus.  He was an indestructible Boston Terrier with a head that took up half of his body.  He used to run and then fall forward because his head was so heavy.  But then he'd bounce up on those spindly legs and start it all over again.  Once TRQ and I watched him get run over by a truck on a Sunday afternoon.  We screamed and clutched each other as screaming people often do.  But then we realized that the truck had just passed over him.  So, after rolling around like a tumbleweed a few times, Brutus jumped back up right there in the middle of the street and trotted toward us, totally unfazed.

That dog was like Rasputin.  Yes.  My dog was a monk dog.  A Russian monk dog.

Anyway.  I dreamed about Brutus last night.  And in my dream he ran away.  So I spent my entire dream life last night looking for him.  Finally I went inside a church where ladies were making casseroles in the kitchen.  I asked if they'd seen a dog and they said yes.  He was in the Relief Society room (?!!!)

And there was, in fact, a Boston Terrier in the RS room.  I picked him up and realized right away it was NOT Brutus.  His head was too small.   But I took him home anyway.

I know why I had this dream.  Yesterday we had to put down our big girl newfie, Zora.  Knowing this was inevitable, we had a wake for her all weekend.  There were many tears, although I didn't cry much.  I've done this enough to know that for me the tears and the missing part--those moments when you expect an animal you love to be lying on her back in the kitchen like she always did--come later.

RIP Zora.

Turning into someone

Sometimes I used to feel annoyed with my grandmother because she. could. not. sit. still.  (Is using periods like that after each word still a thing?)

Like, she would plan a trip to see friends in Oregon, but as soon as she got there, she started getting all antsy to go home.  Or if you tried to have a conversation with her, you could tell that after five minutes she was all WE'RE DONE HERE, because she wanted to go clean a kitchen instead.  Physical restlessness ran like blood through her veins.   Because what else runs though veins?  Except maybe ice water if you're a steely-eyed character in a mystery novel?  

And I used to think unto myself, I love my grandmother, but I don't want to be like that.

Well guess what.

What is at the root of this?  Any ideas?  And what can I do to be more present?  Besides coloring in my new mindfulness coloring book?

The past few weeks . . .

. . . on a global, local and personal level have been deeply discouraging.

This is why I am especially grateful for my brother Jimmy, an attorney in Vegas, who sends me texts like these.

Yesterday there was a dog adoption at Petsmart.  There was a pretty Cane Corso dog, and I asked the Humane Society handler about the dog.  She was British and had the accent to prove it.

HER:  Do you already have a dog?
ME:  Yes.  A cocker spaniel.
HER:  That won't do.  This dog needs to be an only dog.  It won't get well with another.
ME:  Do you accept trades?
HER:  (appalled)  What?
ME:  I take the Corso.  You get the cocker--[seeing the concerned look on her face]--but I'm just joking.
HER:  Well, it's not very funny, is it?

Tidbits from a recent romance readers luncheon

Last Saturday I was invited to a romance readers luncheon by romance writer Annie Oortman where I picked up a few good tips for writing (and living!) from keynote speakers, Raeanne Thayne and Robyn Carr (who was hysterical btw).

Tips include the following--

1.  Your characters need problems.  Stories without problems are photo albums, not novels.

2.  Write what you love.

3.  A novel becomes popular one book, one reader at a time.

4.  Don't write about a heroine that's waiting for someone else to save her.  And (while we're at it) a woman ought to be the heroine of her own life, not a victim.

Incidentally, Carr is the author of the bestselling Virgin River series, which (she noted) some people call the Vagina River series.  (She shoots!  She scores!)

The more you write, the more you write . . .

So I've been pretty absent lately.  And what I've noticed is that my columns have been harder for me to write because I'm not practicing here on my blog.  It's like I'm a Jazz player not practicing my free throws.  Except I'm not a Jazz player.  I'm more of a Junior Jazz player.  With a jersey that hangs down to my knees because I'm shorter than all the other kids on my team.  Not only that but I'm the Junior Jazz player whose mom brings lame treats.

But that's not the point.

The point is that I need to be writing more.

Noted!