Lately, I’ve found myself blessed. I’d already gotten a three-book contract with Grand Central when Harlequin offered a two-book deal for their Romantic Suspense line. Woohoo, I said to my agent, then my husband. Then the next day, surprise! Another offer from Harlequin, for a Christmas novella for Romantic Suspense. Woot woot, I said to my agent, then my husband.

I woke up the next morning and immediately felt a rush of delight. Contracts for six books! Belated Christmas/Happy New Year to me!

Then it hit me: five of them are due in a year. Wow.

I’ve written five books in a year. I’ve actually written seven in one year. But that was a long time ago, when I was younger. I’ve gotten comfortably (read: lazily) settled into a routine where I write two to three books a year. Can I kick it into high gear and get them all done?

The first thing I did was scribble out a calendar, covering every week for the next year. Then I figured how many weeks I need to write each book and added in one or two extra. I also had to include time to write proposals (a synopsis and chapters) for the second books on the contracts and, of course, a little sanity time. I’ve never done this kind of time planning before. My usual method was to schedule deadlines equally, giving myself, say, three months to complete each book. The first two months would pass with frequent reminders to myself that I’ve got a book due soon, then I would write madly for three to four weeks and finish it just in time to overnight it to New York. I always promised myself that the next time, I would do it in a more reasonable fashion, but I never did.

This year “reasonable” is the only way to do it.

Though I dunno. As I write this, it’s the second day on my 52-week schedule, and all I’ve written are blogs . . .

I’m almost afraid to look out the windows. Uh, Don–Where are the keys to the boat?

My first pair were plain white leather. They rubbed my toes. They weighed a ton. My feet felt as if they were in a sauna.  Besides, who wants plain white shoes? So back to the store I went, where I tried on every single pair of New Balance walking shoes in stock, transferring orthotics, which are made to really fit — no slipping, no sliding, no ease of removing. Nothing worked for me.

Then I saw them. They were running shoes, and I’m not a runner. But they were lightweight.  They had mesh everywhere to let my toes breathe. And they weren’t plain white. In fact, there’s no white at all on them!

I was in love. I bought them and have worn them every day since.

The only thing I don’t get is the laces. The walking shoes had normal laces. The running shoe laces are about a mile long. I have to make great big floppy bows, which I then trip on at least once a day. (And trust me — I don’t need any help tripping.)

Just as a lot of brand-new writers are convinced that published authors know the secret handshake that will get them published, too, I’m sure runners have some sort of secret shoestring tying method that they only share with other runners. They see me tripping along with the laces flopping, and they share a smile because they know the secret and I, obviously a poseur, do not.

That’s okay. I might not be able to walk the walk or talk the talk, but I’ve got the shoes anyway.

We knew the ‘actor’ was in the creek–that’s another stupid to add on his list! He is so lucky it isn’t spring when the moccasins are balling. And dusk is when the feral hogs, bobcats, and coyotes begin to prowl.

What I still don’t understand is why he stayed around this area from the manhunt early Friday morning. Even if he’d walked in any direction he’d gotten away.

I was sorry that we didn’t get to see the K-9 unit at work–that’s my favorite part of COPS. Or that our own canine units didn’t get a chance to bark.

What I see as a big flaw with this day long hunt is that the people who needed to know what was going on were not informed. I had been outside all day, in my pasture, shop and garage. He could have come up to me at anytime. (I’m glad I’m not clueless nor unarmed.)

We arrange our schedule around them. How long can we stay away from the house? Only as long as we can reasonably expect them to keep their little legs crossed. When do we feed them? There’s no exact time for this, but Lucky lets us know when we’re late by puking his guts out.

Even our furniture choices are basied on them. We’ve lost a couple of sofas and a boatload of cushions to them. currently our seating options in the living room include one ratty old pine sofa that no one but Bob will sit on, a wicker chair and my recliner. Notice the “my.” I picked it out. I bought it. I carried it home from the store. The dogs are allowed everywhere except in my recliner. So where do they want to sit? Right.

Do you know it feels to explain to our pretty little alpha female that is my chair? Mine. She needs to get up.

And all she does is look at me, then yawn before snuggling in deeper.

I could train them, I know. The problem is, I can’t train Bob, and he not only lets them get away with everything, he encourages it. So . . . yeah, we’ve definitely gone to the dogs.

My favorite stupid move is to run from the police (I’m talking about on foot–I despise high-speed car chases.) Most of the law enforcement agencies have dogs. Big dogs. Big dogs who live to chase and bite.  And for what it is worth: I have 2 big dogs–one sounds like she’s going to eat your face, the other is mentally challenged so he’ll probably would.

 If there’s anything stupid going on in your world, please share!

I’ve sent my faithful friend with Don to the computer doctor, along with thumb drives. “Save the pictures!”

Guess it is time for an external hard drive to make an appearance.

Imagine the face of a small child whose parents have cruelly given him a sour pickle just so they could laugh at his reaction. Yuck!

My blueberry cereal is little chunky pillows of straw with blueberry flavoring on one side. When they were flooded with warm milk, several things happened: the pillows of straw fell apart; the blueberry flavoring dissolved; and a thick gluey substance formed in the bowl. I ate what I could force down, then pushed it aside to take to the house later, and I swear, it turned to cement.

To quote my grandkiddo: “No! Not yummers!”

The pain in my shoulder and now thumb have continued. Back to my primary care doctor. X-rays taken and read. Hmmm–small bone spur in shoulder and a separation at the base of my thumb. The bones are not in alignment. Off to the orthopedic surgeon. He looks at the X-rays. Nothing wrong with my thumb other than severe arthritis and the bones aren’t as in line as they should be. Here’s a thumb brace to protect the joint. Okay….great.

Me:”What about my shoulder? It hurts.” Dr: “You shoulder fine. Nothing wrong.” Me: “But it hurts.” Dr: “Pinched nerve in neck. Go see a neuro.” Me: “Will you clear me for diving?” Dr: “Sure, just don’t carry anything heavy.”  {{{head shake}}}

I feel like a hamster with a bum limb on a self-propelled wheel. Might as well grab on with the good claws and hang on.