I'm buying WD-40 today

I got up this morning at 5:30, which is ridiculously early. I hate waking up when it's still dark outside, but I do enjoy having a quiet house to myself. So I was happily curled up on my couch reading and drinking coffee, when suddenly I heard a loud creeeeeeeeeeeeeeeak. I spilled half a cup of coffee on myself (which had, thankfully, cooled down to lower-than-magma temperatures) because I practically levitated off the couch. I knew which door it was right away. The door to the basement closes but doesn't actually latch; it has a lockplate that takes one of those old-fashioned keys, and I don't lock it because it's a pain in the ass. Besides, there's a locking door to the outside at the basement stair landing. The hinges need to be oiled, so it makes a creepy creaking noise, much like the sound effect starting off the radio program "The Shadow," every time we open it.

Anyway, I was convinced an axe murderer had broken in a basement window or the coal cellar chute, and was now inching that door open on his way to chop me into a bazillion pieces. I meant to dash upstairs to wake Kevin but was frozen in place, and I couldn't convince my legs to move. Just when I thought my heart was going to pound its way out of my chest, my cat Cairo strolled into the living room, trying to look nonchalant. That damn cat had been skulking around the basement; I suspect she goes down there to stalk mice or bugs or critters I don't want to know about. If we close the door while she's down there, she's figured out how to hook her paw under the bottom of the door and open it. If I'd had my wits about me, I would have remembered that, but a creaking door in a quiet house is one of the scariest noises I can imagine, and it set off my paranoid fantasies, I guess.

******

I don't mean to sound like a cranky old lady, but lately the publishing world has been taken over by kids just out of college. They have little to no work experience and don't know much about managing a project. It's not their fault; project management takes time to learn, and having an experienced person show them the ropes would be helpful. Like most businesses, however, publishing companies are going through heavy budget cutbacks, so these kids get thrown, without any preparation, into management jobs meant for people with far more experience.

One of these poor kids is managing a book I'm editing now; I worked on the previous edition with the same group of authors, who are hell to keep on schedule. The previous manager warned Kid Manager about them, and I had a long talk with her before taking on the book about the challenges of working with them and the importance of riding herd on them to keep the book on schedule. The first chapter was a week late--clearly a red flag--and it's been downhill from there. Kid Manager is supposed to send out weekly status reports to the authors and me, listing what's been done and what's due that week. She's done nothing to check on the book's status, however, and it's not my job to tell her how to do HER job.

We're now a month behind on the production side; the first chapter was supposed to have gone through its second author draft and my second edit on December 7. Kid Manager finally called me this morning to ask "How's the book going?" Uh, I've been sending her my own weekly status reports, yet she was shocked to hear no author seconds had been turned in. I know she has a heavier workload than she should because of personnel cutbacks, and as I said, she's young and inexperienced, but damn it, it's not rocket science to look at a schedule, compare it to a list of what's been turned in, and see that things haven't been done on time.

So she's trying to coordinate all four authors for a conference call next week in an attempt to get the book back on schedule. I don't have the heart to tell her--nor is it my place, really--that when a book is this far behind, there's no realistic way to make up for the lost time. I guess the silver lining is that she's going to learn a lot, and quickly, about book management with this project, but it's going to be a painful lesson for her, I'm afraid.

Stop me if you've heard this before

My parents just left after a short visit, and I'm reveling in the absence of my mom's chatter. I love her, but damn, can that woman talk--and about nothing in particular. What's made this habit worse the past few years is that she's started repeating things--not once, not twice, but many, many times. This morning she told me, for the fifth time since the beginning of November, that my uncle's girlfriend takes TWO Ambien and drinks before going to bed. Dangerous, sure, but worth repeated tellings? And that's all there is to the story, too. No cautionary incidents of Pat the girlfriend sleepwalking or falling into a near-coma or having lapses of memory. No hilarious stories about her cooking dinner in the middle of the night and not remembering the next day. Nope. Just the fact that Pat takes two Ambien and has a few drinks before bed. Finis. I doubt even Stephen King could spin an interesting yarn out of that story.

Before I let go of my irritation, I have to tell you she does something else that irritates the shit out of me. My dad has lost quite a bit of his hearing yet refuses to get hearing aids. I know that's frustrating. I've spent many phone conversations with him yelling at the top of my lungs while he insists I'm just not holding the phone close enough to my mouth. She treats him as though he's lost IQ points along with his hearing, however. When we go to restaurants, for example, she reads the menu to him and explains what certain dishes are like--because God knows he couldn't figure it out from the mysterious description "A medley of eggs, sausage, hash browns, and country gravy in a skillet." When we were opening Christmas presents last night, she explained what everyone got and the purpose of whatever the gift was, as though my dad couldn't SEE Kevin pull a sweater out of a gift bag and understand it's something to wear. Oy. My dad's one of the smartest people I know, and I can't help thinking being treated like a simpleton is slowly driving him mad. However, he seems to have a bottomless reservoir of patience where my mother is concerned. I admit she's a very sweet and thoughtful person, so I guess that helps.

I wonder what Daniel's going to write about me in his blog 30 years from now. "My mom's funny, but I wish she'd shut the hell up about how CNN misspells words all the time in the news crawl! And God, if I hear her bitch one more time about people using apostrophes to form plurals, I'm going to stick a sock in her mouth." Maybe I should start working on being sweeter and more thoughtful, just to make sure I wind up in one of the GOOD nursing homes.

Almost an O. Henry Christmas

I posted a few Christmas pictures on Flickr, but I'm about over the holiday hoopla now. The weather was so awful Christmas night and yesterday--cold rain mixed with snow--that a drive to look at lights didn't seem appealing. I was disappointed because Neargem told me about some elaborately decorated houses in the area. Now I'm just looking forward to taking decorations down and getting my house straightened up.

I do have one funny Christmas story that's a little O. Henry-ish. Well, it's missing something to create the perfect twist, but it's close. Daniel came back from his dad's last Saturday morning carrying a huge box with a teeny-tiny, limp bow stuck on top--no wrapping paper, just a cardboard box. "What in the world is that?" I asked. He beamed and said "It's your surprise!" His dad pointed out the holes in the sides (meant as carrying handles) and said "Don't worry. We cut some air holes." Hmmph. Very funny.

Daniel made me wait to open that box last on Christmas Eve, and I was shocked to find a microwave oven inside. About a month ago, I was cleaning the inside of my ancient microwave and mentioned that it's 11 years old, and I'd like to get a new one. Then I didn't give it another thought, except I guess I told my mom on the phone that I'd love one that's smaller and stainless steel because the white one I have always looks a little dingy. I suspect I'm too lazy to own white appliances.

Anyway, Daniel told me excitedly that his dad's neighbors had bought a new microwave and wanted to sell this one, even though it's only a year old. He said he got "such a deal" (heh) on it and even cleaned it himself and made sure the instruction manual was included. (Yes, I'm still reeling at the realization that he CLEANED something himself, with no prompting.) However, this thing is enormous--I could microwave a side of beef in it--and, unfortunately, white. Daniel was so tickled with himself, however, that of course I didn't say that.

A little while later, I called my parents to wish them Merry Christmas. My mom asked what Daniel got me, and I described the book on Celtic traditions and the Seinfeld DVD. When I mentioned the microwave, she exclaimed "Oh, shoot!" "What?" I said. She told me she had bought me one for Christmas AND--of course--it was a nice, compact model in stainless steel with black trim. Arrrrghhhhh!

My mom understood that I couldn't turn down Daniel's microwave, however, and said she'd exchange hers for something else. A cute little microwave in shiny stainless steel would have been nice, but every time I use the big white one, I'll be reminded of how much my son loves me. It's the best Christmas present I've ever gotten.

A little Christmas babble

I'm answering questions for the Nebshit Game here:

1. Do you have a favorite Christmas tradition? Since he was around 6, my son has insisted on playing Santa and handing out presents. I insist he must wear a Santa hat while doing it. Mwah-ha-ha-ha. Last night, it was rather warm, however, so after about 10 minutes, he exclaimed "My brain is boiling!" and took the hat off.

2. When do you open gifts--Christmas Eve or Christmas morning? Christmas Eve. When I was little, Christmas morning was for presents from Santa and digging into stockings. We still do stockings--that's one of my favorite parts of Christmas.

3. What is your favorite Christmas cookie? My mom makes bar cookies with some kind of cereal on the bottom and chocolate-butterscotch topping. To DIE for.

4. Real tree or fake? Real. I know fake trees are easier, but I just can't give up a real tree.

5. Do you want something for Christmas that you know you will not get? I couldn't think of anything until I saw someone answer "a car" in Nance's comments, and a younger car than mine would be nice.

6. What’s the worst gift you ever got at Christmas time? For our first Christmas together, my ex-husband gave me huge, fuzzy Snoopy slippers. Ugly as hell, and my feet started sweating the second I put them on.

7. Do you write thank you cards for Christmas gifts? When I was little, I did to out-of-state relatives, but not now.

8. Do you get a Christmas bonus at work? I'm self-employed, so no.

9. How old were you when you found out the truth regarding Santa Claus? I don't remember a big dramatic discovery; I think it was more of a gradual realization. Maybe 8 or 9?

10. Do you buy your boss a Christmas gift? See #8. I buy myself a present--does that count?

******

I had such a nice Christmas Eve. Kevin had to work until 6:00, but I had dinner ready to go when he got home, and then the opening of gifts began. By the way, I was all set to take the advice a couple of you gave me about his presents that didn't arrive, but then I decided to ask him what he'd like. He said he'd really like a cellphone, but if I felt compelled to get him something else, we should wait until after Christmas and see whether any good sales are going on. He's frighteningly practical, no?

He was so thrilled with the Mr. Beer kit I got him, however, that I don't think I'll be able to top it. I bought it as somewhat of a joke because he's said several times he'd like to try brewing his own beer, and I always made fun of him for that, calling him "The Brewmeister." He was really tickled, though--he can't wait to try it out. As Janet told me, this means I'm going to have to actually try one of his beers and assure him it's delightful, no matter how awful it is. Heh.

Daniel's dad is picking him up soon, so I guess I should get out of my PJs. I'll write more tomorrow and post a few pictures, if I get ambitious. I'm looking forward to leftovers for dinner (no cooking--whoo hooo!) and a drive around town tonight to look at Christmas lights.

A Christmas Wish

Last week, Kevin found his old roommate, from when he was in his early 20s and living in Cleveland, on the Internet. Peter has a Web site created by another friend of theirs from that time, Scott. Kevin was the lead singer in their punk band, The Basiks, and has talked often about how much he'd like to hear from Peter and Scott. He left a message on Peter's site, and a couple of hours later, Peter had posted an entry about Kevin with a picture of him from 1979:

I can't believe that's Kevin! I keep looking at it and wondering whether I would have fallen in love with him back in 1979. Funny, we were both in Ohio at that time and wound up later in Indiana, a state neither of us ever foresaw living in. I started looking through old pictures to find one of the 20-year-old me for comparison:

Back then, I was attracted to older, jaded, angsty, artist types--and if they had a British accent, so much the better. Kevin was an artist, true, but he was so cherub-cheeked and cheerful looking; I'm afraid he would have been much too happy and normal for me. Heh. Now, however, I think he's pretty darn cute. (He's the one on the left, by the way. The other guy is a little too, uh, GREEN for my tastes.)

And here's me 27 years later:

My hair's almost the same, but everything else has certainly changed. Sigh. Well, I'm not the only one who's changed. Kevin pointed out that his friend Peter, who had thick, shoulder-length hair in 1979, is now as bald as Patrick Stewart, and Scott, who had women falling all over him back then, is no heart-throb these days.

I'd like to have a neat, tidy conclusion to this look back in time, something along the lines of we're all happier now and more comfortable in our own skins, yadda yadda. Speaking for myself, I know I don't suffer from the kind of melodramatic angst I did at 20, but I still have disappointments, worries, and uncertainty. Life doesn't automatically smooth out just because you grow up. However, I've gained some acceptance since then. I'm not as hard on myself or others as I used to be, and I don't think I see setbacks and failures as a reflection of my self-worth as much. Maybe that's the real miracle of growing up: not that you learn all the answers, but that you learn to be a little kinder to yourself.

So in the spirit of treating myself kindly, I'm not castigating myself for all the things I didn't get done for Christmas--for the baking I didn't do, the presents I couldn't afford to buy, the decorations I ran out of time and energy to put up, the cards I didn't send. Tonight, I'll have a nice dinner with my beloved and my son, and on Wednesday, my parents arrive for a visit. I'll be surrounded by friends and family who love me. What more could I want? I wish the same for all of you--and much peace and happiness in the new year.

Karma to me: Ho, ho, ho!

Oh, my God. Greg was absolutely right in my comments yesterday: My Christmas-readiness hubris DID come back to bite me in the ass. Barnes & Noble is chuckling at the karma boomerang! Don't ever say you don't believe in karma, people. Earl knows the score.

All right, I'm humbled. I'm crying "Uncle!" I will never, in this lifetime, be completely prepared for Christmas ahead of time. When I found out the other night that Kevin's presents wouldn't be shipped until after Christmas, I called him at work sobbing. (Not, by the way, the smartest thing I've ever done. W@lgreen's has been crazy-busy the past week, especially the photo department. Jabbing a stick in his eye repeatedly would have been kinder than a phone call from a distraught, hysterical woman.) The first thing he said was "Honey, I'm so glad it was my presents, not Daniel's, that got screwed up!" Gah. Sometimes I think I don't deserve him.

He said he'd take me to B&N or wherever I wanted to go today so that I could finish shopping. I think he knew the prospect of fighting the traffic and crowds alone was enough to do me in. However, I'm considering giving him a choice: I can get him the very cool CD, book, and DVD I'd planned, or I can add him to my cellphone plan and get him a nice phone. A phone would be more practical, now that he's traveling 90 minutes one way to Logansport a few times a month for work with Sam on the arts foundation. But is "practical" good for a Christmas present? I know the items I'd ordered from B&N are sure to delight him and aren't things he'd buy for himself. What do you think?

******

Ack, I need to run. I have to go to the doctor's and to exercise, and then brave the shopping madness. I'll leave you with a picture of my Christmas tree, which looks a little blurry because I used the night setting, but the lights are so pretty, I wanted them to show up:

Evil cats and even more evil online bookstores

I suspect one of my cats, Cairo, is evil--pure evil, I tell you. She's always been haughty and prissy and easily pissed off, but those traits are typically feline, I think. I first wondered about her evil nature when Kevin's kids started coming over for weekends. Cairo took an instant dislike to them and used to lie in wait for them to walk down the hall or up the stairs, and then pounce on them, hissing like a possessed she-devil. As the kids ran screaming in the other direction, I could almost swear I heard her chuckling "Mwah-ha-ha-ha-ha!" Look at this evil thang:

Lately, she's taking to skulking around my office, but not to be near me. No, she's waiting for an opportunity to steal Charlie's bed. Last night, she'd been hogging his bed almost all evening, and I was getting ready to leave my office for the night. I tried to shoo her out gently so that she wouldn't be trapped in my office for the night, but she wouldn't budge. Finally, I tipped the bed over and dumped her unceremoniously on the floor. She gave me a look of hatred and ran off.

A few minutes later, I settled down on the couch to watch TV. Holly, my beagle, was snoring happily on the loveseat, when suddenly I heard her scramble to her feet and start snarling. I looked over but didn't see anything that would have upset her. Bad dream, I figured. A few minutes later, the same thing happened, and I looked over in time to see Cairo swatting Holly on the nose! She knew waking Holly up was mean, and she was getting back at me, the little devil. You should have seen the smug look she gave me when I scolded her. As I was telling Kevin this morning, my other cat, Picard, at least manages to look ashamed when I scold him and most of the time just radiates sweetness:

I'm telling you, that Cairo is a bad seed.

******

I'm so mad at Barnes & Noble's online store, I could just spit. I ordered most of Kevin's Christmas presents online December 6. Two items would be shipped within 24 hours, and one within one to two weeks, according to B&N. Even if shipping took two weeks, I had plenty of time before Christmas--or so I thought. Last night, I realized I hadn't gotten anything from B&N, so I checked my order status online. To my dismay, the report said all three items wouldn't be shipped until December 22 and would take three to eight days to arrive!

I called the customer service number and after hanging up on one rep who said snottily, "Well, there's nothing I can do for you," and then put me on hold for seven minutes, I finally got a supervisor. BIG waste of time. He couldn't get his story straight, first telling me item #1 was out of stock, which is what held up my order. I asked why the site said nothing about the item being out of stock at the time I ordered it and why the other two items weren't shipped, and he stuttered a little and then said item #2 was out of stock. I asked what he could ship NOW, and he said item #2. Uh. I said "Didn't you just tell me that item's out of stock?" No, he claimed, it was item #3 that was out of stock.

About at the end of my rope, I asked "Well, what CAN you ship me now?" He said item #1 (the one he originally said was out of stock). "Fine," I said. "Can you ship it overnight?" Here's the conversation that ensued:

"I'll expedite shipment," he said evasively.

"That's not what I asked you. Can you ship it out overnight tomorrow?"

"Yes, it will take one to two business days."

"That's not overnight. Can you guarantee it will get here Saturday?"

"Well." Long pause. "No, I can't."

"Fine. Cancel my entire order."

Jesus H. Christmas! Amazon at least has the good sense to display a warning in big red letters next to an item: "This item cannot be guaranteed to arrive by Christmas." And B&N claims it's rated the number-one online bookseller?? Hmmmmph. Well, I'll never use B&N's online store again, but now I have to go out among the hordes of crazed last-minute shoppers to find the same items or something comparable so that Kevin doesn't have a sucky Christmas. I am not a happy camper. Bah, humbug!