Open Seasame

We move into our rental next week.  It’s about a third of the size of the house. The question of the week seems to be, “Aren’t you sad?”

“Hells no.”

“But you guys built this house.”

“And at some point we might build another, although I doubt it. It’s a huge pain in the ass.”

I finally figured out why I’m indifferent to the house. I am completely infatuated with new beginnings, with all the endless possibilities. (This has to be the writer in me.) We are now in a position we could move practically anywhere.  I have given serious consideration to about five different states and at least three different countries.

My latest obsession is moving to the US Virgin Islands. It’s totally doable, with a little planning, and a budget. OK, OK a lot of planning and a super tight budget, (milk $7.00 a gallon) but still doable. I scour websites and blogs about employment, housing and schools, shooting off emails to Mr. K with all kinds of VI info.

Mr. K is a wise man. He lets that horse run. His willingness to buy into my crazy is one of the reasons I love him.  If I come up with a feasible plan, he will execute.  Most of the time, I manage to see reason before it gets too far.  But this is a different world altogether.  All the doors may not open, but they are certainly unlocked.

The Beta Reader

I asked the wife of one of my husband’s friends to be a beta reader. We had been to each other’s homes only a couple of times, but had bonded over book exchanges. I jumped at the opportunity to have an avid reader give my MS a once over.

“Finished!”

“Wow, really?” I held my breath. “That was fast. It’s only been about a four days.”

“Read it twice”

“OK. Wow” This does not bode well. “Well what did you think?”

“It’s pretty good.” Uh-oh.

 “I did a little rewriting for you.”

“Rewriting?”

“I think Phillip should be a cop.”

“Cop? Why?”

“I just think it would be better if he was a cop.”

She is kidding me?  “Well, that’s an angle I hadn’t considered” I can hear Mr. K snickering from the couch.  I throw a pillow at his head.

I finally hang up the phone. “She’s nuts, she rewrote three scenes. She’s emailing them to me. Was she kidding?”

“Probably not.” Mr. K grins. He tried to warn me.

I pull up the MS. Phillip a cop? Really? Mmmmmm…….

Flash Fiction Contest

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Clarity of Night

Night Owl Reviews

There's a 4 star review of  Rules for the Care and Feeding of Tiffany. 

Thanks Josie.


Check it out!  Night Owl Reviews

By the Numbers

We are currently in the process of selling, giving away and scrapping a lot of stuff in anticipation of moving into a much smaller place.

Here is a breakdown of where Team Krenshaw stands in anticipation of Momma Bear being unemployed.  

Number of day’s house was on the market before it sold: 8 (unbelievable, right?)

Number of couches we traded-in at the furniture store for a new kitchen table: 3 (and the old kitchen table)

Trips to Goodwill:  3 (and counting)

Trips to the city dump: 1

Number of panic attacks: Does the one I’m having now count?

Number of times someone has asked, “Do you think this is a good idea?”: 30ish

Number of times I wanted to punch said people in the nose: 30ish

After looking at our new place I think we need to cut our toy inventory by 50%. (Just the baby toys that have been outgrown would constitute 50%)   That is going to be a black ops exercise.  Thing#2 has a sixth sense when I’m trying to throw away/give away any of his toys.

The Anti-Hoarder

I’ve been a lurking around writer websites for a couple of years now.  A post that seems to spring up consistently is how many books writers accumulate.  I have to confess, I don’t have stacks of books sitting by my bed. Hell, I don’t even own a bookshelf.   

I own a lot of reference books, on a variety of subjects, gardening, resume building, home repairs, auto repair (OK, those last two are Mr. K's) and of course, writing.  But fiction? Not many.  And what’s stacked in a corner of my closet are works of fiction that are just, eh, OK.

God knows isn’t not from a lack of trying. I walk through our local bookstore dropping books into my overflowing basket.

“You know you have like $300.00 worth of books.” Mr. K eyes the basket.

“No.” I frown. A book slides from the pile to the floor. “Can’t be.”

Mr. K picks up the book and set it back on a shelf. “How about you start with three?”

“Ten.” I counter.

“Five.”

“Deal.”

So it’s not from lack of trying. I think it boils down to two things. First, I’m thwarted by Mr. K’s insistence on keeping us out of bankruptcy.  God love’m.  Second, almost every good book I read, I end up passing along to someone else.

And by “passing along” I may mean shoving under someone’s nose and blabbering about what a great read it is and how the story pulls you in. In some cases, I think people take the books just to shut me up. But, hey, whatever works.  

Brother can you spare a dime?

A couple of weeks ago I learned I’m losing my job in November.  I’ve been with the company almost a decade.

We were herded into a conference room and provided a Power Point presentation on how restructuring would create more efficiency. (What about me?!! You could feel the silent scream.) HR then handed out severance packets, dark blue folders customized for each employee.  No one made eye contact. We all rifled past the mental health brochures and the list of resume building websites, looking for the sheet of paper that told us what our severance pay and retention bonus’s would be.  Not fun. But not the hard part.  The hard part was the call to Mr. K.

“We’ll be fine.” Mr. K says.

“I know, I know.”  I’m pulling up job websites as we talk.

“We’ll just have to cut back.”

“Uh-huh. Hey, there’s a job in North Dakota, Big Sky Country.”

“I think Montana’s Big Sky Country, honey. Calm down.”

“Who’s not calm? I’m calm. How about Guam?”

“This might give you a chance to focus on your writing.”

“Whuzza…what?” I stop typing. My eye’s narrow. “You’re just saying that to calm me down.”

“I thought you were calm.”

“Asshole” I mutter.

“Sure, why not?  Thing#1 and Thing#2 will be in school.  You’ll have to cook dinner, though.” Mr. K is normally the chef in the house.

“Dinner. Sure. No Problem.”

So there you have it.  I’m a broke-ass full time writer starting in November.