I have a new phone.  It’s not nearly as pretty as my Razr, but for what it lacks in style it makes up for with coolness.    It’s an MP3 Player–as though I’ll ever use that–but the neat thing about is I can set specific ringtones for friends and family.  In no particular order, here’s how it’s shaping up so far.

Mom–Every Move You Make, The Police (She dedicated this to me through our local radio station on my sixteenth birthday)

Home–Sweet Home Alabama, Lynryd Skynrd

Kids Line–You’ll Always Be My Baby, Sara Evans

Hubby–Urgent, Foreigner  (I downloaded Beast of Burden, but it won’t let me set that as a ringtone.  )

Son–Bad To the Bone,  George Thorogood

Jen–Glamorous, Fergie

Precious–Born to Be Wild, Steppenwolf

I like the whole lemons to lemonade outlook!  And I love this new phone!  Because I am easily entertained…

Yesterday I wanted to wash this…

so I put it in this…

only I forgot to take out this…

       

I have absolutely nothing to whine about so far this week.  (I’m throwing that “so far” in there in case I have to come back and amend my statement.)

But so far, it’s all good.

I’m a RITA finalist–still tickled over that. 

The Book That Nearly Killed Me–aka THE EX-GIRLFRIENDS’ CLUB, my May Blaze–got a 4.5 from Romantic Times.  That’s excellent, because I wasn’t sure how it was going to do.  I still don’t have any perspective about that story, so if any of you out there read it and like it, please let me know.   Not that I’m needy or anything.

I went to the doctor yesterday and he’s giving me a new medicine to try for my diabetes.  I’ve been taking a shot two times a day–not insulin–but this is a pill, which will be much, much better. 

My story, which has to be finished this weekend, is moving along at a good pace and I feel *good* about it, like I haven’t completely messed it up.  Will there be revision?  Of course.  And it will make it better.  But **crossing fingers, squeezing eyes tightly shut, hoping not to jinx it** I don’t think they’ll be like the last book.   I think I’ve got a better handle on this couple.

Anyway, like I said, it’s all good.  What about you, Gentle Readers?  Whines?  Annoyances?  Mild displeasures?  Whine on.  I’m listening…

Recently my husband and I have been discussing selling his truck and getting something a little better on gas.  He drives almost 60 miles roundtrip to work each day–sometimes twice a day–and the beautiful Titan Quad cab he has is lovely, but it’s a gas-sucker of the first order.  In short, while he-man wonderful, it isn’t practical.   With my son just a couple of short years away from driving, we’ve been talking about cars a lot lately and my daughter, who loves the truck, was worried about what we would buy to replace it.

“So we might sell Daddy’s truck?” she asks.

“We’re thinking about it.  We need something that gets better gas mileage.”

She frowned sort of fearfully.  “We aren’t getting a Mento are we?”

“A Mento?”  I am completely baffled.  We’ve talked about several different options, but a breath mint hasn’t been one of them.

“You know,” she prodded.  “A Mento.  Like your first car.”

At this point I absolutely dissolved into a fit of laughter.  My first car was a bright green 1978 Ford Pinto–which had been hit by a deer–and it was far from lovely.  But *I* loved it because it was my first car, my first key to freedom, and what it lacked in style, it made up for in reliability.  I recently googled the Pinto so my kids could see what it looked like.

Needless to say, they weren’t impressed.

“No, daughter,” I tell her, still snickering.  “We won’t be getting a Mento.” 

I. Am. A. RITA. Finalist.

Woot!!!!  Happy dance!!!  Tears of joy!!! 

For those of you who are unfamiliar with Romance Writers of America’s Golden Girl…

…here she is.  Isn’t she lovely? :::sigh::: 

Anyway, the RITA is RWA’s answer to the Oscar’s.  Every year over a thousand books are entered into this contest and on Call Day–which was yesterday–those authors who were brave enough to enter their books are usually waiting by the phone with bated breath to see if one of their ink-and-paper babies made the cut.  I knew calls were going out at noon CST, so I prodded the family home rather quickly after church and nervously waited in my office to see if my phone would ring.  At 12:14 I decided that I wasn’t going to get a call this year and would go take a nap. 

At 12:15 Linda Howard called me.  The woman is more than a genius, she’s psychic.   I squealed in her ear, but I’m pretty sure she’ll forgive me.  She has always been my hero, but for obvious reasons I particularly adore her right now.

Naturally, I had to call Precious.  The book that is nominated–The Specialist–is one that she particularly liked as the heroine of the story is, well…her.   The conversation went something like this:

“You know, I really like the heroine in this story.”

“Well, I’m glad because she’s you.”   And she is.  The heroine is hardworking, smart, witty, down-to-earth, crafty, a little bit ruthless and seasoned with a bit of smart ass. (Precious, if you are reading this, then you know I mean that in a good way. )

This book is also dedicated to two of my very best writing friends–Jennifer LaBrecque and Vicki Lewis Thompson.  There is something quite fitting–poetic even–about that, and I am thrilled. 

Not that ya’ll could tell or anything, eh?

…and I have the pollen all over the hood of my car and streaming eyes and nose to prove it.  Methinks it’s time for a shot.

Other than the pollen though, I am really glad to see the warmer temperatures.  I bought seed packets over a month ago that I’m anxious to put in the ground.  Giant sunflowers, cosmos, sweet peas, lavendar, mint and parsely just to name a few.  I filled my deck pots and fixed new arrangements for the big urns on my front porch.  I love those wave petunias–very hardy and can take full sun–and put out a lot of deep purple shades.  In a month or so, those babies will be beautiful.  I also put out some strawberries.  This is my first foray into fruit, so we’ll see what happens.

What about you?  Planted anything yet?  Looking forward to planting anything?

A few days ago I bought a paper shredder.  Since then I have been a shredding fool. 

Junk mail? Check. 

Out of date credit cards?  Check. 

M&M wrappers?  Check. 

Business cards with the wrong web address which could just as easily be tossed into the trash without being shredded?  Check. 

There is something so satisfying about hearing that baby chew through the paper and the whole while, I sit and grin like a fool.  Then I start looking for other stuff to shred.

Clearly I need help, or some other new form of enterainment.

Rhonda, off to join Shredders Anonymous…

Get ready.  Here’s another baseball related whine. 

   My son comes in from ball practice yesterday and hands me a peice of paper.  “You have to work the concession stand on Saturday.”

“What?”

Naturally he goes directly to the refrigerator.  “You’re signed up to work the concession stand on Saturday.”

I blink.  “But I didn’t sign up.”

“You don’t have to sign up.  They sign you up.”

They sign me up?  Without asking me? Who is this mysterious “they” who have the power to allot MY time?  What if I have something to do?  What if I’m not going to be there?  (I am, but that’s not the point.)  DH comes in and I’m ranting about it to him, appalled at this brazen hijacking of MY time. 

He shrugs.  “It’s how it’s done.  You only have to do it once.”

It may be how it’s done, but I don’t like it, and I will do it instead of humiliating my child, but this blatant disrespect for other people’s time is really starting to get on my nerves. 

“Mom, when I’m at the plate, do you think you and everybody else could sort of be quiet?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m mean…shut up.  You’re making me nervous. ‘Look it in, make contact, choke up, get deeper into the batter’s box! Bust it!‘  I can’t hear my coach.”

“Oh.  Can we cheer for you when you are not at the plate?”

“Yes.  But don’t call me ‘Buddy.’”

“Are we allowed to cheer for other members of the team?”

Son pauses, then rather grudingly says “I suppose.”

Allrighty then.  I know the rules now.  This is handy information. 

Let me paint a picture for you.  Every night before I go to bed, I make sure that our house is in order.  Check to see who needs to pack a lunch the next day, clothes are ready for school, some semblance of breakfast is on hand.  I set the thermostat, take Ollie out for a final pee and bring Ocho, our Black Lab, IN. 

This isn’t easy. 

He likes guarding the property and barking at crickets and coyotes.  At various stages of the day he enjoys being inside, but when it gets dark, he’s on duty, if you will.  This means that if he is not safely locked up in the house HE BARKS ALL NIGHT.  For reasons known only to my moron husband, he decided to let the dog back out again.  Why he does this remains a mystery, but suffice it to say, it’s 3:13AM and I have unsuccessfully tried to bring the barking dog back into the house for the past 30 minutes while my moron husband sleeps.  I guarantee you he is the only one in a mile radius getting any sleep.  The rest of us are up.  Because the &*%$@! is BARKING!!!

I am not happy.