E.N. Crane's Blog

In biology, we look at habitats as unique ecosystems that provide a specific and necessary niche for an individual population to flourish within that environment. As the environment changes, the species can either change with it, leave the ecosystem or die off.

These rules apply equally from a petri dish of bacterial cultures to a galaxy of species yet to be discovered. We apply names to the observations: survival of the fittest, development adaptation, increased prevalence of most survivable trait… the list goes on but my undergraduate work ended 13 years ago. Suffice to say: for every observable phenomena, we have developed terminology and a method for measuring and predicting what the next big change will be.

What makes less sense to me is how humanity fits in.

In Earth Day emails, company’s use buzzwords to sell more products. Grounds and Hounds, one of my favorite places to waste money, put in their email that Earth was the “only planet with dogs and coffee”. A fact that’s true based on our limited understanding of the universe beyond our planet and limited by our ability to observe.

Yet, effective as a marketing strategy because if you offer me dogs and coffee, I will do just about anything.

You know, except give up my dogs and coffee.

The section of city government I work for planned a river clean-up, and we went out and collected trash Saturday morning. There were easily dozens of other groups doing the same and I feel confident declaring that park and area along the greenbelt immaculate. Most of us brought  our dogs and cleaned trash while walking the park for a few hours and truly the most Earth friendly part of it was the fact we were all outside enjoying the Earth.

Then my little introverted hermit went back inside to read, write and drink coffee because… priorities.

A book that often hangs out at the periphery of my subconscious is The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy. Specifically, the café at the end of the universe and the speculation that Earth and humanity are an experiment to answer the meaning of life, the universe, and everything… which, as you know, is 42.

Looking at the Earth as a big round petri dish, the likelihood of survival depends on your access to resources and individual microbiome of needs. In microbiology, we grew bacterial samples in agar, and what grew depended on what nutrient source (growth medium) was provided, climate conditions, and ability to survive ones neighbors.

We humans are the super bacteria that is edging out everyone else to the nearest food source, but we aren’t invincible. The solar system is centered around the sun, a giant ass star with enough gravitational pull to attract other space rocks with compositions that both can’t escape it and repel the magnetic composition. Like in Elementary School, we created different solar system models based on scales, one that involved a playground sized roll of paper to model the actual distances between the planets, and another that used household objects to create size ratios.

The sun was always a basketball (the biggest ball 90s kids could fathom) and Pluto was always a single sand rock plucked from its fellows with tweezers and childlike concentration. Also, fluff off NASA and Neil DeGrasse Tyson, Pluto is damn planet and I will not re-learn the pneumonic to remember planetary names if it can’t end in Pizza. (My Very Educated Mother Just Sent Us Nine Pizzas for those of you who grew up before or after pneumonics were a thing. It only works if you’ve already memorized the names and just can’t remember orbital order… personally I always flip-flopped Neptune and Uranus and drew my P’s backwards but I digress… also hehe anus).

But- the sun is a finite resource. All stars eventually die when they burn up all their gases, and then what? We aren’t really any better equipped to survive without a sun than a bacterial culture is to survive without a heat lamp. The Earth, the solar system, it’s an unbalanced ecosystem that exists exclusively because one flaming space rock attracted a bunch of non-flaming space rocks and at least one of the space rocks had the perfect ratio of growth mediums to produce lower-level organisms, and then higher-level organisms. We can question how or why there is life to our philosophical heart’s content, but our ability to contemplate meaning is meaningless in the grand scheme of a universe that is solely dependent on maintaining a growth medium trifecta to sustain what we call “intelligent life”.  

Intelligent life that can’t survive without dogs, cats, birds, lizards, oxygen and coffee… and books, so stop banning those.

Life, the universe, everything, is best looked at as a microscope on the most powerful setting. It’s great to focus on the small and finite details, but you have to change the setting in order to see the system as a whole or you’ll miss out on its purpose and functionality.

Long story short- be nice to the Earth. It’s your agar plate and no matter how much you zoom in to avoid the truth, you can’t survive without it.

Also, it has dogs and coffee.

Part One: Perry

By: E. N. CranePerry’s Pound Photo

These humans need me, Perry thought from the back seat.

She’d just been picked up from the Los Angeles County Animal Care and Control in Lancaster, California and was on her way to her forever home.  

Or at least that’s what she’d overheard at the shelter before being poked and prodded one last time by the creepy woman in the lab coat. Though the woman ended the exam with the same number of fingers she started it with, Perry had considered eating one to make a point.

The little white car was traveling south on the 14 and though she hadn’t been alive for long, this was going to be her first real home.

In the front seat, her new paw-rents were speaking to each other quietly while the man rifled through the paperwork. It was a rather impressive stack of adoption papers, but Perry couldn’t concentrate on what they were saying.

“Wait, what?” He exclaimed, but Perry remained curled up, enjoying the first quiet moments she’d had in months. The shelter was loud, non-stop barking and humans walking past, not seeing or caring that she was there. In this new silence, it was restful and gave her time to plot. “She’s not five!”

The woman turned toward the man and cocked her head to the side for an explanation.

“When the previous owners surrendered her, they marked her age at one and a half. This isn’t an old dog some mean humans dumped in the pound for a newer model, this is a puppy!”

“Well… I did always want a puppy,” she said, eyeing Perry in the rearview mirror. The beautiful German Shepherd had been listed as Sky on the website, a resident of the county lock-up for two and a half months. The kennel attendant had to trap her just to get her out of Dog House Number Three so they could interact with her.

Safely in the meet and greet kennel, the woman stealthily slid treats out of her purse to bribe canine affection. The once homeless dog evaded the treats, pets and eye contact. It was too much trust and affection for humans who’d probably leave her behind.

When they’d taken her home, she hardly believed it was forever.

After all, humans had already let her down once.

“We’ll have to hit up the pet store and get her food,” the woman said, noting that the tip of Perry’s tail wagged. She’d lost ten pounds in her time with the county. As a large breed, she should have been at least 60 pounds but had walked out at a svelte 40.

“Probably a whole lot of other stuff too. We adopted a puppy,” the man huffed out a breath and turned to admire the underweight dog. “You’re sure about naming Perry?”

“Yeah. She definitely has mindless pet with secret agent skill vibes. Like she looks derpy but can kick serious butt,” the woman turned the car off the freeway and made a few turns until the bright red Petsmart sign lit up the car interior. “Should we take her inside so she can pick her food?”

The two humans watched the sleeping dog hesitantly.

“I don’t think we know her well enough to try it. And that collar doesn’t fit,” the man gestured to the second hand collar slid around Perry’s neck. “But she might also chew up your car… or poop in it.”

“Yeah, she’ll need a smaller one until we can fatten her up,” the woman sighed and decided leaving the newest family member in the car was the best idea. “And dogs have vomited and peed in this car before… why not add poop?”

The man made a face but let it go.

There was no arguing with the woman.

It took fifteen minutes to find food, engrave a collar tag and get pee pads. While inside, they discussed the best option for slow introduction to the household. An apartment was not ideal for a large puppy, the geriatric white German Shepherd who’d lived there before had been all too happy to lay on the floor and his heated bed while his degenerating hip bones moved slowly toward decalcification.

This Perry would probably eat the couch… or maybe the kitchen sink… Nothing Rider used as a bed before would be safe and there weren’t enough treats to keep her from chewing the plastic if she found them.

“We’ll need a real baby gate,” the woman stated, pulling into the garage and shutting the door. It was part of an ongoing conversation of all the ways the house was unprepared for Perry the Platypup. “But we’re going to do this right. Show her the apartment, show her outside, apartment, outside… probably give her food…”

A quick tour of the apartment on leash followed by an outdoor excursion ended when Perry guzzled a whole bowl of water. At the shelter, water was often shared and attracted insects and she’d turned her nose up at it repeatedly.

Perry would not drink the contaminated water.

“I guess give her food?” The man asked as the woman positioned a dog bed on the floor between the second bedroom and bathroom. In the empty space was an absorbent potty pad and a water dish. When she nodded, the man filled a food dish with a scoop of food and placed it in the wire holder.

The dog took a sniff and devoured every morsel.

“Well, that’s a good sign…”

After a few minutes of rest, they took her back outside to walk around. The pound had no idea what kind of food they fed her, so no matter what they fed her, her stomach was going to be sad. With the volume of water she’d had, they’d expected a fire hose of pee to go with the volcanic bowel evacuation.

Perry did nothing.

“Maybe she doesn’t have any waste?” The woman asked, but the man couldn’t imagine a world where that much went into a dog and didn’t come back out again. A camel, sure, but not a dog.

“Ten more minutes?” He suggested and Perry’s new mom shrugged, walking the Perry around the grass and trying to get her to make eye contact. She pranced her in a circle with occasional burst of running, but still the Perry did not make waste. The woman bobbed and weaved trying to look in her eyes to ask a question. “I guess we’ll call it a night?”

The dog wagged her tail slightly, and the two females agreed to go back inside. Perry was escorted to her hallway and two kitchen chairs blocked her exit.

A makeshift crate until they could get supplies.

“Do you really think that will keep her in?” The one male in the house asked, skeptical about his future wife’s ability to make a temporary canine containment.

“Maybe? We’ll block the bottom of the chairs,” she said, draping blankets to the exit look impassable.

It took Perry five minutes to Army low crawl out of the hallway and appear beside her freshly showered human mom.

“Stack totes in front?” She suggested and Perry’s new dad pulled some holiday decoration storage bins from the hall closet. Perry sat behind the minor wall, tail wagging as the humans studied her. “Do you think she’ll bark?”

Neither of them had an answer as they made their way to bed, listening for any signs of distress before they fell into a deep sleep.

Humom had no idea how long had passed when something cold and wet touched her face.

“Go away,” she grumbled, until a furry head snuggled in closer. That’s when the smell hit. “Oh Perry.”

Peeling open her eyelids, the woman saw the new family member sitting beside her bed. Paws turned out, tail wagging, Perry had poop on the bottom of her feet. Climbing out of bed, humom picked her way carefully to the light switch and illuminated… a gastrointestinal crime seen.

Perry had liquid pooped from one end of the apartment to the other. Criss-crossed with the actual poop were Perry paw prints as she’d made her mess and then pranced into the bedroom to sit beside her new mom to show what she’d done.

HuMom took Perry outside where she made 0 waste, and then brought her back in where HuDad had begun the clean-up process. Fully clean, Perry went back into her hallway while her new mom wisely decided to sleep on the couch.

The second her eyes closed, Perry was out and her hallway was filled with pee. When the woman turned away to clean up the pee, the baby German Shepherd pooped in front of the TV.

After a quick clean (Perry was running a little low on waste now), and another trip back outside, the woman laid on the couch with Perry beside it, exhausted and sore.

Well, Perry thought as her eyelids drooped closed. That will save them from boredom. They needed me to give them someone to care for.

(P & P Adventures is a short story written for elementary school students. The story was read and recorded for playing at an Author’s Around the World event in her hometown of Palmdale, CA. Though must of E. N. Crane’s stories involve dogs and childish humor, this is not representative of her usual work.)

What drives you to love a TV series, movie or book?

What about music or dance?

Is it the story, the characters, the melody, the lyrics, the performance? What makes your favorites your favorite? Shared trauma is probably why I joined TikTok, listen to Taylor Swift, and re-watch The Big Bang Theory… over and over and over again.

Is it because misery loves company or the feeling of not feeling alone that throws us back into the cycle of repetition and wallowing?

I’ve been on an emotional roller coaster trying to re-define my world. Impending job loss, new state of residence, an increase in morally slanderous emails that I am alarmed any reasonable person would believe, much less feel inspired by, have left me with a sense of isolation and false hope that change is a good thing. Then I dove head first into a bucket of cheese and Halloween candy and pie… OK, not the pie yet, but I don’t believe for a second that I’ll skip it.

Earlier today, I was thinking of a scene in Boy Meets World where the Eric Mathews character says a line to the effect of, “Lose one friend, lose all friends, lose yourself.”

That may be an incomplete quote, my snowflake millennial ass is more about the feeling it invoked than the actual line so I did not look it up. But as I sat with that feeling of trying to parse out what defines a person, what makes people your friend or your foe, I wondered what about that scene made it powerful.

Was it the actors or the words? The performance or the story?

When you watch a film, professionals are performing the words someone pulled from within them to tell a story. Did I like the show Gilmore Girls because Alexis Bledel and Lauren Graham were iconic, or was it the fierce writing and story being told by Amy Sherman Palladino? Casting choices aside, would the show have had that same punch without those actors? Could the words and story evoke the same feeling on their own?

Backing out even further, are actions or words more impactful on your life? Could you live with genuine words in a world with disingenuous actions or a world of fake words and real actions?

Does it hurt more to be lied to or punched in the gut? Does it hurt more if you thought the person cared about you? What if the person lying to you didn’t matter? What if the person punching you in the gut was your best friend?

I was tasked with posting my own job for backfilling when it’s time for me to go. I know there is nothing that can be done, I moved to Idaho, but it hurt more than it should have. It was bad enough they asked for my letter of resignation to get the ball rolling, but then I needed to take my name off the organization chart and mark it as vacant before writing up the Request Authorization form and say why my job is so important, someone else should do it.

Needless to say, I’ve been very confused by my urge to both cry and hit something.

So like any person who can’t wear her pants after stress eating her feelings since August, I decided to do fitness.

I have a Peloton subscription, it’s one of my few recurring monthly expenses that brings me guilt when I don’t actually use it. Last week, I did a strength workout, the week before stretching and strength, but I haven’ used the spin bike since I moved.

Not the Peloton bike, mind you, I have the knock off Costco version.

My husband mounted our old TV on the room in one of the bedrooms and got me a Firestick so I can have my own quasi gym, but I can talk myself out of anything but eating something filled with cheese or chocolate.

Craft/Fitness Room

So, I started small, but today… today I told myself I would do the thing.

The big, scary, stressful thing because it wasn’t supposed to be any of those things.

Believe it or not, the mythical “they” claim exercise is supposed to be fun.

With the goal of mental clarity and defeat of fake demons in mind, I found a Mental Health Month compilation. A twenty-minute stretching class with my favorite American instructor, Rebecca Kennedy, was all about opening up and leaning into your body. It was effective and peaceful, making me feel all rainbows and positivity.

So, I pulled up one of the Spin classes from that grouping.

And now I’m literally broken.

Kendall Toole, a usually upbeat instructor, cultivated a playlist that reminded me of all the darkness lurking just on the edges. Of how hard it is to carry a heavy weight and try and keep up with everyone else. Pushing resistance and cadence while vocalizing so many internal struggles and thoughts that so many of us fight on a daily basis.

I couldn’t keep up.

I dropped the resistance long before she asked me to.

I slowed down before instructed.

In short, I lost the fight. It was too hard, but I didn’t stop.

Her words, her shared fight, it knocked me on my ass.

When I went into this ride, my goal was to feel powerful and like I could take on the world. Instead, I’m crying and letting go of the weight I couldn’t carry anymore.

Her words were more powerful than her riding and the 60+ resistance didn’t force me to stop as much as her sharing about how hard it is to fight against the weights we carry to do more. My boss asking me to enter my own job was not balanced by his single statement that he didn’t “want” me to leave. Taylor Swift giving us all the freedom to say, “It’s me, hi, I’m the problem,” didn’t give me the power to solve the problem.  Having the words to tell someone you love them doesn’t mean you know how to show it to them.

As a writer, I want to believe that I can write the words to make it all wonderful.

As a mentally ill person, I feel like an actor trying to perform the reality someone else put in a script.

As a person, more often than not, I’m certain I’ve failed to be what the world wants me to be.

There is often a great deal of grief in loss, but we are taught that some losses are more impactful than others. A death is a much greater loss than the loss of a candy bar. But as a kid, you don’t really understand what it means that a person is “gone”. You do understand that your Skittles were run over by a truck.

We are told not to cry over spilled milk, or smushed Skittles, but that’s a bunch of malarkey. Grieve what hurts you. Change, loss, it’s all freaking hard and you should grieve and hug your beasties and flip off anyone who tells you they disagree with your feelings.

Loss, however small, can have a lasting effect. No one can tell you what that means to you except you.

Well, you and your dogs because they insist on being there for you no matter what and who wants to put their pets through that if it’s not a big deal?

Perry (couch) and Padfoot (Upside down on floor)

Sometimes I wish there were firmware updates for my brain.

So much is going on and I feel like I’m running an outdated operating system with insufficient ram. Much like my 10-year-old laptop, I need someone to open me up, swap out the 8 gig for a 16 gig so I don’t have to give up my USB Ports and disc drive… this metaphor may have gone a bit far.

When I started this blog, I was in love with the idea of posting to it. I’ve been a writer all my life and I thought “what better way to share my writing with a blog?” Then I discovered self-publishing and found that I could write the fiction that I love and put it in the world for people to see. After I hit publish, I thought readers would magically appear, but I don’t write in the magically appearing reader genre. I write in the “have an email list, every imaginable social media and cry in the shower” genre. Thank dog for walking in the woods but I can’t keep up with blogs and books, also TikTok, Instagram, Facebook and that bird app I legit stink at. There are not enough characters for my level of snark.

Now, there is nothing wrong with humorous mysteries. I love them and so do a lot of other people. Like… a lot of them. But keeping up with a writing schedule, a newsletter and posting on social medias has left a disconnected skeleton feeling. Like when Miguel’s dad runs into something and all of his bones go different directions in Coco?

Unfortunately, my pieces don’t come back together into a human shape. Everything is oozing and squishy, not quite sure where it was supposed to go and impossible to get back where it belongs. This blog is still very important to me, so rather than trying to force my words into a cohesive story or social media picture, I’m instead going to empty out my thoughts here.

There are only like… six subscribers, so it’s almost the same as putting it in a diary or burying it in a time capsule for future generations to judge me by… assuming reading the internet is still a thing in the future, since everyone is moving toward a video only life and I’m just over here like “it’s too loud”.

I mean, why is everything always so loud? Nothing is at a reasonable volume and if it is I can’t hear it which is why I watch things with subtitles.

When I left Glendale, the city I worked at for six years, after therapy, I still had nightmares that I was somehow forced to go back. It’s been over a year, I live in a different state, and I had another one last night… I actually got a tattoo on my hand because I knew there was no way they would let me work there with a hand tattoo.

Also, I just kind of wanted it.

Despite the therapy and self-work, that place still makes me question my worth as an employee and a person. My ability to discern my own thoughts, feelings and intentions from what other people tell me they must have been because I’m some sort of Machiavellian plotter. I’m not sure if it comes from being autistic and constantly trying to mirror my emotions to the rest of the group to come off as “normal” or because I live in a never-ending cycle of needing people who don’t matter to like me.

Do you know how frustrating it is to care what people you hate think about you?

My brain is now filled with numbers and procedures for purchasing and student registration assistance. No longer do I have to worry that if I speak honestly or recommend something in the direction of progress, I’ll be written up and punished for the next most convenient accusation they can put on paper. Instead, it’s full of anxiety ridden emails where I toe the line between telling people what to do and making it sound like a request.

Like “No Professor, you can’t use a robot to grade papers and give them grades based on the fourth letter of their last name. Don’t you think it would be better to just make a grading rubric and let someone else do it?” or maybe “It’s not my job to pass out your textbooks, just like I told you last year, what alternative solutions have you come up with to better serve your students?”

I’d like to blame the patriarchy, but even men in the education system can’t be direct. Our faculty are all stubborn little hoarders with no discernable system for moving forward beyond the next second and there is a great deal of hand holding to get things done.

Especially with sportball coaches. Sweet cheese and crackers they are a needy group of babies.

There are too many delicious cheeses in the world, and I don’t know how to try them all. We do a wine and cheese night (much more often than we should) and we get little blocks of their fancy cheeses and pair them with crackers and fruits and different wines, but is my life long enough to try all the cheeses? What about dogs? Will I be able to adopt enough of them before I die to feel like a made a dent in their perceptions of human affection?

We moved to Idaho, a state I most certainly do not belong. My biggest joy would be to acquire a paintball gun and shoot paint at campaign signs and flags… A little at the people posting them as well, but mostly the signs. I don’t care what you believe or think, but don’t shove it down my throat with a seven-foot politician support flag.

It does make it easier to know who to avoid though.

When they were about to overturn Roe vs. Wade, I posted about my abortion on Facebook. Everyone was very kind and had many nice words. When it was officially overturned, I posted that I was angry and was attacked. Informed that I knew nothing about the law, and it wasn’t that bad, and morality and religion are not the same thing (spoiler alert: anything with a fundamental ideology that encourage group behaviors in accordance with a set of rules declared right and wrong is a moral philosophy).

Then I blocked a dude I’ve known since Kindergarten and I regret not doing it sooner. He was a plague on both our houses… or however Shakespeare said it.

Recently, I was researching Ohio presidents for my book and that led me down the rabbit hole of prohibition, forcing yourself to do things you don’t believe in, and human trafficking of Canadian mountain men for performances in the adult film industry… well, the last was a plot point, not so much a research topic but I did have to look up immigration.

Again.

For a country filled with the descendants of seamen who crashed their boats into a land mass and declared it theirs, they sure are touchy about letting people in. I mean it’s not theirs… or ours… well, unless “our” is indigenous peoples of the land in which case it is theirs and whitey needs to stop.

Also, on the list of things whitey needs to stop: imposing restrictions in the name of equality that cause people of diverse backgrounds more discomfort in their implementation than the thing being restricted.

Example: Brown Bag lunch.

When I was in school, cool kids brought their lunch in a brown bag. It was just the right amount of eco-friendly but not trying too hard and you had something to draw on. Apparently, brown bag is offensive because of an old racist standard that no one remembers as far as I can tell. Why are we censoring things based on a forgotten history instead of dealing with actual issues?

Like why I keep watching the Big Bang Theory despite how truly awful it is.

A bunch of grown man complaining about women, degrading them and constantly whining about sex. Growing up, period jokes were a way for men to minimize women’s feelings and give men something to mock so we felt forced to conceal how we felt. This show reminds me why I was embarrassed and ashamed of being female and menstruating.

It also reminds me why nerdy guys were no better or different than the “hot Neanderthal”. If I watched this show when it originally aired, I’d probably have become like a non-religious monk person… an ace woman that was mocked because she didn’t like “the good guys” and “wasn’t fulfilling her reproductive responsibilities”.

Like, look Adam and Eve, I’m taking care of the animals in the garden you jerk. The life I nurture is no less valuable because I didn’t eject it from my body like a flume ride log. I enjoy saying gay, treating children like a privilege and not a consequence you regret, and mocking those who take their beliefs to levels I would refer to as “aggressive” and “psychosis”. My kids are hairy, scary and rarely ever sticky.

Unlike me, since I regularly spill and fall into things. I even did goat yoga and let goats jump on me, not clean but really fun. Goat hooves are really amazing at acupressure. Also poking holes in my ear is uncomfortable for a much shorter period of time than having ink needled into my skin, so I’ll probably switch to poking holes instead of scraping cells for a while.

Also hair extensions are itchy and I’m not a huge fan of them… but they were expensive and now I’m torn between wanting them out and getting another set to make it look normal-er. But if I’m being honest, what would make me most happy would be bedazzling my face like Mabel in Gravity Falls.

I’d also like women to be acceptably sized as chonky. Being not-chonky goes against everything I believe in and I’m tired of fighting myself to look a certain way. My joints would like me to be lighter, but the rest of me suffers from the effort of trying… especially this time of year.

Halloween candy season is my favorite, encompassed within tree-peeping season and pumpkin everything. Overall, the biggest disappointment of this move has been Dutch Bros losing it’s magic. It’s only 1.5 miles away now and I’ve only gone a few times. It’s just not special or exciting anymore.

I’m not sure this is a complete brain dump, but it satisfies my need to clear up space for the moment.

Chapter One: New Ride

“What the hell is that?” I stared in horror and simultaneously needed to blink repeatedly to stave off the brightness.

“It’s your new Jeep,” Larry responded without hesitation. Rubbing the sleep from my lavender eyes and shoving back my messy tangle of blonde hair, I tried to orient myself to what I was looking at. My eyes took in the Jeep, the sidewalk, and my feet in their yellow Crocs six feet below me… Everything was real… Real and…

“It’s pink,” I gawked as a group of middle school girls stopped in front of the car and took selfies with it. They threw up peace signs and tried to look cute but sexy, disturbing for pre-pubescent girls, but middle school was like that.

“You like pink,” he countered, and I narrowed my eyes at the Jeep. I’d been happily sleeping in my own bed when Larry had let himself into my apartment, pulled me out of bed, and after a few inappropriate gropes, brought me outside. My apartment was on Main Street, a small single room affair that sat on a third of the library lot above a small office. The office and the apartment belonged to a couple of local senior citizens who let me live there in exchange for investigative services donated to the town.

“It has a giant Hello Kitty on the hood!”

“So does your underwear, Cyn,” he smirked at his own joke. The middle school girls giggled, giving Larry sly glances. Hard to blame them, really. Dr. Larry Kirby was tall, leanly muscled with messy brown hair and flawless skin. Sometimes I just stared at him and giggled too.

Just not when he was talking about my underwear on a public street.

“Where did it come from? Why is it here? I have a vehicle.”

“No, you were borrowing my truck. The insurance money from your Jeep came in, and you left it sitting there for two weeks. So I took it, bought you this Jeep, and now I need my truck keys back.” He held out his hand and I rounded on him.

“Why can’t I keep borrowing your truck? You stole my money? I’m sooo telling your brother!” I said, reminding both of us that his brother, Daniel Kirby, was local law enforcement. Incompetent law enforcement, but still technically tasked with upholding the law. He had been the hottest guy in high school with a reputation for nail and bail. Now he was married with way too many kids, and had the investigative skills of a toddler immediately after reading Sherlock Holmes.

He also had zero sense of humor, at least when it came to reminding him of his own stupidity.

“You would never willingly talk to Daniel. Not after his anniversary party!” Larry’s wide smile reminded me of what happens when a bunch of children covered in food and food-like substances stand too close to a German Shepherd Malinois mix with an uncontrollable appetite. The child had been right at Winnie height, waving a hot dog around like a baton. Hilarious in retrospect, the incident may have taken years off her mother’s life.

“Winnie didn’t eat any fingers, so I think I’m good!” My eyes dropped to the fur monster in question. Sgt. Winifred Pupperson, Winnie for short, and I had been in the Army together. We had been military police and served four years with an impeccable record of chaos, destruction, snack theft and an occasional fire. The Army had been relieved when our contract expired, and they “accidentally” forgot to mention it so we couldn’t re-up. Specialist Cynthia Sharp and Sgt. Winifred Pupperson retired to Cyn and Winnie, Ohio’s most competent demolition experts.

Certified only to work at a farm maintaining livestock outputs for sale.

“Manda won’t touch a hot dog if she’s seen a dog in the last ten minutes!” Larry was now laughing, and I thought of the poor, messy child in her stained dress and muddy feet. She’d pet Winnie for twenty minutes once she stopped crying but it had been a long… however many minutes she’d been crying.

“Ugh, fine. I won’t tell him you forged my name on a check, cashed it, and bought me a hideous pink Hello Kitty Jeep that is probably mechanically unsound and filled with bubblegum pop music. But why can’t I keep borrowing your truck? I mean I fill it with gas, and I haven’t hit anything!”

“Seriously? You don’t know why?” I winced and shook my head. Innocent until proven guilty works in a court of law, maybe it works in the court of your lover knows you took his truck mudding and spilled a two-liter bottle of Cherry Coke and a large McDonalds fries that Winnie ate and then barfed up into the upholstery. “I saw that, you know what you did, young lady.”

I moved really close to him and gave him sexy eyes.

“I could do you… in the truck. Doesn’t that sound fun? Don’t you want to… in your truck?”

“Yeah, I can hold out longer than you can. We’ve proved it. You can’t have my truck, not after the gummy bears.” He tapped a finger on my nose.

Damn, I’d forgotten about the gummy bears. Specifically, I’d forgotten that the gummy bears were now permanently adhered to the bottom of his glove compartment and one of the seatbelts in the back seat.

“Fine,” I stepped back from him, and felt his eyes on my pajama shorts as I walked toward the pink abomination. For his benefit, I stuck my head through the window and pushed my butt in the air. It’s important to remind a man that while he might be able to hold out longer, the world could see his affliction. With Herculean effort, I tried to execute a perfect Betty Boop sorority squat and hoped it looked sexier than it felt.

As expected, the seats were fluffy pink, the stereo lit up in shades of purple, and the steering wheel was covered in glitter. I picked at the wheel with a nail to remove the cover.

It wasn’t a cover. Someone had silicone lacquered the steering wheel with pink glitter.

I shuddered as another group of girls came by and snapped selfies with it.

Larry had bought me Malibu Barbie’s car, and he looked a little adorable for having done it. Hands in his pockets, nervously ruffled hair… he shifted.

“If you really hate it…”

Glancing at the front of his pants I had to smile and gesture to the door behind him.

I walked back to the front of my building and opened it, holding the door for the parade that followed behind me. First Winnie and then Larry came inside, the last locking the door to the office behind him. My apartment was accessible only via a rear fire door and a door in the back of my office. Both led to the same staircase, and at the top were cozy living quarters that were plenty for an ex-military working dog and her handler.

Larry just plugged himself in wherever there was space.

“How did you get that here?” I asked, walking into the kitchen. A full pot of coffee sat in the machine, and I furrowed my brows at it. Had I progressed to making coffee in my sleep?  I know people did weird things on Ambien, but I was fairly certain I didn’t take Ambien. Though if my sleepwalking meant I had coffee ready when I was awake walking, I was willing to keep taking drugs.

“I started the pot before I woke you up because I value my life,” Dr. Kirby said from beside me where he set two mugs on the counter. “Also, I fed Winnie for the same reason. You’re welcome.”

I grabbed his butt in lieu of saying thank you, and he kissed my temple before bringing out milk, flavored syrup, and sauces. Eyes dropping, I just stared at his butt while he made two cups of coffee and passed me one in a delightful mug with a rainbow and a unicorn that declared I was “F***ing Magical”.

“So, how did you get the pink Jeep here?” I asked again after half of the coffee was gone from my pink unicorn cup.

“I drove it.” He left the kitchen to sit on the couch, and I stared. “What? Don’t even pretend there’s a no coffee on your couch policy. We both know that you would drink coffee while we had sex if your hand eye coordination could manage it.”

As I had considered an option with a travel cup and straw, I decided to plead the fifth on that for now.

“You… Drove that? It’s pink!”

“Yeah and?”

“You’re… that!” I gestured the length of his body. Winnie cocked her head to the side on the couch beside him, and he mimicked her gesture. The man was wearing his glasses, sitting with a leg crossed over the other, in a hooded sweatshirt advertising his ridiculously named veterinary clinic. “Weren’t you embarrassed?”

“Toxic masculinity is what’s wrong with America, Cyn. Men can drive pink, glittery, Hello Kitty Jeeps without any loss of manliness,” he patted the couch on his other side. I refilled my coffee and plopped on the couch beside him, being extra careful not to spill.

If the travel mug and straw option didn’t work out, I was willing to work on my grace to have sex and coffee at the same time.

“First of all, toxic masculinity is an international problem. Second, I thought America was anti-vaxxers, systemic racism, lack of respect for nature, a disregard for science, the media…”

“Yeah… it might be a shorter list if we just listed all the things not wrong with the world… and America,” he mused, following my train of thought. I clinked our coffee mugs in agreement and took a long drink.

“If only the Infinity Stones were real, Thanos could solve this problem.”

“Would you snap away half of the population? Who would grow, harvest, and roast your coffee?” Larry wrapped his arm around me, and I leaned against him, drinking my hot bean water as though it could be snapped away at any moment. The question was a little too deep for morning hours, and I didn’t have an answer.

“You know it’s not staying pink, right?” My eyes drifted to the offending vehicle. It was still parked on Main in front of my building, and it had drawn the largest crowd of people not waiting in line for food in the history of Main Street. Almost on cue, my friend and local bakery owner, Mary O’Connor, appeared with themed cookies that she was selling to the gathered crowds.

“When do you think Mo made kitty cookies?” I asked, using her nickname and getting on my knees to look out at her artistry. Despite being too far away to actually see the cookies, I was certain they were as brilliant and adorable as everything she made.

“Do you think she’d bring me a kitty cookie if I asked?” My eyes drifted over my shoulder to Larry who licked his lips.

Larry was not looking at the cookies.

He also wasn’t looking at the car.

“Some people are really into kitty… speaking of which?” he waggled his eyebrows suggestively, and my lower body flooded with warmth.

“Depends… Aren’t you still allergic to cats?” I asked, studying him over my coffee cup. He took the cup, verified it was empty because he values his life, and put it on the table.

“I’m not allergic to this one,” his mouth pressed against mine, parting my lips with his tongue while his hands slid up the pajama shorts I was wearing. “In fact, I think I want to adopt it so it’s mine forever.”

“Hello, kitty,” he whispered.

“What the hell is that?” Marvin asked, and I followed his gaze through the front window of the shop. Sitting in front was the pink, Hello Kitty Jeep that now shimmered in the sun. The paint had just looked matte pink in the morning light, but at high noon, it was a beacon of mental and visual torture.

Also, the glitter steering wheel trapped heat and my hands had melted on the two-block drive despite the sixty-degree temps outside. I’d spent  fifteen minutes I was waiting for Marvin’s shop to open trying to buy a new steering wheel but kept getting outbid on eBay.

“It’s apparently mine. Can you fix it?”

“With matches and lighter fluid.” He couldn’t take his eyes off the pink Jeep and I started to nod agreement but then remembered I didn’t have any other money for cars. Not when I was constantly forking over money to repair Winnie catastrophes and keeping us in caffeine and snackage.

“I was more thinking about a paint job,” I told him, and he shook his head. Apparently he really wanted to set something on fire.

“It’ll take days for color to get delivered.” He tapped into his computer. “Also, you gotta pick a color, and your dog ended my sample book.”

I looked down at Winnie and she wagged her tail, a few crumbs and a smidge of mustard still on her muzzle.

“Sorry,” I said to my shoes.

We’d walked into the body shop, and Winnie had been off-leash. Marvin had been eating a sandwich which we interrupted with our arrival. His shop hadn’t opened yet, but lunch had arrived for the man. I was too distracted by the behemoth that was my car to notice he was eating. Marvin set the sandwich down on top of a book to help me, and Winnie had jumped onto the counter, devoured the sandwich, and picked up the book while holding half down with her paw, splitting the inventory from the ordering section. I’d jumped forward to get it back from her with a stern no, but that became a game of chase faster than Hello Kitty  Pink Jeep could draw a crowd. A pursuit ensued, Winnie lunging and dancing just out of reach, straight into the workshop for vehicle restorations. She startled a man working with a caustic liquid that spilled when Winnie dropped the book to shove her snoot into his butt and give him what was likely his first proctology exam ever at the hands, or rather nose, of a canine.

The liquid spilled, missing the young man’s shoes but dissolved the book in less than a minute.

“I’ll pay for a new one,” I glared at my partner, and she wagged her tail again. “Do you have any… left-overs from other jobs lying around? I’d like it to not be pink until I can pick what color it will be.”

“Options are limited,” he warned.

We watched a group of girls leave the pottery-painting place across the street and gush over my ride. They begged their moms to take their picture with the Jeep, throwing up peace signs and cupping their hands beneath their chins.

“Literally, any color,” I confirmed, and he shook his head in disgust.

“Who would do that to a perfectly good automobile?”

“Who would do that to anything?”

We stared out of the window in silence as a bus of Asian tourists arrived, forming a line to take photos with the Jeep on their way into the restaurant next door. The nearest point of interest was an hour and forty-five minutes away, but the Noodle House must have paid someone a fortune to get their establishment added to a tourist itinerary.

A fortune they did not spend on ingredients since I found three-dozen packages of Top Ramen in their trash last week.

Finding the wrappers was unrelated to the reason I was looking in the trash, but they’d bought my silence with beef and broccoli. Silence and the gift of a bus boy to help me go through the trash looking for a purloined wedding band.

Marvin shook his head as the line slowly dwindled and the car sat alone once more. Both our phones dinged, and we looked to see we had been tagged in social media posts by every selfie taker that day.

“I’ll see what I can do. Do you need it today?”

“No, I can walk everywhere I need to go today.” A group of teenage boys took the place of the tourists and were now pretending to lick the character on the hood. “Seriously, what is wrong with this town?”

Marvin chuckled and shook his head.

“Let’s be realistic, that Jeep is the most entertaining thing this town has seen since you blew up Roger’s trailer.” He pointed a finger at my chest and I felt my face burn. “Well, and when you managed to get Daniel Kirby stuck in that woman’s cleavage.”

“Can I blame the chickens?” I asked no one in particular. “The chickens and the rocks and… insufficient caffeination?”

“You can, but no one would believe you. We’ve all seen the delivery men going to your building with boxes upon boxes of coffee,” Marvin tossed me a newspaper from a small stack beside his computer. “Catch up on current events, and I’ll call you when it’s done.”

Nodding, I took Winnie’s leash and we walked out onto Main St, carefully avoiding the Jeep. There was now a group of seniors, collectively muttering about the nerve of Millennials to ruin a perfectly good car. While I agreed with them, there was something insulting that they thought Millennials would do that to a Jeep. It was not a generational issue; it was a single person with issues that hopefully got help, which is why they sold the Pepto Bismol monstrosity.

To Larry, who arguably also needed help.

Who I was sleeping with so maybe the three of us could get a group rate.

Without anything to do on my Sunday, I took Winnie to the park, plopped on a bench, and opened the newspaper. A new column had appeared since I’d been back, Yvette Taylor’s Small-Town Scandals. Last month, she’d taken down Amber Carter from Amber’s Shoe Ambrosia with an expose on her life’s failures that included trying to join the Army. While I hadn’t known Amber had tried to join the Army shortly after I did, it was surprising that she failed the medical exam and aptitude tests.

Not surprising in that she’s so helpful and brilliant kind of way. More surprising that she hadn’t paid someone to make it go away.

There was also speculation she was adopted and not actually the daughter of Cartersville’s Town Founder. While it was a stretch considering she was a carbon copy of the man but with breasts, watching her refute it for three days was delightful. Winnie and I had brought popcorn and lurked at the periphery of all of her public appearances.

It was weeks’ worth of free entertainment between work and working Larry. Until Winnie tackled an old lady over some peanut butter, and we decided to make ourselves scarce before we ended up in Yvette’s column. The article itself had been brilliant, but it borderline had made me want to defend Amber. Until I remembered she tormented me from Kindergarten through Twelfth grade, and I cut the article out to stick on the fridge.

Usually, I by-pass the front cover as it holds real news which I avoid, but the headline caught my attention.

Gossiper Gossips into an Early Grave

My eyes scanned the article, then I went back and read the whole thing. Yvette Taylor was dead, murdered in her office with a blunt instrument three days earlier. Many suspects, no leads, and a suspension of her column after this week as it had already been written. The article came off a little too light-hearted for murder, but Yvette wasn’t exactly a pillar of politeness, and she’d exposed her own editor online before the Editor-in-Chief made the editor hire Yvette to raise sales numbers and increase online traffic to the dying paper’s website. After a check of the by-line, I confirmed that the writer was one she’d ripped to shreds as a two-bit hack for hosting a Dear Abby column and accepting corporate sponsorships for advice answers. Coca Cola had paid big money for Mr. Fred Tannins to tell people soft drinks were the cure to depression and lack of energy.

He also liked to tell women that they would be prettier if they smiled more.

I flipped to page four, curious who Yvette’s last victim would be. Though I’d never met her, the woman had made sarcasm and accusatory reporting an artform. While journalism was probably a little better off without her, I would miss the entertainment that came with her exaggerated ideas and her assertions into silence. Folding back the pages before, I smiled at her last headline.

Law Enforcement’s Biggest Loser: Never Solved a Crime

Beneath the headline was Daniel Kirby in his police uniform, looking boyish and charming. A glance toward the shop showed the pink Jeep was gone, taken away to receive a makeover. My iced coffee was only three-quarters empty, so I smiled and settled in to read, delighted for once to enjoy a mystery and a scandal that did not concern me in the least.

I’ve been on sick leave from work since the beginning of June. I’ve lost track of the day of the week, the time of day and any semblance of a schedule. I have treatment four hours a day, three days a week and other than that, I have nothing. Dog walks, house cleaning, yard work… I just wander from room to room, restless and exhausted.

How did people survive COVID Isolation Orders?

I WAS essential, my life didn’t change except I got to live the introverts dream of avoiding people and staying inside. I used the time Disney was closed and races were cancelled to write the Ampersand Series, plan a wedding, craft all aspects of it, and develop a healthy appreciation for the art of telephone food orders. Now… now I’m lost.

When my doctor put me off work, I admit I was excited to be a stay at home dog mom. I thought I would write all day and play with the pups and work on getting better. Except once the “really, I’m fine” mask came off… I couldn’t do anything. It’s a paralyzing sense of confusion and loss to admit you can’t pretend anymore. This is my new normal until I get better.

But… what am I supposed to do? My creative energy is completely drained and I don’t know where to start any new projects. I started looking into Wicca to see if I can improve myself by channeling my intentions and being dedicated to my desires. Which basically means now I have moon water and a lot of candles.

Also, I’m a little disappointed in Moon Water. Did you know it was just water you meditated next to during the full moon and allowed to absorb the lunar energy while you used that same energy to infuse your goals into it? No one told me when I set out to do my Strawberry Moon ceremony that I would need to have actual, tangible goals. I started Wicca last Friday and I’m already bad at it because I don’t have any clearly defined goals.

I wish there was a goal store… like the Unicorn Store where you can walk in and browse goals and options and pick one. Like a one size fits all inspiration for life and possibilities. Some people use the internet, or podcasts or just have a deep, well-defined sense of self that guides their life. The only thing my inner compass tells me to do is eat cheese and stare at dogs. It doesn’t even tell me to write anymore. It doesn’t tell me anything useful, just eat cheese and pet dogs.

So… what did everyone else do? How did you stay home without obligations or needs beyond survival? I’ve read a few books but I tend to snack while reading and I worked very hard to lose my Glendale Weight and I’d rather not gain it back all at once.

These images come to my mailbox every day and I am grateful to Kate Allen for them.Moving Forward (1 Month Later)

I started this post on sick leave. I went to therapy 12 hours a week and felt drained. It was my hope to find some clarity in my path and my journey, but what I found is that what I want and what the world can offer are not the same.

Once again, I’m on a piece of driftwood out at sea deciding if I’m looking for land or a place to drown comfortably.

Last Monday, I started a new job. I am full time, temporary and I admit that the impermanence made it exciting. What I didn’t know, and they don’t tell you when you’re hired, is that temporary employees are auditioning for permanent roles and if you show yourself to be of value, they will work to keep you. So… now I have guilt.

The work is easy. I started a week before the new department head came in and he is a funny, intelligent, competent man. I would honestly work for him forever without hesitation. He comes up with ideas, passes them to me and lets me run with them. I’ve had so much freedom to learn, grow and create in the week he’s worked here.

Most of the people I collaborate with to get things done are solid, hard-working people. It’s the rest. Drama, cliques, senses of entitlement, frustration, accusations of mistreatment. This place has all its dirty laundry on display and none of it is new. I met a woman who had a parallel experience to someone I spoke with and she was hired ten years prior.

What I struggle with is guilt.

Click to get them in your mailbox too.

If I leave, if I turn tail and run back to the safety of my self-isolation where therapy works because it’s a vacuum with no outside influence, will they be mad? Will I come off as ungrateful, rude and rotten? I was literally just those things and I don’t want to be them again. I am also, however, not equipped to come in and carry someone else’s long-standing burden. The fight has gone out of me. I’ve lost my spark and until I can find a new one, I don’t have the compassion or ambition to face these challenges head on.

I finished Chasing Empty Caskets yesterday. The next Cyn Sharp novel is ready to rock and roll… to the editing phase. I’ve been invited to attend an author workshop/conference with a scholarship for my admission fees and I’m excited… I’m ambitious… I feel like I’ve wasted everyone’s money.

My confidence, my sense of self, is shattered. I’m trying to find value in my skills and talents, but I can’t seem to remember what my skills and talents are. This also means the my spells and intentions to forgive and heal are short-term. They don’t stick, or last, or guide me when my mind goes down the dark path of personal torment.

For better or worse, this is where I am, and I’m just struggling to be here. Some days are better than others, and some days are the stuff that sends me spiraling into a world of nightmares and depression. So in the words of Kate Allen with the Latest Kate, I’m just taking it 24 Hours at a Time.

The many characters living in my head are annoying. If we haven’t met, you will probably think I’m crazy. If we have, you’ll know it’s true. When I write, I don’t always know where I’m going. My characters show up in my head one day and start talking like a Kindergartner who was given too much Fun Dip. I can write the story down, or I can listen to the same story on repeat in a very annoyed voice until I write it down.

There is no option where I just get to ignore them and do nothing.

For example: Should I change her shirt color? I have 6 different shirt colors in my Canva.

On Saturday, I officially completed Barking for Business. It is the first book in the lighter, fluffier Cyn Sharp Series. It was a relief, a dream… the start of editing. Mind you, my editor edits along with me. So most of my more egregious errors and plot holes are gone. No, now I have to go through and remove repetitive words and phrases, think of something new to put there instead and check if a person who hasn’t lived with these people inside her head will understand. Meanwhile, the next book won’t go away. It won’t stop giving me plot points and jokes, full scenes with dialogue and blocking. Literally, not one day where they don’t expect me to do something.

Where I expect me to do something.

When I wrote the Ampersand Series, I did none of this. I wrote, my mom checked for errors and I just published them. I was convinced they were brilliant and perfect in every way. Then the reviews came in and I faltered. Many of them I can chalk up to taste, but some challenged my skill to even tell a story at all. Since this happened, I haven’t been able to look at them. I was so excited to have them all and read through them like any other reader, and now I’m scared. Scared that they are as terrible as all the men who reviewed Book 3 say they are. Terrified that Bridgette really is whiny and annoying like my most recent Goodreads Review says. Petrified, honestly, to acknowledge what I already know.

They weren’t perfect.

I didn’t “write a book”. I churned a series out like an addict doing lines of coke on her dining room table (cough Without Intention reference cough). My own ego told me they were brilliant and perfect and ready to be set free. In my heart, they still are. In reality, after being a member of the incredibly supportive writing community, there is so much more to do. So much more I could and really should have done.

For example, I gave myself a deadline for Book 2 without fully preparing myself for the ramifications of imperfections. That book was intended to come from a place of pain and hurt, but also ass-kicking and heroism. I was so impatient to leave the bad place behind, I didn’t go back through and check that the actions coincided with the characters or made sense in the circumstance. Basically, I thought my writing was good enough, no one would notice the strange behaviors of my imaginary people.

This time, I want to do everything by the book (ha ha, I’m punny). I have Beta-Readers, a nice distant release date between completion and publication, and a whole host of suggestions and ideas to incorporate. I have time to give myself distance and re-visit it. I have time. Probably it’s not that long a time for many authors, but it’s agonizing for me. I was that kid who submitted her assignments as soon as they were done just to be done. No matter the benefits of distance and review, I just wanted to set my work free. Do things, be done and never look back.

So in a way, being done early is just as stressful to me as being done just under the wire. I have time to set up ads and release date campaign strategies. Time to revisit, edit and agonize over whether or not it’s worth anyone’s time. Maybe I should scrap it, maybe anxiety should win and I should cancel everything. My characters, my heart and my brain say it’s done and if I’m not releasing it, it’s obviously not worth releasing.

Sharing it as is wouldn’t be… decent. Like going outside without pants on, you can but it’s not wise. It’s good and I’m happy, but it can be better. I owe it to the people who read The Ampersand Series to make it better.

It’s an obsession. A wonderful author who reviewed the beginning said I need to distance myself and just let it be for now. Except I can’t. If I’m not working on it, then it’s done and should just be published. If it’s not published, t’s not done and I have to keep working. The more I work on it, the more I think it’s done because I haven’t gotten any feedback because I JUST FINISHED IT!

So, in an effort to not pull my hair out and change my cover for a fourth time (sorry Dad!), I’m obsessing in this blog post. I am mildly ranting and typing and pointing out all my own flaws in an effort not to repeat them. Even now, the document is open on my computer, just in case. Except I’m supposed to leave it alone. But what if a brilliant idea comes and I need to immediately write it in? What if I ruin everything? What if…. What if…. What if I need to be sedated?

If you’re thinking to yourself, “Does this woman even know what she’s doing? Should I get her help?”

I do not, and you probably should. Plus a nappy nap and a snacky snack.

Probably also coffee because the waiting has interfered with my ability to sleep.

(AND NO ONE THINKS THEIRS STINKS)

So, I’ve been reading a lot of blogs and advice listicles online about how to build my “author brand” and I must admit that I still have no idea what I’m doing. Allow me to illustrate with a story (written in the third person with imaginary characters because one person said your blog should be work samples and not about one’s dog, life or personal experiences) (Also I hate that man and if you don’t want to see dog pics we can’t be friends)

Sally stood at the counter, watching the man sweat.

He was large, it was summer, but still it was a lot of sweat.

“Excuse me?” she asked him, trying to get his attention for the third time. It had been half an hour since Sally had come into the auto mechanic’s shop, inappropriate name Quick Fix. In that time, the man behind the counter had burped, drank something from a can wrapped in a paper bag, and itched himself. It would be rude to say where, but the man was thoroughly scratched.

“Yeah?” he said, without looking up. He was staring just below the counter at what sounded to be a baseball game. There were ten people sitting in the room with her, and she was the last to try and force the man in the button down shirt naming him “Geremy” to do something.

“Germ-y?” she said, trying to make sense of the strange spelling. He didn’t notice.

“Yeah,” he said again. He produced a sandwich from somewhere and unwrapped it, eyes fixed at the screen below the counter.

“I’m sorry, but I have surgery in an hour, have you run a diagnostic on my car?” Sally asked and he didn’t look up.

“There’s a line,” he said, gesturing to the other people.

“Fine, I’d like my car back,” Sally said, adjusting her scrub top. It had been a mad lunchbreak dash to get her car looked at and it would seem that she needed a new mechanic.

“Can’t,” he said, pointing toward the bay. “On the lift.”

“Then you’ve looked at it?” she asked, watching a piece of something coated in mayonnaise fall onto his chin and stay there, skewered by his stubble. Sally fought back a wave of nausea. She had held hearts crusted in adiopocere tissue in her hand and massaged them back to life, but mayo coated meat on the stubble of a disgusting man did her in.  

He let out a long exasperated breath and threw the sandwich on the counter. He pawed through a pile of papers next to him and read while smudging them with food.

“You need a new fan, a new fan belt, a cable and some ball bearings,” he said and she furrowed her brow.

“Don’t listen to him,” said a man behind her. He was tall, maybe 6 foot 5, and had a young boy in a baseball uniform beside him. “This place tells everyone they need that. Ask Jack in the back what he really thinks.”

“No, the bearings are what’s causing a rattling,” an older woman with a weathered novel said. “If you’re hearing rattling, you need to get the bearings replaced.”

“The rattling is a fan screw. Don’t change the bearings until you’ve checked out the fan screw,” yet another person piped in. Sally stared at the room, watching as they all debated what was wrong with her car and she suddenly wished she’d gone to mechanic school instead of medical school.

Except, even having gone to medical school, her patients were sitting in the room doing the same thing: quoting Dr. Google to tell her what years of study must have been wrong about. No one, it would seem, was allowed to just do their job without having to answer to opinions of the masses. No matter how much you knew, someone was always right there to tell you you’re wrong.

You’ve heard the stories. Mommy groups, rescue groups, fitness groups (though not as much) and anti-maskers, they all know more than you. Everyone else has been around the world twice and you are some noob who still hasn’t gotten wings. It’s frustrating, exhausting and in the end it’s a complete waste of time.

I posted a picture of my dog in the rescue group I adopted him from and someone said his collar was too tight. The adorable baby has the exact same head width as his neck and the collar was loose enough that when he’d shake his massive head, it would fly off and across the room. I’m kind of lucky it didn’t hit the TV because we won that a GPOA Christmas party raffle and there are no parties anymore. You should see the hate I get for having to train my dog with an eCollar. Let me assure you, Perry is fine, but a lot of other people and dogs wouldn’t be without it.

Halsey put her baby on a floaty in the pool and was told CPS needed to take her baby because she was irresponsible and now she can’t post pictures of her kids on the internet. (I heard this on the pop radio station several months ago and I may have the performer, social media platform and everything else in this story wrong, but I know for certain that the part where people attacked a new mother for playing with her child is real).

EVERYONE is trying to sell you something. EVERYONE, from that overly helpful mommy, to that branded fitness apparel company that hosts a motivational Facebook group with challenges and comradery. You will meet some great people in there, but at the end of the day: the goal is to sell you something.

In trying to expand my audience, I have been on A LOT of websites. Most read as though it’s free advice for writers and they’ll give you a compiled list of marketing websites that are cheap and personally vouched for with arbitrary graphs and claims that you truly cannot verify. I’ve downloaded eBooks, joined Facebook groups and 9/10 I’ve looked at my PayPal after spending $15 for a newsletter listing to see that I have once again send money to Vincent O’Hare. I don’t know who he is, but he certainly knows how to convince Indie authors to list their books on his many, MANY websites. The cost is cheap enough that you do it, because Dave at Kindlepreneur and Paid Author all vouched for that website. But, you never see any results… or your money.

Also I don’t think Vincent O’Hare is real because I said I wanted my money back and he was a fraud, but he never answered and I forgot to notify PayPal.

I’m trying so hard to write novels, build a brand, heed the advice of people who appear to have success in the field and… I waste money in a lot of $15 increments. I waste money trying to get access to materials to create a cover. Materials to edit the cover and the book. You pay for subscriptions and listings and adjust the price and in the end… what? You just have to hope for the best?

So, I guess my point with all of this is: how do you really know what to do? What is reputable in a market that’s designed to maximize profit while minimizing work on their end? Indie authors work so hard, going to extreme lengths to get readers and reviews. Making social media accounts on platforms they don’t understand (coughcough), trying to deliver blog content that’s genuine and honest, but isn’t about anything more than their writing. While also not reading too much like their published works so they think they got the story for free, but not so different that they wouldn’t recognize your writing should they read it.

If you are an Indie author reading this, I don’t have any advice for you. I’ve not experienced significant success, but I’m not failing. Approximately five people buy my books a month, I dare say at least one of them reads it, and I love writing. In the end, if you love it and it makes you happy and you want to share it with the world: do it. Because it’s your story and you should share it.

For better or worse, in line or far left of the advice given: I’m going to keep sharing what I love.

Like these pictures of my dogs.

What’s up, fam? It’s been a minute since I wrote a blog post. It’s also been a minute since I’ve heard anyone use that phrase to define a long passage of time.

It would be great if this time lapse was because I’m hard at work kicking ass and taking names, but mostly I’ve been scrolling Instagram. Aside from the three books I wrote and self-published in 6 months, adopting Padfoot and losing 30 lbs, it’s been pretty boring. Oh, and moving to a rental house in a new county and learning their requirements for licensing and taxes and whatnot.

Also I got married in October 2020 at a wedding I planned and designed by myself, including making most of the décor and guest gifts. Probably I should have worked harder to lose the 30 lbs before the wedding, but it wasn’t a big enough motivator.

From the left: Belle, my dad, Max, my mom, me, my husband, Perry, his mom, Teddy

Also I drove my dad home to Wyoming when he crashed my motorcycle and needed more screws than my last piece of Ikea furniture. Stupid motorcycle is now a problem all on its own.

Dad, Padfoot, Belle

Also Padfoot had hip surgery.

Clearly in recovery

Also I had to send Perry to board and train for almost attacking Belle.

Perry and Belle, usually friends

Alright, so scratch that second paragraph. I’ve been crazy busy and working my butt off. It just doesn’t feel like I’ve accomplished anything. Maybe it’s imposter syndrome, maybe it’s deep seated insecurity, or maybe I just expect more from myself. I don’t know what that more is, just more.

When I started this blog, it was to share my love of dogs in writing. In doing so I found the courage and inspiration for the Ampersand Series and now the subsequent Cyn Sharp Series. The novels are polar opposites in so many ways, and I’m OK with that. No one is completely darkness and doom and no one is light and fluffy all of the time. Most of us live somewhere in the middle, shifting to extremes based on our most recent experience or medication change.

This concerns me, not because I’m super stable, but because I like to think someone out there is. I’ve always enjoyed the notion that somewhere in the world there were people who could just go through life completely even. In writing these books though, and reading the reviews, it doesn’t actually feel like the reality that is Gravity Falls has a Tad Strange to balance the weirdness quotient.

Is life meant to be a permanently unbalanced see-saw?

Is it annoying when people wax poetic about the meaning of life?

Should I forget that I have a minor in philosophy and let life be what it is without explanation?

The initial email address for this blog was dog mom marathoner because I defined myself as a dog mom and a runner. In doing so, I felt like I had found and was creating my tribe. While I love the people I have met through running and the people I met volunteering at the rescue, I don’t fit in either category. I’m starting to wonder if I have a tribe. Are there people out there in the world who are meant to be alone and excluded from groups?

In high school, yeah I remember that shit show, my group of friends was diverse and eclectic, but even then I had more than one group and none seemed keen to “own” me as a member. I had my core friends I hung out with in quad 3. I had my JROTC friends, my swim team friends, and the people who borrowed my homework friends. I couldn’t go anywhere without stopping to talk to someone and I still felt out of place. In retrospect I thought this was because of my social anxiety, but even now with millions of ways to virtually connect, I still feel distant and excluded.

So here I sit, 33 and three times self-published with a husband and two dogs asking you, any of you, where do I belong? Why do I need so desperately to be accepted by people I don’t like? Why are there so many people I don’t like? Is it jealousy, or are they really as terrible as I think they are? This is an ongoing narrative in my mind. The need to both be accepted and reject the people I want to accept me.

So now, I have to wonder:

Am I an author if no one reads my books? Am I runner if my pace is considered walking? Am I a dog mom if my kids need surgery and behavioral re-wiring? Is it wrong to wish I had Harry Potter magic to infinitely refill my coffee cup without having to get up or hurt the environment with K-Cup pods?

There are probably no real answers out there. Much like the meaning of life, the only people who know are past the time to tell you about it. We are all just sitting in the desert, revolting against the notion that life has no meaning and simultaneously accepting it (thanks, Albert Camus).

BUT (there always is one), if you can relate, drop a comment.

(Without other people feeling like they don’t)

I don’t often talk about what I do. It has been mentioned, it’s on here various places, but it’s not really a theme. Today, though, today I have to explain something and I don’t want to. I don’t want to open myself up to anger, hatred and fear, but doing this is the only way I know to share and I hope that my friends and family will understand.

I work in a Police Department.

I’m not a cop, my badge is cloth, and I carry zero weapons besides my biting wit and steel toed boots. Every day people call me in various states of distress and upset. Every day, I do my job without any knowledge of what they look like, who they are or what crimes they may or may not have committed.

The last part is a choice. The information is available to me, but I choose not to know. I make this choice to remain impartial in talking to and releasing property to every customer who contacts us. Once upon a time, I didn’t. When people were mean or cursing at me, I wanted to know what they were arrested for. I made judgements about people based on the crimes they committed, I used to guess what the person was arrested for based on the attitude they presented on the phone. One person was fairly pleasant and normal sounding and after learning the nature of crime, I was unable to help them. Which lead me to realize something very important about what it means to work in Law Enforcement Adjacent.

No situation is looked at in isolation.

Joe Friday took a “just the facts” approach to law enforcement, and I always believed that all cops went into a situation that way. They approached a call with a blank slate and an open mind to absorb all the facts of the situation and make the best, legal and most reasonable decision. Essentially, I forgot they were people and not robots.

We are not robots.

via GIPHY

What we see, read and learn every day stays with us. We see the worst in humanity and then turn around and try and make it a little brighter. I truly love and appreciate my friends of every nationality and I feel fortunate to be part of their life. I have learned about other religions, other cultures and what it means to live in a diverse world through their friendship and sharing.

Yet here we are, in 2020 where it’s suddenly not OK to be anything.

I support the idea that positive change is needed to improve the live of people of color. I believe that there are instances of systemic racism and areas of the country where color matters more character. My friends of both African American, Latino American and Middle Eastern Descent have felt target and discriminated against for years and I stood by their claims that things needed to be changed. There needs to be greater penalties for people targeting based on gender and race. We need to change the narrative from being who the victim was to being a country that holds accountable those who commit crimes.

Crimes against women, Hate Crimes- they all make it sound like the victim is responsible. Sure, a blanket heading of “Crimes Committed by Privileged White Guys” is a bit to broad to be helpful, but it makes the victim accountable for telling their own story, for proving their own worth. It’s not right.

I also believe that there are very good cops in the world. Cops who want to make a difference and spread love. Cops like Molly Grouse (K9 Lando’s mom, Indianapolis PD Officer, follow her on IG). Who goes into her community and helps stop bad guys, then turns around and helps a foster mom buy bikes for the five kids she’s caring for. Officer’s who would give you the last water bottle they have in a heat wave to make sure you didn’t die.

These Officers are the ones who ran into the Twin Towers to save victims during 9/11 Terrorism attacks. These are the officers who wave to the kids along parade routes and give stickers. The ones who will step between you and a drunk trying to throw a punch.

So why can’t I support both without being considered a traitor to the other cause? Why is supporting progress an insult to people who do their job well and supporting people who do their job well an insult to those who feel oppressed?

The majority of people who support positive change also supported the football player kneeling for the national anthem, and we support it because it is a silent signal to the country that you think it is injured or not functioning properly in some way. Do you leave a 5 star review for a mechanic who cuts your brake lines and fixes it with electrical tape?

We all have a concern. We all know that there are things in this country that are broken. Is calling attention to what you think is broken wrong?

Yet, if you comment on something that is broken, can you not support something you feel is right?

Today at Trader Joe’s, the man working the register was African American, he was nice and funny. I was wearing a Fallen K9 Memorial shirt and it made him nervous. I was also wearing a mask with rainbows and unicorns, so maybe he was just confused, but either way, I wanted to apologize. I wanted him to know that he was safe and OK and though I didn’t know him, I loved him. It makes me sad that supporting fallen K9s means to some people that you must be against them. Yesterday I was wearing a Special Olympics Torch Run shirt that said Law Enforcement. I participate in that event because I can run and I want to show those kids that we stand beside them. My cashier had a BLM bracelet on and I was worried that I should apologize to him as well.

But why?

Why can’t I support causes related to my work and still believe in positive and progressive change? Why can’t I love everyone equally regardless of their race or occupation?

Because I do.

via GIPHY

I love you all and I’m so sorry but I don’t know how to help.