Book Details, Considerations on Death, and the Tenth Doctor

I'm almost ready to release World in Shadow. So, yeah. Give a little cheer. And then read the book when it comes out.

And I want to buy this and hang it above my writing desk . . . for inspiration. It's the best fan art I've seen of the Tenth (and best) Doctor. It's for sale at Society Six.

Curse you, David Tennant, for ever leaving Dr. Who! Curse you!

And here's a little note for Blogger. I hate the new interface. It's exactly like the shitty new Gmail interface, which sucks. I loathe, absolutely loathe having to hit a bunch of hard returns so that my face isn't aimed at the bottom of my computer screen when I've filled a page with text. Who's with me? Everyone? Right. I knew it.

Yes, it's extremely annoying. I'm this close [] to switching my entire online life away from anything related to Google. I get it, I get it. Minimalism is in. It's so blinking awesome to strip everything down to the smallest, cleanest unit. Right. Yeah. Sure.

But sometimes minimalism doesn't work.

That's how I feel about it.

Wait a minute, let me look at the Tenth Doctor again and I'll feel better. Have to scroll my stupid window up, first. Ah. There we go. All better.

I'll be putting an excerpt from World in Shadow up soon. Have to decide on which excerpt. I'll make sure to try and pick a very tantalizing bit so everyone can see that they really need/want to read it.

Anyway, I know I've been MIA a lot lately, but things have been going on. My dad's in the hospital and he could go any day now. I mean, well, he's been close to going for quite a while. Which actually makes it harder to determine when he really might go. But somehow, even though I haven't been spending every waking minute at his bedside, just the knowledge that I SHOULD be there stresses me out and squeezes every last drop of life energy from me.

Also, there's that addiction I have to card games* on my iPhone. A very unholy, unwise habit. It renders me useless if I let it. I need to find a support group or something. My husband's trying not to pass judgment every time he catches me playing or soliciting someone's phone as a verifiable device, so I can have multiple accounts going, for all the free cards and referral cards and whatnot.

I make myself sick. Sick.

But using my family's phones to register? That was his idea. So, it's kind of his fault, if you think about it. Heh.

So yeah. My dying father. Et cetera. Makes me wonder how many people get a bad prognosis, and are knocking on heaven's door, and decide, even though there are crazy procedures that might prolong their life, choose to just go with end of life care and die. Not to be Debbie downer, here, but my dad has been in a bad way for quite some time. It's rough to see him like that. And when given the choice, he picks some procedure that might give him a little more time, despite being bed-ridden, unable to move, and generally miserable most of the time.

He even has a living will that at one time, evidently, said "do not intubate" and "do not rescusitate" and still, when he's in the emergency room, I guess the doctors ask him if he wants to be intubated and he says yes.

And maybe the difference from person to person is the difference between a life full of regret and a life full of happiness. Aside from the general, run of the mill fear of death. You know? What's beyond this mortal existence? Is there life after death? Or will I just cease to exist?

Right now I'm pretty convinced there's life after death. Who knows how I'll feel when I'm staring death in the face?

But that's why I've decided, once I reach a certain age, to just start living crazy. I'll be jumping out of planes at seventy. Climbing dangerous cliffs, ooh, and cliff-diving, and boating up the Amazon or Congo, and all that. Fairly certain that I'll take up para-sailing at some point. And I'll go out in small-engine planes any chance I get. There will most likely be general space flight at that point, so count me in, even though I've always said no way. No way will I go out in space.

When I'm ready to die, I'll do it.



*Incidentally, I'm nearing the end of my rope because Rage of Bahamut has "temporarily" suspended trading and in-game gifting, which renders the game pointless, boring, and dull. They're supposedly going to make an "announcement at the end of the week. But that sounds grim, doesn't it? I have no hope that things will ever be back to normal.

Rage of Bahamut Review

This is a modified version of a review I left on the iTunes App store for my latest gaming addiction. Yeah, I can still be addicted even though I'm calling the game "total crap" (as you can clearly see below this paragraph, even though you haven't yet begun reading it).

Rage of Bahamut is total crap. The developers call buying a single card for the game at $3.00 a card, a CARD PACK. Three dollars for one card. A card pack. Really?

By these terms, one cow is a "herd" and one bird is a "flock."

Oh, hang on a minute, there's a quiver of cobra on my porch. Must go shoo it away.*

It doesn't end there, to get six cards you must spend $20. Yes, you heard me. And that's because you can't buy the rage medals in anything other than big lots that require spending up. So you want to buy six cards for $15? You have to spend $20 because you can't buy just $15 worth of RAGE MEDALS (said in a Bigfoot Monster Truck racing advertisement voice).

Also, you should feel lucky. You're getting SIX cards for the price of ONE.

In real life if I want to play Magic ze Gathering, I am at least guaranteed a rare or a mythic rare card when I spend $4 for SIXTEEN cards. AND I can sell the cards if I want. Cygames or Mobage doesn't allow this. So you sink hundreds of dollars into building your deck for what? To be told you can't sell your virtual cards that YOU bought with REAL money?

It all comes down to Cygames or Mobage controlling the economy that surrounds the game. It would RUIN them if suddenly it was possible to buy a very rare card for $15 actual dollars on an auction site. Financially, they'd be in the hole. Suddenly the gears that moved forward the Cygames development department, the design and that glorious writing ("You follow the evil wizard into the pawn shop where he sells his wand for a new motorcycle!"), and all that paper and ink to print those fantastic cards . . .

They sell you one card for three bucks and guess what? It ends up being a crap card. Your loss. And if you're lucky and get a good card, you can't sell it for real money because that's against the rules. So keep the card. It's virtual. No care or actual space required. No big deal.

They'll never change it either as long as players continue to pay astronomical real life money for the rip-off card "packs" that don't even come with any sort of rarity guarantee (like Magic). So word of advice: if you're going to play this rigged game, don't spend real money on these virtual cards until things change. Money talks for all of us and you can't sell your cards for real money without potentially having your account banned.

But, well, Cygames will happily take your real money for six crap cards.

Adding insult to injury is the seedy underbelly of prostitution that's cropped up on the required social network app associated with the game. There are loads of people selling pornographic "pics and vids" for in-game cards.

Hello? So I can't spend actual real money on a card from someone other than Cygames/Mobage, but it's OK for a bunch of slutty chicks (whether or not they're real, I have no idea, but it seems plenty of dumb men are willing to fork over cards for the promised goods, judging from the visible-to-everyone conversations) to sell their bodies for cards? This is the equivalent of saying that prostitution is fine, but a money-based market is not.

Essentially the game is fun as long as you don't get frustrated with losing every battle because you don't spend thousands of dollars on "packs" of six cards to find the extremely rare cards that will win for you. But there are real issues that need to be addressed before I can say "this is a five-star" game.

Frankly I'm sick of games that require a continual influx of money for them to remain fun and viable. These games are the Amway, multi-level marketing scams of the modern age and it seems EVERYONE is willing to fall for them. Next to starting a religion (thank you L. Ron Hubbard), designing a game like this is the next best way to get filthy stinking rich. But really, I'd be willing to pay for the card packs if they WERE packs (i.e. the standard 12-16 cards for $4) with a rarity guarantee.

Until then, I won't.

That said (and this is one of the few ways to get decent free cards), if you decide to play after all, add my referral at the end of the tutorial and remember, don't pay real money for crap cards. Take my advice: not worth it. But multiply your chances to get free cards as much as possible such as by providing your referral code to new players.

Yes, it would seem I'm selling out. I admit it. Though I loathe the methodology of the game, I'm an addict. Hi, my name is Nicole. I'm currently addicted to ROB. And hey, by the way, you only get one chance to use the referral code. Using it will give you 50,000 rupees and a rare card, so be sure to do it. My referral code is xao95452.


*It was just one cobra. Oh whoops. Did I misuse a word? My bad. Count your blessings: at least you didn't spend three dollars on my mistake! 

Rage of Bahamut

I downloaded this game last night and have been confused the usual amount upon beginning to play it. And now I'm slowly getting a grasp on it. Just in time for it to wreak havoc on my goals.

I finished the first draft of "The Blue Hearts of Mars" two days ago, nice job, me. Thank you! And yesterday I began editing it. It's been fun.

Have I done any editing today? No. Because I was figuring out Rage of Bahamut. And so you see how my goals are being slowly dismantled by a fairly innocent-looking game. Here's a picture that will probably blow your mind with it's sheer awesomeness:

Doesn't that make you want to play it? It promises dragons. And...dragons! Lovely, lovely dragons!

But, truly, it's an inane game. And yet, if that's what you're looking for, can you fault it for being inane?

No.

And I was looking for inane.

What you do is you tap the screen when an "enemy" appears and your cards' stats determine whether or not you win. About three enemies appear, and then a treasure box appears. You open the treasure box and get some kind of treasure. A new card. Rupees (very original!). Or a ring or something.

Doesn't it sound amazing?

The best part is the anime-style drawings. The girl figures have the MOST offensive proportions, and they're always coupled with vacuous expressions. The most heinous expression imaginable on a woman or girl. Generally girls. Never, actually, women. Always, always girls. Too young girls.

Illustration of a vacuous expression for the hard-of-understanding. I didn't edit this. Beyonce really 

did achieve this expression all on her own. She must be thinking: "Single badies...no, single babies....no, 

single ladies....fing on it...no, that's not a word! Ding on it...no ring on it! Sigh. Who cares? I just love unicorns!"*

I still can't figure out why game developers cater to that facet of the market. I suppose because we women just deal with it. We look at a drawing of a stupid, brainless looking schoolgirl with humongous, unrealistic breasts and a vacuous expression on her face and sigh. And move on.

Because most of us aren't on crusades to change the world. And what's the point? This type of media seems to be designed for lonely, sad geeks who will never actually get to touch a pair of breasts like that. Ever. And you know what? That IS really sad.

I hope my sarcasm is detectable there. It's not that sad. There are sadder things in the world. Whether or not some dude gets to fulfill his fantasies isn't that depressing. I mean, I could MAKE it sad by writing a really sad story about it and we'd all indulge the notion that it IS the saddest thing in the world until we realized, wtf? There are truly worse things. And then everyone would deplore me for trivializing true tragedies by making THAT seem like a tragedy.

You know what I mean.

But I do go on. I'm exhausted now. That tangent went on WAY too long.

The truth is, I know I'm going to be sucked into this game more than is healthy. And a part of me really wants that. I went looking for it. And I'm happy to say, "Good riddance Dragonvale and Stardom: The A-list, you are pure crap now. I have Rage to fulfill my iPhone gaming needs. Thanks!"

So if you find this review of Rage, please don't be offended. I've only said what is true. You know it's true. But you don't care, because you're like me (unless you're male and you love the vacuous female character drawings) and you wanted a somewhat inane game that could monopolize your every thought that isn't related to subsisting and taking care of your cats and/or child (you probably don't have a child if you fit the stereotype, right, I mean, who are we kidding?).

And when you find this review, please look me up. My game name is obviously grotepas and my referral code is XAO95452. Please give me rupees and cards and referral bonuses. Now. Do it. DO IT!



*Meh. That was stupid. But I'm leaving it! Maybe it should be I with a vacuous expression! I mean, ME. Be ME with a vacuous expression.

Insanity and Salt Water Taffy

I've been doing this workout program. You might have heard of it. Insanity? Yeah? Heard of it? Great! Then you know what I'm talking about.

But, I've been a fool.

What I did was, I started it and then I was at Macey's, the grocery store, not the huge department store*, and there was this enormous display of salt water taffy. There had to be like forty boxes, which is approximately the population of the Earth in salt water taffy.

I'd seen it a week or so before. And it is my weakness. Cinnamon salt water taffy. Black licorice salt water taffy. Peppermint salt water taffy. Watermelon salt water taffy. Grape salt water taffy. Uh, salt salt water taffy. A1 Sauce salt water taffy. You name it. Any flavor. It is my kryptonite.

But I am no Superman**.  

Well, actually I was, the first week they had it out. And I was really proud of my strength. I resisted. I said, "Hell no. I don't need no salt water taffy. I am woman, hear me roar." Crap like that. You know. Like a Nike commercial.

The next week I thought to myself in an admittedly conniving voice, "You know, the cinnamon salt water taffy won't last. It'll be gone by the time I'm done with Insanity. So . . . hey! I'll buy a supply of salt water taffy and when I'm done with Insanity, and the diet, of course, I'll have an occasional piece of taffy. As a reward. A reward!"

It would totally help me get through the sixty day program.

So I bought a huge bag of salt water taffy.

And I was pretty good for a few days. But then, one night, I thought, "Hey, dessert. A piece of cinnamon salt water taffy. I've been good. A reward. Yes! Just one piece. As a reward."

Stoker saw me getting some and he was like, "Oh, sweet, salt water taffy!" And he got a few pieces. So when I saw him grabbing a handful, I felt it my duty to take two peppermint pieces, two black licorice pieces, and two cinnamon pieces.

Obviously if I didn't do that, the supply would eventually be whittled down to nothing, because now Stoker knew about, and seriously, the minute Stoker knows about anything in the cabinets like that, the trail mix, or the mixed nuts, or the salt water taffy, it all has a tendency to vanish over a week or two. Sometimes three days, depending on how delicious the treat is.

So it went on like that for a while because I'm a creature of habit and it only takes me a day to get into the habit of something, like eating six pieces of salt water taffy at a time. Occasionally one or two more, because my fingers accidentally grabbed hold of the wax-paper ties and I got more than I intended, but why put it back? Why not just eat it too? I mean, I'm looking at it and now it knows the fate that awaits it, why not just get it over with and spare the poor little piece of peppermint salt water taffy?

You know what? I will! Poor little guy (I thought at the time, as I ate two more pieces).

And now the bag is totally gone. I was a trooper. I actually let Stoker have the last two pieces. Mainly because I'd already had six pieces earlier that day. So it wasn't that I was being all generous or anything, even though he smiled and hugged me and cooed over me being such a damn sweetheart that I'd let him have the LAST TWO PIECES OF SALT WATER TAFFY.

I admit it. I still felt pretty good about it.

So the bag was finally empty last Friday or something. I'd been doing Insanity of two weeks. This week I haven't had ANY salt water taffy. And you know what? I'm finally losing weight!

Thanks to Insanity. And no thanks to stupid salt water taffy season***! My weakness. My ONE weakness.



*Imagine my confusion when Macy's--the department store--bought out ZCMI here in Utah . . . "What does a grocery store want with a department store? They can't possibly see each other as competition!" Honestly. I was baffled for a while. And no, I never did watch the Macy's day Thanksgiving parade. My family did not have that tradition.
**I'm actually a woman. But kryptonite goes with SuperMAN and I didn't want to spoil the metaphor by saying, "I am no superwoman." Because that just makes the kryptonite line fall flat. I can't think of any kryptonite-like weaknesses that apply to women, either. Huh. I guess because we just don't have any major flaws. Historically speaking. Oh wait. The apple. Eve. Damn. Ah well. Too late now!
 ***Which coincides with parade season here in Utah . . . it's good for throwing to the crowds as they watch the floats go by. They throw candy here, from the parade floats. They do that everywhere, right? I'm asking, because I don't know. I've never gone to a parade anywhere else. As far as I'm concerned, it's the only reason to go to parades! 

Book Cover Unveiling! "World in Shadow"

Holy crap. I went a month without posting? Oops!

What have I been doing? Writing!

Pretty excited to unveil the cover of my next novel, World in Shadow. It's a YA sci-fi/adventure. Designed by the talented Ronnell Porter. Release date forthcoming. Stay in touch for a preview before the release.

Wildfire Season

So I heard it was going to be 108 degrees in Nashville sometime this week.

!!!!!!

The above sentence is a swear-word. You pick which one. 

Glad I'm no longer living there. Yes, I'm a true desert-lover. This is where I belong, where wildfires ravage through the scrub from the merest evil glare or fiery glance. That seems to be the case, anyway. All it takes is a tiny spark and whoosh! The entire place has gone up in flames. I forgot that summers were considered wildfire season out here until this summer.

Smoke from the fire across the valley hovering ominously above my house. Was it the end of the world? Almost

There was a small fire across the street from my house last weekend. I don't know how it started. The houses are brand new there, and the fire department came out and extinguished it. Thankfully.

Our neighbor was like, "Yeah, no idea how it started. Just a little blaze in the mulch. Spontaneous combustion, I guess. The fire department couldn't tell us how it started."

Yeah right. I'm sure he was out there, hiding between the houses–which are these very narrow alleyways–sneaking a smoke, when his wife came out looking for him, "Honey! Honey!"

And he threw down the cigarette and ran inside.

That's what I was thinking, anyway. They're new in the neighborhood, so I don't know them. Maybe he doesn't have to sneak a smoke when he wants one.

Though he did blame the construction workers down the street as a possible source for the fire. "Could have been one of the construction workers, or landscapers, smoking, who knows?"

That's more believable than spontaneous combustion. Right?

Then a few days later, the entire mountain across the valley from us went up in flames. I tweeted about it, because Corbet and I drove over there to get an up-close view. So we took some pictures and put them up.

We weren't really in danger from that one, although, after the Colorado Springs fire, anything is possible. Also, there was a huge fire in central Utah that burned over 39,000 acres, so, I suppose the dump fire, as it was called, COULD have crossed the valley and reached the Thanksgiving Point area.

Watching the dump-fire from a relatively safe distance.

Despite the wildfires, nearly every day, I look outside and think, "Man, I love Utah."

But I'm sure everyone else hates it and if you can't tolerate a religious majority or the dry heat, you would hate it here too. That encompasses, what, ninety-nine percent of the world's population? So don't move here, unless you get a personal OK from me, and then you can come. That's how it works here.

Lemon sunsets. Every night, almost. When I lived in Nashville, I really missed those. Sunsets in the south were these sultry, hazy affairs that blurred against the trees or rolling hills. In Utah they're always colorful and sharp, defined in dark lines against the mountainous horizon.

The sunrises are probably the same, but I'm usually sleeping.

And the temperatures. What a dream! If it got to 108 here, it would be far more tolerable than a 108 in Nashville, where the humidity would push it up to a 120 or something murderous like that.

I've gotten sunburned and stuff living here again because I forget what it's like to spend time outside, because in Nashville, I never wanted to be outside in the summer. So I stayed in.

Another thing, no cicadas. None. Just the sweet symphony of the crickets and grasshoppers. Also, no human-sized insects to torment you.

Monstrous bugs are very common in the South.

So anyway, if I had to choose the west with all the wildfires or the south with the humidity and temperatures ranging +105 degrees (F), which would I pick?

Really, not a tough choice. 

Baby screaming at me. Must go....

I'm an Indie-Author.

Just updated my About page and wanted you to see it: 

I’m an indie-author. For five years I worked in publishing, which gave me insight into author-contracts, acquisitions, and the pre-publication process, as well as how things work in that mysterious machine—the publishing house. Hint: it's not that mysterious and it's not romantic, really. But it IS a machine. A cold, heartless machine. ;) Plus, the velvet rope that separates writers from agents and publishers is disintegrating, much to the chagrin of those businesses.

What happened in the music industry (an industry that my husband worked in for five years in Nashville) is happening in the publishing industry. Why should I hunger for a publishing deal? I could get one. But it will trap me. You see, a publishing house fronts the money for editing, copyediting, proofreading, paper, binding, and any marketing they do. That's a loan. If an author doesn't sell enough books to pay it back . . .  well.

All that has prompted me to go it on my own and publish my own stuff using the widely available and easy to use venues like Kindle, Smashwords, and Lulu. Everything the publishing house would do for me, I can now do for myself. With the budgets of publishers shrinking and layoffs (they were a constant where I used to work) happening all the time, cover designers, story editors, and copyeditors are out on their own, freelancing. They're available to me as much as they're available to publishers or other indie-authors.

Most authors think that once they land a deal with a publisher, all the hard work has paid off and now they can rest on their laurels and simply write. Not true. Never rest on your laurels. Be ready to work hard for the rest of your life. I work for me and I love it. I'm saying these things for the other indie-authors out there who are secretly hoping to get a book deal or strike it rich. Maybe that could happen for you, but don't bet on it. Enjoy your freedom. Write for yourself and your fans. Work hard. Market yourself, you'd have to even if you had a book deal with a major publisher.

All that said, this is my website, which is a cross between an old MobileMe website that was sort of sci-fi and my long-running blog, which has always been sort of frenetic. I've loved sci-fi (Ten is mine!) and fantasy for a long time, and I think speculative fiction is the most gratifying of the genres to work in. But I’ve been known to write non-fantastical stuff as well. I liked Twilight, not ashamed to admit it, but I confess I’m worn out on the vampire crap and don't even get me started on zombies (hate 'em). I read Anne Rice growing up, but found it cold and soulless, which you might say is rather fitting. I like trying to come up with new ideas and things that haven’t been done to death in fiction already, but for all I know, I’m failing miserably at that. Give my stuff a try and let me know what you think.

The End.

OK, that's it! One thing I didn't mention there but will mention here is the discrepancy between royalties that authors get from publishers and those that Amazon and the other indie-publishing sites offer. For more on these things, read these posts that appear on J.A. Konrath's blog, A Newbie's Guide to Publishing: Guest Post By Barry Eisler and The Agency Model Sucks.

A White Winged Horse

So I asked my sister what her little girl wants for her birthday and she said, "She told Anji that she wants a white winged horse." I have no idea if there's some special toy out there that she's looking for or if I should go buy the porcelain Pegasus statue that came up when I did a Google search for "white winged horse."

I think a four-year-old might get hours of fun out of a porcelain statue. You can do so much with breakable items.

That's actually the kind of present my dad always gave me after my parents were divorced and he was really out of touch with how to be a dad. No big deal, the poor guy, he did the best he could. No hard feelings, Dad.

His reasoning was that we got toys from our mom. From him we'd get some type of sculpture or art that would appreciate in value (or so he thought. I haven't actually looked yet to see if I can sell that dog statue for millions of dollars). Toys just turned to dirty hunks of plastic and metal.

But a dog statue! You can display that in your curio cabinet as a trophy and once in all while, all you've got to do is dust it off.

Anyway, so then I was looking for a My Little Pony horse and this gorgeous purple horse came up with a beautiful long mane that a girl would have fun braiding and whatnot. I stared at it for a second and thought to myself, "Dang. I wish I could be appeased with a toy."

Wouldn't it be great to reach thirty (or whatever age you are) and still have your dreams hanging on a My Little Pony or a Tonka dump truck? Such a simple item. Costs so little. And so readily available. All you have to do is hop down to the Target and buy it and there, you've got everything your heart ever wished for.

I don't know about you, but I'm seriously considering exchanging the American Dream for a much simpler dream: cheap objects that engage my imagination. Like maybe some Dr. Who action figures. Or a slew of Doc Martin action figures. They don't make those? They should. They really should. Then, when the show ends, fans can just keep making up stories. Kind of like how when Futurama was off the air (before it started on Comedy Central or wherever), I had to buy the comics to get new stories.

 Damn you, David Tennant. Damn you for ever leaving Dr. Who.

Oh my hell. I just realized, I can get more of the Tenth Doctor if I just buy a Tenth Doctor action figure and make up my own stories! Let's see, I'll need a Tardis, obviously, and maybe a Donna Noble action figure too, since she was my favorite of his companions (I loved Rose until she came back with weird teeth in the later episodes). Hmm. That should be all. And then just my imagination, right?

This will be good. I can totally see this turning into some really great fan-fiction.

How to Not Make Friends and Influence People

I don't know how to make friends any more.

That's a true confession.

Ever since I left college and got married, it's like I have no interpersonal skills. When I was in college, it was relatively easy to connect with people and strike up a friendship. But now it's worse than what it was like to try to date or hook up with someone.

By hook-up I mean, maybe make-out at a party or something. Do they say make-out any more? When I was in junior high and high school, the word of choice was scam. It sounds so 90s now. And I think when kids today say hook-up, they mean, have sex. Right?

I don't keep up.

I'm too busy not knowing how to make friends. I obviously don't have time to follow what the cool kids say these days.

I'm fairly certain I'm not the only one who gets a big WTF? on her forehead when looking at the prospect of making friends. A friend of mine (old friend) works in a marketing agency. She started there recently and she was giving me the rundown on the office politics and her attempts to make friends with some of the girls there.

And another friend (also an old friend) went through the "it's like dating. Or worse..." thing recently when she started working at a restaurant in between her semesters in a doctorate program.

"I've got to play it cool," she'd say. "____ doesn't work on Friday, and someone wanted to switch shifts with me and I said yes because ____ was working that shift too. But I've got to play it cool, like nonchalant though or else I'll seem desperate."

And it's totally true. They're friends now, but it was one of those foggy starts where it could go either way.

I haven't made a friend that I've kept since leaving college. And I've been out now for eight years. I've had several jobs and almost become pretty good friends with some girls. But for one reason or another, they've never stuck with me.

Maybe it's me.

But now I'm here, back in Utah, and I'm looking around at some potential friend material and I'm dying to figure out a way to play it cool but also show my interest. I feel like a borderline stalker or like I'm trying to catch a man. It's completely ridiculous.

I mean, making friends with someone shouldn't be this hard. It's like all my insecurities have poked through the surface and I feel like a worthless piece of crap. Who would want to be friends with me? I've met several cool chicks in my area and I have no idea how to proceed from thinking, "She's cool. She should be my best friend," to actually fostering a friendship.

What does one do?

My sister offered me totally useless advice. She said, "I'm always the instigator of get-togethers with the girls. So you say to her, 'Hey, want to go to the park and let our kids play?' and then you guys go hang out at the park. Simple."

And one day I screwed up my courage and walked to this cool girl's house with my son in the jog-stroller (I don't have her phone number) and when I got there, I knocked real lightly on her door (my excuse was that her kids might be napping). No answer! I turned and hurried home, embarrassed that I even tried.

So that was my attempt. And now I think I'll just stay home during the day and work on my career. I have old friends. They're all I need, right? I mean, they're great! They're perfect! I adore them! They just have careers outside the home and now I don't (opted to stay home with kid and it's right for us). And they live far away. But hey! Who needs new friends? It's worse than dating!

So glad I don't have to date any more.

Woman in Pink Buying Diapers for All the Babies Everywhere

Yesterday I was leaving Target, you know, that upscale store that everyone loves? And this lady paused to let me exit before her. She was pushing a cart with about a thousand boxes of diapers in it, and even carrying a couple in her arms. So I let her go in front of me. All I was carrying was Corbet and one bag of shirts.

The first thing I noticed about her, besides the gazillion diapers, was how done up she was. She had on shiny pink high heels. And I mean, HIGH, high heels. Like stilts. Just seeing them I tipped over. She had extremely blonde hair, a very perfect tan, and her outfit was pink and black and it matched her shoes perfectly. She was also in a tiny skirt of some kind. It eludes me right now, but it most likely went very well with her heels and her top.

Normally I'd scoff at the value of this type of woman. I'd think to myself, "Lady, you are one done up girl." And I'd consider her vacuous, vapid, and a series of other adjectives that either begin with a V or are synonymous with the other words I've already used to describe her.

I know! This is a real confession. Because I try to be decent. And I guess you could say that I've always thought being decent meant not being like women who pay extreme amounts of attention to looking like a trillion bucks at all times. You know, waxing, tanning, dyeing, spending exorbitant amounts of money on a wardrobe, botox, and face-lifts.

More than that, I thought I was a kind person even though secretly I'd see a woman like her and feel superior in some way because I know that what matters most is what's inside. That a person's heart is more important than what they look like. And a woman like that doesn't get that, obviously, otherwise she wouldn't feel like she had to invest so much in her appearance.

That's what I thought, I guess.

Stuff like that.

It's completely hysterical that I thought things like this, all while finding myself at ease with judging someone based purely on how they looked. It's easy to see someone who looks like crap and feel a tugging at your heart that lets you think, "Awww, bless their heart, bless them, they're unfortunate. Bless them to have lots of good things happen." Or whatever.

It's harder to look at a person who looks good or beautiful, or like they care a lot about how they appear, and think, "Awww, bless their heart. Bless them." Because you're thinking, instead, "Ridiculous. They're putting too much emphasis on what they look like. How disappointing."

Anyway, so I learned my lesson at Target. This woman had a bazillion diapers.

I said to her, "That's a lot of diapers!" Just to be conversational.

She said, in a really sweet, polite voice (I might add), "Did you see that thing on the news yesterday?"

"No, what thing?"

"About the crisis shelter? Yeah, it was so sad. They don't have any diapers. They said the babies that show up there, end up leaving with the same diaper they arrived in because the shelter can't afford more diapers. It broke my heart. Those poor kids. I had to run out and buy some diapers for them. I just can't stand the thought of them being stuck in the same diaper like that."

She explained all of this as we walked out into the parking lot, while she tried to push a cartload of a billion boxes of diapers. 

I offered to help her carry them. I didn't see the thing on the news about the shelter. We talked about diaper brands for a minute, and I let her know what a sweetheart she is (like she needed that validation, right?), and off she went into the sunset.

So, how could I not tear up a little when I realized what a jerk I have been? I will never judge another woman who looks like she cares about her appearance a lot. What do I even know about it? Chances are, all that makeup and glam is concealing a heart as big as the moon, and a desire to love and be loved as wide as the ocean.

She restored my hope in humankind. So thank you for teaching me that lesson, woman in pink, whoever you are, wherever you are. I love your pink and high-heeled guts to pieces.