I Also Plan on Teaching Pippa to Read

I don’t think I ever really had anything against that movie The Aristocats. I know that I had an Aristocats book, and I may have actually watched the movie once. I don’t really remember (which probably means I didn’t watch it more than once, if at all.)

I do remember, however, taking great personal offense at the song “Everybody Wants to be a Cat.” It always started this mental spiral that went something like “Ew. I don’t wanna be a cat. Who does? No one wants to be a cat. Why would you want to be a CAT? CATS ARE DUMB.”

Interestingly enough, I actually had a kitten once named Tippy. But she was mine, and she was pretty cool. It doesn’t count.

A few months back, I read a list of differences between cat people and dog people. It contains percentages of different random things and were the results of cross-polling on a website that I really haven’t ever heard of. Not exactly science, but you get the idea. Basically, cat people are more likely to be “introverts” and dog people are more likely to be loud “extroverts.” Here’s the link to the Reader’s Digest page. (I read it months ago and was able to remember what it looked like. Seriously doubt I’ve ever actually seen The Aristocats.)

Though I’ve long since rejected the introvert and extrovert categories as being actual things, most people would categorize me as an introvert, because I don’t know. (Ugh.) According to this list thing, it meant that the odds of me owning a cat were better than the odds of me owning a dog, when all the factors (like enjoying subtle humor or using Twitter or being creative) are in play. Basically, cat people are more intelligent, sensitive, and caring. Dog people are loud barbarians who can’t stand not being the center of attention everywhere or going to parties or something.

Of course, the results assume a lot, and so does society. At Bob Jones University, the way I dressed was like an art major, apparently, and it was true. All the other female history majors dressed like teachers or lawyers. And if that’s your thing, okay.

Guess that explains feeling squirmy in my major.

I don’t take internet personality quizzes (like the whatever it is with the introvert/extrovert business) to tell me what I’m like.

I know what I’m like. I’ve lived in this body for 27 years and 9 months. Sure, a bit of those first 9 months were spent being divided on issues (SEE WHAT I DID RIGHT THERE), but you get the idea.

I just know I don’t want to be a cat. I don’t want to be anything if the only reason is that someone says I should.

And, let it be said, I don’t hate cats. I don’t particularly want one, but I’m nice to them if they’re nice to me. (Works the same with people, actually.) I have plenty of friends who have a cat or more than one. Like all animals, cats deserve to be treated humanely. They also should have homes with people who will actually take care of them, because I’m tired of seeing perfectly gorgeous kittens in the adoption section of Petsmart. Now, I didn’t particularly appreciate the green poop that I accidentally grabbed the other day, courtesy the neighbor’s cat that uses the bathroom in our bushes, but I’m not going to chase the cats away. I mean, ever since they figured out that I’m the Dog Lady, they don’t really want to come near me. Whatever. Less of their…leftovers for Pippa to inexplicably enjoy.

Still don’t like that song.

Rated PG-13 for Violence Against Words

My fingers are itching to dig into Riddle. To cut and chop and gouge and replace.

Such violence!

I haven’t been able to sit down and concentrate on it, though. That’s all my fault. I’ve had a lot to do this week, between going to the fair, and cleaning and yardword and regular work and checking stats on things, like my Zibbet shop. (My business cards are coming this week, and I’m stoked.)

Also Pippa.

The best distraction of all. The most worth it.

 

I feel disappointed that I haven’t done much work on Riddle. I think it’s good that I want to fix it with that intensity. I’ve passed up renting books from the library before because it was so much on my mind that there was no way I could concentrate on other fiction. (Also my local library doesn’t have a great selection of stuff I might be interested in.)

I want this book to be out at least by Christmas, maybe before, and I know that working hard on it is the only way that will happen. To make it ready for distribution, it has to go through a lot of changes and details that only I might care about, such as my wildly inconsistent italic/non-italic punctuation marks. I don’t want to fail any readers by publishing a faulty product with flat (or worse, disappearing) characters and bad editing. If someone is going to give me money for what I wrote or made, it has to be good, or I won’t be satisfied at all, even if the customer is.

I hope, when all the editing is said and done, to have an excerpt posted on here. That would be pretty sweet, and probably be more than just a couple paragraphs. Maybe a whole chapter.

Maybe two.

We’ll see.

I guess editing is like a renovation for your book. Renovating a room or a house is a grueling process that doesn’t quite let you live normally until it’s done. But when you do finish, there’s fresh paint and a lighter feeling. It’s just what you wanted it to be.

The Zombies Live In My Shoe and Bite Me Daily

I feel like it’s been a pretty long time since I last posted anything. That said, I’ve been working pretty hard, both at my book and pounding the pavement. I’ve sucked my fiance into C25K, and we will be starting week six probably tomorrow. It’s been a weird week.

Because I have stumbled into that awesome combination of being both broke and in need of new shoes, my heels look terrible. I was going to post pictures of them, but I ended up grossing myself out. Here is a picture of Pippa instead. Isn’t she sweet?

“I’m the baddest little chick in the neighborhood,” she says.

Anyway, part of the blame must be shared with my progress on C25K and the very very awesome app that I have been supplementing my regular program with: Zombies, Run!

Ladies and gentlemen, I am hooked. I’m not going to review the app; it’s been out for a year and all of the internet has beaten me to that. I like this app a lot, and it has made me add two workouts to each week. I am rationing because I paid for this app. It’s like a book, plus great music, and some actual funny stuff. I am genuinely glad I bought this game, and I love feeling so epic at the parts of the game where it detects zombies and you have to run. Tuesdays and Thursdays have become that much more awesome for me.

I still partially blame it for my ugly feet, but good-naturedly. And gratefully.

Watching shows like The Biggest Loser isn’t that inspiring for me. I don’t ever really follow a whole season. It’s great that those people all get healthy, even though once the weeks are up, they won’t have resources like six hours of working out every day available to them, and will probably gain back if they’re not super careful.

Shows like that and others similar are a little terrifying. The winner might get to show off his or her figure on the cover of a magazine, but for every after, there’s a before.

Any time I see a story where someone is sedentary and never goes to the gym and only cooks or eats junk food, it’s scary to me because it’s really really easy to get into those habits. To gain forty or fifty or a hundred pounds, just like that. Because you got “busy.”

It terrifies me because I’m human, and it can happen to anyone. People who are so large and so sedentary that they can’t walk ten feet without getting out of breath, so they just use the scooters at Walmart to get around. I’m not talking about people who have actual health problems, but rather those who prefer not moving and eating horrible things and torturing their bodies because they won’t walk the ten feet. I’m 100% sure not every large person I see using a scooter is like that, but I know I’ve heard that at least once. Spoken by a person on one of those shows.

I’m scared of becoming someone like that. Of being an otherwise young mom who doesn’t just have baby weight, but lots of non-baby weight, and who passes bad habits onto their children, who only know to eat the awful and have high cholesterol in the fifth grade.

My feet aren’t going to be pretty. They might hurt some. I know they’ve bled, and I know that’s not good either. But I’d rather have ugly, bleeding feet than weigh 400 pounds, have pretty feet, and say about being active, well, exercise is just not for me. It scares me because I know how easy it is to just let your body go.

Blood, sweat, and zombies. Bring it all on, because this is totally for me.