Generation Exhausted

Murphy's back in town

My ISP is now heading into Hour 60 (possibly longer) of "The outgoing mail server is experiencing difficulties. The incoming mail server is experiencing difficulties. Our Web-based GetEmail is experiencing difficulties. Oh, and it's probably going to snow again next week, so don't be thinking Spring is here or anything either."

Ok, the Spring thing is an exaggeration, but the rest of it is true. Although they will deny the Hour 60 thing because "According to our records, it was not offically identified as a problem until 9 a.m. Wednesday." Except it started being a problem TUESDAY morning. Trust me, this I know.

What does this mean to me? Well, as far as I can tell, it means I have no earthly idea if email being sent to me is arriving, the email I am receiving is arriving anywhere from 30 seconds to 30 hours after it was sent, people that are emailing me are getting bounce notices even if their email did get here, and I can't tell if the email I'm sending is getting to where it's going.

Which all makes perfect sense when you consider that this is the week I've started contacting agents about my novel. Of course.

When I called tech support AGAIN tonight to see if they had an anticipated "fixed" time/date, and was told they didn't, I lamented the fact that this could, in the long run, cost me money. I count on my email to keep in touch with editors/writers/clients/agents. It's that simple. And so, the tech girl offered a solution.

"You should have a business account. Then your email would be guaranteed."

Um...hello? Aside from the fact that in five years with this ISP no one has ever mentioned a business option, the fact remains that I pay these people $50 a month to provide a service - and they're not guaranteeing it? That's like paying the hydro bill every month and the utility company saying "But of course we can't guarantee that you'll actually HAVE electricity."

So I had a little hissy fit, and if it's still on the fritz tomorrow I'll be complaining at higher levels. Meanwhile, I wait, and I fret, and try to work on my Ramona. Who (whom?) I have decided to call Danielle.

And Danielle just might throw a hissy fit over this email thing too.

Sigh

I'm going to guess that the Leacock Medal shortlist choices were not based on how many times the entrants clicked onto the site in the last week to see if the winners had been posted. If that had been part of the criteria, I would have gotten listed for sure.

But I didn't.

The shortlist is out, and will probably hit the major media any minute now.  I found out about two hours ago and have already worked my way through the stages of deflated self-confidence, ("I knew I didn't stand a chance") and arrogant resentment ("Why don't they just change the name to the Ferguson Medal?") and have moved into rational acceptance ("It just wasn't meant to be this time around") and stubborn determination ("Some day. Not today, but some day.")

But I still want to be Will Ferguson when I grow up. He's a funny, funny guy, no denying it. I'd like to have lunch with him some day. And I've been recommending Happiness(tm) to a bunch of people lately, and now I can't find my copy to loan it to them.

So I'm over it. Really. And even though I didn't make the shortlist, there's no shortage of people who said that Generation Xhausted had them laughing hysterically. And those are just the ones who have blogs to link to. I get fan mail, the local MOPS group is having me out in a few weeks to make them laugh some more, and well, don't take my word for it - see for yourself.

Besides, I've got a hilarious novel making the rounds, and I'm confident that it won't be long before some agent is impressed enough to sign me up. Meanwhile, I gots work to do - articles to write, the day job, and I'm doing Career Day at the school this week.

Except the kids have forbidden me to show up in my pajamas, even though that's my favourite thing to wear while I work.  Seems to me that if the firefighter gets to wear his gear, I should be allowed to show off my standard writer's uniform, but I'll play along.  After all, having your mother come to school in her pajamas is the kind of thing they might put in their memoirs some day, and we wouldn't want that.

I wish the short-listers well, and congratulate them on their achievements. As for me, I'm turning to my favourite phrase from the West Wing to help me move on:

What's next?

Circulating

I have officially queried my first agent for my novel. I'm going to go pass out now, as my nerves just can't take this kind of stress. If you've got any good karma, send it out there, would ya?

Title-less

I must clarify something from my last post - hubby has threatened to comment and expose my tendency toward exaggeration for all the world to see, unless I do.

I am not the School Council Chairperson. I WAS, up until March 9, 2005, but as of that day, I am no longer entitled to refer to myself as such, having handed in my four-paragraph (what can I say? I'm a writer) resignation and relinquishing my responsibilities to the Co-Chair.

However, in the previous post, I was unsure of how to explain my relationship to the school, to convey, in a CLEAR manner, just how it is that I am so familiar with most of the teachers. And, since I held the title of Chairperson for nearly four years, and since I resigned mere days before March Break started, it is entirely possible that some of the teachers don't know I've quit yet.

So there you go - I am not the Chairperson, and since I've clarified that, my hubby can resist the urge to comment here and remain comfortably anonymous, as is his preference.

From the cheap seats

My hearing has finally returned to normal. Yes, that was me screaming and hollering and singing "The Reflex" at the top of my lungs. Way up there in the second deck. But sitting in the cheap seats allows you a unique view of things, things like the TOP of the video screen, which shows, quite clearly, that John Tayler is developing a bald spot on the top of his head.

The rest of him, however, is pretty darn spry.

The concert was AWESOME. And yes, I bought a t-shirt, which I may or may not allow my children to touch in the future.

They played all the oldies, and many of the newbies, and some really early stuff. A lot of the audience, fans since the Rio days, were not completely familiar with classics like The Chauffeur. I was. And I knew the words too, ha ha.

It was definitely an age 25+ crowd. After appearing on stage, Simon growled "Is anybody hungry?" which brought 80% of the audience, including me, to its feet, to dance along with Hungry Like The Wolf. Immediately, the woman behind me leaned over and said, "Oh, you have to sit down, you can't stand up."

Huh? It's a rock concert lady. Stand up and dance already! But she didn't, and thankfully, instead of punching me when I ignored her, she moved down a few seats, and ended up leaving before the encore.

But oh, how I danced. It was WONDERFUL. And FUN. And I wish, I really wish, I had a camera, not because of the concert, but because of what happened BEFORE the concert.

You see, I'd heard that a teacher at the kids' school was going to the concert. And when we stopped at the Duty Free on the way, to change some money over, there he was in the currency exchange line. So I said "hi", and teased him a wee bit about going to the concert, and all was good. And then I turned around and looked at the cashier's line for the duty-free.

One. Two. Three. Four...Seven. SEVEN teachers, all from my kids school, all lined up buying their four-packs of Smirnoff coolers on the way to the Duran Duran concert. And then all piling into the LIMO that was waiting for them outside.

Heh. Teachers are people too, I guess, but boy, was it weird. For them too - they all looked a little surprised to see School Council Chairperson Me off to rock the night away. It was just...WEIRD.

Oh, and I drove in the States without freaking out, so that was a good thing too.

It was a good night, but it's weird to walk down memory lane like that. I did not feel like the fourteen year old that was crazed about the band - I felt like a thirty-three year old married mother of three who was once that fourteen year old. I don't think that's a bad thing. I don't want to be fourteen again. (because who would drive me to concerts?) I'm really glad I went though, I wasn't disappointed at all.

Lots more thoughts on music, and the impact of video, and that kind of thing, but not tonight - my synopsis beckons, and I've promised SOMEONE that I'll have the first query to an agent in the mail by Monday.

Eight for the Eighties - Music!

Continuing in the theme of ripping off Andrea, plus the fact that in ELEVEN hours Duran Duran will appear on stage and I WILL BE THERE TO SEE IT, today's group of eight is all about music.

Did I mention the concert? And that I'm going. Yesterday in the hallway at school, I told Mrs. D from the parents' club that I was going (she's got tickets too) and we squealed and giggled and were all  "like, omigod, that is so AWESOME, wave to me, k?"

Children around us were so totally NOT amused. Missuses shouldn't be giggling in the hallway over concerts, apparently. They should just shut up and drive the basketball team like they're supposed to.

So, the music. Huh. Anyone remember Casey Kasem? I used to listen to America's Top 40 every Sunday night. When I lived up north in 84/85, and could only get FM radio by pointing the aerial of my ghetto blaster (what's an aerial mama? I thought she was a mermaid) out the window on a clear and cloudless night, my friend in Windsor used to tape the Top 40 and mail it to me.

Ah, mail. Cassette tapes. Radio that came through on a, you know, radio, instead of a computer. God, I'm so old.

I loved the Top 40.

So here's the questions, along with my answers. Why don't you play along?

1. What did the music of that era mean to you then?

- see above about the Top 40. Music was everything. That baby ghetto blaster hung from the handle of my bike, and everything I did was set against a musical backdrop. There was always a song that could perfectly sum up my mood, the situation, etc. I could have told my life story in Top 40 songs.

2. What song takes you right back, whenever you hear it?

- just about anything, but two stand out: The Heart of Rock 'n' Roll by Huey Lewis and the News, and Life in a Northern Town by the Dream Academy. (Don't You) Forget About Me, by, I think, Simple Minds?

3. Shuffle your playlist (I know you have one). What’s the first song listed from the 80’s? (not a cover!)

- what's a playlist? I'm stil figgering out this here Internet thing...

4. Your 80’s music icon was…?

- Duran Duran, of course. Madonna. Cyndi Lauper. Bryan Adams. The list goes on.

5. Hair bands! Discuss!

- you know, I never really understood this term. I mean, Duran was good with the hair too, but I don't think they were a hair band. The ones most people call hair bands were what I called heavy metal, and I just didn't get real jazzed about that.

6. How much did your musical taste change from 1980 to 1989?

- not much. When the music stopped sounding the same, I stopped listening. I became a mother in 1989, and I think I got old overnight.

7. Which big 80’s music star should just give up already?

- I think Madonna needs to call it quits.

8. Which big 80’s musical talent are you glad to see has still got it?

- well, I guess I'll know tonight if Duran fits that description. I hope so.

bonus question: When you first heard Bowling for Soup’s 1985, what did you do?

- It was just a few weeks ago, during my Search For Pants That Fit. My daughter and I were in one of those clothing stores where the sales clerks bare their navels. I heard it and demanded that my daughter tell me who sang that song, and we must go get that CD right this minute. We didn't, but I still intend to. (for the record, my daughter says that the song is "so over Mom.")

Bonus bonus question: Who used to tear out the pages of 16 and Tiger Beat and hang them on the walls? And did anyone besides me have the Duran Duran in front of a yellow truck poster?

There you go. Now I have to go figure out just exactly what one wears to a concert when one is old enough to remember mail, and cassette tapes, and Casey Kasem. I'm thinking tapered jeans would be unforgiveable.

Eight for the 80's - Now with answers!

UPDATE - What, you're all too exhausted to play games with me? C'mon people, I know you're out there, and that many of you also went around with orange hair and leg warmers for a time. Or parachute pants.  Or BIG bleachy blond do's. So spill, or I'll have to start using my imagination and make stuff up about you. I've made my own confessions below.

Did I mention I was going to see DURAN DURAN? In CONCERT?

Anyway, between the gift of tickets and some wandering I was doing around the blog-o-sphere, I have decided it's about time to put some Generation X into Generation Xhausted. So here's a meme for y'all, stolen from Andrea at A Typical Life.

It's Eighties Fashion Time!

1. What was your hair like?

- I never could quite do the big hair thing. In the ninth grade, the hair on one side of my head was superduper short, and the other side and top was longer and curly permed, with the back of my neck shaved. Very New Wave-ish. Colour? Imagine a summer of Sun-In, followed by some reckless experimentation with Loreal. Red, blond, brown, and every shade in between, at one time or another.

2. What did you *wish* your hair was like?

- I so desperately wanted to be cool. I wanted long blond hair with teased bangs and the ability to wear a banana clip. Never happened.

3. What was the coolest item of clothing you had back in the 80’s that is totally embarrasing now?

- I had a skinny leather tie, that I wore with a white button down, yellow shaker v-neck sweater and black stirrup pants. I've burned all the pictures. I also went through a Madonna phase, and owned four pairs of black lace fingerless gloves.

4. What was a cool fashion trend that you didn’t understand back then, and still don’t?

- leg warmers. I just don't get it.

5. What was a fashion trend you *wish* would come back?

- now see, I liked the tapered jeans. Jordache, if you please. Skin tight. I'd setttle for jeans that come to the waist, instead of around the hips somewhere

6. … or that you were happy to see did come back?

- Nothing I liked has come back. Kids today, they've just ruined things like belly shirts.

7. Who was your 80’s fashion icon?

- Madonna. Molly Ringwald, preppy and non-preppy version.

8. Describe your best (or worst) look for the eighties.

- I did mini skirts well. And I miss my Levi jacket.

So there you go - now, maybe one of my 200 daily visitors could chime in. How about it? Who's brave enough, besides Kim?

In love with a purple envelope

Are you tired of coming here and reading "I'm busybusybusy, more later. promisepromise"?

Yeah, me too. So, no more of that nonsense. Here I am, and whatever I was doing before I started this blog entry, and whatever I'm supposed to do after I blog, well, that matters not. I'm all here, solidly in the moment, present and accounted for.

And oh, what a moment.

I am holding, in my own two hands - well, okay, it's not in my hands, it's on my desk, because hubby said, "oh for good grief, would you put that DOWN already? And no, you're not sleeping with it either."

Curious yet? Read on...

What's on my desk , the thing I am not holding in my own two hands, even though I WAS, for like HOURS, is a purple envelope. A purple envelope that was delivered to my door following an out-of-the-blue email, and then a frantic ""are you kidding me?" phone call.

My friend, also my colleague, the WONDERFUL, KIND and GENEROUS Leah, brought the envelope to me today. Guess what's in it? Go on, guess!

Can't guess? I'll just have to tell you then.

In the purple envelope is Fabulous with a capital F. Nostalgia with a capital N. Fond Memories with a capital F and M.

Tickets. To a concert. To an ohmigod, real-life, can't-believe-I'm-so-lucky concert, in Detroit, this week. A concert that I thought idly I MIGHT buy tickets to, but then decided it wasn't in the budget, and besides that's my crazy day at work, and no, I guess I'll just never get to see them in concert. And then the email comes, and I pick up the phone, and Bam! FREE TICKETS.

And so, after twenty years of it being too expensive, and bad timing, and anyway who's going to drive, I am going to see...

DURAN DURAN. In concert. All five of them. For real.

I think I'll die now.

And maybe I'll finally get to ask Roger Taylor to marry me, in spite of the fact that he's married, and oh yeah, I am too, but it's DURAN DURAN. The REAL Duran Duran.

I'm giddy. Save a prayer for me, whilst I go dance across the Rio Grande.

In between

If you have decided you can't stand yet another post about The Novel, then you'd best move on down the blogroll. Sorry, but that's the way it goes.

Staying? You sure? Ok then, welcome, make yourself comfy.

The One-Pass is done. Reader #1 has weighed in with her remarks (she did a wonderful job of pointing out some problems) and Reader # 2 is almost finished with her margin-marking. Then it's back to me for the final fixin', and out it goes into the big bad world of agents!

Out it goes into the Big Bad World Of Agents.

Eeesh.

Guess I better start making that list of agents. And the synopsis. I need to do the synopsis. All of this is very new to me. I'm having to learn a whole new set of procedure rules for submitting stuff, since everything I do is non-fiction. And I think I know the drill, I just have to get it done.

The hardest part is finding the nuggets of time that I need in between all the other things on my to-do list. Because right now, my to-do list is pretty darn long, and it's all stuff I have to do rightnowthisminute. Real Job kind of stuff.

But yes, James, since you asked, I did not wait for NaNoEdMo. I edited. I'm done. Except for that agent list. And the synopsis.

Oh, and wouldn't you know it? Not even finished the first project, and I've already got the plot of another novel forming in my head. And as soon as I take care of that to-do list, I'm going to see if it's possible for me to write a novel without NaNo hanging over my head. After all, I imagine that most successful novelists don't limit their fiction writing to the month of November.

Day Break

<Shelley rubs fists into eyes, looks around>

==blink====blink==

Are people usually awake at this time of day?

The hilarity that is often my life is only underscored by the fact that today, the very FIRST day of the March Break, I got up at 6 a.m. to do the Morning Show.

The topic - what to do with the kids during March break.

It seemed inappropriate to suggest that Morning Show listeners might want to start by sleeping in.

I'm finally feeling human again, after four days of hacksnifflecoughhack.  Still not 100%, but one does what one must, and today I must workworkwork, so there you go. Irony - it's 7:30 am, I'm raring to go, and must wait until open of business to really get started. By 9 am I will have lost my will to remain upright, and will likely be facedown in the keyboard, fast asleep.

So now I've blogged, you all know I'm still alive, and maybe my mom will get off my case. Geesh, you teach someone how to use the Internet, and the next thing you know, they're...well, using the Internet.

Is it lunchtime yet?