Yes, yes, I am SOON to be a paperback writer. If this is a bad thing, please do not tell me. I’m sure some of you will write me anyway. And maybe send me incoherent messages that I cannot interpret, like the one I got a bit ago, but that’s okay, because I am a PAPERBACK WRIIIIIITER. I assume paperback writers consume massive amounts of valium. I need to get me some of that, just to cope with my very strange emails. Or maybe mass amounts of hallucinogens.

But anyway, I just got the cover of the mass market edition of WIVES AND SISTERS, and I love it. It’s very “gothicky,” as my agent said, and it just really gives the FEELING of suspense.

Go, WIVES AND SISTERS! You rock! You’re totally, like, the best!

Lord have mercy, I’ve become one of those teenagers I’m with all day. Except for the wrinkles and all this fat that has attached itself to me, in strange and unfamiliar places. Or at least places I choose to be unfamiliar with these days.

Becoming a teenager–sorta–has NOT however, helped me to interpret some of the strange emails and comments I get. Like this one, from Quetzal. I’m trying to go easy on the guy/gal, since I suspect that English is his/her second, third, or possibly FOURTH language:

Yes, we do, because the world and its wickedness has gone beyond
compare.

We do need the Sealed Portion, why no, who are we to question God??

An we also need the Keys of Enoch, which was given by Enoch gimself
in 1973.

Are you as blind and deaph not to see the sign of the Times?

Im sure you are one of them Mormoms (like myself) who support your
leader at the expense of Giving Glory and prasie to God, doing the
Will of his Gospel.

I think this person was commenting on the blog where I wrote that the world did not even NEED the right-there-in-your-face portions of the Book of Mormon, let ALONE the “mythical” and unseen (of course!) sealed portions, but the message still doesn’t make much sense. I’m not questioning God. Joseph Smith, Jr., on the other hand, gets a big fat, BURNING-BRAND-OF-QUESTION-MARK-ON-THE-HEAD kind of question.

And as for the writer’s question, am I BLIND and DEAPH? No, no, I had that correction surgery, and can see quite well these days, thank you. As for deaf, I only practice the kind of selective deafness my children have taught me. “Mom, can I have some money?” I can’t hear you, I can’t hear you, I can’t hear you….

And who is Enoch Gimself? What nationality is that name? I’m not familiar with it. And this whole Mormom thingie is freaking me out. Support my LEADER? Is that like “take me to your leader?” Next thing I know those aliens from Kolob are going to be descending on Utah.

I am NOT a Mormom!! I am a less mom. Less money, more chores. That’s my philosophy.

But you ramble on, Quetzal. It’s all good. Cuz, I’m a PAPERBACK WRIIIIITTTERRRRR….. Life is good.

And BEHIND CLOSED DOORS, my next book that will mostly needle and irritate the Mormons, is due out in January of 2007 from St. Martin’s Press.

Just out of curiosity, is Mormom shorthand for Mormon Mom? Because I’m neither, really, Quetzal.

I took another walk today, with Stormy the Wonder Dog, who does the funniest thing whenever I say the word walk. In fact, I cannot even SAY the word unless my intent is serious, because his little shih tzu heart could not possibly stand the torture. If we don’t intend to WALK, we must spell W-A-L-K. Even then, he is cluing in because he does that doggy head bobble thing, looking from one human to the other, with a “I know you’re up to something” look. It isn’t only W-A-L-Ks that get to Stormy, of course. He also likes to go in the C-A-R. Keys jingling set him off into a tizzy that he can barely contain.

Back to walking and the funny thing Stormy does. Whenever he hears the word walk, he immediately runs to the drawer where his leash is stored, and if it is even slightly ajar, he manages to get his leash out. When I put the leash on HIM, he turns and bites at it until he has it firmly in his mouth, and off he goes, proudly trotting with the leash in his mouth, him taking ME for a walk–or so he thinks.

He was happy that I wasn’t spelling W-A-L-K today. It’s Sunday again, but things were not quite so quiet this week as they were last week. I picked the time that about six of the local wards dismissed and so there was quite a bit of traffic. In fact, I happened upon one of the oddities of Utah life. See the picture below as proof.

No, this is not a parking lot, and Mormons don’t generally have this many vehicles. What is happening here is a Mormon gathering. “What?” you might ask. “Mormons gather on Sundays for gatherings? I thought that was verboten!” No, no, relax, Mormons do not gather on Sundays except for Mormon-type gatherings. Since it is late September, the cars here could only mean one thing. Either a missionary was returning or leaving, and whenever this occurs, in addition to doling out money on a monthly basis so their offspring can do the Lord’s work, Mormon parents are required to have the entire ward over both before they leave and after they return, and serve them chicken salad sandwiches, sheet cake and jello salads with all manner of strange ingredients. It’s in the Mormon bylaws. I promise. I almost bailed from my walk and sauntered in just to see if they had funeral potatoes, which are GOOO-OOOOD, but I would not have blended. If you look closely at the arrow, you will see that those people are attired in Church-going gear. In order to Missionary Farewell/Homecoming crash, one must be dressed properly. So no funeral potatoes for me.

The second daughter, who normally accompanies me on my walks, was absent today as she chose to go to the movies with her older sister and two friends. Sunday is a REALLY good day to go to the movies in Utah, because you can pick any seat you want, babies do not cry throughout the movie, and there is no long line for $40 worth of refreshments. Sunday is also a good day to go to the local amusement park, for the same reason. No Mormons are there. Now I don’t really have a problem with Mormons being there, but my point is that it is NOT crowded. That’s about the only time you will find me in a movie theatre or at an amusement park. I don’t like crowds. Sunday would pretty much be a good day to do anything, except you can’t, because most things are closed. But the movies are not, and so youngest and oldest daughter went to the movies. I know, I know, the damn heathens, but keep this in mind. They went to see JUST LIKE HEAVEN. Ya gotta admit, that’s close.

Back to the walk. Just a week ago I posted pictures of the Wasatch Mountains as the colors began to change. It’s dramatically different this week, as you can see below. I love fall walks. So does Stormy.

Sundays in my town are quiet. Very, very quiet. Disconcertingly quiet. It’s almost a relief to mow your lawn or have a barbeque, because everyone else is religiousing. (Not sure if that’s a word, but it works.)

Of course, Sundays are a really good day to take a walk. The only traffic is in and out of the local LDS Churches, and you could pretty much walk in the middle of the street and you’d be safe–except when church is getting out. Of course, since there is one (an LDS chapel)on every corner you still see a lot of cars in the “house” part of town. Downtown, of course, is abandoned. It’s very, very, quiet. This would be the time to pull off a crime. (Please note: I am NOT encouraging this!) But this would not be the first time that criminals got smart to the ways of the locals. When the entire neighborhood disappears inside a church en masse, all manner of burglaries have happened.

When walking on a Sunday, it’s very peaceful. Only at every twelfth or thirteenth house will you see signs of life, such as someone doing yardwork or straightening their garage.

Stormy the wonder dog likes walks on any day, and doesn’t seem to notice that Sunday is different, except no one else is out walking, and for the first time in his life, HE is the big dog on the block. On other days, he compensates by peeing on everything that stands taller than two inches, trying to prove his manliness through obsessive urination. On Sundays, convinced he IS the main man, he also pees on everything taller than two inches. I do not know how such a small dog has so much urine in him. He pees like a drunken sailor on shore leave. It’s perplexing.

It slows our walks down, but that’s okay. On a day like today, with the leaves beginning to change in the Wasatch Mountains, it’s nice to saunter a bit and relax.

…or at least the puking child is healed. It’s 24-hour flu, it appears, as opposed to THE PLAGUE, or some other manner of horrific illness, as she presumed. So far, no one else is puking. Keep your fingers, toes, and assorted body parts crossed.

She was so well that she insisted we go to the mall to spend her birthday money. (I may have mentioned that I am now officially the mother of a teenager, as of September 3.) Since the abovementioned child has always had the tendency to spit pea soup and rotate her head completely around (especially when things aren’t going her way), I think I will survive the teenage years.

Today, we visited the mall to spend the birthday money. THAT was fun.

Saturdays are a very busy day, you know? It’s the weekend, and I think we are SUPPOSED to be relaxing, but it never happens. Daughter number two started off the day with ballet, and then we cleaned, and then the mall, and of course, it was Stormy the Wonder Dog’s doggy beauty parlor day. Today, he is secure in his manhood. He came home without bows. The youngest human child was disappointed.

The Plague has hit our house. At least, I’m assuming it’s THE PLAGUE, because my daughter assures me, from her death bed no less, that she is dying. DYING. Just one more time throwing up and it will all be over for her. Twelve hours of vomiting is more than a 13-year-old body can handle.

I, of course, know different. I HAD babies, and lived to tell about it, and I have assured her, repeatedly, that she is not dying, however, when she gives this SHIT to me, she is gonna wish she was dead.

Kids. Today, one of my students spent 10 minutes trying to convince me and all his other classmates that he had suffered from–and survived, no less–smallpox FIVE times. Five times. Imagine that. Never mind that smallpox was eradicated in the 1940s.

Next up? Mother fed us Anthrax for dinner.