Jane's Blog - Page 85 of 93 - Jane Porter | New York Times & USA Today Bestselling Author

All In A Day’s Work

May 2, 2006 by Jane · Comments Off

The day started fine. Well, sort of fine. I woke up to the sound of my oldest blowing his nose, coughing, and doing that disgusting throat clearing thing between pathetic moans. It continued with him convincing me he couldn’t go to school being deathly sick and with me sending him back to bed even as I attempted to rouse younger son who was just catching on that big brother was getting out of school.

It only went downhill from there.

As my younger son referred to it after school (it took me 30 minutes of unpleasant parent behavior to drag him into car and dropped off on schoolgrounds) I acted like a ‘crazy lady.’

Okay, fair enough. I was…crazed. And felt like hell after I drop-kicked him out of car onto school sidewalk, but younger son is soooo manipulating me right now that I can’t see straight. Every couple days he’s coming home early from school, or skipping school, and he’d just missed school Thursday, Friday and Monday with stomach aches that the doctor on Monday said seem to be pretty much invented to help him avoid doing things he didn’t like. Like school.

And as much as I want to spend quality time with my kids, it can’t happen between 8 am and 3 pm. That’s when I don’t want to think about kids, or mommyhood, or the fact that I’m painfully, excruciatingly impatient.

But with the Harlequin book in, the Flirting with Forty promo train chugging along (Maturity Today magazine said Flirting could be THE Baby Boomer anthem) and my research continuing for my next Warner book, Like Everybody Else, I really need some quiet time, some think time, some time without interruptions. Unfortunately I’m not getting that time and I’m just well…tense. And…crazy.

I don’t think my Outlook program helps. Email is clever and inventive but it doesn’t really help. Everytime I feel like I’ve gotten something done, another email or two pop into my inbox. And suddenly there’s another two or three or five things to do. Apparently Redbook Magazine wants me to write something just for them to include in the August excerpt/issue and I’m happy to. I just need the details. And my agent Karen Solem and I discussed the future and the publishing industry and what’s selling so here it is, get your pens poised:

1. erotica

2. paranormals

3. erotic romance

Good, Karen. I don’t really write any of the above. Feeling pretty glorious about the future.

And then while acting like I’m going to write, I answer about ten calls and I don’t even like the phone. Oh, and pay bills, lots of bills, and I like that even less.

Somehow, time magically passes and youngest son is home again and oldest son out of his room to do homework. While doing homework both sons complain about school and want to know why they had to go to school. I explain it’s their job. They then want to know why they had to have a job. And I said when they grew up they’d need jobs to eventually pay for their own place and be able to buy stuff.

This actually made sense to them.

Because after the day we’ve had, neither son wants to live forever with a crazy person.

They’ve promised to get places close.

Go Peeps!

April 30, 2006 by Jane · Comments Off

After a couple rather dry posts I’m going to give you a sweet one. It’s a little story about how much I love Peeps, that marshmallow dipped in colored sugar treat that first appeared at Easter as little chicks but is available for all big holidays as everything from Halloween ghosts to Christmas trees to Valentine hearts. I will eat and buy them all, but none is as good as the Easter Peep. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the eating a baby chick thing. Disgusting and yet delicious.

My favorite food group is marshmallows. I used to also love jello and cool whip and put the three together and it was positively lethal. For my insides. But let’s not attack plastic and additives just yet.

As some of you know, my former husband was a paraplegic and in a wheelchair and he used to joke that there were advantages to dating (and then marrying) a para–namely the plus of handicap parking at crowded malls. Also, at Disneyland you get to go to the front of the line on most rides–which is also, really nice. But unless you are at Nordstrom’s at Christmas or Disneyland daily, being in a wheelchair isn’t such a great thing. And yet, I did find one more advantage to being married to someone in a wheelchair, and please don’t tell anyone, because others will think I’m crass….but I could hide stuff on high shelves and he wouldn’t know. I could put things in the shelf in the closet, in the attic, and especially in the upper kitchen cabinets without him discovering anything. He never knew what I’d bought him for Christmas, or if I’d gotten new shoes or clothes (please, I’m not saying this is a recipe for marriage bliss) or if I was hiding something I didn’t want him to know I had…

Like Peeps.

Seven years ago, a week after Easter I entered a local drugstore that had a 50% off all Easter merchandise sale, and the sign was taped to an enormous shopping cart piled high with Peeps. Pink bunnies, yellow chicks, purple bunnies, multi-colored eggs. Boxes and boxes of peeps. Row after row of sparkly sugar covered marshmallow in the dearest sweetest baby animal shape. And while I was admiring the Peeps, a salesperson marked them down again. 75% off. 75% off PEEPS.

I had to have some. I had to buy them before someone else did. I love Peeps, love love love them and grabbing a basket I started piling them in. The bunnies, the chicks, no eggs. Just bunnies and chicks and 6 boxes pink, 6 boxes blue, 6 boxes purple, 6 boxes yellow. Another 6 boxes yellow. Some more pinks. Purples. Blues. Okay, a couple boxes white sparkly eggs. And a few more yellow. Maybe one more pink and purple. And pink, because next to the yellow chicks the pink bunnies are my favorite.

I took my cart to the check out. I think the total for 40 something peeps was like ten dollars. An unbelievably good deal, one of those crazy things you read about happening to other people. Never to me, never ever. Til now.

I rushed home, made sure no one was around, and hid my bags of boxes of peeps in the upper cabinets in the kitchen. Being short, I never really utilized them anyway but a Peep was worth jumping up on the counter, and then standing on the counter, to get to the top shelf.

Forty boxes of Peeps sounds like a lot. But if you think about it, each of those little Peep boxes holds 5 little Peeps and that’s really just 5 big soft marshmallows dipped in sparkly sugar. Not a lot. So if I limit myself to a box a day, I have Peeps until almost Memorial Day. BUT, if I have a box in the morning and a box in the afternoon, they’d last maybe three weeks. Tragically, not long enough.

In the end, the Peeps lasted almost two weeks. I think sometimes I ate them too fast because I was afraid someone would roll into the kitchen and discover me on the counter, admiring my stash, and so I’d shove a couple Peeps at a time in my mouth. Wasteful. So wasteful I know.

It’s two weeks after Easter Sunday. My kids still have their Easter baskets on the dining room table, their treats nearly half gone. I’ve helped them more than they know, and last night finished their Peeps for them. They were staying at their dad’s house. They were having a good time there. They don’t love Peeps the way I do, either. Is that a good excuse to eating their candy? I don’t know. It’s just the way it is.

Like last weekend in Hawaii. Ty and I were driving by a drugstore and I suddenly wondered if maybe, just maybe, they had a sale on their Easter merchandise and asked Ty to stop so we could go in. All the Easter candy appeared to be gone, but I perservered, traveling rapidly up and down each aisle looking for a special clearance section and found it…on an end cap. Easter candy 50% off. I grabbed five boxes of Peeps. Grabbed two more. Looked longingly at the rest before reluctantly paying for my loot.

My boxes lasted three and a half days. But the memory of my Hawaii Peeps will remain with me forever.

Women & Story

April 29, 2006 by Jane · Comments Off

Last week I was pushing hard to finish a book before hopping on a plane for Honolulu to participate in Hawaii’s first Book & Music Festival. I’d been scheduled months earlier to speak but the topic hadn’t been firmed up until two weeks prior and only then was it decided that I’d address, ‘Why Women Need Their Own Story’. Unfortunately, because I’d been writing so hard on my novel, I didn’t have the speech together and crossed my fingers I’d have time to get it done once I arrived in Hawaii.

But once in Hawaii it was difficult to make myself concentrate on the speech. Ty had work, I had interviews–two email and one phone, there were house issues to deal with and soon it was Friday night and the Festival’s Welcome Reception at Bishop’s Museum.

I dragged Ty with me to the reception having explained to him that if he didn’t come I’d end up doing what I always did at these things if I went alone–I’d wander around by myself with a funny fixed smile on my face so no one felt bad for not talking to me. I’m good at serious conversations but not cocktail party chit chat so it was a treat having Ty along to explore the museum with me while listening to the Hawaiian trio and noshing on appetizers and little desserts.

As we explored the museum I worried a little about my speech which still wasn’t written. I was speaking for an hour, on a topic I believe in but didn’t have notes for. But before we left the reception, I was able to introduce myself to a group of Borders management folks including a man I’d worked with last year, Les Honda, the District Marketing Manager for Hawaii and Las Vegas.

I’d never met Les in person and so it was a pleasure to put a face with a name. Les and his crew have been extremely supportive of me, including hosting my book events last Memorial Day Weekend.

But Les wasn’t just professionally polite, as we talked at the reception, he made me feel personally welcome. Hawaii you see is rather closed to outsiders and yet he made me feel like I belonged, and that I was home.

Visiting with Les, I realized I still need to get to know more of the Hawaii booksellers. Few (if any?) know I live in Hawaii part-time and that little by little I’m doing more in the community, speaking to both writer’s groups and civic women’s groups. And why do I speak to women’s groups? It’s the Why Women Need Their Own Story thing, which most unfortunately *still* needed to be put on paper.

Saturday morning I woke up at six and hit the computer to start writing. I was still at the computer three hours later and ended up with 9 pages of speech, stealing bits from articles I posted on my website and making up the rest. I wasn’t sure how coherent it was but I printed it off and Ty dropped me off at the festival grounds in downtown Honolulu. It was a gorgeous day and the festival was already in full swing, with lots of families enjoying all the activities provided for children. The Atrium in the historic City Hall where I was slated to speak wasn’t quite so busy and in fact, was alarmingly empty at 1 when I stepped up to the podium. Happily, within minutes people began to wander in and by the time I was finished there were 45 or 50 in the folding chairs.

At two I signed books at the Borders tent, then visited with Barnes & Noble staff and Brian, the owner of the Hawaiian indie chain, Bestsellers.

Saturday afternoon I was supposed to help man the RWA chapter booth but it was already crowded inside the small tent so I stood outside chatting, including talking to my RWA writer friend Michael Little, when I turned around and saw Somebody Gorgeous watching me. Surfer Ty! Having wrapped up his lessons for the day he’d showered, dressed and headed to the festival to see me. It was the best surprise. I was thrilled. Ty’s smile makes every day feel like Christmas…makes me feel like Christmas.

I don’t need to be a famous, or bestselling author. I just want someone good to love, and someone good to love me back.

And maybe that’s the point of why women need their own story.

We women shouldn’t just live vicariously through fiction. We shouldn’t let paperback heroines have the only happy endings. We should have happy endings in real life, too. We should insist that we be the heroes in our own life.

At the end of the day, the real life matters, the one that is lived with our family and friends. While what happens between pages is interesting, possibly riveting, nothing should be more important than our immediate life, the one we live today.

Big Babies

April 25, 2006 by Jane · Comments Off

I’m crabby so watch out. I’m not even sleeping on my crabbiness to see if I won’t feel more rested, as well as diplomatic, in the morning. I’m just laying it down. Right here. Right now.

Some people–and in this case, a select number of authors judging contests, particularly RWA’s annual Rita contest–should get over themselves. Seriously. I’ve judged the Ritas for years and I’ve never given a Rita entry anything lower than a four, and a four is rare. But there are a couple judges out there–and I’m airing dirty laundry–handing out 2’s to Harlequin Presents that have dominated the Waldenbooks Bestseller list…for weeks. There are judges, who, for whatever reason (professional jealousy? envy that Presents pay the bills? disgust that readers enjoy sexual foreign lovers? what?) can’t give a Presents title a fair read.

Because here’s the thing–no lovingly written and edited book by a reputable publisher deserves a 2. And the judges giving authors the 2’s can do it because they’re judging anonymously.

In case my crabbiness isn’t shining all the way through, let me say it louder.

Ladies, little girls, little girls who seem to enjoy hurting other people—stop judging contests. Get out. Take a vacation. Find a new hobby. Rediscover sex. Just please, stop judging the Ritas if you can’t be fair and impartial.

You’re not helping the Ritas by skewering certain authors, or a certain line, you’re hurting it. I don’t want to be part of a contest, or an organization, that smears select authors, or specific lines, simply because you don’t get it, or like it. And I know this, I’ve never had a Harlequin published that deserved a 2, nor have a half dozen of the other brilliant Harlequin authors I write with. And this is happening, and has happened, for the past several years.

I might feel bad in the morning that I didn’t find a cute fun way to phrase this, but I won’t be sorry I brought the subject up. I’m damn proud to be a Presents author.

You know, on second thought, give me the 2. I like the company I’m keeping.

Writer’s Math

April 13, 2006 by Jane · Comments Off

This is really for the writers out there, folks who might appreciate how we literary types do math. I have a book that must have–let’s say–13 chapters of twenty to twenty-five pages each. I have been plotting out the story and writing scenes and have a very rough draft. Now it is time to make the book happen. That means shaping the scenes and making sense of what turns out to be a rather vague plot. But no matter. This is how I write and this is where it gets confusing.

I must edit (and write) a chapter a day. I have two weeks. That means I have a couple extra days at the end to polish my edited (and completed) manuscript. Not a problem. Well, it is. That’s not enough time but no matter. This is how I write.

Day 1 – Write Chapter 1. And I almost do it. But I need part of day 2.

Day 2 – Finish Chapter 1 and start Chapter 2. I start chapter 2. Barely.

Day 3 – Write chapter 2 and chapter 3. I never finish chapter 2.

Day 4 – Should be on chapter 4 but am just finishing 2 and about to start 3.

Day 5 – Writing chapter 3. Reach chapter 4 and thinking I’m catching up. Go to bed feeling good.

Day 6 – Write fast and furiously all day and part of night. Go to bed elated. We are almost at the end of chapter 6. Right on schedule. Woo-wee. Feeling fine. Take your time. Grooving to the cruising.

Day 7 – Wake up, read chapters 5 and 6 and they don’t really sound very good. In fact, they sound very bad. Go back read chapter 4. Mmmm, there’s a problem here. Go back to 3. Where is the problem? What is the problem? Try to write on chapter 7 but can’t get fingers to move on keyboard. Problems seem to be sprouting up everywhere. Spend day pacing and trying to figure out how to fix problems.

Day 8 – Spend day rewriting chapters 4, 5, and 6. It’s going to be okay. Have it in control.

Day 9 – Problems are worse. Book is a disater. Editor will never buy it. Or will buy it after gut-wrenching revisions. Private straight talk with self: you must do gut-wrenching revisions now, before it’s too late. Editor needs to think you’re clever and professional. Can’t turn in crap.

Day 10 – Start book over at chapter 1. Don’t think about only having four days left before deadline. Write chapter 1 all day.

Day 11 – Write chapter 2 all day.

Day 12 – Still working on chapter 2. Take break to eat boys’ Easter candy and write blog entry. It’s going to be okay. This is just the writing process.

Eat some more candy.

And eat some more candy.

Then go to bed. Because tomorrow is another day. And no, not day 13. We’re not using the old calendar coutdown anymore. It’s too stressful. We’ll just call it New Day…#1.

Chew Toy

April 12, 2006 by Jane · Comments Off

I’m not a spooner. Not a big cuddler. Night time you have to go to your side of the bed and leave me alone. It’s just me. I get hot. I sleep on my stomach. And then my back. And then my side. And my back, and my side, and my stomach…it’s a big job. I can’t be taking care of you and me at night, so.

So.

I have a dog that thinks I’m her mom.

And thinks she needs to sleep with me. Cheek to cheek. And the cheek to cheek isn’t so bad now that I’ve taken her plastic cone off her head, but for ten days we’ve been sleeping cheek to plastic and it made for some long, and uncomfortable nights.

But the cone is gone and it’s just dog and me and we share my pillow. And okay, she’s thirteen pounds now, the size of two sourdough loaves of bread and there is room in my queen size bed for Jane and some loaves of bread. But I don’t know if there is room for Jane’s head and 2 loaves of bread on my pillow. Especially when the loaves of bread lick my neck. This is me at night: No Abi, no. Don’t lick. No. Abi. Abi. Abi, no.

At night she must bathe me before we sleep. I guess in some dog cultures this is very sweet but…mmmph. No, thank you. I’ve had my bath today. And I’ve washed my face and the expensive facial cream I put on before bed is to help with cellular renewal and fighting wrinkles and lightening dark spots and it’s not to be licked off. By anyone.

When I first met my boyfriend and he said his dogs slept with him I thought ‘eeew’. I mean, I had a dog for 10 years but she was a lab and she slept in the family room in her bed so she could be near the door and be available to show the robbers where the silver was so the robbers didn’t have to wake anyone and could take as much as they could as quickly as possible.

My new puppy has a different philosophy. She’s sleeping with me (on me) and that way she can make sure she knows where I am at all times. It doesn’t matter where I move in bed, she must make sure she’s touching me. She’s like the twin sister I never had.

And am glad I never had.

Why didn’t I want the dog in my bed? Well, I just thought sometimes some dogs smell. And I thought some dogs you know, have a lot of gas. And some dogs drool. And some had fleas. And ticks. And some chew on themselves at night. And others…lick. And this is a lot of things going on when I’m trying to empty my mind, find that happy place, and go to sleep.

So what is the point of this post?

There really isn’t one. I’m just avoiding going to bed because I’m not ready to become a much loved chew toy.

Fault Lines

April 10, 2006 by Jane · Comments Off

I’m waiting for the little men with straight jackets.

The writing is sometimes close to mental torture. And I’ve hit that torture tonight. My head really hurts tonight and I think I’m starting to crack.

I’m down to five days before my book is due and every time I feel as though I’ve made progress I discover I’m not going in the right direction after all. And its not a little panic, but the kind that sucks your brain out through a hole in the top of your head and then discards you, leaving you hollow.

I feel–but please don’t tell my mom this–like I’m losing my mind.

And my writer friends have great words for this part of writing. One calls it write-fright, another calls it the black moment in the writing of the novel, another says its when she vows to never ever write another book again. For me, it’s just despair because I feel so useless. I’ve written myself into this corner and I’m angry that I wrote myself into a corner, frustrated that I didn’t see this coming, that my plot looked fine on paper, that the dialogue seemed perfect, that the pacing felt right…but obviously it’s not because the book isn’t hanging together. It’s not amazing. It’s not even great

In short, I’m upset that writing is so hard.

And it is hard.

And when it gets to this point where it is so hard, and I’m alone for hours–sometimes days straight–and I start talking to myself, pep talks, speeches, exhortations, prayers, bargaining…in the end, I just start thinking, ‘it’s too damn difficult. I can’t do this anymore.’ And the moment you say, it’s too difficult and you can’t do it…guess what?

You can’t.

And I know this. I know I can’t give in and I know I can’t admit defeat but I’m honestly genuinely tired and my brain hurts and my body hurts from sitting so much and I crave rest, crave pillows and my comforter and my bed but that won’t get the book done.

Bitter truth: I am the only one who can get the book done.

Even more bitter truth: I don’t want to get it done, not if it is this hard and hurts this much. I want to sit on the sofa and watch t.v. and be near someone I like and someone that likes me and NOT question my sanity. I want to relax and sleep straight for the night and not toss and turn because the book isn’t done.

I’ve realized I want to be a writer when the writing’s good. I like writing when I know what I’m doing. It’s just that when it goes south–I don’t always know why it’s gone bad. I don’t know where I lose the thread, or why the attempts to fix it don’t work. And that’s where the panic starts. And the fixing gets chaotic. And the fixing doesn’t always fix. And so the panic just builds. Racing against the clock and trying to be creative while fighting fear. It’s a recipe for disaster.

Tonight I feel like a disaster and its no one’s fault but my own.

I should have done more hard writing earlier. But I didn’t. Because the hard writing is hard.

And I get scared. What if I’m not able to pull it off this time? What if there’s no more story left? What if I never had the skill?

And here come the little men.

Gouda Gets Married

April 6, 2006 by Jane · Comments Off

While I’m in Bellevue trying to write a book in 14 days, Ty’s in Hawaii building his business and taking care of his pet. Make that pets.

It seems while Ty was here last weekend helping me with the injured puppy, Gouda got married. Don’t remember Gouda? It’s the Hawaii house’s resident mouse. Gouda is small and skinny and grayish black and Ty feeds her twice a day and talks to her and encourages her to come visit him on the couch. (Please, don’t say a thing, because when I think about a skinny black mouse running around the house and climbing up where I sit–or sleep–I want to whimper but Ty’s an animal lover so I just think of Handsome Ty and how kind he is and well meaning and my heart does a little double-beat and I think, wow. Wow, wow, wow and that’s about all I can say regarding fallin in love with a surf instructor that keeps wild mice.)

But back to Gouda, as this story is about Gouda, she got married and she and her new skinny black mouse honey are running together through the house and I’m thrilled for the newlyweds, thrilled they’ve found each other. But why in my house? Why? Why? Oh wow. Ty. Wow. Because I know what newly weds do. I write romance for Pete’s sake. I have love scenes in every Harlequin Presents.

Gouda and Goth (I’m going to call him that because it pleases me and Ty shouldn’t get to name all the mouse in the house) are probably making delicious sweet mouse love right now and soon–wow–they’ll be nest building for their offspring, because one mice is cute, two mice is marriage, and marriage makes more. Oh wow.

I love loving a animal lover but–wow, be still my heart, be calm Jane’s little brain–but lots of mice? Little itty bitty black mice? Hordes of tiny furry black babies running everywhere?

Wow, wow, wow. Ty Gurney. Wow. I’ve no other words than that.

Oh, and we should have got the cat.

Book Reports

April 4, 2006 by Jane · Comments Off

If you do not have a sense of humor, stop reading now. This blog isn’t for you.

If you have little school boys and school girls who rush home to tackle their homework, please go do something else now.

If your kids read voraciously and write passionately, you won’t like what I’m going to say.

Tonight I feel good. Make that great. Today I accomplished a lot. I wrote the prologue for my new Harlequin, polished chapter one of the book and got part way through chapter 2. But that’s not all. I also did a book report, and frankly, I did a fabulous job. I really think this is one of the best book reports I’ve done yet.

What? You don’t do book reports anymore? But then, that must mean you don’t do your son’s work. You must make your kid be responsible. But why? Why let him turn in mediocre work and get a lousy grade when you can do all the work yourself and get an A? Seriously. Think about it. Kids don’t need the pressure or stress of doing ‘big’ projects and reports. Why should they have to work? Why should they do anything but eat, sleep, and play Nintendo?

And so I’ve put together a little primer for other moms who do too much. It’s called ‘How To Get The Most Out of Doing Your Child’s Homework’.

1) Tell your son/daughter early that you are not going to do the report. Tell son/daughter that you are not reading the novel this time with him/her. Tell son/daughter that you’ve gone to school–in fact, you’ve been to college–and you don’t do book reports anymore. You don’t have to. You have a job of your own. THEN, 6 pm before the report is due, and the novel isn’t read sit down, read the book, discuss the book with son/daughter, and stay up planning report. When child finally goes to bed at 10 or 11, stay up another hour or two finishing things the child couldn’t do. This makes for wonderful family memories.

2) When assisting with book report, don’t do a boring report like everyone else. Now that you’re involved, be different! Go big! Show off all your creativity! Who cares if the teacher knows you helped? You did! Be proud!

3) Throw out your child’s ideas (they weren’t that good anyway) and just make report your own. You deserve the chance to shine and it’s not often you get rewarded anymore, so grab your Creative Memories scrapbook supplies, your Print Shop software, your knowledge of Adobe Photoshop Illustrator and blow the other kids (and their moms) out of the water. Do you really think you’re the only mom doing a book report at midnight? Hell no. So show the other moms you’re waaaaaay better at 5th grade projects and reports.

4) Always leave a small place for your child to sign his (your) masterpiece. Make sure he/she signs in pencil so it looks authentic. But if signature is a little too sloppy, erase it when son/daughter isn’t looking and rewrite it more neatly but with a hint of childish scrawl. Remember, creativity AND quality matters. Pick up all those small bonus points (they really do add up) other moms and their kids miss.

5) If child must make an oral presentation to accompany report, make sure son/daughter has gone over all text and pictures and understands what you’re saying. Quiz him/her so presentation is believable. HINT: Use big words sparingly. Four or five syllable words should be sprinkled here and there, not in every line.

6) Accept grades gracefully. One of my worst memories of last year was when my book report came back with a 90%. The teacher didn’t feel as though I understood the story properly. Hey lady, yeah you, teaching my kid, I’m a novelist. A former high school English teacher. I’ve taught Bill Shakespeare and my pals Dickens and Chaucer. Of course I understood the book and I did answer all the questions. Correctly. Thoroughly. With originality. I deserved a 100%.

Hmph.

I hate getting anything less than 100% on my son’s work. I’m a straight A student, even if my kid isn’t.

Maybe I need to go back downstairs and add another letter to the editor and classified ad to his newspaper style book report. After all, you don’t want anyone to think your child doesn’t excel in school.

Besides, their education isn’t about them. It’s about you. It’s important everyone knows you’re a good mom and you care.

Even if its a little too much.

Vain Girls

April 2, 2006 by Jane · Comments Off

Our puppy has been with us two weeks today. And she’s been through hell and back. I do not say that lightly.

I delayed a business trip last week to make sure she’d come through her eye surgery fine before I left town. I wanted to her to be at the house with me for the night to know she was okay. I wanted to make sure she was eating and playing and doing fine.

She was, and so–reluctantly, and emotionally–I left on Wednesday. Thurday morning I got a call she’d been badly injured, bitten in the face by another dog and she was in danger of losing her eye. The good eye.

I cut my trip short, returning home Friday night on a red-eye and she’s here, back home with me, and she’s still a darling little puppy with a red crazy eye that may or may not need to be removed. The outlook for her vision isn’t good and I’ve cried myself silly. She goes back to the eye specialist Tuesday for an ultrasound and I’ll know more than about her crazy eye–which is what Surfer Ty calls it–trying to ease some of the shock at this gorgeous little puppy having a well, very different eye now.

I feel guilty. I keep thinking–and I know this isn’t healthy–it’s my fault. If I didn’t travel….if I weren’t so busy…if I weren’t juggling so much. The boys had wanted a dog so badly and I wanted them to have one, and I thought we could find a way to make it work.

Our fat Abi was really expensive and that’s because she’s uncommonly beautiful, super wrinkly and blessed with just the prettiest bully puppy face, and I fell for her instead of the other puppies because she was a little princess. She looked like a gorgeous girl and I thought, I’ll never show her, but she’s just so pretty. And so I splurged. And now in two weeks here, our pretty bully has seen a vet more times than most dogs see a doctor in a lifetime, and she might need to wear an eye patch and although Surfer Ty reminds me pretty bulldog girl puppies grow up into ugly bulldog adults, and that her crazy eye will just add to her character, I’m sad for her. I’m sad she’s got a crazy eye and sad that she hurts and needs so much pain medicine and faces more surgeries. I’m sorry that her two weeks with us have been so damn difficult.

I think back on my post comparing puppies to babies and I never saw this injury coming. Makes me feel ungrateful for ever complaining about chewing and puppy runs. Teaches vain girl me a lesson: always count your blessings, even if you’re not entirely sure what your blessings are.