I have four weeks of personal time a year--vacation, sick leave, personal leave, whatever I need. The only years that I've ever used it all were the years when I had surgery. I usually end up with at least a week or so unused. I had used one day this year, I think, and the year was more than half over, so I thought I'd better take a little time. Bob and I are going to take a few days and go down to the Lake of the Ozarks in October, I think, but I wanted to take some time before then, so I took last week off.
I didn't really have any plans, and I didn't go anywhere, but I made a point to go out to lunch every day, and one day when Bob was off, we went to lunch together. We went to Red Lobster, which was really kind of expensive, but as he said, we don't do that much anymore. Once in awhile is fine.
I made the rounds of the craft stores one day, and bought some new sock yarn. I watched a lot of the Olympics, cooked for Bob a couple of nights, slept in, and just basically had a pretty lazy week. Oh, and I gathered up about six trash bags full of stuff to give away. I need to call someone to come get them, right now they're lined up in the front hall. That's pretty much the only productive thing I did all week.
It was nice. And hard to go back to work this morning!
Monday, August 13, 2012
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Fallen Angel
I've been struggling all month, trying to get the price of Fallen Angel updated at the outlets other than Amazon. Amazon has a requirement that the price of an Amazon ebook title can't be higher than it is at other retailers. My book is priced at $2.99 at Amazon, but they discount it to $1.99, so I had priced it at $1.99 at Smashwords, who controls distribution to other outlets.
Amazon emailed me that they were removing my book from sale until I got the price corrected. I needed to either reduce the price at Amazon, or increase it at the other outlets. I didn't want to reduce the Amazon price, because although they discount it, I actually get paid the commission at the $2.99 price, since that is the price that I set. So I had to increase the price at Smashwords, which I did, but for whatever reason, it never got changed at Kobo or Sony. As you can imagine, it's difficult to get changes made that require human intervention, since these sites (Amazon and Smashwords) have so many authors, and are so busy.
I sell by FAR the most copies at Amazon, so I hated for it to be gone from there. I lost almost an entire month, but today I was finally able to get everything accomplished, and it's back on sale. I don't know how much it cost me--probably around a hundred dollars, since sales have dropped off since the peak at about this time last year--but at least it's back!
Sunday, June 24, 2012
Loon Lake
I discovered Victoria Houston's "Loon Lake" mystery series a week or so ago, and have been devouring them. I just finished the fourth one and started the fifth.
The books are set in a small town in Wisconsin, and center around a female police chief and a retired, widowed dentist, their families and neighbors. Like the protagonist of most cozy mysteries, the doctor finds way more dead bodies than one would expect. The doctor and the police chief have a slow sometime-romance, and the doctor has a nutty, yet philosophical, neighbor.
They also do a lot of fishing. I know enough about fishing to recognize the terminology, even if I don't do it myself, and the area she describes sounds much like a lot of the fishing spots I've been to with Bob. Also, they're set in an area close to where he fishes in Minnesota once a year.
I'm enjoying them a lot, but they're really making me want to live at the lake . . .
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Life, life, death
The yarn slipped through her fingers like silk, her needles moving without conscious thought as she knit row after row, barely looking at her hands. The yarn was beautiful, sari silk in a multitude of colors, red, purple, burnished gold. She was knitting a simple slip stitch pattern, a scarf, one that she had made so often that her hands remembered the pattern even when her mind did not. Knit, knit, slip. knit, knit, slip. The bamboo needles made a pleasant ticking sound.
She didn't hurry, it wouldn't do to hurry. She kept up a constant rhythm, turning the scarf when she came to the end of a row, purling each even-numbered row. She could do it in her sleep by now, and sometimes she would dream that she *was,* the tick-tick of the needles soothing her.
"Mom?" The voice came from the front of the house, her son. He had let himself into the house using the key that she had given him years ago, maybe when she and his father had gone on a vacation, or maybe when one of them had been in the hospital. She would have asked him to come over and water the plants and let out the dog, the dog that was long gone. The plants were long gone, too. All that was left was the knitting.
Knit, knit, slip. Knit, knit, slip.
"Hi, mom, how are you today?" She didn't answer him. She never did. She was beyond answering. She was so far away already that death would just be a slipping over, like her knitting pattern. Life, life, death.
Her son sat down beside her, on the footstool that rested next to her chair. He reached for her hand, trying to still its motion, but she shook him off and continued to knit. "Mom," he said, "please. Won't you stop for a minute, just a minute?" When she ignored him, he shook his head and got up, looking around. On previous visits, he would fill his time by filling a watering can at the kitchen tap and go around watering the various plants that grew in the room.
There had been a wandering Jew on the windowsill, and a mother-in-law's tongue, and something that he didn't know the name of that crawled along the top of the bookshelf and trailed down the side until it almost reached the carpet. It had sharp, pointed leaves, and tiny berries like blood. It made him shudder, but he had watered it, too. But they had all withered and died, and he had bagged them all up and thrown them out with the trash.
He stood in the doorway and watched her as she knitted. The brightly colored yarn flowed from the basket at her feet, and the finished rows pooled in her lap. Knit, knit, slip. She wouldn't communicate with him anymore, so all he could do was bring her the most beautiful yarn he could find. Wool or silk or rayon, she didn't seem to care, as long as the colors were bright and beautiful. He never let her run out; if it looked like the pile of yarn in her basket was getting low, he would make a special trip to the yarn shop in town and fill a bag with anything that caught his eye.
As he stood and watched her knit, he saw her eyes close, and her hands on the needles began to slow their constant movement. Knit . . . knit . . . The needles fell from her hands and the beautiful silk scarf dropped from her lap. "Mom?" he cried out, rushing to her side. "Oh, no! Mom!"
And before the world could wind down, a young woman on the other side of the world picked up her needles.
She didn't hurry, it wouldn't do to hurry. She kept up a constant rhythm, turning the scarf when she came to the end of a row, purling each even-numbered row. She could do it in her sleep by now, and sometimes she would dream that she *was,* the tick-tick of the needles soothing her.
"Mom?" The voice came from the front of the house, her son. He had let himself into the house using the key that she had given him years ago, maybe when she and his father had gone on a vacation, or maybe when one of them had been in the hospital. She would have asked him to come over and water the plants and let out the dog, the dog that was long gone. The plants were long gone, too. All that was left was the knitting.
Knit, knit, slip. Knit, knit, slip.
"Hi, mom, how are you today?" She didn't answer him. She never did. She was beyond answering. She was so far away already that death would just be a slipping over, like her knitting pattern. Life, life, death.
Her son sat down beside her, on the footstool that rested next to her chair. He reached for her hand, trying to still its motion, but she shook him off and continued to knit. "Mom," he said, "please. Won't you stop for a minute, just a minute?" When she ignored him, he shook his head and got up, looking around. On previous visits, he would fill his time by filling a watering can at the kitchen tap and go around watering the various plants that grew in the room.
There had been a wandering Jew on the windowsill, and a mother-in-law's tongue, and something that he didn't know the name of that crawled along the top of the bookshelf and trailed down the side until it almost reached the carpet. It had sharp, pointed leaves, and tiny berries like blood. It made him shudder, but he had watered it, too. But they had all withered and died, and he had bagged them all up and thrown them out with the trash.
He stood in the doorway and watched her as she knitted. The brightly colored yarn flowed from the basket at her feet, and the finished rows pooled in her lap. Knit, knit, slip. She wouldn't communicate with him anymore, so all he could do was bring her the most beautiful yarn he could find. Wool or silk or rayon, she didn't seem to care, as long as the colors were bright and beautiful. He never let her run out; if it looked like the pile of yarn in her basket was getting low, he would make a special trip to the yarn shop in town and fill a bag with anything that caught his eye.
As he stood and watched her knit, he saw her eyes close, and her hands on the needles began to slow their constant movement. Knit . . . knit . . . The needles fell from her hands and the beautiful silk scarf dropped from her lap. "Mom?" he cried out, rushing to her side. "Oh, no! Mom!"
And before the world could wind down, a young woman on the other side of the world picked up her needles.
Friday, June 15, 2012
Seller beware
I am SO angry right now. I sold a Vera Bradley quilted backpack on eBay for about half of the retail cost. I had used it a couple of times, but you couldn't tell. The buyer gave me positive feedback, said it was perfect, then she decided to wash it, and ruined it.
So she filed a dispute with eBay saying it wasn't as described, and was damaged, when it was her who damaged it! She wants a refund (even though eBay allows you to specify no returns, and I did), and eBay has put a hold on my Paypal account until I do. So she's ruined it, I can't sell it to anyone else, AND I have to give her back $53! SO pissed off.
I'm sorry, it's too bad, but it definitely isn't my fault. eBay has made it so you can't leave negative feedback for a buyer, but they can sure leave negative feedback for sellers. Ebay always side with buyers, no matter what, so buyers are free to lie and say whatever they want. I don't know why I'm surprised, but I am. I always expect the best of people. I guess I'm just naive.
Here's what it looked like when I shipped it, I'll post a picture of it when I get it back, and we can compare.
So she filed a dispute with eBay saying it wasn't as described, and was damaged, when it was her who damaged it! She wants a refund (even though eBay allows you to specify no returns, and I did), and eBay has put a hold on my Paypal account until I do. So she's ruined it, I can't sell it to anyone else, AND I have to give her back $53! SO pissed off.
I'm sorry, it's too bad, but it definitely isn't my fault. eBay has made it so you can't leave negative feedback for a buyer, but they can sure leave negative feedback for sellers. Ebay always side with buyers, no matter what, so buyers are free to lie and say whatever they want. I don't know why I'm surprised, but I am. I always expect the best of people. I guess I'm just naive.
Here's what it looked like when I shipped it, I'll post a picture of it when I get it back, and we can compare.
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