My Two Dads

in

Did you ever see that ‘80’s sitcom about the girl raised by two single men, each of whom might be her biological father? I was pretty young when the show was on, so I don’t think I was ever clear on the logistics of their living arrangement, or how/why each man was so certain the girl was his daughter. BUT I do remember the three of them lived in the same apartment building as the judge who worked on their “case.” I also remember the two dads were complete opposites: One was this very attractive, too-young looking artist type, and the other was a total Wall-Street. Between the two of them, she got the best of both worlds (like Hannah Montana, except less annoying).

As I’ve been thinking about Father’s Day this week, I’m realizing how much I’m like that girl on My Two Dads (minus the eighties-tastic hair and boyfriend whose voice hadn’t changed). Between my father and my father-in-law I feel like I have everything “normal” and everything “abnormal” in a father-daughter relationship.

One of my dads helped tile my bathroom floor. One helps me figure out insurance statements. One of my dads wears Hawaiian shirts. One wears the old suit/tie combo. One of my dads can see—courtesy of Lasix—the other is blind in one eye. One of my dads sees a doctor, one sees a medical intuitive. Which dad is which might surprise you.

Once I said to my husband: “When you put them together, our father equal one perfect dad.” But I think I had it wrong. My dads are close enough to perfect on their own.

Happy Father’s Day Week, everybody!

Miscellaneous

in

I snagged this marquee picture back when I was on vacation in idyllic Claremont, CA. This was pre-immobilizing-sunburn, pre-father-in-law-health-crisis, pre--well, pre-MAY. Not to dis May. I love May. I even love this May (although I've spent the better portion of it in bed). It's just that this whole month has been pretty surreal (this could be attributed to the prescription painkillers I'm still taking).

Things are happening. Big things. The advance copies of my first novel will be out any day now. The first draft of my newest book is maybe-almost completed. I, like a real writer, have my own website. Still, whenever my mind wanders I'm dwelling on the fact that I need to organize my Tupperware and I still haven't cleaned behind the oven where I dropped an entire chocolate-chip cookie.

Clearly, I have issues.

The Triumphant Return of Marquee Monday!

in

It's back, and it's better than ever!

The bad news: my father-in-law, Brent (almost as awesome as my mother-in-law, Yoriko) has cancer.

The good news:he is expected to fully recover.

The other good news: while on our way to visit him in a Murray, UT hospital I spotted this primo marquee.

I hope David A. takes full advantage of the deal.

In other news, I've missed the last two Marquee Mondays due to two different ailments. First it was attack of the killer reaction as allergy season hit full-force. I spent Monday taking allergy pills that cost a small fortune and still didn't work and sucking on cough drops that didn't work, either. In fact, the cough drops so thoroughly DID NOT do their job that I had a near-spasm (okay, so it was a bona fide spasm) in the Salt Lake Public Library. Yeah, the library. You know, where you're supposed to be quiet? Luckily, my writer buddy Sara Zarr went downstairs to the coffee shop and got me some herbal tea, which calmed the attack. What a pal, eh?

I went to California to escape the trauma (among other reasons) but sadly, trauma occurred there as well! Now, the trauma was mainly self-induced, but... I went to Huntington Beach one afternoon, and lotioned up with this uber-SPF sunscreen. I put it all over my face, my neck, arms, shoulder, part in my hair, and my feet. I put a dab of sunscreen behind each knee but otherwise skipped my legs, because I never burn on my legs. Famous last words, right?

I missed Marquee Monday entirely because I got burned so badly I spent the next eight days in bed. I got up only to go to the bathroom, which was torture. I ate pizza, ice cream, and lots of chocolate. I couldn't get up to cook, wash clothes, climb stairs, or even sit for more than 20 minutes. I couldn't use my laptop because it burned my lap (even on a pillow). I missed two Sundays of church because I couldn't wear nylons, and bare legs were SO not an option (I was going to include a photo of my legs, but they're too gross, even for the Internet).

I finally decided to go to Urgent Care yesterday, which was great besides giving me sweet, sweet pain medicine the doctor also provided ointments and antibiotics for my possibly infected burn.

Now for the irony. Most people in my life have been supportive of me and my pathetic, purple (yes, PURPLE) legged self. With the exception of my herb-tea-fetching writer chum, who has done nothing but berate me for my idiocy. Because using sunscreen is a no-brainer. So forget the sympathy vote.

Sara Zarr and her tough love. Man, it hurts as much as the burn (okay, so actually not really).

Wednesday Musings

in

This last week, driving my car has cost approximately $7.50 a gallon. I blame this entirely on the (un) fair city of downtown Salt Lake. I can drive in my little suburb for a fraction of this price. But when I want to do something, uh, not entirely lame, I MUST PAY!

Imagine if you will: A beautiful early spring morning outside the truly exquisite downtown Salt Lake City library, where I am planning to meet fabulous writers Sara Z. and Anne B. They’ve planned a write-in of serious proportions, a regular Electric Boogaloo for creative minds, and they’ve invited ordinary writers to join them. Enter, me. I am nothing if not ordinary! Throughout the afternoon, I enjoy the company of these delightful authors while scribbling in my notebook (because, while I actually own a laptop, I sometimes prefer to go it old-school). I also feed my parking meter religiously.

Does it do any good? No. Because when the day is done a Pepto-pink sheet of paper is under my windshield. It’s a very pricey notice that I do not have a front license plate and this, apparently, is against Utah state law. Who knew?

Flash forward to the next week. The Cool Writers are having a luncheon, and they’ve once again invited the Ordinary Writers. Yea! It’s like back in high school when the popular girl finds out you’re dying of a mysterious illness and so she’s super-nice to you out of pity (okay, so that’s never actually happened to me, it’s from an episode of Dawson’s Creek, but you get the idea). The lunch rocks. Cool people abound. Someone eats a massive Cobb salad. We order every dessert on the menu. And I show off my street-smarts!

After lunch, I find my car in the massive parking structure adjacent to the restaurant. I give the very old, very British parking attendant my validation. He says I still owe him a dollar. I do not have a dollar. I do not carry cash. I mean, seriously, what year is this, 1983? Nobody carries cash anymore! Likewise, I do not use checks. But they accept only cash and checks. Meanwhile, a line of cars is forming behind me. I politely ask if I can take perhaps mail in a check to pay my debt. The man says no. The man says he can’t let me out, because a dollar is just too, too important to gloss over. He gets out of his booth and makes all the cars behind me back up. “Come back when you have more validation,” he says. I try to park, remember where I parked, find something I need from some store, and buy it all before my hour’s up and I need to pay another dollar/validation. Usually I peruse bookstores. Not today. I grab a book that looks good and rush out of the parking lot, and hour and twenty dollars behind schedule.

Being a Real Author

in

I am now a real author.

Okay, so, actually no.

I don’t know how or when anyone actually becomes a real author. When their first book is published? Their fifth book? When they have something, anything, accepted for publication? When they wake up and say, “Today I am a real author?”

To me, it’s always been, “I will be a real author when I have a website.” Because real authors have websites. Yes, this is the kind of logic that I can wrap my head around. You know, the hopelessly flawed kind of logic.

Anyway, I have a website, emilywingsmith.com, and I have a picture of my book cover, and really, what else do you need? Besides people to look at it, I mean. Because you need what I believe everybody else refers to as “hits.”

So please hit this website. But not literally. Because I know from experience that will seriously mess up your monitor. Emilywingsmith.com will even get new-and-improved bonus features as time goes by. And by time going by, I mean my learning how to add new-and-improved bonus features.

Trivia Tuesday: Five Quirky Things About Me

in

1) I hate frosting so much that I used to think the saying “the icing on the cake” meant the really bad part of something really good (i.e, “losing my luggage was the icing on the cake of my trip.”) This has caused no small amount of confusion in my life. 2) I read the Baby-Sitters Club until the series ended in 2000. I was nineteen years old. At one point in my life I could recite the title of every book, in order. Sometimes I will still do this when I can’t fall asleep. These days, I can’t remember much past #21: Mallory and the Trouble with Twins.

3) I have a false tooth, which I refer to as “bad tooth.” It is much smaller than the rest of my teeth and also a half-shade whiter. It is easy to floss bad tooth because it is a good distance from the teeth on either side of it. Bad tooth is the bane of my existence.

4) I have bad tooth through no fault of my own. My real tooth wasn’t knocked out in a reckless dirt bike crash or anything. I actually never had a real tooth. The missing bicuspid is a genetic gift from my great-aunt on my dad’s side.

5) I talk to myself. Loudly. This would be only minorly embarrassing if I said clever/hilarious things to myself. I do not. I used to say, “I hate you!” but that habit pretty much broke itself. I would start yelling it in the presence of other people, and would then have to explain, “Oh, not you, I’m just talking to myself."

What My Book is Not About

in

You might think it’s easy for authors to tell you what their book’s about. As in, “Oh, you’re getting a book published? What’s it about?” Perhaps other authors have no problem with this question. But I do.

What’s it ABOUT? Well, I mean, I wrote it, and don’t get me wrong, it’s about stuff, but…I can’t really put it into words…I mean, it’s about some kids…teenagers, really, and one of them died…but it’s not, you know, ABOUT death…kinda…but not in a boring way, like “here, read this book about a dead guy”…anyway, it’s, um, realistic young adult fiction? Does that help?”

Which, of course, it doesn’t. Help, that is. Because now people know waaay less than they did to begin with.

So while I try to come up with a decent synopsis of my book (which may take a while) here is something I can say unequivocally:

Yes, my book is titled THE WAY HE LIVED.

No, it is not a book about the life of Christ.

Originally the book was not titled THE WAY HE LIVED. Because, you know, it wasn’t about the life of Christ. But the all-knowing Editorial Team and Marketing Team wanted to change it, and who am I to argue? I’m not exactly market-savvy. In fact, all I’ve ever actually sold are Girl Scout cookies.

When I heard the new title, though, I was like, “Isn’t there already a book by that title, published by an LDS (Mormon) publisher?” A quick Google check determined that no, there is not. So why be obsessed with underlying Christian themes in such a straightforward title? I mean, come on! The world is full of he’s who have lived in various ways.

Then, an IM from a friend, asking about the status of my book. My response, concerning the new title. Her reply: “I guess since your editor isn’t LDS, he doesn’t know that sounds like a book about Jesus.”

Vindication!