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Sometimes, when I don’t have enough real-life stress to worry about—like, what if Dubya gets a second term?, or should I start a retirement fund?, or what if my antidepressants stop working?—I spend some time worrying about what happens when we die.

The other day my husband looked down at my feet and said, “You need new slippers.” Even though I knew what he was referring to—the two holes in my slippers over my big toes—I also looked down at my own feet. Then I said, “No, I don’t.”

I am not what you’d call a ‘conference person.’ It’s probably mostly because I’m an introvert and conferences entail talking to lots of strangers. Also, I’m always ready to doubt myself, and a conference—where you’re around lots of people that you’re gonna compare yourself to—is a great opportunity to second-guess your value as a human.

Several weeks back I wrote a blog about how I was taking a break from writing and marketing my books to do some home improvement projects. Well, they’re done. And I’ve learned an important lesson.

Before I retired, I spent the last 18 years of my career working as the communications director of a child advocacy organization. During my tenure there, I wrote and sent out hundreds of press releases. Prior to that job, I worked in journalism, where I received and sifted through thousands of press releases.

I recently watched a very interesting episode of Netflix’s Explained series. This one was on monogamy. Every single expert that they had on the episode was quite certain that monogamy was not the natural state for human beings. Why?

A few weeks back, I blogged about taking a break from all of the indie-author tasks that had frustrated me right into a state of clinical depression. On the blog I mentioned the home improvement projects I was going to take up instead.

I’ve been retired for a year and a half now, and I can say without reservation that I absolutely love it. I mean, I had a good job and everything, but it’s great not having to do it anymore.

May was a month of reckoning for me. It marked the end of the first year since I self-published my debut novel. And what I reckon from it is that I suck as a book marketer. Because here’s the thing: you might assume that good writing is what sells books. It’s not. Good marketing is what sells books.

My husband and I drove to northeastern Oklahoma last week to visit my brother and his family. We’ve made the drive from Albuquerque many times, and I’m always struck by how much you can tell about a state based on the signs you pass as you’re driving through it.

There are very few “guy things” I feel I am really knowledgeable about. I can drive a car with a standard transmission, and I’ve always considered that a guy thing. I can use power tools and I’m pretty handy with home repairs and those are sort of guy things.

As an indie author, I am the target of many scammers. Many, many more scammers than I previously dreamed possible. I recently got a workout from two of them who were particularly good at what they do.

I’ve been writing and reading historical romance for some time now, so I’ve seen lots of old-fashioned names, particularly for women. I’m embarrassed to say that it took me a while before I noticed the pattern: lots of old-fashioned names for women represent what might be considered “appropriate” traits for women.

I had a needle biopsy on my left breast recently. I don’t recommend it. The results that came back were good—benign—but it was an unpleasant experience.

I learned recently that a friend of mine has switched dog food brands, and her pooch doesn’t seem to like it. In fact, the dog has gone on its own little version of a canine hunger strike. Being a dog owner myself, I can’t quite fathom this.

It is, as my husband likes to say, the shitification of everything. In case you’ve not heard that term, it refers to how so many products and services are going to shit. Here’s a perfect example: there was a time when a box of Cracker Jacks contained a fair number of peanuts and an actual, three-dimensional prize.

Well, the 90 days are up. The 90 days that the publisher said it would take to review my submission before it was deleted. Of course, the publisher also said I’d get some sort of response from them within the 90 days—one of which could be a request for “more time.”

I had lunch today with a couple of friends at a newish place in an old house in Downtown Albuquerque. It’s called Curious Toast Café and, as you can image, it has a very toast-centric menu. It also has some curiously unusual art

I just left a bag of weeds on my neighbor’s porch. Lest you worry that my neighbor and I are having an ugly, passive-aggressive, snit over lawn care, let me reassure you: she wants my weeds.

Apparently, my proprioception is going to hell. It’s one more sign that I’m getting older and I think that stinks. Proprioception, in case you’re wondering, is one of the body’s senses. You’ve probably never heard of it because it’s not as popular as sight, sound, smell, touch, and taste, but it’s very important.