Any number of things could go wrong -- software incompatibility, outdated hardware, and, my greatest fear, the limited knowledge base of the idiot at the keyboard.

I proceeded with caution.

Insert installation CD, follow directions.

Sure, it sounds easy, but the CD drive has to be coaxed into functioning, like a car that’s reluctant to start on a cold morning.

The software progressed through its sequence until it began scolding me in red:
Check the connections!

When that didn’t resolve anything, I followed the directions to install a UBC connection instead of ether net.

That didn’t work either.

I stopped for a lunch break before making the dreaded phone call to tech support.

To my great relief, instead of wandering in voicemail hell I was connected with a human; not only was she technologically adept, she had a sense of humor.

I had failed to turn the modem on.

Groan. I had been trying to be so left-brain, reading the instructional brochure instead of just winging my way through the set-up. The last two modems I’ve worked with did not have this type of on/off mechanism tucked into the back. The instructions said nothing about turning on anything.

Apparently some of the company’s modems have an on/off switch, and others do not. I suspect a conspiracy against the technologically inept.

I still have to sort through some of the mess I have created, redundant and competing security packages, an office adrift in plastic bags and twist-ties, but for now, we have internet access.

Maybe next week I'll make the switch to New Blogger?

Humming “Moon River,” I unwrapped my cousin’s Christmas presents. Our reunion plans unraveled; either I’ll be shipping the items or sending him a gift card.

Another bumpy holiday season retreats.

Next year: Vegas?

Some of us love to ‘fa-la-la-la-la’ our way through the season, welcoming a houseful of friends and relatives, others feel more comfortable with a different approach, perhaps a quiet time of reflection or volunteering in the community.

Family traditions change over the years, accommodating losses and additions. Every song, scent, food and decoration becomes imbued with memory, triggering a bittersweet wave of nostalgia.

I was coping with the holiday FRENZY, relieved that we weren’t traveling (are there still people waiting for flights in Denver?!), when illness snuck up on me -- a metaphorical lump of coal in my stocking.

I read Adriana Trigiani's latest addition to her BIG STONE GAP trilogy, HOME TO BIG STONE GAP, which I guess makes the collection technically a quartet. She is such a generous author, but it was a mistake for me to read this book at this time -- the protagonist wrangles with depression and change at the holidays.

We watched LITTLE MISS SUNSHINE, which is probably one of my favorite movies of the year, which probably reveals more about me than I'd care to admit.

I began Diane Setterfield's THE THIRTEENTH TALE and was inspired to rework a character situation that has been bothering me in ALUMNI AFFAIRS. Whenever I make this comment to my husband he acts like I'm plagiarizing and I roll my eyes -- I'm not lifting something from the book I'm reading, some element of the writing inspires me to improve my own writing, a process that thrills me.

We needed a few groceries so I planned to stop by after my shift at the thrift store. Little did I know, the rest of the community seemed to be operating on the same time frame.

"They said you only eat organic food."

"Who said that? I only eat non-processed food."

Ah, the holiday visitors had arrived and apparently been sent to the store for provisions.

The store was packed. Every check-out lane was in operation, even the self-check ones that I've never actually seen anyone using before. The lines curved every which way, blocking the aisle.

I lept aside as a cart careened toward me before I recognized the face of a friend who was just stopping by to share an aside -- "can you believe this place?" -- before we parted, intent on our separate missions.

A young girl bounced up and down in the produce section while her grandmother's smile turned fixed, her voice soothing but her eyes blinking distress signals.

Peace on Earth
Good Will Toward All

Blogger is now trying to trick me into switching over to the new beta version. At some point I will login and discover my cyberworld has been transformed, and I may not be able to post to my website.

When I was teaching full-time, I would reward myself with a novel at the end of the semester. If it was a particularly rough semester, sometimes I started reading before I'd finished grading final exams.

After patiently waiting for a copy of Anna Quindlen's latest to find its way into my hands, I devoured RISE AND SHINE. I love Quindlen's ability to explore the complexity of relationships.

I also read Lisa Tucker's THE SONG READER, and Carl Hiaasen's NATURE GIRL before four partial drafts arrived via Fed Ex.

This past year I joined Romance Writers of America, a national organization with a growing local chapter. I know suprisingly little about the romance genre; I sit through meetings where I rarely recognize the names of the published authors mentioned.

Hoping to learn more about my craft and the widely respected RWA organization, I volunteered to serve as a judge in their annual contest for unpublished writers. I was encouraged to sign up for three categories, later learning I had misunderstood two of the categories (oh well, at least I didn't sign up for something like vampire erotica--so not my thing).

I was anticipating seven full manuscripts from one category. Was I ever relieved to discover only the first fifty pages in this preliminary round.

I don't know what's coming next, if anything, but so far I'm finding the experience valuable. When working with your own writing it can be difficult to gain emotional distance; you develop attachments to characters, dialogue and actions. Such associations usually don't create a barrier with someone else's work, clearing the way for you to observe what is working, and what isn't.

My only task is to read the opening chapters and assign a ranking from a nine point scale--the same scale we used for final exams when I taught at South Dakota State University at the beginning of my teaching career.

I don't know what it would take for us to actually venture forth and see a movie in a movie theater, but it hasn't happened this year. There are numerous factors at play: the nearest theater does not have comfortable seating, we'd waste an hour on the drive to and from, it's hard to rationalize the expense for a mediocre product, it's cold and flu season.

We finally saw THE DEVIL WEARS PRADA. I enjoyed the movie more than I had anticipated, even though I became impatient with it halfway through (probably because it is geared toward a younger audience and the subplots felt artificial despite being plausible).

Meryl Streep once again gives a fabulous performance in her portrayal of the hyper-critical and driven editor-in-chief of a fashion magazine. Anne Hathaway is charming as the duck out of water, but Stanley Tucci is delightful.

While some may dismiss the movie/book as lightweight fluff, I'm glad to see something that takes a look at the high price some people pay to have a demanding career. The concept of having it all is a myth.

JOYEUX NOEL is another one of those movies I'd like to see shown in every high school. It is based on true events regarding the impromptu armistice that occurred along parts of the front line in World War I on Chrismas Eve, 1914.

For those afraid of subtitles, the movie is most accomodating, with much of the dialogue in English.

I'm looking forward to seeing LITTE MISS SUNSHINE sometime this week.

Safe journies and best wishes throughout this holiday season.

Tucked under the natural awning of a mesquite tree, the hawk perched on the beige cinderblock fence, its conquered prey at its feet. Soft gray feathers drifted across our back yard. Walkers and runners and bikers passed by, oblivious to the hawk’s imperial gaze.

Our dog waited impatiently by the patio door. One of his favorite activities is to charge into the yard and rouse any loitering wildlife. In his teeny-tiny, deluded brain, he was eager to scare that bird from the fence.

Since the hawk and the dog looked to be about the same size, I was relieved when my husband decided to shoo the bird from the yard.

There’s something a little disconcerting about seeing proof of the food chain on display like an gruesome art exhibit a few feet from your living room.

“Save some of the excitement for my visit,” my mother said when I described our latest encounter with nature.

I assured her that with javelina wandering down the street, the deer, bobcats and coyotes that cycle through the area, the likelihood of her seeing some creatures in the wilds of suburbia was quite high.

“Well, just so they’re not too close,” she added.

She’ll be fine. As long as she doesn’t leave the house between dusk and dawn.

ALL HAIL CHUCK!

I can blog again - tee hee!

All is not Copacetic at the moment.

Posting problems.

What with rehearsals and the minor throat crisis etc., I could feel holiday preparations slipping away from me, but it took a single interaction with a certain online vendor to drive me over the edge to the land of pointless RAGE.

I knew it was getting a little late to place an order; I might have to forego the free shipping option because I didn’t have the luxury of an abundance of time. Still, as I blithely placed items in my cyber shopping cart, a little notice repeatedly appeared, informing me that if I ordered now, my items could be shipped by December 9th.

Wrapped in the fog of hope and delusion, I placed my order, relieved to have most of my Christmas shopping done, clearing a path to the waiting stack of seasonal cards.

Then I received the order confirmation e-mail, bold red font informing me that my order would likely ship the week AFTER Christmas and arrive in early January.

Where was that blazing red blurb when I needed it, PRIOR to placing the order?

I accessed my account to explore what my other shipping options might be, and with each shortened alternative, the shipping and delivery dates were set farther into the New Year.

Would you like your order to ship in 2-3 days? Estimated delivery February 2nd.

Clearly, something was wrong, and it wasn’t just the result of my lack of adequate planning. I cancelled the order. If they can’t accommodate my needs any better than that they don’t deserve my business, and I doubt they’ll miss it.

Although . . . maybe it was the number of items (9) in my order that was causing the delay? Maybe if I just ordered one item at a time?

Aargh. Happy Holidays.

I’m guessing there’d have to be a reindeer involved to get that Dec. 9th shipping date -- blind faith and infinite patience might also be helpful, or rocket fuel and eggnog.

The expected dress code had been announced months in advance: white blouse/shirt, black skirt or slacks/trousers, and a sporty little red tie like Colonel Sanders.

Nothing says "HAPPY HOLIDAYS" quite like a little red tie.

I found a white blouse that fit reasonably well and planned to wear my all purpose black skirt which has accompanied me through numerous events. The chosen outfit met my rigorous criteria for performance-wear: maximum coverage with maximum comfort.

When I tried on a pair of dress slacks that I've been meaning to hem for, oh, five, maybe six years, a passing fashion critic commented that the pants were a more flattering fit than the skirt.

There was no way I was going to run the risk of catching a heel going up and down risers, or wearing heels for a two hour concert. I would wear the skirt with the dowdy shoes. But I pinned and pressed the slacks--lined silk, not an easy hemming job.

Between additional rehearsals and countless errands, I didn't get around to actually hemming the pants, and that was okay, I was going to wear the skirt. But then, there was this window of time the morning of the concert.

My husband decided it was the perfect time to clean the house and put up the holiday decorations and painstakingly rebuild the artificial Christmas tree "I think she's got one more year in her."

And I'm thinking, 'Today?! He's got to do ALL of this today, at this moment, on THIS morning?!'

I hunched over the sewing machine as I hemmed the lining. I stitched the silk by hand. Pausing during his flurry of activity, my husband asked, "You aren't nervous at all about the concert, are you?"

Please, if it weren't for my high anxiety levels I'd have no pulse.

"It's my first choir concert since 1983, of course I'm nervous."

And they thought I was just joking about the Xanax at rehearsal.

I wasn't the only one who was a little wound up. After reminding us to follows her cues, the choir director forgot to signal us to stand for the opening number. We sprang to our feet and burst into song. It was one of those moves that if we had planned on doing it that way it never would have worked, but it gave the opening number a needed boost of exhilaration.

Apparently the combination of my enormous head and Amazonian height created a barrier for a polite alto standing behind me, so I switched places with her and found myself huddled with another alto, surrounded by basses and encroaching sopranos (the real reason they named that HBO show THE SOPRANOS).

All in all, I've missed performing and I enjoyed the concert. And what a lovely relief it is now to have it over, with new music awaiting us in January, promising fresh challenges and wonderful variety, and, perhaps, a little green tie in my future.