Learning to Love it

Sorry Attempts at Nothing

2011-10-04T12:11:00.000-07:00

Many, many years ago, when the Earth and I were younger, I remember my mother answering one of my moans of boredom with an emphatic, "I wish I could be bored, but I don't have any time."

Naturally, I knew what she was talking about, but to this day, I still suffer from boredom. Maybe I never learned my lesson--the one she must have been trying to teach me with her subtle sarcasm. There's work aplenty to be done, but that place in my brain that surveys said work and determines which tasks to complete, and in which order, seems endlessly stuck in the laundry/dishes/dinner loop--the essentials.

Yes, the foyer has shoes and paper and backpacks sprawling across the floor. I see the steadily growing piles of things on the kitchen counter. Weeds and grass have overtaken the flower beds, and I probably don't need to mention the garage. I mean, come on, that's what garages are for, right? And even if I wanted to park a car in there... well, never mind.

The point is, I haven't gone blind. I know there's work to be done. And I could lie about it and say that I'm too busy playing with my kids, or writing magnificent books for all the world to love, but I try not to deserve getting struck by lightning more than once a week. And since it's Tuesday, and I can't remember what other tall tales I might have shared earlier, or whether I might need to exaggerate the truth later on, I'm not going to press my luck. I see the mess. I ignore the mess.

I don't always mean to, though. Take the yard for instance: nobody wants to walk through knee-high grass to weed flower beds they can't see anyway. And it isn't my fault the lawn mower died again. I'm not a mechanic! Mercy me, think of my nails--if one breaks, I'd have to cut them all and start over. Know how many horse-pill-sized multi-vitamins it takes to get my nails to that perfect length? Trust me, it's a lot.

As for the messy foyer: I could spend a half-hour cleaning it up, straightening the shoes and papers and back packs, vacuum up the dust-dogs (I swear, they're huge) and even polish the wood floor to make it look less like the forbidding entrance into the underworld, but the minute school lets out and the troops come home, it's disaster all over again. Remember that guy who had to push the same boulder up the same mountain every day for all of eternity? It's like that. Same thing goes for the connected living room, which spills into the kitchen and dining room, and back into the foyer, like a big, round dog-run. Or kid run. Honestly, whoever designed this house was clearly an idiot. Cleaning this place is like baling out a ship with a single bucket, during a rainstorm, and with a hole in the bucket.

For the sake of this blog-post, my brain is that bucket. Goodly thoughts of cleaning are often leaked out through that hole (which we can label: Attention Span) and my mind then reverts to a certain stack of library books, conveniently placed within reach of my comfy chair and a nice reading lamp. It's a great rut, and a lot cheaper than say, shopping. So long as I don't forget that the real world is waiting for me beyond the printed pages, all is well.

So, yeah. The Mess. I've gotten very good at blocking it out. Walking through my house might sometimes resemble navigating a mine field, stepping over this and that, dodging the skates, scooting around the trumpet, but maybe keeping all that mess around is actually healthy. Maybe it can cure boredom--which we all know leads to all sorts of irrational behavior. Like, say, wanting another child. Messy houses could be the next form of birth control. Well, maybe. But only if the house is so messy that Mom and Dad can't find one another in it.

Yeah, okay. Forget it. I'm not making excuses, exactly. Yes, I know where my vacuum is. I even dust it off now and again to, you know, clean... But I try not to get carried away. I wouldn't want to be the neurotic kind of person that spent so much time cleaning that the world revolved around shining floors and (gasp!) organized closets. This might be considered a personality flaw to some, but only to those who don't understand that I fully intend on cleaning up The Mess. All of it. You know, some day. In between trips to the school and library, before the next great "Have To Read" book comes out or after the really disappointing sequel to the last "Had To Read".

And of course, only if I'm not busy writing.

Trials I Can't Do Without

2011-08-19T13:52:00.000-07:00

Everyone has trials, those rough patches in life that make us groan or cry or wish we had an unending supply of chocolate. For writers, many of those trials are, in a sadistic way, self-inflicted.

Think about it. Writers start with an idea, and it takes many long months of dedicated effort to jot that idea into a manuscript, maybe even years. And then they have to revise, polish, tweek and agonize over it before it feels good enough to let their very bestest writing buddies have a look at it. And if they're really awesome friends, they'll point out all the crap that's really wrong with that pitiful first (or hundred and first) draft. It's all that stuff the writer knows to be awful, but can't see because they're the ones that wrote it. They're standing with their noses pressed up so close to the trees, they can't see the forest.

And then the writer cries, because their lack of perfection has been made public... (sort of). But after the tears, because they're insanely dedicated to the story, they start to revise. Rinse and repeat, for as long as it takes. In the background, very quietly, they've put together a query, maybe even a list of agents to whom they will send said query. And eventually, when an overdose of chocolate makes the writer extra-brave (or stupid, as the case may be), they send out those query letters and hope for the best.

If the query is half-way decent, it just might catch an agent's eye, maybe even more than one. But the bulk majority of agents will reply with the same, tired line about how every query is read, but that one ain't cuttin' it.

Which means no.

But one yes is all it takes, right? And maybe there's an agent who requests a partial, or even a full. Maybe, if the heavens are smiling and the planets align, there will be an agent who loves the writer's story... except for ten-thousand things that need to be fixed. Because really, the writer stopped revising too soon, tried to jump the gun and then forgot to keep working at the story. Or maybe they really did do their best and it's time for a little outside help.

Never mind that some of the aspiring author's writing friends told them (months ago) that the exact same things needed fixing, and said aspiring author didn't listen to them. Now that advice is coming from an AGENT, penny advice has suddenly become gold. So the writer jumps at the chance to fix those ten-thousand things! A professional has offered to give a hand, let's hear it for free advice!!

The writer works days, nights, weekends... forgetting to water plants, talk to friends, feed their kids, but eventually, they reach the end of their edits, so cross-eyed and sick of the story that they never want to spend another day on it. Which means it must be ready, right?

Wrong.

But they send it off anyway. The agent takes one look at the mess Aspiring Author X dared to call a revision, and automatically assumes they don't know jack about writing. She writes back, in her kindest it's-not-you-it's-me letter that she's changed her mind, has no time for the project, and let's part as friends, because she really doesn't want hurt the writer's feelings, or turn them into a stalker, or even one of those mean-spirited rumor mongers spreading vicious lies about her on every web page/water cooler for disgruntled, spurned writer wannabes.

Which is exactly what that writer will become. Maybe. But only if they can't open their eyes and take another look at what said agent pointed out in her last-ditch piece of try-to-help-you-on-your-way advice, and see that she was right. Really right.

But it still hurts, because the writer sees now that they are an impatient buffoon. An over-eager idiot, who couldn't wait a few days for their eyes to un-cross and THEN go over that manuscript again.

Does it hurt? Yes indeedy.

Is it entirely the writer's own fault? Almost absolutely.

Do they learn anything? Maybe. Probably. But it depends. ...On whether they go back and try again after the tears have dried up and food stops turning to ash in their mouths. Do they sit down in front of their computer and force themselves to admit they could have done better? Or do they contemplate the ruin of the publishing industry as a whole? (A word of advice: that last line is futile, so don't bother.) Do they send out more queries, or have they given up on the whole, sadistic dream of authorhood?

Only the toughest will make it through. From the rubble of failure, the strong emerge even stronger, smarter, a little bit tougher in the skin. But never with less tender feelings. Because a good book needs a lot of feeling, it has to be written with heart. The writer's heart will always bleed. Their fingers will grow calloused and their house plants will die. Their chests will occasionally cave in and ache with the endless pain of disappointment, but the emergency chocolate reserves will always be there and the the true writer will always keep writing.

No matter what.

Alec Trebane and the Toilet of Doom

2011-06-10T05:04:00.000-07:00

Episode one-

It all started with evil Annabelle taking the last of the bacon, which was supposed to be mine. The argument was short, and Mom sided with Annabelle, so I snagged the last two pieces of toast and stuffed them in my mouth before the evil one could grab any. I would have stuck out my tongue, for good measure, but it was sort of encased in bread at the moment.

Back in my room, I reached for my backpack only to find that the contents had been scattered across the floor and Deep Dungeon VI (which I had stashed in my secret pouch) was missing.

"MOM!" Bread crumbs sprayed from my mouth, but I didn't care. Mom would make me vacuum after school, but it didn't matter. Little Jimmy, my brother and nemesis, had stolen my new game. His crib lay empty and there was no telling where the little demon had got to.

"MOM!"

"Stop yelling at me, Alec." Mom came up the stairs with a basket of laundry on her hip, completely unfazed by the tragedy at hand.

"Jimmy stole my game!"

At that moment, the little turd emerged from the bathroom, false smile in place so that Mom wouldn't know what he really was.

"I go potty," he said.

"Where's my game you little--"

"Alec," Mom warned.

I knew what she would say. Be nice to your brother. But she didn't understand what I had to deal with. "He took my game and wrecked my backpack. Why can't I have my own room, with a lock on the door?"

Mom ignored me and picked up the demon. And kissed him! Sure, that will teach him to be better behaved. His eyes darted toward me, gleaming with triumph.

"Did you take Alec's game, Jimmy?"

"No," Turd Boy answered. "It fell."

"Fell where?" I insisted.

"In the potty."

Horror gripped me as I rushed into the bathroom and looked down into the toilet. Sure enough, the black and silver square of my new game stared back up at me through the tainted water. Words failed me; I just stood there, gaping, fuming. Mom came up beside me and, about two seconds after I hoped she might reach down there and save my game said, "If you had cleaned this indoor-outhouse like I told you yesterday, it wouldn't look so bad."

Then she turned around and left me there.

"Wait," I cried, blinking back any evidence of tears. "How am I supposed to get it back?"

"You have fifteen minutes before the bus comes to figure it out."

... Will Alec brave the Pee-Pot? Can Deep Dungeon VI be saved? Tune in next time when our hero gets flushed.

Hello World

2011-06-08T12:45:00.000-07:00

It was never my intention to leave off blogging forever, but demons sometimes get the better of folks when they least expect them. And then those folks must do nothing but sit on the couch and read unmentionable books for six months straight.

I'm still here and, more importantly, I'm still writing. There's a certain joy to be had in one's favored hobby, and I'm lucky enough to have enough of them --hobbies that is--that I should never get bored. (a very good theory, that) :) So far, this has been a year of goal setting and goal reaching for me. As soon as I'd crawled out of my personal PIT OF DESPAIR (cue creepy music), I determined to write another novel. In about three months. Which, if any of you are accustomed to writing will know is not such a difficult task. Sometimes.

And I reached it. Yay for me!

Naturally, I have other, less glamorous goals, but I won't bore you with the list. And obstacles, there were (are) many, but you don't want to hear about the gut-wrenching agony of those, or about leaking roofs and broken mowers, gremlin children and what-not. Suffice it to say that all those things exist and we'll leave it at that. In the mean time, I'm still bouncing on my cloud of anxiousness, waiting for the publishing rainbow to shine on me.

Wish me luck!

So, not only did I tuck another finished story under my belt, I also managed to get said story under the noses of a couple of agents. Whether that pans out any gold remains to be seen, but I can say that I've been checking my e-mail obsessively. Of course!

Those First Ten Minutes

2010-07-28T10:50:00.000-07:00

There was an old woman who lived in a shoe, she had so many children that she didn't know what to do. Her poor old body was so out of shape, that she struggled almost daily with ways of getting her BC (before children) shape back. She tried joining a gym, but it was so expensive, and such a hassle that she had to let the membership expire. She tried dieting, but her willpower was weakened after a stressful day with the kids, and she couldn't stick to it.

Long walks outside worked, until it got so hot she couldn't bear to leave her air-conditioned shoehouse. And, of course, there was the problem of who would watch the little one while she was out walking for an hour (Nobody volunteered). One day, the old woman asked her husband to buy her an elliptical for her birthday, so she could exercise at will in the comfort of her living room. This was fine, as long as she could force herself to actually do the time on the equipment, which was spotty for about two weeks and ended with the usual discouraged, "What's the use?"

Time passed and the elliptical saw seldom use. The children viewed it as an indoor playground, racing to climb to the top and smearing their filthy fingers across the ceiling, pushing random buttons to hear them beep, and hanging from the handlebars by their knees. The old woman kept dusting it off, thinking she ought to make use of the machine, but then got side-tracked with all her other responsibilities. She kept on dieting and walking, sporadically, trying and failing to loose those extra pounds, and forgot all about the elliptical until one day when her husband asked, "Why don't you use the exercise machine?"

"Oh!" she says. "I forgot all about that thing." Not forgot-forgot... you see, it's a rather large piece of equipment, and took up a huge corner of the living room. But it had been such a fixture for such a long time that she forgot she was supposed to be using it. So she resolved to use it once more, after all, what did she have to lose besides what wouldn't be missed? (some fifteen pounds or more)

The first thirty seconds were easy enough. The old woman was proud of herself for getting on the machine; she even envisioned fitting into those pants she bought a couple of years ago, the ones that almost fit... before she had that last little boy and gained another... um, well, more weight. After about a minute and a half, sweat beaded up on her forehead and her legs ached in protest. "This is harder than I thought," she mumbled.

She closed her eyes for a while, forcing herself not to look at the flashing numbers that displayed her dismal progress, hoping that if she didn't look, the time would go by faster. When she opened her eyes, she had only accumulated three minutes. Her chest hurt, her palms grew slick. "I'm not going to make it," she thought. Still, she kept going.

The children gathered around, watching her sweaty, awkward struggle atop their favorite indoor toy, and immediately sprouted tons of questions that she had not the breath to answer. They eventually lost interest and moved on, but the old woman looked down at her accumulated time, ready to drop from exhaustion. Seven minutes.

"You have got to be kidding!" Her throat closed in and sweat poured down her face, into her eyes and down her neck. "I need a towel," she thought. "I need a drink. I need a break." But she knew that if she got off, she might never get back on again. So she kept going, her chest on fire with the labored breaths of a terribly out-of-shape person.

She thought of the story about the little engine that could, tried to believe in herself, but the time flashed up again. Eight minutes. She wanted to scream. She thought of all those movie stars, bouncing back from pregnancy like they hadn't gained an ounce, but that was hardly encouraging, since everyone knew that Hollywood was full of plastic surgeons and highly-paid personal trainers. Neither of which she had.

"Ten minutes," she thought. "I can do just ten minutes." Eight minutes and fifty-nine seconds... one minute to go. "I think I can, I think I can." As the seconds ticked by and her legs kept pumping, it seemed as though time had slowed to extend her torture. She wiped her face with the bottom of her shirt, focused on a spot before her, at some odd piece of artwork one of her kids had taped to the wall, and pushed onward.

Ten minutes came at last, but the old woman found that once it had passed, her legs had stopped aching so much, and her chest had gotten (somewhat) used to the new rhythm she'd found on her machine. Realizing that she actually could do it, she kept going.

Some of you might think this is silly, but I can attest to the difficulty of those first ten minutes, or even to the difficulty of that first blank page, that first ten thousand words, or whatever the difficulty that may have you daunted. As you stand before that impossibly messy room, or overgrown jungle of a yard, remember that the longest journey begins with but a single step, and even the largest elephant is eaten one bite at a time. The old woman who is a walking, talking stretch mark will lose the unwanted weight, but only if she doesn't give up.

So help me God.

Wings and Spells by Aprilynne Pike--

Reading Wings was a pleasant surprise for me, it being different than what I had expected, and I really enjoyed delving into Ms. Pike's fairy world... so much so, I couldn't wait to get to the library and check out the sequel. Spells (the sequel) I'm afraid was rather disappointing. The action was spotty and the descriptive, non-action sequences tended to drone on and on. Having said this, I am not entirely turned off to this particular series, just mildly disappointed. When the time comes that the next book reveals itself, I will read it.

The Cardturner by Louis Sachar--

I enjoyed this book, though not as much as my teen-aged son. I think Mr. Sachar's books tend to cater toward the male reader, though not so much that girls would dislike his stories (since I know that many girls do, like them, that is). The Cardturner was an interesting story of a boy and his dying great-uncle, the mystery that is the past when relayed incorrectly by others, and a touch of paranormal phenomenon. It's also about bridge, the card game. For those that don't wish to learn about bridge, the story might lean toward the dull side, but if you can skim over those details, sufficiently knowing that you don't understand (unless of course you do understand, and good for you!) then you might like this story as well. However, if you are looking for a gripping action novel, look somewhere else.

The Prince of Mist by Carlos Ruiz Zafon--

I'm not really so into ghost stories that I purposely seek them out, but this one found it's way into my arms and I really enjoyed most of it. There was sufficient spookiness with the mystery that unfolded, but it was the ending that changed a "liked" book into a "not-so-liked" one. What can I say without ruining it? I simply felt that the author's choice on how to end this story was unsatisfactory. It felt unfinished to me.

Lips Touch Three Times by Laini Taylor--

Ms. Laini Taylor may just be a name to watch for in the future--like on the New York Times bestseller list. This book was a collection of three short stories hinging on a kiss. The first I didn't like so well, because it had that same feeling of being unfinished that bothers me so much. The second was better, all the loose ends tied together by the end of the story, and the third was, I think, the best of them all. The writing was superb, the telling, spellbinding. My only complaint is that these were all such short stories that I wanted them to last a little longer--Perhaps they could have been extended, but such is not for me to decide, now is it?

Those endless summer days

2010-07-19T06:47:00.000-07:00

Besides keeping house, toilet-training my toddler, feeding my hoard, chasing my sanity, preparing submissions, and reading a friend's book, I continue to work toward my reading goal--though I can't remember what (exactly) it was supposed to be. Anyway, I do like to read, so here's the latest on my list:

Runaway by Meg Cabot--

Ms. Cabot has written many successful, interesting, even gripping, teen romances. This third and last installment of the Airhead series is not one of them. I found this particular series to be excessively drawn out with annoying repetitions that (I think) set a very poor example of how a book should be written. Cabot's fans must be disappointed with her latest works.

Gregor and the Code of Claw by Suzanne Collins--

At long last, I got to read the last installment of the Underland Chronicles. And, as expected, I loved it. Collins' expertise in creating an alternate world makes her readers want to return again and again. It makes me kind of sad, though, that this was the last. The end... But I do get to look forward to her next book, Mockingjay, which is sure to be a thrilling crowd pleaser the whole world over.

Reflection

2010-07-09T18:33:00.000-07:00

School has been out for a solid couple of weeks now, and for a lot of folks (and by folks, I mean stay-at-home-mothers with school children) this is a time for going crazy, pulling hair out, and seeking psychiatric help. But since we've already established that I'm insane, I have only one way to go, I guess. Or maybe not, though it is probably best not to think on it too much.

I have often complained about my children vying for computer time. In my house, that means a lot of begging and whining and "When are you going to get off the computer, Mom?" This was quite a hamper to my writer's adrenaline, but I have a wonderful announcement to make...

No, we did not get another computer. Sheesh, do I look like I'm made of money? No, no, no. The solution to my problem was quite simple. All children in my house wishing to get a turn on the computer must now complete some kind of helpful chore around the house.

It is pure genius, though I say it myself. The lazy ones have stopped asking, and the others have proved that they actually DO know how to wash dishes, pick up toys, and clean the bathroom! Why didn't I think of this sooner??? I can't remember the last time my house has been so clean.

Oh well. Invention's mother and necessity, and all that. I am still awaiting many other miraculous things (a stove that cooks for me, money that grows on trees, and a certain somebody becoming toilet trained), but for the time being, I find that I am quite content. (a partial quote from one of my favorite books.)

Before I go back to the lovely library, I will share my latest reads:

Glass Houses and The Dead Girls' Dance by Rachel Caine--

These are the first two books in the Morganville Vampires series. Ms. Caine can write a real grabber of a book, that I can say without reserve. I enjoyed tearing through these, completely caught up in the story and wanting to know what happened next. Only after coming down from the "book high" of reading these back-to-back could I see that the story is less novel-like and more suitable to a television series, due to the never-ending effect of lengthy series and the sensationalism, at which she is quite apt. Now, I have no idea how long this particular series runs, but I'd bet it goes on for a good, long stretch. If that sort of thing doesn't rub you wrong, then here's some teen/young adult fiction for you.

Gregor and the Curse of the Warmbloods and Gregor and the Marks of Secret by Suzanne Collins--

Fantastic. I've said it before, and it bears telling again: I love Suzanne Collins. Each of these books is different and independent, a complete story that connects with the previous and successive stories. I wonder if Mrs. Collins ever takes writing nobodies under her wing. Wouldn't I love to be that nobody, to drool on her shadow...

That's enough of that. I had a quiet Fourth, hope you all had fun with that birthday bash. I'm sorry for the one who broke her toe, but consider, my friend, all the writing you can do with that foot up. :)

Last Chance for June

2010-06-30T08:14:00.000-07:00

So, it's the last day of June and today is absolutely gorgeous! Yet here I am, tapping away on my keyboard. I need a life. Seriously. If I hadn't injured myself recently, I'd go out and pull some weeds. Or something akin to work.

Everything kind of slows down for me in the summer, and I won't say that's a bad thing, just harder to measure progress when I get to sleep in till nine and make my kids do the odd jobs around the house that I don't feel like doing. And then I get more time on the computer (in theory).

And, of course, the library folks love me, because I'm a regular. I have only one book to record because it's due soon...

Nightmare Academy by Frank Peretti--

Why has it taken me so long to discover Peretti? I really like his stuff, and this one--the second in the Veritas series--is just as gripping as his first. I am only disappointed by the fact that my library does not have the next book in this series. :(

Well, I do have other books to read, and many projects to write. Guess I'd better get busy with something. TTFN

A Fab Day with ALA

2010-06-26T06:53:00.000-07:00

Last night I went to a social event for ALA folks attending an upcoming conference and got to meet some really great people. First, there was an agent that was kind enough to spend twenty minutes shooting the breeze with me. She was super nice--even told me I was on the track to success. Now, if that doesn't make a writer feel giddy, nothing will. Sure wish I could remember her name, though.

Oh well.

Next, I met a lot of really cool writers and a couple of illustrators that I hope will become more than just a passing memory in a bar (restaurant). I need all the friends I can get. Really.

Anyway, the point is that I had a fantastic time in DC with fantastic people, and I wish every Friday could be so enjoyable. Saturday morning, however, shows me how I was missed on the home front as I walk into my office to find pistachio shells covering the carpet and crumbs across the desk. The computer has been shut off (hmmm....) and my teenage babysitter swears the night before was awful. She was so upset by her siblings that she cleaned (!!) the kitchen and dining room late into the evening until I came home.

Hmmm... Mayhap I should runaway more often.

As for my literary adventures:

Spirit Bound by Richelle Mead--

This is book five of the Vampire Academy series, and you must know I'm a fan if I've read book five. So, yeah, I enjoyed this one and look forward to the next... but I do have an impatient side that tires of those series books that never end. I know where I want the story to go, but we'll just have to wait and see where Ms. Mead takes us.

A Match Made in High School by Kristin Walker--

Two things I'll admit about this book. One) I really liked it. But Two) It has a lot of that language that I'm always harping about. So, I'm a little torn on this one. If you don't mind a few nasty words in your read, then go for it.

The Reformed Vampire Support Group by Catherine Jinks--

The idea behind this book sounded interesting, which is why I picked it up at the library, even though a part of me cringed. I can't say that Ms. Jinks is to blame, entirely... Perhaps I'm getting bored with vampires, or perhaps the book is simply aimed at another type of person, but I could not muster enough excitement over the story to pass chapter five (or thereabout). The story did not grab me. At all.

Until next time, gentle readers... hug a librarian and wear sunscreen.

Books

2010-06-10T05:11:00.000-07:00

Because I have a dull life, I will not report on the mundane passages of time in my house. Every now and again, something might occur that makes me smile, or laugh, or think about blogging, but the hole in my brain lets everything escape eventually, so I cannot recall a single, worthwhile piece of humor.

Too bad.

As for books I've read, here goes:

Learning to Play Gin by Ally Carter--

This is the sequel to Cheating at Solitaire, but I must confess that it was not as entertaining as the first book and is, in no way, as good as Ms. Carter's YA books. Still, I really liked the ending.

Hangman's Curse by Frank Peretti--

This YA book is more Christian than what I usually read. I will admit that I tend to dislike Christian based novels because they get preachy and lose the force of the story in religious quotations. Hangman's Curse did not do this and I was pleasantly surprised by the overall quality of plot, action, and character voices contained therein. This book I can easily recommend to YA lovers of mystery.

The Dating Diaries by Kristen Kemp--

First and foremost, this book was not my cup of tea. While I love YA, delving into a world of casual promiscuity and filthy language is my turn off. Bleh. Next time, I'll stick to my better instincts and put the book down after the first chapter.

That's it for now, peeps. Cheerio!

When the Indentured Play

2010-06-03T10:14:00.000-07:00

It happened. Just as I promised. I went camping at Virginia Beach with all six Masters of the Universe and I, the Queen of Everything, lived to tell. So here it is, in all the gory, scatter-brained-because-I-have-memory-problems details. You should probably sit down first.

The drive out wasn't too bad, four plus hours in the car with the windows down and the stereo cranked up so I couldn't hear a darned thing that wasn't right up next to my ear. I think everyone got along ok, but I really wouldn't know.

Day 1- went just fine. We arrived, set up, discovered all the things we forgot, even though some of those things were on the "Do Not Forget to Bring This" list, and made dinner. Actually, I had to make dinner twice, on account of a certain someone's dietary restrictions and inability to eat the same slop that everyone else eats. I'm usually on a low-slop diet, but in this case, I was too hungry to turn my nose up at the mac & cheese w/salmon and green beans (One pot meals are my specialty) because of the crazy notion that I would live on diet bars for the duration of my time away and come home having lost eight pounds.

Right.

After dinner, we went to the beach until dark. Number five nearly drowned, but learned a valuable lesson, and the rest of my royal herd shivered and shook and laughed because it was such a joy to walk, jump, and dance in the waves. We then went home (aka, our tent) to discover that sleeping on the ground in a campground with over a thousand sites--all packed to the gills--was not as glamorous as one might imagine from the comfort of their air-conditioned homes. Furthermore, I can officially state that camping is NOT on my life's list of to-do's now, or anywhere in the foreseeable future. At all.

Day 2- That would be Saturday. I didn't sleep much, and it looked like it might rain, so I convinced the six pack that going to the aquarium would be loads of fun and we could hop on the beach later in the evening. Many, many hours later, and some ninety dollars lighter, we emerge from the deep-sea exhibits with sting-ray-slimed hands, much whining, and a shaking of the knees syndrome. My eyes are losing focus (guess who didn't pack any Tylenol) and all I can think of is shutting them. So I, and the biggest whiners, take a short break back at the tent and leave the rest of the galaxy to look after itself for the sake of nap time. Upon waking, we join a group of our friends for a pot-luck dinner, after which it is too late to tromp in the sand and we end the day to the sour tune of, "We didn't get to go to the beach today!" ringing in my ears.

Is it time to go home yet?

Day 3- Who goes to church while on vacation, you ask? I do. And I drag my little heathens with me to better their immortal souls. From what I heard of the service, it was quite enjoyable, but don't ask me what it was about, because all I remember was the two loudest voices in the room, alternating between barking like dogs and meowing like cats. The Masters of the Universe are sooo talented, you see. Yeah. A reeking stench wafts up from dog/cat #1 and I know that we must head back to HQ for another emergency shower. More beach,followed by another pot-luck... I really didn't think it would rain, but lo, we barely bite into the watermelon and thunder cracks the sky, letting water rain down on everything and give us all the shower we couldn't get earlier in the day. That was fun. Until Goddess In Training #1 remembers that we left the tent open.

Suffice it to say that I know how to spell misery with a capital W. But a ray of light you soon will see in this, the gift that was giv'n to me. I have the best friends in the world, one of which had an air-conditioned RV with LOTS of extra beds (all dry) and a willingness to share them. May her place in heaven be ever assured.

Day 4- Beach. Again. I'm about done with beaches by now. The temperature has soared up over 100 and no amount of sunscreen will save me. I'm also done cooking. Pizza Hut, how we love thee, with cheesy garlic bread done up so nice, peperoni and pineapple pizza, just right. OK, enough with the verses. The only reason to brave the scorching sands again is to retrieve our stuff and retreat to a cooler place. Brave #6 discovers a new love at the pool, and desperately wants to become a fish. I, on the other hand, am charged with bringing six, living, breathing children back home (not the tent-home, but the other one) and soon tire of "CATCH ME, MOM!" right before he throws himself into the pool.

One last trip to the beach, this time at night. We have the most fun here. Who knew glow sticks could bring so much joy. Almost like getting a box...

Day 5- I'm done. In fact, I'm over-done. Stick a fork in me. We could have done something else, but all I really want is to never see that municipal bathroom again, with its low pressure showers and running toilets, hairy sinks and slippery floors. The tent is full of sand, along with everything else. A mysterious critter has used our table as a toilet and the pounding in my head may be due to the allergy pills I forgot to pack, or the children who keep calling out for some person called "Mom". Whoever she is, I feel sorry for her.

We go home, looking desperately for every available rest-stop along the way because if you give a small child a whole bottle of Sobe, they are going to drink it all, and it's just a teensy bit funny to hear that pitiful sobbing from a boy with a bladder too full. I know, I'm heartless, but this is from the child who has frequent "accidents" but absolutely will not pee on the side of the road.

So that's about it. We got home and the children made bee-lines for technology, that is the DVD-player and computer/internet. We communed with nature, made some memories, and I am SOO glad to be home. I can't help thinking that I have about two weeks to recover from this vacation before the whole Summer Break is unleashed upon me. Shiver.

Magic Under Glass by Jaclyn Dolamore--

There was a big fuss made over this book and its original cover, a racial issue that I supported 100%. When the book became available at my library, I was happy to see that a new cover had been made for the novel and I snapped it up. However, putting aside the book's fame, I'll get on to what I thought of the content. The premise was pleasing and the first few chapters gave me the happy feeling of finding a good read. But as the story progressed, that happy feeling turned to a sour cramp in my gut. Unnatural dialogue and too convenient plot twists moved this story along like a square peg through a round hole. In no way was this the worst first book I've ever read, but the forced manner of Ms. Dolamore's writing ultimately turned me off to her new series.

Gregor and the Prophecy of Bane by Suzanne Collins--

Book two of the Underland Chronicles is just as exciting and mysterious as book one. Children of all ages have, and will continue to, enjoy this book.

Cheating at Solitaire by Ally Carter--

Another book by another of my favorite authors. I really like Ms. Carter's YA stuff, but this is equally fun to read and deserves attention by those who have enjoyed her other titles. It has a few choice words that I prefer not to read, but I've also read worse in books wearing the YA badge, so kudos to Carter for keeping this one relatively clean.

Blah

2010-05-16T13:45:00.000-07:00

Ever since I decided to take a vacation, I can't focus on anything but killing time in anticipation of that get-away. I must really need a vacation, but if you think about it, I'll be hitting the highway for many, many hours with six children and no back up.

And I'm still looking forward to it. Tell me that isn't the mark of a crazy woman. I have long known that my head is messed up, this only proves it further.

Beyond the forthcoming vacation (which will certainly be one for the blog) I am afraid that I have nothing on which to comment. I could have been reading loads of books to critique--I have a good stack from the library, and a few I picked up from the used book store. I could have been cleaning my house, or supervising the child car molester. What have I been doing, you might wonder?

Playing video games. Little kid video games on the NeoPets webpage.

There. Now you know. My OCD takes me all kinds of places, and the last couple of weeks have been spent in Neopia. My brain is almost completely gone. Pity me if you want, but I did read one book:

Radiant Shadows by Melissa Marr--

Fans of the Wicked Lovely series will not be disappointed with this latest installment to the series. I was not.

Until next time, keep all pointy objects away from little boys and remember that poison ivy only LOOKS harmless.

Exploits of a Two-Year-Old

2010-05-07T18:30:00.000-07:00

Children are amazing people. The younger they are, the more they amaze me. Not only do they say the darndest things, but they frequently exceed my expectations. For an example, I will attempt to describe for you a few of my two-year-old's most recent conquests.

Number six likes my car. I don't know why, or what exactly he finds so fascinating about it, but he is drawn toward it like a fly to honey. But more specifically, he wants to be in the car when I am NOT. He likes to climb in there, lock the doors, and push all the buttons. Knowing that hot weather was on the way, I started locking my car so that he would not unknowingly cook his little brain while draining the car's battery.

That only stopped him once.

He soon dug through my purse and found those special door unlocking keys... I wasn't worried. He's only two, right? There are a lot of keys on my keyring, but knowing that two-year-olds have the magical ability to make things disappear forever, I watched for a while as he struggled to shove the wrong key into the lock and then took the keys and put them away. "No," says I. "These are Mommy's keys. Don't touch."

Half an hour later, Six has locked himself in my car, my ring of keys dangling from his chubby little fingers. Hmmm...

To keep things brief, Six has also pushed toys up next to the car to climb in through the open window and is now no longer content to merely push buttons. He starts the car, too. Just wait another month and I'll be writing about how a two-year-old wrecked the car before my 16-year-old.

Cars are not Six's only weakness, however. I would like to point out that he has many other interests as well. When he's not driving, Six likes to play with the cat food. It must taste good; he keeps eating it, but at least he shares with the cat and dog, too. He likes to empty things: cabinets, my purse, tissue boxes, floss containers, packages of diapers... Strangely, toys don't interest him much.

He also likes to jump on furniture, but only after all the cushions have been stripped and tossed across the room in all different directions. He likes to climb on said furniture, and up to the highest thing he can find so that he might uncover a new, full something that needs emptying.

Six is a full-time warrior, though his name changes from "Batman/Spiderman/Superman" (depending on which pajamas he wears) to "The Adventures of Link" or to something else as equally glamorous but which I have failed to recall. He packs weapons in his shirt and pants, builds them with Legos, and imagines them out of thin air (when need is dire). Enemies beware, Six is looking for you.

When he is not hanging out of second-story windows, ripping up the screens instead of taking a nap, Six is mostly a good boy--sweet and loving and cute enough to make you cry. He does NOT want to be house broken, though we talk about it every day. He really likes those potty words. "Mommy, I pooped! Hahahahahaha." It must be a funny joke. He laughs every time.

I know there's more to say, but honestly, I'm tired. Can't figure why. I'll leave off with the book I read and call it a good day.

Gifts by Ursula K. Le Guin--

Meh. And that's the nicest thing I can say about it. Le Guin took a good concept and made it as dull as can be, for 274 pages. I'm surprised I read it all.

2010-04-25T10:36:00.000-07:00

What can I say but that my life is just getting better and better. I have sorted out a few things and learned a few more, and even though I've not gotten a whole lot of writing done, I am supremely happy with where I am.

What have I been up to, you might ask? Mostly, reading. I have allowed my little digits (1-5) to eat up a lot of computer time whilst I relax and do things that are as equally enjoyable as sitting in front of the glowbox. Digit #6 is too little to do more than mess up the computer in ways I cannot fix, so he's not allowed to play. But this is fine, because he would much rather sneak out of the house and eat kitty's food and play in the car whenever I'm not looking.

I was thinking back to my dreaded RESOLUTIONS made back in January, and I believe that the cold must have affected my thinking, else why would I ever, EVER deign to clean my entire house?? Really, quite ridiculous. Besides reading, I can't really remember what else I promised I would do, except that one BIG thing I will never do. Hmmm... I have too many other, more interesting, things to occupy my time than something as mundane as finding the floor, or checking whether I still own a working vacuum.

Sheesh.

Well, here's the low-down on my latest reads:

Savvy by Ingrid Law--

A really cute story for the younger YA's (12-14) that I enjoyed. I look forward to the sequel, Scumble, and recommend this for any and all.

are these my basoomas i see before me by Louise Rennison--

The final confessions of Georgia Nicolson. As I've probably mentioned about these books, this being the tenth (and last) in the series, they are utterly ridiculous, but oh, so funny.

Wondrous Strange and Darklight by Lesley Livingston--

I started out really liking this series. Book one (Wondrous Strange) has just enough mystery and romance to keep, yours truly, happy. While I did guess the bulk of the mysteries long before they were officially revealed--this may be due to the small fact that I've been around the book-block a few times--I still enjoyed the read. Book two (Darklight) introduces more mystery, or confusion, depending on how you look at it, and this is where I start to lose interest. This second book bridges the end of the first with whatever sequel will come next without a separate story line or plot. It's just another 'and in this episode we learn that...' which really bugs me about series books. I can understand having suspense and anticipation for the next book and all, but really, each book should stand on its own. Shouldn't it? Oh well, I'll likely keep reading this series to the end.

Emergency Preparedness

2010-04-13T15:44:00.000-07:00

I am beginning to think my computer has a vendetta against me editing. A few hours in, and it freezes up, leaving me shallow of breath and brain, hands waving frantically above the keyboard and wondering when last I saved, whether that save 'took' and how much work I'll have to re-do because sometimes it doesn't save even when it says it does and I exit the program thinking it will be ok, say a little prayer, go to bed, and wake up to find that everything I did the day before has ceased to exist!

AAAAAaaaaaaarrrrrrrrgggggggghhhhhhhhhh!

All I can say is, "Not again!"

So, any way, I'm frozen out now (again) and I just can't fathom removing my posterior from this not-so-comfortable office chair in order to find any actual, physical work to occupy me elsewhere because I'm in 'obsessive computer freak mode' and have to KEEP WORKING.

Soo, I thought I'd pop over here and play with my blog. Today's subject, as stated above, is emergency preparedness, though I won't bother with the big-time stuff like first aid or food and water storage, those topics can be researched on serious sites (i.e. - not here).

What To Do When:

...my toddler says, "I got the ew on the end of my finger." ?
-do not panic. Whatever he/she has will require a tissue and hand soap. Take toddler by the hand to prevent the eating/wiping of unknown substance until a sink or tissue can be located. Further investigation may lead to more cleaning, depending on what unknown substance turns out to be.

... I brake at the stoplight and my toddler's seat flips forward?
-do not panic. Little Houdini has been practicing escape techniques. Put on your emergency flashers (they are good for something) and put your car in park. >do not forget this step. Re-fasten your child's seat and gently scold/soothe, but do not let him/her out of the seat or this may become an incentive to repeat the stunt.

... my teenager tells me that her best friend is have an 'all-weekend-party'?
-Answer very calmly, "Good for her." Further discussion will reveal said teenager's desire to attend, but if you can remain calm, a reasonable 'no' can be achieved.

... my pubescent boy won't take a shower?
-Well, that's a toughie. If it's warm enough outside, consider moving him into a tent. Other options include, but are not limited to, pretending that you will wash the car together and spraying him down while his back is turned; taking him to a lake and pushing him in; convincing him to get baptized (religion is always a good idea); bribery; and maybe even ignoring the situation until someone he esteems higher than you makes mention of that 'odiferousness'. (This last suggestion should be a last resort for health code reasons.)

... I'm having a crisis and I've run out of chocolate?
-PANIC. Get to the store ASAP and buy the best brand of chocolate you can find. Eat at the register, if necessary. If you are unsure as to which brand is best, buy several and try them all.

Seriously, there are certain things you should keep stocked at all times in your house. You know what they are. If you run out of these items, life as you know it will cease to be. Chocolate tops the list. Tampons, peanut butter, and diapers are on there too. (They are in my house.)

...I've finally written a kick-butt query and an agent requests sample pages, but then turns down my glorious work with the standard 'Not for me' rejection?
-Do not panic. Eat chocolate and look over your ms. The power of chocolate will help you see whether work needs doing. After you are enlightened, start revising. Unless your computer hates you--like mine--you will be back on the road to success in no time.

My final bits of advice for the day: Back up all your files, and employ the hottest computer geek you can find. Pay with chocolate XXX :P

Another week

2010-04-10T15:29:00.000-07:00

Did you ever get that feeling... after reading a couple of really great books, or after writing and writing for a long stint and finally coming up for air (whether by choice or forced)... the feeling of emerging from a tunnel? You're disoriented, unhappy, and can't figure, for the life of you, what to do but go back to your 'real' life.

OK, yeah. Me neither.

Where has the week gone? I think I did a lot of work, but I can't remember what. Or when. I must have fed the munchkins, 'cause they haven't keeled over yet. I think I paid the bills, the lights and computer are still running, and I recall seeing the sun, on occasion, so I must have left my den of iniquity at some point.

Yet, here it is, Saturday again, and the light is slowly fading into the west, so I must have squandered this day as well. Darn. -deep sigh-

At the very least, I can give y'all my book report:

Before I Fall by Lauren Oliver--

Complaint #1) bad language. Call me prude, but the first third of the book is positively swarming with foul words and snarkiness. I read on because my librarian friend recommended it as a 'good read'. I can say that the story got better; the book is extremely well written and well told, but it is another one of those stories that ought to have a warning, Do Not Read if You Have Depressive Tendencies. This book, despite the lovely prose and easy pace, comes off with (Complaint #2 is purely my own opinion) the message that some souls or people are worth saving while others are not. No me gusta.

Once a Witch by Carolyn MacCullough--

Excellent! I knew from the start that I would love this book, and I did. Highly recommended for all you YA readers.

Tantalize by Cynthia Leitich Smith--

Sorry to end on a sour note, but this book grated my inner writer so so so so badly that I could not force my way past the sixty page mark.

Until next time, keep your lights on while driving through tunnels.

Ladybug House (philosophies of fiction mingled with truth)

2010-04-05T05:45:00.000-07:00

The place looked cheerful enough, not as run-down as the last three vacation houses, so I figured it would be alright. I pulled into the gravel drive and instructed the inmates to disembark. 'Are we there yet' had been playing consistently at two-minute intervals for the last hour and a half and I was more anxious to leave the car than the children were.

My tide of pint-sized miserables shot from the vehicle like their lives depended on it, racing across the yard, through the flowerbeds, and onto the porch of our summer retreat with enough energy to put the Energizer Bunny to shame.

"Don't trample the flowers; Get off the railing!" My 'Voice of Doom' had lost its potency about thirty miles back and none of the kids could hear it anymore. I fumbled through my purse, looking for the house key amid hundreds of discarded gum wrappers and rumpled receipts. Ooo, aspirin, better hang on to that...

Once the front door stood open, we all entered with a sigh of relief. I already needed a vacation from this vacation, but knew I had to check mattresses and plumbing before getting comfortable. The air inside had that generic 'closed up' feel that endemically accompanied summer homes. Never mind that someone had rented the place a week ago, it felt as stuffy as a cheap trailer in the Everglades--one that only alligators visited.

One by one, I opened windows and inspected the rooms. The air-conditioner wasn't working, but water flowed through the taps. All the windows had tight screens. The echo of children racing through the house grated on my nerves and I remembered to take my aspirin.

"Do NOT jump on the beds!" The noise of stretching mattress springs ceased and I could hear the whispered words of wonder, "How did she know?"

My smallest child found me in the kitchen, checking the refrigerator and stove. He held his finger out in front of him to display a squashed ladybug. An offensive smell wafted up and I wrinkled my nose.

"Did you kill that bug?"

"Yup."

With a wet paper towel, I wiped his hand clean. "Don't kill the ladybugs. They stink when you squish them."

He said something else, but I had stopped listening. The sink strainer was filled with dead ladybugs.

A blur of cleaning, changing sheets, unpacking, and phone calls to get the air-conditioner serviced left me weak-kneed by the end of the day. I fell into bed with no intention of ever rising again. --Until the scream dragged me up.

My youngest daughter stood in the middle of her bed, sheet pulled tight around her body and up to her chin. Her pitiful cries filled the room.

"What's wrong?" I asked, flipping on the light.

She pointed at the ceiling where about six ladybugs crawled over the light fixture. Another flew across the room and hit the window.

Buzzzzzz, TAP.

My daughter cried louder. "I'm scared."

"Honey, they're just ladybugs. They won't hurt you. Look." I reached to the window for one of the insects and stopped when her frantic scream grew louder.

"No, no, no, no! Don't touch them!"

No amount of consoling would get her to lay down until I dug out the vacuum cleaner and sucked all the bugs up into it. We checked under the bed, in the closet, and all around the window.

"All gone," I told her. "Will you go to sleep, now?" It came out rather harsh, considering all I'd been through that day. I would have pointed out to her that 'Mommy's just tired' but instead, I kissed her head and walked away. She'd sleep eventually.

I found a little boy in my bed, one who ought not be there, and a squashed ladybug wiped on my pillow. "Did you do this?" I asked, pointing at my pillow. He smiled and nodded. There are no nice words left in my mouth, so I kept it shut. On top of everything else, Little Boy needed a diaper change.

An hour later, the last light out, all the midgets have lost the battle against fatigue and I can only wish the same. I remembered to flip my pillow to the clean side before lying on it and close my eyes. Then I heard the noise. TAP.

Again, and again. Buzzzzzzzz, TAP. Buzzzzzzzz, TAP.

Where are all these freaking bugs coming from? I made a mental note to call an exterminator first thing in the morning and tried to block out the sound from my mind.

I dreamed of swimming in the river, cool slow water flowing around me, little fish darting below my feet and tickling my legs, my arms. I dove, mildly confused by the sensation of breathing under water, but such are the ways of a dream. The tickly fish swam all around, making me itch. It was the scratching that woke me. My hand landed on a hard, little lump, and another. The stink of squashed ladybug hit my nose; a crawly-tickly sensation spread over both arms and legs, and on my face.

I jumped out of the bed, screaming. Things were in my mouth, my nose, and I darted for the nearest light switch. They were everywhere, the ladybugs, all over the ceiling and walls, crawling over my bed, crawling over me. I can't shake hard enough, or swat them away fast enough. I'm pulled off my clothes, shaking bugs away, crunching insect bodies beneath my bare feet. The smell of their deaths reached my nose and made me gag. It was too much for me to stand there any longer. I wanted to run from the house and never come back.

The children...

The nightmare was not over. I raced into the other rooms to find each little child covered, head to toe, in insects. My eyes blurred as I pulled them, unresponsive, from their beds, slapping bugs away from their faces, digging red-black insects from their noses and mouths. When they woke, they cried, confused, tired. But when they saw the ladybugs, hysteria broke loose.

Not until I've scooped my last child out of his bed and have run from the house did I notice the blood. Hundreds of tiny welts, like bug bites, bleed along my littlest boy's skin. We left everything behind, driving forever to the nearest hospital to tell an unbelievable story, over and over, to doctors, police, and social workers. By the time anyone went to investigate at the house, all that remained of the ladybugs was a few dead insects in the sink strainer.

Now, what in hay have I been reading? you ask...

Nothing bad.

Ashes by Kathryn Lasky--

A historical fiction of a German girl during the rise of the Nazis. I thought it well done in the historical flavor department, but lacking in the overall, story-telling department. In other words: I didn't like the ending.

Fablehaven book 5, Keys to the Demon Prison by Brandon Mull--

Loved it. Highly recommended reading.

That's all for now, my Internet friends. Join in next time, when Robin says, "Holy Cow, Batman!"

Physics Lesson

2010-03-29T12:55:00.000-07:00

An object at rest...

I've decided that I fit into the old example of 'object at rest'. I am the 'writer not writing' and the longer I'm at that, the harder it is for me to stop stopping. Adversely, the bigger a roll I'm on in writing, editing, or whatever, the harder it is for me to stop doing that.

Right now, if I could only learn from the above stated knowledge, I might get a lot better results from the- ahem - diet I'm not really on by not eating the Easter candy I purchased for my children. Those of you who shop in bulk know that Costco sells Jelly Belly (aka, Bertie Botts in my house) jelly beans in four pound buckets. After I've fished out all the sizzling cinnamon, coconut, and pina colada, it's amazing how the left-overs suddenly taste good enough to now be eaten.

I wasn't going to eat them all...

What I've been reading:

13 Little Blue Envelopes by Maureen Johnson--

I liked this story, though it took a while to grab me. (Must have been my own fault)

Nobody's Princess and its sequel, Nobody's Prize by Esther Friesner--

These were ok, felt kind of middle-grade to me, so definitely not my favorites.

Until next time, this is the Jelly Belly queen and her horde, signing out.

A Moment in Time

2010-03-25T16:33:00.000-07:00

I had another birthday recently. Yeah, I know. There's at least one of those dratted things every year (seems like more than that, I swear). Thing was, this year's dreaded B-day was actually a happy event. Call me slow, but my facebook account is still aged by months, not years, and because my birthday is displayed, tons of my friends wished me a happy day.

Moreover, and better still, I had special time with three special someones that mean a lot to me. If my memory weren't already full of holes, I'd want to pack that day up in curlicues with confetti and balloons so that I could savor the moment whenever I felt blue. But alas, the memory is failing, much like the joints are creaking and the fat is settling (yikes!) and I must bottle happiness in more ways than one just to ensure that some of it survives for the future.

Praises to my well-wishers, you know who you are, and to every blessed light in the dark tunnel of life. May I find my way safely to the other side, or die laughing with a candle--even if it's a birthday candle.

Hard Knocks

2010-03-20T06:35:00.000-07:00

Status: I'm whining. Pity party with a side of selfishness, indignation, and lots of WHINE. I want chocolate and cake and goodies and friends and anything that will bring on the slightest sense of happiness, no matter how false that sense may be and no matter how short-lived it turns out, or how much it will alter the evil bathroom scale... OK, strike that. I don't want the illusion, but I'll take the friends and chocolate. Or just the friends and a whiff of something delectable so I can refuse to have any and commence on self-punishment.

Poor MAP, you might say, what's the matter?

Nothing. Why do you ask? Because I'm whining? No, you see, I whine on a regular basis and you just haven't noticed yet. I growl a lot, too. And yell at unsuspecting relations and small, furry mammals (mostly dogs). But it's nice outside. The sun is shining, and I will shortly plunge into a dimension of pollen and outdoor messes to forget about the misery of living in a closed world that doesn't necessarily make sense and isn't necessarily fair, with all its rejection slips and lost/found bills that will never be paid, crusty laundry, dirty floors, and pint-sized ingrates.

Because it's not fair. More on that later (with or without whining, TBD).

What have I been reading???

love is a many trousered thing by Louise Rennison--

This is eighth in a long, seemingly unending series of British, funny teen-reads that I'm not sure counts as book reading. The really funny thing is that when I picked this up at the library, I wasn't sure if I'd already read it or not since I sometimes hole up at Borders, reading things I wouldn't want to buy but that my library hasn't stocked... Anyway, I got almost half-way through, skipped to the end, and verified that, yes, I did read this one. So how do I count it... uh... don't know.

Front and Center by Catherine Gilbert Murdock--

This one is third in a series called Dairy Queen. I liked the first book, didn't like the second, and kind of liked this one. Thing is, it's more of a literary teen book while I tend to like books of another kind better. Oh well.

And I am currently working on The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck--

Wow. Talk about long-winded. You know all those things that agents and editors say not to do? -like laundry list descriptions and unending paragraph after paragraph of narrative description- Well, it seems this is exactly the kind of writing that got one published fifty years ago. I'm not sure I'll ever finish reading this 'classic', or if I want to.

Tune in next time when frazzled MAP gets a life.

Rain

2010-03-15T07:40:00.000-07:00

I decided I haven't written any poetry for a while. Afterward, I should definitely get back to writing one of those many, many books plaguing my mind. Or get dressed...

Anyway, here goes. I call it, RAIN

Wet and cold
the rain is falling
seeping
into low places
and filling them.

Grey and low
the clouds are stalling
blocking
out the sun
to make it dark.

Broken apart
my heart is calling
seeking
for peace
and warm comfort.

Back at the start
I am standing
stepping
through the rain
toward the finish.

And, what have I read? :::::

Fallen by Lauren Kate--

This book has a great idea and a great start, mystery, subtle clues, and a lot of pulling on the old heartstrings. Here it comes... But, I felt like the 'mystery' dragged out a bit much, leading into a very unfulfilling finale. The open-ended way the book left off did not make me want to read the sequel, though it does present some interesting questions-- like, 'What the hay is going on?'

Until next time, keep reading, keep writing, keep dreaming.

Ciao.

Spring Fever

2010-03-12T06:07:00.000-08:00

No, I wasn't dreaming about Mr. Darcy, small child, so go ahead and wake me in the middle of the night. Tell me all about how you disobeyed your mother and refused to get in your bed, thereby getting so cold at... 1:30 AM... that you need to cry great tears of unhappiness and scream at me until I make it all better.

Yep. That's what I'm here for.

My wish for spring has finally come true. Oh thank you, Fairy God Mother, Elementals, weather people, and God in Heaven. Who do I thank for head colds and allergies? Hmmm? Bad fairies and the genetic pool. So warmer weather is here and I might just send one of my little helpers out wash the winter grime from my car, except that it's now raining. Which means I need to keep a close eye on the umbrellas.

I'm not sure if watching Mary Poppins as child affected my view of umbrellas, or if my imagination was demented from the beginning, but there's magic to be had by a child holding one of those rain-deflecting devices. When I was much smaller, and much stupider, I would climb to the top of my parents' house with an umbrella in hand, and poise at the edge of the roof with the opened contraption held up and out--and leap.

I never, ever broke my leg, arm, or other appendage, though I can't prove that the umbrella helped. When all the umbrellas were mysteriously broken, my siblings and I would form parachutes out of blankets, sheets, and even plastic grocery bags, and jump again. Someone always ratted us out--well meaning neighbors, the postman, a passing cop... My parents would be told and then I was in for the beating of a lifetime--did I want to go to the hospital? Maybe. If you can imagine, my parents never took me anywhere, so maybe the hospital would be cool.

Fast-forward a bit. My own children are not so fortunate as to live in a single-story house with an easy-climb tree growing over the roof in the backyard. No, they must resort to their own stupi--I mean, ingenuity to devise ways of inflicting, or missing as the case may be, bodily injury. Trust me, they do have ample opportunity and the umbrellas in my house do randomly disintegrate. Go figure.

Recent reads include:

Perfect Chemistry by Simone Elkeles--

Good enough, story wise, plot, writing and all the essentials... my only big complaint is in the language. I don't care much to read line after line of profanity, call me weird, but that's me.

Heist Society by Ally Carter--

I'm a big fan of the Gallagher Girls series, so reading this was no chore. Fast paced and fun, it's a book I can recommend to all my teen-reading friends.

No news is no news

2010-03-06T05:06:00.000-08:00

I am so glad that February has left. Drat this global warming. It is so freaking cold. Now, if only spring would get here and bring an end to forty degree days, I think I would like that very well. There are many things I can blame on the weather, my stuffy nose and tendancy to hibernate... neglecting my blog is not one of them. For this, I shall blame something else entirely.

As soon as I think of it.

To date, my dreams of publication remain unrealized, except as dreams. My problems are many, but I think one of them is that for every novel completed, I have three or four other great book ideas come to me saying, "ooo, me next. Pick me!"

Honestly, it's worse than having six kids all talking at once. These come to me in quiet moments, whenever my brain is running from the others... And they won't shut up either.

This morning, I lay awake in my bed, watching the pictures behind my eyes take shape. Naturally, it was one of my novels--the one I'm supposed to be working on. I want so badly to finish it, but I know that if I turn away from the editing, it will never get done.

MUST. BE. STRONG.

Gaaahhh. I've recently had a brand new brainstorm for a really fantastic YA sci-fi-ish book that I will (of course) keep secret until it's written and the queries are going out. Those privy to the secret must keep quiet or suffer the pains of... uh... a really, really mad lady. Yeah. I'll sick my kids on you, then you'll be sorry.

On another front: resolutions are stupid. I may be reading and writing and visiting friends, but the back of my brain is stuck on watching those swelling digits from the bathroom scale. The weather is to blame.

And here are the books I've read:

Bella at Midnight by Diane Stanley--
not the most fantastic of stories, but one I enjoyed nonetheless

The Ropemaker by Peter Dickinson--
A fat enough book that I should have known... but still, I hoped for something spectacular, even after the slow beginning. Throughout the book, there were at least three times when I felt strongly that the story needed to end, yet it continued. On and on and on. And this is not to say that the man can't write, quite the contrary, Mr. Dickinson is a very talented writer. But, as this is my personal opinion and I can say whatever I like, after 375 pages I reached the end with the deflated sense of time wasted.

MAP Detective Agency

2010-02-22T05:54:00.000-08:00

Today, I woke early. Two or three times, actually. By the time I got out of bed, grouchiness had already taken hold. I could write out all the things on my mental to-do list, but there wouldn't be a whole lot of point to that. Killing trees and wasting money, resources--stuffing the landfill with a lot of forgotten notations--I'll let the rest of you do it.

It's one of those days where I don't bother to get dressed before putting on my shoes and coat to drive #2 to school. One of those days where I'm too angry to yell and, instead, inflict my LOOK O' DEATH on all who oppose me. Beware. It's one of those days when Little Boy Conflict sits in his room, naked, and tells me, "Mom, I don't think I can go to school today because I don't have any underwear or pants to put on."

"How convenient for you," I reply, and start in on folding the four loads of laundry piled up on my sofa that have been sitting there for the better part of a week. And yes, I have to go through all four loads before locating a single pair of Conflict's underwear. No pants, though.

By this time, the school bus is trundling down the street and I must push Conflict's whining self down the stairs to slip on his shoes and coat and backpack, out the door without breakfast, and tell him to have a lovely day despite his complaints about a hurt leg and hating school and hating me and hating, hating, hating... whatever happens to be handy.

Yeah. I love you, too, kid.

Obviously, the laundry needs doing, but I know--even when it's done--that certain questions will remain unanswered, and this brings me to the point of this blog. For one day only, I am going to open the MAP Detective Agency--here to answer all those petty questions that no right-minded detective would dare to tackle. That's right, and because this is a limited time offer, I will do this service free of charge. Just remember: one day only! Why? Because I have more important things to do that think about these ridiculous things.

Question #1: Where did the twelve pairs of underwear disappear to?

--Having a sense of deja-vu, here, and it's telling me that I don't want to know. We'll let this case slide and stick to washing the side of the mountain.

Question #2: How is it possible to fit three cubic feet of food into a one cubic foot stomach?

--Those who don't understand the question must not be familiar with the metamorphic stage of the pubescent male. During the months of transformation from short and pudgy to tall and gangly, the pubescent male's bones hollow out to make room for the tremendous amounts of food necessary to fuel said growth. So you see, the food you watch disappearing down the Bean Sprout's neck is not actually going into the stomach, but straight on through it and into the bones... and since the specimen does not speak much during the transition time, eating is the only exercise their mouths will get, so it is best not to complain. Too much.

Question #3: Why do I get depressed on cloudy, blah days?

--The explanation is simple. First, that is a backward statement. You are not unhappy about the weather, the weather is merely reflecting your mood. You are part of an alien race that controls the atmospheric elements according to the whims of your mental state. When you cry, the world cries with you. Ever see Men In Black 2? Yeah. That. Eat more chocolate and be happy, you're bringing all the rest of us down.

Question #4: Why is my man-child so fixated with violence? ie: Lego people killing each other and running around the house saying 'heeeyaaa!'

--Do you really need to ask? It's a guy thing. Like men trying to fix stuff when they don't know how; cooking outdoors in twenty-degree weather, or one-hundred and twenty degree weather; hunting and the like. There is a piece of the male brain that constantly tells them they must do these things in order to assert thier man-ness. Like dogs peeing on trees. They have to. Experts believe it stems from a lack of positive interaction with their fathers when pushing through the pubescent state, but I have reason to believe that the cause stems from a much simpler thing. Men don't do enough housework.

Think about it. If they did more housework, would they have the energy to waste on all those other things? Would the child that just spent three hours cleaning the living room carelessly jump around and mess it up? I think not. The solution to the man-child's violence is this: give him more chores.

Question #5: What is the point of long vacations?

--There is none. Especially where children are concerned. Vacations should be short and frequent if they are to be enjoyed. If you wait too long to take a vacation, no matter what you do will not be enough to 'fix' the awful person you've become from not taking a vacation for so long. Moreover, too much time with the family you never spend time with will equate to a perfect hell no matter where you go. So, if you're due for vacation, start with a day trip someplace close and build up to that week-long campout if you truly want to enjoy it.

That's all the time I have for nonsense today. I leave you with the lastest news on books read.

Jessica's Guide to Dating on the Dark Side by Beth Fantasky --
I know, I've read it before. But I liked it so well that I bought my own copy and read it again. I look forward to reading more from this author.

My Angelica by Carol Lynch Williams --
funny and cute

Nothing of Significance

2010-02-09T16:52:00.000-08:00

I have two books to add to my list for the year, though I'm not sure how best to count them as I only read about one hundred pages from each. What can I say? They just didn't grab me, and after a hundred pages, I think I gave them a fair shot, right?

Anyway, here they are:

Wish by Alexandra Bullen

Hidden Voices by Pat Lowery Collins

On another front, I've been editing my heart out lately, which is a good thing since I had put it off for so long. My first story is almost as ship-shape and beautiful as I thought it was when I first wrote it. Laugh on that for a while.

In the meantime, it's snowing outside. Again. All I can really say to that is, I am very thankful for electricity and it is to this mode of modern living that I am happily addicted. (No pity, please) The power went out in our house for a few hours at the beginning of the first, big snowstorm and all I could think was "Why didn't I take a shower last night when I still had a chance?" --However, regrets easily erased are good for reminding us of what we have.

I hope all of my friends are safe out there... thinking of you.

Reading list for January

2010-01-29T07:01:00.000-08:00

My year-long goal is to read 52 books. That equates to a book a week, which shouldn't be hard, considering the kinds of books I like can usually be polished off in a day. So far, this is what I've read:

The Hunger Games and Catching Fire both by Suzanne Collins--
sign me up for the fan club... what more can I say?

Gorgeous by Rachel Vail--
interesting story, but not so gripping that it will go down in history as one of my favorites.

Captivate by Carrie Jones--
second in a series. I usually read series books in order and this one was accidentally out of order, but I didn't care for the author's writing style and won't read the others.

Lament and Ballad by Maggie Stiefvater--
good story telling mingled with bad language, which (I thought) would have been better without. The first book, Lament, had a good hook at the beginning, while the second, Ballad, just sort of rode on the coattails of the first... not as gripping, but readable if you can get past the language (which is more abundant in the sequel)

Exercising Futility

2010-01-28T08:01:00.000-08:00

futile adj. useless, ineffectual, frivolous; futility.

There are things in this world, laws if you will, that go on and on without question throughout all the ages and forever. Water is wet, dogs like to smell that way, and dirty dishes have no end. Parenting falls somewhere between dogs and dishes and, even though I don't recall signing my name in blood, there must be contract out there binding me--mind, body and soul--to the position.

Fine. Yes, I did quit. But I'm a fiction writer, right? Nobody believes my words and all is null and void during stormy nights when the power goes out and a diaper needs changing. Pull out the wellies and change the sheets. Say goodbye to sleep, it's over-rated anyway. Rain, hail, snow and wind, bring it, baby.

A couple of weeks ago, we had a visit from the head lice fairy and doused her in toxins and washed EVERYTHING in the house. She died. This week, our partially finished basement turned into a really dirty swimming hole. I wonder if the mice enjoyed it...

OK. I know I said I would clean the entire house this year, but I really wasn't expecting to tackle it right away. Six kids in a three bedroom house, shall we review the definition of futile? First, they outnumber me and I'm no longer bigger than all of them. Second, my motivation went on vacation without me. If I clean the living room and walk away, there's a pillow fort being constructed upon my return, complete with an entire Lego nation preparing for battle. Cleaning bathrooms...little boys-- need I say more? Of all my ridiculous goals, cleaning the house was the one that scared me most. I prayed for help. (cue laughter)

Don't get me wrong, I'm very thankful. The parasites are gone and that weird smell from the boys' room disappeared. All the junk I couldn't bring myself to deal with in the basement now stares me in the face each day, piled in the living room, awaiting judgement. The only areas of the house divinely unaffected are the office and garage. All I need is a big trash can, multiple trips to the dump, and a tornado to knock the garage roof off, but I'm a teensy bit wary of praying for that last one. Besides, who counts the garage as part of the house?

I'll pray for something else.

The horrific confessions of a quitaholic

2010-01-24T18:24:00.000-08:00

I'm hiding in my house, behind piles of chocolate, used tissues, and any old movie I can get my hands on. Nestled into a comfy chair, beneath a mound of cozy blankets, I'm drowning active thought with cold pills and good old Hollywood (cause who needs to think in tinsel town?) Somewhere, outside my happy bubble, children are foraging for food, bills are piling up, and pets are planning ambushes on the first fool to step through the door.

OK, first off, before I freak all my friends out and receive a flood of worried phone messages, I do have a cold, so drugs are justified. Second, I've quit.

Quit? you ask... Quit what?

Well, I'll tell you. The dishes weren't done, and the house was a wreck. I said 'Fire the maid.' Dinner, for the fifth time this week, was leftovers. I said, 'Fire the cook.' The kids were late to school and late being picked up... you guessed it. 'Fire the chauffeur.'

Except, nobody's listening, so I quit.

A few weeks ago, I made some ridiculous resolutions that four days afterward I was ready to repeal. Clean the house?!? Clearly I was under the influence of something that should be illegal. And read 52 books? To date, I've read one this year, which suggests I might (maybe, if I'm lucky) read a total of twelve before December 31st.

I quit.

Dieting. Yeah, right. Let's not go there.

So, as you see, it is official that I have quit all sense of responsibility, reason, fair play and... whatever else I can come up with that needs quitting, too. I will no longer respond to the name MOM or any of its affiliates. As soon as I get a lawyer, I intend to make this legal. I am hereafter to be thought of as the innocent bystander without connection to anyone or anything, with absolutely NO responsibilities.

I'm going to bed, I will wake up whenever I feel like it and not fix up the covers. I will eat whatever I wish, and not wash it up. I may or may not change any diapers, share any food, or settle any arguments, depending on my mood. If the cat keels over, chuck him over the fence. That goes double for the dog. As for the little people stomping around all over...

Oh, fine. I'll keep them. They are kind of cute. When they're quiet.
Hmmm.... cold medicine... yeessss.

The Homeland Adventure Channel

2010-01-15T06:09:00.000-08:00

Welcome to our show. Today's episode dives into the realms of science fiction to explore and restore the well-known but rarely spoken of bio hazard waste and cleansing station (aka-the bathroom).

As always, before we begin, we must assemble and inspect our equipment, for you never know when it may save your life. Today's adventure requires a tested breathing mask and air tank, 3-ply (or better) rubber gloves that extend to the elbow, protective eye wear, snug-fitting clothes that won't get in the way, a screw driver, plunger, long-handled scrubbing brush (industrial strength is best), tweezers, pliers, a hacksaw (just in case), and various bleach or bleach-substitute cleansers in spray dispense bottles, rags, paper towels, or sponges, and at least one construction-grade plastic trash bag.

You may want to check your last will and testament before heading out, or at the very least, tell a trusted someone where you intend to go and for what purpose. Should you go missing for a few days, they will know where to begin the search.

Regardless of the house in which you reside, the bio hazard waste and cleansing station (hereafter called the b.s.) will be found behind a closed door at the end of a long, shadowed hall. Lights are often seen blinking on and off from around the cracks in the door at all hours of the day and night, but the wise and wary adventurer knows to never enter such a place without being first prepared. Affix breathing mask, eye wear, and gloves. Also, any long hair should be tied back, we are entering the b.s. zone.

The reek of wrongness hits us first upon prying open the door. Despite protective gear, it seeps through, pulling tears from our eyes and triggering the gag reflex. Be strong. Close your eyes and let your mind and body adjust slowly. Our first step into the b.s. lands on a spongy surface. Turn on the light. Check to make sure it wasn't alive.

Towels, damp and moldering, carpet the floor. The mirror along the wall shows no reflections, but do not fear--this is not urban fantasy and there are no vampires--it is only coated in grime. A special word of caution: if the toilet lid is down, be very careful when you open it. Arm yourself with toilet wand (the long-handled, industrial strength scrub brush) and the most potent cleanser in your pack. Lift lid slowly, and SPRAY, SPRAY, SPRAY! Close lid and wait five minutes. Flush and repeat. If your b.s. is equipped with a motorized venting system, do make use of it as quickly as possible. *Special Note: keep plunger handy and stand back in the event of flooding.*

While waiting for the decrustation of the toilet, open your heavy, plastic bag and systematically remove cloth debris from the floor. Notice how each layer peeled away clings to the one beneath, a special mix of hair, dust, toilet tissue, and secret ingredient x. Be sure to separate the tub toys from the laundry, for they do not fare well in the wash, rinse, dry cycle. They can, however, be zipped into a mesh lingerie bag and thrown onto the top-rack of the dishwasher if you are so inclined.

Beneath the terry cloth and robes, flannel sleepwear and toys, always be on the lookout for the perpetually missing rodent-pet. If it has been missing long enough, even the best bred hamster will lick residue from the b.s. porcelain in search of water, which may or may not spell certain doom for the creature (depending on toxicity levels therein). There is no rodent today, but here, behind the throne, we uncover the telling evidence of what happened to all the missing underwear. (Those of weaker constitutions may wish to fast at least five hours prior to adventure.) As we lift away the clinging layers of crust, we find lost toothbrushes and orthodontic appliances. Around us, a haze forms in the air similar to the atmosphere of the planet, Uranus, which combines methane and bleach in deadly proportions. In other words, time to flush again. Reposition mask if you feel at all faint.

Patches of floor are now visible, but do not be fooled into carelessness. Floor scum can be slicker than spit or stickier than an ill-aimed wad of gum beside the trash can. And speaking of which...

Time to look behind the curtain. Somewhere in the background, the theme music to 'Psycho' is playing... the veil parts and... try to contain yourself. The opaque pool of slime stems from the pit of despair, or clogged drain in layman's terms. Before tackling drain, be sure to sanitize a kneeling place along the floor, lest alien life forms (hereafter called Frank) cling to your clothing and spread to other regions of the habitation. When Frank is neutralized, utilize screwdriver and any other necessary tool to remove drain cover and begin plucking the long strings of blockage from drain. To effectively de-hair the pit of despair, tweezers or pliers, or both (along with good old fashioned elbow grease) will necessitate a two handed battle of tug-of-war to free all that is good and decent in the world. Or drain the tub, at least.

Hang tough, adventurers, we're almost finished. Remember to flush and repeat.

All that remains of the hard stuff lies in wait around the sink. Somewhere beneath a hardened shell of hair and body spray, amid the forest of unclaimed tooth and hair brushes, facial medications and herbal remedies, a pair of handles bearing 'H' and 'C' operate the indoor water supply. Frank is all over them. Be sure to spray thoroughly. If time is an issue, and if the full-body cleaning area has been detoxified, everything surrounding the upper-body cleansing station can be temporarily re-deposited to the tub. This allows proper scraping, spraying, and wiping of entire sink surface.

The cleanliness of our b.s. now compares to the public facilities of the corner gas station. Those of you who wish to quit, are justified in doing so at this time. The rest of you, gear up for an arm and leg workout as we spray the entire room down with cleanser--paying special attention to areas at and below waist level--and wipe with clean paper towels.

If, when you emerge from this arduous task, light-headed and giddy, a juvenile biped approaches with his legs crossed and panic in his eyes, you must decide whether to admit him or not.

I wouldn't. Looks like a Frank.

Date Night

2010-01-09T05:45:00.000-08:00

It is a rare and wondrous thing, going on a date, something that requires the careful forgetting of everything I am supposed to be doing in order to disappear for a few hours and enjoy myself. Not that sitting at home doing the dishes isn't fun, but... well, the occasional dinner not fixed my me and a movie I haven't already seen ten thousand times are kind of special.

The way it begins is standing around in the kitchen, cooking slop for the masses. The elusive date partner happens to be nearby and the topic of what to do for the evening comes up (he brought it up, not me. For some reason, I don't wonder what I'm going to do each night because I'm always doing it.) The subject of movies comes out, along with a couple of titles playing in theaters that I actually want to see--Hollywood makes a few of those every now and again.

"Will you go?" he asks, to which I reply yes, after checking the clock. It's 5:30.

By six, I've fed the hungry, clothed the naked, and left specific instructions with the sitter, who (much to her dismay) happens to be my first-born. Out we go, into the frigid night. I'm not exactly dressed for a night out, or to be seen for that matter, but I'm smiling insanely any way. In the car, the discussion turns to which theater we will visit. X is closer, but Y's movie begins sooner... blah, blah, blah. I don't care, so long as we get there before the movie begins. The atmosphere is in no way romantic as we discuss bills, dental appointments, and other mundane aspects of life. But we're holding hands, so cover your eyes.

The details following are neither exciting nor important. Suffice it to say, we saw a great movie, had a good time, and drove home safely several hours later. At 10:30, we pull into the driveway. The house is still there--always a good sign. All the lights are on, but there are no police or rescue vehicles, so the night is a success. Inside, children are running like mad, shrieking for joy (don't know why) except for the one who, for no reason, became ill the moment I left the house. Go figure. The baby's diaper has not been changed, his pajamas are soaked through. The bathroom shows evidence of sickly visits, and all the unsickly are crawling out of the woodwork to express their joy at my return, their dismay at not being taken along, their complaints of what happened in my absence (so and so did such and such). The babysitter is surfing the web, oblivious to all.

I hear none of them in the din, but head for the kitchen to put away food and perform necessary prep work for the cleaning that will consume most of the next day, and the next, and on and on for probably a week. The magic words of 'Go to bed' ring from my mouth, and peace settles over the world once again. Some time later, as I fall into bed, I think I muttered my gratitude for the short reprieve from 'mommy', but it was probably so softly that nobody heard.

So, once again, for the record: Thank you, honey. Are you free tonight?

Thrillseekers: Beware!

2010-01-05T06:08:00.000-08:00

Because there are no thrills to be found here. Big, dramatic sigh. I wish I had something better to say than, "I'm cleaning my house and working on edits," but that is the sad truth. I like working on edits, don't like cleaning the house, and both need doing, so, which do you suppose will get more attention today?

Those who guessed 'the two-year-old' guessed correctly.

However, for your entertainment today, I am posting the first chapter of my YA fantasy, THE CURSE, which has been rewritten from the original. Constructive criticism is always appreciated, so if you have any, please comment.

[post removed by author}

Resolution Revolution

2010-01-01T06:11:00.000-08:00

It's that time of year again, and I'd like to start out the ol' blog by wishing my friends a hearty Happy New Year. So many are trying to get published, and so many deserve it, let's hope to see a few dreams come true this year.

As for the other business at hand, tradition dictates that a resolution be made at the beginning of every year, preferably something that will improve one's life in some way. Soooo.... while I could easily throw out something that makes me look good (or not) that would have happened any way: I resolve to continue writing at any cost, love my children, become a bigger pain in the butt: those things don't count.

I've been thinking about making a goal to read 100 books during the course of the year, but I'm not sure if I could actually reach that goal without it cutting in my write time. I'm terribly obsessive about stupid things, like any time I 'resolve' to clean a particular room in my house and the absentee persons who keep stuff in said room aren't available to comment on whether their stuff is useless trash or terribly important and should not have gone to the dump... well, perhaps you see my meaning. If I were to resolve never to shower until after I've done my 30-minutes of exercise each day... ahem, (yeah, I've been there, too)... didn't last long.

If I make an impossible resolution, I'm sure to fail, and failure never made anyone feel better except if a valuable lesson is learned. And even then, you're not happy about failing. Lessons learned are like the booby prize, the 'I participated' certificate that they give all the 'losers' at the science fairs, and I'm not aiming for mediocrity, here. I've got my eye on the BIG banana, luscious and golden, just get me a ladder...

So, there is an art to making resolutions. It must be something worthwhile, or why bother. It must be attainable, or you're certain to fail. But it must also be HARD. Why? Because nothing gained without blood, sweat, and tears (or an equal amount of less-messy effort) can retain a significant value long enough to satisfy that horrible craving we have to be challenged.

Considering all this, I must be very careful in my wording of this year's resolution, most especially since I'm putting it out here for all the world to see. Here goes:

On this first day of January, in the year of our Lord 2010, I hereby resolve to read no less than fifty-two (52) new books that may or may not improve my mind. I resolve to finish at least one of my book projects and collect at least thirty rejections or one acceptance for my work. I resolve to have my entire house clean for at least one day (24 consecutive hours) during the course of the year. I will make each of my children something special for their birthdays. The rest is blah, blah... diet, exercise, play with friends, etc..

There it is, out in print so I can't change my mind. I will not come back and edit this post, though I may make derisive comments about it later. Cleaning the house may require duct tape, but I'll be sure to let you know.

The Way We Are; The Way We Were

2009-12-27T06:54:00.000-08:00

My next letter to Santa is going to read "Dear Santa, Thank you so much for granting my wishes. With waffles and chocolate abounding, I'd like to give you a gift in return. Please accept ten pounds on my behalf, available at your earliest possible convenience. With love, Fat Me."

Alright, I know what you will say. I have friends both thinner and wider than myself and their weight does not affect my love and appreciation for them. I know this is true in reverse, that my friends will not think less of me for being a chocolate waffle pig whose fly doesn't quite reach the button. If my opinion of me is affected, however, I should hope that they understand that it may not be a case that requires sympathy, flowers, or a good talking to.

In light of the coming new year and all those dreadful resolutions we bandy about like paper swords, I'd like to take a moment to reflect on why my almost-but-not-quite single digit pant size should vex me so greatly, if indeed it vexes me at all. There are days when I rather like myself.

First, a story: Once there was an almost normal little girl with two sisters older, one younger, and an increasing number of little brothers as the years rolled by. Mother was pregnant, Father worked long hours, and home was a crowded place where beds and toys met from one wall to the next. Sometimes the girl enjoyed playing with her sisters and dressing up her brothers as more sisters, but more often than not, the siblings did not get along.

Mother was too tired to stop the fighting, Father was too busy by day's end to be diplomatic, and like the old woman who lived in the shoe (not the gentle version of the story) the naughty children were whipped soundly and sent to bed. For many reasons that could possibly fill the pages of a psychology text, the fighting between the children only worsened over time. Now, either because her bone structure was larger than that of her sisters' or because she grew faster than they (or both), the almost normal girl was constantly teased for her physical appearance. Her name rhymed with belly and she was called fat.

It did not matter that the girl was not fat, or that doctors (in the rare occasion she would see one) thought she was oh-so-petite. Every day she looked at her twig-thin sisters and listened to their horrid teasing and knew that Mother's words of comfort and assurance were spoken because that was what mothers were supposed to do. Father, on the other hand, wished that his third daughter had been born a boy, and even said as much to her. Sometimes when she was alone, she cried for no reason. When she looked in the mirror, she was sad.

Looking at such a tale, one can see a recipe for disaster in the making. Throw in a little family tragedy with her coming adolescence, the cruelty of the world and her inescapable poverty and ... well, you get the picture. Not pretty.

Much of who we are is determined by our upbringing. The proverb says that if you train a child in the way he should go, when he(she) is old he(she) will not turn from it. But we also know that as beings of free will, we sometimes veer from the path on which our parents set us. Considering the number of poorly trained children in each state alone, we should definitely be thankful for that ability to choose.

Events of my childhood affect the way I view myself, but that alone cannot ruin the rest of my life or rob me of happiness. Time and education, friends and a loving husband have helped me to alter my erroneous childhood notions of self worth. So why do I persist in dieting? I could just say I dislike the wobbling lower regions of my person, but let's dig deeper, shall we? I have a tendency toward depression, something (I believe) is as genetic as height and hair color, and equally part of who I am. I might dye my hair, or put on heels, but such superficial things won't change my inner makeup. I can be very pretty and still be depressed.

Consider: two people start smoking at the age of thirteen. Ten years later, with a pack a day habit, they each decide they want to quit. The first succeeds, cold turkey. The second tries and fails, tries and fails, dozens of times over before finally giving up and smoking the rest of his short life and dying from lung cancer. The same could be illustrated if both smokers did not try to quit, but one died of cancer at the age of 38 while the other lived to be 65. Why would one smoker die young and the other not, if they both smoked an equal number of cigarettes daily and lived, otherwise, healthy lifestyles? Why can one person quit cold turkey while another struggles and struggles, never to conquer?

The answer is genetic. I may well be one of those that could never kick the smoking habit, or I may be pre-wired to alcoholism. Since I neither smoke nor drink, I'll never know, but that's not the point. The point is, we all have some weakness, be it physical, or psychological, something as obvious as a missing hand, or as hidden as a tortured past. We have pain in our lives, so what are we going to do about it? I could take medication to manage my depression, they've got a drug for all occasions these days, but I don't believe it is necessary. In no way am I advocating against prescription drugs, there are those that do need medical assistance, therapy, or a doctor's care. I manage alright with diet, exercise, and spiritual assistance (prayer and church attendance).

My methods of personal management might not work for everyone, but for me, the material point is that I am doing something to help myself, working (notice the active verb) to improve, achieve, and maintain a level of happiness, or at the very least, sanity in my life. The smoker that tries to quit is better off than the one that does not. If he should still die of cancer, at least he died trying to live.

Back to me and the millions of people who might resolve this January to get fit and eat right, try not to make assumptions that your skinny neighbor has no reason to want to take off a few pounds, or that the round one should. Good health is always a good idea and can start with walking down the street each day or trading a healthy snack for an unhealthy one, quitting a bad habit or cultivating a good one. The act of reaching for a goal (make it reasonable) brings happiness, and we, the imperfect inhabitants of Earth, should all strive to improve.

Official Rambling Disclaimer

2009-12-24T19:18:00.000-08:00

I find that it is requisite, on occasion, that I should tell people my views, officially, lest there be any confusion. Despite anything that I have said or will say prior to or following today's blog, I would very simply like to state that I love my family. Yes, that includes the kids. There are ten days left to the Christmas.. strike that... holiday break and I intend to survive them all. Breathe.

This is the best Christmas ever! I am totally stoked! And I will repent of any and all lies right after the typing is finished. Not that I've told any. Yet. Or can you tell? Is my nose growing?

On with it... I am not selfless. No matter what anybody else might say, my worlds within worlds revolve around yours truly. There are times when I think of others, friends, sickly younglings, fuzzy kittens (they count) but mostly I'm in it for myself. I make dinner 'cause I'm hungry. I wash clothes because somebody (no names, please) reeks to high heaven and needs access to freshness. When I clean a room, you can bet that it's because I wanted to remember what the floor looked like.

Yes, I'm insidiously selfish and deserve no praise. My fingernails are long from laying about doing nothing day after day. I won't wash the dog. I lack sympathy for whiners and execute punishment, very often, without sufficient proof of crime. But only if I feel like it.

The laundry is awaiting my selfish desire to find a particular article of clothing. The dishes wait for my needing a clean cup. It's all good.

Glad I got it off my chest. Now everyone knows. I've neglected my blog for lack of brain activity, but my friends will understand. That is, unless they are like me. But here's the post, horrible in its brevity, lacking in direction, and pitifully void of proper humor.

But that's it. I feel better. Don't you?

MISSION (IM)POSSIBLE

2009-12-14T12:48:00.000-08:00

Meet the Putman children: the two girls (ages 15 and 9) are fairly self-motivated and will do almost anything you ask. The four boys, a rowdy and quarrelsome lot ranging in age from 14-2, will do almost nothing without the threat of death hanging over them, and even then it's a toss-up.

Your mission, should you choose to accept, is to transport all six children, clean and comely, across the county (a 25-30 minute drive) to church services without killing anyone and maintaining a spirit of love.

Your team: God will be with you, other than that, you're on your own, sucker.

The day begins at dawn. Grab a shower before the hot water runs out. It is an unwritten rule that any preparations supposed to be done on Saturday, will still need doing on Sunday morning. Dress in casual clothing until after meals, otherwise they will be spoiled. Feed the little ones (already up and running in circles) and try to remember that Sunday is the perfect time for family togetherness and big breakfasts, waffles, pancakes, eggs and sausages. You can watch them eat it while sucking down a diet shake.

After breakfast, corner the first stray child you find and order them to bathe. Wash dishes before the teetering pile of syrupy, eggy plates and cups ends up across the floor. Grab the next wandering child and order them to bathe. Hunt down the baby and change his diaper, it's probably leaking down his legs by now, and he'll still insist it doesn't need changing. When you've finished wrestling with the obstinate one, stripped him down and cleaned him off, carry him kicking and screaming up the stairs to take a bath (it will be empty because nobody has actually obeyed your order. Yet.)

The bathroom will be a disgusting mess. Exercise all your powers of restraint and do NOT clean it. The only exception to this rule is if the air is completely unbreathable, only then may a preliminary cleaning be done. Baby will cry and complain until it is time to get out. By then, he will be happy and splashing and never want to leave. If, during the course of littlest child's bath, a dirty six-year-old happens by, accost him at once. Repeat washing.

Once the actual washing is finished, settle down with a good book and wait for the water to turn cold. However, if time is running short, more wrestling will be required. Take care, they're slippery, have towels handy. They will shiver and complain for 1.3 minutes before throwing off the towels and running naked through the house. Catch them if you can.

Fast forward... the four youngest are washed and dressed and ready to go. Time to wake the teens. Be sure to do this at least one (1) hour prior to departure time as it will take that long for them to ready themselves. Prepare snacks, toys, blankets, and other necessary church items. Locate matching shoes for each set of feet. Don't forget to dress yourself, shaving is not required (that's why God gave us long skirts) and make-up is only necessary if you don't want everyone at church inquiring after your state of mind.

Fifteen minutes before actual departure time, tell everyone it is time to leave. It will take at least fifteen minutes for them all to 1) believe you really mean it, 2) find the coats and shoes you've laid out for them, and 3) shove as much contraband into their mouths and pockets as possible before that long, LONG drive. Outside, since you've forgotten to warm up the car, you will either freeze for an additional ten minutes or discover that a window was left open all night while a thunderstorm rolled through (or both). The ultra-hated demon dog, who happens to fear thunderstorms above all else, will have leapt in through the open window to sleep in the comfort and security of your (now wet and doggy-smelling) car. Try not to kill the dog.

Strap all little people into appropriate, cumbersome seats, sandwiched between towels and blankets. You're almost there. Two minutes down the road, somebody is touching so-and-so. "Please stop touching your brother/sister." Repeat every two minutes. Halfway there, little Houdini has escaped his car-seat; the entire back seat is in an uproar; at least three of the six are fighting over the one Game-boy DS while poking/prodding/teasing whoever is seated next to them, and the oldest teen is fiddling with the volume control on the radio while simultaneously listening to whatever is playing on her i-pod.

Just remember that these tribulations shall be but a moment, and with God, all things are possible. Grit your teeth and keep driving.

To Be Determined...

2009-12-08T18:35:00.000-08:00

I wonder what would happen if I didn't procrastinate like I do. Would I have hand-made quilts on each of the beds in my house, or get the Christmas lights and decorations up while it still mattered? Maybe. Or maybe I'd have a beautifully organized house that really could fit eight people comfortably. I bet I could figure out a way to balance my budget, cook healthy meals each night, and still have time for writing. And then I'd make room for getting involved with my community, volunteering at the schools, participating in fund drives, and letting my voice be heard by contacting my local leaders and representatives...

Just imagine what could come of my life if I didn't put off all those great things. Why, I'd get that education every one's always talking about, the kind that comes with a fancy-printout on high quality paper that says you know more than certain paper-less folks. Why, then I could get a job where people actually want to hear what I have to say, where I collect monetary reimbursement for the time I've put in. My name would be known, because I'd be putting it out there for all to see. Yes, I could be something.

But then I have to wonder what's holding me back. Kids? Money? Motivation? Certainly, being Mom comes first, and always will. Back when time moved slower and I had to choose where my life went, I chose being Mother over college. I'm not sorry. As for money, well there's never any money, but it's never stopped me. There are definitely ways of working around the greenback dilemma, as proven by the historical accounts of hundreds of underdogs. America sure loves the underdog. And then there's motivation...

Ah, yes. What makes me tick? What motivates me? Slap me into the shrink's chair and come back in a few months, because some days I haven't a clue. But I'm willing to bet that if I really wanted a clean house, I'd have one. If I really want stroganoff or chicken salad for dinner, I make it. In all fairness, I have to say that even though I would like to be more involved in my community, I have other commitments that take precedence. What spare time is left after basic cooking, cleaning, diaper changing, busing, shopping, and the loving and tending of my brood is rather precious. As much as I'd like to do it all and be that Super Mom, one: I know it's impossible, so why burn myself into dross trying to prove otherwise? and two: my heart pulls me toward (have you guessed?) writing.

Over the years, my hobbies have hopped between reading, sewing, cross-stitching, exercising, gardening, painting, home remodeling and decorating, and other odd schemes of self-improvement. Some of those projects are tucked away, half done and waiting for that spark of interest to reignite. Perhaps writing is a phase I shall pass through gracefully and move on to better things, but I doubt it. However, if I could see the future, I'd be rich already. Deep in my bones, I feel there's something more challenging about writing than in anything else. Not that I ever conquered gardening, as the state of my yard can attest, but the difficulty of arranging ideas and feelings into words in such a way that others can feel and hear and see what I do, is just so tremendous and thrilling to me that I believe I shall love it forever. It is more than simply telling a story, or making a point, more than falling in love or painting a picture. It is all of this and more, a journey of mind and spirit, an energy that passes from my mind to another through the medium of typed characters arranged on a page. It is Magic.

So, as to my potential and all that crap about greatness, if I can't do it between 8 and 11 with a pen, paper, or computer word program, it will just have to wait. Because I'm busy.

Dear Santa,

2009-12-06T04:32:00.000-08:00

I haven't been particularly good this year, but seeing as you like to spoil children who couldn't possibly be any better than poor little me, I figured I still had a shot. First and foremost, I'd like to remind you what I must put up with so that you'll understand my goodness (it's all about perspective, you see).

Number one is approaching sixteen and talks of nothing but driving and dating, with which neither am I entirely comfortable, but I have managed to not lock her in her room or disgrace her in front of her friends. A good deed if ever there was one.

Number two has made excellent progress over the years, even in the face of teen-age hormones. I drive him to school every day and take him to the library on a regular basis (though I must draw the line at letting him live at Borders). I allow him turns on the computer (a big deal, believe you me!), and the fact that he has not turned into a homicidal maniac shows a great deal of effort in the mother department, does it not?

Number three is hyper-active and moody and must be hitting puberty rather early, which is entirely unfair, but do you hear me complaining? Have I beat him senseless? No. This should prove something. He may yet turn out well, but I will hold judgement until after he turns eighteen. There was the incident with the broken dining room table, but I've already apologized for that.

Four has tyrannical tendencies that I've done all in power to squash. She is mostly good, though slightly annoying, and gets very good grades. I know, I had nothing to do with it, but cut me a break, would ya?

Five... well, sure I love him, too. Yes I do. I can still talk, which means I have not screamed myself hoarse in the face of number five. He has not banned me from his room, even though I make him bathe, so that MUST mean he forgives me... you can follow his example and cut me a little slack.

Six is trying to kill me, and himself, I'd wager. The high speed pencil up my nose, if you'll recall, and multiple beatings with pencil-swords, Lego-swords, stick-swords, and other types of swords--balls and other toys thrown at my person, and multiple acts of two-year-old violence have not yet induced more than an occasional growl on my part. While I cannot claim sole responsibility for keeping him alive--the dresser he scaled did not crush him when it fell, the passing driver did not kidnap him as he wandered down the street unsupervised, and the big knife he pulled from the dishwasher to wave around like a (you guessed it,sword!) killed and cut no one--there are countless other disasters I've helped to prevent...

Perhaps, in light of all my goodness, you can overlook my evil tendencies and selfish hiding of the good chocolates. I do keep The Horde in relatively clean condition, fed and watered and moderately well dressed. The winter vermin infestation is not my fault. And if I let the cats play with the mice I catch in the live-trap, is that so bad? What I ask for is a very small miracle, the kind that would not put you out in the least... I've already petitioned God for the big stuff, so maybe you can get this while he finds me fortune and glory... I would really like a quicker way to make those carrot muffin waffles.

P.S.-- Godivas are good, too.

Thanks

2009-11-30T05:17:00.000-08:00

Well, it's been over a week since my last post. Contrary to popular belief, I did not fall off the face of the Earth... only my brain did.

Thanksgiving was a trial, but one that I have survived yet again. I live and breathe to serve out turkey and potatoes another day (hopefully before the turkey turns to rubber, or grows strong enough to leave the refrigerator under its own volition). At the beginning of Thanksgiving week, I had intended to create a long list of all the things I was thankful for, the kind of list that included running water, mouse traps, heat, working lawnmowers, and the like, but as the big day approached, my thoughts pulled farther and farther away from gratitude and my sanity became slicker than a salted slug. --but let's not go there. The past is past, trampled and hashed and still stinking... let it die.

On the same note, considering that tomorrow brings a new month, and the ushering in of the Christmas season (which actually started around the middle of October, according to the retail establishments I frequent), I will also try not to worry too much on the future and the inevitable stress that awaits--disguised as festive goodies wrapped in paper and bows. Perhaps I'll just hide the scale until after Valentine's Day. My tree is up, and that is truly saying something, because I have learned how to make someone else do the work! Someone else is shopping, too, though I don't think old St. Nick will be delivering that heavy-duty-all-purpose-babysitter/cook/housekeeper/disaster management specialist that I've secretly been wishing for. Oh well.

Writing and prayers have buoyed me up once more. Lots of both, and I'm rather pleased with the amount of progress my novel has made in a week's time. I will continue to work on my list, even if it never makes it out on paper. In the meantime, I can definitely say that on this, glorious Monday, with the bulk of my little blessings back in school, I am very much thankful for today.

Still Loading

2009-11-18T19:22:00.000-08:00

There once was an old saying about work that went, "You load sixteen tons and what do you get? Another day older and deeper in debt."

Some of you young'ns might be thinking 'What in the hay is that supposed to mean?' Well, I'll tell you... it's all about laundry. Yes, laundry, where the loads might as well be measured in tons according to my joints. It is the never-ending chore that, regardless of how many loads you wash today, there will still be as much to dry and fold and then put away tomorrow or the next day for as long as you are willing to drag it out. And by the time you reach that supposed ending point, when the last pair of socks is matched up and tucked away, but before the latch catches on the laundry room door, you can turn around to find that all the hampers are full and the underwear drawers are empty.

Get to it! Wash, dry, fold, repeat. Depending on the size of a family and each person's individual fondness for clothing (girls), neurotic bathing habits (no one in my house), and gender (I've heard of neat boys, but never met one), you might do anywhere from four (do you live in those?) to ten (average) and well on close to sixteen or more (Mount Saint Smellin) loads a week.

It's all well and good, a necessary evil to satisfy one's sense of cleanliness, godliness, or just plain don't-want-to-stink-ness, but beyond the eternal nature of laundry, the really sad part is that no appreciation comes out of accomplishing this task. Thank yous fall like a drop of dew on a shriveled vine; payment comes in the form of forgotten coins out of unemptied pockets, along with pens, important (and now useless) papers, and EW! what was that?

Those seeking more substantial gratitude or a Christmas bonus must first determine if they are qualified. Have you been married for over twenty years? Have all your children grown up and left home to fend for themselves in the world? Have you died and gone to heaven? Participants must answer yes to all questions in order to qualify. Whether you have or have not trained each member of your troop (including the one close to your age) how to deposit their soiled articles into a bio hazard recycling receptacle has no bearing on the matter--stick to training dogs; it's easier, they remember longer, and it looks better on a resume. Whether you have other duties besides mountain climbing and divining lights from darks has no bearing, the ability to juggle only impresses clowns and elementary-aged children.

No matter how many urine-soaked sheets you strip off of the same beds, in the same week... no matter how many socks you can miraculously change from mud-brown to white and match again to similarly ill-treated footwear, the only words you will hear concerning this labor is when you have neglected it and the clean supplies of clothing, towels, and sheets run dry (or wet, as the case may be).

But don't be discouraged, and don't presume to cease washing, wiping, cooking, vacuuming, or working in general, lest the world as we know it come to a screeching halt. If you want a pat on the back, stretch, bend, and work that elbow. It's good exercise and you've put in another fine day of work.

Just remember, after you've loaded your sixteen tons, aged a day and earned no pay, it is now time to fulfill the other end of the adage and go shopping. Alone.

The Homeland Adventure Channel

2009-11-13T17:22:00.000-08:00

This week's episode:

Gourmet Cooking for the Destitute

Welcome all you hungry adventurers. We're going to have a great show. Today's menu has been determined by the ingredients already available in the house and by whatever culinary whims have possessed the chef. Nutritional values have been taken into account as well as the caloric needs of each household member to produce a perfectly tailored balance of protein, carbs and fat that will keep those energy levels exactly where they need to be.

Breakfast: oatmeal, toast and juice

Lunch: garden salad, homemade tomato soup

Snack: carrot sticks & dip, cheddar slices & whole wheat crackers

Dinner: cheesy chicken enchilada, beans and rice

Dessert: fresh baked cookies

Keep in mind that every menu must be flexible, allowing for last minute changes and/or substitutions in case of unforeseeable disasters. But first things first-- we must ready our equipment. This adventure will require the largest pot and pan available in your kitchen, matching lids, a two-quart pitcher, several long-handled spoons, cutting board, knives (preferably sharp), first aid kit and easy access to a fire extinguisher (just in case), an empty sink, plenty of dish washing detergent, at least two square feet of cleared counter space, enough plates, bowls, cups and other eating utensils to satisfy your crowd, a large rectangular baking dish, aprons (optional), towels and washcloths, and an operable kitchen.

Be sure that all your appliances are in good repair, ie. reasonably clean with no exposed wires, jagged edges, or broken hinges. Also, for obvious health reasons make sure that all dishes and utensils are clean before use. We wouldn't want the escaped hamster's leavings to spoil any appetites, would we?

Our next step before beginning is to choose a helper and make assignments for crowd control. We all know what happens when there are too many cooks in the kitchen. After the lottery, or straws, or whatever method decides your helper, wash hands and secure aprons.

Every day should begin with a healthy breakfast, and ours is easy. Have your helper retrieve a tube of frozen juice from the freezer. Remove the lid and place in microwave for one minute. Then, assist your helper in figuring out how much oatmeal and salted water is needed to feed everyone. Mix and cook according to directions on package. Empty thawed O.J. into pitcher and add water. Mix. Depending on the age of your helper, they will either want to do everything with reckless abandon, or need to be directed in every move under heavy threat (and do it as sloppily as the enthused) so keep towels handy. If old enough, have your helper make toast while you stir oatmeal. Wow... it's a good thing we used the big pot... it appears to be growing.

Hmm... according to the directions, it cooks in ten minutes. But it seems a bit on the stiff side, so we'll add a tad more water. A little more. More... there, that's better. I wonder if it needs more salt? Anyway, we have five minutes--plenty of time to cut up those carrot sticks for later.

All right, our carrot sticks are ready, but what is that smell? Gah! A great gooey blob is crawling out of the pot! Quick, stab it with a spoon and turn off the stove. Never fear, it did not burn and appears to be edible, though extremely elastic. After cutting out equal portions for each of our guinea pigs... ahhhh, I mean children (none for me thanks, I'm on a new, low slime diet) there appears to be enough left over to last the rest of the week. No matter, I believe oatmeal keeps well in the refrigerator.

With breakfast laid out, we can retrieve chicken from the freezer to thaw for dinner and then get started on the soup--an easy recipe using onions, tomato paste, and milk. Hey, where'd the kids go? That was fast. All the toast is gone, juice too, but... it seems they were too much in a hurry to finish their oatmeal. Not hungry? So they say. No matter. This is where the flexible menu comes into play. Just cross off soup and replace with oatmeal.

Lunch is over. The salad was a huge success, though our helper has resigned. Strangely, the oatmeal supply does not seem to have diminished even though I've left some on the floor for the dog. Hmmm... haven't seen that dog since. It would seem the menu needs to be as flexible as the oatmeal, else we will never again see the bottom of that pot, or the dog.

After trying to push oatmeal off as a dip for carrots and a spread for crackers, the troops are ready to mutiny. The chicken is already cut and the bread is mysteriously vanishing out of the bag. We are running out of time. In the name of all that is nutritious, the oatmeal must be eaten! But remember, the successful miser is a flexible miser! Time to pull out the big guns: brown sugar and butter. With a little flour and some eggs, we can still salvage the situation.

When the diners march in with grumbling bellies and wrinkled noses, suspicion all over their faces, we happily announce that if they eat their chicken and rice, they can have cookies. {ahem... oatmeal cookies, that is}

I win.

Trade-in

2009-11-11T06:24:00.000-08:00

I was just looking at that very cute little MG convertable over there... yes, the red one. It's how much? Well, I do have a trade in. Yeah, that teal mini-van. Yes, the one with the faded paint and multiple scratches. Careful with the luggage rack, we lost one of the screws. (An incident involving plywood and bungee cords. You do not want to know.) The year? Oh, it's a '98... no, a '97... I forget. Sorry.

What's wrong with it? Nothing, really. It just keeps going and going. I get the oil changed religiously and take very good care of it. Well, yes, I do have children. No, those are just finger marks, maybe some lip marks, too-- but they wipe right off. And the stickers... any old window scraper will take care of them. That dent is from a rock, it only chipped a little, and the rust is minimal. The dent in the back? Well the trailer came unhitched once, and slammed into the back of the car when we slowed down. Yeah, that's where the gash in the bumper came from. That little groove along the side is from a bike that didn't have any rubber grips left on the handlebars.

This side door sometimes gets stuck. The interior panel is loose since that time my son threw up all over the door. We had to take the whole door apart to clean it out. Never did go back together right. Oh, and the child lock is stuck on. I don't know what happened there. Maybe your mechanics can figure it out. The upholstery is still in good condition. The middle seats come out easily and there are lots of cup holders--except that one. Yeah, it broke off. Paint? No that's... oh, yes. I remember, now. That's the blue nail polish my daughter spilled about seven years ago. You might be able to get it up. I couldn't. And that spot? Um... that was there when I bought the car. I have no idea. Of course I didn't buy it new. Do I look like the type of person who could afford a new car?

Sure, start it right up. --I'm no mechanic, but if you just let the car warm up a bit, it stops doing that. That squealing is only a loose belt, it always does that. A little spray lubricant will stop it. Check engine light? Oh, it's nothing. The sensors are just getting the wrong readings because of the holes in the gas tank. Didn't I? Sorry, it slipped my mind. But they're at the top of the tank. That's not nearly so bad as if they were at the bottom. If you just wait for the gas light to come on, you can refuel with 17.5 gallons (any more than that and it spills out, so be sure to watch the meter).

The windshield wipers are a little old, I guess. Minor maintenance. The wiper fluid sprayer doesn't work on the driver's side... probably just clogged, or disconnected. No big deal. Yes, the cruise control does work. Oh, the visor? Yes, the driver's side visor broke off last year. It shouldn't be hard to get a hold of a replacement. Yeah, the side mirror is cracked, but it won't fall off. It's been like that for nine years. That doohickey is a security device installed by the last dealer. If that little key piece comes out, the car won't start. Yeah, it's happened to me, called a tow truck and everything. THAT was embarrassing.

That's the wiring for a six-disk CD changer we had installed when we bought the car, but it stopped working years ago. It's at home somewhere. You don't want it? Oh. But the radio works. Most of the speakers are good-- enough.

Ah, the rear windows won't open... I think the motors wore out, and the rear blower only works on occasions (but it's not the motor--there's a short in the wiring somewhere between the front control panel and the rear one). Oh, and the driver's side window needs some work as well. Yeah, that's why the panel was removed. We're just waiting for the right time to get that fixed. No, it won't close... I park in the garage. Well, halfway in the garage, on account of the all the junk in my garage. I had to shove it all back to make room. No, it's a really big two-car garage.

That hole in the rear window is where the little window thingy went. You know, that thing that holds open the rear window when you lift it up? Yeah, that. Well, I think my son was swinging from it and it just popped right out. No, I don't have it any more. Sure, there's a spare tire. I only used it once... drove it thirty-five, forty miles... maybe less? It should still be good for a while, don't you think? Oh, and before I forget, that back door doesn't always close up tight. You have to shut it just right, or the door light will come on-- makes me crazy, flicking off and on while I'm driving down the road.

What else? No, there's nothing. Like I said, it's a good car. Oh, the door won't open? Hit the unlock. Try again. There! No, once more. OK, get out, quick! Well, I didn't want to mention that. The locks are possessed. So it's good that the window won't shut. At least the lock ghost can't catch you without your keys (that's happened to me). Why once, I was just finishing loading in the groceries and shut the door, and that darned ghost locked the car up with my keys and groceries and baby all trapped on the inside. What a mess that was! I had to leave my baby out in the parking lot on his own while I fetched security, and they called the fire department (who only came because there was a child involved) and they took their sweet time getting there, too.

No, I'm only looking for a prettier car. You won't take it? Really? Why not?

The Demon

2009-11-06T16:34:00.000-08:00

As promised, I've prepared this little poem for my demon. Yes, ANOTHER poem. So I like poetry; it keeps my brain limber. Some people like opera. Whatever.

As I pick up my notes and assemble my thoughts for novel #3, I will try to keep my beloved blog afloat with amusing nonsense and whatever leftovers I can't squeeze into saleable literature. This space is something of a reader's meatloaf. Just add ketchup and we're good.

From the edge of the road, I watched as he passed.
A specter, too dark to be real.
The daylight slipped quickly into something else
and empty was all I could feel
His image burned blackness straight into my heart,
through eyes that reflected like glass.
The folded up wings harbored terror and dreams,
heartache and panic so brash.

The demon is watching. He is out there.
I must hide or he's going to see.
The demon is moving, gets closer.
He is here. He is coming for me.
An angel of darkness consumes me
with a hunger I cannot evade;
a gnawing, tight clawing that eats up
what shelter of peace I have made.

So hide, run away
move faster, do not stay.
Flee, step aside,
hasten, you must fly
for the demon is coming,
is coming,
the demon inside.

The pavement beat hot on my footsteps across;
escape on atonements of wax.
A candle is lit, but Hell's gates opened wide
as I ran and I fell, far and fast.
He was lurking and leaning and hungering for me,
poison-strung words he did spew.
Needles of teeth sought a vein he could steal,
in a place where he killed what was true.

Destruction he brings on each wingtip
spreading wide as they crowd out the sky.
Fight. I must win against blackness
a battle from which I can't hide.
Rage feeds the evil that dooms me,
quietly turning my heart.
Stone is the cold I'm becoming
when the stillness in nothing departs.

So stand, make him pay
he can't win in the day
If you fight and decide
that the demon is a lie.
When the demon is living,
is living,
the demon inside.

Unchanged Melody

2009-11-04T06:15:00.000-08:00

I've been reluctant to post anything lately. Perhaps because I am uninspired, or because nothing new and exciting has occurred. Maybe I am suffering from pre-holiday stress (it only gets worse). Anyway, I have the same old rejections showing up in my mail, the same old car breaking down in my driveway, the same old bills (steadily increasing in amounts as the months roll by). Oh, sigh. It's enough to make one want to go shopping.

Then there's the demon. Ever skirting my periphery and at the edge of my thoughts, he keeps coming by to haunt me. The sacrificial poem for the demon isn't ready yet. Another thing to work on. Until then, keep running, says I. Demons are slow---Wow, that reminds me of the tortoise and the hare. Except that would make me the hare, and we all know what happened to the hare... Never mind. I will rewrite THAT story as well. Just put it on my to-do list. Right under 'pull weeds and clean out flowerbeds.'

But, Halloween is over, the queen is gone, and I promised that I'd get back to writing. The voices are ever chanting in my head of what needs to be portrayed. The vision is bright; the plot is twisted, but clear. All I need to do is put the pen to the page and write.... right after I finish reading the latest Vampire Academy.

The Homeland Adventure Channel

2009-10-27T11:05:00.000-07:00

WELCOME

Today's episode: Spelunking for Amateurs.

We will explore the deep and dark domain of the homosaphieus-teen, an immature breed of the biped species rarely seen during the daylight hours.

Before we set out on our grand adventure, we must make necessary preparations. Collect and inspect your gear before each excursion, you never know when it may save your life. Today we will require several laundry baskets and garbage bags (be sure they are empty!), a vacuum cleaner, an unused bottle of disinfectant spray and new roll of paper towels, cattle prod (just in case), elbow-length rubber gloves, flashlight and, most important, a commercial grade breathing mask. Cameras are optional, but be sure yours has a working flash.

And we're off! From our beginning place in the living room, we search through hallways and stairwells for signs of our specimen... Oh, we're in luck, a trail of discarded clothing! Picking up each piece leads us to a closed door. Making sure our mask is in place and gloves are on, we spray the handle and wipe it down. Slowly turning the handle, so as not to startle the specimen(s) inside, we find that the door only opens two feet.

Not to worry, we are prepared. Using the cattle prod, we reach around the blocked entrance to chip away at the debris piled up behind the door. After twenty minutes of arduous labor, the door swings free and we can enter. The scene is amazing! Shedded heaps of laundry cover every surface, overdue library books and school papers mixed in. Towels are hung over the closed drapes to keep out the dreaded sun and empty bottles and cans line the bookshelf. Somewhere, there is a closet... we must keep an eye out for it.

As we begin stuffing our baskets and bags, we come across several treasures long forgotten. So that's where my $140 cashmere sweater disappeared to. Ugh. A stapler, three cups, a plate, spoon and fork, two dozen pens and pencils, a whole ream of copy paper (ruined), the coat that nobody could find so I had to go out and buy another one, and... oh, please no! It's Bitsy, my last surviving doll from childhood--her body is missing.

It takes several hours of clearing away clothes and garbage, empty snack wrappers, dried out glue bottles and sticky lollipop sticks, before we find the specimen's sleep nest. Every spare pillow and blanket not already claimed (and some that were) lay heaped upon the surface. As we peel back the layers (cattle prod at the ready), we are relieved to find no bodies, living or dead. However, the final layer before reaching the mattress is a sheet worn so thin with heat and body oils, drool and whatnot, that it only comes off in pieces. We are careful to remove every bit before dousing the mattress with Lysol.

Bed cleared, we now have access to the heavily shrouded windows, and waste no time in throwing back the curtains. Sunlight streams into the cave, lighting up the dark shadows in the corners. A hiss comes from the far side of the room. Stand back!

A three-foot mound on the floor begins pulsating. With the cattle prod in one hand and Lysol in the other, we wait. A hand emerges, followed by a head and more hissing. The creature rises, angry and squinting...

"Mom! What are you doing?"

Certifiable

2009-10-22T05:42:00.000-07:00

I am certifiable
I’ve never been reliable
so it should come as no surprise
to have this paper meet my eyes
that states in letters bold and blue
the thing that I already knew,
that I am certifiable,
certified a loon.
My memory is just so-so
’cause I don’t think I really know
what test I took so they could tell
that I belong in cuckoo hell,
though questioning it isn't fair
the proof’s in how I fix my hair…
Yes, I am certified a boor,
I cannot be your friend no more
the boys in coats will come for me
they’ll lock me up and eat the key
to keep all safe who wander near,
unknowing of the danger here
’cause I am certifiable,
a loco from the moon.
The paper’s stamped and very clear,
I’ve had it nearly half a year
it took a while to tell you this
they say that ignorance is bliss
but you should know the mess I’m in
I’m headed for the loony bin—
the dishes in the sink need washed,
the laundry’s done, but someone’s lost
the stack of bills (all overdue)
that I had organized for you.
My schedule’s posted in the hall,
the bathroom leaks, the school just called,
we’re out of diapers, call the vet
the dog is sick… and your upset…
I’m sorry, but you understand
the situation’s out of hand
and I belong in Nutleyville
the state will surely foot the bill
’cause papers don’t come every day
that plainly state that you should stay
within a padded quiet room
away from worldly thoughts of doom.
Virginia Institute of Health
Department of the Commonwealth—
I’ve got it here, you see this line?
“This Institute does hereby find
that after testing we declare
your mental state beyond compare.”
The rest, you ask? If you must know,
I haven’t really read it, so…
ummm… “Please come back so we can test
the status of your… genius?

Wait—

The Factory

2009-10-20T06:55:00.000-07:00

Welcome to Putman House

Makers of beautiful babies since 1994

While we specialize in little boys, we have also been known to make an occasional girl. All children come with a limited warranty and are guaranteed to cost more than you will ever make. Presently, we are out of every color of eyes except blue-grey. Hair colors will vary according to age, but will eventually darken/lighten to a solid brown. Infants come with heads comparable to watermelons in only two sizes: medium and large. All babies over 9 1/2 lbs. will be refused. There is a nine month waiting list on all deliveries and an extra 2-3 weeks baking time for lazy and stubborn children. Please note: all deliveries are final. There are no exchanges or refunds.

We pride ourselves in producing children whose IQ levels exceed that of their parents, to constantly confound and amaze their teachers and keep everyone on their toes. Our inquisitive little angels will defy every lock, reach every cookie, and never stop asking for more, become a joy to your life while simultaneously making you feel like a crap parent at least once a week. They will expertly find your last nerve and constantly test its working condition, run you ragged with necessary activities and appointments, and bore you to tears with mindless games and videos. You will laugh, cry, and wish for the ease of blue-collar work. Undoubtedly, you will be loved, hated, and abused. You will be spit on, drooled on, puked on, bit, pinched, hit, peed and pooped on. Do not despair, these things are normal and do not constitute defects.

Predictable flaws: One in six of our children will require glasses, but all will need braces. Be sure to take your child to the dentist regularly for about one half of them will inherit weak teeth and need extensive dental work. They are generally healthy, but check your insurance. Whatever is not covered is sure to be what ails them. In homes with multiple angels, they will either get sick one at a time, or all together (whichever is least convenient to you). Behavioral problems will require a professional. Always know where the gas and water shut-off valves are located and keep fire extinguishers in handy locations on EVERY level of your home. Should a situation arise for which you are unprepared to handle alone, have local emergency numbers programmed into your phone and get to know God. (Knee pads are highly recommended.)

Special note: Despite the guaranteed brilliance of all our children, we cannot promise that he/she won't become another 'gifted under-achiever'. --it's in the genes.

We're sorry, due to failing economic times, and for reasons of sanity,

Putman House baby factory is

CLOSED.

A slice of Time

2009-10-16T15:29:00.001-07:00

Ah, time. A concept created by those who are obsessed with it. With the turning of those vindictive hands, our lives are run by the unseeing face of a clock. It is something we all have and never appreciate, never stop complaining about... too much, too little, too fast, too slow. Time is money, yet no amount of money will buy more of it. It doesn't keep, save, rollover, or wait. The river of time is flowing, ever flowing, and where do we fit in? I'd like to imagine myself leisurly floating along on my solitary innertube (yes, it's summer in the vision), but reality has me in an over-loaded life raft watching the fast approaching falls. Ha ha, women and children first, you say. But where else would I be if not in the churning pit of turmoil?

Sitting on the bank, watching, does not appeal. I can't even enjoy watching sports. Itchy fingers must work, must do!!! Call me ADD if you like, but I'm weird like that. My days are defined by my accomplishments, and even those are hard to recall by the time my head is hitting the hay. Gah! the first sign of aging! What next?

Because I have more than a ticking crocodile chasing after me and (consequently) my time, I'll leave off with a poem I wrote a while back. It fits the subject.

Tick, tock, clock; the rhythm of life never stops.
The journey unceasing, the hands
ever reaching,
the circular motions, likes waves of
the ocean,
are going around till the chime
finally sounds.

Tick, tock, clock; like water that’s spilling,
the hourglass filling,
the cup’s never brimming,
the tired hands spinning,
‘round a face full of wrinkles
and I s with a twinkle.

Tick, tock, clock; the whirling and winding
and spinning is blinding.
The gears are all rusting,
the springs are near busting,
you wind it too tight
and it doesn’t work right.

Tick… tock… stop. A tired antique finally makes
a retreat.
The hands at last quit, the clock
isn’t fit
to give one more chime. It’s all out
of time.

Hope you've enjoyed... Like the white rabbit, I've no time, no time at all.

The ONE the ONLY!!

2009-10-14T14:01:00.000-07:00

ME!

My name is Michal, resurrected from the biblical text (second daughter of Saul, wife of David) so I guess that makes me royal. [ahem] Quiet from the peanut galleries! Anyway, I'm an aspiring writer of young-adult novels, mother, artist, and all-purpose slave. I cook, I clean, I sew, I taxi--but only when I'm not writing, and only when I'm forced. Gardens excite me, shopping's a thrill, but playing God trumps them all. My literary worlds are without end: romance, action, adventure and mystery, fantasy upon fantasy, and plot bunnies multiplying under the bed.

I have two novels under my belt, a half-dozen beginnings to more, and an insistent sequel riding my thoughts. In between my dreams of reality and the nightmare that is, I decide who lives or dies and, let me assure any of my worried fans, none of my children (imagined or otherwise) is being needlessly neglected. All are fed and watered and given their necessary supplements, medications, sedatives, etc... The sequel is being written, the re-writes are on schedule, and dinner, um... I'll have to get back to you on that.

Until later,
MAP

Learning to Love it

Sorry Attempts at Nothing

Trials I Can't Do Without

Alec Trebane and the Toilet of Doom

Hello World

More of my reads

Those First Ten Minutes

Those endless summer days

Reflection

Last Chance for June

A Fab Day with ALA

Books

When the Indentured Play

Blah

Exploits of a Two-Year-Old

Emergency Preparedness

Another week

Ladybug House (philosophies of fiction mingled with truth)

Physics Lesson

A Moment in Time

Hard Knocks

Rain

Spring Fever

No news is no news

MAP Detective Agency

Nothing of Significance

Reading list for January

Exercising Futility

The horrific confessions of a quitaholic

The Homeland Adventure Channel

Date Night

Thrillseekers: Beware!

Resolution Revolution

The Way We Are; The Way We Were

Official Rambling Disclaimer

MISSION (IM)POSSIBLE

To Be Determined...

Dear Santa,

Thanks

Still Loading

The Homeland Adventure Channel

Trade-in

The Demon

Unchanged Melody

The Homeland Adventure Channel

Certifiable

The Factory

A slice of Time

The ONE the ONLY!!