The Write Way Home

Saturday, October 29, 2005

Beep Beep Beep Beep

Imagine this cozy scene:

A chilly autumn morning. A family of six hanging out by a roaring blaze in the hearth. The aroma of freshly brewed Starbucks coffee.

Then, suddenly, the intrusion of our smoke detectors, beeping in mad discord throughout the house. A look of terror on the face of my six-year-old.

Jonathan, curmudgeon-in-training, stomps to the fireplace, brandishing a large stick.

"It's the flue! The flue is closed. It needs to be on this side to be open." He whacks the iron handle to the right. "Who closed the flue?"

Eric is looking sheepish.

"Huh? How did he know which way...? Did I do that?"

"I hate to say this, but please open the front door," I command the nearest child.

"No!" Eric is almost shrieking. "No, it's cold! I'll lose the four degrees I just gained in here! Just keep the door closed. It'll...it'll dissipate."

Grand. We sit in the smoke and listen to the smoke detectors screaming, their overtones clashing in such a way that my eyes are beginning to cross. All for the sake of four degrees.

Obviously, we haven't turned our heat on yet. The reason is simple -- we can't afford to heat the house. Have you noticed the increase in natural gas prices? We have. So we're roughing it. Shutting down parts of the house. Moving my computer into the bedroom (trust me, I'm not happy about that. I need the privacy of my office.). And building a lot of fires.

The beeping finally stopped. My ears are still ringing.

I guess Eric didn't learn about chimney flues when he was a Boy Scout.

Thursday, October 27, 2005

Goin' All Gooey Over My Man

This post is, unabashedly, about my husband.

First things first: His blog, The Blogging Boss, has a brand new look, thanks to a father/son collaboration (in truth, more son than father). Take a peek! Not only is the layout clean and artistic, but the content is immeasurably valuable to anyone who is an employee, anywhere. Period.

Bear with me while I toot Eric's horn. He's been a "boss" for many years. And you know what? He's not one of those stuffed-full-of-myself, short on actual people skills, incompetent, egocentric bosses. Nope. He's a true leader (think Jean-Luc Picard). And he loves people. I mean, he actually cares about people. Not just about their job and what they can accomplish in the office, but about their lives -- their dreams -- their families.

No, he's not some jelly-like sap who weeps during chick flicks (though he boldly admits that Pride and Prejudice is his favorite mini-series of all time). He's just a good man -- a real man, who treats other human beings like...well, like human beings.

And I happen to be married to him.

In some ways, Eric and I couldn't be more different. He sees the big picture; I get stuck on details. He sees the glass (infuriatingly) half-full; I see it half-empty (completely empty, most times). He is spontaneous and free-spirited; I need a schedule.

We've had some lovely rows.

But here's the bottom line for us: We're best friends. Yep. Eric is my best friend.

I'm married to my best friend!

And he drives me batty. He really does. I often tell him (and I mean it) that I wouldn't have to take Paxil if I didn't have to live with him. He knows I'm serious, too.

He also knows that I'm as difficult to live with as he is.

So, we're square. And there isn't anyone else in the universe I'd rather be married to.

(Are you gagging on all this goo yet?)

As for this writing thing? This up-and-down, put-your-temperament-aside-and-grow-a-thick-skin, absolutely disheartening and deeply fulfilling Writing Thing? Well, Eric is my Number One Supporter.

He has listened to every, single chapter of my first novel -- some of them, twice. I read them out loud because he's more of an aural learner. It worked for both of us.

And he has critiqued. He's pointed out "the dork factor" in some of my dialogue. He's cautioned me to "hide" my plot twists a little better. To develop a particular secondary character a bit more.

And oh, we've argued over it. Why, these are my characters we're talking about here! My novel! And what does he know about any of this, anyway? He doesn't even read, for goodness' sake! (Geeky computer magazines do not qualify as "reading.") How can he possibly give me any direction?

Ah, but he has. More than I can express. I couldn't -- absolutely couldn't -- walk through this process-toward-publication without my beloved Eric.

It will come as no surprise that my novel -- this masterpiece of my soul -- is dedicated to him.

So there you have it. I've done some child-gushing; it was time to Eric-gush.

I love you, Sweetie.

Jill Schafer Boehme
Eric Boehme

Tuesday, October 25, 2005

Afraid of Falling

Sad, but true. My accident on (off, really) the garage steps has left me psychologically damaged. Every time I stumble or trip or "almost" fall, I burst into tears.

The other day, I smashed my thumb in the pantry door (okay, not "smashed," exactly...), and I burst into tears. Not because it hurt, but because the pain took me right back to the pain of my fall.

It's ridiculous, really. But at least I'm aware of it. Somebody tell me that it'll wear off -- that I'll stop crying every time my clumsiness rears its head. As it is, I'm feeling a bit, um, "emotionally fragile."

But hey, at least I can sleep on my right side again. You have no idea how happy that makes me. And I've got Something Big and Important I need to write today, which means I won't be in danger of stumbling or falling (unless, like dear Cheez Weezil, I suddenly fall off of my computer chair). Plus, there's a ton of leftover birthday cake from yesterday (daughter Rachel turned ten!). I'm rather proud of myself for concocting a lovely, four-layer cake with lemon filling.

Somehow, birthday cake is the ultimate comfort food.

Well, besides gourmet chocolate. And homemade macaroni and cheese with ketchup. And my mom's breaded pork chops with mashed potatoes and tomato gravy. And cinnamon toast.

I think somebody had better feed me.

Saturday, October 22, 2005

My Lovely Ballerina

That an inveterate clutz could give birth to a lithe, graceful child is proof of God's sense of humor -- and His mercy.

My daughter Maggie (pictured) is a genetic wonder -- the offspring of two people who trip over their own shadows. Watching her dance is like listening to the waves break upon the shore -- it lifts me out of myself. It's one of the "joy places" in my life.

This past Thursday, Eric picked her up from her ballet class, added me to the party, and then the three of us went out for supper at our favorite Irish pub (Americans don't know what "chips" are, I tell ya). Our sweet Maggie sparkled and bubbled and glowed the entire time. Face it -- as one of four children, she doesn't get intense "Mommy and Daddy" time very often. None of them do. It's just a fact of life in a larger family.

After the meal, we walked down the street to The Cocoa Tree, a wondrous gourmet/organic chocolate shop without which I don't know how I've survived all these years. Maggie, who was feeling rather "teenager-ish," decided to sit outside and wait for us while she chatted with her sister on my cell phone.

After having placed my order, I walked outside to make sure Maggie was okay. She wasn't in the seat where I had left her, so I stood there for a few seconds, looking down the dark street to see where she had flitted off to. I soon spied her just a few yards away, still chatting happily.

"Are you looking for your daughter?" said a woman in a party of several at an outside table. "The dancer?"

I smiled. "What gave it away?"

"Oh, it isn't just the dance clothes," she went on. "She looks like a dancer! I mean, her body and everything..."

That gave me just the opportunity I needed to gush for a few moments about my born-to-dance daughter. I might point out that I, in contrast, looked a complete frump in my black racer-stripe sweats and V-neck shirt.

"I can't believe that she actually came out of my body," I said. (Yes, I really do talk this way to complete strangers.)

"She really made us laugh," the woman then said. "She was talking on the phone, and we heard her say, 'Well, I'm sitting here outside The Cocoa Tree. Daddy is inside, spoiling Mommy.'"

That's my Maggie. Little did she know that Daddy was spoiling her, too.

The reason this is all so big -- so meaningful -- is that just a year ago, my little ballerina wasn't able to dance at all. She was suffering from a mixture of social and separation anxiety that was triggered by an unfortunate incident at the school of dance she was enrolled in at the time.

She wasn't even able to enter a ballet classroom. It was heartbreaking.

Prayer, therapy, and a lot of encouragement and support have brought our beautiful daughter to where she is today. She was able to begin studying dance again in February; she was able to perform on stage in June; and just this past week she was able to enroll in a brand new dance school -- new classmates, new teacher, new leotard color. And she made the transition beautifully, flawlessly.

We have our Maggie back.

The social butterfly is unfurling her once-hidden wings. The warm, genuine smile that causes her dimples to absolutely explode is back. Our ballerina is doing what she was born to do -- she's dancing. And we're ever so proud of her.

I'm compelled to add, bursting with pride as I am, that she is also a burdgeoning writer. I'm not talking Haiku or paragraphs about birds -- I'm talking novels. She sits at the keyboard and clickety-clicks away (she's typing close to 30 WMP, I think). I may not have given her the grace and poise that comes so naturally to her, but I must have passed on the writing gene. In that vein, at least, I can claim her as my own.

There's nothing quite like watching your child blossom before your eyes. Thanks for indulging me!

Labels: parenting

Friday, October 21, 2005

For Your Reading Pleasure...

The MOMMY! Archives are now up!

For the uninitiated: From December, 2001 until August, 2005, I published a free Ezine for at-home moms, entitled MOMMY! The Internet Lifeline for At-home Moms. During that time, I acquired some very devoted readers -- moms whose hearts and lives resonated with what I had to say to them.

I'm passionate about encouraging women at home, you see.

However, as my writing career has taken the turn toward fiction, I had to make a decision about where I was spending my time. And, unfortunately, the percentage of MOMMY! subscribers who were actually clicking on the Ezine wasn't big enough to warrant its monthly continuation.

So, I've created the MOMMY! Archives, which contain some of my favorite articles from the last four years.

It's still a work in progress -- I've got more to add. It just got a little -- um -- boring. I'm not good with tedious jobs.

It wouldn't be so tedious if I had had the brillance to name the Word documents by the title of the article. But that would have been too easy.

No. I had to go and title them by date. And "October 7, 2004" doesn't do much to spur my memory.

"Oh, that was a good month! Heavens, I must include this article in my archives!"

Alas, I've got to open every single document and find the feature article inside. And doing that sort of thing for a prolonged period of time makes me very grumpy.

So, for the sake of my poor children, I'm not adding any more articles today.

Anyway, THANKS for all the positive feedback on my new blog design! Eric is insanely jealous, of course, so now he's commissioned our son to spruce up The Blogging Boss.

The MOMMY! Archives are in blog format, so feel free to leave comments as you peruse the articles. (You know by now, of course, that blog comments are an integral part of my emotional health.)

I'm off to scavenge some lunch. And I do mean scavenge. We're suffering from Bare Pantry Syndrome today. Oh, what I'd give for a good Italian sub right about now...

Wednesday, October 19, 2005

Pretty in Pink

Tada!!

I feel like I've been in labor for the last two weeks. Yes, the new blog design is my baby. I can't take credit for it, though -- all I did was sketch out my rough idea and choose the colors.

My son Jonathan designed the template. Is he a cool kid or what?

Kudos also to daughter Maggie, photographer.

And to sweet hubby Eric, for filling in all the gaps. (It's great to be married to a computer geek.)

I am unabashedly fond of pink, you see. It's been my favorite color for as long as I can remember. Know what's on my "Top Ten Expensive Gift Wish List?" A ballet-pink Volkswagen New Beetle -- with a charcoal grey convertible roof.

For some reason, I didn't receive one when I turned forty.

At any rate, I'm happy as can be, now that my blog has received a much-needed face lift. I keep telling Eric that I'm easy to please; maybe one day he'll actually believe me.

My other big achievement this week? Driving. After more than two weeks of convalescence, I finally got back behind the wheel of our 1998 Sienna Stink-mobile on Monday, in order to drive Rachel to ballet lessons. Backing up was a little bit scary, but other than that I did just fine.

It's amazing the things we take for granted.

Like plunging toilets. I was able to plunge a clogged toilet today for the first time since my accident. (You do know that nobody but Mom can plunge a toilet in any given household, right? Because those plunger handles are specially designed for full-grown female hands. That's right -- husbands don't seem to know how to use them properly, either.)

Is it weird to feel a deep sense of accomplishment after having plunged a toilet?

Anyway, now that I've got my snazzy new design to show off, I'll be blogging at a new-and-improved rate. Well, unless life gets really boring all of a sudden.

Like that's really going to happen in this house.

Oh, and if you love the new look, please leave a comment for Jonathan, who would surely appreciate the pat on the back. If you don't love the blog -- well, be gentle. It's his first blog design and he's mighty proud of it.

And so am I. It's awesome being this kid's mom. And they said the teen years would be horrible.

Jill Schafer Boehme

Monday, October 17, 2005

From the Mouth of My Six-Year-Old...

...comes yet another zinger.

This one happened at the supper table tonight, in the middle of my gourmet baked macaroni and cheese.

"Mommy," said Spencer. "I don't remember when you were young."

And there you have it. I am officially "old." Or something.

I'm going to go have a nice glass of white wine. See you in the morning (when I will write something a bit more substantial -- after I take my Geritol and a morning nap).

Jill Schafer Boehme

Labels: parenting

Saturday, October 15, 2005

Hobby Lobby Was a Bust

I just didn't think this one through.

Under normal circumstances, the distance from a parked car to the entrance of a store isn't something that affects my life in a substantial way -- unless it's raining heavily or sporting a temperature under 30 degrees. Two weeks after a traumatic rib injury, however, the distance from a parked car to the entrance of a store is enough to render me about as energetic as an eighty-seven year old woman. With a new hip replacement. And arthritis.

After standing by the shopping carts and catching my breath, I made the singularly feisty decision that I would not, indeed, need to use the kraft-o-matic customer buggy that was parked there. No, I would walk, holding tenderly onto my husband's arm.

Never have I walked so slowly in Hobby Lobby. I've got that store memorized. I usually fly around like a rabid dragonfly, buzzing from aisle to aisle in search of whatever it is that I'm obsessing over at the time. Not last night. Last night, it was the elderly shuffle. And since Eric didn't know where he was going, I had to patiently tell him which way to go, aisle by aisle.

It was excrutiating.

By the time we got to where I wanted to go, which was naturally all the way in the back along the right wall, I was ready for another ambulance ride. I was completely worn out. I was aching. I felt like my torso was imploding -- or maybe just made of Styrofoam.

I had to sit down on a low shelf in the middle of the candle-making materials. (No, I don't make candles. It was just the closest low shelf I could find.)

All that, and they didn't have what I had come for.

I found a couple of Christmas presents, though, so it wasn't a complete loss.

Eric wanted me to go out and wait for him in the car while he paid, but I waited for him in the vestibule, hanging on to a table and trying not to look as though I were going to fall over. Then, we shuffled out to the car and I settled gratefully into the front seat. I felt completely spent -- as though I had just shopped for six hours instead of twenty-five minutes.

It was ridiculous. And disheartening.

We were going to grab a bite to eat at our favorite sandwich shop (fresh mozzarella sandwiches with tomatoes and basil -- to die for). Eric wondered if I would be able to sit on one of the metal chairs.

"I don't know."

"Maybe we could go get that wonderful scallop appetizer at Beethoven's. They have soft chairs in there."

"It'll be loud, though."

"No, it's not loud in there."

"I don't know."

"Should I just run in and get our sandwich at Bread and Company?"

"I don't know."

I wasn't feeling very decisive. Actually, I just didn't want to spoil our date by admitting that there was no possible way that I could handle sitting in a chair -- soft, metal, or otherwise -- in any restaurant, anywhere.

My darling husband bought our dinner while I waited in the car. Then he stopped for a bottle of white wine (while I waited in the car). When we got home, he directed me to the sofa while he prepared the food on two pretty, glass plates, and poured the wine.

Amazing. Even when I'm aging ten years every minute; even when I feel positively decrepit and out-of-sorts; even when I spoil a date by running out of steam -- he makes me feel like a princess.

Hobby Lobby was a bust. But the man I married is a keeper.

Friday, October 14, 2005

I'm Not Dead, So Now Everyone's Laughing

As if it isn't hard enough for me to get comfortable and settle in at night with my still-healing, still-tender ribs, my husband decided to come to bed last night all wired and wide-awake, making it virtually impossible for me to, well, fall asleep.

And he calls me the loquatious one.

Just when I thought he might finally have decided to be quiet, Eric announced, "Tomorrow we're having spare ribs."

Hilarious.

This one's merely the most recent in what has become an increasing barage of -- ur -- rib jokes. As if the implied pun isn't bad enough (you know, ribs? humor?), I've got to deal with all the rib comments and rib analogies and all sorts of rib-related, so-called funny remarks.

Okay, some of them are funny.

Like the cow bones my children found out in the field the other day. They came home with half a skull, a bit of jaw with teeth, a number of spinal vertebrae, and -- you guessed it -- cow ribs.

Guess who offered me some of them as a replacement?

My own mother sent me a get-well gift bearing a note addressed to "Mrs. Broken Ribs Boehme."

I'm marked for life; I just know it. It's only a matter of time until Eric starts doing dramatic reenactments of my fall and subsequent cries for help. (Trust me -- you've not been truly frightened until you've watched my husband do an imitation of me.)

I'm going to be nice to him, though. He's promised to take me to Hobby Lobby tonight, which is as about as exciting as life gets these days. I'm not even going to admit how excited I am to go on my Hobby Lobby date.

Seriously. You might start to think that I don't have a life or something.

Ah, but I really am coming back to life. I'm writing again. You know, "I write, therefore I am" kind of thing. My online serial novel has obviously been pushed back a couple of weeks, but rest assured that it will magically appear when you least expect it. Anyway, I'm much less dangerous when I'm writing. I have yet to fall off of my computer chair.

Thank you all for contributing to a wonderful sense of community here. It has certainly been a source of encouragement during my convalescence.

Just spare me the rib jokes, okay?

(The pun wasn't intented. Honestly. It just kind of happened...)

Tuesday, October 11, 2005

A Quick Note on Character Development

So, having over-exerted myself again this morning, I was resting on the sofa. A paper house was sitting on my knees, and six-year-old Spencer was "telling a story" with various tiny, paper people and a couple of paper Volkswagens.

"Once there was a man," Spencer began, "and he was very happy. He liked everything."

Pause.

"Well, not everything. He didn't like the way that puke looked like."

If that didn't give extra depth to the protagonist, I don't know what would.

Labels: writing

Monday, October 10, 2005

And Now, Back to Your Regularly Scheduled Weirdness

Eric and I were enjoying our morning coffee when we noticed almost-ten-year-old Rachel walking toward the front door with a small sprinkling can. We stopped talking for a moment and watched her.

"Aww," I said quietly, thinking it was cute that Rachel was helping to water Daddy's flowers without having been asked.

"What is she watering?" Eric asked. It occurred to me that, perhaps, there weren't any flowers to water, after all.

Eric got up and followed Rachel out to the front porch. After about a minute, he returned to the sofa.

"I knew it looked suspicious," he said.

Evidentally, Rachel had encounted a large centipede in the upstairs family room, and, in a fit of horror, had doused the hapless creature with glue.

Yes, glue.

Then she'd felt guilty for gumming the little guy up. So she scooped him up with a piece of manilla paper and carried him to the front porch. And -- you guessed it -- she filled the sprinkling can with water in order to rinse off the sticky centipede. To unglue him, as it were.

Daddy had caught her halfway through the centipede-rinsing. The manilla paper was in her opposite hand, forgotten in the midst of the rescue, dripping big, white blobs of glue all over the doormat.

"Be careful on the front porch," Eric said. "The mat is rather wet and...gluey."

Several minutes later, Rachel skipped through the living room.

"He was all clean and he crawled away," she said cheerfully.

From attempted murder to emancipation -- all in the space of ten minutes.

And so, life in the Boehme Hoehme is up and running, albeit a bit on the slow side for a still-recovering Mother Hen.

Oy.

Thursday, October 06, 2005

Observations From the Invalid's Bed...ur...Computer Chair

(Haven't read about my grace-filled accident yet? Here it is.)

Thursday's Brilliant Observations:

1. The offspring of injured mothers believe that having to touch other people's dirty underwear is only eclipsed in seriousness by the injury itself. No one seems to give a second thought to the fact that, for seventeen years and counting, I have been touching other people's dirty underwear on laundry day. (Oh, the things we take for granted.)

2. The online writing and publishing environment -- i.e., Miss Snark, Agent 007, Agent Obscura, Agent Query, Preditors and Editors, et al -- does not cease to run full steam ahead at the fall of one, measley writer. And jumping into said environment is most certainly detrimental to a fallen writer's recovery. Especially while reading Miss Snark's sharp-witted words while trying not to laugh. Or pondering the magnitude of lost writing time and trying not to cry.

3. Blogging is therapeutic. Except, I knew that before I broke three ribs.

4. Comments from complete strangers make me feel truly cared-about. And yes, I read every single word of empathy, sympathy, and rib-cracking humor (thank you, Poopmeister) that my readers felt inclined to share on my previous post. Thank you for taking a few minutes to do so.

5. Pain while belching generally ceases around the sixth day of recovery from a rib injury.

6. There is absolutely, positively nothing sexy about needing your husband to help you take a bath. No, I mean it.

7. It isn't the pain from a bone injury that causes creative energy to seep out of one's mind like an elusive vapor; it is the brain-numbing nothingness of doing absolutely nothing and going absolutely nowhere all day, every day, that does it. Stringing these simple sentences together is nothing short of a miracle.

8. Having hairy legs just doesn't matter. Especially when you need your husband's help to take a bath.

9. Six-year-olds cannot be relied upon to remember the difference between left and right, and should therefore be avoided at all costs by anyone who has fractured ribs on either the left or the right side.

10. The first bowel movement after a traumatic injury tends to illicit applause from various family members.

11. Good neighbors and caring people are worth their weight in six-digit, three-book deals. Note to self: Keep this in mind when you are not injured and helpless. And remember to be one of those good neighbors and caring people yourself.

12. Nobody's alarm clock seems to work properly when Mom is down for the count.

13. Children with access to a digital camera have a propensity for snapping pictures of their corpse-colored, matted-haired mother at the most inopportune moments. Fortunately, pressing "delete" does not in any way cause pain or discomfort at the fracture site.

14. It must certainly be immeasurably easier to be a man with a rib fracture than a woman. Men can go without shaving, bathing, or wearing decent clothes, and pull it off as looking "rugged." Women, on the other hand, turn into skanky, hellish beings that could easily be placed in the doorway to ward off burglars and the odd vampire. And we're supposed to believe our family members when they say, "But you are always beautiful."

15. Perhaps most astounding of all, my family has not yet tired of taking care of me. Do I love myself so little that I would doubt this? Heaven forbid the day I become a burden or a nuisance. Yet even after almost an entire week, my husband and children are continuing to lovingly and uncomplainingly serve me and take care of the household chores than I cannot do (which is all of them). Unconditional love knows no bounds, and I am daily awed and humbled by it.

Nothing like a good smack in the ribs to gain me some perspective.

Monday, October 03, 2005

Dem Bones, Dem Bones Gonna Walk Around...

On Friday evening, I did something amazing. In about six seconds flat, I nose-dived off of the second garage step and landed, ribs-first, on the cement. I hit the ground so hard that I couldn't move. Seriously.

I knew that I was really and truly hurt.

I called for help, and my children came running. They fetched their daddy, on whom I promptly passed out in the middle of a sentence.

He thought I had died.

Long story short, I enjoyed my second-time-ever ride in the back of an ambulance (and I stand by my original declaration that ambulances do not have shock absorbers). The happiest moment of the ride came at the tail end, when they were carting me out of the back doors.

"You're our lightest load all day," one of them said to me. I told him that I loved them both.

Anyway, I've got three fractured ribs -- my first broken bones. Ever. I can feel them jiggling around in there -- like a broken plate wrapped tightly in bubble wrap, you know? You can feel those broken bits moving, but the plate doesn't fall apart.

Well, that's me. Jiggling around on the inside but holding together.

The narcotics help with that. I call them my Magic Pills.

Laughing is torture. I can't even burp without experiencing a shooting pain through my side. I'm supposed to be all healed in four weeks. In the meantime, my darling husband is working from home and pulling triple-duty with kids and housework.

You should have seen him dusting the living room this morning. He doesn't know how to hold a feather duster! (Why yes, of course there's a right way to hold a feather duster.)

So, here I sit, loose bones floating around on the inside and a mind that has already grown a layer of grey fuzz on it from lack of use. Bear with me, though -- I'll be feisty and chatty soon. I have to -- I won't survive any other way.

Thanks to all of you who have changed the links to my blog. If any of you have "rib healing" advice, I'm all ears.

: Name: Jill; Location: United States

I am: Mother to five stunningly individualistic children... Writer of young adult fantasy... Passionate advocate for Women At Home... Madly in love with my husband... In need of Organic Gourmet Chocolate on a regular basis. I've got a Paypal account if you'd like to contribute to the cause....