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Wednesday, November 30, 2005Four Calling Birds, Three Sharp Knives, Two Rusty Nails...Jonathan and I were driving down the road and he said, "Know what you can put in my Christmas stocking?" I was all ears; the kid hardly ever gives me stocking suggestions. "What?" I said. "Razor blades." "Razor blades?" Surely I hadn't heard him correctly. "What do you need razor blades for?" "They have really sharp edges for cutting things," Jonathan said. "I'm not putting razor blades in your stocking, Jonathan. I could get arrested." I defy anyone to come up with a weirder request. Actually, it's not as bad as it sounds. He's always making things -- things with motors, things with wires, things with small parts and moving parts and the ocassional smoking part. Razor blades would be a helpful tool. I'm not buying him any. I have to draw the line somewhere on "all things for the sake of creativity." Speaking of which -- have you written your Seuss poem yet? I'm dying to read more! Labels: parenting Monday, November 28, 2005Hear Ye, Hear Ye! Only FOUR MORE DAYS!Yeppers, my fine, talented readers -- four more days to enter The Big Show-Your-Seuss-Talent Writing Contest! Don't be shy! Pull out your tattered copies of The Lorax and Horton Hears a Who in order to brush up on Seuss technique, and then go to town! Want something simpler? Try emulating Hop On Pop or The Foot Book instead. A reader has asked the question, "Can you enter the contest if you don't have a blog?" Well, I'm not one to thwart someone's talent, so I'm going to say, YES! Now, if you don't have a blog and your piece happens to win second place, you're out of luck, since the second place prize is a review and showcase of your blog here on The Write Way Home. So here's the answer: Do you frequently visit someone else's blog and you think it would be nice to have it showcased? Then do this: Inform your favorite blogger that you're entering a writing contest and you'd like to mention their blog as your "blog touchpoint." Ask if Blogger Extraordinaire would be willing to mention the contest and link to The Write Way Home. If so, you're in luck -- include your Favorite Blog along with your entry. I'll verify it, and you'll be in the running along with the other Seuss wanna-be's. Okie dokie? I love reading these entries, so bring 'em on! As for me, I'm fighting the gloomies of a grey Monday. I had my teeth cleaned this morning -- could anything be worse on the Monday after a holiday? Well, actually, it could be worse. It could be root canal or a car accident or three broken ribs. Whew -- I just stopped myself from embarking on an anti-dentist rant. Consider yourself lucky! One more note: Check out Blogging Boss's new look! Eric took the photos and created the image himself. Seventeen years of marriage and he still manages to surprise me! (Okay, okay, I'm proud of him! There's no way to hide it...) Now get thee to thy nearest Word document and CREATE A SEUSS PIECE! Friday, November 25, 2005Who Is This Man and What Have You Done With My Husband?The alarm went off at 6:00 this morning. As always, I hit the snooze button to give myself those eight, golden minutes. I had just snuggled under the covers again, when Eric popped up -- he really did pop -- and leaned over me to squint at the clock. In the next heartbeat, he threw the covers back and leapt out of bed. Please understand -- my husband doesn't normally pop out of bed at 6:00 in the morning. In fact, my husband doesn't "pop" out of bed at any time of the day. He's not the "popping out of bed" type. But it's Black Friday, you see. And Eric loves Black Friday. So, my night-owl husband was in the shower by ten minutes after six. This is the man who sleeps through the smoke detectors when they start beeping for no apparent reason at two o'clock in the morning. This is the man who used to make us late for church when the children were little, because he stayed in bed until the last minute and left all of the dressing-small-wiggly-children-for-church fun to me. And yes, this is the man who frequently announces, "I hate morning" when it's time to extract himself from the mattress (which sometimes partially swallows him, which I imagine must make it difficult, indeed, to rise from the bed). You can imagine how frightening it was to see him up so early. Worse yet, he was cheerful. It was beyond the realm of what I could consider tolerably normal. It was almost terrifying. More amazing still, he was out of the shower and completely dressed (in a holiday-green sweatshirt, no less) in record time. On an average day, Eric takes more time to dress himself than I do. I suppose it's all tied into the "I hate morning" mindset. Either that, or he's way too in touch with his feminine side. At 6:35, he was grabbing his jacket from the hall closet and saying "good bye." And he was grinning. The man was lucid, dressed, and going out the door at a time when he's usually still ensconced in our down comforter -- and he was grinning! Okay, so maybe he was a little cute. It was worth sacrificing our coffee time to see him so chipper in the early morning. Of course, this will all be immensely enhanced if he comes home with secret bundles earmarked for his beloved wife on Christmas morning. I'd love to think that his whole impetus behind the barely-dawn departure was his burning desire to shower me with this-was-a-great-deal gifts. But I know better. Eric goes out on Black Friday to persue and conquer. It's a guy thing, dating back to the days of jousting matches and hunting parties. Are there only fifteen snazzy laptops on sale for $199? Eric will hamstring the fifteenth person and take his place in line. Is there a magnificent sale on DVDs that no one wants to watch? Eric will spend an hour sorting through thousands of B-rated movies in a bin, simply to arise victorious with a treasure in his hands. Is there one flat-screen TV left in the entire store, and the noisy throng is pressing toward it with eager hands? They'd better just go home -- Eric will get the TV. Even if it means we won't be able to feed the children for the next three weeks. Black Friday isn't about me. It's about him. But that's fine with me -- let him have his day of manly melee in the stores. I'm more than content here at home with a cup of Starbucks and nothing to conquer. Tomorrow morning, things will be back to normal again. The alarm will go off at 6:00, and Eric won't even twitch. I will find myself wondering if I'd dreamed up the entire Black Friday thing. Ah, well. Married life would be infinitely more boring if he were always completely predictable. (Married life is going to be infinitely less boring as soon as Eric sees what I've written here...) Oy. I think I'll go have a slice of pumpkin pie. Wednesday, November 23, 2005Matthew McConaughey and Brussels SproutsSo Eric and I were early birds this morning, and went to Publix to do our Big Thanksgiving Feast Shopping. (I'd say that we had fun, but that would only serve to convince you that we have absolutely no real life.) We made it to the check-out line, where Eric graciously allowed me to empty the cart while he perused the latest issue of People magazine. You've probably seen it already -- it's got Matthew McConaughey on the front cover as "Sexiest Man of the Year." I have no argument with that. However, my dear husband, for some reason, decided to obsess about Mr. McConaughey's age -- ad nauseum. "I can't believe he's only 36." "Yes, I knew he was younger than me." (Not that that ever bothered me -- he's gorgeous no matter what year he was born in.) "I really thought he was in -- like, his 40's. I can't believe he's only 36!" I was trying to be polite to the check-out lady. I was trying to do a last-minute mental check of my grocery list. I didn't care too much about Matthew's age, real or perceived. I didn't answer. I can't even tell you how long Eric prattled on about this. Finally, exasperated, he said, "You're being completely non-responsive!" I looked at him and, in full hearing of the check-out lady, said, "That's because this conversation is boring." The check-out lady laughed. Eric did not. Ah, but he'll be happy when he gets home. The pumpkin pies are already in the oven. The fresh hens are waiting in the refrigerator. The broccoli salad will be done. And yes, we're having Brussels Sprouts -- with sauted onions and freshly grated Parmesan. It's the only way to eat them. Unless, of course, eating them with Matthew McConaughey were an option. Oh! And the Seuss entries have begun to arrive in my inbox! I'm excited and having a blast reading them. Don't procrastinate -- work on your masterpiece over the Thanksgiving holiday! And thanks to the subtlety of CheezWeezil, it's come to my attention that I didn't include a Time Zone with the contest deadline. So here it is: The deadline for entry is Friday, December 2, at 11:59 pm Central Standard Time. Have a WONDERFUL THANKSGIVING! Monday, November 21, 2005The Big SHOW YOUR SEUSS-TALENT Writing Contest!
 It's here! The quirkiest writing contest you've ever tried to win.The rules are simple: Write a piece in Seuss-style rhyme. The length must be a minimum of three stanzas (a stanza equals 4 lines) and a maximum of twelve stanzas (for the sake of the judges' sanity). The piece must be completely original and not taken from an existing Dr. Seuss book or Dr. Seuss "style" web site. Topic? Anything! (Obscene or inappropriate entries will be immediately disqualified at the discretion of the judges.) Entries will be judged on the following: *Strength of rhyme and meter in the Seuss Style: 50 percent *Originality: 25 percent *Humor and "entertainment factor": 25 percent "So, Jillian, how do I enter?" Good question! Here's what you need to do: 1. Write a really good Seuss piece. 2. Email your entry to me at editor@beatyourowndrum.com IN THE BODY OF YOUR EMAIL. Please note: All emails with attachments will be deleted! 3. Please include your name and email address, as well as THE LINK TO YOUR BLOG. 4. On your blog, mention that you've entered the contest and link back to The Write Way Home at http://www.beatyourowndrum.com/blog/jillian/jillianboehme.html. 5. Do all of the above by 11:59 pm on Friday, December 2. All emails received with a time/date stamp after this will be disqualified. As soon as I've received your entry and have verified that you've linked back, you're officially "in the running." The winners will be announced on December 6. Here's what you'll be battling for: The FIRST PLACE winner will receive a signed copy of My Lima Beans Are Allergic to my Spoon, a review and showcase of his blog here on The Write Way Home, and publication of his masterpiece in my December 6 blog entry. The SECOND PLACE winner will receive a review and showcase of his blog here on The Write Way Home, and publication of his masterpiece in a subsequent December blog entry. Here's a sample of what I consider to be a cleverly written "Seuss piece": If a packet hits a pocket on a socket on a port,
Questions? Email me at editor@beatyourowndrum.com. When does the contest begin? Immediately! Remember, the deadline for receiving entries is Friday, December 2 at 11:59 pm. Good luck! Labels: writing Friday, November 18, 2005Friday Tidbits1. Last night at the supper table, in the middle of eating tomato soup in tribute to Eric's recently extracted wisdom tooth, Spencer announced, "SOUP rhymes with POOP!" Ah, the joys of homeschooling. 2. Toads shed their skin on a regular basis, and when they're finished they eat it. I know this because my children currently own five of the little critters, and I have been exposed to everything from violent worm consumption to projectile toad poop. And yesterday afternoon, I found a toad (Otis, in case you were wondering) sitting on the children's sink. He was just finishing up a round of shedding-and-snarfing his skin. Needless to say, it was a delightful discovery. 3. Yesterday, Eph2810 informed me that I had been "tagged" on her main blog. Being an inveterate blogging community moron, I had no idea what she was talking about, so I skipped over there to take a peek. Very nice to be included! Since I'm too much of a rebel to simply keep the ball rolling, I thought I'd take a moment instead to showcase this lovely, gentle-spirited lady on my blog -- my way of saying "thanks for all your support and kindness." Eph2810 has got three blogs (I don't know how she does it): Eph2810 is her main blog, where you will find thoughtful and wise posts on a variety of things. My Lighter Side is just that -- a lighter, more amusing look at life. Pop on over to read about Gnome Pajamas and Eph2810's thoughts on the new Willy Wonka movie. My Photo Blog, which I've already got listed on my main blog page, is a collection of beautiful photographs (and I'm a photo snob, so they must be good!). Eph2810 -- I've enjoyed getting to "know" you in the blogosphere. You've been a source of encouragement to me, and you probably didn't even know it! Thanks for "tagging" me, and for sharing so many beautiful insights through your words and photographs. 4. Attention writers: A super-creative writing contest is in the works. Make a note of it, spread the word, sharpen your pencils! More next week. Have a super weekend! Wednesday, November 16, 2005I Want My Free Turkey
 The cluttered photograph to your left contains three of my children inside the downstairs hall closet. While I admit that it is tempting to stick them in there sometimes to quiet things down, last night there was a reason for this cozy, sibling time: tornadoes.I was contentedly snapping digital pictures during Maggie's ballet class, when the ballet mistress interrupted the class and said that a storm was due to hit at 6:00, so all classes were ending early. After sharing my cell phone with a couple of sweaty, pre-adolescent ballerinas, I scooped up my daughter and headed home. Eric arrived fifteen minutes later, so we were all "safe and together" for the upcoming storm. Normally, it would have been no big deal -- sit in the closet until Daddy sounds the "all clear," and be done with it. Last night, however, was rather angst-producing. Because last night was Free Turkey Dinner night at our local Publix. Understand me. I would walk miles for free food. Our budget is tight, and as soon as I'd found out about the free turkey, I planned it into my food budget for the week. Yes, I'm just that tight with my food pennies. So, the clock was ticking, the storm was raging, my children were in the closet, and I was worried about missing out on the free turkey. I don't even like turkey. It's the "free" part that got me. I thought we were free and clear after our first round in the closet, but fifteen minutes later Eric sent us all back in again. My children's legs are a lot longer than they were when we first moved into this house six years ago, so I can't cram them all into the same closet anymore. I took Jonathan and went into the guest room closet with him. (It was a great personal sacrifice, on account of the high risk of being exposed to a teenaged fart. Less than five minutes into the closet stay, my worst fear was realized -- he let one fly. I swear, this child has way more than fifty percent of his father's genes. But I digress.) Finally -- finally -- at around 7:30, Eric said we could go to Publix. The Free Turkey Dinner was only supposed to last until 8:00, so it's a good thing we only live two minutes from the store. It was raining heavily and the thunder was -- ur, thunderous. We were not to be deterred. Then, just as we pulled into the Publix parking lot, the tornado sirens went off. This was no "wail in the distance," either; the sirens are right across the street from Publix. Great. Twenty-five more minutes until the end of the free turkey, and I've got a tornado siren screaming at me. We pulled up to Publix, slowed down, and peered in. We could see all sorts of managers and important-looking Publix People hanging around the front of the store. But we couldn't see any customers. We pulled up to another entrance, where a white-shirted manager was taking a quick smoke. "Are you open?" Eric hollered through the van window. "Yes sir," Mr. Publix shouted through the rain, "but there's a tornado warning" (oh, really?) "and we're not letting the customers out of the back of the store right now." Well, it seemed pretty clear to me that, if we did enter the store, we would be immediately ushered to the back. Perhaps we might be chained to the cheese display or forced to spend the night in the walk-in freezer. This was starting to get creepy. We drove around for a few minutes. In my best whiney voice, I told Eric that I had macaroni and cheese in the refrigerator at home. He wasn't listening. This had become a Quest for Free Turkey. Things looked slightly more relaxed when we returned to Publix a few minutes later, and we went in. I was immediately accosted by a rather beefy female manager who explained that there was a tornado warning (oh, really?) and that most of the customers were in the back, though a few had started to "trickle" back to the front. How does one "trickle" to the front of a grocery store? Undaunted and smiling, I made my way toward the back of the store -- not to cower from the effects of the storm, but to search for the Free Turkey Dinner. And I found it. Turkey, stuffing, broccoli-and-cheese goo, orange-cranberry relish. I also found people sitting on the floor with their backs against a smoked ham bin. And Publix employees sitting in clusters like refugees from an M-class planet. And an eggnog display with nobody manning it. It was the weirdest grocery store experience I've ever had. We got our five-inch paper platefuls of Free Turkey and made our way back to the front of the store (what rebels!) where there were some tables and chairs. Jonathan appeared with nothing but cranberry relish and no spoon. "I don't really like turkey," he said. Clearly this child has not learned to appreciate the meaning of Free Food. Especially Free Food During a Tornado Warning With All the Customers in the Back of the Store. I don't think I'll ever view Publix in quite the same light. At least I'm not having some sort of MSG attack today. I don't buy or eat processed food as a general rule, and the Publix stuffing wasn't exactly what I'd call "naturally flavored." Still, it was free. Free chemicals, perhaps, but still free. So there you have it. Woman survives fart in closet and braves the tornado sirens in a quest for free food. Scary, huh? Monday, November 14, 2005Feeling WantedBefore I began my real career as a full time stay-at-home mom, I worked for a time as an administrative secretary for a local men's ministry. It was during this time that I became proficient at the computer (and this was during the DOS-based days -- there were no cute little icons to click on), as well as becoming a Word guru (just ask Eric -- he actually used to call me with questions!). Besides all that, though, I worked for a man who was absolutely the best boss I've ever had. He was wise, big-hearted, godly, and overflowing with dry humor. He took excellent care of me, and I loved working for him. I'll go even further than that: I felt honored to work for him. Last year, round about September, my old boss called me out of the blue. He asked several friendly questions, most of them having to do with my children. Then he said, "Well, you can probably tell that this is leading up to something." I never dreamed what it was "leading up to." He asked me if I would come back to work for him -- full time. Mind you, it had been almost thirteen years since I left. He had done the math, and figured that my youngest had just started kindergarten, thus leaving me free during the day. I had to gently tell him, of course, that I was homeschooling my children (he had forgotten). There weren't adequate words to express what I was feeling. "Honored" isn't even strong enough. To think that, after thirteen years, this man would remember how he had valued me -- and want me back again -- was amazing. I floated for days afterward. It was actually painful to tell him "no," even though I had no desire or inclination to pursue employment. Mind you, I was quite the dweeb back when I worked for him. Twenty-six years old and late for work almost every day (that was Eric's fault). Didn't like the fluorescent lighting in my office, so I pulled a monstrosity of a lamp out of the office attic and plugged it in (it was so dim that someone actually bought me a desk lamp). Couldn't get along with the guy upstairs (he was a jerk, I swear). And when my boss gently pointed out that I tended to be a passive controller, my response was, "No, I'm not." (He was right. I've come a long way since then.) Once, I fell asleep at my desk during lunch. Yep, I was out cold. I have no idea how many times my boss called my name before I finally heard him. I snapped my head up, hoping the drool trail I had left behind wasn't showing. He thought I was ill, and sent me home. I didn't tell him that I was just...tired. I went home. Once, I frightened the copier repairman with the twentieth-century organ music I was listening to on the public radio station. I can still see his face as he said, "Wh -- what is that?" Oh, and I hated making phone calls. Kinda awkward when you're an administrative secretary, you know? So my boss thought he'd help me out by purposely giving me phone calls to make. At the time, I wanted to crawl under the desk and cut the phone cord. Naturally, I now see that my boss was simply helping to build my character a bit. But my boss chose to remember the things he liked about me -- the things I had accomplished for him. He chose to assume that, after a dozen years, I'd matured a bit. And he chose to honor me with an unprecedented offer of re-employment. It was one of the high points of my life. Not sure why I felt like sharing that today. Must be the gloomy weather and my hatred of Monday housework, which doesn't give me even half the high of being offered an old job back. Care to share a high point from your life? I'd love to do a happy dance with you (it beats vacuuming the sofa and love seat)... Saturday, November 12, 2005Carded at 40!Forget all this "I'm not gonna talk about my age" stuff -- I'm crowing today! Last night, Eric and I had a "real" date (those don't happen too often). There was a forty-minute wait for dinner, so we headed to the bar for a glass of wine. The spunky lil' bartender brought us our glasses, and then said, "And I'm going to have to ask to see your identification. I'm sorry..." "Are you serious?" I squealed. She laughed nervously. I don't think she realized that my squeal was a delighted one, and not an offended one. "Can we kiss you?" Eric piped. That's when the bartender realized that we were both deliriously pleased with the situation. I pulled out my brand-new wallet (thanks to Kathie over at Housewife Cafe -- but that's another post altogether) and fumbled with the inner flap (how awful to have a new wallet that you're not used to at a time like this!) in order to flash my driver's license. I gladly would've jumped onto the bar and flashed it to the entire room, but that most likely would have been largely unappreciated. So I settled for triumphantly displaying it in Ms. Bartender's smiling face. "What, do you have to look fifty to not get carded?" Eric said. Please. Don't dampen my thunder. It's obvious that we both look barely thirty, right? Right? Okay, so it was dim lighting. And maybe the restaurant has recently instituted a newer, more stringent carding policy: "Anyone who looks like they are more than two years away from AARP membership must be carded." I don't want to know. I just want to gloat a bit. The last time I was carded, I was 36. We were having dinner with three other couples, and I was the only one who was carded. I might also ever-so-humbly point out that I was not the youngest one in the crowd that evening. After our waiter left, my neighbor at the far end of the table said, "It's just because you don't have your children with you." Honestly! I would have kicked her, but she was out of reach. Anyway, I'm feeling rather sprightly today. Why, I even took a mile-and-a-half walk with my son this morning. And so what if Eric happened to beat me by two years on the carding record. She only carded him because he was with me, naturally. A young thing like me wouldn't go out with some broken-down forty-two-year-old, would she? *grin* Thursday, November 10, 2005Mr. and Mrs. Twenty-something-twit
 It's hard to believe that it was so long ago. Photographs don't lie, though -- you can see that we were, indeed, spawn of the 80's.That we've stayed married all these years is a testimony to God's power. For that matter, it's a testimony that there is a God to begin with. I've begun a fabulous project, you see -- I am re-doing all of our family photo albums. Naturally, all of my materials are acid- and lignin-free, and I will probably spend several thousand dollars by the time I'm finished. Ah, but I will be finished, and that is the beauty of it. Eric is deeply nostalgic, so his words of praise and appreciation have been freely flowing. I have only gotten through our first year-and-a-half of marriage so far. At some turns, it's been scary. The pictures that are currently assaulting your eyes were taken on our honeymoon in Cape May, New Jersey, which remains one of our favorite places in the universe.  Of course, Eric doesn't wear fuschia shirts when we go there these days. And I don't wear scrunched ankle-socks that match my top, either.I can be fairly obsessive when I begin projects, so I'm going to have to apportion my time carefully. I am, after all, working on two separate novels right now. At least the photo project gives me something to do when my brain is suffering from writer's cramp. And my manuscripts will be waiting for me when I get tired of cropping and arranging (and removing the microscopic bit of sticker from the center of a 1/4-inch lower case "e"). Don't worry, though -- I'm not planning on posting any more honeymoon pictures. These two were simply too gorky to resist. If a sip from the fabled fountain of youth would offer me the chance to look like that again, I would dump the offered ladle onto the ground. How much do you think Eric will pay me to remove his photograph? Tuesday, November 08, 2005Too Tall, Too Beautiful, Too Fast
 Yes, it's true -- Maggie is only three-and-a-quarter inches behind me. We can walk side by side and I don't have to look way down to have a conversation with her. She is the essence of pre-woman. And I'm not quite sure when it happened. How did I birth something so beautiful? When did I stop wiping her bottom and start asking her if she needs new bras? Oh, that I could capture moments the way an image is captured, and take them out to re-live at will. I could re-tie her tiny, first ballet slippers; re-brush her "I'm trying to grow it long" hair; re-wipe the tears from her sweet face after she's fallen; re-hold her small, pudgy hand while crossing a parking lot; re-kiss the dimples in her still-baby-fatted cheeks. But that's what hearts are for; aside from loving, they are for holding memories. I can't remember when I became "old enough" to have children with two-digit ages and shoes bigger than my own. Wasn't it just yesterday when that pregnancy test was brilliantly pink? I guess I'll just keep shopping at The Gap until they start laughing at me when I walk in. There's something about Gap clothing that makes me feel younger. (I must be falling for someone's insidious marketing scheme.) Thanks for wading through my sentimental ooze. Jill Schafer Boehme Eric Boehme literary agents fantasy author Beat Your Own Drum Labels: parenting Sunday, November 06, 2005Coffee, Muffin, and a Roll of Duct TapeSome people were born with voiceboxes that should have been removed before they learned how to use them. On Saturday morning, my sweetie and I went out for a bit of breakfast together (ah, the joys of having "older" children!). It's one of those little places where you order, pay, and then choose a table and wait for your name to be called. We've been there dozens of times. I should have known something was different when Eric's name was called. The voice was strident -- nasal -- and it sounded more like "Ayyyyyic!" In fact, I had to translate for him, because he completely missed it. "That was you," I said. Needless to say, there were a lot of people there, which meant a lot of name-shouting. And ten minutes into our little meal, we couldn't stand it anymore. This girl -- I don't know where she came from -- had a voice that could shatter windows and curdle unsuspecting eardrums. Seriously. I don't know who told her she could scream for the customers, but it was definitely a moment of poor judgment. If my mother had called me in for dinner the way this girl was calling names, I would have run the other way. My coffee almost left its cup in this girl's general direction. More than once. In fact, our entire breakfast was punctuated with what was almost a physical pain each time she shrieked a new name. I wanted to smack her. Or strangle her. Or at the very least, duct tape her mouth shut. Permanently. I've been to lots of places that call out your name when your order's ready. It's never bothered me before. My favorite New York pizza place is run by a veteran New Yorker named Joey, who barks out the names as if he's voicing his opinion. He's rude; he's brusque; he's New York. I love him! Once, at Joey's Pizza, there was an obnoxious little boy who kept calling his daddy's name over and over again at a decibel level that cut through the entire crowd. The daddy, who was obviously a complete zero, continued to ignore his child, who desperately wanted to show him the bubble gum dispenser. On it went: "Daddy! DADDY! DAAAAAAAADDY!!" Suddenly, in a booming voice, Joey called, "ANSWER YOUR SON!!" I wanted to hug him. (Joey, that is.) There's my rant for the weekend. I'm going to go have a nice, quiet cup of coffee with Eric. And if any of my children start yelling, I will simply reach for the duct tape... Friday, November 04, 2005The Ultimate Brain FartEric knows that he is a constant source of fodder for my online musings, so I'm not going to hesitate to make him my subject yet again. He called me this morning, on his way to work. He does that sometimes because -- well, just because. Because he loves me. Because I'm so irresistable that, less than ten minutes after saying good-bye, he simply must hear my voice again. Something like that. Anyway, he called me this morning because we didn't have our usual "coffee time" before he left. He slept late and had to leave quickly. I think he really missed our "us time," and so he called me and pretty much chatted my wee ear off as he drove to work. He arrived at the parking garage, began to walk toward the building -- still chatting with me, mind you -- when he realized he had left his laptop in the car (must have been the sheer distraction of speaking with me, yes?). He turned around and walked back to his car to retrieve the laptop. That is only a small brain fart, though. He grabbed the laptop and re-locked his car. Then, moments later, his voice exploded into my ear. "WHERE THE HECK IS MY PHONE?" The exclamation was followed by sheepish silence. "Um, Eric? Were you just looking for your phone?" I couldn't resist asking. Yes, indeed. He had unlocked his car for a second time and was searching frantically for his cell phone. Do you know what's really scary? This isn't the first time he's done this. Which makes me wonder if he might have small voices in his head that he speaks to on a regular basis. That might explain the complete lack of realization that there was a technological reason for the existence of the current voice (mine). Exactly where did he think my voice was coming from? I may be irresistable, but I'm not omniscient. He'll probably get me back for this one, but it's worth it. Maybe he can just call me on his cell phone the next time he loses it. "Hey, Jilly? Have you seen my phone?" Or maybe he can start locking his cell phone inside his car before he calls me, to make sure the phone doesn't get lost during the conversation. Okay, I'm finished. I think. Cast your vote for my darling for "Brainfart of the Week." He deserves it! Jill Schafer Boehme Eric Boehme Thursday, November 03, 2005Loosely Based On One Or Two Chapters By Dumas...My darling husband, aware that I'd recently finished plodding through -- ur, reading -- The Count of Monte Cristo, surprised me by renting the most recently filmed version thereof. We popped some popcorn and watched it on Monday night. Never in my life have I watched an adaptation of a novel that veered so completely away from the original story. It was a good movie! Okay, the truth is out -- I hated the book. I couldn't keep track of the characters and couldn't care less what happened to most of them. If it hadn't been for my broken ribs, I never would have sat still long enough to finish the bloody thing. As it stood, I had nothing better to do, so I read the book. The movie eliminated at least half of the characters (that was a good thing), started with what in the novel was backstory (in short, the whole story was turned around), and let Monte Cristo have the girl in the end (he doesn't get her in the novel -- he gets a new, younger one). I literally laughed out loud at some of the ridiculous changes in plot. Aside from the basic premise of innocently-imprisoned-guy-gets-out-and-seeks-revenge, and the names of the few characters who were actually spared for the movie, there was nothing of Dumas in the tale. He's rolling in his grave, I tell you. Not that I care. He is definitely going down as an author to be avoided at all costs. I'll take Austen or Dickens any day. Even Eric, who, if you recall, doesn't read real books, was able to pick out the "Hollywood moments" in the film without my help. "He didn't really die that way, did he?" Nope. "That didn't happen in the book, did it?" Nope. "This is a Hollywood moment, huh?" Yep. Oy. Let it be known that this is the first time in my life that I have ever admitted to enjoying a movie more than the original book! Now it's your turn. What is the best film adaptation you've ever seen? What is the worst? Jill Schafer Boehme Eric Boehme Beat Your Own Drum Tuesday, November 01, 2005If a Picture Paints a Thousand Words......then the following three have a lot to say about the well-disciplined, carefully organized household of children that I am in the midst of raising:    Yes, that's my daughter Rachel. I think she now realizes that it's not such a good idea to allow Big Brother Jonathan take pictures of -- ur, activities? -- that take place while Mom and Dad are out. Come to think of it, Big Brother Jonathan doesn't come out smelling like roses, either, since he was supposed to be "in charge." Can you believe that he actually showed these pictures to me the next day? Rachel's face went white when she realized what he was doing. "You were supposed to delete those..." were her final words. That is, they were her final words before I began my incredulous pontificating on the topic of Children Who Break Their Parents' Trust. Dang, the pictures are great, though. One can only imagine what's really going on during the afternoons when I'm squirrelled away in my office, writing madly. I am known to credit my children with a high level of creativity, but I know from experience that there is sometimes only a hairbreadth from creativity to stupidity. Like the time I decided I wanted to be Mary Poppins. I was eight. I took an umbrella onto the swing with me, and, at the highest swing-point, jumped off whilst holding the umbrella Mary Poppins-style. Except that Mary Poppins didn't end up with a sprained left wrist. Creative? Undoubtedly. Stupid? No comment. Thank goodness there was no such thing as a digital camera back then. My poor children. They've inherited more of their mother's genes than any child should have to suffer. |
About Me
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....
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