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Tuesday, December 27, 2005Compliment of the CenturyThere we were, sitting in the living room with my sister-in-law a few days before Christmas, enjoying some cookies and the gifts we had exchanged. Jonathan, who was sitting beside me on the sofa, suddenly waxed poetic and exclaimed something completely off-topic. "You smell like a port-o-potty." Yes, he was talking to me. I was still sitting there with my mouth hanging open when Eric decided to chime in. "You know, I smelled something like that this morning. You do smell like a port-o-potty!" Now, most women I know would not feel very flattered by these remarks. I have enough of a sense of humor to not take things like this too seriously, but I'll admit that my mind began to frantically race through all the reasons why I might be exuding such a distinctive odor. I wasn't wearing any perfume...hadn't switched deodorants...had definitely bathed in the last twenty-four hours. A-ha! "It's my new hairspray!" I cried. Indeed. Lured by a savings of forty-nine cents, I had abandoned my regular brand of hairspray for a bottle of Aussie Sprunch. Little did I know that I had just purchased port-o-potty-scented hairspray. Allow me to clarify. The Aussie Sprunch smells like artificial grape flavoring. You know -- it's the stuff they use to make children's Tylenol and liquid decongestants more palatable. I'm not sure whose bright idea it was to make a hairspray smell like fake grapes. I can't remember ever smelling my children's medicine and thinking, "You know, this would make a heck of a hair product." At any rate, it seems that the port-o-potty people use a similar scent in the port-o-potty poop recepticles. Grape-scented, anti-poop cakes. That's what I smelled like. Port-o-potty deodorant. "Why the heck would you buy something called Aussie Sprunch, anyway?" Eric asked. He wasn't too impressed with my forty-nine-cent savings. He bought me a bottle of my regular brand of hairspray the next day. "I don't want you to smell like a port-o-potty." Ain't love grand? (To read Eric's sensitive account of our family Christmas celebration, pop over to his blog. I'm still recovering from all the port-o-potty comments [yes, they're still rolling in...].) Saturday, December 24, 2005Merry Christmas From the Boehme Hoehme
 May the love and joy of our Lord Jesus Christ be yours this Christmas and all year long! Thank you for your readership, and for helping to create the wonderful sense of community that happens within the comment boxes. Merry, merry Christmas everyone!
Tuesday, December 20, 2005"I was born in 1914..."
 "I'm 92, I think."Actually, he's 91. We met him yesterday at the local nursing home where my children and I participated in a party for the residents, hosted by local homeschoolers. We "adopted" Mr. Nurme, you see, which means we signed up to bring him a Christmas gift. The residents on the adoption list were included because they were the least likely to have visitors. Some have no family at all. All we knew about Mr. Nurme was that he used to play golf with some "big names," and that he wore a size "Large." My dad is a golfer, so I called him. "Dad, what would be a good gift for an old, ex-golfer?" Not only did my dad give me the excellent suggestion of a golf cap, but he went out and bought one himself. A nice red one. I could spend an entire afternoon talking about my dad's golden heart, but I'll spare you. Then, Jonathan painted a picture for Mr. Nurme -- hot air balloons over the ninth green. There are some things in life that I can take credit for, but not my son's artistic talent. That comes directly from the hand of the Lord. I can draw the odd Christmas tree or a doodled face, but Jonathan can actually paint. We framed the painting and wrapped both gifts in bright paper. When I handed the present to Mr. Nurme, his sweet face lit up as though he had just shed twenty-five years. "Who is this from?" he asked. "It's from all of us." I had to speak loudly because Mr. Nurme was hard of hearing. "What did I do to deserve this?" He asked the question a second time before I finally answered him. "We all deserve gifts sometimes." His fingers were gnarled and twisted with arthritis; I helped him to tear off the wrapping paper. "Is this a sweater?" "It's a golf cap." I helped him take it out of the box. "Oh! This is good!" He energetically tugged the cap onto his head, and assured me that it fit perfectly. Then he unwrapped the painting. "My son painted this," I explained. Mr. Nurme looked at Jonathan. "You painted this!" He gazed at the piece of artwork for a few seconds, then tapped his finger onto the sand trap and said, "This is the green I played!" Ninety-one, and his sense of humor is completely intact. "My parents came from Finland," Mr Nurme told us. "I was born in Detroit, Michigan, over the top of a bake shop. I was born in 1914." "That's two years after the Titanic went down!" I said. Mr. Nurme's eyes twinkled. "Don't blame me for that." Then he laughed -- a warm, high-pitched, giggly sort of laugh that warmed us to our toes. He is a small man, made smaller by the height of his wheelchair and the rounding of his shoulders. The whole time we were with him, he seemed simply amazed that we were there -- amazed that we had brought him gifts. Who's to know what transpired in his life to bring him to this point of aloneness. Who's to know how many days he has left. Ah, Mr. Nurme. You have snapped my life into perspective with your gentle spirit and radiant smile. I wish I could sit for an hour and listen to your tales of bake shops and Finland and Bob Hope golf tournaments. I wish I could hear your laughter on a regular basis. I think I've just touched the heart of Christmas, and it's still beating within me. Funny, isn't it, how we seek to touch someone's life, and then we ourselves end up forever changed. You won't hear me complaining about having turned forty any more, either. Why, I feel like an absolute puppy. Thank you, Mr. Nurme!
Friday, December 16, 2005He's Still Mine
 Prospective brides, take a number. You will be subjected to an intense and thorough background check, IQ evaluation, genetic testing, and a two-year training program in order to proceed to the final round, which will not occur until the year 2014. If and when a suitable candidate is found, a formal courtship will begin, with the ultimate goal of a long and satisfying marriage. In the meantime, he's all mine. If you ask me, "So, is 13 a challenging age or what?" I will certainly admit that the phrase "Oh-my-goodness-when-will-it-end" does occasionally pop into my brain (several dozen times per day). But if you then say, "The teen years are awful, aren't they?" I will respond with a resounding, "No, No, NO!" This child (boy? young man?) gets up early in the morning so that he and I can have some "alone time" before the day begins. He likes to sit with his dad and me when we are having our coffee in the morning. He often looks at me and says, "You're my sweetheart." And means it. He lets me snuggle with him on the sofa -- and even lets me plant the occasional kiss on his cheek (provided that my lips aren't slimy). Daily, he says, "I love you, Schla." (That's his special name for me.) He enjoys crawling into the big bed and reading with me for an hour before his bedtime. He still holds my hand when we walk together. The morning after I broke my ribs, he appeared in the bedroom with a freshly gathered bouquet of wildflowers. On my fortieth birthday, he created an entire web page for me, complete with heartfelt messages and animated pictures. He plays with my hair -- simply because he knows I love when he does it. On a regular basis, he says to me, "Do you know how awesome you are?" So as you can see, the kid is going to be a fantastic husband some day. That "some day," however, isn't anywhere on my radar, so I'm going to continue to enjoy being his sweetheart. When it's time to abdicate, I will do so with grace and aplomb. For now -- back off! He may enjoy talking about all the pretty girls in his Youth Group, but when he comes home, he still has eyes only for me. And I am absolutely, completely, irreversibly in love with him, too. Tuesday, December 13, 2005Woe Is Me And All That...I live a simple life -- really, I do. My children aren't ridiculously over-involved in extracurricular activities; our weekends are generally obligation-free; our house isn't polluted with the noise from a television or death-defying video games; I don't work outside the home. Simple, simple, simple. And there is joy in simplicity. Except, it's Christmastime. Still simple, mind you -- no "I hate this but I do it anyway" obligations or marathon shopping sprees. We don't "do" Christmas that way. Yet even in its simplest form, Christmas requires special preparation from the woman of the family, and, well, that would be me. So the card-signing, the stocking-stuffer-wrapping, the which-cookies-do-I-bake-this-year decisions, the "whose turn is it to go shopping for his siblings today" trips, the long-distance gift mailing -- it all falls on me. I don't mind. I love Christmas and I love the excitement of surprising and delighting the people I love the most. The one, teeny-tiny problem is this: I can't write. I don't have the time, the energy, or the ability to stop thinking about everything I still "have to do" in order to continue with my story. And I'm not happy about it. This morning during coffee time, Eric looked at me with the expression he always gets when he talks about my writing, and said, "So, are you going to write today?" What he meant was, "I really want you to write today." He wants to read the next chapter of my new novel, to be sure, but he also wants to encourage me in my passion. He loves that I'm a writer, and he really is very good at affirming what I do. I can't do it, though. I. Can't. Write. Even as I'm typing this, I keep looking at the time, thinking about what else I have to accomplish before lunchtime. And the "Not Writing" mode is like being constipated. All the words that want to be are backing up, clogged and compressed, until they become a solid, congealed mass that won't budge. (How's that for imagery?) No matter how long I might sit here, nothing will come out. So, after a few minutes, I sigh, get up, and go on about my next Christmas task. After a while, I start to feel downright dimwitted. So forgive me, please, if you don't hear much from me over the next couple of weeks. I'm hoping that the completion of all Christmas preparations will be just the Metamucil I need. Surely -- surely -- the words will start flowing again. Saturday, December 10, 2005Doing the Dickens Thing
 It's barely 40 degrees out, and an hour or so from now I'm going to be hoofing up the streets of downtown Franklin with my family at our town's annual "Dickens of a Christmas" festival. "But you're a Yankee; surely you don't mind the cold!" Harrumph! Yes, I'm a Yankee and always will be; but I've lived in the South for almost eighteen years now. My skin is about as thick as a store-brand garbage bag. Two years ago, my dear parents were visiting us during the Dickens festival, so naturally we brought them with us. It was cold and drizzly -- a complete poop of a day, really. Rachel forgot to bring her coat, and I didn't even notice until we got there. I found every excuse possible to duck into a store or anywhere remotely warm. Eric, in his glory, exclaimed, "But this is perfect weather for the Dickens festival! Why, it's just like being in London for real!" An interesting comment, indeed, since my darling husband has never set foot in London or anywhere near it. He hasn't even read a single Dickens novel. The following year, the festival was equally cold and gloomy, but Eric was wise enough to hold off on the "just like London" comments. It's a happy thing, then, that today the sun is shining with gusto. I'm hoping the sunshine will fool my body into thinking it's actually warm. Forty-five degrees may be above freezing, but I seriously can't function at anything below sixty. I do love the Dickens festival. Characters from A Christmas Carol roam the streets (that's Ebenezer with Eric and my dad above); there are strolling carolers wearing nineteenth-century garb; they've got roasted chestnuts, real sugarplums, and kettle corn; and Publix hands out wee cups of artifically flavored eggnog, which admittedly doesn't do much for setting the olden-day mood. It's a superbly Christmasey-outing-with-the-family thing to do on a chilly Saturday. But I surely do wish my parents were here. Somehow, even with the (London-ish) rain and gloom, the outing was much more fun when they were here. So think of me today. Think of me trying to remain cheerful through my chattering teeth and to remember that I'm not the one who's supposed to be calling out, "Bah, humbug!" (I wonder if they'd consider allowing a female to play the role...?) Tripping Tiny Tim might be good for a few laughs, but I guess that wouldn't be a good example to set for my offspring. Tra la la! Off I go... Thursday, December 08, 2005The Next Seuss GemAs promised, here is the second place Seuss winner: T.R. Nordstrom of Writers In The Mist regales us with the tale of poor, sick Lilly. The Day Lilly Was SNARGLED It was Monday morning and just before school. Lilly Lampey awoke with her feet feeling cool. But, her face was warm and her belly was queasy. A hard day of learning would not make things easy. She didn't want to read -- the thought made her woozy. She didn't want to ride the bus, and sit next to Suzy. So, "To see Doctor Dilly," said Mother to Lilly. "You must be feeling rotten." Doctor Dilly saw Lilly, her face glowing red. He looked and he listened, then said, "Back to bed!" "It could be a virus, an infection, or worse. It could be the potion of an old witches curse." Then, Lilly coughed and she sputtered. She quivered and gargled. Doctor Dilly said, "Wait! I think you’ve been SNARGLED!" "SNARGLED?" asked Lilly. "Why what do you mean? But, I eat my vegetables, and I keep myself clean!" "Yes, I heard a SNARGLE,"Doctor Dilly nodded his head. "Now you must go home and get back to bed!" So they drove quickly home to lay in the bed that was closest. It could not be a good thing to have a SNARGLE diagnosis. "But, what is a SNARGLE?" Lilly wondered in bed. "Could I not have a cold, or a fever instead?" She was stuck with a SNARGLE—must be a nasty disease. "Is it like having measles, pox or the fleas?" And so Lilly slept, to rid of the bug. Her Mom washed the pillows, the sheets, and her rug. And, hour after hour while Lilly lay sleeping, Somewhere from nowhere her dreams began creeping. Does a snargle have feet to rampage a stomping? Or is it round like ball to roll on a romping? Or, does it have fangs or claws that could scratch her? But, what if it's slimy? That'd be a disaster! And, what if the SNARGLE rattles and hisses? Or, passes on germs through wet, sloppy kisses? Lilly didn't want to be SNARGLED. She can't, and she wouldn't. A girl like Lilly can't be sick and she shouldn't! "So away with your big beady eyes and your fur. Away with your stink, I want to be cured!" So all through the night, Lilly battled the beast. And slowly but surely her fever decreased. And when morning appeared, Lilly was first to awaken. Her fever was gone, and the SNARGLE was shaken. "I want to go to school," Lilly said to her mother. "I want to go now, and not miss another!" Then Lilly hopped on the school bus and headed to town. She even smiled at Suzy, there was no more frown. And, just like that the SNARGLE was forgotten. Lilly said to herself, "Wow, I must’ve been feeling rotten." Labels: writing Tuesday, December 06, 2005And the Winners Are................First-place winner of the Show-Your-Seuss-Talent Writing Contest is: Brandie Dunn of Will B. Done's Ramblings. Brandie's winning Seuss poem is entitled Black Friday. Second-place winner is: T. R. Nordstrom of Writers In The Mist. T. R.'s winning Seuss poem is entitled The Day Lilly was SNARGLED. And because I'm feeling particularly un-Grinchy, I've decided to send BOTH winners a signed copy of My Lima Beans Are Allergic to my Spoon. I want to extend a big THANK YOU to all who entered the contest! It takes a lot of time and creative energy to come up with a poem of any sort, and I believe that Seuss' style is among the most difficult to emulate. My hat's off to each of you for your effort. Without further ado, here is Brandie's winning entry: Black Friday by Brandie Dunn It's that time of year again when everyone starts hopping. Young and old alike become committed to their shopping. They watch for the sales like a hawk to its prey. Then they're up before dawn on that infamous day. Black Friday it's called, the day after Thanksgiving. When those who would normally sleep in join the living. At that ungodly hour, who needs to eat? Skipping their shower, they don't miss a beat. That thingamabob calls them like a fish to a lure. Bad weather, long lines they will have to endure. Primal forces take over when they open the doors. The pushing begins, the tackles and wars. With eyes on the prize the battle ensues. Divide and conquer, we must not loose. And somehow what started out so innocently. Turns into a mass of humanity. Contorted, thwarted, captivated by greed. It's not something they want. It's something they NEED! Perhaps it's the rush, the heart palpitations That people are after, and not the Play Stations. When it's all said and done at the end of the day And you really can't believe you've acted quite in that way. Whatever the reason for your misbehavior. Remember this season began with your Savior. So next year if you find yourself saying, "Come hell or high water. I WILL get that much coveted thing for my daughter!" It could be a tight budget and savings you are after. That leads to a tug-o-war destined for disaster. Take a deep breath. Step away from the item. It's really not worth it to fuss or to fight 'em. Before you end up at the police station. Remember that baby who came for your salvation. ----- Brandie's blog, Will B. Done's Ramblings, is subtitled Caregiver 101: Chronicles of a Chronic Caregiver. Brandie, the devoted mother of four children, cares for her ailing father, who lives with Brandie and her family. While Brandie is the first to admit that there are certainly sacrifices involved, she is also quick to point out the benefits and blessings of a life lived to serve another. A visit to her blog is a warm and delightful glimpse into Brandie's life, and the lives of her precious children. Way to go, Brandie! Stay tuned for Mr. Nordstrom's winning entry, which I will be publishing later in the week. Labels: writing Sunday, December 04, 2005The Full-time Job That Pays Nothing"So, I hear you're an author!" That was the sentence du jour at Eric's office party on Friday night. Eric should have warned me about all the lip-flapping he'd done about my writing pursuits. Not that it's a bad thing for a husband to speak highly of his wife. It's just that a little heads-up would have helped. One lady's husband said, "So, the writing -- that must be a full-time job, right? You must write six or seven hours a day." Umm... I calmly told him that writing certainly could be a full-time job, but that I was currently homeschooling my children at the same time. (I swear people gasp when I mention that I'm homeschooling.) In reality, a good day translates as writing from 1:00 to 4:00. And to be perfectly honest, I haven't had that many "good days" lately. Life has been too full. (Read: My head has been too empty.) The sweet irony, too, is that all this mad writing -- the fresh, new story and the repeated edits of the completed novel -- amounts to absolutely zero income. Sad, but true, as all you pre-published authors know: Writers put months and years into a novel before seeing a single dollar. It's either passion or madness that keeps us going. Or both. Yes, I've got a book out there already. Yes, I've seen some dollars, and they still trickle in at a steady pace. But my time, my energy, my heart -- all are invested in my current projects. And if this is my "full-time job," then I'm working for nothing. Know what else is funny? The way people look at you as though you are some sort of spatial anomaly. Not in a bad way -- it's more of a "wow-you-actually-write-things-I-don't-think-I-could-do-that" stare. It feels good to be looked at that way. But it doesn't match up to reality. I mean, if I were a neonatal brain surgeon, I think I'd deserve that sort of look. Or a Nobel Prize winner. Or the Pope. I'm not complaining, though. It's a sort of validation for all those hours and hours of typing my fingers raw. "Why did you tell everyone that I'm an author?" I hissed to Eric on our way to the dinner table. "Because you are." Oh. Well, that's all right, then. Maybe next time I'll bring signed business cards along with me and hand them out to everyone. That way, when my first novel hits the best seller list, they'll all have a valuable souvenir from "way back when." Full-time job, indeed! Full-time passion, full-time calling, full-time burning desire within my soul. But "job?" No. And even when the royalties do start flowing, it still won't be a "job." Writing isn't something that I do; it's something that I am. And you can't put a price tag on that, anyway. Kindly forward all donations to Jillian Boehme's Full-time Job to my Paypal account. Labels: writing Friday, December 02, 2005Smooch Obsession
 My daughters are obsessed with the art of kissing. Not that Eric and I spend endless amounts of time smooching. It's just that, when we do grab the occasional moment, there are sets of wee eyes on us, observing and -- well, giggling. See the lovely young thing half hidden behind her mommy? That's Maggie, drinking in the Smooch Moment. Wondering who snapped the picture in the first place? That's Rachel, my other smooch-obsessed daughter. Years from now, their husbands can thank Eric and me for early training in the fine art of kissing. I'm not making any excuses for public smooching, either (which is not the same as public spit-swapping or public groping, by the way). A strong marriage is the foundation of a strong family, and I want my chickens to know that Mommy and Daddy love each other -- and sometimes we smooch! Jonathan thinks it's disgusting. Actually, the girls think it's disgusting, too. Admist the giggling and various other geeky noises, there is usually at least one big, "Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwww!" Or sometimes a question, like, "How can you STAND to get his saliva on your mouth like that?" Okay, so I've raised a few germ freaks. I won't even get into the poetry that daughter Maggie has been writing of late. Suffice it to say that the protagonist always slaps away the would-be lovers -- though always after the smooch and not before. Eric and I don't have to place her inside that ivory tower just yet. As for Spencer -- well, he still kisses both of us on the mouth, so it's not an issue. He usually just tries to worm his way between us and get in on the affection fest. More than you wanted to know today? Probably! But I'm trying to psyche myself up for an Office Christmas Party this evening. Ask me how excited I am about being presented around the room as Eric Boehme's Wife. Ask me how much I spent on my new shirt ($11 at TJ Maxx, thank you very much!). Ask me how I'm going to be freezing my butt off because the new shirt is sleeveless and it's not going out of the 40's today. So I need lots of warm fuzzies in order to be a Charming, Sociable Wife this evening for my darling husband. Welcome to my fuzzies! |
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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