|
|
Saturday, January 28, 2006Genetic StrangenessThere's no doubt that they're all Eric's children. All of 'em. Down to the last gene. This morning, Spencer came running into our bathroom with his clothing in his arms. He's a smart lil' guy -- he wanted to get dressed in front of the space heater. He dropped his clothing, made a peculiar face, pinched his nose shut, and ran out of the bathroom, slapping the pocket door shut behind him. "What was that all about?" Eric called from the shower. Really, I had no idea. I hadn't been paying too much attention, since I was busy blow-drying my hair. Four minutes later, Spencer returned. There was a folded-up paper towel Scotch-taped over his nose and mouth. The tape was attached to his chin, his eyebrows, and the bridge of his nose. He looked -- weird. "I had to put this on so I could breathe," Spencer explained. "It really stinks in here." "Oh, does it?" Honestly, things like this don't really shock me anymore. "What does it smell like?" "I don't know. It's just really reeky." Reeky? I peered at Eric through the glass shower door. He was laughing silently into his hands. "It smells worse than vomit," Spencer continued. It was hard to take him seriously behind the paper-towel gas mask. Okay, now before you get any weird ideas about the state of my bathroom -- it's clean. And in spite of the "reekiness" in there, I was perfectly clean, and Eric was in the process of getting clean. No one had recently left an offensive deposit in the toilet. And there wasn't any vomit lying around. I have no idea what prompted the gas mask. So I'm just chalking it up to "Boehme genes." Eric will balk, but he can't deny his own strangeness, so his words will have a hollow ring. Why, just the other morning I walked into our bathroom to put something in the cabinet, and Eric was standing in front of his sink -- staring at it. He wasn't moving; he wasn't brushing his teeth; he wasn't waiting for the water to run hot. No, he was just...staring. "What are you staring at?" I asked. He laughed nervously. He had no good answer. "I'm not a morning person" only works for so long. There you have it. My children are weird because my husband is weird. As for me -- I choose to be weird. That's different than being born that way. I think... (Read Eric's response HERE.) Labels: parenting Tuesday, January 24, 2006"The Really Horrible Fourth of July"My husband is warped. In the past week or so, we've had several evenings of "sitting by the fire" in our living room downstairs. Not just Eric and me -- all six of us. It's been the kind of cozy family time you can only have during the winter months. Eric, our daddy-from-another-planet, decided during these fireside times that he would tell stories to the children. Not "stories from my boyhood" or "tales from the Brothers Grimm," but "stories from Eric's strange mind." Needless to say, the children love them. I missed the first round, so you can imagine how curious I was when he prepared to tell a new story the other night. "The Really Horrible Fourth of July," he began. My scalp started to crawl. Not because there's anything particularly creepy about the Fourth of July, but because my faithful children had informed me of the content of Daddy's last fireside story, in which there was a city where the sun never shone, and when it finally rose in the sky, it fried everybody. "It was the Fourth of July, and there was going to be a huge fireworks display in the city," Eric said. He went on to describe "the boy's" excitement, and the crowd of thousands upon thousands of people gathering in the city to watch the magnificent fireworks display. So far so good, thought I. This sounds like a scene from our own lives. Nashville has a grand fireworks display every year, and the kids love going up to the city with Daddy to see it. (Mommy, the sane one, stays home and writes.) Just as I began to relax a bit, Eric's story took a dark turn. "'Ladies and gentleman,' a voice announced, 'Welcome to our city's fireworks! The show is about to begin!' Everyone cheered, and then the long row of rockets, all lined up, began to tilt until they were all facing the crowd of people. And suddenly, all the rockets started shooting off -- right into the crowd of people! Everyone started to yell and run away, and people were on fire, and the rockets kept shooting at the people. It was a really horrible Fourth of July. The end." You can see why I write the stories around here, while Eric keeps a day job. You can also see why my children are a little to the "off" side of normal. "Mommy, now you tell a story!" came the gleeful call as Eric's masterpiece came to an end. There was no way -- there was absolutely no way -- that I was going to even try to come up with a story in the wake of Eric's worse-than-Tim-Burton tale. In short, I declined. "It takes Mommy a long time to write her stories," came daughter Maggie, fellow writer, to my defense. I was waiting for her to add, "and Mommy's stories actually make sense," but she didn't. Who would want to listen to one of my tales after that, anyway? It would be like trying to get a child to read Othello after he's just finished a Harry Potter book. I left the living room as Eric began his next tale. It was really too frightening to stay there. Don't worry -- I limit the children's exposure to their father's half-baked imagination. And I fill their minds with real literature on a regular basis. One can only hope that it will counter the effects of Warped Parent Story Hour. Will The Blogging Boss have anything to say in his own defense? I doubt it. I haven't embellished a single word. He may be a doting father, adoring husband, incredible boss, and all-around good guy, but when it comes right down to it, he's WEIRD. Why else would he love me? Sunday, January 22, 2006Can't Take the "Small" out of "Small Town Girl"
 I grew up in a small town with a big name: Catasauqua, Pennsylvania. My dad was a local letter carrier. Everybody knew him. Better still, everybody liked him. My dad is a "people person" to the max. And he has a heart of gold. He's the mailman who brought the little old ladies their pension checks, straight to the front door. He wanted to make sure they received them. He's also the mailman who kicked the teeth out of a dog that was ready to take a chunk out of his leg, but that's another story. Since everybody knew my dad, everybody knew me. Not because I was famous or particularly special, but because I looked so much like my dad. "You're Mockie Schafer's daughter, aren't you?" It was almost spooky sometimes. And of course, I didn't always want people to know that I was Mockie Schafer's daughter. Like the time my boyfriend and I went "parking" at Bull's Head, the local "place to go parking." We were just listening to music (I swear we were just listening to music) when a policeman walked up to the car window and shined a flashlight beam right on my face. All I could think was, "Please don't let him know my dad. Please don't let him recognize my face." For days afterward, I was paranoid. Surely, any moment now, someone was going to say to my dad, "I hear your daughter was caught parking with some boy up at Bull's Head." It never happened. And I never went back to Bull's Head, either. When I chose a college, it was nestled in the heart of an even smaller town -- Selinsgrove, Pennsylvania. It was no wonder I felt right at home there. I even took a job one summer at the Selinsgrove Post Office. (If that wasn't the height of my existence, I don't know what was.) Then I moved to Nashville. Mind you, to a small town girl, Nashville is a huge metropolis. Sure, I had been to New York and Orlando. I knew Nashville wasn't in the big leagues. But to me, any place that required me to drive on an Interstate to get to a job interview was definitely a Big City. And slowly but surely, I grew to appreciate -- and then to enjoy -- the complete anonymity afforded by life in a Big City. No one ever said, "Aren't you Mockie Schafer's daughter?" Then, six years ago, we moved to Franklin, a lovely historical town just south of Nashville (Civil War buffs will know its name from the famous battle fought here). Granted, we don't live in the historic old part -- we live in the "urban sprawl" part. And at first, we didn't spend much time in historic Franklin. In the last year, though, something changed. We started hanging out on Main Street. We adopted McCreary's as our favorite hang-out (it's an Irish pub with the best chips you've ever tasted). We started choosing the downtown Starbucks over the "other" one. We "did" Franklin on a regular basis. And slowly but surely, people started to recognize me again. I walked into my favorite boutique a few weeks ago. The owner was there, and she commented how she loves the way I always bring my girls in and ask their opinion on different articles of clothing (she was probably wondering why I never bought anything, but pants with a $118 price tag tend to put me off a bit). She didn't know my name, but she recognized my face. Several nights ago, Eric and I made plans to meet at McCreary's. I arrived first and chose a table. Our favorite waiter, an extremely young man named Henry, came right up to me and said, "Would you like a Chardonnay tonight, or a Coke?" I always have one or the other when I'm at McCreary's. Henry knows me. The "small town" in me has surfaced. I like that people know me. Of course, I still miss the anonymity sometimes. Like when I'm wearing my glasses and one of Eric's baseball caps to run to the grocery store. Or when I'm at Starbucks and suddenly realize that I need to use the restroom for more than just a pee. Those are the times when I don't miss hearing, "Aren't you Mockie Schafer's daughter?" Or, to move with the times, "Aren't you Eric Boehme's wife?" Or, "Aren't you the mother of that weird kid who flies hot air balloons and used to wear bright red boots everywhere?" Or...well, you get the idea. I can be an urban snob with the best of them; I can't survive without my Starbucks and the local Borders. But deep within my heart is that small-town Yankee girl who likes to bump into people she knows. As long as it's not a policeman holding a flashlight. Friday, January 20, 2006Friday Wrap-up1. Eph2810 was gracious enough to invite me be a "guest blogger." Pop over to her site and read my offering, "For Better or Worse or Really, Really Bad". 2. I bought a bra at Kohls off the 70-percent-off rack. You have no idea how exciting that is. Seriously. Finding my bra size on a sale rack is like winning an underwear lottery. The racks are filled with gargantuan sizes like 42-D. I could use one of those for a bike helmet, but I surely couldn't wear it under my shirts. 3. Spencer lost his first top tooth. Yesterday. I'm still in complete denial that my "baby" no longer has his "baby smile." No wonder I bought myself a bra. I was self-medicating. 4. I'm close to launching SIX STEPS TO SANITY, my six-class, downloadable course for women (stay tuned! this is exciting news!). Eric says we'll open his prized bottle of Duck Horn merlot when the Big Day arrives. I suppose that's a little more exciting than a new bra. 5. In the middle of Borders earlier this week, I exclaimed to Eric, "I don't want to be a writer." He kept walking past the bookshelves, didn't bat an eyelash, and said, "Yes, you do." Okay, so maybe I need him. I can't help but wonder why "artistes" are always temperamental. In order to make it in the writing or music or art or theatre world, you've got to be really, really tough. Some days, I just don't feel tough enough. 6. I think I will wear my new bra tomorrow. Have a wonderful weekend! Monday, January 16, 2006Parenting 101: Things You Don't Think About Having to ExplainLike the meaning of the word "eunuch." Not that it's a big deal, really. I mean, I don't think there's a sizable chance that one of my children is actually going to run into a eunuch at Walgreen or in the park any time soon. It's just one of those strange things that you never practice explaining ahead of time. Jonathan and I were watching the bonus features on my Pirates of the Caribbean DVD. There's an extended, improvised scene with Jack Sparrow and the pirates in the cave, and Jack makes the comment that all French are "eunuchs," while making a cutting motion in the air with his fingers. I'm sure the moment would have been completely lost on Jonathan, but I felt compelled to enlighten him. Jack Sparrow actually uses the word "eunuch" twice in the movie itself, and, well, I guess I don't want my children to be culturally illiterate. So I said to Jonathan, "Do you know what a eunuch is?" "No." I'm going to spare you my stumbling explanation. Suffice it to say that, when I got to the "snip snip" part, Jonathan's expression became rather incredulous. "You know, they used to do it to little boys, too, if they sang really well when they were sopranos," I continued (obviously I was much more comfortable talking about this in the context of music history). "Because, you know, that's where all your 'man hormones' are, and if you cut them off, your voice won't ever get deeper." "Oh." I'm sure my son is infinitely relieved that he's not a prize-winning boy soprano. The next time something floats right over Jonathan's head, I'm going to let it go. I really don't think he'd be any worse off right now if he didn't know what a eunuch was. Come to think of it, I'd better hide all the scissors. Because I can just hear it now: "Hey Spencer, you wanna be a eunuch?" Labels: parenting Friday, January 13, 2006On Buttered Popcorn and One, Golden SentenceThe pantry's running a bit low, so I opted for a Stonyfield Farms organic yogurt smoothie and a bowl of freshly popped, buttered popcorn for lunch today. Fiber, calcium, lecithin, and inulin -- I'm set for the day! Except, I brought my lunch-munchies up to my office with me so that I could do some writing whilst savoring my popcorn. What was I thinking? First of all, butter-coated fingertips don't work well on a keyboard. And secondly, who in their right mind can stop eating popcorn long enough to do anything else? Except maybe to take a swig of the nearest beverage? "Writing while eating popcorn." It's beyond oxymoronic -- it's humanly impossible. I can "think about writing" while I eat popcorn. I can "wish I were writing" while I eat popcorn. I can even "make grandiose plans to begin writing as soon as I'm finished with this popcorn" while I eat popcorn. But I can't write and eat popcorn at the same time. (Obviously I've finished my popcorn.) Needless to say, I'm off to a slow start after the Christmas holiday, and after the wisdom of fellow-writer Kathie, who released the angst from my heart when she said, "I always take December off!" Oh, the freedom! The rest for a weary mind! Surely I will be kicking and frothing and ready to roll come January, thought I. Surely the words will be bursting forth like rabid fireworks. Um... I wrote one sentence this week. "You wrote one sentence?" Eric did not even try to hide his incredulity. "Yes, I wrote one sentence." "Well, what was the sentence?" "It was...it was, uh...'Devin, who had been rendered speechless by the...by the...' I don't know what the sentence was!" "Why didn't you write more sentences after that?" Now, if I were to say, "Why didn't you make more money than that?" when Eric showed me his paycheck, or, "Why didn't you paint the rest of the upstairs?" after he had finished painting the hallway for me, I can just imagine how that would fly. I was a wise woman, though. I gave him a "look" and said nothing. He's lucky he didn't go on to say something stupid like, "How hard can it be to just finish the chapter?" No, indeed -- he actually said something wonderful and inspiring, instead. He said, "I really can't wait to read Chapter Six." Yes, my husband certainly has a good handle on psychology. Guess who's rolling up her sleeves in a grand attempt to finish Chapter Six today? It's a good thing I've finished my popcorn. Wish me luck! And have a fabulous weekend. Labels: writing Tuesday, January 10, 2006Dispelling the Starry-Eyed Writer's BeliefsBy "starry-eyed," I mean the writer who has just finished his first novel -- the sweat and passion and master creation of his life -- and who is now plunging forward into the world of I-wanna-be-published. By "beliefs," I mean just that -- the things a starry-eyed writer believes; about himself, about his work, about publishing in general. 1. It's perfect. No, it's not. In fact, the manuscript is about as far from perfect as it could possibly get. What it is, actually, is a first draft. Period. First drafts don't get published. They generally don't make very good reading, either. It took me six months to write my first novel. I was in love with it. Each word was sacred. Golden. I thought "editing" meant fixing the typos. My agent (who is my agent-no-longer, but that is another story) claimed to have read it (I doubt she ever did). Her response? "It needs a little tightening up." I had no idea -- no minute fleck of understanding -- what "tightening up" meant. What was I supposed to do? Bind it with thick rubber bands? Single-space it? She offered no other feedback. I was too intimidated to ask questions (she never answered my email, anyway, so it's just as well). As time went by, I read and I researched and I came to realize exactly what "tightening up" meant. There were too many words -- too much unnecessary dialogue -- too much "telling." The most recent draft of the novel is my fourth. I am getting ready to rip into it for Round Five. This from a woman who swore she wouldn't meddle with a single phrase. My novel didn't need "a little tightening up." It needed a major overhaul. It got one. 2. Bombarding New York with hundreds of query letters will ensure my securing an agent in short order. Actually, it will ensure you nothing but a stack of rejection letters. The querying process should be preceeded by intense research: Who represents your genre, who takes on new authors, who has a solid sales record. Sending a chick-lit query to a strictly non-fiction agent, or a sci-fi query to an agent who advertises "absolutely no genre fiction" does nothing but make you look stupid (and waste the agent's time). The folks at AgentQuery have recently dubbed me an "honorary VIP" because of the glowing testimony I sent them (you can read it on their testimonial page). AgentQuery is my favorite web site for researching agents, and I never hesitate to send aspiring authors their way. (I'm still waiting for an AgentQuery T-shirt or something to arrive in the mail, but it just isn't happening.) 3. I've got something really, really, really special here. Well, maybe you do. But I think I must gently point out that your story is much more "special" to you than it is to anyone else. You've got to stop treating it like it's a physical extension of your body, and start viewing it as a project that is either marketable or not. And if you've been fortunate enough to land a good agent, then he'll know the answer to that. I still love my first novel -- I think I always will. But the stars have fallen out of my eyes, and I no longer view it as "really, really really special." Just "really special." And on my cynical days, "Absolutely not special and needing a full year of dismantling." Perhaps my cynical days are going to end up being the productive ones. 4. My best friend's aunt's neighbor is an English teacher. She read my novel and said it was the best book she's ever read and it should sell millions. Your best friend's aunt's neighbor doesn't know what she's talking about. Even J K Rowling's agent never predicted the huge success of the Harry Potter books -- and he knows a thing or two about the publishing world. The rest of us are just readers with opinions. Take the compliments of your "beta readers" with a grain of salt. And even if twelve people find your work astounding, do another edit, anyway. There you have it. I could certainly go on, but let's leave it at that for today. Nuggets of wisdom for the aspiring authors among you -- chew them or spit them out as you will. As for me, I've got some writing to do. It's a gray, low-cloud type of day -- perfect for the melancholic in me to get cracking. It's amazing that I don't kill off more people in my stories (especially on gray, low-cloud type days). One more thing. Kathie asked me about my planned serial. Since I announced it several months ago with such grand promises, I figured I owed all my readers an explanation, so here it is: I fell so deeply in love with the story that I decided to complete it as a novel. That's the long and short of it! I'm still keen on the notion of an online serial, and will probably pursue it at some point. My goal for the remainder of the winter, though, is to finish this new story (it's really, really, really special) and forge ahead with it (both of my daughters absolutely love it, my son says it's better than Harry Potter, and my third-grade English teacher who got my poetry published in the local newspaper will probably think it's worthy of a Newberry award, so I think it will sell millions). First, I've got a fairly disgusting toilet to unclog. Which dispels yet another faulty belief: The life of a writer is glamorous. More on that another day. Labels: writing Friday, January 06, 2006Dead ThingsI should know better to never, never open an unmarked box. I'm a little paranoid about throwing away the sundry, saved boxes my children tend to hoard. A few years ago, you see, I threw away a box without looking inside it, only to be told later that the box had contained three Barbie dresses -- two of which were wedding gowns. Barbies are sacred around here. It was a terrible moment. So, in order to be the ever-sensitive mom, I now check the boxes before I pitch them. It was a matter of course, then, when I decided to check inside the seemingly empty Christmas lights box that was sitting on the children's bathroom floor the other day. A quick peek revealed a plastic grocery bag, which clearly had something tucked inside it. I lifted the bag with two fingers -- and that's when the smell hit me. The noxious, overwhelming smell of death. I had just exhumed a dead toad. Otis had passed away on Christmas Eve -- hardly the time to go outside and bury the poor thing. So Rachel and Jonathan gave him a temporary resting place inside an empty Christmas lights box. Then they promptly forgot about him. I won't tell you how many days had passed since Christmas Eve. Suffice it to say that, had he been out in the wild, Otis would have been major maggot food. I gagged. I shrieked. I bellowed, "GET - THIS - DEAD - TOAD - OUT - OF - THE - HOUSE - RIGHT - NOW!!" My children complied. They know better than to cross me when I've just been exposed to something dead. You'd think I'd be calmer, considering all the dead things I've dealt with over the years. It was the smell, really, that got me. Just yesterday I made the foolhardy decision to clean underneath Jonathan's bed -- a task not for the fainthearted. Besides the normal accumulation of dirty socks, Hardy Boys books, and fishing lures, there was an unusually high concentration of dried-out worm parts. Yes, you read that correctly. At first, I would say, "Eww!" and grab a piece of cardboard or paper to scoop up the raisin-for-a-bird. As the minutes -- and the dried worm encounters -- passed, I became desensitized, until finally I was scooping them up in my bare hands along with the kernels of feed corn and broken plastic pieces from who-knows-what. At least they didn't smell. Jonathan chuckled when I told him about the dried worms (and my bravado). "Yeah," he said, "Those are from the escaped worms." I didn't ask him to elaborate. If I had opted to be a horror writer, I'd have an awful lot of material on hand. As it stands, I think I'll stick to fantasy. At least it gives me an excuse to escape from all the dead things once in a while. Tuesday, January 03, 2006The Things I Do For LoveThings like...washing, drying and ironing our king-sized duvet cover because Eric spilled red wine on it last night around 11:00. Ask me how often I actually wash the duvet cover. Answer: once a year. In April. Under extreme duress. It wouldn't be so bad if I didn't have to iron the thing before re-stuffing it with our down duvet. Needless to say, I only did a quick touch-up job with the iron before replacing the cover today. It isn't April, after all, so I was under no obligation to do it right. At least the wine stain came out. That in itself is nothing short of amazing. Unexpected wine spills notwithstanding, you are about to witness another "thing I do for love." Namely, I'm going to answer the meme that Cheezweezil was kind enough to lay at my doorstep. If he wasn't such a great guy and entertaining blogger, I might just have to act the snob and ignore the fact that he tagged me. Ah, but I'm not that coldhearted. And I'm sensitive enough to realize that his having tagged me was a kindness -- and an honor. (Mind you, I wouldn't say that about any old meme-crazed blogger. Just Dave. And only because he and his sweet wife sent us a cool Christmas gift. Well, okay, that's not the only reason. But I digress...) So, without further fanfare, here are my answers: Four jobs you've had in your life: 1. Telemarketer for a shady-as-they-come, "Hey, you've won a free, black-and-white TV," fly-by-night company. I was seventeen; it was my first job. They fired me after one month. Reason? Lack of sales. The fact that I'd made up a character with a British accent in order to get more people to actually listen to my pitch didn't end up holding water. 2. Queen of the Drive-Thru at Wendy's. I moved quickly up the ranks from deboner-of-chicken-breasts and wiper-of-pubic-hairs-from-urinals to the number one gal at the drive-thru window. One word of caution: Never, never eat Wendy's chili. Never. 3. Teacher of a more-children-than-is-legally-allowed-in-Tennessee roomful of four-year-olds in a daycare. I wasn't a mom yet, and I already knew that I would choose to stay home when my day arrived. Nevertheless, working at a daycare nine hours a day convinced me beyond the wisp of a doubt that I would have my womb removed without anesthetic before I would ever place a child of mine in a daycare. 'Nuff said. 4. Administrative secretary for a local Christian ministry. I've blogged about my boss before -- best one I've ever had. This was the period of my life during which I laid the foundation for my love and knowledge of computers. I was a WordStar guru. I taught myself how to download cool fonts into my laser printer (yes, yes, all you too-young-to-remember whippersnappers; fonts had to be created and downloaded back then). Four movies you would watch over and over: 1. Pride and Prejudice (the A&E version) 2. Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl 3. Lord of the Rings (all three, of course) 4. Room With a View Four places you have lived: 1. Catasauqua, Pennsylvania (It's an American Indian word; it means "The earth is thirsty.") 2. Selinsgrove, Pennsylvania (College years -- it's where I met my beloved Eric.) 3. Nashville, Tennessee 4. Franklin, Tennessee Four TV shows you love to watch: Let me be perfectly clear: I don't watch TV. However, back in the days when all the Star Treks were on, Eric and I were completely addicted. So I will list them, even though we no longer watch them: 1. Star Trek: The Next Generation 2. Star Trek: Voyager My favorite British sit-com is As Time Goes By with Judi Dench and Geoffrey Palmer. That is no longer on TV, either, and we own the entire set on DVD. Four places you have been on vacation: 1. Ocean City, New Jersey 2. Ocean City, Maryland 3. Disneyworld (Orlando, Florida) 4. Cape May, New Jersey Four websites you visit daily: 1. Google (It's my homepage.) 2. Blog Explosion 3. Mommy! The Internet Lifeline for At-home Moms (The online community of at-home women I manage on MSN) 4. My own blog. Seriously. I check my hits and comments and use my sideboard to visit my favorite bloggers. Four of your favorite foods: 1. Lobster tail with drawn butter (sea scallops are a close second) 2. Petite filet mignon, medium-well, at Ruth's Chris Steakhouse 3. Jonathan's homemade chocolate chip cookies 4. Gourmet chocolate -- dark Four places you would rather be right now: 1. The ocean 2. The ocean 3. The ocean 4. Anywhere in the world with Eric Four bloggers you are tagging: 1. Doris at Nature's Artwork 2. Iris at My Lighter Side 3. Kathie at Housewife Cafe 4. Ellen at The Reign of Ellen Tada! I've done it. An enlightening experience, to be sure. Now I might actually go work on my latest novel. Oh, and a big THANKS for all your wonderful comments on my last post! I felt very affirmed in my smells-like-port-o-potty state. You all rock. |
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....
|
