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Wednesday, May 31, 2006This Had Better Not Be PropheticYesterday, Eric took the children swimming for a couple of hours. In my absence, Spencer made the following proclamation: "When Mommy is 45, she will finish her book, and then she won't have to write in the afternoons anymore, and then she can take us swimming." Okay. I know I don't get as much writing done each day as I'd like, but four years to finish my current novel? At that rate, it won't be on the shelves until 2014. Then there's the bathing suit issue. The amount of shaving required of any woman in order to display herself in a combination of nylon and spandex that shows way too much leg isn't worth many trips to the pool. If I were to finish the book next week, I still wouldn't show up at the pool in the afternoons. It isn't my writing that keeps me from the pool. It is my aversion to bathing suits, direct sunlight, and droves of obnoxious children. Besides, the house is so very quiet when everyone's off swimming. Almost too quiet. No, not "too quiet," really. It just takes a few hours to get used to the change in decibel level. By then, they've returned. Aside from Spencer's high hopes of Mommy As Bathing Beauty, this four-years-to-finish-the-story thing has got to go. I wrote the first draft of my first novel in six months. Yes, my current story is taking a bit longer. But four years? Heaven help me. I really don't want to be wearing Depends when my name is finally gracing the Bestseller lists. I think I'll assume that Spencer hasn't quite grasped the concept of time. Or maybe he temporarily forgot how old I actually am. Or... Maybe he's got a better understanding of the publishing world than I do. Getting a book from agent to publisher to bookshelf is a long, long, long process. Guess I'd better get to work. Monday, May 29, 2006It Was Really Tempting...But ultimately I decided against entitling this post "I'm Married to an 80-year-old," as I had originally intended. I didn't think Eric would appreciate it. You see, he played four games of volleyball on Friday afternoon. It's a fun, let's-have-an-office-picnic kind of thing that his Place of Employment does twice a year, and Eric loves it. His hidden extrovert comes out, he takes off his manager hat, and yes, he plays volleyball. I think it's great. Really, I do. Eric needs that kind of sweaty guy thing in his life. It's right up there with weight lifting, minus the male grunting. Except this time, Eric twisted his back near the end of the first game. It couldn't have been that painful, because my beloved husband hung in there for three more games. Three more games. Was this some kind of machismo I've yet to behold in my definitely-not-macho spouse? I'm not sure. All I know is that by the time Friday evening rolled around, Eric was...hobbling. "Uhnn. Mmmpff." (These are the noises he makes when he wants to get my attention.) "What's your problem?" (I'm not very sympathetic when Eric makes stupid noises.) "Ohhhh, I twisted my back playing volleyball today." Then the story came out -- how Eric had dived toward a glorious save, how he'd landed wrong and wrenched his back, and how he'd valiantly made his way through three more rounds of volleyball torture. "Wait. You're telling me that you hurt your back in the first game, and then you played three more games?" If Eric thought he was going to wring any amount of sympathy from me at this point, he was seriously deluded. "Go take some Ibuprofin." (I sound just like my mother sometimes, I swear.) He wouldn't take the Ibuprofin -- said he'd wait until morning. By the time morning rolled around, he had aged about fifteen years and claimed he couldn't walk. That, of course, didn't stop him from lounging at the pool all day with the kids. ("The lounge chair felt really good on my back," quoth he.) Not that I'm complaining; I did get another chapter finished while the house was quiet. And forget yard work, kitchen help, and early showers ("Unnggh, I couldn't get in the shower when I got up..."). When Eric aches, the world stops. Oh, puhleeeeeeze. Who does he think he's talking to? I've carried four babies to term and pushed them into the world single-handedly, the fourth without the help of any pain medications. I've suffered excruitiating esophogael spasms and lived to tell the story. And I've taken a nose-dive onto the cement of our garage and broken three ribs. "I can't get in the shower?" Try, "I can't move at all because I've just cracked three living bones on the right side of my rib cage." "I can't let you flop your legs over my lap during the movie because my back is aching?" Try, "I can't get out of bed without throwing myself bodily to one side and rolling painfully off of the mattress because I'm nine months pregnant with my fourth child and my entire body is giving out." Honestly. He's going to have to stop milking things if he wants real sympathy. Several years ago, he threw his back out for real. I had to run out and buy a heating pad, and he needed prescription medication to get through it. Yes, he had my sympathy. He had hernia surgery a few years back. The recovery time was relatively quick, but those first couple of days were rough (especially when Eric, in his narcotic-induced state, called our daughter "Penis" instead of "Peanut"). I think his first bowel movement after the surgery was probably the closest thing he'll ever come to natural childbirth. Yes, he had my sympathy. But this? This falls under the "aches and pains of aging" category. And honey, he ain't the only one aging around here! I love Eric to the ends of the earth. But I may have to slip something strong in his salad tonight so that he falls asleep early and stops loping jerkily about the house with a permanent grimace on his face. And the next time he chooses to be sassy in my comment box, I'm sure he'll think twice. Won't you, sweetie? Friday, May 26, 2006Update on Introverted ReadersReally, I love you just the way you are. I'm compelled to point out (lightheartedly, of course) that even after my gentle plea to hear from my "regulars," most of you have remained steady yet silent. That's okay. I appreciate that you're here, and since you continue to visit, I must assume that you are finding something of value here. For those of you who are technical-minded, Eric has finally set me up with an RSS feed. Please click on the link to the right in order to subscribe to THE WRITE WAY HOME. And while we're pointing out links, I thought you might like to know that the author of Blogging With Ida is my sister. Yep -- flesh and blood. I love her to death. Not only that, but she writes well. And she knows what an insufferable snob I am when it comes to writing. I don't offer my praise lightly! So there you have it. A golden opportunity to listen to a "family insider." Don't think you'll be getting any "dirt" on me over there, though. Most of my sister's blogs are about my Perfect Niece and Adorable Brother-in-law. Let's face it -- you get all the "dirt" you want right here. Dead frogs, hairy armpits, arguments with my husband; the works. And now I am off to prepare lunch for guests. I'm sure I'll embarrass myself at some point during the afternoon, which will give me something to blog about next week. Happy weekend, all! Thursday, May 25, 2006Somebody Slap MeEric and I were enjoying a before-bed glass of wine when my inner shrew surfaced. It started with a mild comment about the next morning's orthodontist appointment, which Eric was supposed to attend with me and two of our two teeth-challenged children. Really, I was just gently reminding him about the 9:00 commitment. But instead of nodding his head and smiling pleasantly like a Very Good Husband, he groaned. "Oh, Jilly, I can't be there. I have an 8:00 meeting tomorrow that I can't miss." These things happen, I know. The reason I got so annoyed is because I'd already rescheduled the appointment once, to accommodate Eric's changing schedule. Mind you, I've been doing just fine at the orthodontist without Eric for several years now. It's just that we've got two children in the queue, and our medical coverage doesn't exactly stretch to take care of both at once. I wanted -- no, needed -- Eric to meet with the orthodontist to go over the financials. Okay, so maybe the orthodontist is cute and I get a little flustered around him. But that's beside the point. So I was fairly angry. And Eric needed my affirmation (the guy works hard and would rather not have a bloody 8:00 meeting) and not my pathetic belly-aching. And you know what? Instead of getting angry back (so easy to do that, isn't it?), he made me laugh. I laughed, and the anger melted, and I felt foolish. Then, a few minutes later, he told me a story that completed my transformation from shrew to humbled, thankful wife. A woman he knows at work was talking with her husband on a cell phone while he was driving in a van with three other men. She lost contact with him, which isn't unusual when it comes to cell phones. But her repeated return calls went unanswered -- all night long. The next morning, a police officer showed up on this woman's doorstep to inform her that her husband and two of his driving companions had been killed in a crash. Gone. Just like that -- snuffed out and gone. If that wasn't a slap in the face, then I'm a lost cause. This woman's husband was ripped from her without a chance to say good-bye, and I was complaining that Eric was going to miss an orthodontic appointment? Shame on me. I'm not going to preach to you about seizing the moment and loving with abandon. The woman's story speaks for itself. Perhaps I needed to be reminded how precious life is, how precious my husband is. Perhaps we all need that reminder. And now I think I'll go and send Eric a love note. Is there someone you can send one to today? Tuesday, May 23, 2006Southeastern Chorus FrogsHave you ever heard of them? Actually, you may have heard them singing without realizing what they were. In the quiet of early evening, these little boogers sit by the hundreds and thousands in fields and meadows, chirping to their froggy hearts' content. The collective sound is ethereal, mystical. I never would have paid attention to it, if it weren't for my close-second-to-Steve-Irwin son. He has this wondrous way of revealing nature's wonders to me -- quite a feat, considering the fact that I am a complete bug-and-critter freak. So, the southeastern chorus frog became a part of my Tennessee Nature repertoire. And as of yesterday, our relationship has become even more intimate. Jonathan brought four of them home. Don't ask me how he found them. They are tiny, shy creatures, not easily spotted. The kid has this Dr. Doolittle effect on wildlife, I swear. So he comes in the house with four southeastern chorus frogs and several million tadpoles. (Okay, he says there are sixteen. I swear there were more.) The frogs are precious, each one no more than an inch long, with smooth, yellowy-green bodies and sweetly bulging eyes. And their song -- oy! How something that tiny produces such a loud sound is beyond me. Except there's a wee problem. Two of them have gone missing. Now, it's bad enough feeling guilty about the fate of a minute creature who never wanted to visit in the first place. What's really creeping me out, though, is thoughts of Dead Frog. I have smelled Dead Frog. It is as putrid and gag-inducing as Dead Toad, Dead Fish, and Dead Nightcrawler. You know as well as I do that the two missing froggies are going to crawl into crevices and die. It may have happened already. Then, in a day or two, my house will be appropriately perfumed. If I appear out of sorts over the next couple of days, you'll know why. Heaven help the next child who brings a living creature into this house. Nature Schmature. I'm nothing but a Girl Scout drop-out, anyway. Ugh. Labels: parenting Monday, May 22, 2006Geeks "R" ThemAnd so, my husband has returned from the Java One conference in San Francisco. A bit tired, a bit nostalgic (he would retire to the wine country in a heartbeat), a lot geekified. After supper on his first night home, Eric gathered the children around him in the living room and plopped his duffle bag on the floor. It was time to hand out Conference Goodies. Are you thinking "T-shirts?" "Pens?" Ah, that's only a small fraction of what's available at the Java Geek-o-rama. Eric brought home two of each -- one T-shirt for each daughter (they're huge, ugly, and great for sleeping in), and two cool pens. The pens, of course, were for me. (I especially like the squooshy, fat Google pen. If I catch anyone touching my Google pen, his fingers will be promptly removed.) But the Really Cool Stuff was soon on its way out of the duffle bag, straight into the eager hands of our offspring. We're talking blue LED pendants that turn on and off with the twist of a magnet. Keychains sporting a colored oil-and-water mixture that sloshes around like some 70's throw-back. Multi-colored, rubbery jellyfish thingies hanging from an extension of goo (purpose: unknown). Tiny flashlights with the intensity of a camera's flash (perfect for blinding an annoying sibling). And a life-sized foam rubber Blackberry. Granted, in the hands of a loving daddy, these...ur...treasures...become priceless gifts. But my question is: What the heck kind of geek would want these toys for himself? I mean, when I was, oh, twelve, I would have killed for a cool, light-up thingie. I'd have used it in my Barbie house, or come up with a fantastical story about it. According to Eric, the folks at the Java One conference were walking around handing out free cell phones to anyone they found wearing one of the light-up pendants...lit up. I'm sorry. I may be all about beating my own drum, but I wouldn't be caught dead at a conference wearing a blue light-up pendant. And I'm particularly baffled by the rubbery jellyfish-on-a-string. I'm not even sure what it is, let alone why any grown person would want one. What exactly is the thought process there? "Wow, I'm definitely going to purchase this company's software, because they gave me this cool, rubbery jellyfish thing!" Please. The bottom line can be summed up in one word: GEEKS. Geeks like things that light up, make sounds, fit together, move in odd ways, or remind them of Star Trek. How do you entice the geeks at a Java One conference to visit your booth? Offer them a high-tech, low-cost toy -- something that blinks or buzzes or slaps you in the face when you touch it. Yep. Gotta love those geeks. Anyway, it makes for an awfully cheap homecoming presentation. My children were intensely pleased with all of their geeky gifts. (I know, I know -- it's genetic. I'm not ready to go there today.) To be fair, the two coolest gifts were given to me: A stainless steel travel mug for my coffee (it says "Java One" on it, but I can hide that with my hands), and -- best of all -- a twenty-five dollar gift certificate for Amazon.com. Now that's a prize worth spending a few minutes at a geek booth! I'll admit, I asked Eric if he thought he could visit the booth a second time, under a new name. He wouldn't do it. Within twenty-four hours of having received the code from Eric, I had placed my order on Amazon...thanks to the Geeks-in-Booths at the conference. I can't complain. Well, I'm sure I will complain when I start tripping over the geek toys that have been left lying around the house. Once the LED lights have lost their battery power and the jellyfish thing loses its bounce, they'll be "old news." I will then tuck them all beneath Eric's pillow. Or maybe I'll box them up and ship them to his office. Hey. I love my geek. He fixes my computer and straightens out my HTML code. I wouldn't want him any other way. I mean, who else would I watch Star Trek: The Next Generation with? (Besides Jonathan, geek-in-training, that is.) I just wish he wouldn't go places where everyone knows he's a geek -- and everyone else is a geek, too. Nothing brings out innate geekiness like the presence of thousands of other geeks. I'm glad I wasn't there. And I'm glad he's home. And yes, I'm glad he's a geek. It's just that I could do without the rubber jellyfish... Friday, May 19, 2006I Know You're Out There....And, really, I don't mean to make you squirm. In fact, I'm glad you feel comfortable here. Wish I could offer you some coffee and a slice of my homemade pineapple cake with cream cheese frosting. It's to die for. I know I'm awfully chatty, so maybe that's why I'm doing most of the yapping around here. But...oh, the silence! I'm talking about my slew of regular visitors, of course. In the past couple of months, my daily returning readership has noticeably increased, and continues to do so. (Yes, I keep track of these things. Some call it neurotic; I call it Highly Developed Administrative Skills.). It's exciting! I love to know that I'm reaching people around the globe. I'd like to think I make a tiny bit of difference now and again -- the odd laugh, the moment of inspiration, a tender heart-touch, or even the occasional bristle. May I take this opportunity to say thank you? I appreciate that you've got me bookmarked. I'm honored that you find my writing worthy of a return visit or two -- or fifty, or a hundred. If only... Well, I'll come out and say it. If only you'd grace my comment box with a sentence now and again. Let me know that something made you think...or reminded you of your childhood...or caused you to spit your tea all over the monitor. You don't even have to sign your name. Anonymity is one of the lovely (or not-so-lovely) perks of the Internet. I'd really love to know what you want to hear more of. Why are you here? Is it the family anecdotes? The rants on writing? Or are you just in awe over the fact that someone this frenetic can actually pull herself together enough to blog four or five times a week? Do tell. I'm all ears. And don't let Dave scare you away from the comment box. He may wax poetic (or blooming mad) now and again, but he's harmless. I'm sure he'd love your company. So please, drop me a line. If you're a writer, I want to encourage you. If you're a reader, I want to entertain and inspire you. If you're a weary parent, I want to pat you on the back. And if you're my husband, I want to make fun of you. (Oops, did I say that?) And again -- thank you for reading. Writing may be a hermit-like occupation, but in the end it's for the masses; the ultimate reaching-out-and-touching-others via the written word. It's my grand passion, and it's you, my readers, who inspire me to press on. Have a lovely weekend! Thursday, May 18, 2006Slumberless PartyA king bed can feel very...big...when you're in it alone. It's not unusual for me to scoop up a child here and there when Eric's out of town, and tuck him into bed with me. They love it. Even Jonathan still hasn't outgrown the charm of sleeping in "the big bed" (probably because of the skank level of his own seldom-changed sheets). Last night, I woke up around 12:30 and remembered Spencer's sweet request to be "scooped up" when I went to bed. Oops -- forgot. So I went in, gathered his long, sound-asleep legs and arms and the rest of him into my half-asleep embrace, and tucked him in with me. Bliss. Around 4:30, there was a tapping on my bedroom door. It was Rachel. "Mommy, I had a bad dream." Bad dreams always warrant a tuck-in with Mommy, so in she came, in all her soft, sleepy-eyed sweetness. I was promptly sandwiched between two warm, cuddly children. That's when the fun began. Spencer had awakened when Rachel came in, and reached over to lovingly caress her cheek. That was nice -- adorable, even. But he never went back to sleep again. Hear me. My seven-year-old and I have been awake since 4:30 this morning. And one of us (the young, cute one) hasn't stopped talking since. "OOOO, Mommy, it's 4:52!" "The sky is going to be light soon." "4:59! I'm going to watch it turn to 5:00." "You have such a cute face." (Just to make sure I wasn't going to get angry.) "5:27!" "Mommy, may I use your bathroom to go pee?" "It's 5:42. It's really light outside!" Oh. My. Goodness. Forgive me if I'm less than coherent. If I make it to lunchtime, I'll consider my morning a success. When Eric gets back in town, I am going to stick all the children in bed with him and get myself a nice, quiet hotel room -- with room service and no wake-up call. Not really. I don't do well with empty beds... Wednesday, May 17, 2006There Are Oak Trees In My OfficeSix, to be exact. We had a bumper crop of acorns last fall. Evidently, this happens on some sort of cycle, but what do I know? True, it did feel a bit more dangerous than usual out there, with acorns zinging down through the branches at an alarming rate (and missing my skull by mere inches). The result? Hundreds upon hundreds of baby oak trees in our yard this spring. A couple of weeks ago, Jonathan presented me with six sprouted acorns -- that is, six acorns that had wee saplings emerging from within their split hulls. Honestly, it's amazing to ponder the potential. Think of the mighty oak, and how its humble beginning was not unlike the baby sprouts that my nature-loving son handed to me. I personify just about everything in my life, so I found the baby oaks adorable. Jonathan stuck them in a plastic pot, plopped them in front of my little window, and admonished me to water them regularly (he knows I have a tendency to kill things). And that's why I've got oak trees in my office. Mind you, it's not much of an office. Like the oak saplings, it's got loads of potential. The room is tucked under the eaves on the third story of our home. It's irregularly shaped, with a ceiling that slopes deeply on either side, and a sweet window that faces the street far below. And best of all, it's got a door. With a lock. I've got a wonderful vision for my little haven: red toile wallpaper, hardwood floor, cream-colored love seat, French country desk, and lots of bookshelves. Oh, and candles. Right now, my "dream office" is merely a skeleton. Bare floorboards, naked drywall, and a window without a sill are its main components. The unfinished space is cluttered with boxes and piles of "stuff" that really need to go somewhere else. My scrapbooking table (a folding card table pushed against the back wall) is a disaster. And pages from second and third and fourth novel drafts are everywhere. Literally everywhere. A tall box containing a seven-and-a-half foot Majestic Pine Christmas tree stands to my left. In the corner by the window sits our family Valentine Box. A disabled printer is balanced on top of a plastic container that holds -- I'm not sure what. A synth rack leans by the doorway, and the empty box from my fairly new e-machine is still stashed against the wall. In short, it's a mess in here. The rest of my house doesn't look like this (with the possible exception of the children's bathroom). I can't stand clutter. I can't stand it when things aren't where they belong. I go ballistic every time I trip over one of Eric's shoes. His shoes are everywhere. I swear. I'm not Homemaker of the Year by any stretch. I hate cleaning and I do it in small, Flylady increments to keep my house presentable. I don't really care if there are crumbs in my toaster or four-year-old mouse turds behind my refrigerator (never you mind). To me, there are more important things to pursue than Housecleaning Nirvana. Still. I hate clutter. And the atmosphere in my office is starting to make me feel like my brain is imploding. Thus my dilemma. I need to write today. I need three solid hours to work out some problems from a few chapters ago so that I can move forward. But if I don't do something about the state of my lil' writing hole, I'm not sure how coherent my work will be. The oak trees don't seem to mind. They're quietly stretching their leaves toward the gray light outside the window, and seem content to do so. Oh, I get it. They are actually turning their leaves away from the bloody mess in this office. Poor things. Maybe I could, at the very least, chuck the Christmas tree into the storage space and pick up my scattered manuscript pages. Or maybe I could just go get myself a fresh cup of coffee and stare at the baby oak trees for a while. You know exactly which option I'm going to choose, don't you? Tuesday, May 16, 2006Things Mom Never Hears About....So, I was microwaving a bit of leftover broccoli in cheese sauce. Fairly mundane, except for the fact that the food was in a non-microwaveable bowl. Gold-edged china, to be exact. You know the type -- cheap, gaudy, and entertaining in the microwave. Because the gold edging sparks. I was oo-ing and ah-ing by the microwave, and of course my children wondered what in the world was so exciting about broccoli and cheese on a turntable. "It's got gold edges," I said. "It's arcing!" Zip. Zap. I am so hard up for entertainment these days. Rachel is the only one who matched my excitement level. "Oh, yes," she said. "That's exactly what happened when I put my Barbie in the microwave." Huh? "Um, Rachel...? You put a Barbie in the microwave?" "Yeah (giggle), well, it was ages ago...you know, when my ballerina Barbie was still brand new? Anyway, I put her in the microwave, and she was wearing this dress with, like, metallic thread in it, you know? And it started to spark." "This may sound like a silly question, but...why did you put your Barbie in the microwave?" Rachel didn't have an answer. This is almost the stuff of urban legend, is it not? Girl microwaves Barbie; family sues Mattel for damages from explosion. I'm just glad that Barbie didn't lose any of her "parts" after her microwave exposure. That would have freaked me out when I went to heat up my coffee the next morning. So, who needs counseling here? Me? Or my daughter? Then again, Barbie probably needs it more than either of us do. Poor Barbie... Labels: parenting Monday, May 15, 2006Not Much Better Than The Beagle
 I don't know how I could have forgotten about Snoopy's ongoing attempts at writing a novel. I guess it's been a while since I've curled up with a collection of comics. I almost feel disloyal for choosing Linus as my favorite all these years. Obviously Snoopy and I have more in common. Except, I would never start my novel with, "It was a dark and stormy night." Funny how that silly little sentence has become the longstanding example of Bad Writing. It exudes "cliche." Funny how there's still a heck of a lot of bad writing out there, anyway. Funny...but not really. Just the other day, I discovered yet another chick lit book that I'd never heard of. Ever intrigued and always trying to keep up with what's out there, I called up the title on Amazon and started to read the first page. Honestly, I don't want to come off like some sort of unapproachable book snob. But...wow. This was bad. And this was the author's third novel, with a fourth one due out this summer. Granted, I'm not a fan of chick lit. But I can appreciate raw talent in any genre, even something outside of what I personally enjoy. You know? And this was just...bad. Bad as in, dying and going to hell must be only slightly worse than having to read this entire book. Okay, that's a bit of a stretch. But you're used to my use of hyperbole by now, surely. Over and over and everywhere you go, agents are saying, "Write well. Write well and you will get noticed." It's sage advice. It's common sense. But I don't often see the fruit of all this "write well" advice. I see...drivel. I see...commercial hype. And occasionally I see genius. A few days ago I had the great misfortune to stumble upon the blog of a talented writer without remembering to bookmark the page. Her writing was crisp, sharp, edgy. She drew me in immediately, and my faith in authorkind was restored. And I can't remember the name of her blog for the life of me. No, she's not published. I hope she whips up a darn good query and gets her work out there. We all have to start somewhere. Writing is first a gift, and second a craft. If you've got the gift, you need to work it like dough until your arms are aching and your brain is leaking out of your ears. That's the "crafting" that creates the perfect gem from the "diamond in the rough" (whew! talk about cliches...). Want to hear some of my early "first sentences?" Come on, you know you're dying to. 1. From The Mistery [sic] of the Haunted House by Jill Schafer, age 8: Jamie and Jessika were taking a walk. (Draws you right in, doesn't it?) 2. From A New Baby by Jill Schafer, age 8 1/2: Mrs. and Mr. Carlson are very happy. 3. From Miss America 1975 by Jill Schafer, age 10: Ten finalists one of which would become Miss America. (I think I was regressing; that's not even a sentence.) And my personal favorite: 4. From Kim's Secret Tunnel by Jill Schafer, age undetermined: Kim had a secret tunnel. The word "prodigy" is not crossing your mind right now. No matter. It's all about starting somewhere and moving forward. It's about being willing to have someone read our work and say, "This really sucks!" without falling to pieces or lapsing into permanent denial. In short -- it ain't easy. So to all the Snoopies among you: Keep writing! And if someone tells you that your writing needs a little work, listen to him. Trust me. I had to hear it from more than one source before I finally got the hint. Yes, I'm a "born" writer. And yes, my first drafts absolutely stink, just like everyone else's. I can write a mean sonnet in iambic pentameter, though. More on "useless writing skills" another time. Friday, May 12, 2006Sweet Perspective
Frozen-pixel moments like this erase a plethora of doo-doo from my life. Doo-doo like five days' worth of technical problems with my blog. And discovering that we owe $288 for a life insurance policy (we don't have a dime of it, so I guess I'd better not die). And a draining bath tub that suddenly decided to back up into our shower unit without explanation or warning. And the fact that Eric is leaving on Sunday for five days in San Francisco -- without me. Yep. One look at the sweet faces of my progeny snaps it all into perspective. (With the possible exception of imagining Eric touring Napa Valley without me.) Don't worry -- this isn't going to be a sappy, golly-gee-it's-great-to-be-a-mom blog entry. Actually, I think it's a therapy session. Welcome to my therapy session. It's so important not to lose perspective, you see. And the more frenetic our lives and/or our personalities (I fall into the latter category), the more important it is for us to stop and take several deep breaths on a regular basis. Those are the times when we need to look into the shining eyes of the wee ones who love us best, and remember the real reason for just about everything else we do in life. (With the possible exception of flying off to the west coast without one's wife.) One of my biggest failings is a propensity to be irritable. Not because I'm thankless or unloved or unable to see the goodness in life, but because I allow the doo-doo to drain my joy. That, and I absolutely can't stand it when someone interrupts me while I'm writing. But I suppose that falls into a different category. (Probably the same category as having been left behind while Eric flies to San Francisco.) I think I need to drink deeply of my children's smiles on a regular basis. I'm not going to find myself in those smiles, but I am certainly going to find that oft-elusive perspective. Again. A couple of months ago, Eric and I watched some old families videos. Of particular interest was the segment containing a close-up of Maggie-on-the-toilet. She was just a couple of months past her second birthday, and I was obviously proud of the fact that she was already potty-trained. I'm not quite sure what prompted me to film her, other than the fact that she tended to wax loquacious during poop sessions. So I captured her on video (from the waist up, of course.) And every few seconds, she flashed the most ridiculous, contrived grin you could imagine: nose wrinkled, baby teeth bared to the lens, eyes scrunched into slits, dimples front and center. To be fair, I suppose it was disconcerting to be filmed whilst pooping. After a while, what else can one do but grin at the camera? Well, to be sure, one can take a peek between one's legs to check the state of things, which is what Maggie eventually did. "Oh!" she said, head bobbing up from her peek at the prized poopy. "It's HUMONGOUS!" This is definitely footage for her bridal shower, don't you think? Heck, how many two-year-olds use the word "humongous" in the course of normal conversation? We'll have to pull out those old videos more often. (Not next week, though, since Eric will be minutes from the Pacific Ocean without me.) I'm really not that hard to please. My children's smiles mean the world to me. And most of the time, I do have the right perspective...thanks to my beloved offspring who daily remind me what is most important. It's just that I'm not doing very well with the left-behind-while husband -goes-to-San-Francisco -and-eats-in-all-the-smoke -free-restaurants -without-me thing. But I guess you probably picked up on that. Thursday, May 11, 2006Extra! Extra! Read All About ItNotes for the faithful: 1. My archives, which I recently discovered were unclickable from October on, are now working. Imagine the possibilities. Isn't your index finger itching already? Get clicking! 2. The ipowerweb/Blogger/FTP issue seems to be resolved. Am I a satisfied customer? I will defer this particular rant to The Blogging Boss (whenever he may get around to it). 3. I'll be back in full swing tomorrow morning. I promise. 4. During a well visit yesterday, my teenaged son told the doctor that he enjoyed farting. But since I wasn't there, I'll let his father cover that one, too. 5. I think I'm showing signs of Blog withdrawal. That's it for now. Thank you all for your patience. Wednesday, May 10, 2006Yet Another Good Reason To Be Married To a GeekAsk me how well I cope with not being able to post anything to my blog for several days. Then ask me how well equipped I might be to deal with asking technical questions and sending "tickets" to the Nerd Squad of a web hosting company. To my daily readers (yes, I really do know you're out there), my apologies for the interruption in what I strive to present as fairly regular content. And for those of you who tend to be on the chatty side -- my apologies for the missing comment box. Which brings me to the Very Good Reason to be married to a Geek. Eric posted Monday's blog by hand for me, which meant no comment box for that particular entry. Withered my heart, it did. What's the point of writing into a void? Readers are human beings, after all -- and I like to know that I'm actually touching somebody's heart once in a while. And if it weren't for my beloved husband, there wouldn't have been anything new on here since last Friday. There's more, too. Eric's the one sending the "tickets" and calling the "Tech, Level 2" folks at ipowerweb and trying to figure out what the heck the problem is and why we have been unable to FTP via Blogger since Sunday. (Hey, that paragraph almost made it sound like I know what I'm talking about.) In the realm of the World Wide Web, I would be lost without Eric. As of this writing, we're still having problems. Don't you love it when nobody will come out and tell you, straight up, what's going on? On the Blogger forum, I've read everything from, "We don't support third party problems" to "This is a known problem and it will be fixed in 12 to 24 hours" to "There is nothing that can be done, so you'll have to purchase an upgrade." Oy. Like I said, I'm ever so glad to be married to a Geek. I write, he deals with the Techno-poop. All writers should either be married to a geek, or be a geek themselves (right, Dave?). Let's hope things get straightened out. I wouldn't want you all to shrivel up and die whilst pining for my words of wit and weirdity. Till next time... Monday, May 08, 2006And You Thought Barbie Was a Bubblehead
Feast your eyes, my friends, on the most versatile group of Barbies you've ever met. The top photo is a scene from a rather complicated Barbie Dance. Go ahead. Ask me how my daughters get their dolls to actually stand up on their own, let alone pose in various degrees of bending and prancing. No smoke and mirrors here, folks; no invisible fishing line. These dolls are really dancing. Photo Number Two is an amazing Group Photo of the entire clan (my daughters call them "The Big Family," which is an understatement). I wonder how all those Barbie mamas got their little ones to sit so still for the picture. For that matter, I wonder how they all managed to give birth to children exactly the same shape and size. It's almost creepy. Of special note: the Extra Buff Kens With No Shirts. You wouldn't catch Eric dead posing in a group shot without a shirt on. Then again, he doesn't sport a completely hairless chest with perfect pecs. Can you pick the Grandma Barbies out of the bunch? Hint: They're the only ones with gray hair and a thick waistline (who'd've thunk it -- a Barbie with love handles). The last photo is a poignant scene from Tchaikovsky's Sleeping Beauty Ballet. The "Good Fairy" on the far left is of particular interest, in that she is wearing a paper costume. The company was tight on funds last season, so they had to cut corners somewhere. I especially like the good king's gray wig. I'm not sure where the "fluff" came from, but it looks suspiciously like the liner from the bottom of Rachel's boxspring. It was an excellent performance, by the way. Yes, I sat through it. I sit through them all. Life would be dull without a regular diet of Barbie Ballet Extravaganzas. No, I mean it. It's genetic, you see. When we were young, my sister and I put on a string of performances with our cloth dolls. Our biggest achievement? A full production of The Sound of Music. I wrote the entire script and we memorized our lines. All of them. And being the Extra Gracious Big Sister that I was (gag, sputter), I let Jamie have the lead role. Our middle school music teacher came to the performance, which was held in our living room. She wore a full skirt and rode her bicycle to our house (in the skirt). She even brought us a gift -- an album of songs from Broadway hits. I can still do a fairly mean imitation of the Ethel Merman song that was on that album. Now there's something to stick on my next resume. So. Have you just seen Barbie in a new light? Or have I completely terrified you? Don't answer that. But do feel free to leave an effusive comment or two on the Amazing Barbies. I'm sure you've never seen anything quite like it. Friday, May 05, 2006SOLD to the Lady in the Pink Hat...For $12.50Apparently, that's the going rate for a used, signed copy of Lima Beans. It's true -- my one-and-only, carefully practiced signature doesn't add one cent to the book. Someone is selling their not-so-valued copy on Amazon. And that's it in a nutshell. I am worth $12.50, used and scribbled on. Let me flatter myself by imagining that, perhaps, this woman's dog has peed on the book, and she no longer feels she can display it on her antique bookshelves. A peed-on signature would bring a few dollars less than a non-peed-on signature...yes? Or maybe her rabid toddler teethed on it. Or maybe the book got mixed up with a box full of someone else's belongings -- someone unmarried and childless who has no desire to read stories about leaking diapers, leaking toilets, and leaking breasts. Or maybe... Well, shoot. I can't deny it, can I? I'm not JK Rowlings. Yet. Go ahead, my friend. Sell the book for $12.50 plus shipping. I can handle it. No, really, I can. It's not like I'm coming up at the top of Google searches for terms like "hottest author blogs" and "forty-something women that look twenty." (A gal can dream...) In fact, here's the reality: The other day, someone did a Yahoo search for "dead things." Out of 77.6 million hits, my blog came up at number ten. That's page one. Page one of over seventy-seven million hits on dead things. Sure. That's what I get for titling one of my blog entries....ur....Dead Things. I can just imagine what else might be out there concerning "dead things." I don't really want to know. These are the things that keep me humble. Humble is good! I write because it is in my lifeblood to do so, not because I want to have ninety-five comments a day on my blog. Not that ninety-five comments a day would be a bad thing. So, there you have it. $12.50 for a signed copy -- grab it while you can. And hang on to it. Because one of these days, you might be able to sell it for an extra dollar. I can hardly wait to see the hits I'll get on "leaking breasts"... Wednesday, May 03, 2006Heart to HeartThree and a half hours in the company of a good friend over lunch with fruit tea -- how could it be better? Add to that a sunny, near-80-degree day with a gentle breeze blowing...and no children along. Bliss! Sarah and I have been friends for a decade. Ten years ago, we sat down together and planned our children's homeschooling futures. Sarah's daughter was five; Jonathan was four. I was convinced that Jonathan was a genius and was therefore starting him with kindergarten a year early, with a full curriculum. Sarah, who has always been more level-headed, was going to take this homeschooling thing one year at a time. Now, here we are. Our firstborns have reached high school age and our lastborns have been potty-trained for years. We've walked through "my child is a math moron" and "how will I ever get him to enjoy reading" and "I don't want to ever wear a jumper and look like a homeschooling mom." For the record, neither of us has ever worn a jumper or looked like a homeschooling mom. Sarah's "math moron" has turned into an Algebra whiz kid, and Jonathan has been known to stay up well beyond his bedtime to finish a book. Sarah's one year "experiment" with homeschooling has become a fulltime commitment, and my neurotic go-by-the-book approach has relaxed to the point where I no longer use any textbooks at all, save for math. Sarah and I have often gone months without chatting and even longer without actually spending time together, but we have remained allies...partners...friends. I had such a good time with her this afternoon. Sarah laughs at me when I talk about my online life. She sends email and visits the odd web site, but has never dug into online life the way I have. That's probably because Sarah is extroverted to the maximum possible extent. And I -- in Sarah's word -- am a hermit. No, but I'm a friendly hermit. I really do like people. In fact, spending an afternoon with a friend completely energizes me (I'm sitting here writing, am I not?). And if you hand me a microphone and place me in front of an audience, you may never get me to sit down again. But let's face it -- writing is not a team sport. I'm at my best when my office is quiet and nobody is knocking. There's something comforting, though, about knowing that my online "support system" is just a click away. Over the years, I've made some dear friends through online connections, many of whom I was able to meet in person. The Internet is definitely a vehicle for bringing people together who would otherwise never have known each other. I like that. Except, there's a weird element to it all that has recently reared its ugly head in my life. When we've got an online friend, it sometimes becomes too easy to simply "pull the plug," as it were. You know -- slip into oblivion, never to resurface. Relational waters a bit shaky? Unsubscribe from the group. Not getting along with your buddy from the Teddy Bear Collectors Club? Remove her from your IM "friends" list. It's as simple as that. If you get tired of someone, you can just erase him. I know. I've recently been erased. Honest, transparent online relationships are very real, indeed, because of how two people can share their hearts and lives through the written word. You can imagine how much it hurts to be erased by someone you've trusted, laughed with, and loved for several years. No matter that we'd never met; no matter that we lived hundreds of miles apart. There was so much "kindred spirit" between us, despite our differences. The erasure blindsided me. I effectively have been removed from this person's life as though I never existed in the first place. Immature? Yes. Inappropriate response to a conflict? Absolutely. But painful? Oh, yes. Most of us don't realize the power we hold in our "delete" button. And more frightening yet: some of us do realize it. Can you imagine being able to "erase" people in real life? A guy cuts you off when you're trying to make a left turn: ZAM! Erase him and his car in one fell swoop. Your mother-in-law starts complaining about your cooking: PHLLLT! She's outta there. Your colleagues are all disagreeing with you at the weekly meeting: SCHLUPP! BZZZT! WHSSSP! ZZZZIP! And you're left with an empty room. Permanently. Am I going to stop sharing my heart online? Absolutely not. I'm all about being real and touching people's lives. I stand by my declaration that I've met some truly remarkable people online -- and I intend to meet even more as the years go by. I've met dedicated mothers, passionate writers, deep thinkers, and just-short-of-stand-up comics. I wouldn't give that up for the world. But when it's all said and done, it's lunch in the sunshine with a girlfriend that really refreshes my soul. Somehow, a warm hug and the sound of Sarah's laughter is a lot more satisfying than a row of parenthesis and a couple of "LOL's". And you know what? Despite my occasional lapses into complete twitdom, Sarah would never erase me. Even if she could. That's a really good feeling. Because sometimes I think I'd like to erase myself. It would certainly be quiet around here. I think I'll save my delete button for the intense editing I'll soon be embarking on. As for my heart...I think I'll keep offering it, even at the risk of being erased again. Life is about loving others, so I think I'll keep doing just that. Thank you, Sarah, for giving me perspective just when I needed it. I love you! Tuesday, May 02, 2006Miss Snark is my HeroWell, maybe that's a little over the top. Still, I do want to take a moment to address those of my dear readers who are aspiring authors. If you haven't stopped by Miss Snark's blog, you need to. Warning: There are no warm fuzzies over there. You aren't going to get a pat on the back or a big hug from Miss Snark's poodle. What you will get is brutal honesty. Emphasis on brutal. If you can't take it -- you may not have what it takes to survive in the publishing world. It's all about two things: acquiring knowledge and growing a very thick skin. Miss Snark can help you to do both. So, why is this sharp-tongued, quick-witted anonymous agent receiving my high praise? Here's the true story: I was the first person -- yes, the first person -- to take Miss Snark up on her offer to publicly critique a novel's first page. Since that fateful day, Miss Snark has critiqued (slammed? pureed? denounced?) dozens and dozens of writing samples. But mine was the first. And it was...brutal. Mind you, it needed to be. To be perfectly honest, my first page (and the entire chapter that followed) absolutely stank. Somebody needed to tell me that with absolutely no sugar coating. And somebody did. I was so neurotic that I asked Miss Snark to please change all the character's names before publishing the page on her blog (like someone was going to steal the names from that piece of garbage?). She obliged me by coming up with the most ridiculous names imaginable. Yep. The new names were just right for my ridiculous first page. I didn't completely wrap my brain around her critique at first. It had to bubble and brew for a while until it finally hit me: Heavens to Betsy, Miss Snark is right! I didn't expect such a painful kick in the butt when I submitted the page to Miss Snark -- but the kick is just what I needed. It was the catalyst for immeasurable change and growth. You don't have to submit your work for critique in order to gain something from Miss Snark's blog. (She only opens the floor a few times a year, anyway.) If you want to learn as much as possible about the process of getting your book published (and how to avoid being a nitwit in the process), get thee to Miss Snark's blog without delay. And don't say you weren't duly warned. Monday, May 01, 2006Jonnie's Brides
 That's my son in a wig.Let me explain. Jonathan's been taking drum lessons at World Music for about ten months. His teacher felt like he was ready to play in a band. (I concur; the kid's a natural.) The band that needed a drummer, however, happened to be an all-girl band. At first, Jonathan was just a sit-in. He was good, though, and there wasn't a girl drummer stepping forward to take his place. So the plan became, "Play with the girls and wear a dress." Jonathan is so secure. How many not-quite-fourteen-year-old boys would get on stage wearing a dress? My sister-in-law saved us seats in the second row for the performance last Thursday evening. I'm not exactly the rock concert type, so I was a bit...stretched. When you sit in the front at these things, you've got to clap a lot. And look interested. And not cringe when a sixteen-year-old guitar-playing Pink-Floyd-wannabe sings "Another Brick in the Wall" so off-key that you start to wonder if his vocal chords are working properly. Still, it was worth it. When it was time for Jonathan's band to perform, the announcer introduced them as "Jonnie's Brides." My son walked onto the platform from the opposite side, in his dress and wig. Deadpan. The crowd loved it. And his drumming rocked. There he was, on stage with four girls (all but one of them older by several years), drumming his heart out. Man. The kid is good. At the end, he stepped out of the dress -- right on stage. "Jonathan!" someone yelled from the audience. Someone female. "Jonathan!" A different voice this time. Oh my gosh. My son has groupies. Hold me back. My son may be gorgeous, talented, and self-assured, but he's not available. Oy! I tried not to feel old around all these teenagers. I don't want to look (or feel) like your typical mom-of-a-teen: boring hair, a bit stiff, slight frown lines, unfashionable. Well, I can't do much about the frown lines. They're genetic. But I can do something about the rest of it. The "frump look" doesn't really work at a rock concert. My son. I like the way he stretches me. And I'm ever so proud of him. Thanks for indulging me. Labels: parenting |
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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