Wandering Through the Words

Too long

2011-12-06T13:39:00.000-05:00

Photo by Geoffrey Lebrec

It has been so long since I've written here Blogger didn't even recognize me. I'd also forgotten my password, which threw one more obstacle in my way. Still, I've made it, and I've got something to share. Something nice and positive and not at all like the depressive drivel I would have written if I'd tried to blog while I was buried in frustrating revisions.

This morning, my kindergarten aged son bounded into the kitchen with his own "computer." His computer looks very much like mine except that it inexplicably plays a synthesizer-on-amphetamines version of Greensleeves whenever you turn it on and the games are lame. It does have a writing "app," as he likes to point out. He can type around 150 characters, which is great for texting, but limits the scope for composition.

He banged his computer down on the counter, and breathlessly called, "Mom! Look at this!"

Turning the screen to face me, I read:

Mom i luve
you.

It is his first original piece of writing. It is perfect. It needs no revision.

Daughter, however, kindly pointed out to her younger brother that "love" is a tricky word to sound out and is spelled with an o not a u.

"See, the o is just above the l on the keyboard," she said while pointing it out to him. She meant well. It was said with the upmost respect and grace. But, his face fell just a little right before he smiled up at me.

"But you still like it, right?"

I luve it.

I'm a terribly busy, busy, busy woman

2011-10-07T15:24:00.000-04:00

Unknown Variables: The Sticky Note Version

I've just spent a few days putting my original story onto a series of sticky notes to outline my main character's journey. You can see it in the picture above. My story is 130 inches long. Not for any symbolic reason, but because that is the length of the wall in my office where it will soon hand.

This process was a terribly frustrating writing experience. I felt completely boxed in by the 3"x3" stickies and the orderly way they represented such a messy story. It was hard to only write down what I'd previously written and not make changes along the way. That step comes next.

I now hate sticky notes. A shocking statement because I'm the kind of girl that lives for sticky notes - happy little reminders to keep me on track.

The point of this exercise is to make the story more fluid. Now, I get to fill in more stickies with the revision parts of the story and can easily move or remove old stickies to add new ones. Hopefully all this sticky business will help me restructure the story so it will flow more easily in revisions. Hopefully.

The idea of facing more stickies though has me dragging my feet. I'm thinking of caulking the outside of the windows before winter. I've been putting off painting my son's room. The carpets need a good steam cleaning too. There's always laundry to be folded. My toenails are looking dreadful after the 3-Day, perhaps I need to work on those. So much to do and none of it has anything to do with God-forsaken sticky notes!

Amidst all this good and busy planning, I remembered with a laugh Ellen Degeneres's take on procrastination. So, I had to look it up and watch it, while telling myself, I was not procrastinating but taking a needed inspiration break.

I'll share my muse with you all today. The Goddess of Procrastination: Ellen Degeneres. If you've got something more pressing that needs doing, please get busy. Otherwise, procrastinate with me friends . . .

Singing in the rain

2011-09-29T12:57:00.000-04:00

photo by Fran Priestley

There are many four-letter words to be heard at the Susan G. Komen 3-Day for the Cure as we walkers force our muscles to keep moving and ignore the screaming yelps from our feet. We're not proud of it, but sometimes expletives just make everything feel more doable. Like taking that next step - up a hill.

This past Friday in Washington, DC, we walked our 20 miles in the worst four-letter word there is:
R-A-I-N.
We donned our yellow plastic ponchos and waddled through the streets of DC like demented ducklings. FYI: It is difficult to put a poncho on over a tutu, fanny pack, and glittery pink cheetah fairy wings. Inside the ponchos, we created our own atmospheres thick with humidity. In this way, we were wet from the rain on the outside and drenched from our own sweat on the inside. We were awesome(-ly stinky).

What can you do though, right? So, we walked on in the pouring rain. Step after step. Mile after mile.

The cheering stations were empty. No rah-rahs for us. Just the rain smacking us in the face. By the time we reached lunch, we were all pretty low. We got our bagged lunches (paper bags that quickly melted in our hands) and looked for shelter. Someone had opened a dirty, nasty garage for us. It was heaven-on-earth.

I sat in puddles and ate my soggy lunch wondering how I was going to use the port-a-potty while wearing a drenched poncho (and tutu and wings). Because, in case you've never had to do that, it's not exactly a graceful situation to navigate. Oh, and how I would finish the next ten miles? I hated to admit it, but the whole situation pretty much sucked.

We left our lovely garage and began again. Slurp, sludge, slosh . . . we walked. I heard some grumbling in my head,"This is effing crazy! Not brave, just crazy! Can I do this?"

I needed to dig deep, so I began remembering my friend's perseverance through all her ovarian cancer treatments. She never seemed to lose the hope that she would survive long enough for a cure to be found. Despite set backs, disappointments, and everyone's sagging hopes, she held firm.

We walkers rounded the corner of Dupont Circle, normally overflowing with people cheering us on, clapping and helping us laugh away the pain. Empty.

Except for one man, leaning against the wall, clutching his coat with his arms and clapping. He called, "You can do it. You can do it. Thank you for doing it."

One man.

Hope in the shape of a solitary, cold, wet, desperate looking man. One sloppy step after the next, I walked remembering my friend and the way she bravely fought until her body could no longer sustain her beautiful spirit. I remembered the sound of her laughter and songs, the curve of her mouth when she grinned, the indomitable soul she courageously carried.

The rain continued to fall on us, every last step of the way. By gripping tightly the memory of my friend though, the rain and everything else began to puddle at my feet, melting away, until I was left walking with her voice alone.

And it sang out, "You can do it. You can do it."

*I'd like to thank Your Girls and Mine for trudging through all 60-miles with me and keeping me sane while we did it. You Girls are AMAZING. Also, a huge thanks to the volunteer Crew that took such good care of us along the way. Without our Crew we are nothing. Thanks.

Color by heart

2011-09-14T15:16:00.000-04:00

Photo by Angela W.
http://frozen-mist.deviantart.com

My daughter asked for some Mommy and Me time this past weekend. She'd found the American Girl book with that title that I'd been keeping for a rainy day or a frostbitten winter. The book contains quizzes, games, fun ideas and conversation starters for girls and their moms to help them learn a little more about each other. It was neither rainy or frosty out, but who can say no to those baby blues?

She had pulled out a quiz for us to take. It consisted of two columns for answers. In one, I write my favorite. In the other, I write my daughter's and vice versa. Midway down, we are instructed to write our favorite colors. I fill in mine - teal. She fills in what she thinks is my favorite color - purple. When we compared, I felt a small tugging in my chest, not least because she guessed almost all of my favorites incorrectly, but because once upon a time, purple had been my favorite color.

I have two favorite colors. Pink and Teal. Pink is the color of breast cancer awareness and reminds me of all the wonderful keepers now in my life because of the Susan G. Komen 3-Day for the Cure. Teal is the color of ovarian cancer awareness, and reminds me of the woman who inspired me to start writing and walking.

On any given day I am wearing some bit of pink or teal. Today, there is teal on the beautiful bracelet from Chaofaite. Running yesterday, it was my pink 3-Day hat. Last Tuesday I was wearing my colors and a week from Friday, I'll be covered in them. I don't even think about it anymore. My wardrobe is so peppered with teals and pinks now, it is nearly impossible to be without them.

Before cancer played such a big role in my life though, I picked my favorite color because it appealed to me innately. The quiz had me thinking. In a world without cancer, what would my favorite color be?

My daughter's favorite color is no longer pink, she informed me. She fancies purple these days.

Why? I asked.

She looked at me with that scrunched up brow of hers, clearly reminding me of her superior intellect. She gave me a "Bless your heart" kind of smile and replied,

Just because . . .

Photo by Angela W.
http://frozen-mist.deviantart.com

If you are inclined to make my dream of a cancer-free world come true, look to the top right side of the blog under Causes I Love. Click on My Personal 3-Day page to make a donation to The Susan G. Komen 3-Day for the Cure or Click on Bright Night 5k to make a donation to a most wonderful ovarian cancer charity set up in the name of my dear friend, the Magnificent Ms Em. The world (and my wardrobe) thanks you for your generosity.

Books I managed to finish in August

2011-08-30T14:37:00.000-04:00

Photo by Piotr Bizior

I've been kicked out of my writing room for most of this month. We had some, uh, er, okay - plumbing issues. While I once might have thought it would be luxurious to have a writing space that featured an indoor waterfall, I've since learned that it is NOT a good idea. Especially when that waterfall may or may not contain human byproducts. Inspiring, yes?

However, I have gotten to squeeze some reading in this month between meetings with contractors and plumbers and tile guys and other various and sundry repair people. Here's this month's list.

CLEAN by Amy Reed

Click here to buy at
Better World Books

This is the story of five teens . . . sent to live in a drug rehab center . . . work together and have their lives ripped apart . . . to find out what happens when people stop being addicts . . . and start getting CLEAN.

Yep, like old school MTV The Real World, but in a swanky rehab center instead of a tricked out apartment. The story jumps from one teen's perspective to the other, making it quick and slightly mind numbing. Just as I got settled into someone's storytelling, his turn was over and we moved onto the next voice. Perhaps it is that I just have too many voices in my head anyway, or that I'm too old to appreciate the choppiness of the storytelling because I'm from a generation of MTV viewers that actually watched it to see music videos (yes, yes, Downtown Julie Brown, Vejay Goddess that you are), but the characters were never full enough for me.

I do need to give Ms Reed props on writing a story that helps remind us that teens (and even their adult counterparts) with drug and alcohol addictions may do bad things, but it is too simplistic to assume that means that they are bad people. We are the choices we make and the beautiful thing is that there is always another choice waiting to be made.

I read this as an e-galley, but it has been released into the universe since then so look for it at your local retailer or request your library order a copy.

MICHAEL VEY by Richard Paul Evans

Click here to buy at
Better World Books

Michael Vey seems like a typical 14-year-old boy. He's maybe a little small for his age and the bullies really like to abuse him, but otherwise, pretty run-of-the-mill. Oh, except for that pesky electrical current thing he's got going on throughout his body giving him pretty cool powers. Michael is convinced he's the only freak at school, in the world even. When he and his best friends make a strange discovery, he learns he's not alone. Someone is coming for him.

This story was so much fun to read. Michael is adorable. He'd probably hate to be described that way, but he is. Like an lovable labrador retriever that shoots lighting from its paws. He has one of those best friends that I love, the Sam-Wise or Ron Weasley type that will put themselves in harms way to help a friend. The story is fast paced, funny, intriguing, and best of all, hopeful.

MICHAEL VEY is Richard Paul Evans's first YA book. He's the bestselling author of THE CHRISTMAS BOX and other familiar titles. I read this as an e-galley, but it has been released into the universe since then so look for it at your local retailer or request your library order a copy.

Watch the book trailer here

THE WHITE CROW by Marcus Sedgwick

Click here to buy at
Better World Books

I am apparently not meant to read Marcus Sedgwick's books. I'm too much of an idiot. This is my second attempt at his work. Last month, I read REVOLVER, a Printz Honor Book. Once again, I'm left feeling like I got lost somewhere along the storyline and I've no idea how to get out. No, wait. Maybe that's exactly where he wants me to be. Creepy brilliant.

Rebecca and her father move to the small town of Winterfold to escape something in her father's past. There, she meets a strange girl, Ferelith. Ferelith is obsessed with a dark question and uses Rebecca as bait in her attempts to find the answer. The story moves back and forth across centuries relating how another man, with a similar obsession came to meet his own fate during his search for answers. Confused yet? Because I am and I'm the one writing this stuff.

Sedwick's clear skill at creating setting and place in a novel is demonstrated much like in REVOLVER. The creepiness of the story will seep into your skin and make you want to jump up and run around in the sunshine just to shake off the heebie jeebies. Oh, yes. You don't have to necessarily understand what's going on to know you are probably going to have nightmares from it. If you're interested in a Gothic psychological horror, save this gem for Halloween.

THE MEANING OF LIFE AND OTHER STUFF by Jimmy Gownly

Coming 9/27/11

Oh, graphic novel, how I do love thee! This e-galley is the newest in the Amelia Rules series. Think comic book for advanced reading girls (and boys with big sisters who will read to them like mine). My kids LOVE this series, and I'm awfully fond of it too. Jimmy Gownly has a wonderful knack of making us both laugh and think at the same time. Beautiful story lines and wonderful characters flesh the pages of these books.

In THE MEANING OF LIFE AND OTHER STUFF, Amelia makes some hard discoveries about herself and the world she lives in, all while battling frenemies like her new cheerleading buddies. She very astutely points out that there is no grown-up world or kid-world. Just one world that we all have to figure out how to live in. Brilliant. And, she's only in middle school.

I read this as an e-galley. It will be released September 27, 2011. Mark your calendar now!

Beautiful things

2011-08-17T14:29:00.000-04:00

Photo by Vasant Davehttp://twitter.com/Meluhha

Lately, things in my life have been . . . er . . . . um . . . crappy. Not as crappy as others' lives, I'm sure. But pretty craptastic for me. Today I got an email that brightened my day a little. Let me share.

As you know, I am a big fan and supporter of Better World Books (bestest online bookseller. in my opinion). Better World Books helps reduce waste by recycling and re-selling used books they collect. They fund literacy programs worldwide through those sales. And now, with Book for a Book, they are partnering with Feed the Children here in the U.S. and Books for Africa to distribute books to kids with little or no access to them. So every time we buy a book at Better World Books, they'll donate a book to these organizations. Pretty cool, hunh?

Thing about my life right now is that I think I'm supposed to be learning about appreciating the very small, itsy bitsy, eenie weenie things in life. The big picture? Oh, that's a mess for sure. But, the little stuff, the really good stuff, is all there waiting for me to stop and be grateful for it.

Like a book in the hands of a child. That is truly a beautiful thing. Better World Books is helping make this world a much more beautiful place. And for that, I am grateful.

Watch and be inspired.

Book for Book™ by Better World Books from Better World Books on Vimeo.

June and July's books

2011-07-29T18:13:00.000-04:00

Photo by Piotr Bizior www.bizior.com

June completely got away from me. At the end of June, I was too busy with goodbyes to friends and family to stop and blog. This month, you'll get a look at books I read in June, but didn't bother to write about, and books I read in July.

REVOLVER by Marcus Sedgwick

Buy it from
Better World Books

This is the last of the Printz Honor Books I began reading in May.

Alone in a cabin in the arctic, Sig sits staring at the frozen body of his father. His sister and stepmother have gone to town to look for help, leaving Sig alone with the body. His silent watch is interrupted by the knock of a giant-sized man, determined to recover the gold he is convinced Sig's father stole from him ten years previously. Defenseless, except for his father's old Colt revolver hidden in the storage room, Sig struggles with his father's past and a desperate decision to shoot first or be killed. Colt vs. God. Redemption vs. Revenge. Can their ever be a winner?

The mystery involved in this story is definitely intriguing, Sig and his sister Anna are well-crafted characters, and the question of whether violence is always avoidable is important, but for a reason I cannot really fix upon, this book was not for me. Perhaps it comes down to the frigid landscape that I could not get comfortable in. Me and frozen toes don't go well together. Which, in the end, is another testament to Sedgwick's powerful writing.

THE LAST LITTLE BLUE ENVELOPE by Maureen Johnson

Buy it from
Better World Books

This is the sequel to Johnson's THIRTEEN LITTLE BLUE ENVELOPES, in which Ginny travels across Europe guided by letters from her eccentric and recently deceased Aunt Peg. In the first book, Ginny makes it through twelve envelopes, but the thirteenth is stolen, leaving her journey derailed.

This novel begins when Ginny gets a message from a man in England who has recovered her stolen letters, including the 13th envelope that she never got to read. In order to get it back, she must accompany the young man, Oliver, to three locations in Europe to recover the pieces for Peg's final piece of art. Oliver isn't about to hand over the letters or any information about where they are going willingly. He is also demanding half of the money from the sale of the art. When Ginny's maybe-boyfriend Keith finds out, he decides to go along too. Unfortunately, Keith has a surprise for Ginny. His beautiful and so-nice-you-just-can't-hate-her girlfriend (yep - girlfriend) is also coming. Should be an interesting journey.

I really enjoyed THIRTEEN LITTLE BLUE ENVELOPES, so I had high hopes for THE LAST LITTLE BLUE ENVELOPE. It was funny, entertaining and perfect for a quick summer read, but, in the end, I wanted more from Ginny. I felt like she had learned so much, but still put herself in exactly the same place at the end of this book as she did in the first: going home to America with a maybe-boyfriend in England.

WHERE SHE WENT by Gayle Forman

Buy it from
Better World Books

This is another sequel. In the first book, IF I STAY, teenage Mia's entire life ends in one tragic car accident. She is the only one in her family left alive, although she's in a coma and teetering on that brink. She must decide: fight to live or slip away with her parents and brother. IF I STAY is written from Mia's point-of-view.

WHERE SHE WENT is written from Mia's boyfriend Adam's point-of-view. A few years have passed since the accident, and Adam is still struggling to put his life back together. He achieved fame with his rock band, based solely on an album he wrote in the aftermath of Mia's accident. Despite that success, he is miserable and alone and grasping for reasons to go on. Without spoiling either of the books, I'll leave you with that.

These are both good books, although, I preferred the first to the second, once again. Adam's neuroses dragged on a bit too long for me. He just kept going in circles, which kept the plot from moving forward. Thankfully, I'm passed my cry-at-everything phase, because I bet I'd have cried like a baby if I'd read this in April or May.

DRINK, SLAY, LOVE by Sarah Beth Durst

This surprisingly fun book goes on sale September, 13, 2011. I highly recommend anyone who likes a good fantasy story to mark your calendars for that day.

Pearl is your average, run-of-the-mill teenage bloodsucker. She's merciless, unimaginably beautiful, strong and fast, and a reckless driver too. Her family is large and powerful in the vampire world. Their expectations pressure Pearl to be the perfect vampire. Pressure she handles with ease until she starts hallucinating behind the Dairy Hut one night. She must be hallucinating because she just saw a unicorn, and they don't exist, right?

Pearl's existence changes drastically after she starts seeing unicorns. No more joy rides in stolen cars or vampire raves with her devastatingly handsome vamp boyfriend. Pearl is thrown into a much more dangerous situation. High school.

So, um, yeah . . . a book with vampires and unicorns! Unicorns! White, sparkly, ass-kicking, unicorns! Must read.

All joking aside, Pearl is a relatable character, forced to change quickly and learn to find herself in those changes. Sounds just like being a teenager, right? I mean, except for the bloodsucking.

HOW I STOLE JOHNNY DEPP'S ALIEN GIRLFRIEND by Gary Ghislain

Buy it from
Better World Books

How can you not read a YA book with a title like that. Johnny Depp, people! Johnny Depp!

David is fourteen and in love with an older woman, 311 years older. Zelda is a patient of David's psychologist Dad. She's violent, freakishly strong, and determined to find her Chosen One and take him back to her home planet Vahalal. She's the nuttiest nut David's dad has ever brought home, and David will do anything to be with her, including hunting down Johnny Depp (the Chosen One, of course).

This wildly funny and adventurous book was perfect for a summer read. Ghislain's writing is fast paced, hilarious, and even heartwarming. The librarian was slightly mystified by the title when she checked it out for me. Even more mystified when I assured her it was for me, not my preteen daughter. I can't wait to tell her just how great this book was.

Neverending

2011-07-14T09:34:00.000-04:00

Photo by Christa Richert

Once, on a night long, long ago, I had a research paper, The Arthurian Quest for the Grail, due the next morning. I'd struggled for weeks with the writing of the paper. Something about my thesis just wasn't clicking, but I had a full load of classes and a full-time job and no time to worry about a thesis that wouldn't click. The night before it was due, I printed it out and began to read it over. Ugh.

It wasn't that the paper would have failed. It was probably a solid B. Nevertheless, I hated it, especially the place in the upper right-hand corner of each page where my name sat mocking me. Those little letters spelling out my last name laughed at me because I had given up.

Disgusted, I put the paper away and cleaned up the dinner dishes. Hubster (then boyfriend) and I had a friend in town. I can't remember what we made to eat, but I do remember we made quite a mess. It took a while to clean, and while I cleaned I thought about that stupid thesis. Somewhere from the depths of that murky, nasty dishwater, I found my Grail. I knew how to write the paper.

Back at the computer, I opened a new document and began writing. This time, I barely needed my notes. The words came flying out of someplace deep. Hubster and friend announced it was time to go to the bar. I shook my head and mumbled something about paper-due-tomorrow-bar-no-go-me. They shrugged and headed out. Hours (and hours and hours) later, they returned, swaying slightly and proudly handing me a present. They'd felt so bad that I hadn't gotten to come out with them, they'd drunk their way through an entire set of Killian's Red beer glasses. A full set of twelve. Twelve grails. My heroes.

They shuffled off to pass out somewhere while I typed away. By morning, I'd rewritten the entire research paper. This time, I knew I'd done it right.

I've recently realized that to make my manuscript the best it can be, I've got to do some major revisions. The kind that would keep me up not just one night, but a month's worth of nights. I like my manuscript the way it is, but if I'm being honest, I know these revisions will make it better. How can I resubmit it knowing it isn't in the best shape possible, even if its new shape will be very different from the old one? I can't. Not if I don't want my name, which sits in the right-hand corner of each page, to taunt me.

And who knows, maybe Hubster can procure me an entire set of Margarita glasses this time around. I do love a good Margarita.

Anyone else have a similar story to share? Something to keep my spirits lifted as I trudge back into revisions?

Dedications

2011-06-30T20:18:00.000-04:00

Photo by Ben Kaye-Skinnerkayeskinner.com

I have traveled back to the old homestead to pick the kids up and say our last goodbyes to friends and family. Yesterday, we took our last swim in the local Y pool. The pool has this ginormous water slide that my youngest son has been drooling over since he was two. To go down the slide, you must either be a certain height (of which neither of my tiny children is near) or pass a swimming test and earn a "black band." Oh, infamous "black band," if only you knew the tears, tantrums, wailing and gnashing of teeth you have brought upon my family. Namely, me.

My daughter passed the test her first time at the age of seven. She made it look easy, but she makes nearly everything look easy. It being our last day at the pool, and my son's last chance to earn that frigging band, he decided to try for it a whole year earlier than his big sis. I wasn't sure he could do it to be honest, but, what the heck? Go for it.

At the first break, my tiny son lined up at the edge of the pool and stared up at the guard that towered over him. He was nervous. When he gets nervous, he babbles. He also babbles when he's bored, excited, sleepy, hungry, and sleeping. This time, I could tell, it was nervous babbling. The guard managed to talk over the babbling to give the directions. Before I could blink, little man was in the water and swimming. I was doubled over on the side wishing I had an airsick bag or a very large sippy cup of wine.

I watched as he swam the length of the pool, treaded water for 30 seconds, heaved himself out, jumped back into the deep end, and finally heaved himself out again. He'd completed the test! He'd done everything required! He'd earned that black band! I cried out from across the pool deck, "Yes!" Then nearly fell over when I saw my husband, standing next to the guard, shake his head, "No." Before I could hit mute, I yelled, "What? Seriously?"

Stupid Effing Lifeguard Guy had to come over to where I fumed and explain that my little guy did complete the test, but didn't look confident enough doing it. He needed to work on making his strokes look more comfortable, and try again. He explained all this in his calm nice-guy voice, while I visualized kneeing him in the groin and then pulling on the stupid little soul-patch he was growing on his stupid little chin.

Let me just interject here to say that just last week, I watched a kid pass the test doing the world's saddest looking doggie paddle. My son could swim laps around that poodle!

The worst part of the whole ordeal was that my son didn't understand why he didn't get a band. He'd completed the test. He'd swum the entire length of the pool. He'd treaded water. He'd pulled himself from the deepest depths of the pool. Twice! I wrapped my arms around him, and he whispered into my shoulder, "I can't believe I didn't get it."

An hour later, the guard blew the whistle for the next break time. My determined son strode over to the edge of the pool. This time, little man wasn't quite as nervous. He was strangely quiet sitting on the edge with his father by his side, staring ahead at his goal. I stood far behind to watch, fists clenched.

He hit the water and swam with such strength and speed, he'd crossed the pool before I could even remind myself to breathe. He finished the test with every bit of skill, determination, and confidence his small body had to give - every bit and then some. When he pulled himself out of the water for the last time, I grit my teeth and waited until my husband looked over from where he stood next to the guard and gave me a thumbs up. Little man had done it!

In a quiet moment later that afternoon, I told my son how proud I was of him. He hadn't given up on himself. He had tried again. That kind of courage in a six-year-old is kind of remarkable. Remarkable and inspiring.

Recently, I received a rejection from a literary agent I'd queried about my manuscript. She'd requested the full manuscript and read and considered it carefully before deciding to pass on it. Crushing defeat. Like my little man, I wrote and revised the manuscript, survived the whole query process, and got close to my goal, only to be told, however kindly, "No."

Thankfully, I have a heroic little boy around to teach me to find my confidence and try again. And when my manuscript gets published, I assure you the dedication will read

For my little man and his infamous black band.

Welcome home Muse

2011-06-24T14:51:00.000-04:00

Photo by Pascal Thauvin

This is my first post from my new home. A few words on moving . . .

Stuff

As in, so much stuff!
To explain, waaaayyyy back when we began this whole process in November, I started by staging our old home to sell. Staging meant going room by room (closet by closet) and boxing up anything we didn't need. Bookshelves were emptied, but for a few favorite pictures and books. Clothes that hadn't seen the light of day since before my first pregnancy were weeded out (except my wedding dress, which I'm saving for a special roller coaster ride). Toy boxes were pared down to the bestest of the best toys. Kitchen cabinets were put on a diet. Seriously, who needs three 13"x9" baking dishes? All the excess was put in boxes and shoved in the garage.

I can honestly say that we missed very little of what was in the boxes, with the exception of that one time I needed three 13"x9" sheet cakes simultaneously and had to settle for just the one. Eight months and we didn't miss a thing.

Sadly, all that excess was packed onto the moving truck and trotted in through the doors of the new house. I'm wondering if it is tacky to have a "Just Moved In" garage sale to get rid of it all. Nothing says, "Meet the new neighbors," like piles of our crap out for display on the driveway.

During the transition time between one place and this one, I've realized I don't need all that stuff. Moving helped me reevaluate. Keep what is good in life and move on from the bad - or even the so-so, because life's too short for, "eh."

My shelves still hold only my favorite photos of family and friends. And there is just a handful of favorite clothes hanging in my closet. You know, the ones that make me feel like me. Not the ones that make me feel like I'm trying to be me. As for the kids' toys, well, here's hoping they've also learned to value what they love best. If so, stuffed animals are $.50 each.

Bruises

Here's a little moving tip. Don't try to move an 8' tall, solid oak bookcase all by yourself. And if you do, don't try to keep it from tipping over on you by using just your tricep. I'm just saying.

Moving can leave bruises. Big, ugly, looks-like-I-got-in-a-bar-fight bruises. But they fade. The one on my tricep is already a lovely shade of yellowish-green. Pretty.

Adjust

On the first night in the new house, I was frantically moving furniture around (see note about bookcase above) trying to make it all fit properly. Hubster came home from work and shook his head when he saw my bruises, like, "And you're supposed to be so smart." Moving furniture is easier with a buddy.

Put that here. (grunting as he moves big-ass hutch)
No, there. (grimace as hutch finds new home)
Wait. (slight grinding of teeth)
It was better back there. (shake of head again)

At one point in time, hubster could see I was really starting to lose it. I had to fess up and admit it was frustrating. I was trying to make everything conform to life in the old home. The new home is laid out differently, and what fit in one place won't work here. No matter how many times I move it.

In the end, I had to learn to adjust. To change. Shift. Now everything is where it should be. Maybe not the same as it was, but pretty good for now.

On a final note, I have to adjust to the noises my new washing machine makes. Weird. I've gotten up to check on the poor thing five times while writing. Apparently that strange whirring sound is not the countdown to blast off. Good to know. Still, I think I'll check it one more time because, Holy Laundry, Batman! It's beeping!

I thought it would never end . . . so I just kept reading

2011-05-31T21:26:00.000-04:00

Photo by Piotr Bizior www.bizior.com

Is it just me, or has it been May for three and a half months? Just me? Hunh. Not that it was dull, as you can tell from my lack of posts. May has proved to be April's slightly less annoying cousin.

These first two books are from my cousin's bookshelf. Thanks, cuz!

FOREVER . . . by Judy Blume

Buy it from
Better World Books

Katherine is a sensible girl. She thinks things through carefully, weighing every decision. Too bad love doesn't play fair. When she meets Michael, she finds her heart often gets in the way. Their relationship grows quickly and blooms into a first love and all the other firsts that come with that.

How did I miss this as a teenager? Seriously. I was a mess as a teenager. Very confused about love and sex and relationships. I'm not saying Blume has crafted a guidebook to teen relationships, but I am saying reading this would have made me feel a lot less like a freak. I admire Katherine and Michael's abilities to talk about their fears and hopes, and, in the end, the differences in the paths their hearts take.

Super bonus: I didn't even cry!

MY SISTER'S KEEPER by Jodi Picoult

Buy it from
Better World Books

Anna has been in and out of the hospital so many times in her thirteen years that she's lost count. She's not even sick. Her sister Kate has leukemia, and Anna was born to be the perfect donor. Now, she's fighting for medical emancipation from her parents so that she doesn't have to undergo any more surgeries to try to save her dying sister. While she wonders if this makes her a monster, or worse, a murderer, she knows it is what she has to do.

So, yeah, I cried. I was blindsided by the end of this novel (no, I haven't seen the movie either). This was a page turner. Anna's astute observations on birth and life and death were touching and truthful. I was immediately intrigued by her discussion of why (not how) children are born. It made me stop and consider why I wanted kids. Am I honoring that relationship? Sometimes. I am reminded how precious my kids are, each in his and her own way, and that needs to be respected.

By the middle of May, we had successfully found a new home. Awesomeness! I celebrated by going to the library. I am happy to be the world's largest dork!

SWIM THE FLY by Don Calame

Buy it from
Better World Books

Matt and his two best friends have a summer tradition. Each year, they set a goal that must be accomplished before the next school year ends. This year's goal is to see a real-live naked girl. How difficult can it be? Except Matt and his buddies aren't exactly Cassanovas. They aren't exactly athletic either, even though they've been on the swim team since third grade. The summer gets even more complicated when Matt decides to swim the 100-meter fly to impress a girl. Matt can't even do one lap of the butterfly, let alone four. Having two seemingly unattainable goals should make for one long and desperate summer. It's sink or swim time!

I read about this book on School Library Journal, in an article by Kelly Miller, a middle school teacher in Missouri, who noticed a that the girls in class read more than the boys. Over summer break, she started researching books that would grab the boys' attentions. Enter, SWIM THE FLY. She watched as a reluctant reader stared blankly at the first page of the book, completely disinterested until he came across the words, "real-live naked girl," in the first paragraph. This student and many others, flew through reading Calame's debut novel in her class. Reading it myself, it is easy to see why.

Buy it from
Better World Books

Calame's SWIM THE FLY had me laughing so hard I snorted and had to wipe my eyes. My husband thought I was having a seizure, but I couldn't help myself. I haven't laughed this hard while reading a book since my last visit with John Green's AN ABUNDANCE OF KATHERINES. The voice in this novel is spot on, which means as adults (or parents) we may cringe a little, but it is honest and just hilarious to tune into these guys' conversations. Matt and his buddies may be rough around the edges, but they have heart. I can't wait to get my hands on his next book BEAT THE BAND.

Buy it from
Better World Books

I moved from this funny novel to reading this year's Printz Honor Award books. Each year, the Young Adult Library Services Association awards the Michael L Printz Award. I've already read (and loved) this year's winner, Paolo Bacigulpi's SHIP BREAKER, about a dystopian future in which humans are forced to eke out an existence scavenging from the wreckage of the flooded coasts of America.

Now, I'm working my way through the honor books.

STOLEN by Lucy Christopher

Buy it from
Better World Books

Gemma was intrigued by the strange young man in the airport cafe. She was flattered when he offered to buy her coffee. She was flustered by the attention he gave her as they sat at a tiny table and talked while she sipped her coffee. She was confused when the world started swimming around her and everything felt like a dream. She was terrified when she woke up in a strange bed, in a rickety cabin, in the middle of a foreign desert.

There is no way to escape the desert. Her captor, Ty, does not want to harm her, just to keep her forever. In order to find an escape, Gemma tries to get along with Ty, learning about him and the strikingly beautiful landscape she's been thrust into. But in securing her escape, she finds herself drawn to the man she hated. Does she want to go home or has she found her true home with Ty?

This book is brilliant. It is written in first person from Gemma's point-of-view, but it is clear from the first sentence that it is not written to "you" the reader, but another "you." It is Gemma telling the story of her capture to her captor. Chilling. And it may seem crazy that Gemma starts to fall for this man who stole her away from her life, classic Stockholm Syndrome, but it feels a lot less crazy when you as the reader also slip into thinking Ty did save Gemma and they belong together. I was horrified when I realized I didn't want them to part. What kind of a sick monster am I? Who wants a girl to fall for a kidnapper? I need serious mental help! In the end, I realize that is the brilliance that is Christopher's writing.

I equate reading this to watching Jonathan and Christopher Nolan's MEMENTO, a crazy, chilling movie in which a man with short-term memory loss struggles to put together the clues to a mystery about his identity. The film is done in short clips, about as long as the main character's memory lasts. By the end of the movie, I find I have some trouble getting my short-term memory to work properly. It completely takes me in, just as STOLEN stole my mind.

NOTHING by Janne Teller

Buy if from
Better World Books

Pierre Anthon knows that there is no meaning to life. He realizes it the first day of school, promptly leaves his desk, and climbs the plum tree in front of his home. He intends to stay there forever, intent of becoming nothing since life is nothing. The kids in his class cannot abide this. They create a mound of meaning, each giving up something important to them. Their plan is to show Pierre Anthon this mound of meaning and convince him that life is not nothing, they are not nothing, the mound of meaning is not nothing. But their plan doesn't work the way they hope and what happens in their struggle to prove there is a meaning to this life is anything but nothing.

Um, yeah, this book is also pretty awesome (in a very disturbing way). It is being called a modern LORD OF THE FLIES, the kind of book where children set out to right a wrong and end up having to learn a terrible lesson about life and death. The simplicity with which this story is told makes it hauntingly beautiful. Maybe not a feel-good summer read, but definitely worth your time.

PLEASE IGNORE VERA DIETZ by A.S. King

Buy it from
Better World Books

Vera is haunted by a thousand Charlies. He was her best friend, until he wasn't, and then he died. Now she has to deal with her grief and regret, while deciding whether or not she should clear his name. Her father is floundering since her used-to-be-a-stripper mother left him five years ago. On top of that, she's working full-time as a pizza delivery technician while she finishes up high school. So, yeah, she's got a little bit going on and would love it if the Universe could just go back to ignoring her, please.

Vera is a wonderful character that I really connected with and respected. She works hard at being a good friend, daughter, student, and pizza delivery technician even though none of it seems to be paying off for her right now. I loved her vulnerability and strength. I also enjoyed the story's format. Some chapters fill us in on her present life, while others are titled, "History," and give us insight into the events that led to the present. The time shifts are seamless and work brilliantly so that the reader is part of Vera's journey. It's easy to see why this is a Printz Honor book.

There is one more honor book this year, REVOLVER by Marcus Sedgwick. My local library does not have a copy, so I'll be using Inter-Library Loan to get my hands on it for next month.

Journey from fissure to canyon

2011-05-05T12:19:00.000-04:00

Photo by Judy Smith
Antelope Canyon, Navajo Tribal Park, Arizona

Heartbreak comes in all sizes. Today, mine cracked in one of those microscopic fissures that you can't really see, but know it is there. One day, given the right shift, maybe a sliver will fall away from this fault line leaving it more vulnerable. With each rumble of life, more pieces slide away, until the crack that was once invisible has become a yawning canyon.

Today was my last Muffins with Mom celebration at the preschool at which my children have been attending, first the oldest and now my youngest, for the past five years. Five years of Mother's Day teas. Five years of wobbly heart shaped pins and finger printed flower pots. Five years of watered down fruit punch and tiny little muffins. Five years of songs sung in high, sweet voices and directed right at me. Five years.

The rumbling in my heart began when another boy's mother told me her son was concerned because mine's been so sad at school lately. He, like me, cries over everything these days. We both sat down and had a nice good sob over a smushed candybar on the sidewalk the other day. So sad! All that good chocolate gone to waste.

My son is very sad about moving. He's sad that the house he was born in is not ours anymore. He's sad that his big Lego Powerminers set is packed up in a cardboard box in a warehouse somewhere. He's sad that he'll be leaving his friends. And all of this, I've known. It was not shocking to hear her tell me he was sad.

What was a shock, was the immediate feeling that I'd failed him. I'd failed to protect him from this sadness. The thing that broke the bedrock was the understanding that there are so many things I cannot even hope to protect him from. I don't stand a chance. And there you have it, the birth of a fault line.

I had this shaky moment at the end of the celebration when the kids had left and the mother was giving me that, southern Bless your Heart look. I rallied with my usual, "No worries. It'll all smooth over soon." And then I just needed to stop talking and discreetly sprint in the other direction because, dear God, do not let me burst into tears on this poor unsuspecting woman's shoulders. Isn't it enough that I cried in front of the bank teller? Or the Bee Man at the farmer's market? Or the rude girl that works at the DD? Haven't I embarrassed enough people for this lifetime?

A cup of coffee and a bag of Swedish Fish later, I can say this. My son is sad, and I can't take away the reasons for that sadness, but I can rejoice in the knowledge that he is kind and good and gentle and that even at the age of 5 he has friends that notice these things and that care enough about him to demand that their mommies take them to the store to buy him a sympathy card.

I can't protect him from the stuff of life, but it is nice to know I'm not the only one trying my hardest to do it.

Best to just laugh it off

2011-05-03T08:20:00.000-04:00

He's a little blurry because he's doing his dance thing!

Meet my co-pilot, Dean. He was a gift from my sister last year, inspired by a total Keeper of a woman we'd met in Baltimore. I love Dean. My kids love Dean. I have a sneaking suspicion that even my hubby has a soft spot for Dean.

Dean is the reason I've had to let road rage go. It is simply impossible to get all pissy and "let me introduce you to my middle finger-y" when you have a miniature man in a hula skirt wiggling on your dashboard. I mean, you may feel like extending that finger and making a nasty face, but honestly, whose going to take you seriously when Dean's hips are shaking so crazily. Best to breathe and let it go.

And while I often get funny looks (or angry ones from a few moms in the preschool parking lot - That's a half-naked man! The nerve of some people!), I'm kind of glad I have a nice reminder to never take myself too seriously. Pilot to co-pilot: we're ready for anything!

(Insert lame title) Books I read in April

2011-05-01T10:35:00.001-04:00

Photo by Piotr Bizior

www.bizior.com

April has been a crazy month. Actually, April has been a real Jackhole. In fact, I’d like to formally invite April to suck it. Despite April’s attempts to make me no more useful than a human hat rack, I have managed to read a few diverse books. These books have been April's only saving grace.

THIS THING CALLED THE FUTURE: A NOVEL by J.L. Powers

Buy it here from
Better World Books

Fourteen-year-old Khosi lives in a shantytown in South Africa with her grandmother and younger sister. Her mother, a nurse in a nearby city, can only visit on weekends. Khosi’s grandmother visits a traditional South African healer. Her mother believes firmly in Western medicines and wants her daughter to grow up believing what is “true.” Khosi is torn between these two women and the worlds they represent. When her mother becomes sick, Khosi finds a middle ground on which to stand as she battles to save those she loves.

I loved this book. And it isn’t just because I won it, although, I did. I won it. In a contest. Which is absolutely fan-freaking-tastic considering the month I’ve had! I’m a member of She Writes, an online writing community. I “met” J.L. Powers through the site and was able to snag a copy of THIS THING CALLED THE FUTURE, her second novel, in a contest on She Writes.

I loved this book. And it isn’t just because in communicating with Ms Powers, I was encouraged by a fellow writer to wait patiently through the next steps to publishing my own story. Although, she was very kind and helpful, and her guidance kept me from obsessively checking my email every 1.3 seconds.

I loved this book. And it is absolutely because Khosi is a brave, vibrant character, and Ms. Powers recreates so perfectly not just the look of South Africa for me, but the smells, tastes, and feeling of walking the dusty streets of Khosi’s town. Her use of the Zulu language throughout the novel allows the characters to be so very comfortable in their written skins that I had no problem stepping inside and becoming part of the story. I can’t resist a story that invites me in so entirely. I am even willing to forgive Ms Powers for making me cry while reading (because just about everything makes me cry now: sneezes, bread, Volkswagons, you know, the normal stuff).

NIGHT ROAD: A NOVEL by Kristin Hannah (in stores April, 29, 2011)

Buy it here from
Better World Books

The Farradays are a nearly perfect suburban family. Twin teenagers, gentle Mia and popular Zach, are model children of whom their adoring mother Jude can be proud. When misfit Mia befriends the new girl, Lexi, Jude welcomes her into their household. She can’t help but want to mother Lexi, who never had a proper mother and has moved around foster care her whole life. What’s to lose? Jude’s got plenty of love and advice to go around. Things for Jude get complicated when Zach and Lexi fall in love. That was never part of her plan, but then again, neither was the tragedy lurking on Night Road.

This book showed up one day in the mail. Apparently, I’d requested an advanced reader copy from the publisher. Must have been in one of my saner moments. NIGHT ROAD is considered adult fiction, even though the point of view switches between Jude and the much younger Lexi. I don’t normally read grown up books (literary Peter Pan that I am), but, hey, free is awesome! Oddly enough, I felt very drawn to the teens and had a hard time connecting with Jude. This is weird because I am totally a helicopter mom just like Jude. I live to be in my kid’s business. But when reading NIGHT ROAD, every time Jude showed up, I felt my boundaries instantly shrink under her sharp eye, just like a real life teenager. Congratulations to Ms Hannah for capturing that teen feel so well.

I will admit it made me cry. Then again, I cried when peeling a banana on Tuesday, so what do you want to make of it?

THIS LULLABY by Sarah Dessen

Buy it here from
Better World Books

Remy knows all about “love.” She’s watched her mother tear through romances faster than a competitive eater on Coney Island. As her senior year wraps up and the planning of another wedding for her mother is finished, Remy is ready for some fun with her girl friends during that in between time before college begins. Unfortunately for Remy all her plans and carefully constructed rules are about to be ruined by one boy. Dexter’s clumsy exuberance for life irritates Remy from the moment she meets him, but whether it is because he doesn’t fit into any of her expectations for boyfriends, or his refusal to follow protocol in the development of their relationship, or because she’s just too curious to see what he’ll do next, Remy can’t seem to stay away.

I’m a Sarah Dessen fan, most definitely, but this has been my least favorite. Remy’s strict rules for relationships and inflexibility were simply too irritating for me. I felt Dexter was just too good for her and that’s probably not how I should feel at the end of the book.

As a plus, it was tear free!

INSIDE OUT & BACK AGAIN by Thanhha Lai

Buy it here from
Better World Books

April was National Poetry Month. So it was lucky for me that I picked this book up off the library shelf one day. I was intrigued by the title and the beautiful cover art and tossed it in the bag without really looking at it. So, I was pleasantly surprised when I realized it was an entire story told completely in poetry.

INSIDE OUT & BACK AGAIN is the story of a Vietnamese girl and her family told in three parts: deciding to leave Vietnam during the war, crossing the ocean to safety, and learning to live in America. Ha is the youngest sister to three brothers. Their father’s whereabouts are unknown since the war began. Mother must try to keep herself together enough to make enormous decisions for her family while grieving for her husband.

The story moves through the poetry swiftly and smoothly. In simple, stark imagery, Ha shows us her life and the raw emotions she is dealing with during this time. It was wonderful to see language used so effectively, no excesses, just the heart of the story pulsing out from the pages and into me. Brilliant.

And, yes. I cried.

FINALLY 12 by Wendy Mass (nominated for the 2011 Children's Choice Book Award!)

Buy it here from
Better World Books

During the same library trip where I picked up the last book, my daughter picked up Wendy Mass’s FINALLY 12, probably because it had a big birthday cake on the cover and she was still really excited about her recent birthday. Since there is quite a difference between a 12-year-old and an eight-year-old, I needed to pre-read this book before I allowed my daughter to read it. As I kid, I read plenty of books whose content was way out of my league and I'm no worse for the wear, but I wanted to be sure I knew what she was reading so I could prepare my answers (parenting cheat-sheet!) to questions that may come my way.

FINALLY 12 is the story of Rory, a girl with slightly over-protective parents who have been putting off allowing Rory to do many things until she turns 12. Rory has made a list, a long, long list, of things she wants when she turns 12. Getting a cell phone, piercing her ears, wearing make-up, going to a girl-boy party, shaving her legs, and riding the loop-de-loop roller coaster at the carnival are all on her list. She methodically works her way through this list only to discover that what she wants may not be what she needs.

Once I'd finished reading this book, I practically ran to give it to my quickly growing up daughter. Ms Mass allows Rory to learn for herself that perhaps there is no need to rush the whole growing-up gig. I think it resonates well with young readers who also feel caught between wanting to grow up and still enjoy being a kid. If you’ve know a girl from ages 8-10, I’d recommend you read this book together.

Oh, and despite the fact that this is an uplifting read, I cried. I just love a happy ending!

Early morning travels

2011-04-11T22:43:00.001-04:00

Photo by D Sharon Pruittwww.pinksherbert.com/gallery

We need to have a serious talk about 4 AM. Did you all know this existed? I have deeply rooted concerns about this.

Mostly, I am concerned with what is not happening at 4 in the morning. Namely, the making of coffee at my local DD. Not happening.

Things that are happening:

The deer are awake by 4:21 AM. I discovered that is the time they hold the opening ceremonies for the Deer Olympic Games, right there on the highway. When the twin torches of my headlights gleamed into their midsts, they all froze and looked at me like, “Where’s the coffee?”

One even stepped in front of my speeding mini van, begging to be put out of his misery. Sorry, buddy. Misery loves company. No coffee for me means no coffee for you, now go back to your reindeer games and kick Blitzen’s ass.

Nothing's going on at the gas station at on the corner of early and even earlier. All closed up at 4:27 AM. And while nothing is technically going on at the car dealership next door, it is all lit up like high noon. My guess is the compact cars are afraid of the dark.

The lady at the entrance booth to the airport parking place - definitely happening this morning at 4:43 am. She overly enthusiastically offered me the morning paper causing me to wonder if a rolled up newspaper could be used to perform a lobotomy.

Luckily, the man driving the van to the terminal looked like he was still awaiting the miracle that is coffee, and that I can respect. I couldn’t have survived the five minute drive with anyone more chipper than burnt toast. Not at 4:45 am.

By 5:01 am, I’d made it to my gate and found an uncomfortable seat to wait for my flight. That's when I noticed the pilot and flight crew.

Should I be worried if the pilot is patting down all his pockets in what looks like a quickly failing search for the keys to the airplane? Now he's smacking his head. Must have left them in his other snazzy pilot get-up. Someone buy that man a coffee.

Meet my new favorite word

2011-04-08T15:19:00.000-04:00

Photo by Helmut Gevert

Jackhole is one of my new favorite words. I find saying it oddly soothing. I learned about it from an enormously funny mommy blog (thanks to my sis) called Rants from Mommyland in which a ranting mother called her child's car seat a jackhole for being so absolutely impossible to work with.

This was the same day I learned one of my Susan G Komen 3-Day for the Cure family members had gone home from the hospital into hospice care. I immediately composed this letter.

Dear Cancer,

You are a real jackhole.

Sincerly,

The Tutu Sisters

My sister and I are known as the Tutu Sisters at the Washington, D.C. Susan G Komen 3-Day for the Cure. This past year, we were lucky enough to meet the Tutu Brothers from Philadelphia. They pretty much saved our butts from being squished under a bus while we all rode the busy streets of DC as part of a crazy awesome route safety crew. They are amazing men - kind, compassionate, endearing, driven and beloved. They are their mother's sons.

I was fortunate to meet their Tutu Mama just before closing ceremonies on day 3. She was radiant. Every bit of her shone. Her smile, her eyes, the warmth from her hugs, the glittery way her tutu hat moved under the late afternoon sun. Lively does not begin to describe her. She was life itself.

And today I learned that she has

Yeah, I've been trying to finish that last sentence for awhile now. I think you can all see where I'm going with it, so do I need to say it out loud? Now? Can't I just let it go for awhile?

Thing is that I could. I could just ignore it and pretend it isn't something that really bothers me much. I mean, it's sad, right? A woman I met once died. That sucks, but . . .

She died. She died and cancer killed her and I'm pretty pissed about that right now. And sad. And lonely. And frustrated. And hollow. And heartbroken. And fearful. And so, so, so sad. Oh, I said that already, hunh?

My sis and I work hard at raising awareness about breast cancer and ovarian cancer. We raise money, we walk, we talk to people about it constantly, we make idiots of ourselves riding through our nation's capitol wearing tutus. I've lost a lot of acquaintances due to my involvement with cancer. They just can't bear to talk to me anymore because I remind them of something awful and tiresome and frightening. I'm the cancer lady. I remind them that we still aren't doing enough because if we were, I wouldn't have to be such a damn nuisance.

And if they think I'm bad, they should get a load of all the women and men across the globe getting involved and dedicating their lives to finding a cure.

Cancer's a jackhole. Plain and simple. It took a beautiful woman away from her beautiful family. And I'm so hurt by that right now that I'd love to walk away and never speak about it again. But, I can't. Because I don't back down from bullies. Not anymore.

Better watch your back, Cancer.

Closing ceremonies
2009 Washington, D.C. Susan G Komen 3-Day for the Cure

As always, click on any of the Susan G Komen 3-Day for the Cure links above to make a donation. And feel free to tell your own story here by leaving a comment.

Things that are free

2011-04-07T12:57:00.000-04:00

Photo by Scott Telle

Hubby and I are buried up to our eyeballs in the minutia of moving. Which means that right about now, everyone has their hands in our pockets. The next person to dive in there might come back out with only lint.

I had to buy milk for the kid's cereal and noticed my hand shaking a bit as I ran my credit card through the scanner. More money gone. Perhaps the kids could use apple juice in their cereal instead of milk? I have apple juice at home. Would that be sooooo terrible? When I mentioned this they both looked at me like I had just grown an ear out of the middle of my forehead. So that's a no? Fine.

But yesterday, at the gym, the instructor was working us very hard, sweat was pouring down my face, stinging my eyes, and my lungs were just not inflating. She cried out, "Come on! Oxygen is free here, so take it in!"

At the word "free" my ears perked up. Something that won't cost me my first born child? Love it! And with that, I started sucking in so much free oxygen that I got light headed and felt like maybe I'd pass out and fall over, banging my head on the hard floor, meriting an ambulance ride to the hospital to get some stitches and an overnight stay for observation due to the concussion I sustained. Suddenly, as the little white blobs exploded in front of my eyes, I realized that maybe for me, even oxygen isn't free.

So what is?

There are precious few things that come at absolutely no cost of any kind. Everything is so interconnected that sometimes what seems free of charge (like watching the butterflies on the jasmine in my backyard right now) actually has hidden fees (like the mortgage I had to pay to live in the house with the jasmine in the backyard).

But my daughter's real laugh, not the fake one she uses when she knows something is supposed to be funny or the stilted one she uses when she's feeling overwhelmed, but the real one that is and has always been so rare - that one comes at no cost to me.

And the way my son still yells, "Mommy!" Then dashes out of the classroom door and into my arms, nearly knocking me down every time. That's free too.

And the warmth of knowing my husband is lying in the dark next to me when I wake from a dream in the middle of the night. That one is on the house also.

And if I'm mindful of the air I'm breathing in, not being greedy and trying to take it all at once, but breath by breath, that is a gift as well.

So tell me, readers. What comes freely to you?

New feature on the blog

2011-03-28T11:46:00.001-04:00

I'm excited to share with you all my newest feature here in The Words. Welcome wanderers to a monthly post entitled . . .

. . . wait for it . . .

Photo by Piotr Bizior
www.bizior.com

Books I Read This Month.

I need to work out a better name. Suggestions are always welcome in the comments section. I've wanted to do this for a while, but the end of a month comes and goes too quickly. Before I know it I look up to find that I'm smack dab in the middle of the next month, scratching my head and wondering how I got here. To make matters worse, I'd missed another opportunity to tell you all about the lovely books I've been reading.

No more time to waste. We begin. Even if my title is lame.

Books from March

Quail Ridge Books in Raleigh, NC, played host to five Young Adult (YA) fantasy authors on Penguin's Breathless Reads book tour, on February 25, 2011. On February 20th, I convinced myself that I could get all the books from the library, read them, find a sitter for my kids, and attend this exciting event.

Yes, I am known for delusions.

Needless to say, it wasn't until March that I got to read them.

Books from the Breathless Reads Tour

Buy me at
Better World Books

THE ETERNAL ONES by Kirsten Miller.
In this story of reincarnated love, Haven Moore has grown up in a small town in Tennessee plagued by romantic visions she can't understand. When she sees Ian Morrow, a New York playboy, her current world shifts violently. She knows him although they've never met before. Not in this life anyway. Haven's life becomes a race to stay ahead of death long enough to learn who her true love really is.
For me, this romance was fast paced and interesting (I'm kind of fascinated by reincarnation). A highly entertaining read.

Buy me at
Better World Books

MATCHED by Ally Condi.
Matched is a dystopian story about a society so perfect it has figured out a formula for finding one's best love interest. The Society decides people's jobs, how much they eat, who they marry, where they live, and even when it is time to say goodbye. Cassia is relieved when she learns her best friend Xander is her match. Just one more proof that The Society knows what it is doing. That is, until she learns they may have made a mistake because it seems Ky is also her perfect match. What's a girl with no choices to do?

This book was a killer for me to get through. I felt absolutely caged in by The Society while reading, just as I imagine Cassia began to feel as her perfect world slowly (very slowly) unravelled around her. I must give Ally Condi sincere congratulations on crafting compelling characters full of life in such a lifeless world. Chilling.

Buy me at
Better World Books

ACROSS THE UNIVERSE by Beth Revis.
The Godspeed is on an intergalactic mission to colonize a new planet. Carefully planned, the mission should take 300 years. No problem since Amy and the other colonists will be perfectly cryogenically preserved as they await their arrival. At least that was the plan, but Amy is awoken 50 years early. She and Elder, a teenage boy in line to captain the ship, must figure out who tried to kill her and why. They quickly discover the Godspeed holds many secrets deep within its holds.

I read a preview of the first chapter of ACROSS THE UNIVERSE months ago and was immediately intrigued by Amy and the story's premise. The novel was definitely worth my wait. As an added bonus, Beth Revis is a North Carolina author and for the time being, I am still a North Carolina reader.

Buy me at
Better World Books

THE REPLACEMENT by Brenna Yovanoff
Mackie is a replacement. A sickly, otherworldly creature exchanged in the dark of the night for a healthy baby boy. He knows he is different. His new family knows he is different. Everyone in town knows he is different. But that is a truth that no one is willing to admit. Mackie is content to live a shadow of a life in this human town. He has an odd collection of good friends and there's this intriguing girl named Tate that he can't help but notice, but when Tate's baby sister is replaced, Mackie must choose to ignore the untruths the town is happy to believe or find the answer behind the disappearing babies and his own true identity.

I'm not going to lie. I was scared to bejeezus to read this horror book. The cover is downright frightening and my hubby was out of town and I have spooky dreams anyhow and insomnia that won't let up and a weak bladder. In the end, it wasn't actually scary. Proof that you can't judge a book by its cover. Mackie was an interesting character and I liked the book's idea of making a choice to either believe the truth or make up a more comfortable truth. This was almost lost however in the drama going on in Mayhem (the underworld) that felt forced and secondary to what Mackie really needed to discover for himself. Overall a good read though.

Buy me at
Better World Books

NIGHTSHADE by Andrea Cremer
I'm not finished with this one, but will be before March is over, so I'm including it. However, the following is a blurb from the NIGHTSHADE web page.

Calla Tor has always known her destiny: After graduating from the Mountain School, she’ll be the mate of sexy alpha wolf Ren Laroche and fight with him, side by side, ruling their pack and guarding sacred sites for the Keepers. But when she violates her masters’ laws by saving a beautiful human boy out for a hike, Calla begins to question her fate, her existence, and the very essence of the world she has known. By following her heart, she might lose everything - including her own life. Is forbidden love worth the ultimate sacrifice?

I'll let you know next month!

Buy me at
Better World Books

I also read books two and three of The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins. For those not familiar with YA literature, this trilogy is hugely popular. It is a dystopian story about a civilization rebuilt after a devastating civil war. The Capitol controls the people in the districts as if they are slaves and remind them every year of their powerlessness by holding The Hunger Games, in which two children from each of the 12 districts, one boy and one girl, are put into a deadly arena and must fight to the death. The last child standing is honored as a winner and freed from slaving in the districts. Katniss Everdeen volunteers to take her young sister's place when Prim is chosen for the games. Peeta Mellark, a boy that has secretly loved Katniss for years, is to be one of her opponents. If you aren't horrified by this story yet, you must have grown up playing some really horrifying video games that have completely desensitized you. This is disturbing stuff, but teens (and adults like me) are eating it up because Katniss, for all her weaknesses, is the kind of hero we want to love.

Buy me at
Better World Books

CATCHING FIRE In this second book, the games are over, but not for long. I don't want to say much more for fear of ruining it for you all (because I know you want to read it now. Admit it. It's okay). I can say that I enjoyed this book almost as much as the first. I was frustrated though with Katniss's slow emotional growth, but she's only human. Fictional, but human.

Buy me at
Better World Books

MOCKINGJAY The final installment finds Katniss wading through the rights and wrongs of war. It is my least favorite of the three. Well worth the read because you have to see how this story is all going to end, but the pacing felt off and some of the character's seemed to stagnate. Still, the twists and turns of the plot are mind blowing.

Buy me at
Better World Books

Lastly, I finally read Stephen Chbosky's THE PERKS OF BEING A WALLFLOWER. This has been on my "to read" list for quite some time. After reading so many fantasy books, I felt I needed a little reality break. This contemporary fiction novel is a story about a boy named Charlie who prefers the safety of watching and wondering about life to actually living it. When he reaches high school, he decides to give living a try and falls into a strange and wonderful group of friends who help him to realize his true self. Even the ugliness that lurks deep within.

I enjoyed participating in Charlie's life with him. He makes shockingly simple, yet painfully astute statements about growing up that often made me laugh out loud, or gasp, or even hold back tears.

Whew! That took a while. I need to remember to read fewer books this month so as to not have to spend so much time recounting them all! Luckily for me, April is going to be a busy month filled with packing and moving and disarray. Which might actually mean I retreat further into the much less chaotic fictional worlds of books. Yep, I just compared moving to surviving the Hunger Games.

I hope you will check out some of the provided links above. I'd love to hear your opinions on any of these YA gems. Just leave me a comment. Happy reading!

Pieces of life

2011-03-12T11:27:00.002-05:00

Photo by Olivia Fay

I cannot imagine what it must feel like to wake this morning in Japan. Here, from the epicenter of my very privileged life, I have trouble understanding what it must be like to open one's eyes and find the life you had known is ended, and yet, you are still alive. My thoughts go out to those today that must piece together a life from the rubble at their feet.

History has been pinked

2011-03-08T21:12:00.000-05:00

Photo by Bill Ault
picturesfromthewoods.blogspot.com

Recently, my 2nd grade daughter was assigned a research project on a famous American. Each student was to choose a historic figure, research his/her life, and then give a speech from the famous person's point of view.

A list was sent home with famous men and women across the United States's history. Needless to say, the men were quickly eliminated because, as my daughter told me with a roll of her eyes, "There is NO WAY I'm going to wear a beard!" I was slightly affronted because I've been known to sport a mustache for certain occasions and had no idea this was so highly frowned upon by the rest of the girlie world.

We dutifully went through the list of women, googling each of them to find pictures and quick facts in the hopes of piquing my daughter's interest. No good. We went through the whole list and she wasn't really excited about any of them. She looked at me with those steely blue eyes and wondered why all the famous Americans were dead. Wasn't there anyone worth learning about who was still alive?

Hmm.

I reassured her that there were women today making great changes in the world and gave her a quick list of possibilities. When I mentioned Nancy Brinker, founder of the Susan G. Komen for the Cure, her eyes lit up.

We did the research and my little girl wrote a beautiful speech and practiced it until she could just about say it without peeking at her pink notecard. Victory!

Not quite. Besides giving the speech, each student needed a visual element for her presentation. According to my daughter, dressing as your famous American, did not count. Ugh. The dreaded poster.

I'm not one for posters. Mostly because I have to go out and buy the poster board, and I'm just too lazy. But if asked, I say something along the lines of, A poster does no justice to the creative soul of my child! I'm sure to say it all snotty and holier-than-thou-ish so that no one argues with me. That way I don't run the risk of ratting myself out by admitting that I really just do not want to go to Wal-Mart for poster board.

We brainstormed and decided on making pink ribbons for everyone in her class. My daughter assured me, "Ambassador Brinker would LOVE that idea!"

I went to class the morning of the presentation full of nerves. My daughter had worked so hard and was very nervous herself. At the end of her speech, she declared she'd be handing out pink ribbons to everyone to help remind them that, "Everyone deserves a lifetime." This is a theme for the Susan G. Komen 3-Day for the Cure.

Classmates in their own famous American costumes were clamoring for the ribbons. I stood back and watched with amusement that grew into utter delight as great leaders like Abraham Lincoln and George Washington, great inventors like Benjamin Banneker and Benjamin Franklin, and great women all donned pink ribbons.

Gertrude Ederle, the first woman to swim the English Chanel, and Amelia Earhart, the first woman to fly solo across the Atlantic, helped each other clasp their pink ribbon pins on their shirt collars. There were two Rosa Parks, one dark skinned and one light skinned, who sat with Helen Keller and admired each other's pink ribbons. Clara Barton, Juliette Gordon Low (founder of the Girl Scouts), Alexander Hamilton, Paul Revere, even Colin Powell all smiled back at me with matching pink ribbons.

It was quite a sight. I couldn't help but think that my daughter had been very right about this one. Ambassador Brinker would have loved to have seen this sight. Pink ribbons on great figures in our past and the possible great figures of our future all at the same time. I couldn't have been prouder of my daughter, of her bright and caring classmates, of the teachers that push them to excel, or of the cancer-free future that I could see dawning in their faces.

The next step

2011-03-04T16:32:00.000-05:00

Photo by Nancy Brown

Sorry to have left you all in a lurch, but I had so much Pink Ribbon Pasta to eat all by myself after Valentine's Day!

Actually, I've been playing writer for the past few weeks. Very exciting. I've attended a creativity workshop at Central Carolina Community College's creative writing program in Pittsboro, NC, with young adult author John Bemis. The last book of his Clockwork Dark trilogy, The White City, is due out this summer. Very, very exciting. John is a wonderful teacher, whose class blends just the right mixture of lecture, discussion, and practice. I left energized to finish what I had started.

The next step was to get very serious about my dreadful query letter. Regular followers know my feelings about this obstacle. For new readers unfamiliar with the process, a query is a short business letter to a literary agent in which you try to sell your story. Sounds simple, right? A query is only 250 words long. Two hundred and fifty of the most painful words I've ever had to write. After searching around and trying various critique groups to help get it right, I finally found my niche on She Writes.

I joined the Query Critique Discussion Group on She Writes and submitted my query. Within hours, the wonderful women in the group had poured out for me so much loving, constructive, valuable advice that I was beside myself. Where had they been all my life? These women are fabulous. Thank you, ladies. Thank you.

With the help of my She Writes friends, I was able to polish a query letter I could be proud of. I hit the little send button on my email, fingers shaking, and waited for the swooshy sound it makes when my mail blasts off into cyber space. Almost immediately, I felt a deep sense of pride in having taken that enormous step. Followed quite resolutely by complete and utter nausea.

Ah, success! It feels so good.

And the Winner is . . .

2011-02-21T14:35:00.000-05:00

Photo by Clare Parkinson

Me!

I'd like to thank all the little people. So much easier to crush on my way up than the big people. Thank you.

I'll be winning my own pasta and eating it too. Which saves me on postage, I suppose.

No one felt the muse at work? Your muses are all on holiday together. Bet they went on some fabulous muse cruise. Look! I'm still making poetry!

Thanks for sending in the words. Switching genres for a little while broke me out of a writing funk. I love writing fiction, and blogging is fun too, but poetry normally scares the bejezus out of me.

I always feel that I'm missing out on something when I read or write poems. It's like I'm the outsider in an inside joke or the only kid on the block not invited to the party. But, writing it this time around forced me think about language and phrasing and imagery in a whole new way. Turned out to be a real plethora of fun.

So, I accept this award on behalf of poemaphobic people across the globe. Thank you!

I heart you.

2011-02-17T22:24:00.000-05:00

Photo by Bethann Wilkie
Survivor Circle at Closing Ceremonies
Washington, D.C, 2010

My husband likes to point out that when it comes to the Susan G. Komen 3-Day for the Cure, I'm "kind of funny about it." He can't explain more. Just one of those things that you know about a person even if you can't say how you know.

It's taken him three years to come to terms with my funny business. Now when anything 3-Day comes up, he steps back with this sweet half-smile and just listens. He doesn't try to stop me from ranting or whining or crying or laughing or telling him endless stories about people he hardly knows. He just accepts the 3-Day as part of my life, like a crazy aunt everyone loves because they're never sure what she's going to do next. Which is big of him because I already have five crazy aunts. Very generous of him to accept one more.

He's a 3-Day hubby. And while my sister may be my very visible 3-Day partner in crime, my hubby drives the get-away car.

Today, I'd like to thank all the 3-Day partners in crime. The one's that have done this before and the one's who have no idea what they've gotten into.

The one's like my husband who welcome 3-Day craziness into their lives.

The one's who say, "Sure I'll take care of the kids for the weekend." Then they learn about the fundraising time and training time and travel time and, "Holy Cow! Does our son really not understand how to pee in the toilet! Seriously, do I have to clean up after every missed attempt or just before you get home?"

The one's who walk alongside their loved ones.

Washington, D.C., 2009
Closing Ceremonies

The one's who wear tutus.

A tired Route Safety member rocking a man-tu arrives at camp
at the end of a long day taking care of walkers on the route.
Washington, D.C., 2009

The one's that come out to work the volunteer crew and support their wives and other peoples wives and daughters and mothers and sisters and partners and husbands and brothers and on and on.

Crewman Pete
He hauls baggage all morning then makes sure all our team
tents are set up before we arrive.
Angel in a tutu? Yes.

The one's that bring the kids for closing ceremonies and stand with the little one on their shoulders hoping for a glimpse of mommy as she walks those last excruciating steps.

My hubby ended up with all the kids on the train to DC in 2009.
Looks like he has it all under control!

The one's that make signs that say, Thank You for Walking for Our Mommy, and dress their little boys in matching pink polo shirts.

Father and sons wait for Mommy
Boston, 2009

The one's that sit on the top of their RV's along the route and salute walkers with beers raised on high. And the one's that hold signs up that make us laugh when we think we'd like to cry.

Washington, D.C., 2009

The one's that but bras on their wickedly intimidating motorcycles and attach pink tassels to the handlebars.

Photo by Jill Clardy
San Diego, 2009
www.flickr.com/photos/jillclardy

The one's that stand in a circle and watch as their heroes, the loves of their lives, take center stage and raise a flag that speaks of a world without cancer. Those same one's who watch with open pride and love and tears that run like rivers down their faces because they are here, today. Today they have won.

Closing at the Lincoln Memorial
Washington, D.C., 2009

I thank you all. You and so many others. Know that your loved ones are making a change in the world. And you are a huge part of that world. Smile and join the journey and know that because of your labors of love, there may be hope for a future in which you own daughter's husband will not need to stand amongst a crowd, rubbed raw with emotion, and weep. And on that day, we will all know that we have won.

Poetry to my ears

2011-02-15T11:08:00.000-05:00

Photo by Piotr Biziorwww.bizior.com

I did it! I used all your words in semi-serious poetry. It was quite a mental workout. Thanks for knocking over the comfortable little box I've been holed up in for so long now. It felt good to stumble out, stretch my muscles and begin this little exercise.

Your turn. Anyone up for the challenge? Stretch your brains and let's see what you can come up with.

You can leave a comment with your own poems here or click here and leave one at the bottom of the Valentine's Poetry Word List post.

Best of luck!

Schwanger mit Hoffnung

There is a moment
Just before the kiss.
Just a breath of a moment.
A moment filled with doubt
Fear, examination, self-hatred, hurt.
A quagmire deep and desolate.
But, the moment is small.
The lips are waiting.
So blindly we push through it
As the waters lap in the distance
And the cool black night
Pulls us closer in space -
And we kiss.
Sweet, salubrious kiss!
There is a moment
Just before the kiss
But more importantly
Is the moment just after.
   "Are you going to hit me now?"
   "Only if you don't shut up,
   And Kiss me again."

Webster's on Love

Love is the poppyseed

buried deep within

a warm loaf of

Lemon Pound Cake.

Sometimes it takes

many bites to find it.

Love is the Ballyhoo!!

as the fox darts amongst

the bracken.

Seeking that elusive

hide out within the heart.

Love is the pugilist

who must beat back

the world

Fustigate the

naysayers who would

have him retire before

he throws his last punch.

Love, like your dupa,

is always just behind you.

Growing larger

with every passing year.

More to love.

Shenanigans

She
Has to give
Everything,
Not just somethings.
A plethora of tears,
Not just empty promises.
In order to find that small place of
Gratitude.
And when she does
Nothing will
Stop her.

Ode to the Epilogue

"There is always time for love,"
quoth the epicure.
"Now scamooch for time is short."

Valentine's Poetry Word List

2011-02-14T13:53:00.000-05:00

Photo by Martin Boose
www.promicabana.de

Holy cow! I love you guys. I said send me words and you did.

You sent words that need Cliff's Notes in order to be used in making poetry.

Here is your list:

shenanigans
scamooch - as in "move it!"
fustigate - to beat with a club or criticize harshly
salubrious - heathly or health-giving
dupa - Polish (possibly Czech too) for ass
quagmire - a situation that is difficult to get out of
epicure - devoted to sensual pleasure
plethora - lots and lots
examination - as in room where you visit the doctor, but you can of course use poetic license
poppyseed
Ballyhoo!! (yes, it needs two explanation marks following the word!!)
schwanger - German word for pregnant
gratitude - as in thanks so much for playing along everyone!

Now, go. Be free. Make poetry.

I'll post mine tonight after I get a chance to figure a few out. You post yours in the comments below by Friday. Winner will be selected randomly and announced on Saturday! You don't have to have left a word to enter. Just post a poem using some of the words above. Everyone can play.

For now I'll leave you with this:

My salubrious dupa brings all the boys to the yard.
And their like
It's better than yours,
Ballyhoo!! It's better than yours,
I can teach you,
But a plethora, I have to charge.

Flippin' brilliant if you say it to the tune of Kelis's Milkshake. I crack myself up.

There's always time for shenanigans!

One more day

2011-02-13T09:37:00.000-05:00

Photo by Miguel Ugalde
www.nubelart .com/miguelugalde

What an educated little group of followers you all are. I've got Polish words and German words and nonsense words.

Just a reminder to everyone else that today is the last day to throw your word in the heart-shaped hat so to speak.

Tomorrow I'll post the list of words and my own little ditty.

Then, it is your turn to compose some lovely little lines for me!

Winner gets my undying respect and some super nifty Pink Ribbon Pasta.

Leave your words at the end of this post or

Gentle Reminder
or
Valentine's Day Poetry Contest.

Happy wordsmith-ing everyone!

Gentle Reminder

2011-02-11T10:39:00.000-05:00

Photo by Karolina K.

Apparently

Blog followers would have me believe

They like neither poetry

nor shenanigans.

If you be a lover of these

(and, seriously, who doesn't love shenanigans)

Scamooch!

Valentine's Day Poetry Contest

2011-02-09T15:29:00.000-05:00

Photo by Mark Aplet
visual28.com

The other day while driving to pick my daughter up from school, my five-year-old son asked what my favorite word was.

Hmmmm?

That's a good one.

At the moment he asked, my favorite word was shenanigans.

Actually, still might be my favorite word.

Romance magnetic poetry kit

It reminded me of the refrigerator magnet poetry tiles I had years ago. Years before children, when teeny tiny magnets were not considered a death threat, but were just that - teeny tiny magnets. It was a set of maybe 200 random words, each printed on a teeny tiny magnet. The hubby and I would arrange them into funny nonsensical poems. It is highly contagious. House guests would leave thank you poems. I think I even caught the dog rearranging them into an ode to rolling in deer poo.

I'd like to propose a contest. The first Wandering through the Words contest. From now until Valentine's Day, leave a comment below with your favorite word. That's it. Just one word. It's not hard. Even my mom can leave a comment (sometimes).

On Monday, I'll post all the words. I'll even compose a poem using some of my favorites. Before you get really excited - I am not a poet.

Then, I'll invite you all to create and post your own poems. A winner will be chosen at random (so your poem doesn't even have to be a masterpiece or anything for you to win! What's to lose?). The winner receives blog bragging rights and . . .

A package of Pink Ribbon Pasta! Very delicious.

The thing is that this won't work unless you guys play along. Otherwise, I'll just eat the pasta myself. Which wouldn't be bad because it is very yummy pasta. But, then I'll be left with that feeling that no one really likes me and my face will probably break out and I might have to get braces again and a really bad spiral perm and large plastic rimmed glasses and wear MC Hammer pants and . . . it'll be like I'm thirteen all over again.

Please don't make me be 13 again! Please!!

Fly

2011-02-03T14:52:00.000-05:00

Photo by Joe Carey

Question:

Do birds ever fly for the pure joy of it, or is it so commonplace to them that they forget how amazing it truly is?

(This is where you go ask your ornithologist friends? Or, maybe you should ask your philosopher friends? Whatever you do, don't go asking your psychologist friends though. I don't think it is fair to try to commit me when I've so frequently admitted my own craziness. Doesn't that mean I'm not really crazy?)

I have birds on the brain these days. They have something to do with a new story in my head, a new, hardly formed, blur of a story that I can't get straight. The only thing I know is that there are birds in the mix.

I see birds everywhere I look now. I watch them, awed by their flights across the grey sky. With every stroke of their wings, they beat back the sinking feeling in my chest. They make the winter gloom more bearable.

It may just be my old friend Serendipity, but there seem to be a butt-load of birds around these days. A butt-load? Really? You wonder to yourselves. How many is a butt-load?

It is more than a bevy, flock, covey, charm, flight, host, gaggle, brood, colony, and murder all rolled up together. It's a big old bunch of birds.

I watched a hawk glide in circles over the woods near my home. He (it may have been a she, but for our discussion here will just call him Harold) looked so at ease. Like he wasn't even trying to stay aloft. Harold made flying look effortless.

It was breathtaking. But, then I wondered if Harold maybe wasn't so taken by flying anymore. Maybe Harold woke up on the wrong side of the nest today and screeched, "Crap! I gotta fly all the way over to that branch there? Really?"

And then he sighed, all exasperated with his lot in life because, lets face it, he's got to fly all over the place really. Fly to see his girlfriend. Fly to find food. Fly to get a drink. Fly to the cast party (that's what a group of hawks is called - a cast). Fly, fly, fly. It's exhausting.

I can relate.

I started thinking about all the things I get to do in this life that should be an amazing joy, but end up just being a big freaking chore. Things like taking care of my beautiful home, hanging out with my kids, going to the gym, feeding my family, caring for my ancient-ass dog. You know, pretty much everything.

Poor Harold. Poor, pitiful me.

I watched him land on the very tippy-top of a tall waving pine. He flapped his wings twice more and then folded them on his back. He looked so beautiful, so blessed, so right where he is supposed to be. I hope he knows that. He probably does. I'm betting birds are way smarter than us about that kind of stuff.

Which means they probably enjoy every moment of flight. At least that's what I'm going to tell myself. And the next time I'm making a chore out of flying, I'll try to remember my buddy Harold.

Hit me!

2011-01-27T11:25:00.000-05:00

Photo by Nicolas Raymond

I am the queen mama, bloody best, mo-fo fabulous-est Black Jack player ever! Just thought you'd all want to know. It's true. Give me $10,000 fake dollars, an open bar, a dealer who has to count his cards out loud to twenty-one, a really great charity, and BAM! World's best Black Jack player!

This past weekend, a friend brought me along to a charity Casino Night for Hemophilia of North Carolina. We got all gussied up (lamenting we'd not thought soon enough to go hunting for some ugly 80's prom dresses) and headed to the North Carolina Museum of Natural Sciences for the event. Let me say thank you so much to Sue Fletcher and the committee members who worked so hard to put on this most excellent event. Thanks also to Gina at CSL Behring for the tickets and the invaluable gambling advice. It was the most laugh out loud fun I've had in a long time.

Click to see the night's photo gallery.
I'm not in the pictures because I
was too freaking busy making lots
of fake money at Black Jack!

Back to my Black Jack prowess. Seriously! Consistently hit with 19, 20, and 21. And I celebrated each win like I'd actually just won hundreds of real dollars instead of raffle tickets. You've never seen anyone so excited to win nothing!

I fell asleep that night with a big grin on my face remembering all the silliness of the night. I even dreamed that night of the event. In my dream, my friend Em, who died three years ago from ovarian cancer, got to come along with us. I didn't think it was possible for anyone to be more excited about fake gambling, but Em had an absolute blast. It was a good dream.

I sometimes see Em in dreams, but they aren't often happy. Usually, she's on the other side of a crowd that I can't cross. Or, I'm waiting and waiting and know she's supposed to be meeting me, but she never shows up. I wake from these nights feeling very low, very lost. Not good dreams.

When I awoke from my casino dream, I was still smiling. It reminded me that Em would like me to live a laugh out loud kind of life filled with celebrations and friends and lots of wine.

So, I say, What up, Mo Fo? Shall we take on Vegas next?

But, I'm not playing Craps. Even with my lucky charm close at hand.

Holding on to chance

2011-01-24T13:30:00.000-05:00

Photo by Shannon Pifko

Serendipity |ˌserənˈdipitē|

noun

the occurrence and development of events by chance in a happy or beneficial way : a fortunate stroke of serendipity | a series of small serendipities.

DERIVATIVES

serendipitous |-ˈdipitəs| adjective

serendipitously adverb

ORIGIN 1754: coined by Horace Walpole, suggested by The Three Princes of Serendip, the title of a fairy tale in which the heroes “were always making discoveries, by accidents and sagacity, of things they were not in quest of.”

Why the vocabulary lesson? I've got a thing or two to say about serendipity.

Firstly, I was disappointed in the John Cusack movie thusly titled. It was not worth my time and quite frankly, infuriated the crap out of me. Who finds her soul mate and then disappears, leaving it up to chance to bring them back together? Hasn't fate done enough already? Don't you think you're being a tad lazy? Maddening.

Secondly, I love serendipity when it falls in my own lap. Just the idea of it, that there are things in this life that are serendipitous (such a fun word to type), these incongruous things that fit together so perfectly in such a happy way, seems proof that there is more to this life than meets the eye.

You're thinking to yourself, Self, I could really use a great cup of coffee, and suddenly a friend says,

"Hey, I've got this coupon for free coffee that expires today, do you want it?"

Look how happy I am with
my coffee. It is 4:30am and
I'm about to walk 60 miles
but, man, I look happy!

And you say, "Hell yeah!"

Then you notice the time and think, The coffee shop isn't on my way to where I'm going. I guess I won't make it either. But, on your way to where you're going there is this enormous water pipe leakage and there's water gushing all over the road. Men in orange vests and flags are telling you to turn left where you thought you were going right.

Before you realize it, you're driving past the coffee place and glance at the clock and, Oh. My. God. There is time!

So, you get your free coffee and make it to where you're going with plenty of time. As an added bonus, you now know a short-cut to your kid's school that goes right past an establishment that sells your favorite drug - coffee.

That is a good day. Serendipitous, actually. The kind of day that makes you feel like you've just been given the world to hold in your palm.

But serendipity has a darker side, too, because sometimes seemingly dissimilar things fit together perfectly in a not so happy way. And according to the definition, this can't be serendipity, but it feels like a close cousin because it reminds us that we are not holding all the strings attached to this life. Not all the time. Not like we'd like to believe.

I recently sent a fundraising letter to friends and family telling them I'd once again be asking for their help for the 2011, Washington, DC Susan G. Komen 3-Day for the Cure.

The letter went a little like this:

So why do I keep coming after your money? Because each time I look at my daughter, or begin to think what my life might look like without my sister in it, or the devastation I’d feel if I sat idly by while cancer took away another loved one, I know my work isn’t finished. And I know I need your help.

I hit "send" and watched as the letter with my pleas for assistance was sent off into the cyber universe. Even though I told myself it was silly, I couldn't help feeling slightly bad for asking everyone for more of their time and money. Hadn't they helped enough? Hadn't we all done enough?

That's when serendipity's angry cousin showed up to give me a swift kick in the rear.

Within a week of sending the letter, I had suddenly heard from a half dozen friends about recent losses they were enduring due to cancer. Brain cancer, liver cancer, breast cancer, bone cancer, even long-time survivors re-arming themselves to fight another round. I needed no more reminding about why I participate year after year. It was very clear we have not done enough yet.

How can an ugly jolt like that be related to lovely serendipity?

Coincidences don't suddenly line up in neat little rows ready to make us happy. All the pieces that make up a coincidence, luck, chance, whatever you want to call it, are around you everyday. You just don't notice them. Serendipity just shines a light on them to make them all sparkly and oh-isn't-that-just-wonderful. But, they were always there.

We just needed the light.

Poor serendipity's cousin has the hateful job of shining the light on the not-so-very-wonderful things.

In the end, sometimes we need to see the dim side of things to be reminded to take action. To be reminded we can take the not-so-very-wonderful things and make them, well, maybe not sparkly and oh-isn't-that-just-wonderful, but bearable. Proving that while we do not hold all the strings attached, we can at least offer up a good tug-of-war against complacency.

Lastly, I think serendipity is remarkable for the simple reason that its origin lies in a Fairy Tale and fairy tales always end with . . .

And they lived happily ever after.

Knowing that gives me the strength to keep holding onto whatever strings I've been given.

Photo by Amber S. Wallace Photography of
North Carolina

This video speaks for itself.

2011-01-22T13:33:00.002-05:00

3DayExperience from Komen 3-Day for the Cure on Vimeo.

What are you listening to?

2011-01-21T10:48:00.001-05:00

http://www.elitestockphotography.net

"No one really listens to anyone else. If you try it for a while, you'll see why."

Mignon McLaughlin

I laughed when I read this quote early one morning. I laughed and thought, Amen, sister!

There is so much noise these days it is hard to know what to listen to, so we stop listening altogether. The catch is that we have no idea we've stopped listening.

Which makes my pleading with the quiet voices in my head kind of ironic.
Please, please, please say something! I beg as I drive.
Silence.
I told these new silent characters they were being rude, obnoxious, unbearable, just sitting there silently like that. They rolled their eyes (as teenagers tend to do) and kept watching me stew.

Be that way! I growl, yanking at the door to the gym just a little too vehemently. Right. Time to kick some imaginary ass at kickboxing (Guards up!). In the middle of front kick, back kick, switch, switch (repeat) those silent kids decide they are going to to open their mouths and start talking.

Holy crap! Are you talking to me? And then I have to restrain myself from shouting at the others in the class, Shut up a minute. Can't you see I'm listening!

The kids in my head told me that I was wrong about them. Wrong about the story. Wrong about where the story was supposed to go. That's why it wasn't going anywhere. I was facing in the wrong direction entirely. Kind of like I was facing the wrong way in class because while I was frozen listening to imaginary voices, everyone else was busy kick, kick, switch, switching.

Accusingly, I snipe, But you said . . . I cut myself off. They never said anything. I just put words in their mouths to fill the silence.

The voices in my head taught me a very important lesson. Listening is not something people often do. Wait! Where did I see that again? Oh, first thing in the morning. I even laughed about it. Somehow, it doesn't seem so funny anymore.

Instead of talking over them, I listened. I learned that kids don't always have the words, the conversational skills, or the heart to tell us stupid adults what's up. So, they say what they can, and sometimes that is nothing at all.

The problem then becomes adults filling in the blanks. I'm willing to bet we fill them in incorrectly just as often as we get it right. When my characters let me glimpse a few moments in their lives and then fell silent, I filled the silence with this crazy fantastical story that was so convoluted I couldn't even wrap my brain around it. No wonder they just sat there and stared at me thinking, I can't believe we trusted this woman could tell our story.

If I'm hearing voices inside my head incorrectly, how many other voices on the outside am I mishearing?

My own kids were instantly at the top of my list.

Like my ever-growing daughter who will one day be a teenager too (oh, the horror!). When that day comes, it is highly unlikely that she will come to me and say, "Mom we need to talk about sex/drugs/alcohol because I feel undereducated about these pressing teenage issues and I'd like to get a good handle on them before I go to that party you don't know about at which the parents will not be home and there will be lots of sex/drugs/alcohol."

Instead, she'll probably say something like, "Mom, I'm going out with my friends." And then, silence.

Do I stare at her blankly waiting for her to say what I want to hear? I hope not. I hope that by then I'll be a little more practiced at listening.

So I began my practice. I listened to what my kids were saying to me. Although they may have been rattling on about Legos and outer space and fractions, when I listened carefully, I could hear something genuine in their pleas for my attention.

Am I important to you?
Do I matter to you?
Do you love me like I love you?

I'd never heard those things before. I'd never really listened.

So I must say, with all due respect, Ms. McLaughlin, I gave it a try. In my opinion listening is well worth the effort.

Losing Control

2011-01-18T11:00:00.000-05:00

Photo by ~lucianotb

Things I Have No Very Little Control Over:

The incessant wanderings of my old-as-ass dog.

When people choose to come look at my spotlessly clean house, ready for purchase (if they choose to at all).

My children contracting every possible cold available to mankind.

The freezing rain.

The price of tea in China or anywhere else for that matter.

The number of Oreos I can consume in one sitting (I know you think I should have control over that, but you'd be wrong).

How quickly a brand new gallon of milk can go sour in my refrigerator. As in, "Mommy, is milk supposed to smell funky?" It doesn't smell funky. It's fine. I just bought it. "But . . ." No buts! I say and take a whiff. This milk smells funky.

My young son's inability to pee in the toilet instead of in the vicinity of the toilet.

The near silence in my head as my newest round of characters give me the silent treatment. Which should be pleasant, right, to not constantly be listening to two worlds at once? But the silence is eerie and makes me feel claustrophobic. Plus, it means I'm paying attention to the outside world right now for lack of anything else to do, and the outside world is not always kind.

The lifespan of a spider.

How amazingly loud my clothes washer is during the spin cycle. It is like an actual cyclone is rattling down the hallway every time.

The past.

My daughter growing up.

Lunar cycles.

The incessant wanderings of my old-as-ass dog. Yes, I mentioned that, but she's still wandering in circles around the ottoman as I finish this list. Still wandering.

Why this list, today? Lately, I'm feeling like my skin just isn't enough to hold everything in. I am, undoubtedly, a control freak, but lately it feels like too much is out of my control. So, I decided to make a list.

Turns out, making the list was harder than I thought. At first it was titled, Things I Have No Control Over, but that was a very short list. I had to go back and change the title and really think hard to fill up my list.

Thing is that some of the stuff on the list, doesn't really bother me as much as I thought. And some of it is stuff I could take control over, but am choosing not to. In the end, making the list helped me focus on what is really driving me crazy.

You guessed it, the damn price of tea! I can't believe no one listens to me when I say we should be charging a heck of a lot more for tea leaves. It's ridiculous, really.

What's making you feel tight under the skin? Tell the truth. It's about the tea leaves. Am I right?

A man named Carroll

2011-01-14T10:56:00.000-05:00

My sis and our bike crew captain ride by The Capitol.
Notice the trademark, over the top 3-Day ensembles.

I meet many people on my Susan G. Komen 3-Day for the Cure journeys. Many become family. Many become inspiration. Many become the memories that sneak attack and make you laugh out loud, most often in places where laughing out loud is frowned upon. And, many become keepers (click here to read more about the keepers).

In DC, last October, my sister and I were honored to join the Route Safety Crew. We are alive today because of the many keepers on that crew that made it a priority to help the new chicks on bikes not get smushed by oncoming traffic. Early on day one, as we rode past The Capitol, my sister and I noticed a man walking quickly, in line with other 3-Day walkers. What caught our attention is that he didn't look like a 3-Day walker. 3-Day walkers wear insane costumes (like tutus and pink cheetah fairy wings - the nuts!) and pink. Lots and lots of pink. This man was wearing blue jeans and a khaki polo shirt. The only thing that told us he was one of our charges, was an unadorned black fanny pack.

He walked with a crowd of speedy walkers, but it was obvious he was alone. He was one of them, but not quite.

On day two, as we led the walkers out, he was there at the lead of the pack again. This time he was wearing blue jeans and a spruce green polo shirt. He chatted with the walkers around him, but was alone.

On day three, I saw him eating breakfast alone at the end of a long table of tired, beat-up walkers. I couldn't not know his story. My sister and I asked to join him and would he please tell us why he was walking? I was expecting a, "My wife/mother/sister passed away . . ." kind of story, but I got something else entirely.

This man walked 60 miles to help end breast cancer because he, and, I quote, "thought it was the right thing to do."

He had no connection to the cause. He'd lost no one to breast cancer or any other type of cancer. He worked in an office most days. He was desperately shy. He heard about the walk and felt that he had something to contribute. He fundraised the mandatory $2300. He trained. He was walking. The entire bottom of his left foot was one enormous blister and he said it was hurting badly, but he'd make it.

I'm not a cryer. I fell into a puddle as I listened to him talk in a sweet southern drawl. My sister looked slightly mortified by my behavior. I choked on a sob and laughed. The man looked back down at his oatmeal, embarrassed.

Lewis Carroll once wrote, "One of the deep secrets in life is that all that is really worth the doing is what we do for others." I don't think it was a coincidence that this man's name was Carroll. Whoever blessed him with that name, knew that inside this quiet, shy, hard working man there was the will to do for others.

Yep, he's definitely another keeper.

Tell me about the keepers in your life. I can't wait to hear all about them.

I have this little sister . . .

2011-01-10T21:14:00.000-05:00

Photo by Marinka van Holten

There's a series of children's books by Lauren Child called Charlie and Lola (buy your own now at Better World Books). Disney also made a preschool age show using the characters (visit them here to play games and watch videos).

The books always begin with Charlie narrating, "I have this little sister Lola. She is small and very funny."

When my kids were little, I forced them to watch Disney's Charlie and Lola because I loved to listen to the stories told in these adorable child voices. My brother-in-law once said, "Admit it. It would be boring without the British accents." But I'm not so sure.

Whenever we found a Charlie and Lola book in the library, I'd coerce my kids into checking it out so I could read it over and over to them.

"Oh, look!" I'd squeal. "A Charlie and Lola book! Look at how funny it seems. I know you'd love to bring this home," I'd say as I would shove the colorful book at my daughter.

Since she is smarter than I am, she'd kindly hand it back with a curt, "No thanks, Mom."

My son, on the other hand, will do anything to please me. Do not fool yourselves into thinking I am the kind of mother that would never exploit that.

"Little man, don't you want your mommy to read this lovely book to you?" I'd ask him, fixing him with my most devoted puppy dog stare. Worked every time!

The thing that I love about Charlie and Lola (with and without the adorable British accents) is that they are stories of an older sibling's deepest love for a younger sibling. Lola reminds me of my own little sister. My own little sister whom I love more than I can possibly say. My own little sister, who is very, very funny (and I've got pics to prove it). My own little sister whom I cannot live without.

This past weekend was the three year anniversary of a dear friend's death. She was a big sister too. In three years, I have been unable to find any words of healing for my friend's little sister. Three years. Three years and not a word from me.

This weekend, while I thought endlessly of my friend and our little sisters, I was struck very heavily with the realization that I do have one small and very important thing to say.

Big sisters love their little sisters unconditionally. Always and forever.

The pebble in your shoe

2011-01-07T15:25:00.001-05:00

Photo by Adrian Yee

I went for my first run of the new year today. I've laid off running for awhile in the hopes that a few injuries would resolve themselves. In other words, I listened to the signs my body was giving me. I listened. Thanks to the loan of a knee brace, I'm back on the go.

On a day that I run from home (as opposed to running from responsibilities, running from work, running from life), I normally warm up by walking to the top of the hill that leads out of my neighborhood. I figure, there's no sense in killing myself in the first thirty steps, right?

As I'm walking up the hill, I can feel a tiny (and sharp) pebble in my right shoe. Ugh. I hate that. I really hate that. Apparently not enough to remember to take care of it though because I'm not so much surprised to feel the pebble under the ball of my foot, but that I had forgotten to get rid of it the last dozen times I've worn these shoes.

I know that if I don't take it out of my shoe now, as it is just starting to bother me, I'll get used to the unpleasantness of it all. So used to it that when I take the shoe off, I'll forget about removing the annoying pebble. Thus begins an internal argument:

Me: Stop walking now and just take the pebble out.

Me: Not now! Don't you realize how much time that will take, the trouble, the complete pain in the ass-ed-ness that will be?

Me: Shut up, moron and take out the pebble.

Me: But, I'll have to stop walking, take off my gloves, kneel down, untie the shoe, pull it off, take out the pebble (if I can even find it) while doing and awkward balance on one foot thingy, put the shoe back on, re-tie it, double knot it, get my gloves, stand up, and worst of all, make myself start walking up the hill again.

Me: Seriously?

Me: Yes. Seriously.

Me: Fine, but I told you so.

Me: (scoffing and throwing my gloves down on the sidewalk before me) No one tells me, "I told you so!"

Out loud, I cry, "FINE! Have it your way!"

I go through the elaborate set of steps listed above to remove the pebble (which is actually more like a shard of rock - super sharp!). This takes me all of thirty seconds. Standing up, I shout, "Happy now?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a flash of red. I turn and am faced with a neighbor also out for a little exercise wearing a red knit cap to keep her warm. What with my music and the full out internal war I've just battled, I had no idea she was walking behind me. My cheeks flush the same pink as my frozen nose. She looks at me with a mingled look of embarrassment and fear. I give her what I'm hoping is a sheepish grin, but may have looked more like a grimace. There was nothing else to do or say, so I turned around and decided I would just start running here rather than at the top of the hill.

Me: Whose the moron now! I told you I shouldn't have stopped for that pebble!
Me: No one tells me, "I told you so!" NO ONE!

So glad my reputation as the crazy neighbor remains safe.

The pebble in my shoe got me to thinking though. How many other pebbles are under my feet and why on earth am I ignoring them?

In terms of writing, writing a query letter was a pebble that I kept in my shoe for a year. A whole year. It's a one page letter. Three to five paragraphs max. Charlie Hanson Finishes Last (and How the Universe Cheats) has 1,648 paragraphs (click here for an excerpt and here for another). I didn't moan and whine and wretch over those paragraphs. So why was I leaving the query pebble in my shoe?

Fear of making it all too real?

Recently, I sat myself down and refused to move until I'd written my query. I'd done my research, chosen my agent of choice, read plenty of exemplary letters. There was nothing stopping me except for the voice in my head that kept arguing about leaving the pebble where it was.

To which I had to ask myself, Seriously?

As in, are you serious about writing? Because if you are, you're going to get some pebbles underfoot, and that's okay, but don't ignore them or pretend they aren't there. Stop and take care of them. Now. Otherwise, I'm just going to have to say, See, I told you so.

What kinds of pebbles are you carrying around in your shoes? Leave a comment to share. Or am I the only crazy lady in the neighborhood?

Happy New . . .

2011-01-02T14:59:00.000-05:00

Photo by Zsuzsanna Kilian

We just returned from a third birthday party. I can't believe this little girl is three already. Oddly, her birthday is hitting me harder than my own children's. It doesn't help that she is a highly adorable, very petite, monstrously cute little smudge of a girl. She's permanently stuck in my brain at about eighteen months of age. Although, talking with her today, I've really got to hit that mental fast-forward and give her her dues. She is every bit of three, going on thirty.

As I get older, New Year's Eve becomes less and less of an event. This year was a complete dud. Our little town ended up not having the budget for the super fun New Year's party they normally throw in the historic downtown business district. We've gone for the past few years and thoroughly enjoyed ringing in the New Year with our kids at 9 PM, then heading home and racking out. Hey, we celebrated. We sang. We made noise with various and sundry noisemakers. We counted down. We cheered and hugged and kissed. It was officially the new year for the kids and the tired parents.

This year, the four of us huddled with our noise makers and counted down with a lame countdown from You Tube. We cheered and hugged and kissed, but it wasn't the same. We went to bed and it was definitely still the old year.

This birthday party is another New Year's ritual. The new year really takes off when the birthday girl proudly holds up the right number of fingers on her hand to show me her new age. This year it is three fingers, which, for those that may have forgotten, is one of the hardest ages to show in fingers. Most three-year-olds cannot wait to be four. That's easy to show on fingers.

Leaving her party, I felt the new year had finally begun for me. Which means, it is time to look forward to the things I want to accomplish. If you remember, I don't like resolutions (you can reread last year's New Year's Rejections by clicking here). But I do like to realistically look at what I would love to see happen and what I need to do to make it happen.

Except, this year, the list is crazy long and very daunting. Perhaps I'm not quite ready to jump into that yet. Perhaps, I'll just stay in review mode. I can say that in the past year, I submitted writing to a magazine and was summarily rejected (however, due to the information age, my rejection was an email, which makes it harder to follow Stephen King's cool example of keeping them all on a spike on the wall). I finished a third manuscript. I managed to keep up with this blog. I wrote, maybe not daily, but enough to call myself a writer.

This year . . . ugh. A great deal of this year is out of my control (which I hate because, yes, I am a control freak). But, I can say that I'll still keep writing about writing, about the causes that I love (I'm walking the 3-Day again and will make it for The Bright Night no matter where I live), the books I read, and whatever else falls in my path (lemon pound cake would be nice).

To a new year. To a new writing year. Because just like my little friend, my writing life is also three years old. Or, as she says, "fee" years old and then she proudly, if not awkwardly, shows me three blessed little fingers.

Yes, to "fee" year olds everywhere.

Happy. New. Year.

Drumroll please . . .

2010-12-24T10:25:00.001-05:00

Day 12

www.rodolfoclix.com.br/2000info.html

This morning I stumbled downstairs to make breakfast for my kids. I don't do mornings all that well, so I stood for a moment gripping the counter and yawning a dozen times or so. When I looked down on the counter, I stopped mid-yawn to read the adorable letters my kids had left there early that morning.

Dear Santa,
I have been good this year. I hope I get Legos. We left you some cookies.
Love,
Casey
(next page) *I didn't add that. The note says, in parenthesis (next page).*

On the next page, I read:

Dear Santa,
I have been good this year. I hope I get Kit's cookstove and produce and preserves set. We left you some cookies.
Love,
Isabelle

Awwwww! So cute. So honest. Hands down, the best reading I've done in a while.

The best gift you can give today to your reader friends and loved ones is something honestly good to read. Write them a letter (not an email, not a text, and no tweets either - even if we have had to suffer with the twenty-three birds gifted during the 12 Days of Christmas). Write them an honest to goodness letter and tell them why they are special to you.

Here is my letter from a reader to those who support my ungainly habit (notice I didn't say you couldn't blog your letter - ah, the loopholes!).

Dear Family,
I just want to take a moment to thank you all for your constant love and support.

To Mum Mum, whose house on the Cape was always stuffed with paperback novels and who never begrudged me borrowing them and then disappearing to the duck pond to ignore the ducks and disappear inside a book instead.

To PaPa Kelley, who had this amazing bookshelf. It was a tall, dark wood shelf, tucked in a corner of the family room. The top shelves were dotted with his baseball cap collection. When I say collection, I don't mean the man had a bunch of hats that he liked to look at. He wore every single one of those hats, probably in some elaborate rotation that I never thought to ask about, being too young. The lower shelves were crammed with well-worn hardbound books with gold lettered titles, each more inviting than the next. When I was too young to read them, I'd sit on the wooden chair by the bookcase and finger the weathered spines, wondering what lay within. After his death, I chose a book and opened it to find his tightly scribbled notes in the margins. Touching the pages, I felt a certain sense of happiness that at least he and I would always share the love of language.

To my own dad, who often sat in his big chair with a book in his lap. It was comforting to know there was another big reader in the house, someone who understood that when packing for a trip, you need two pair of underwear and three books for each day you'll be gone.

To my dad's sister, who taught elementary language arts and was always ready to talk to me about the books I was reading. I whole-heartedly suggest that parents read what their kids (and teens) are reading because those conversations with my aunt meant the world to me.

To my mom and sister, who may not love reading the way that I do, but never made me feel guilty for loving it so much. I know it is hard to fake enthusiasm for a hobby you do not also enjoy. I often find myself struggling to stay focused when my kids ramble on about something they find desperately interesting, but I just don't understand the draw. My mom and sister never begrudged me the solitude and silence I craved, even though their natures may not have understood the draw that fictional worlds had over me. Thanks for that and so much more.

To my kids, who have learned that mommy can be interrupted while doing many things, but if she has a book in her hand, you'd better be interrupting to say, Mom, my arm fell off.

To my husband, who actually took the kids away for twenty-four hours when the last Harry Potter book was released so that I could read it all before anyone had a chance to spoil the ending for me. Who gives me books for Christmas, even though he thinks that's a lame gift. Who loves me even when I ignore him because I'm involved with other characters somewhere else. If I could write the perfect hero, it'd be you.

I'd leave you all cookies if I thought that could possibly thank you enough for all you've given me.

Love,
S

Pipe dreams and deadlines

2010-12-23T08:18:00.000-05:00

Day 11

Photo by Neil Gould
gallery.gouldnet.net

Let me take you all down the twisted journey that brought me to day eleven's gift suggestion. Today, we give eleven pipers piping.

The pipers made me think of the line in The Night Before Christmas, in which Santa holds a stub of a pipe in his mouth and lets the smoke encircle his head like a wreath.

From there, it was a short jaunt down memory lane. When I was my daughter's age, my best friend's father smoked a pipe. To this day, the only man I know that smokes a pipe (a tobacco pipe - not a . . . um . . . well, any other kind of pipe). I was always intrigued by the paraphernalia (again - tobacco stuff) that went along with it. My friend's dad had this wooden box that held everything he needed. Inside, we'd find bags of loose tobacco, soft cloths for cleaning the outside, a lighter, and fuzzy chenille pipe cleaners for the inside.

My mind drifted again from the pipe cleaners to the dozens of crappy crafts I've made with my kids that involve pipe cleaners. As I write, I can see a dozen pipe cleaner candy canes on my tree. Each one is bent and horribly misshapen because, if you'll remember, my tree fell down in an attempt on my life. I was a little pissy about the whole thing, so I just shoved the stupid pipe cleaner candy canes back on there in whatever shape they were in.

I stewed a little longer about my tree's great betrayal. Eventually, I had to let that go. When I finally did, I found I was left staring morosely at a pipe cleaner candy cane that was strangely bent into the shape of a leaf.

Ah ha!

Newsprint Leaf Garland

I found this amazing garland from West Elm a while back in a magazine. I liked it so much that I found it online and bookmarked it thinking I'd come back and order it in time for the holidays.

That's funny. The idea that I'd remember.

After chuckling to myself for a bit, I realized there is no time to order the overpriced garland made of wire, newspaper, and decoupage glue. BUT! There is still time to make some. Finally, a good use for pipe cleaners!

On day eleven, I suggest you all come to terms with the fact that we are nearly out of time. Head to your local craft store, get out your pipe cleaners, old newspapers or books, and the Elmer's glue and create a literary treasure.

A few suggestions (and a hint - all of these might go over better as gifts if you can convince some children in your life to help you. That way, you can blame them when the crafts come out a little wonky looking):

The garland pictured above. If you need an easier garland, cut out strips from book pages and glue them into the classic paper chain you made when you were in kindergarten. The oldies never die, my friend!

Decoupage torn pages from an old book onto a picture frame, simple bookends, a plain keepsake box or anything else that doesn't move.

Use your cookie cutters to trace shapes onto old newsprint or book pages and on card stock. Cut them out, glue them together, punch a hole at the top, add some string and call it an ornament.

Extra kudos for finding cool words to use on your gift like joy, hope, love, or shenanigans.

Be creative. Rebound Designs takes old hardbound books and turns them into the most fablyous (my son's word. Isn't it spectaclyar?) handbags. Seriously. Check it out.

Sense and Sensibility Book Purse by Rebound Design on Etsy

Bottom line is that we've hit the whole it's the thought that counts time crunch. Thankfully, most readers are just the right kind of sentimental saps that will flip over your heart-made gifts.

Honestly, my undying admiration goes to anyone that finds and uses the word shenanigans in their gift this year.

Gifts from Scratch

2010-12-22T09:16:00.000-05:00

Day 10

Photo by Cecile Graat
http://www.gracedesign.nl

Lords a leaping!

There aren't that many shopping days left until Christmas. This means it's time to dip into our creativity. For day 10, we'll cook up something special to keep those lords a leaping.

I'm partial to reading fiction, so it came as a shock to me when I realized I may not be serving my nonfiction readers well. For me, nonfiction is just too . . . um . . . nonfictiony. Except for cookbooks. I love cookbooks. Cookbooks filled with beautiful pictures of food. I can page through the same cookbook happily for hours.

The only other type of nonfiction I can stomach is memoir. Months ago, I was delighted by a suggestion made by my brother-in-law to read My Life from Scratch by Gesine Bullock Prado. Ms. Prado is Sandra Bullock's sister. For years she worked in Hollywood running her sister's production company, until she realize she was miserable. She left California for Vermont and opened her own bakery there.

Memoir meet cookbook.
A match made in heaven.

My Life from Scratch is a memoir and cookbook all wrapped up in one. Each recipe is gifted to the reader along with a memory that the yummy treat goes hand in hand with. As I read it, I began piecing together in my head my memories with recipes.

Humans are funny creatures for many reasons. One being that so many of our traditions, our rituals, our ups and downs are deeply connected to food.

On Day 10, you could consider purchasing a cookbook as a gift. You may even be able to find My Life from Scratch (I got mine at Better World Books under its old title Confections of a Closet Master Baker).

But, if you find that like me you are a little pressed for time, perhaps you could select a recipe that is just right for the recipient. Hand write it on a notecard. Maybe even bake a batch to give with the recipe. For extra credit, write about the memory connected with your goody on the back of the card. Everyone likes extra credit, right? Oh, just dorky me then.

If you're needing a little inspiration, take a look at Ms. Prado's blog Confections of a Closet Master Baker here on blogspot.

A gift guaranteed to make everyone do a few little leaps.

Leave a comment with some of your favorite recipes and memories. I'd love to hear them.

Let the words dance across the pages

2010-12-21T13:02:00.000-05:00

Day 9

Photo by Adrian Yee

No maids a milking yesterday.

No ladies dancing today.

I might give you ten dudes a leaping, but you'll have to be extra good.

Today, I'm giving you nine good reasons you should give your reader friends a journal.
But, they are readers, not writers, you say. Why do they need a journal?
Didn't I just say I was going to give you nine good reasons?

When I was younger, I religiously kept journals. They were immensely helpful because I had a hard time verbalizing what was going on in my head. Writing it out helped put things in order for me. I've had many kinds of journals over the years, bound with pretty pictures, spiral unlined sketch pads, and those that come with a lock and key for all the truly horrible things in my head.

I don't keep journals anymore. Not the kind you write in everyday, anyway. But I still have them all over the house, in my purse, in the car, at arms reach in case I NEED to write something. The compulsion to journal has decreased as I've allowed myself to write more creatively. That and blogging with all of you gives me a virtual journal space. Aren't you all lucky you get to see the twisted interior of my mind?!

Still, I believe paper journals are important. They give us a physical safe place to keep all the good and the ick that make up our thoughts.

Therefore, I give you skeptics nine reasons every reader (actually every person) should have a journal:

1. You can copy interesting quotes into the journal as you read.

2. Use it as a coaster so the nag in your life (whom you love despite the nagging) doesn't get on your case about putting your hot mug on the wooden table. I mean, seriously, how many times do I have to say that before it will sink into your thick skull. Sheeesh!

3. Write a sentence or two at the end of each day about all the good things that happened.

4. Write a sentence or two at the end of each day with all the crappy things that happened (and who's to blame for them because it certainly isn't you. It is never you).

5. Handy place to keep your "You're going on my sh*$ list" list.

6. Place to doodle absentmindedly when on the receiving end of an extraordinarily tedious phone conversation. Or do it during a face-to-face conversation if you've got the cojones to pull it off.

7. Keep a list of all the adorable things your kids (or husband, or friends, or cat) say. All the things that make you laugh and sometimes cry. All the things you think you'll remember forever, but let's be honest. You don't remember your own last name sometimes, so how are you supposed to remember that your kids coined the phrase, mow-lawner.

8. Nice place to keep your bucket list.

9. Go ahead. Try writing a poem, short story, children's book, or (dare I say it? Oh, yes, I do) begin the next great american novel. It's your journal. Explore.

For those who still feel they need more direction, I'll point you to JenniBick Book Binding. In addition to gorgeous blank journals, Jenni also offers a good selection of themed journals. It's like paint-by-number only for writing. A few examples:

For those tough to shop for teens and tweens.

Music Listography Journal:
Your Life in (Play)lists

Love Listography Journal:
Your Love Life in Lists

Just Between Us:
No Stress, No Rules Journal
for Girls and their Moms

For Moms (or Dads, because I'm not sure why they can't be in charge of keeping the memories too).

Mom's One Line a Day: A Five Year Memory Book (also available in blue)

For the traveler or outdoor enthusiast try the family owned Nomad Adventure Journals. They have journals specific for climbers, travelers, fishers and fly fishers, music/festival lovers, paddlers, campers/backpackers/hikers, and (my favorite) wine tasters. They also have trail journals and blank journals. The journals are small and spiral bound at the top, which is nice for the lefties like my hubby. They also sell some with plastic covers to keep journals safe on those more wet and muddy adventures.

Waterproof Pocket Version

Nomad Journals

Journal in Zipper-Closure Cover

Do cows make wine?

2010-12-20T13:22:00.000-05:00

Day 8

Photo by Gary Scott
www.garyslens.ca

For all my lactose intolerant readers, fear not. I am not gifting eight maids a milking. But, I have been thinking a lot about drinking lately. Drinking heavily. Because it's the holidays and that's what we do, right?

Coffee! Of course I'm talking about coffee.

I can still remember my very first cup of coffee. It was in a small coffee place on Franklin Street in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. It was late one night. I was there (instead of trying to sneak into a frat party) with some other geeks. We were debating, well, to be honest, I don't know because I was kind of fixated on the disgusting frothy brown sludge that had been placed before me. I didn't want to look like the complete idiot I was so I ordered a cappuccino. The girl ordering just before me had ordered one, and I figured my best bet would be to just smile at the waitress and say, "Make that two."

Everyone is sipping their drinks and talking about crap of which I have no concept while I stare miserably at this mug of mud. I was still in high school. I remember the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that whispered to me, "You're soooo not ready for this." I'm not sure if it was talking about the coffee or college. It was probably right on both accounts, because it took a few years (and a few colleges) before my I grew to love both coffee and college classrooms.

Reading with a cup of coffee in hand is a very magical thing for me. Until recently, I thought it was because of the coffee. But thanks to a friend, I now know it has little to do with what I'm drinking and everything to do with the vessel with which I am drinking it from. It has to do with the feel of the mug, warm against my skin. The weight of it in my palm. The sturdiness with which is surrounds its contents.

When I lived in Colorado, I would take the bus to downtown Denver and walk the five blocks to campus, but not before stopping at The Market for a cup of coffee. I'd walk contentedly through snow and freezing rain, cradling my cup of coffee between my thickly mittened hands. The little stream of steam stealing out of the hole in the lid carried with it warmth and the smell of the fresh coffee and a sense of deep satisfaction.

On day eight, you should consider purchasing the perfect vessel for your beloved reader. Be it coffee mug, wine glass, or water bottle, give them something that fits perfectly in their hands and holds within it gallons of satisfaction.

I'm a fan of the travel mug. I'm clumsy. Give me a hot liquid and I will spill it. Everywhere. So, for me, something like this mug from Cafe Press is perfect.

Happiness is . . . Travel Mug

However, I wouldn't turn my nose up at this unique little memo mug from Fishs Eddy. Especially since there is a matching plate that looks like a piece of 3-ring binder paper.

Fishs Eddy Memo Notebook Mug

Fishs Eddy Memo Notebook Tray

If you live in North Carolina, it is worthwhile to find a piece of Berry Towne Crafts handmade ceramics. I purchased one on the same day my friend schooled me on the importance of the vessel. I bought it from a man whose son lives at the O'Berry Center in Goldsboro, North Carolina. At the O'Berry Center, adults with developmental disabilities live and work in a group home setting. They make organic soaps and lotions, ceramic mugs, vases and birdhouses, and various gourmet snack food items.

To find O'Berry pottery, you can visit their log cabin store at the Berry Towne Crafts in Goldsboro. Or contact them at 919-581-4551 or customerservice@berrytowncrafts.com to ask about other retail opportunities.

If you live in Wake Forest, North Carolina, you can find them at The Cotton Company on South White Street.

Berry Towne Crafts Boutique
The Cotton Company

Don't think for a moment that I haven't noticed the irony of suggesting you give a vessel as a gift this season. Isn't that what Mary gave? A very blessed vessel in which to safely carry a glorious gift.

There is no need for eight maidens today.

Just one will do.

Serene memories of books past

2010-12-19T09:21:00.000-05:00

Day 7

Serenity Now!

Photo from Stock Exchange

Take a minute to remember your favorite story from your childhood. Remember what it felt like to fall into that story completely. Or the perfectly pitched sound of a loved one's voice as he reads to you quietly from a book you both love. Remember the relief of stepping out of your own skin and into something else and seeing the world in an entirely different perspective.

Feels good.

Now, give that feeling to a loved one. This takes a little research, a little knowing, a little insight. What special book can bring back for someone you love all those serene feelings of being a child and enjoying a good story? Once you know the title, find the book.

In the spirit of the 12 Days of Christmas, I'm going to give you seven swans today. Seven classic children's stories that include swans. Perhaps hearing some of these old titles, will help you. Perhaps not. But, you have to admit, it is pretty impressive I managed to find seven swans to give you today. Right? Right?

Because these are all classics, they can be found at Better World Books. Or browse the shelves of used book stores and independent booksellers in your area.

1. The Wild Swans (also known as The Swan Princess - but not the corny movie, please not the cartoon movie! Or Barbie, no Barbie versions either!) by Hans Christen Andersen. In this story, a girl has eleven brothers cursed by a witch so that they become huge white swans. She dreams of a way to break the spell and puts herself in peril and pain in order to free her beloved brothers.

2. The Ugly Duckling by Hans Christen Andersen (who really had a thing for swans because they show up in many of his stories). We all remember the story of the little duck who looked so different. All the other ducks teased him until he grew up to be a majestic swan. Then all those pathetic little ducks felt pretty stupid. In your face, stupid ducks!

3. The Trumpet of the Swans by E.B. White. In this story, Louis the swan is born mute. He befriends a nice boy named Sam who helps him learn to read and write. Since the other swans aren't can't read and write, he still can't communicate with them. His father steals a trumpet for him, giving Louis a beautiful voice. Louis feels bad about his father's shameful act. He sets out on an adventure to earn money to pay back the man at the music shop. In the end, he repays his father's debt and is able to woo the swan of his dreams, Serena. Oh, happy days!

4. Newberry Award winning young adult novel, The Summer of the Swans by Betsy Byars. Fourteen-year-old Sarah hates most everything in her life, including the responsibility of helping her mentally challenged younger brother, Charlie. When Charlie disappears one night, Sarah sets out to find him and learns about compassion, friendship and understanding. Grab some tissues. It always gets touchy when fourteen-year-old girls go on journeys of self-discovery.

5. Swan Lake Ballet Theater by Jean Mahoney and illustrated by Ann Seddon. This unique pop-up book folds out into an intricate ballet stage complete with interchangeable scenery, dancers and props. It includes a book with the story from Swan Lake and an audio CD with the music. This one is not yet a classic, but I still found it on Better World Books.

6. Make Way For Ducklings by Robert McCloskey. This classic Caldecott Award winning picture book tells the story of a family of ducks, and Mama duck's determination to see their family all together again. It has inspired a statue in the Boston Public Gardens where the famous Swan Boats reside. And you thought there weren't swans in the story. Gotcha!

7. Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes by Eleanor Coerr. Okay, so a crane is not a swan, but this book is too good to leave off the list because of a technicality. Didn't we learn anything from? This is the true story of a little girl who developed Leukemia from radiation resulting from the atom bomb dropped on Hiroshima. Sadako was terminally ill. According to Japanese legend, if a person folded a thousand origami paper cranes, a wish would be granted. She spent all her time in the hospital folding cranes, desperate to wish herself well again. When she died, she only had 644 completed. Her classmates folded the remaining cranes, and Sadako was buried with one thousand paper cranes. Her story became an inspiration around the world and helped heal the hearts of many.

Seven swans on the seventh day. Enjoy!

Geese are scary. How about a mouse instead?

2010-12-18T10:19:00.000-05:00

Day 6

Geese? Really? What kind of a gift is that?

Photo by Nick Yee

I think geese are scary and perhaps evil. That may be because when I was young, I watched a goose attack my younger cousin. Or, because I've been attacked by a mad goose myself (read about it in Map Girl Gets Lost). To be exact, my truck was attacked. I was in the truck though. Iif that goose had wanted to it could have ripped through the steel body of my truck and beaten me within an inch of my life with its scary goose wings and pointy beak. To prove my point, I will provide illustrations.

This is a gang of geese and they may look sort of cute, but that center one doesn't like the looks of you and he can rile up all the other ones with one loud, "HONK!"

Photo by Lara Sundstrum
www.rgbstock.com/gallery/sundstrom

This guy is cute. I'll admit that.

Photo by Jeff Jones

But he's going to grow up, and when you least expect it he'll show up on your doorstep with a look that very clearly says, "I'm going to tear you in half with one wing tied behind my back."

Photo by Paul Caulfield

All of that to say, I don't like geese, and I don't suggest you give your loved ones six geese a laying (or doing anything else for that matter). Instead, I have a different suggestion.

While I enjoy reading an actual paper and ink book, many people read only via electronic devices. When being honest with myself (and let's face it, that isn't very often), I realize that I do a lot of reading on my computer too. I keep up with other blogs and online writing journals and emails on the computer.

Sometimes when reading, I want to take a note. There begins the fruitless scramble for the handy-dandy notepad. My notepad is always kept in a special place where I can't lose it, which is to say that I have no idea where my notepad is. But if I had one of these from The Writer's Pond:

Paper Mouse Pads

I'd always know that my notepad is right under my computer mouse, at the ready to take note of all the new books I want to read, agents I want to research, or other stray ideas. Pretty freakin' awesome gift! At least it won't threaten your life with its barbaric, "HONK!"

Finally, Jewelry

2010-12-17T08:27:00.000-05:00

Day 5

All that Glitters . . .

Photo by Pramod K Mahanand
pkmahanand.deviantart.com

A few months ago I wrote about a ring that a friend made. The most perfect ring (besides my wedding band and my engagement ring and the ring forged in the fires of Mount Doom . . .) that helped me to break free of a rut. Margin Release. My extraordinary friend made the ring out of a typewriter key. While I believe Margin Release is the very best key on a typewriter, and it belongs to me (I alone possess The Precious), there are many other keys available for turning into wearable reminders of what we love - literature.

My friend has a few (only a precious few) rings left (okay, I swear, no more Lord of the Rings references). If you live in Durham, North Carolina, you can find her at The Goldenbelt on E. Main Street or email her at chaofaite@gmail.com. Her work is top notch and I'm not afraid to admit that I'm slightly (okay, hugely) addicted to it.

Pen Nib Cuff Links at Writer's Pond

You can find other typewriter jewelry at The Writer's Pond. They sell necklaces and pens made with your choice of typewriter letter keys. They also have key chains made from Scrabble tiles and fountain pen tip cuff links. Kinda cool.

Reader's Charm Bracelet
Eat, Sleep, Read Books
by ALikelyStory

Of course, Etsy has some beautiful stuff. Search Literary Jewelry and you'll find more typewriter jewels, a whimsical "Drink Me" bottle necklace for escaping down your own rabbit hole, more Scrabble tiles, quotes from many classic authors, book shaped pendants, charm bracelets and some truly unique literary finds. My heart races when I look at all this beautiful, hand-crafted and very well-versed jewelry.

Literary Classic Pg. 131 Necklace

These necklaces, from underglass, made by binding old snippets of books together are the most creative I found. They are on sale right now - The 12 Days of Christmas sale to be exact. Serendipity? I think, yes. Although, every piece I looked at on Etsy (and there were 550 items) would be perfect for the reader you love.

For the Shakespeare lover, check out Shakespeare's Den and this "To Thine Own Self Be True" necklace.

"To Thine Own Self Be True" Mobius Pendant

In the spirit of Shakespearean asides, I've got a funny one - I get my general blog pictures from Stock Exchange. I love finding the pictures and sharing artists work from around the globe with you all. For today's post, I searched for "gold rings." My search brought up pages of photos of jewelry. And this:

Photo by Rodolfo Clix

Ahhhh . . . glittering gold rings!

Do birds get cold feet?

2010-12-16T11:44:00.000-05:00

Day 4

I always thought the song was Four Calling Birds,
but it is actually Colley Birds, which are blackbirds.
There's your holiday trivia for the day!
Photo by Lena Pautina

Today we're going to continue to make sure our beloved readers are comfy and cozy while they read. Yesterday we warmed their hands and hearts with fingerless gloves. Today we're talking about frozen toes. As I'm still exhausted from my three hour battle with my possessed Christmas tree, I'm going to make this brief.

Frozen toes are bad.

Why not channel Martha Stewart and make your own felted elf slippers? Like these:

Click here for directions to make Martha's felt-tastic slippers

Completely kidding! Unless you want to try it, and then, please take pictures and let me know how that goes for you in the comments section. I am all for making your gifts by hand, but according to some of the comments attached to the instructions, these little babies are not as simple as Martha would like us all to believe.

Instead of performing acupuncture on your own fingertips while sewing Martha's crazy slippers, I suggest you buy toasty-toed slippers for all your reader friends. Like some of these:

Oatmeal Felted Crocheted Ballet Slippers with Recycled Buttons

Pawfelts Felted Woolen Anklet Slipper Socks

And for those with particularly chilly feet, try these microwavable slippers. I think it is amusing and horribly wrong that these are cute little animals that you put in the microwave. Don't let the kids see you or they may have nightmares a la Gremlins (Remember that part? I was afraid of our microwave for a year after watching a Gremlin roast in the microwave).

Polar Bear Microwaveable Slippers

Finally, the slippers that my husband would find funny. Killer Rabbit slippers from Monty Python and The Holy Grail. There's not a whole lot to say about these, as they pretty much speak for themselves.

Run Away!!!!!!

Ooh La La Hens

2010-12-15T20:07:00.000-05:00

I'm so sorry! I meant to get this out earlier. I thought I had posted it earlier. It was written last night. Last night, before the bottom fell out.

To be more precise, before the Christmas tree fell over. Want to know how long it takes for one woman to clean up the mess that an eight foot tree makes when it crashes to the living room floor? Three hours. Three hours to clean up all the water, needles, smashed ornaments and general mess. Doesn't help when the tree keeps trying to kill you by falling on top of you two more times. From midnight until 3AM last night, I fought an epic battle with my tree. I cried. I cursed. I laughed and then cried some more. The tree is standing and completely redecorated, but I just can't trust it anymore and that is slightly heartbreaking.

Needless to say, I've been a little sleepy and fuzzy brained today. Before this day is over, I give you

Day 3

Yes, shoppers day three brings us . . .

Photo by Kym McLeod

. . . more flippin' birds.

Have I mentioned before how much I don't like being cold? Yeah, I thought so. One of the worst things about being a cold (besides that frozen from the inside out feeling) is keeping the fingers warm. Frozen fingers don't work so well. So I tried wearing my gloves all day long. While my hands stayed warm, there were many things I just couldn't do. Things like put in my contacts, answer my iPhone, open the applesauce jar, type with speef and profoxiency.

Very distracting trying to enjoy a book (or write one) when your fingers are too frozen to turn the pages. How can you help make reading the best experience, short of hiring James Earl Jones to sit on the couch and read every word aloud? Fingerless gloves.

Even my husband says that fingerless gloves are all the rage this year.

Let's review that sentence. My husband who gets dressed by grabbing whatever is on top says that these fingerless gloves are very "in" this year. So, it must be true.

In order to find them, I'm going to send you back to Etsy to check out the fabulous-ity that those crazy crafty people have created.

Here's a peek at some of my favorites:

Topiary Recycled Sweater Fingerless Gloves

I can't explain my love for these funky little gloves. Made by a woman who goes by the name coffeejill (we must be long-lost twins) at Barefoot Stitches, these fingerless gloves are made out of a recycled sweater. They are perfect holiday colors and the topiary trees are decorated with hand sewn beadwork. So lovely, so warm, so happy while turning the pages of your favorite book.

Fluffy Fingerless Gloves

My next pick speaks to my love of the color teal. That, and they just look so FLUFFY! They are made by a duo of jewelers who make some pretty amazing rings. Makes sense then that Postgate Fine Jewelers would make gloves that show off the wearer's fingers and all the little baubles on those digits. They are wool and alpaca so you know they are warm and cuddly soft.

Original Wristie on a creepy
hand mannequin

Finally, I want to share this fun find. Here is a company that began with a ten year old girl and her dream to stay out in the snow longer. Wristies began in the Gregorys' living room and grew from there. The idea of curling up with a good book, my Snuggie keeping me warm from head to toe, and fleecy Wristies keeping my hands nice and toasty . . . ahhhhh.

Two Turtle Doves in the Bag

2010-12-14T10:07:00.000-05:00

Photo by Ben Earwicker
Garrison Photography
www.garrisonphoto.org

Day 2

We've established that readers like books. Problem with having lots of books is that you've got, well, lots of books. I don't know if you know this, but lots of books is lots of heaviness to carry around. That's why a book lover is also a tote bag lover.

This is a great gift idea for readers of all ages. I remember when I was little my mom made me a small tote bag out of denim. The front pocket had a cross-stitched picture of a little girl hanging upside down from her knees on a giant letter "S" (my first initial). My favorite part was that the little girl's braids were dangling down and she had the happiest little stitched smile. My mom was super crafty like that. The bag was the perfect size for carrying around the ridiculous number of books I was convinced I needed with me at all times in order to survive.

My own kids have tote bags of their own that we take to the library every other week to check out new books. Theirs are not hand-made with love (Mother-of-the-Year contender I am not). Theirs are reusable grocery totes, but after peeking around on the internet for suggestions for you, dear readers, I think my kids may just get some new hand-made bags themselves. No, I'm not making them, but the lady that made them is someone's mother, so that's got to count for something.

Your first stop for tote bag shopping should be Etsy. Etsy (short e sound), is an online community of craftspeople buying and selling unique and freakishly amazing gift items. The selection of handbags and totes on the site is slightly overwhelming (I cannot tell a lie), but you can customize your search easily and find just what you are looking for. I'll show you just a few of my favorites.

Fold and Tote all folded neatly.

These are the totes ready for books.

Let's just say the birds on the

brown bag are Turtle Doves.

Loving this foldy-uppy thing (not the official item name, but much more fun to say) from Beckasoup. We've all had it happen to us before, right. You are just walking down the street and the next thing you know you have a dozen books in your hands. Maybe you passed a used book store, maybe a yard sale or maybe the book gods were just smiling on you that day and blessed you with immaculate possession of a dozen of your favorite books? Who's to say? Either way, you've got a load a books that need carrying now. What's a bookworm to do? Take out this handy foldy-uppy bag and carry those books in style, my friends.

A Yellow Bird Bag

Or check out this Yellow Bird Bag (on the left - just in case you are color blind or something) from KnottyByNature. Look! More Turtle Doves! There is a 20% discount being offered by this seller until December 24th.

Market Tote - Trees

At S hady Lane Handmade, I found some lovely trees for all our birds to nest in (bag on the right). I'm partial to the corduroy used on this one, but I have a strange tactile disorder that presents itself in rather embarrassing ways. Like the time I was petting a co-worker's shirt sleeve because it was the softest corduroy in the world. I didn't even realize I was doing it until he looked at me with a horribly pained expression that very clearly read, "Never do that again."

I also stumbled across and interesting facet of eBay buying called WorldofGood.com by eBay. On this site, you can browse items and can choose for your purchase to make an impact on People Positive initiatives like preserving traditions and self-empowerment, Eco Positive programs, Animal Friendly services, or supporting a specific cause.

Say I gift this bag here.

Organic Cotton Dahlia Tulip Bag

My gift not only gives my friend a great place to store all those books that spontaneously appeared in her hands, but it helps to support improved nutrition, health care, education and training, as well as creating employment for women in an environment that exceeds the Fair Wage minimum standards.

That's got to make you feel kind of warm and fuzzy. Bet it makes your books extra light too!

If none of this is sparking for you, you can always go with an absolute classic. The Lands' End Canvas Tote, whose only fault is that it lasts abso-freaking-lutely forever, so you never need to buy another tote bag - ever. And while I do LOVE these bags, I can't imagine a world in which I have no more need to buy totes.

12 Days of Christmas

2010-12-13T15:43:00.003-05:00

Photo by Jason M

My husband has been hassling me about what I want for Christmas this year. Honestly, nothing. Christmas, for me, is about watching my kids take mere seconds to rip through what it takes me months to shop, wrap, label, hide and artfully arrange under the tree on Christmas morning. Ah, bliss.

But, hubby won't let it go so I had to think about what I might want to find under the tree (besides world peace wrapped with a bright red bow on the top). But since it is way more fun for me to give than to receive, I turned the whole thing around and ended up coming up with 12 wonderful gifts for all of you to give to the readers in your lives.

Here's how the gift exchange will work. Each day, I'll post a new gift item, complete with web links and pictures and my patented brand of humor. All I ask in return, is that for each of my "gifts" you receive, you pass along my blog to someone you think might enjoy it and ask them to follow me on Google or through an RSS feed or however they'll best remember to keep coming to visit me.

I'd love to see my readership grow. That'd be a nice holiday gift (that is if you don't think you can get the whole world peace thing by the 25th).

With no further ado (I've never said that before. Did I say it right? It's rather silly sounding, isn't it?) . . .

Day 1

Photo by Zach Taylor

(Better known as the Partridge in a Pear Tree, but I did you even better and got you a whole covey of partridges. Aren't they adorable!)

This one should be a no brainer. If you have an avid reader on your gift list this season, you need to buy them something to read.

The problem can be figuring out what they might like to read. The best way to do this is to go to your local independent bookshop and ask the bookseller there. No, Barnes & Nobles and Borders will not do.

The booksellers at indie bookstores make it their business to know what people are reading - and their recommendations are likely to go deeper than the bestseller list. They generally make good recommendations based on books' merits and not their popularity. Also, if they don't have it in stock, indie's are very good about ordering what you need.

If you live in the Raleigh, North Carolina area, you must go to Quail Ridge Books and Music. Those men and women know books. Visit the website and sign up for e-newsletters for adults, children's literature and musical interests, and you'll never wonder what to buy as each of their newsletters feature regular reading suggestions.

If for some god-awful reason you live in a town without an indie bookstore, I suggest you:

1) Move.

2) Check out this new Recomm-engine at She Writes. Just post who you are shopping for and a little about his/her interests and you'll receive suggestions from other avid readers and writers. While you're there, spread the holiday cheer by helping a few people with your own suggestions too (your heart will grow three sizes, guaranteed!).

3) Once you know what you want to buy, visit Better World Books, an online bookseller. At Better World Books, your purchases help worldwide literacy programs and keep gently used books out of the landfills. I've used them many times and have always been extremely happy with their service.

If you're favorite reader uses an e-reader - you're on your own. Not that I have anything against these devices, but I'm of the mind that a gift should consist of more than binary code transmitted through some new-fangled voodoo. There doesn't seem to be anything merry about that.

But, if you must, there is a link on Quail Ridge Books's website about their partnership with Google ebooks. So, again - the indie saves the day!

Fa La La La Forget It

2010-12-06T19:21:00.000-05:00

Photo by Hilde Vanstraelen
www.biewoef.be

Let's just say that my Holiday Spirit has been waning today. It was running high this weekend as we decorated our tree while big fat snow flakes fell in the background, gently covering everything in white. I live in the south. Big fat snow flakes hardly ever fall and if they do, it is even more rare that they stick. The kids spent the next morning playing out in the snow with neighbors for hours until they came in pink cheeked with frozen snot running down to their chins. It was revoltingly adorable. We drank hot chocolate with cinnamon (my fav!) and watched BOTH the Charlie Brown's Christmas movie and Dr. Seuss's How the Grinch Stole Christmas. Perhaps I overdosed on the whole spirit thing over the weekend and that is what made today so very unbearable. Today felt like a big holiday cheer hangover.

Remember the signs I said to watch out for? I've been doing my best to recognize and heed them as they come. That's some hard stuff to do. Just because I'm seeing the stupid signs everywhere now does not mean I have to like what they say. A rather insistent sign is currently telling me to change my exercise routine or my knee will be retiring and relocating itself to some nursing home. Stupid sign. Today began with a poor excuse for a workout, which just made me all kinds of pissy because the freaking signs are trying to tell me that I'm getting older and (gasp) am not in fact invincible.

From this poor beginning, it seemed like every where I went I was faced with people's worst sides. Maybe they were having bad days, too. Maybe all their signs were telling them things they didn't want to hear either. When you pile one person's bad day on top of another though, you just get a mountain of crap. The summit of my mountain hit me late in the afternoon when I decided to go to the post office (because surely one can find Christmas Cheer at the post office in December) to mail an important package to an important little girl.

The package contained 28 letters to Santa Claus. The letters were being sent to a little girl in New York who is collecting them to take to Macy's. Macy's will then donate one dollar for every letter to Santa to the Make a Wish Foundation. This particular little girl collected 1700 letters last year and wanted to reach 3000 this year. This little girl is a rock star in my eyes!

So, I mail my letters and am starting to feel just a tickle of the old holiday spirit playing about my sadly withered heart. As I walk outside, I see a man struggling with an overloaded shopping cart full of packages.

I ask, "Do you need any help?" Because, remember, I'm now in the holiday groove.

"Nope," comes the gruff reply, and I try not to collapse in on myself from the weight of his stony glare.

"Oh," I stammer. "Okay." I practically run to the car thinking, What the hell is that guy's problem. He clearly needed help. Why won't he just let me help him? Why, when I am so clearly bursting with holiday cheer!?!

And then I think, Forget him (except we all know I didn't think the word forget, but I'm trying to be all non-cussy because I have a feeling the F-word might just land me on Santa's naughty list).

So, I am driving home. Despondent. Where has all the joy gone in the world? Why are people such asshats? What am I supposed to fix for dinner? And with each new ponder, my spirit sinks lower. Sitting at the red light (stupid F-ing light - because I'm so low that I don't care which list that fat dude sticks my name on), I watch a big, burly looking man get out of his car, walk to the trunk of the car ahead of him and then run to the driver-side window.

Oh, no! What kind of suckiness is going on here? I wonder.

He knocks on the driver's window and the woman's eyes go wide because she's just waiting at a light and her little kid is in the back and why is there a man knocking on her window?

But then, he smiles. He smiles and holds up something and points toward the trunk of her car.

She looks confused, but that something he's holding makes her get out of the car.

The light is now green, we should all be going.

I watch as he hands her the something and quickly explains it was sitting on the back of her car. She looks at the item and clutches it to her chest. That's when I can see it is a lovey. An old, busted up, broken down, Velveteen Rabbit kind of lovey. Had she kept driving, chances are that lovey would have been lost forever. Had that man just ignored it (much like he was now ignoring the angry honking of others waiting to go), the little kid sitting in the back of that car would have probably had many sleepless nights ahead and perhaps a little psychotherapy in her mid-thirties.

The woman hugs the lovey tighter as she smiles back at the hulking man before her. Then, in a flash, they are both in their cars and they drive away.

Spirit. Just a little goes a very long way.

The Signs We Won't See

2010-12-02T10:55:00.000-05:00

photo by Steve Ford Elliot

Lately, I've been highly distracted. On a recent morning, I somehow managed to mangle both my car and the weather stripping on the side of the garage as I backed down the driveway. Then there was day that I was driving home after dropping the kids off at school and suddenly realized I was almost at my destination, but I couldn't even remember leaving the school parking lot. I'd been on complete auto-pilot. I'm a pretty big menace behind the wheel of a car lately. If you see my mini van coming, I suggest you go the other way.

My point is that if I was paying attention, I would have seen these as signs that I need to quiet my mind a little and focus. I would have weeded out some of the busyness with which I'm currently surrounding myself. That's if I had been paying attention to these signs. I was not, so they just kept coming at me relentlessly. In the end, that's a good thing because, eventually, I may just heed the signs and slow down.

Not to get all M Night Shyamalan-y on you, but the signs are all around us. Sometimes they are mere whispers or gentle nudges. And, sometimes they quite literally come crashing down at our feet. They are persistent and always there whether we choose to notice them or not. Much like the traffic signs that say STOP, but we all know just mean SLOW DOWN IF YOU FEEL LIKE IT.

photo by Gozde Otman
This picture is for my mother, who is
convinced that I will fall off a cliff.

Stop and read the signs around you today. Leave a comment and tell me what you learn or share some of the more important signs from your past.

Today, my signs told me to ignore the boxes sitting in the garage for just a little while and do some writing this morning. I understand those boxes will not sprout little muscled legs and climb the ladder in order to arrange themselves neatly on the high shelves. I just figured that in the big picture, those boxes aren't really hurting anyone by lounging around on the garage floor. Of course if I want to pull the mini van in the garage, that is a different story. Then it is every box for himself!

Move Over Life

2010-11-27T08:55:00.001-05:00

Photo by João Paulo Alves

A month! Over a month, in truth. Oh, this will never do. I must do better in keeping my blog updated. And to think, just before I fell completely silent for a month, I was working on a plan for revamping the old blog (over a year now I've been prattling on and you've been reading - have I told you how much I love you?) and keeping it fresh. The best laid plans of mice and men . . .

So, update time. The writing workshop was great and helped me revitalize my creativity. Since then, I've finished my manuscript and the revisions. I've also sent it to a publisher through a very helpful connection. Next step, get that agent. Which means that I have to seriously write the query letter. Strange that the idea of writing a novel isn't scary, but composing a three paragraph business letter has me frozen in my tracks. That's the goal for this week though.

Writing life is moving along nicely, and strangely enough, it seems my entire life will be moving, too. To Indiana. It's cold in Indiana. I've already picked out my very warm, full-length puffy coat. I don't like cold, which is unfortunate because I'm cold natured and get a chill here in the South when someone turns the ceiling fan to "high". My kids think it is hilarious that I'm going to be the Michelin Mom come next winter. Ah, kids!

Moving means getting the house ready. Which, I've learned, means making it look like paper dolls live here. Nothing out of place, no clutter, no personal touches, all very sterile and perfect and oh-don't-you-want-to-live-here-ish. Hubby has already started the job in Indiana, so I've got to sell this house so we can all be together because let's face it, he doesn't do alone-time so well and I didn't sign up for single parenthood.

My first project was decluttering the downstairs closets. Part of me loves the look of my closets without all the stuff crammed in them. Paper dolls' clothes fit so much more neatly in closets than do those of real people. I walk in the closets and pirouette and think to myself - All this space! Just think what I could fit in here! But then another part of me just wants to wrap myself in all my stuff and stay buried at the bottom of the closet where no one can find me.

Most days now, you'll find me rearranging my home to its paper doll family specifications. Bookshelves cleared of books. Apparently, paper dolls aren't big readers. Rooms rearranged with as little furniture as possible. Sitting creases the paper joints in a most unflattering way. Walls and woodwork freshly painted. Everything in its perfect little place. I always thought I would love to live in perfection, but the closer the place gets, the less like home it really feels.

Sometimes I have to push off the feeling that I might want my new house to be just as clutter free as this paper doll house I'm creating.

But, I remind myself that I want the new place to be a home. That means clutter, and shelves full of my favorite things and toys that sometimes spill out of place and clothes in the closets and life pushing the seams and threatening at every moment to spill out and overtake you. Paper dolls tear too easily for all of that, but not me. Not my family. We're made of heartier stuff.

So what if I can't put a full symphony in my pantry? In my home, I always have plenty of food and love to share. Seems like it makes better sense to keep my shelves full of that which sustains our lives than a symphony string section, no matter how much I love the cello.

Guess This

2010-10-22T09:17:00.000-04:00

photo by Agne Kveselyte

Guess what’s in my inbox? Guess! No, wait! I’ll just tell you. My inbox contains an email from an honest to goodness children’s book author! How cool am I?

At this point most of you are probably thinking, eh, not so cool. My husband seemed less than impressed, especially seeing as his inbox is usually overflowing with hundreds of emails on a daily basis.

“But how many of them are writers?” I ask.

He shrugs and gets back to answering emails.

I am reminded of my youth and the frenzied passing of notes to girl friends in class (math class because like it would matter if I listened or not). So, I’d write, “Guess who spoke to me at my locker just before class? Guess!”

And they’d write, “Who?”

And I’d write back the name of whatever idiot boy we had all convinced ourselves was holier than God himself in a totally sexy kind of way.

They’d respond, “NO WAY!”

“Yes way!” I’d scrawl proudly and slide the note across the aisle.

“WHAT DID HE SAY?” They’d ask. And then the teacher would look our way and we’d hide the note and look all studious and like we understood what she’d been saying (actually, I was the only one that had to pretend, my other girl friends were actually really good in math). So we’d pretend we were listening, but would start daydreaming about fantastically romantic dates with this week’s boy-god. Dates that involve long walks on beaches and beautifully lit fountains and candles and holding hands and throwing our heads back and laughing at how very clever and young and beautiful we are as a couple . . .

And I’d want to write something awesome like, “He says I’m the most amazing girl he knows, and he loves me for my intelligence, not because I developed earlier than the other girls, and he knows thirteen is young, but he’s sure that it is me he wants to marry.”

I’d want to write something awesome like that, but instead, I’d answer honestly, “He wants to borrow my pre-calculus notes.” Which should have been a huge tip off right there because I should have known that any guy stupid enough to borrow my math notes was not the brightest bulb in the chandelier.

So, when my husband finished zinging off five hundred other emails, he took pity on me and asked, “So what does the email say?”

And I wanted to answer something awesome like, “It says that although he’s never heard of me prior to my signing up for his writing workshop, he just knows that I’m a hidden genius in the young adult literature world and he’s just made it his top priority to get my work in the hands of every young person for the next five generations, even though he really should be getting ready to promote his third novel which will be released shortly.”

I wanted to answer something awesome like that, but instead I answered honestly.

“He says, ‘Hello Fellow Writers,’ and tells us where to meet for his class and that we should bring a notebook and pen/pencil.”

To which my dear husband nodded his head and said, “That’s nice.”

Yes, it is. Because I’m the one with a real life children’s book author’s email in my inbox!

King of Guilt

2010-10-20T21:10:00.002-04:00

photo by Jeff Crump

I felt guilty all day yesterday about shirking my blogging responsibilities (a phrase I know is ridiculous in its conception). It doesn’t take much to make me feel guilt. I pretty much walk around in a constant state of contrition. It’s exhausting.

Oddly enough, the guilt I felt about blogging was brought on by guilt I was trying to avoid. I chose to go running instead of write so that I could listen to some new music I had downloaded. Really listen. The idea of lounging on my couch and listening made guilty shivers run up my arms. If I tried to listen while cleaning, I’d be distracted by the multitude of chores, armfuls of misplaced items, entire warrens of dust bunnies burrowing in the corners, and how on earth did someone manage to get oatmeal on the ceiling! Is the music over, already? Running was my only guilt-free option.

So, I ran. And, you know what? It was a great run. The sun was shining brightly, and the cool autumn air hung like spun gold in the tree branches making the just-about-to-turn leaves sparkle. I like sparkly things! It was the greatest run I’ve had since I was in the second grade when I finally beat this girl we all called Goose in the schoolyard dash. When she ran, she leaned forward and stretched her neck out long like a goose about to take flight. I can’t remember her real name, but, man, could she run.

I think the reason the run was amazing was that it wasn’t actually about the exercise, it was all about the music. Each song moved my legs forward without my tired brain willing them. I swear I was running, but it felt more like dancing. Okay, except that once when I stopped running for just a second to do a little hip shimmy thing, but when the music moves you . . . right? The elderly couple walking their dog was kind enough to pretend I was just having a seizure and did I need medical assistance? No, thanks, it has passed. I’ll just run now.

I’m kind of wishing I could have that sort of single-mindedness more often. Like when I’m supposed to be listening to my son explain the intricate details of his new Lego set. Somewhere after hearing about the block that connects to the other block that makes the next block do something, I’m off in my own world wondering what to make for dinner, don’t forget to call the pediatrician, where did I leave that permission slip, and why is it that my left foot is bigger than my right, but my right boob is bigger than the left? Is that for balance? Odd . . . oh, yes, Legos are fascinating. Mommy is definitely listening.

If you were wondering, I do spend a great deal of effort feeling very guilty that I don’t share my son’s zeal for Legos. I can’t even fake it anymore. Bad mommy. Very guilty.

Just think how many things I could accomplish in a day if I was as focused as I was on that run. Normally I’m buried in various thoughts on a run, but I swear I heard only the music. My only thoughts were those of the musicians singing. Eminem (his music is a very guilty pleasure for me) said it was okay to Lose Yourself in the Music. He’s very persuasive. Who am I to argue? Maroon 5 crooned, “I am in misery. There ain’t nobody that can comfort me,” as I headed up a most dreadful hill (yes, with a headwind, there’s always a headwind). I had to laugh because there is nothing misery loves more than company. In the end, as the finish was in sight, Sarah Bareillas offered to hold my martyr’s crown and wondered aloud, “Who died and made you king of anything.”

Yeah, who did die and crown me king of anything? I don’t want to be the king? All that responsibility. Responsibility I’ll never live up to and then feel guilty about. Obligations I can never keep. And don’t get me started on the Jester. I hate clowns.

Without that crown, I felt a lot lighter. I covered the distance from my neighborhood’s entrance to my front porch feeling so free of remorse, free of self-reproach, free to just enjoy the few things I had accomplished and not fret the thousands I may never get to. The next thing I knew I was staring at my front door.

I sat at my computer still free from the weight of my guilt and enjoyed catching up with all the blogs I love to read but have no time for. Next thing I knew I had run out of time to properly write and had to go for the punt. Hold up. Let me go get my crown back.