A Comment on Comments

I've found something else to worry about. (Amazing how that works with us anxious types.) I seem to be worrying about comments. I am not really sure why; I probably should be worrying about more important things like whether those zombies on the Walking Dead are coming up the staircase. I could be worrying about whether or not I am going to have time to get everything done for Christmas. Yet here I am, worrying about comments.

While I generally blog because I want to write, I have found that I love getting comments to my blog posts. When I see that I have a comment, even a single one, I feel that rush of endorphins that signals pleasure. Just knowing that someone out there read what I wrote and cared enough to comment...in the words of several teen girls I know..."SQUEEE!!!"

And I REALLY get all squeal-y when people that I consider awesome writers/bloggers comment favorably on something that I've written. There are some incredibly witty and creative people out there in the blogosphere, and it is exciting when they notice me. Sort of like getting asked to dance by somebody dreamy. Even when there is constructive criticism thrown in there, I still love it.

By the same token, I hate to see a blog without comments. It's like the last puppy in the box that nobody wants because he's a funny color. And since I am one of those "root for the underdog" people, I find myself at least trying to leave a comment. This is not always possible; I read blogs on my phone, and the keyboard is very tiny and sometimes uncooperative. Sometimes I'll tweet the blog post, if it won't let me comment. The important thing is that I do try to acknowledge someone's efforts. I feel obligated to "pay it forward", I guess.

And speaking of paying things forward, I got this wonderful blogging award from none other than SUPAHMAMA over at Domestic Mischief. She hearts me, and I heart her right back!



Other wonderful blogs that I make an extra special effort to read and that I highly recommend are

1. Amazing Australian Adventures This is one of the best travel blogs that I've seen. Red takes her travel seriously and I love seeing Australia(Oz) through her wonderfully descriptive eyes. She takes a mean photo, too! Check out her series on public toilets--it's hilarious as well as educational.

2. Maybe It's Just Me Andrea and I have a tempestuous email relationship going on, formed over our mutual love of her cooking. Well, she cooks and takes pictures of glorious sugar-laden treats, and I drool over them. Sometimes she shares her recipes with me. And she is a pretty awesome photographer too!

3. Four Sea Stars I'm pretty sure that if Lizbeth lived anywhere near me, the world's supply of margarita mix would be in serious jeopardy. I giggle an awful lot when I read her blog. I think I sound girl-ish, but my husband has started calling me Renfield, so I don't know. Lizbeth is being stalked by her mother on the internet(Hi, Lizbeth's mom!), which is as good a reason as any to start drinking before noon.

4. In Whispers and Shouts Betsy lives in Texas somewhere, which is always an excellent character reference. She likes to post recipes of extremely yummy stuff, so it is probably a good thing that she lives far away from me; I'd be at her house all the time, eating. I'd tell people that I was storing fat for the winter.

5. Do Sweat the Small Stuff This lady can write. I love to read her blog because she really knows how to turn a phrase, to set a stage, and bring you with her. I suppose that I should be jealous, and maybe I am, a little, but mostly I'm enthralled.


Now it is your turn! Are there any great blogs that you heart? Please share!

RemembeRED: Christmas Eve 2007

Prompt: Some say a photograph steals the soul. This week, show us yours: take us into the moment that photograph was taken. Show us who you were then and what the photograph means–in 300 words.



It was the first time that Zane had left the house for something other than a doctor visit since his birth, and since he had come home from the NICU. It was also the first time the three of us ever went anywhere not doctor-related as a family. It was Christmas Eve, and we went to my brother's house to celebrate and open presents.

Everyone was just itching to greet the newest member of our clan, and I was doing okay with allowing people to hold Zane without the use of gloves, masks, and hazmat suits. I had a beer and mingled. I was happy to be with my husband and son. I was happy to be out of the house. And yet...

Even though I had every reason in the world not to be depressed on this particular Christmas Eve, I was in a dark place. In my heart each December it is forty below. I am in a frozen cavern beneath a glacier, where everything is encased in ice and the only sound is the ice cracking as the glacier moves. My mental world each winter is a white wilderness, uninhabitable. I tried to fake it that year, and the result was tinged with a bit of hysteria.

I'm sure that no one noticed but me.

The A-List: Current Literary Faves

I read. If I could, I would read most of every day. My entire house would be one big pile of books. Books are really my only vice, after drinking. As I read, I tend to fall in love with the characters; they become old friends to me. I especially enjoy when an author devotes several books to a particular character. I see it as an opportunity to visit an old friend. This is one of the reasons that I loved the Hardy Boys so much when I was a kid. My A-List today, therefore, lists some of my favorite characters from the books I've read recently.

Jack Reacher(Lee Child) I like Jack Reacher for the same reason that I loved Jack Bauer from 24; he gets things done. This character is decisive; a man of action. If he says he will do it, it gets done. Those kind of men don't exist anymore, not in this litigation-happy world, so to find one in a book is a treat. Reacher wanders about, living out of hotels, after he leaves the military. He uses his military training sort of as a mercenary investigator, except that he doesn't look for work. He doesn't look for trouble, but trouble certainly finds him. And when trouble does find Jack Reacher, he is more than happy to smack that trouble silly.

Augustus McCrae(Larry McMurtry) Who wouldn't love Gus? Philosopher, cowboy, lawman, smooth talker, romantic...hard to beat that. Lonesome Dove is such a great story that I've read that book more than any other. The reason is Gus. His relationship with Woodrow Call was certainly an odd pairing, but there was never any doubt that the two were fierce in their friendship. That kind of loyalty is rare these days, but it is admirable.

Stephanie Plum(Janet Evanovich) I actually DO laugh out loud while I am reading about Stephanie; sometimes I am laughing so hard that my husband thinks that I am having a seizure. Stephanie is not a detective. She is a bail bondsman. A bad one. Stephanie only has a job because of her cousin, she has trouble making ends meet, and her cars are continually destroyed. I am not sure if it would be safe to hang around with Stephanie Plum, but I know that it would be hilarious.

Eric Northman(Charlaine Harris) I really don't care for Sookie Stackhouse. She's too whiny and passive for my tastes. However, Eric Northman is another matter. He's smart, devious, decisive, and ruthless. He knows what he wants and he makes every effort to get his way. Yet Eric can be thoughtful and loving, too. He never shies away from a fight or a challenge, but meets it head on. I like that in my novel characters. So while I'm not too keen on Sookie, I read the books for Eric.

Tyrion Lannister (George R.R. Martin) This character is a dwarf. He's a dwarf in a horribly dysfunctional family. He was not supposed to live. Yet Tyrion is a survivor. He is intelligent, he is insightful, and he is witty. He can think on his feet, quickly, even if he's too small to lift a sword. Tyrion manages to keep all the various threads of palace intrigue straight, and he is smart enough to keep his mouth shut.

That's my A-list. Are there any literary characters that catch your fancy? Do tell!

Stupidity

I have a low tolerance for stupidity. Let me just say that right now. Stupid people stretch the very fragile boundaries of my patience. If you ever hear a news story about some middle-aged woman on a rampage of punching people in the face, that will be me and my patience finally running out.

Stupidity is not the same thing as ignorance, however. Ignorance means that you don't know better. Ignorance implies a lack of exposure. If you don't know multiplication, for example, that is ignorance. Ignorance can be cured, or at least accommodated; all that is needed is information and a willingness to learn. I have all the time in the world for people who want to learn.

Stupidity is a choice. In the above example, the person doesn't know multiplication, but decides that they don't want to know multiplication. They come up with excuses why multiplication is not worth knowing. Multiplication is the work of the devil. Multiplication kills puppies. Multiplication leads to people having sex(that one might be true; people don't really need a "reason" to have sex). This person chooses to remain ignorant rather than learn something new about the world and the people in it. That is stupidity.

My low tolerance for stupidity extends to myself. If I don't know about something, I make an effort to find out. It especially bothers me when someone tries to tell me what to think; I have to know why they want me to think that. I will not just blindly follow. I have to know where I am going and why. I just don't like the idea of "not knowing", so I choose to remedy that. This is not always fun, and it sometimes makes people angry, but it is necessary.

Knowledge is power. It's the power to decide for myself, to make my up my own mind. I don't always like what I find out; there is some pretty horrific stuff out there, like multiplication. What I learn sometimes completely changes my view of the world. That is okay. I would rather make up my own mind about the world, and my own decisions.

Snoresville

I love my sleep. It is extremely vital to those around me that I am well-rested, because I tend to be just a bit cranky when I am tired. Like the head spinning scene in The Exorcist cranky. I can survive one night without enough sleep, but after that I become Godzilla rampaging through Tokyo.

Unfortunately, I married a snorer. The man I fell in love with just so happens to sound like an old buzz saw going full bore through a pile of logs at the toothpick factory. Night after night I found myself with a pillow over my head, trying to sleep, while my sweetie snored away. Except when he didn't.

Often the snoring would stop...because Larry stopped breathing. He had apnea. I was in a quandry. Either I didn't sleep because of the snoring, or I didn't sleep because he stopped breathing. Either way was not healthy for our relationship. I asked my husband to go see a doctor, and he tried to make excuses for not going. I've never understood the male reluctance to see a doctor; I was less than sympathetic.

"Go see the damn doctor," I told him. "I am not waking up next to a dead body."

He went. The doctor ordered a sleep study, and Larry complained about all the wires they attached to his head. However, it was found that my husband's breathing was indeed compromised by apnea. The solution turned out to be simple; a fantastic device called a CPAP machine. I call it a miracle worker. It keeps a steady flow of air so that the passages stay clear; no more apnea. Not only do I not have to worry about my husband not breathing, but now he doesn't snore.

My son is four, and he is pretty healthy. Except that he snores. The entire house rattles when he's sleeping. It's just horrible. I know what the problem is in this case. It's his adenoids. I know that we need to see an ENT, and I know that that ENT is going to recommend surgery to remove those offending adenoids. This is routine surgery; it may not even require a hospital stay.

I know all these things, and yet I haven't made the appointment. I'm freaked out about the idea of my boy having surgery. Emotionally, I have panic attacks thinking about my child going under the knife. I just cannot stand the thought of him lying there covered with tubes and wires again, not after all that time in the NICU.

I am disturbed by this disconnect between my intellect and my emotions. Parents have to balance their emotional and intellectual reactions to events that affect their children all the time, and most of the time I have that balance. But not here. My child depends on my ability to make rational decisions regarding his welfare, and I'm failing him with my own fears.

Am I the only parent out there who gets freaked out about this stuff? I don't know. Am I going to suck it up and deal with this? Yes. I don't think that I have a choice.

Red Writing Hood: Roll with the Changes

Prompt: Find the song that will be played during the pivotal scene in the movie based on your magnum opus. With that song playing, write that pivotal scene – it’s your choice whether you write it as a screen play or as it’s played out in your novel. This is a continuation of my dragon story, with the tattoo, and the love interest. I think that I went a tiny bit over 300. Sorry.


I slipped the bartender a twenty when I had arrived, to keep the beers coming instead of questions. I was glad that the bar was quiet and empty for the moment. I was too lost in my thoughts to be on guard, and I didn't need a crowd.

My life seemed to have gone completely offline.

I stared at the tattoo that was now wrapped around my wrist. A red and gold dragon, coiled on the inside of my left wrist, so detailed that the eyes seemed almost to glow. So detailed that all that needlework would have hurt. A lot. Why didn't I remember it?

Andy had been very angry about the tattoo. I would make him look bad, he told me, and would keep him from getting the partnership. Maybe he was right, I thought, and signaled for another beer.

Ever since that gorgeous stranger had kissed me and the tattoo had shown up, things had been different. Nothing in my life was what I wanted anymore, I realized. I didn't want my job and I didn't want Andy. I felt as if I had fallen into an empty grave. I shivered at the image.

The jukebox near the door suddenly began blaring out a song. I turned around, startled.

He stood next to the jukebox, the man of my dreams for the past month. I drank him in, from the black cowboy boots to the smile on his face. That smile told me that anything was possible. My lips tingled, remembering his kiss, my heart coming alive again. He motioned for me to follow, and then stepped outside.

I took a deep breath, blew out the candle of my old life. Then I tossed back the last of my beer, threw some bills and my engagement ring on the bar, and followed that man out the door.

The tattoo on my wrist began to burn.

So if you're tired of the same old story
Oh baby, turn some pages...

A Song Of Thanksgiving

Mamakat's Prompt: Write a poem about something you're thankful for this Thanksgiving. Okay. I'll give it a shot. Nobody said that it has to be a good poem!

I am blessed, and rightly thankful, for the many treasures in my life.
I gather my blessings close to my heart, like little candles, to light my way in the darkness.

The smell of coffee drifting up the stairs, a siren's song
A cat sitting on my pillow, demanding breakfast
The joyful sounds of my son, playing a knight, or a hero
My husband's voice.

A cloud in the shape of an angel's wing high in the morning sky
The surprise of a favorite song playing on the radio
Watching my brother's children grow tall and wise
Sunday dinners with the family.

A cat curled on top of the printer while I type
An ocean full of stars in the night sky
The smile of a sleepy child after a long day
"I love you, Mama".

And waking up to this day, snuggled together, my husband, my son, and I
My heart overflows.

Giving Good Guest

It's that time of the year again...the temperatures drop, the leaves fall, off the trees, and that's how we know. It's Guest season! Yes, indeed, it is that special time of the year, when people who do not actually live in your house show up to eat your food, drink your beer/wine/beverages, steal your comfy chair, and use your bathroom.

I dread it. It horrifies me, the thought of anyone invading my "inner sanctum", mostly because my child has about 4,000 toys strewn all about, including an infinite number of tiny Lego pieces. I can't even contemplate cleaning all that up; it gives me a migraine. I certainly don't want my parents here, because my mother is one of those extreme clean freaks. The sight of my living room would likely cause her to have a conniption. So no people over this Guest Season. I will instead be the Guest.

My parents were serious about their visiting. My brother and I seemed to be constantly dragged to different houses in different places, my mother speaking to us firmly as my father drove. Mostly her lectures referred to what would happen to us if we broke anything, but some tips for being a good Guest seem to have stuck with me. I thought that, on the eve of Guest season, that I would share.

1. If this is your first visit to a house, bring a gift. It doesn't have to be anything extravagant; I usually bring a bottle of moderately priced wine. A friend of mine brings a small framed photograph of flowers. Whatever. A small gift immediately starts your first Guest appearance on a positive note; everyone loves to get presents. There is also the very old tradition that says that if the host accepts a gift, the visitor is under the host's protection for the duration of their visit. That protection may come in handy if you forget that your Aunt Edna's new husband is a rabid member of the NRA and the discussion gets heated.

2. Ask not what your hostess can do for you, ask what you can do for her. Be as agreeable as possible. Don't start telling the cook that she's putting too much oregano in the stuffing. Don't criticize the color palette of the home's decor. Don't park yourself in the host's favorite chair. Don't demand that the hostess rise at 5am to make you coffee. Instead, always try to fit in with the routines of the household. Offer to help with food preparation. Clean up after yourself in the bathroom. If you are an early riser, ask the hostess to show you how to operate the coffee maker and where she keeps the sugar. These may seem like little things, but they go a long way in making your hostess' life easier. This makes it more likely that you will be invited back, which is very important if the hostess makes the best damn poppyseed cake on the planet.

3. Diet is important, but try not to be a jerk about it. If you have dietary restrictions, let the hostess know as soon as you accept the invitation so there is time to adjust the menu. Otherwise, eat what is put on the table. Nothing insults a hostess more than when an invited guest won't eat the food they've spent hours preparing. You do not have to choke down huge helpings of everything, but a tablespoon of corn casserole is not going to hurt you. You might even like some of it, and expand your palate. While it might be part of your weight-loss program, there is absolutely no need to ruin the meal for everyone else by revealing the number of calories in each bite.

4. Send a thank-you note after your visit. NOT an email. Not a phone call. Certainly not a text message. An honest-to-goodness handwritten note, written by you or a family member, thanking the host for inviting you into their home. Describe at least one thing that you enjoyed about your visit, even if it was only the green jello salad with the carrots in it. For those who are challenged by writing, here is a form:

Dear Aunt Edna,

Thank you so much for inviting me to your home for the holidays. I really enjoyed visiting with you and your new husband. Sorry about that bullet hole above the credenza. I particularly liked the corn casserole; perhaps one day you might share the recipe?

Thanks again,

Your niece

Three sentences and you are all done! That minor in English finally paid off.

Did I forget any other tips for being a good guest?

RemembeRED: Waiting for the Believers

Prompt: Where is your quiet place? What does it look like? What happens there?

Source: allanbrucezee.com via Tina on Pinterest

I sometimes find myself in Catholic churches before the other worshipers arrive. This is my quiet place. When there are people in a church, the air vibrates with the intensity of prayer and the energy generated by so many devotional hearts beating. There is no quiet during the Mass; paper rattles, clothing rustles, and children forget to use their inside voices. My mind usually begins darting from noise to noise in an effort to identify them all, and the entire service is over before I realize it.

The second I step over the threshold, I am cocooned in the silence. I calmly sit in a pew near the back, close my eyes and pull the tranquil air into my lungs. There is no hurrying to "get things done". There is no "have to". The stillness is a cat curled around itself, dreaming of simple pleasures, but I am no mouse to be devoured. I breathe in and out as the tension in my shoulders eases and my mind halts the constant hamster wheel race. Sometimes I pray. Sometimes I think. In this quiet place, I can just be.

Be still, and know that I am God.

The A-List: The Smack-worthy

Last Monday I wrote about five famous guys with whom I would like to converse. I really enjoyed that list; it put me in my happy place for a few hours.

Today, however, I am in a crappy mood because I've had the ear worm from hell(Winter Wonderland!) for the last 24 hours. So this Monday I am going to discuss people whom I feel deserve a smack upside the head, because their brains need rebooting. Remember the scene in Moonstruck where Cher smacks Nicolas Cage and tells him to "snap out of it!"? That's what I mean by a smack. I often picture the hand of God dropping down from the heavens to give a smack to people who need it. (including myself sometimes, if I'm being honest) That visualization usually helps me get over my fit of pique. If I actually knew any of these people, I would be a good friend and tell them that they were being ridiculous/annoying/stupid. But this blog post will have to do.

Congress, as a group, makes the list. I am so fracking sick of hearing about how these idiots can't agree on anything. All of them seem to be so entrenched in their childishness and general obstreperousness that not a darn thing is getting done, even though our country is teetering on the edge of financial ruin. I am tired of the whiny-titty-baby routine, and they need to knock it off. The heart of democracy is not demanding that everyone do what YOU want. That is dictatorship. That is tyranny. The heart of democracy is compromise, everyone working TOGETHER. It's going to be hard enough to teach my child to cooperate with others when the idiots in Congress are all over the news having temper tantrums.

Adam Sandler made the list. Just because of his most recent movie,Jack and Jill. Since the movie Some Like It Hot, it has been the lazy screenwriter's habit to have either a guy dress up as a girl or a girl dress up and pretend to be a guy. It has to stop. Plus, it's like Adam Sandler is just phoning it in these days. It's as if he can't be bothered with actual scripts and just makes it up as he goes. I get insulted just thinking about it.

Kim Kardashian needs a smack. Like Paris Hilton, Kim is famous for being famous. That's it. She hasn't done a thing to deserve to be famous except be a circus side show. That's right. I went there. She hasn't invented a cure for cancer, or brokered world peace, or even saved a cat from a burning building. Just like people back in the day would pay good money to see Jo Jo the Dog-Faced Boy, people will pay to see 'famous' people act like idiots. But at least Jo Jo was interesting.

People who sue over stupid stuff deserve a huge smack. Just because the dry cleaners lost a pair of pants is no reason to sue anyone, for example. If they were your only pair of pants and you lost your job as a result of being pants-less, maybe. Why don't these whiners take a little responsibility for their own actions? I realize that this would mean that they would have to admit that they did something dumb, but the first step is to admit that you have a problem, right? A double smack to the lawyers who take these cases. They are taking advantage of the less than smart people who come to them for guidance in order to make a profit.

My husband asked that I put the entire NBA on the list. While players and owners squabble over who gets how many millions of dollars, nobody is paying the people who rely on basketball in order to live. All the ticket takers, the concession stand workers, the waitresses at the sports bars, the guy selling t-shirts, etc., are all out of work. If they haven't found another job, they can't make their rent, feed their children, or anything else. I don't see any lawyers on TV fighting for THOSE people to make money, and they actually need it.

I am already in a better mood, having gotten all that out. Is there anyone out there that you think is smack-worthy? Add them here!

The Best Advice

I was in college. The guy that I had been seeing had just dumped me like yesterday's newspaper. My roommate decided that I needed distracting, so she dragged me to see a cover band playing in one of the many small towns around San Marcos. Cathy figured that loud music and dancing would take my mind off of my heartbreak. She didn't have to remind me that she had a crush on the drummer; anything was better than sitting home alone moping.

We danced in front of the stage all night and generally frolicked. When the everything was over, Cathy and I hung around so she could talk to the drummer. I was left just sort of hanging about near the stage, both for moral support and because Cathy drove. I sat at a table by myself and let myself get down in the dumps about a stupid boy.

It wasn't just about the ego bruise. I had it in my head that I should be married by a certain age. At the time, I think that just about every girl had that same idea. We even made fun of the girls who went to college to get an "MRS" degree; they were only there to snag a husband. We laughed, but there was still that fear, that imaginary deadline. If we weren't married by this age, we were losers and would never marry at all. It was beyond stupid, but it was there. I sat there in the quiet dance hall and felt like a failure.

One of the guitarists suddenly appeared in front of the table where I was sitting. He put his guitar case flat on the table in front of me and began pulling wires and straps off of his guitar. I looked up at him. He was older than his bandmates; with dark hair and blue eyes. He had an enormous black mustache; it seemed to take up the entire middle of his face. He smiled at me as he dismantled his equipment.

And then I just started bawling my fool head off in front of a complete stranger with a guitar.

I hate to cry. I especially hate to cry in front of strangers. I don't know what the heck they do to those actresses in movies who look fresh as a daisy covered in dew when they cry onscreen, but I just look a mess when I cry. My face gets all blotchy, my nose gets red and snotty, and my eyes just swell right up. Yet here I was, horrified, waterworks gushing full time.

"Damn!" the stranger said. "I can't be that ugly!"

This had the intended effect of making me laugh. He handed me an honest-to-god cloth hanky so I could wipe my eyes and nose, and then just stood there wiping down his guitar. I apologized for my outburst, and told him that my boyfriend had dumped me.

"He's an idiot," he said as he laid his guitar into the case. "What are you doing crying over an idiot?"

I laughed; he was right. But what if that was my last chance to be married? What if I was alone for the rest of my life?

The guitarist just shook his head and smiled. I could see that he was trying very hard not to laugh at me. He closed up his guitar case and picked it up, ready to leave.

"Another train comes by every five minutes," he told me before he walked out into the night.

I sat there. That random guy was right. What he said resonated like only the truth can. I got over that guy who dumped me at that very moment, and I stopped worrying so much about whether I was going to get married or not.

I've heard his words said lots of different ways since then. Tomorrow is another day, for example. As one door shuts, another door opens. For every loss, another opportunity. I've said those words to myself many times at the low points in my life since that night, and I am heartened by them. Those words give me hope.

Another train comes by every five minutes. It might not be what you expected, and it may take you in a completely different direction. But the train does come. We just have to be at the station when it does.

Just Let Things Be

I've decided after all these years that I just need to accept that I am a Fixer. Not a Harvey Keitel in Pulp Fiction sort of a Fixer. If you tell me that you have a problem, I immediately want to tell you how to fix that problem. That kind of a Fixer.

Fixing a problem is sort of like breathing to me. It's as if my brain does that Google search thing where it tries to helpfully anticipate and throw in words and phrases based on your history, and an answer spits out before a person has even finished talking. Sometimes just the look on a person's face has me thinking "Dump the bum!" before they even open their mouth! It's like I'm a Dr. Phil-type who has had way too many cups of coffee.

I won't say anything out loud, of course. Not anymore. Although I love to be helpful, I keep my mouth shut tight. It's a well known fact that people don't like being told what to do. It's also a well known fact that nobody likes a know-it-all. But that's not why I keep quiet.

I stay silent because I don't want the responsibility.

Other people's problems can be a social quagmire. If I am correct in my suggestions, then I am the smartest person on the planet, according to the person who requested my advice.

If I am incorrect, which I am more times than I'd like, whatever happened is my fault. Never mind that I specifically mention that I am giving an opinion. Never mind that I tell them to make their own decision. It doesn't matter. If I am wrong, it is my fault, and I am expected to take full responsibility for ruining everything for them.

Seriously? Everyone is so hellbent on not accepting responsibility for any choice they make that nothing gets done. This is not very efficient, people! I can't do everything around here!

My husband is always after me to 'just let things be' and to not worry about other people. I drive him nuts with my 'fix everything NOW' tendencies. I've decided to try it his way. I promised him that I would try to fix my tendency to want to fix everything. My plan is to have a margarita every time the urge to solve anyone else's problems arises. Or a bellini if it is before noon.

It is a sure thing that if I am unconscious, I can let things be.

Red Writing Hood: The Best Ice Cream

Prompt: This week, we’d like you to take us on an actual journey, specifically a road trip? Think about who is in the car. Where are they going and why? What’s on the radio or what are the travelers talking about?


Texas was made for road trips, Katie thought, as she buckled her seat belt and started the engine. The back roads of the state rolled into the horizon, begging to be explored. Katie blew out a sigh, impatient.

The passenger door was suddenly flung open, and Laura threw herself into the car.

"Whoop!" she yelled. Katie rolled her eyes.

"It's like a rule that you can only make that annoying a sound if you went to A&M, which you did not. Now buckle up."

Laura grabbed a duffel from the curb and swung it into the back seat. She closed the door and inserted a cassette into the stereo.

The first rumblings of ZZ Top's La Grange growled in the confines of the vehicle. Katie and Laura rolled down their windows; it wasn't officially a road trip unless the windows were down and ZZ Top was blaring. Katie slid her cheap sunglasses on her face and put the car in gear.

"HEY!!!!" Katie looked over Laura's shoulder to see Cathy standing next to the car, hands on her hips. She turned down the radio, kept her foot on the brake.

"Hey," Katie said, smiling at her roommate.

"Where are y'all going?" Cathy wanted to know.

"We're going to Brenham," Laura danced a little in her seat. "For Blue Bell ice cream."

"That's a three hour trip!" Cathy was incredulous. "Couldn't you just go to the Sac 'n' Pac and buy some?"

Katie looked at Laura. The two looked at Cathy and grinned.

"Nope." Katie said. "We'll see you when we see you."

She pulled away from the curb, and Laura turned up the ZZ Top, and the two girls hollered a goodbye as they left their cares behind.

Mamakat's: Seven Wonders

Mamakat's Prompt: List your life's Seven Wonders. Describe the most amazing 7 things you've seen with your own two eyes. Okay, but it was hard to narrow it down to just seven.

7. The Sacrament of the Last Supper, Salvador Dali

I am not big on Dali's work; it seems to me that he did a few too many drugs. But I was struck by this painting as I walked through the National Gallery of Art in Washington, D.C. There's just something ethereal about it, like you will reach out to touch it and it will disappear like smoke.

Source: en.wikipedia.org via Tina on Pinterest

6. Castle Neuschwanstein

This is the castle that Disney borrowed for his theme park. If I remember correctly, King Ludwig of Bavaria built this. He was crazy(he really was!), but his castle is breathtaking. He built a couple more, including a castle in the middle of a lake, but this is his masterpiece.

Source: en.wikipedia.org via Tina on Pinterest

5. Washington, D.C.

Forget the politics for a moment. The capital of our country IS history. When I lived there, I spent hours of my free time just exploring. Everywhere you turned, a piece of our past was there. I walked out of a training session, and there was Ford's Theater. I got lost one day, and there was the Octagon House. It used to be that you could just walk into the White House during the Christmas holidays; they had an entire room full of gingerbread houses. I hate that some idiots ruined that for all of us. It would have been great to see the look on my son's face when he saw those houses.

Source: google.com via Tina on Pinterest

4. Statue of David

Yes, I actually got to visit Italy and see this gorgeous work of art. And it is truly beautiful. It's bigger than you might think. I mean the statue. Michelangelo must have tapped into the divine that is in all of us when he created this.

Source: google.com via Tina on Pinterest

3. The World Trade Center

My friend won a trip to New York City, and we got to stand pretty close and just look up. And up. And up. I will never forget the sense of awe that I felt that day. It was a symbol way before it was knocked down.

Source: media-1.web.britannica.com via Tina on Pinterest

2. The Basilica of the Immaculate Conception.

My father got his masters degree from Catholic University in Washington, D.C. I went to his graduation, and I got to sit in the cathedral. This is called "America's Catholic Church". Even if you are not the least bit religious, tell me that you wouldn't be awed. I was! And I'm pretty sure that those eyes were following me, too!

Source: nationalshrine.com via Tina on Pinterest

1. And the greatest wonder of all...

My Miracle. He's just plain awesome.

Computer Wisdom

Most of what I know about computers is self-taught. I didn't major in computers or run off to get a piece of paper from Microsoft so I could feel superior to the multitude. I never bought any of the "Dummies" books. Except for the one about wine; but that was extremely important to my well-being at the time.

My computer education has occurred on the job, as I either sit in front of the screen pressing buttons and making threats until the machine does what I want, or I find a manual and reference the information.

Sometimes I shake my laptop as if it were an Etch-a-Sketch. Just kidding.

But I've noticed a couple of things along my path of learning, and I would like to share my wisdom with you. Some of this stuff could probably apply to life as well, but I won't get preachy.

In any office, the one who knows how to clear a paper jam out of the printer is automatically tagged as "tech support" and is the person of first resort any time ANYTHING vaguely resembling a technology device breaks down. Such as the digital clock

If one thing is wrong with a computer that two people use, it is always the other guy's fault. Especially if that person is not in the room. Oh, and that absent person also downloaded porn. And viruses.

If anyone asks, say that you read the manual. If this statement is contested, demand to be shown the page where the information is found. Be as snotty as possible, no matter what. Snotty people almost never get smacked upside the head with the manual.

If your 'ESC' key pops off your keyboard, this is a clear sign that you need a vacation if it happens before noon, or a margarita if it happens after. If the key pops off right at twelve noon on the dot, you can have both.

Technology geeks do not like anyone crying on their equipment. The computer kind, I mean. Not even tears of joy.

Ctrl-Alt-Del is your friend. I don't know what the equivalent of that is for Apple. Ctrl-Apple-?

If all else fails, and you must take your computer down into the bowels of your building to the REAL tech support people, remember that they won't make you fill out a work order if you bring doughnuts. Or a case of Dr. Pepper. Or a year's subscription to Xbox-Live. Cash would likely be acceptable, too.

When in doubt, reboot.

RemebeRED: The Spark

Prompt: Recreate a pivotal conversation with us this week.

"Okay, that's it. You can sit up now."

My Ob-Gyn pulled off his gloves, and I sat up, clutching my paper coverings around me. The nurse was gathering up all of the items that usually accompany my annual exam and placing them in a tray. Dr. S. rolled his chair over to the counter and began writing in my chart. I stared at my bare feet, shivering a little in the chilly office. Though Dr. S. had been my doctor for twenty years, recent visits had been devoid of the usual doctor-patient small talk. He was a reminder, someone who brought everything from 2003 back in horrific detail.

"So when are you planning on getting pregnant?" The doctor interrupted my foot inspection with his comment. He was flipping through the pages on my chart.

I stared at him, the anger that was always just below the surface stirring. Better to be angry than cry, I thought.

"Excuse me?" I asked.

"When are you planning on getting pregnant?" Dr. S. repeated, looking at me expectantly.

"You told me that I could not get pregnant again," My hands clenched into fists and my voice rose, verged on hysterical. "You said that it would kill me if I were to get pregnant again."

"That was two years ago," he said, waving a hand dismissively.

"What the heck is that supposed to mean?" Teeth clenched, I was prepared to punch my own doctor in the face for what appeared to be his insensitivity. It did not bode well for our doctor-patient relationship.

"They've done research, there are new drugs on the market," Dr. S continued, ignoring my belligerence.

"Really?" My voice was laced with sarcasm.

"Start taking an aspirin a day," he smiled. "Blood clots may be the culprit."

"You are telling me that I CAN try to get pregnant again? You're telling me that you've changed your mind?" My anger had drained away, as had the urge to cry. Those emotions were replaced by a little spark.

"Get dressed, and we will talk some more," Dr. S. and the nurse left the room. I sat there, stunned, hugging that spark to my chest as if my life depended on it.


***It would take almost two more years after that day, lots of ups and downs, but that spark is now my son.

The A-List, First Edition

I was reading a blog(currently my favorite pastime), and a blogger posted her list of her 'top five'. These are the five guys that she would have a "free pass" to sleep with, should the unlikely opportunity come along. Whatever. The cool thing about daydreams is that you can imagine speaking, or "whatever", with people you will never meet in person without any fear of restraining orders. I haven't been interested in sleeping with anyone who isn't my husband since I got married, because he's hot. I would be lying if I said that I didn't look, but that is pretty much it for me. So my 'top five' are not guys with whom I would like to have a "free pass".

Most of the time when you see these sorts of lists, it describes a dinner party. I have no wish to poison any of these nice gentlemen with my cooking; I just wouldn't mind having a conversation. This list, then, is actually more of a "famous guys with whom I would be interested in talking with while eating a reasonably priced meal." I say 'talking with', but who am I kidding? I would probably be so very tongue-tied that I would just stare at them and probably even drool a little. I would look as though I was having a petit mal seizure of some sort, I am embarrassed to admit.

Here is my list, and I'd appreciate it if nobody pointed or laughed:

Jon Stewart
Viggo Mortensen
Jensen Ackles
Christian Bale
Nathan Fillion

There's no women on my list, simply because I haven't ever gotten over my general annoyance that most of them have personal trainers and chefs.

Jon Stewart is on there because that man is smart AND witty. Smart AND witty men are just about the rarest and most fascinating creatures on the planet. He is well read, well spoken, and keeps up with current events. All that and he is hilarious. That's like, the total package. I could just sit and listen to him and laugh and maybe ask a few questions right before they brought out the dessert.

Viggo Mortenson made the list because he is a different kind of smart, which fascinates me. He is an artist, and I have always wanted to talk to an actual artist about his creative process in detail. I am sure that my incessant questions would annoy him, because he's mysterious. Mysterious people don't like to talk about why they are mysterious, because it's not very mysterious. I would ask anyway.

Jenson Ackles is on my list because I think he would be the kind of guy I could go hang out with in a bar where we would drink beer and shoot some pool and crack jokes. My husband and I used to do that before we were married, and I enjoyed our dates. These days we don't have the time. The ability to just go cut loose, get drunk, maybe get into a bar brawl(okay, not really. I have this aversion to pain) would be nice. Bonus, Jenson Ackles would be able to front me some bail money if we got arrested for brawling. Which I would never do.

Christian Bale is on the list because he has a really excellent accent; I'd want him to read me a story. Just kidding! Mr. Bale is on my list because he has been the very first person to capture the essence of Batman on screen. Batman is a very dark character, and was not meant to be portrayed frivolously. I understand why Christian Bale does not want to be 'stuck' playing Batman for the rest of his life; the therapy alone would cost millions. But I sure wouldn't mind talking about comic books or movies with him.

Nathan Fillion rounds out my list because, well, wow. His character on Firefly was romantic, brave, and funny, and 'swashbuckling'. Fox was just plain stupid to cancel that show. I only watch Castle because he's on it. His characters kind of remind me of Captain Kirk, and I am not sure that wasn't intentional. Nathan Fillion seems like he would be fun to play on the Xbox with, and he would probably have tons of awesome movies that we could watch, and it would all be very comfortable. I could maybe even wear sweats.

So who would make your "Top Five"?

Random Roundup

No matter how evolved we are as a species, we still exhibit some of the behaviors of animals. We stake out our territory, we mark it, we defend it. This will be important information for people who plan to shop on Black Friday. In fact, I recommend watching nature shows--the ones with the lions hunting gazelles is good--the entire week prior to Black Friday to enhance the experience. Be the lion, not the gazelle, because it's all about the presentation.

***

Zane and his father were shopping recently. At this particular shopping center, there is a three-way stop. Not everyone is clear on the concept of 'stop'. On this occasion, Zane was happy to play traffic cop.

"You wait your turn, cars! Or else you'll make my daddy cranky!"

***

I have been trying to decide whether I should invite my parents and my mother-in-law over for Thanksgiving, or if it would be better for all concerned if I did not. On the one hand, we wouldn't have to travel anywhere. On the other hand, burning the turkey tends to ruin the holiday spirit.

***

I did something that was apparently against the rules the other day, and my son looked at me.

"I'm going to point at you, and then I'm going to call your mom."

I snorted. He doesn't know her phone number.

***

I think that people dismiss Rick Perry at their peril. I don't like the guy, but he is extremely savvy politically. I would not be surprised to read that his screw-up in the debate this week, when he couldn't remember what agencies he would get rid of, was intentional.

***

On the recommendation of Stephen King(his book On Writing has a reading list), I've begun reading Lee Child's Jack Reacher series. They certainly aren't romantic, but the main character is a guy who gets things done. I like that.

***

Speaking again of lions, lionesses do most of the heavy lifting for the pride, while the male just sort of hangs out until the last two minutes of the game. I wonder if the male lions ever ask a lioness to get them a beer. What do you think happened next?

The End of Soccer Mom Season

Today is the last day of my son's soccer season. It's been a huge learning experience for all of us, and I'd like to think that we've all grown a bit. My son seemed to have a great time. My husband learned that he enjoys coaching, something that I already knew.

And what have I learned?

I've learned that three and four-year-olds do not speak the same language as forty-year-old coaches.

I've learned that grapes or oranges make the best half-time snacks. Bring some wipes along. Sticky chins tend to gather grass, dirt, and other odds and ends.

I've learned that the kid who decides to lay down in the middle of the field in a fit of pique will immediately rise up at the mention of snacks. Sort of like Scooby-Doo.

I've learned that not every mother remembers the name of her child's team.

I've learned that if you don't remember the name of your child's team, don't try to fake it. Yelling "Go Cougars!" as the Jaguars run out on the field is not good.

I've learned that all game play stops completely when an airplane flies low over the field. This includes the older kids, and by that I mean the dads.



I've learned that even if there's no official score keeping, there's always someone out there keeping count. At least the goals that my own child made. Three on purpose, three by accident.

I am officially off soccer mom duty, until the spring. Which means that I can sleep late on Saturdays again!!! It may be selfish, but yay me!

It's Wrong No Matter Who Did It

Penn State has been in the news a great deal these days, and rightfully so. The report that a coach of the powerhouse football team sexually molested children is heinous. That there was such a furor over the firing of Joe Paterno is just as horrific. There have been protests over his firing. People are saying that Paterno should not have been fired, that he did what he was supposed to do by reporting what he heard to his boss.

Paterno is a good coach. I will not deny that. He knows football, and he built the team at Penn State into an awesome force in college football. A dynasty.

Don't ever confuse him with a great coach, however.

Sexual abuse is wrong. It's wrong if a family member does it. It's wrong if a priest does it. It's wrong if a group does it. And it is wrong when a coach does it. Just because an abuser looks 'normal' or holds an esteemed position or is revered doesn't make one iota of difference.

When told by a witness that one of his coaches had been molesting a child in the showers at Penn State, a great coach would not have reported the matter to his superiors and then focused his attention elsewhere. Essentially, he did nothing. A great coach would have gone further. A great coach would have reported what he had heard to child protective services. A great coach would have pulled his underling into his office and asked questions. Most importantly, a great coach would have made an effort to find the child. A great coach would have found that child, no matter what, and helped that traumatized victim instead of just telling his boss about it.

Let there be no more equivocation about this: sexual abuse is WRONG. There is absolutely NO justification for sexually abusing children. There is a hideous tendency for people to blame the victim, especially if the abuser is well-known. That MUST stop. Now.

In the movie Unforgiven, Clint Eastwood's character says that by killing a person, you take "all he's got and all he's ever going to have." Children have a right to be children. It's a murder of innocence when a child is sexually abused, and I know that firsthand. That bond of trust with the world is killed, and what is left behind is an empty place inside that can never be filled again. A person who has been sexually abused will never see the world the same again.

Joe Paterno had a chance to be a great man once. He failed, miserably, and he needs to be held accountable for his part. Stop defending him.

Red Writing Hood: The Breakup

Prompt: I challenge you to write a conversation. This is fiction, and it was a bit out of my comfort zone!

He approached my locker when the hallway was congested with students struggling to get to class on time. I turned around, and he was there. Over his shoulder, I could see a group of his friends stationed at a discreet distance. For once.

"Hey," he said. He couldn't quite look me in the eye, but he was trying. He finally turned his head toward the exit at the end of the hall, and gave me peripheral eye contact. He seemed to be rocking side to side as he shuffled his feet.

"What's up?" The door to my locker slammed as I turned around, and I stood there stiffly hugging my books to my chest. We both stared at the exit sign for a couple of seconds, then I lifted my chin and faced his profile. I waited.

"Yeah, well..." he trailed off, head moving toward his shoulder in an eloquent shrug as he stared at the ground.

"Just tell me, David." I rolled my eyes. I shuffled my feet impatiently.

"I don't think we should go out anymore." David clamped his lips together. His jaw worked as though he were chewing the bones of his words. He looked over his shoulder at his friends.

I looked up at the ceiling, chewing my lower lip. I breathed in the stale, funky, hallway air. Then I let it all go in a rush, and shrugged.

"Okay. See you around." I walked quickly away from my locker, listening for the sound of the tardy bell.

The Pen is Mightier

The original picture of the nerd, at least from my wonder years, was of a person surrounded by books and in possession of a pocket full of pens. I am a nerd, old school, and proud of it. My house contains many towers of books and my completely awesome pen collection that no one is allowed to touch. I adore my pens.

When I was in junior high, I spent many blissful hours creating and perfecting my own version of the cursive alphabet, just so my writing would look more visually appealing. I wrote in my journal every night about some cute boy or another. I wrote notes to my friends and letters to my pen pal. I scribbled notes in class, and drew pictures in the margins. All with the magic of a pen flowing effortlessly along the smoothness of the paper. The act of placing a pen to paper to record my thoughts was bliss.

I took a typing class in high school and learned to type on an ACTUAL TYPEWRITER. It was not even electric, because that hadn't been discovered yet. I learned to whack the keys really hard with my fingers in a fast pattern that created words, even if I kept stopping to correct my spelling. The typewriter never took the place of my beloved pens, however. I just could not fit a Smith-Corona into my purse, and the correcting fluid kept leaking out of the bottle. I went back to my pens.

When I was in college, computers were becoming popular. It was all about BASIC, Fortran, and COBOL, which turned out to have nothing to do with Battlestar Galactica. I was intrigued by these new programming languages, and they used the same QWERTY keyboard that I was already used to pecking at. The benefit of the computer was that it sped up the writing; you could churn out a decent research paper in half the time it would take to write it or type it. I do a passable job at using a computer these days.

But though it speeds up the heart rate, and provides hours of cardiovascular support, the 'clack-clackety' of the basic keyboard is rather banal. A computer ultimately does not support my creative process. You can't thoughtfully chew on your keyboard. You can't put your keyboard behind your ear to demonstrate that you are thinking very hard. In case anyone is looking.

My family is pretty tech-savvy, thanks to the efforts of my husband. We have all kinds of tech stuff. At the end of the day, however, when I have an idea or a list or a 'to-do', I reach for a pen. I reach for simplicity. For in the comfort of that tripod grip, of letting my fingers feel the vibrations of the paper as the ink flows over it in the act of creation, I sometimes find the self I want to be.

Wordless Wednesday: The View of the Acorn's World

I have laryngitis from coughing up those lungs last weekend, and I need to rest up. So I bring you a picture I took at the corn maze outside of Hondo, Texas.




This is what a 150 year old Live Oak tree looks like, if you're an acorn that has fallen on the ground. I hope that you enjoy it


Oh, and don't forget about the nationwide test of the emergency broadcasting system tomorrow at 2pm Eastern time. They want to check the system just in case there's a real emergency, like a zombie apocalypse.

RemembeRED: Mistake

Prompt: In the spirit of relationships that we all knew wouldn’t work, we’d like for you to write about one you knew was doomed from the start. It could be yours or a close friend or family member.

It was supposed to be her fairy tale.

Her dream come true, happily ever after, and all those other tall tales that girls grow up hearing.

Cathy and I often joked that if one of us thought the other was making a mistake in our choice of groom, we would slap the bride on her wedding day. Which would be silly, of course. Why wait until then, after all the deposits have become nonrefundable? Besides, walking down the aisle with a red hand print on the cheek would completely ruin the pictures. At least, that is how our discussions played out as we giggled in the darkness of our dorm room.

I couldn't exactly articulate what bothered me when I finally met her fiance'. He seemed too perfect, too polished, too charming. He felt wrong somehow, a mirage. I swallowed my unfocused trepidations; the fact that my 'spidey-sense' was tingling wasn't reason enough to speak up. I wanted my best friend to be happy. She looked deliriously ecstatic to me, and the two of them looked like the perfect storybook couple.

Now here it was, her wedding day.

The bridesmaids had our hair done all poufy, and we were hairpinned to death. We wore the obligatory ugly bridesmaids dress, and tried not to put a run in our hose before the ceremony. I helped Cathy adjust her dress and fussed over her. All the while, a part of me wanted to slap her, because she couldn't see what she was marrying. How could she not see?

My job during the ceremony, as the Maid of Honor, was to adjust the Bride's train, hold the bouquet, and to hang onto the groom's ring until it was required. I wanted to hurl that ring farther than I could possibly throw it, but this was Cathy's day. She had made her choice, and as her friend I had to accept that. So I did.

But when the time came to hand the Groom's ring to her, it leapt right out of my hand, hit the floor and bounced with an audible 'clink' that seemed to reverberate in the quiet church.

Female Compensation--but Not the Good Kind

Women often talk about men who have to compensate for certain shortcomings by being louder or more aggressive. If we see a man in an expensive sports car, for instance, many of us will nod and smirk at each other knowingly. It's one of those things that you're supposed to know, but you aren't supposed to tell anyone that you know.

I have not really heard much about women who behave this way, however. Why is that? Women have shortcomings too! We just don't usually run out and buy a bright red sports car to make ourselves feel better. Women are more subtle. We may buy bigger breasts, but I don't think that those come in neon colors.

Women have all been in situations where we felt less than adequate about ourselves. Moments that put us solidly back in the hallways of high school, when we learned that we were on the bottom of some random social ladder that we didn't even know existed. Nobody wants to be at the bottom of the social ladder; we may not want to be at the top, but we certainly do not want to be looking up at all the others who are higher up than we are.

We all want to belong. In our rush to fit into groups we may compensate. How we compensate varies from woman to woman.

There are women who compensate by hostage taking, cornering the unwary and monopolizing their time with questions and comments. If the victim moves to talk to others, the hostage-taker follows, insinuating themselves into any and all conversations the unlucky hostage may attempt. Some have even followed their hostage to the bathroom, which really is just pitiful. If you're lucky, there may be a window in the bathroom that allows escape. If not, you're stuck with an extra appendage for the evening.

There are the "One-Uppers". No matter what a woman says, they've done one better. If you've climbed Everest, they've skied it. If you've just had an appendectomy, they've performed an emergency tracheotomy--on themselves. With a dull kitchen knife and an eye dropper. One-uppers are obviously trying to make themselves seem more of what they think others want in order to fit in, but they end up just being annoying.

There are the "Anti-Social" types. These are the ones who show up at the party intent on demonstrating how much they don't care about fitting in. They park themselves next to the bar or in a corner and make snide comments under their breath as they glare at everyone. If approached, they will behave in such an irritating manner that they are soon alone again. They don't believe that anyone would willingly be nice to them, so they want to strike the first blow.

Finally, we have what my friend calls the "Chatty McChatsALot". These are women who are constantly talking. They seem to think that if they stop talking, someone will tell them to go away. They talk as if their very life depends on it. It is easy to please this person. on the one hand; all one need do is nod and occasionally a supportive murmur. On the other hand, if a person is wanting stimulating conversation, this woman is certainly not going to provide that.

I confess that I often feel that I do not fit into a group. I am socially awkward; I never know what to say or how to say it. I tend to be a wallflower at most social functions, even when I am the one hosting. I accept this about myself now, but it used to bother me to see so many women who seemed to be perfectly at ease, while I stood there gripping my drink. I know that I felt the need to compensate. I can recall being very chatty at parties, and on occasion I was a bit of a "One-Upper".

At some point, however, we have to stop trying to compensate for who we are, and just relax. Part of growing up is accepting yourself, social awkwardness and all. We do not have to be the perfect woman who fits seamlessly into every social situation. That version of the Brooklyn Bridge, we don't need to buy. Once a woman accepts herself, fits into her own skin, there's no need to fit in anywhere else.

Words With Husbands

Larry and I were heading home from work one day this week. I was driving; Larry had his phone out and was playing Plants vs. Zombies.

"Hey, what's that game on Facebook that you play?" he asked me. I could hear the unmistakable sound of a zombie chewing, so I was unprepared for a question.

"What game?" I was stumped by his lack of specificity*.

"You know, that one?" Larry said. "The friends?"

"Words with Friends?"

"Yeah. I was looking at that."

(Silence)

My husband has a tendency to mentally wander off in the middle of conversations. I waited a few seconds to see if he would get back on track, then I redirected him with a prompt.

"And?"

"I might like to play it."

"Cool."

It was so nice to have a meaningful conversation. Since I am not really competitive, I knew that it was extremely likely that he would win many of the games we played. I did not want him doing a touchdown dance if he won a game. That would be just plain overkill.

Later that evening, Larry fired up his laptop to start a Words with Friends game with me. Zane was in his Robin the Boy Wonder costume and running around the kitchen chasing one of the cats. I was reading blogs. When I am reading something interesting, I am in 'the Zone'. Everything else is tuned out. This is when my husband often chooses to ask me questions.

"How do you play?"

"What are these letters, DL and TW, already on the board?"

"Hey, it's your turn."

"It's your turn now."

"I've been waiting for twenty minutes for you to take your turn!"

I finally played a word, then I went to bed. My game playing is strictly for fun. I've got about five games going with my various relatives and friends, and it can be days before I think up a word. My husband's need for an instant response may crush my groove, however. He will probably wake me up in the middle of the night, laptop in hand, for me to take my turn.

Maybe I should just let him win every game?








*I'll bet that you can't say 'specificity' five times fast!!

Sickliness is the Mother of the Internet

I have been sickly for the past two weeks. It's a random virus that I probably got from my child. I only had a fever for the first couple of days, but now it is all upper respiratory crap. It's annoying, but you really can't justify taking a sick day for it.

I sound awful. I have a terrible, horrible, cough right now. Uncontrollable coughing. Cannot take a breath coughing. I've coughed so hard in the last seven days that I may have inadvertently hacked up a lung. Twice. I've coughed so hard that I have actually tinkled a couple of times, which is extremely embarrassing at IEP meetings. The only positive for my embarrassment is that the meetings seem to go a lot faster.

People tell me that I look awful, too. Isn't that just plain cruel, to tell a poor sick person how terrible they look? I think it's downright mean to kick a woman when she is down! I also think that I should be allowed to punch these people, but they tell me that is not appropriate behavior for an adult.

So I go to my doctor and tell him my tale of woe. Dr. C looks in my ears, listens to my heart and lungs, checks my throat. He then sat back, and put his hand on his chin in a thoughtful manner.

I knew exactly what he was going to say. I'd looked it up on WebMd.

"You've got a cough," he told me.

"You. Are. Kidding." I said, between gulps of air. I was too winded to punch him, but it's the thought that counts, right?

I had wanted some drugs to kill the evil virus, but no such luck. I finally just started using my inhaler, and that seems to have calmed down my fits of coughing for right now. I guess it's a good thing that WebMd didn't tell me that I had the Black Plague.

There are TONS of websites devoted to telling people what horrible sorts of diseases that they have. I am not someone who spends hours on the interwebs, poring obsessively over medical sites while thinking that I have some horrid condition that is going to make all my toes fall off. There are people who do this, however. People who read all the side effects of a new medication and suddenly develop all of those symptoms. People who have more doctors on speed dial than relatives or friends just ain't right. Hypochondriacs.

These people drive me insane. I think that they are the reason that medical care is so expensive these days. They take up the doctor's time with fake illnesses so he can't see other patients. They make it impossible for doctors to take someone like me, with my evil cough, seriously. I could be faking that hacked up lung.

I guess that if it weren't for the hypochondriacs, however, the internet would probably never have taken off so quickly. Things online would be nowhere near as fast if all that was on the computer were Plants vs. Zombies and cute kitties. I should be thanking them instead of knocking them.

Except that I need to go cough up the other lung now.

Red Writing Hood: 8:00 PM

Prompt: This week I want you to take me to your version of 8:00 -AM or PM, fiction or creative nonfiction- in 200 words or less. This is a typical 8:00 PM at my house. I refuse to acknowledge mornings until at least 10:00 AM.


A knight in shining armor races by us, plastic duct-taped sword upraised. He is slaying dragons and saving the world. Behind him lie the remains of all that he has conquered. I laugh; my knight has his armor on backwards! I look over at my husband, who smiles back at me, and closes his laptop. We pull ourselves up from the couch.

My tiny hero gallops by us again, charging into the fray.

"Time for bed," I tell him.

I am Guest Posting!!!

I am so excited!!!



My BBF(Blogging Best Friend--I just made that up), mentor, and all around great person Jillsmo over at Yeah. Good Times. asked me PERSONALLY if I would like to guest post. Okay, she asked the whole internet if they wanted to guest post. But I read that invitation personally. By MYSELF. No cats were involved.

I wrote a true story. And it really DID take me ten years to clean out my closet/purses.

But it's Jillsmo!!! And it is my very first guest post! Did I mention that I am excited? Because I am. Excited. Really! So do I need a special outfit for this event? New shoes?

I will be back tomorrow with your regularly scheduled programming...

Crazy Cat Lady, Junior

They say that any single woman who has more than two cats is a crazy cat lady. I don't know if that is true. I just don't believe that you have to have cats to be crazy. You could be one of those people who has 14,000 porcelain dolls lined up all over the house, for instance, or you might collect life-sized statues of the Virgin Mary. I would consider those preoccupations a bit off, even if cats were not involved. Being in a house full of those dolls or life-sized statues would just give me a serious case of the heebie-jeebies, and that affliction would forever be associated with the owner of said items.

I only had two cats when I met my husband, however. He brought home three more to live with us. So is HE the crazy cat lady? I would like to think that we are both fond of animals, and that we are raising a child who will be fond of animals. I have already braced myself for the idea of finding toads, snakes and other small critters in pockets or other containers and hearing the inevitable "Can I keep him?" I am all set for those kinds of questions, if I am asked.

The other day I heard my son talking in the kitchen. Not unusual--kids play pretend all the time, right? I continued what I was doing, which was reading blogs(very important!). I kept an ear directed Zane's way, in case there was screaming or other emergency parent stuff.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my son walk over to the cat food bowl in the kitchen. He pointed at the bowl, and seemed to be offering instructions on its use. Zane then pointed at the water bowl.

Cool, he's pretending to be a tour guide, I thought.

Zane walked into the living room where I was sitting and pointed at me, still talking. Wait--was I so stationary that my child thought of me as a museum exhibit?

Then I saw the cat. THIS cat, or his twin:


see more Lolcats and funny pictures, and check out our Socially Awkward Penguin lolz!


It seems that my precious four-year-old just randomly opened the back door and invited this cat inside. I don't have any idea why this cat was out in our back yard, but it really didn't matter to Zane. This was his cat now, and here was said cat, looking to me for cheezburgers.

I was proud of myself; I did not yell. I picked up the cat, patted him on the head, and scooted him out the door. I explained to Zane about letting strange kitties into the house and why it wasn't a good idea. We washed our hands, I turned around, and...the cat was inside the house again. Geez. Okay, maybe a little yelling happened then.

Now the cat is parked on our back step, his little face peeping in through the window.

Staring at me.

He's kind of cute.

Ack.

RemembeRED: Special Recipe

Share with me a special recipe, but don’t just list out ingredients.


It was a day for family. The three of us had gathered in the kitchen, Zane and his father leaned over the bright orange pumpkin that had been specially chosen to be the very first family Halloween Jack-O-Lantern. While Zane supervised his father with the sharp and pointy knives, I cleaned up slippery pumpkin seeds for roasting. I had made up my own recipe. Butter, honey, ginger, sugar, and cinnamon mixed together with the seeds, then spread onto a cookie sheet. The kitchen began to smell like cinnamon, and that is a smell I associate with my family. I contentedly listened as my son sang a song about the color 'orange' and my husband painstakingly carved out the face of our Jack-O-Lantern. I began to think about what I could make for Thanksgiving, and how we could all gather again in the kitchen to decorate cookies for Christmas.

"Um, what are you burning?" Larry suddenly interrupted my happy reverie.

"I'm not burning anything!" I frowned at him. Then I looked at the oven, only to see a curl of smoke emanating from the back burner*. Zane sternly lectured me about being careful as I pulled out the smoking cookie sheet, laughing. My husband, also laughing, opened the kitchen windows and turned on the fan. About half of the seeds were burnt, when I was able to survey the damage. The rest were encased in a candy coating very similar to buttered toffee. Delicious. Not exactly what my completely made up recipe intended, but recipes are just a guideline anyway. For me, the day was all about family.

*For the record, this is only the tenth time that I have set my kitchen on fire. Never on purpose, of course! I am just that good.