SuperWriterMom

Friday Moment of Truth

2012-02-10T08:23:00.000-05:00

....and we're back down to where we started. *wipes sweat from brow in relief* For those of you keeping score at home, that means I'm down 2 for the week and down none over all. Except it's a muscular 156. More progress has been made than the scale would indicate because a) I have resisted the Girl Scout Cookies and b) I have now officially put in 2 short runs and 1 long run for 3 almost 4 weeks. Now I need to add some weights and start counting calories. Four pounds in two weeks--can she do it?

How about you? Did you get your exercise in? Watch your calories?

Why I'm Not Scared of 47...

2012-02-06T21:17:00.001-05:00

**Gentlemen, you may want to skip this one. I'm going to mention feminine plumbing products. Consider yourself forewarned.**

I know I ought to be scared of getting older. All those commercials for liposuction, spider vein removal, and botox tell me so. Still, I can't help but think that 47 might actually be fun. As I jogged to the bus stop with one arm under my boobs because I wasn't wearing a bra, I had to muse, "You've coma a long way, baby."

Bras
17-year-old Sally: Ew, gross. I can't go anywhere without a bra. What if someone saw my *whispers* nipples?
27-year-old Sally: You've got to be kidding me?! Where were all these push-up, cleavage enhancing bras when I was in college?
37-year-old Sally: If I leave the sweatshirt on and don't get out of the car at car pool, no one has to know I'm not wearing a bra.

Toilet Paper
17-year-old Sally: Mom! You can't be serious! No way can we buy the family-size toilet paper then go through the check-out line where the cute sack boy works!!
27-year-old Sally: Ooh, if I get the mega pack of toilet paper at Sam's, I can save a ton of money!
37-year-old Sally: Are we out of toilet paper again? I'm going to buy two of the mega packs next time.

Tampons
17-year-old Sally: You want me to put what where?
27-year-old Sally: How did I live without these things?
37-year-old Sally: Wait a minute. I can't remember if I put in a new tampon or not...

Homework
17-year-old Sally: I must do all of it and do it absolutely correctly--even the extra credit.
27-year-old Sally: I think I'd kinda like to go back to school.
37-year-old Sally: Why can't I do 4th grade math? Aw, screw it. A for effort.

Children
17-year-old Sally: Why do people have those things again?
27-year-old Sally: I love this baby boy, and he is perfect.
37-year-old Sally: Can I hold your baby? [Because I'm too declaring Mertau Law on having any more of my own but I love to help other mothers and coo at their babies]

Dancing
17-year-old Sally: I can't dance! What if someone sees me?!
27-year-old Sally: You know, the consumption of alcohol makes this dancing thing fun.
37-year-old Sally: I'll dance whenever I want to, however I want to. I'll dance around a damn pole if I want to.

So, yes, 37-year-old Sally has, for the most part, given up on cosmetics, fixing her hair, or even wearing a bra, but she's a lot more fun than 17-year-old Sally and she's savvier than 27-year-old Sally. It can only get better, right? Right?

Friday Moment of Truth

2012-02-03T21:39:00.000-05:00

One fifty freakin' eight. That means, for those of you playing along at home, that I have actually gained two pounds in the month of January. That brings the number of pounds that need to be lost in the month of February up to 6. Expect a very grumpy Sally. She likes to eat. Her fondness of food might, in fact, explain her current predicament.

Oh, well. Onward and upward.

An Open Letter to Young Ladies Everywhere

2012-02-01T01:10:00.002-05:00

Dear young ladies (and by young I mean pretty much anyone who shops in the PINK section of Victoria's Secret--a generous definition of young for some of us, I know):

We need to talk.

Now that I've reached the advanced age of thirty-mumble-mumble, I feel I understand a few things about life. I don't like to rummage around in the underwear drawers of other women, but this is more about a philosophy of life than a pair of underwear. I know, I know. It's on your butt. You can't see it. Even if you look in a mirror, you're going to have to read it backwards. Call me crazy, but I'm afraid that this saying is going to somehow be absorbed through your booty and make it's way up to your brain. Yeah, I know. I'm paranoid like that.

Just promise me, please, that you will not wear this pair of underwear:

I know what you're thinking. You expected a thong? I'll save my lecture on the hygiene dangers of thongs and why they should only be a "sometimes underwear" for another day. Or maybe you expected a diatribe about why you shouldn't wear "Juicy"? Really. That should be self-explanatory.

Don't ever consider yourself a "Sure Thing." Don't sell yourself short. Make 'em work for it, and never give up an inch of your sexuality you don't want to give. Even if you're feeling particularly generous, think twice because there are some things that, once you have given them up, you simply can't get back.

But what if the underwear isn't talking about that? Even if that is the case, which I doubt since we are talking about a pair of panties for heaven's sake, very few things in life are a "Sure Thing." Be cautiously optimistic and always believe in yourself, but sometimes we need to make mistakes in order to grow and learn. Sometimes we have to be a little uncertain about people or ideas.

Finally, you're asking, Sally, why do you have this pair of underwear if you're going to pontificate on such a trivial subject? Hello? Have you met me? I wasn't paying any attention to what I was doing. I grabbed the proper color to match my sports bra, and I got excited about matching underwear because it's not something that happens that often. I decided to make a sacrifice to have the right color in the right size. Besides, they were all out of "Self-Esteem" and "Complex Middle Ground" underwear.

Go forth, young women. Prove us all wrong when we shake our heads and talk about how youth is wasted on the young. Prove us wrong when we say that the next generation is going to be corrupted by the overt sexuality of the world around us. And when you become the execs in charge of making up sayings for underwear? Just don't.

Love,
Me

The Elvis Diet

2012-01-30T01:02:00.001-05:00

One of my Christmas presents from last year was this lovely mug from my mother:

For my birthday, Janette got me this wine glass:

See a theme? Yep, I like to have my uppers then my downers, and I'm apparently not alone.

Of course, considering what happened to poor Elvis, I probably should re-evaluate this approach to life....

Friday Moment of Truth

2012-01-27T15:57:00.000-05:00

So, I'd like to preface this report by saying, it's my birthday week. On Saturday I went to Gretchen's bachelorette party which included supper at Taco Mac, two of something called a Grateful Dead (blessedly, the name was not prophetic), several others of something else in the VIP room, and a 3:00 AM visit to Waffle House where I did, indeed, order hashbrowns. Monday meant a trip to Otter's Chicken. Tuesday, a delightful lunch at Le Cafe Crepe followed by supper at Longhorn. Then Wednesday came along with supper at Taqueria del Sol and margaritas. Thursday, I was going great up until the slice of cake I had at Joshilyn Jackson's launch party for A Grown Up Kind of Pretty. Today, I had to purge with a trip to Sweet Tomatoes. Still, the damage has been done. I'm up another pound, a grand total of +1.5.

I expected this. Really, I did. That's why I made sure I ran on both Tuesday and Thursday, and I managed to break out the new Wii personal trainer on Wednesday. I'm putting on my real game face after Gretchen's wedding.

How 'bout, y'all? Anybody make some progress on my behalf?

Friday Moment of Truth

2012-01-20T08:10:00.001-05:00

Okay, folks, let's check in...

Friday Moment of Truth

2012-01-13T01:03:00.000-05:00

Let's try something new for 2012. Each Friday, feel free to come here and share your successes, failures, plateaus, and/or righteous indignation at the weight loss process. I will be attempting once again to shed 15 to 20 pounds, to get more running done, to incorporate more strength training, and to track my calories. My starting weight, after a glorious Christmas vacation of eating entirely too much and not moving around anywhere near enough is 156. Obviously, I need a personal trainer and a personal dietitian as well as a personal giver of swift kicks in the pants--mostly the latter.

What about you? Got some goals? Let's get those out, then we need to think about the baby steps in-between so we don't become another New Year's statistic!

Fun with Cemeteries, Part III

2012-01-10T10:22:00.000-05:00

Picture of the Ascension Mausoleum from the Forest Lawn web site. If you want to find out just how many different things you can do at a cemetery visit the home page. Find out about special events, tourist information, educational opportunities, etc.

Time to talk about memorial parks! Break out the noise makers, folks!

So in 1913 a man named Hubert Eaton arrived in Los Angeles and started selling cemetery plots in a place called Forest Lawn, a cemetery that was going nowhere fast. His ideas revolutionized the cemetery movement. I'm going to write loosely about what I found in both The Last Great Necessity and Jessica Mitford's The American Way of Death Revisited. Let's hope I get all of this right...

Part of Eaton's vision was to streamline the entire burial process. Forest Lawn provided flowers, funeral director, cemetery plot, and monuments. He also added a mausoleum. He essentially mandated that all markers be flat ones bought from the memorial park itself. Naturally, monument dealers didn't like being "cut out" of the profits.
Eaton wanted to eliminate all traces of death from the cemetery and added works of art instead. Indeed, Forest Lawn is a tourist destination, which is SO Los Angeles.
And, yes, Virginia, commercialism took root. As Sloane says, "Forest Lawn was formed as the last resort of a failed suburban developer who had first tried to establish a more traditional cemetery." Mitford approaches the subject more cynically pointing out that cemeteries can be established as non profit companies thanks to the charitable intention of those rural cemetery founders from the early 1800s. Also, cemeteries can be put on cheaper land and "house" more people to the acre than a subdivision. Profits were there for the taking for those who knew how to properly take advantage of the situation--and how to structure the company so all of the costs fell under the non profit cemetery and all of the profits magically floated into the pockets of those who bought the cemetery.
Not entirely a new concept, pre-need sales became a foundation of the memorial park cemetery. You don't want to know about the mark up, and you don't want to know what happens to some of the money that's put into a perpetual trust fund. Do know that aggressive sales tactics are often used. Mitford tells the story of a woman who received a "free" plot only to have the sales person perform a bait and switch by telling her the free plot wasn't in a good spot--but she could apply the amount to a better spot! And the most expensive part of a mausoleum? The crypts that are "heart level." And, yes, there are sales people who can tell you that with a straight face while placing a reverent hand over their respective chests.
Forest Lawn was fictionally featured in The Loved One by Evelyn Waugh and also skewered by Aldous Huxley in After Many a Summer Dies the Swan.
As memorial parks swept the nation, cemeteries faced many problems. Americans didn't visit cemeteries as often nor did they participate as much in their upkeep. (Here I would add that I think this trend came later to the South since I have a vivid recollection of Decoration Day, and I have visited MANY a cemetery to find relatives or to pay respects. Also, the church cemeteries of the South often have a church nearby to help fund upkeep. That said, there are many cemeteries that have been forgotten.)

A photo of Evergreen Cemetery in Richmond, VA. Like many neglected cemeteries, this one is an African-American cemetery, a holdover from the days of segregation. Look around church cemeteries in the South and you may see similarly neglected sections on the outskirts. Why can't folks just take care of the whole cemetery? That's another rant for another day.

Most rural cemeteries (Remember: rural cemetery is a type of cemetery, not cemeteries in rural areas per se) hadn't collected enough for perpetual upkeep. People weren't visiting and certainly weren't adding anything extra for upkeep.
While the funeral home business flourished, independent cemeteries struggled to do business in the new twentieth century way. They faced all sorts of obstacles: new regulations and rising costs among the greatest. Sloane points out that "many cemeterians alive in 1950 could remember the days of a simple horse-drawn coach carrying a wooden box and accompanied by a small family group in carriages. Now cemeteries allowed cars to roam the tight roadways, automobile hearses and lines of cars formed the procession, and wooden boxes were for the indigent only."
The contrast between the simplicity of such earlier funerals and the increased pomp and circumstance of mid-twentieth century funerals led to the publication of The American Way of Death by Jessica Mitford and The High Cost of Dying by Ruth Mulvey Harmer.

I'm going to tackle some of the information I learned from Jessica Mitford in some future posts. Prepare to be outraged. Better yet, go check out The American Way of Death and read it for yourself because it is well written, often tongue in cheek funny, and absolutely an important read for anyone who may one day have to go through the funeral process.

Undercover Librarian, Part Deux

2011-12-28T10:37:00.000-05:00

Yes, I have one chapter more in the group novel. This one probably reflects the massive amount of Tess Gerritsen that I read in 2011. It's not as good, mind you, but consider it a loving homage to one of my favorite suspense writers.

Anyhoo, you can find my chapter here. If you'd like to start at the beginning, go here. There are all kinds of $5 Amazon prizes up for grabs, and the odds are in your favor because so many folks are out of town or out of pocket this time of year. There's a grand prize of a $25 Amazon card or a Petit Fours cookbook for one lucky winner who has commented on all of the above.

Did I mention that this group novel is a FREE read?

Undercover Librarian

2011-12-22T08:53:00.000-05:00

Over at the Petit Fours, we like to write group novels from time to time. This year's offering is about a librarian who gets psychic imprints from the books she handles. It's a cozy mystery for those who like whodunnits, and I had the good fortune of writing Chapter 4. You can find it here.

Be sure to stop by and leave comments on all of the days before and, of course, today. Then keep right on going if you'd like to win an Amazon gift card. Well, and you'll win my eternal gratitude if you hop on over and read the chapter I wrote. I had a lot of fun writing that one.

C'mon, Let Us Adore Him

2011-12-19T00:01:00.001-05:00

Each Christmas we discover something new. Considering how many songs are repeated, how many ornaments are the same, and how many traditions are reenacted, finding the new is nothing short of miraculous. This year? We've found the Lou Rawls Christmas album which, I promise you, is unlike any Christmas album you've heard before. Check it out. Put his version of O Come All Ye Faithful into Pandora. You will get into the Christmas spirit.

Also, we have a new Nativity tradition. Ryan and I have always included some interesting characters who've come to see the baby Jesus. Our scene has often looked like this:

This year, however, we've added a second Nativity scene, a creation of Her Majesty:

That's right! We now have a Nativity/Disney debutante ball.

Oh, well. As long as we all remember who's in the center of the scene, I suppose.

Fun with Cemeteries, Part II

2011-12-15T09:53:00.000-05:00

This gorgeous view of Shiloh Military Cemetery came from Wikipedia.
I have at least one relative buried here. Chances are, you do, too.

When last we left the American cemeteries, rural ones were all the rage. Now many of those rural cemeteries are getting overcrowded and facing many of the same problems their urban counterparts did. Where monuments used to be nestled in picturesque landscaping, monuments have now taken over the landscaping. Enter Adolph Strauch. He made plans to transition these cemeteries to more of an organized lawn plan. He placed limitations on marker size and took out many of the trees and shrubs in order to give cemeteries a more open feel.

Aside from the changes to the cemetery landscape, the entire business of death was becoming more commercialized. Here are some interesting points about death and cemeteries from Sloane's book The Last Great Necessity. These have been gleaned from his chapters on the years 1855-1917:

Cemetery management at this time passed from a sexton or a caretaker to a superintendent. Superintendents had more authority than sextons or caretakers, having the ability to limit monument size and alter landscape--this marks a change from when families decided the where, when, and how of burial.
Strauch's changes meant that more and more cemeteries would require horticulturalists and engineers rather than relying on amateurs. (Note from moi: none of these changes necessarily apply to rural church cemeteries. Strauch is writing almost exclusively about larger metropolitan areas at this point.)
"By the end of the 1870s, all cemeteries used annual-care fees, bequests, and perpetual-care payments as means of increasing their income." This change is going to pave the way for cemeteries as businesses run for profit and, of course, the abuses that come from greed.
Did you know that the mechanical lawn mower was patented in England in 1830? You can imagine how much easier that made cemetery maintenance, and it also raised the standards of what was expected from cemeteries.
The movement from rural cemetery to lawn cemetery mirrored the reform movement of the late 1800s when Americans were also trying to put order to the urban explosion of their cities. There was also a generalized movement toward specialization which, in the case of death and dying, meant that "nurses and doctors cared for the living, morticians handled the dead, and cemetery superintendents beautified the grave." Interestingly enough, many immigrants resisted these changes, still feeling that death was to be handled within the family.
The Civil War impacted death and dying in many ways. One, embalming became popular as a way of getting deceased soldiers back to their families. Also, large numbers of dead required national cemeteries, cemeteries that reinforced America's sense of democracy as well as Strauch's vision of an uncluttered landscape by having uniform tombstones in neat rows with little landscape to intercede.
At the same time, urban reforms meant more parks. Understandably, Americans started to frolic in these urban parks rather than in the rural cemeteries they had used before.
And a side note from Jeanne Holder, she came across "tiered lots" whereby Victorians priced lots in a manner similar to which theater seats were sold. The most expensive ones were high on a hill facing east so the deceased would be able to better witness the coming of God. The cheap seats, if you will, were at the bottom of a hill facing west. (Side note: one of the Memorial Parks on Whitlock has almost all of its graves on a hill facing east. Coincidence? I think not.)

And I'm going to stop there. The next section is on the "Professionalism of the Process of Death," which is at the heart of my next novel. We'll spend some quality time there. In the meantime, I'm glossing over a lot of work so if you want to find out more, check out The Last Great Necessity: Cemeteries in American History by David Sloane

Happy Holidays

2011-12-13T08:11:00.000-05:00

I think I've discovered why I have difficulty losing weight and keeping it off:

Fun with Cemeteries, Part I

2011-12-08T16:14:00.001-05:00

I borrowed this picture of Mount Auburn from here. A talented photographer named Svadilfari took it--check out his photostream here.

I feel like a real writer now. I'm querying one book, writing another, and researching a third. I've always loved research, so this is a great deal of fun. Of course, it remains to be seen if anyone other than me finds my current topic as fascinating as I do.

Here are a couple of gems I've gleaned from The Last Great Necessity: Cemeteries in American History by David Charles Sloane:

Early American funerals were communal events. Family members prepared the body, dug the grave, informed the neighbors, put together a small service--the whole bit. At that point clergy usually attended the funeral as a mourner rather than "officiating." Usually, the wake ended up being akin to a big party complete with food, drink, and gossip. (Not all that different from my Southern funeral home experience aside from the drink. Come to think of it, a little nip might have been in order...)
In cities, the deceased were usually buried in a church graveyard or a potter's field. On the frontier, families had to create their own graveyards--usually on a high hill.
In the late 18th century, the old Colonial graveyards fell into disfavor. For one thing, they were becoming overcrowded AND continually being moved as cities grew. Also, people began to fear that diseases from the dead. Finally, there were vandalism and upkeep issues--two things that plague cemeteries today.
Because these in-town graveyards were falling out of favor, the rural cemetery, a pastoral place on the outskirts of town, was born. Mount Auburn Cemetery (estb. 1831) was "on strikingly beautiful terrain...[and] promised to provide a pleasant botanical tour, a local and national historical museum, and an arboretum, all on grounds that provided space for the burial of generations of area residents." (If you haven't been there, it's quite lovely)
Mount Auburn, the first of its kind was a pattern for several national cemeteries including Oakland in Atlanta. (I haven't been, and they have walking tours! Field trip, anyone?)

Photo of Oakland taken from their official site

Part of this change in burying habits seeped into the nomenclature itself. The word cemetery comes from the Greek for "sleeping chamber." As Sloane says, "rural cemeteries were different than previous burial places, and their founders believed that they deserved a distinct name. Cemetery contained the suggestion of death as sleep, a transition from life to eternal life, which was more in keeping with America's emerging optimistic religion and exuberant nationalism."
The best part? These rural cemeteries were incredibly popular. People gathered there not just for graveside services or for quietly remembering the dead but also for relaxing, taking a walk, family gatherings, and just about everything else. After all, these rural cemeteries were some of the first "planned landscapes" open to the public.
These first cemeteries were a place to remember community and to BE a community. As Sloane says so eloquently, "the rural cemetery became the American resting place for the living as well as the dead."

Stay tuned for part two in the evolution of American cemeteries...

The Myth of the Glamorous Writer

2011-12-05T18:53:00.000-05:00

Most people think writers look like this

But, in my experience, on any given day, a writer actually looks like this

And Now the Purple Dusk of Twilight Time...

2011-10-24T08:45:00.000-04:00

Oh, I am wading into dangerous waters. On my fourth attempt, I am actually reading Twilight. Instead of reading the whole thing and leaving a conventional review, I thought I'd post my comments as I went along. This particular post will refer to pages 1-57. First and foremost I had trouble getting into this book for a lot of reasons:

1. I taught high school for 8 years. If Bella Swan had been in my class I would have wanted to smack her for her snotty attitude and for constantly hiding behind her hair. And what's with the melodrama of "my exile to Forks"?
2. As a writer I'm righteously indignant that Stephanie Meyers got to keep her vague Prologue. You know, the one they tell all the rest of us to cut out?
3. There's a lot of emphasis on that truck of hers. Then here comes the hero with a last name of Cullen. You know what that means....I'm trying to read this book and all I can hear in my head is

And that, combined with Bella's original disdain for said truck then reminds me of this updated gem from my high school days....

Okay, so once I got past the truck thing and the whiny teenager thing, I had to get real. One of my friends asked me if this was going to be a "love post" or a "barf post;" so far, I stick with my answer that it's more of an "I'm bemused by this entire phenomenon" post. A couple of things actually kept me reading. First, Bella's description of the biology room really took me back to my own biology class. Second, she dislikes math and can't play volleyball without getting injured--I can't either, so I decided to stick with her just a little longer. Third, as a writer I have to admit Meyers has asked some questions I want to answer. No, I'm not talking about how vampires sparkle, either.

So, sure, Bella's melodramatic. And, sure, Edward Cullen is no Angel, but I'll stick with it just a little longer. If I can just get those damned truck commercials out of my head!

Dream Interpretation Time!

2011-10-12T08:28:00.000-04:00

All last weekend I kept having these dreams where things would start to go my way then inexplicably go sour. Inevitably, I would wake up in the middle of the night feeling restless. One dream in particular stuck with me because I was in the middle of it when the alarm went off. Okay, amateur--or professional--dream interpreters, see if you can help me figure out what my subconscious is all about.

Ryan comes home excited about this great deal he's seen on a new house. (And this is partially how you know this is a dream because Ryan does not want to move. And neither do I) I reluctantly agree to go with him to check out this gem of a house on the other side of Kennesaw. We wind through town to the countryside (further proof this is a dream) to find a cute little ranch on a ton of acreage. We park in the looped driveway and enter the open house.

Okay, so there's a bathtub in the living room. Yes, a bathtub. Then the kitchen is tiny, but that's because there are two of them, almost identical galleys with the oven opening into the same space the refrigerator would open into. At the point the agent points out that the house belonged to twins so there had to be two of everything. I look at her like she has lost her mind.

As I walk through the house it becomes exponentially larger, kinda like the fourth Harry Potter where they walk into the tent and there's all that space. I start seeing possibilities and thinking that it's a real steal for $130,000. I keep thinking we could flip this place and make a ton of cash, and in the meantime, the kids would be able to have a playroom. I'm walking through and count at least 6 huge bedrooms, all with king-sized beds. No space is wasted--one of the bedrooms is up at the top of the stairs underneath the eave of the house with a bathroom on one side and a twin bed on the other. Remember this tiny space with the toilet at the top of the stairs because we'll come back to it later.

I'm practically sold on the place and already thinking of knocking down the wall between the twin kitchens to make one larger one and, of course, taking the tub out of the living room when the agent takes me down to the basement. It's huge! And finished! And they're installing hardwood floors in the three massive ballrooms down there. Then she takes me through the secret passage (too much Clue?) to the optometrist's office at the bottom of the cliff. Apparently, one of the twins had married an optometrist, and he preferred to walk through the earth's core to get to work. I don't know.

So, I'm getting totally enthusiastic about the house. I don't know where Ryan is. I think he must have dropped me off. Then I go back upstairs and step out on the back porch, which is huge with columns and overlooks the ocean. I'm sold at that point, and I'm going to get that house no matter what. Because, hey, let's fact it: there aren't that many ocean view homes in landlocked Kennesaw, GA. I turn to the agent and say, we'll take it.

And that's when things start falling apart.

First, a cop comes in to give me a parking ticket. For parking in what will soon be my own driveway. I argue with him until he sees how inane the whole thing is, and he goes away.

Then, once the house is mine (because the closing process in dreams is apparently light years quicker than in real life) the son of the former owner busts in with a gun wanting money. I someone console and cajole him out of actually robbing us but tell him he can have the proceeds of our next rummage sale, including what he would make from selling the extra tub. (Apparently, I really wanted to get that tub out of the living room)

Then I'm walking outside, taking in the sea breeze when the ocean starts encroaching on my beautiful neoclassical portico. Even though the house was originally on a cliff. The water is coming and sharks with arrows poking in their backs start circling over to the side even as water laps across the porch. I run for the house, but I had accidentally left the windows open, and the sharks come in with the water. Then I run upstairs for the tiny bedroom/bathroom thinking the sharks can't climb the stairs. And so sharks can't, but wolves can, and the sharks are turning into wolves. Blessedly the pink decor behind the toilet has suddenly become a wall of a hundred different guns. I take one down and start shooting, but I run out of bullets as the last wolf approaches, and he morphs into a man, a man who looks an awful lot like The Comedian, from the Watchmen graphic novel. He's coming for me. But I'm out of bullets. I'm backed into the toilet with the fuzzy cover.....

And the alarm goes off.

Someone please explain this to me. This can't possibly be a normal dream. This one is almost as bad as the Heavenly Hash dream from back in the day.

Possible Dance Songs

2011-09-23T10:23:00.001-04:00

I love to dance. Around my house where no one can see me. Because I'm all alone, that means I have no clue what's popular in the clubs. Here's your chance to help me out. Take a look at my list and make suggestions to add or take away. Keep in mind that this is for the M&M conference, so we have a wide range of age groups and a variety of tastes. I gotta try to keep it pretty clean. If you have request, please let me know why it should be added or why it should be taken away. Oh, and heaven help the poor DJ who will be weaving these songs together!

Dances with instructions (for the uncoordinated--like me!)

Electric Slide

Cupid shuffle

Cha cha slide

Ymca

Macarena

(No. I'm not doing the Chicken dance. Sorry.)

50s/60s

The Twist

Dancing in the Street

Shout

Land of 1000 Dances

Mustang Sally

70s

We are Family

Last Dance—Donna Summer

YMCA

Get Down tonight or That’s the Way (I Like it)

Brick House

Shake your Groove Thing

ABC

Dancing Queen

It’s Raining Men

80s

Venus

Girls Just Wanna Have Fun

Bust a Move

My Prerogative

Nasty

Call Me

Hey Micky

Celebration

Conga

Walk this Way

I’m so Excited

Push it

You Spin me Round (Like a Record)

Love Shack

Into the Groove

90s

Vogue

Groove is in the Heart

Unbelievable

Good Vibrations

Jump Around

Jump

Gonna Make you Sweat (Everybody Dance Now)

Like a Prayer

Baby Got Back

Today

Fly like a G-6

Independent Women

I Gotta Feelin

Single Ladies

Bad Romance

Low

Yeah!

So What

Tik Tok

Pokerface

Til the World Ends or I Wanna Go from Britney

Empire State of Mind

Friends in Low Places—token country song (I know, I know. “I feel no shame, I was born and raised in the Boondocks” but that’s not the kind of dancing we’re going to be doing here)

Again, Let me Reiterate, I'm not Dead Yet!

2011-09-16T09:01:00.000-04:00

So about that whole New Year's Resolution to have a blog post every week....

Well, I'm in the last two weeks before Moonlight & Magnolias, and this is my last run-through as conference co-chair. I'll be revisiting that commitment and hopefully doing a better job. Honestly, the kids alone provide me with PLENTY of material. I have a story jotted down on the back of an envelope somewhere to remind me to write a post about how my 9-year-old was throwing around the word "simpatico."

In the meantime, here are a few of my greatest hits from Petit Fours and Hot Tamales and The Healthy Writer:

Her Majesty's Christmas List
Getting my OM on
My First Day of School All Over Again
I Got Ripped
Adventures in Attempted Productivity
Er, Don't Take my Breath Away?
Just a Space Cadet from the Writer's Block
Back to School....Already?

A Tale of Twenty Trash Cans

2011-08-01T11:27:00.001-04:00

So, really there are only four, but here's a story that falls under the category of "stuff I can't make up--and I'm a writer."

I don't know about you, but I've been through about as many sanitation companies as mortgage companies. My business keeps getting sold to another company--whether I like it or not. Let's see if you can keep up. I started with Sanitech, and we had a lovely relationship for several years. Then they were bought out by Waste Industries, a company who doesn't like to answer their phones. Finally, I switched to Liberty because they would do recycling AND give a kickback to my son's school. I was quite pleased with them, only to have them bought out by American Disposal.

Then, one day, a gentleman from CycleWorks shows up and offers to give me the same service for $22 less. I said sure. Of course, then I had to go through the hassle of canceling with American. (In their defense, they were very nice on the phone.) Keep in mind that I have had these four trash cans on my front porch for a month now because I went to Hawaii and didn't have time to cancel one before the other started.

Here's where things get fun: on THE day I finally cancel American, yet ANOTHER sanitation person shows up on my doorstop. She shows up at suppertime, so picture me at the door still holding a head of romaine lettuce that I was in the process of washing. She looks at the four trash cans and then to me. "Uh, you seem to have a little trash problem here." I think she lit up with the possibility that I had some type of home business that created tons of trash. Maybe she could sell me a double contract!

Then SHE offers me a contract for even $10 less than CycleWorks. I took her card and thanked her, though, because I haven't even received a bill from my current company yet. Besides, her company? Waste Industries.

Apparently, Kilpatrick trash is such valuable trash that people are fighting over it. Some companies even miss it. Any hope I could get a few maid services to fight over cleaning my house?

The Death of Feminism?

2011-07-20T11:14:00.003-04:00

Her Majesty likes to disappear.

I usually start looking in all of the places she shouldn’t be, and I almost always find her in front of my make up drawer. This morning, she has slipped away and I find her poised in front of the open drawer running her fingers against the end of a large brush.

“What are you doing?” I know the answer, but for some reason motherhood requires I ask the question anyway.

“Making my eyes pretty,” she says with a grin.

I put her glasses back on and pick her up to better examine her eyes. “But your eyes are already pretty. You don’t need make up.” I twirl her for good measure and place her back on the floor.

She points proudly to her left eye. “But this one is prettier because I put the pink stuff on it. I like the pink stuff.”

I sigh. “I know you like the pink stuff, but are you supposed to be in my make up?”

“No.”

I usher her out of the bathroom, through the bedroom and into the hall where she turns to look at me. “You forgot to put your make up on!”

“Maybe I don’t want to put on make up.”

“Why?”

“Maybe make up is based on the needs of a now defunct patriarchal society but advertized as a necessity in order to drive up sales for a product I don’t really need.”

She considers this for a minute. “But it would make you prettier. Maybe if you added a little lipstick…”

And it’s moments like these where, for just a moment, I think I’m having a conversation with my mother instead of my daughter.

4 Reasons Why You Should Sign up for M&M 2011 Right Now!

2011-07-14T16:08:00.001-04:00

1. Our Keynote speaker is Eloisa James. She's a NYT Bestseller 12 times over and a USA Today Bestseller 16 times over. She also graduated from Harvard, which I think is pretty darn cool. If you haven't read any of her work, you can also get a copy of Duchess in Love for $1.99 in e-book format. Click here to learn more.

2. Our GRW Featured Speaker is Karen White, also a NYT Bestseller. In fact, she has a book out right now, The Beach Trees. She has another book, The House on Tradd Street, which I think is really cool--especially now that I've been on Tradd Street.

3. Our Special Craft Speaker is Leigh Michaels. She's written over 100 different books, including Just One Season which was just compared to Jane Austen. Find out more here. She also has a book on the craft of writing romance called On Writing Romance.

4. We could run out of space this year. Yes, that's right. Registration is hopping along. Hotel rooms at the discounted rate are almost gone. Pretty soon we're going to have to take the fire code into consideration. People, you want to be here to hear these 3 talented ladies in addition to all of our other awesome workshop presenters and the opportunity to pitch to some of the best editors and agents in the business. If you don't believe me check out the workshop schedule and the editors and agents who will be here this year.

Register fast! And make those hotel reservations even faster!

We can't wait to see you at M&M this year!

P.S. Whatever you do, don't click on the next post.
P.P.S. Okay, so go ahead and click on the next post. It's funny. My daughter did that. I'm a writer, and I can't make this stuff up.

Caption Contest!

2011-07-13T19:45:00.000-04:00

I can't resist. Take a look at what I stumbled upon in Her Majesty's doll house and feel free to whip up a caption. Try to keep it at least a little PC! (Winner gets...uh, bragging rights or possibly a beer if we run into each other in the next year or so)

I Came. I Saw. I Waxed.

2011-07-11T19:52:00.001-04:00

All women of child-bearing age know that nothing good ever comes of being led to a small room with a paper-covered tabled and being told, “Strip from the waist down.”

Okay, so that’s no entirely true, but I have to say that waxing is not for the faint of heart. Instead, it’s about weighing your options: a) using a razor and/or cream and having horrible razor burn for 2-3 days only to have to repeat the process in less than 5, or b) experiencing several flashes of debilitating pain for just under 30 minutes with only 1 day of razor burn and at least 2 weeks of not having to shave the bikini area. I got about a week on the underarms and legs—that’s it. (Of course, there’s always option c: go hairy and dare someone to make something of it. I have seriously considered this option on more than one occasion)

But you wanted to know more of the gritty details, didn’t you?

I went Brazilian Wax by Andreia, the location just off Roswell Road by the Harry’s. They are lovely ladies, and it was all very professional. You can get a whole body wax for $65 or so. That doesn’t mean they dip you in wax, rather that you can wax as much as you’d like. I passed on the upper lip since I had more pressing concerns.

Would I do it again? I can’t afford to go once a month, which is what she recommended for maintenance. That said, I would absolutely consider another visit before a long trip that would require swim suits. Thirty minutes of pain far outweighs the hassle of having to shave or the subsequent razor burn. Surprisingly, only a few curse words were involved, although I did call for help from a higher power more than once.

A few things I wish I’d known:

You are expected to leave a tip. Duh. I did leave a tip, but I hadn't budgeted for it.
When she suggests the back of the legs, you should probably go for that.
And this one's really important: a Brazilian is the whole enchilada. You can instruct your aesthetician to do something a little different, but if you ask for a Brazilian, you need you know what you’re getting yourself into.

I lived to tell the tale—anyone swayed to give it a try?

To Wax or Not to wax...And We're Not Talking Floors

2011-06-06T09:43:00.000-04:00

Ladies....well, and qualified gentlemen, I have a question. Should I wax pertinent areas before heading to Hawaii? Please keep in mind that having my eyebrows done with thread brought tears to my eyes. Anyhoo, I hate shaving, but I think every day in Hawaii is bathing suit day, and I don't want to have to deal with it. What are your thoughts? Underarms? Bikini? Legs? All of the above? None of the above? I don't even know how much this costs, recovery time, how long it lasts, etc. Basically I am an uneducated soul and could use your advice.

I'll go ahead and say thank you in advance....oh, and I'll probably end up blogging about it if I get it done.

Her Majesty and the Royal Wedding

2011-04-29T07:53:00.001-04:00

So, I had no intention of watching the Royal Wedding.

Once upon a time, I was involuntarily roused at o'dark thirty to see the wedding of Prince Charles and Lady Di. I also saw Andrew and Fergie's wedding. In the interest of curtailing divorce among the Royals, I felt it would be best if I left William and Kate alone. To tell you the truth, I had forgotten all about it.

Her Majesty requested one of her favorite programs, The Cat in the Hat Knows a Lot about That, or as she likes to say, The Hat in the Cat. I dutifully turned to PBS only to discover they were covering the Royal Wedding--I'm guessing it was a replay. Her Majesty says, "What's that?"

"The Royal Wedding. Do you want to go back to the Disney Channel?"

"No! I want The Hat in the Cat!"

I bite my tongue to keep from commenting on how that arrangement must be painful for the cat. "Sweetie, they've pre-empted the cartoons to cover the Royal Wedding."

"But why?"

"Because there are a lot of people who want to see it."

"But why?"

"Know how we don't have kings and queens in the United States?"

"Uh-huh."

"Great Britain still has a king and a queen, and one of the princes is getting married. People see it as a sort of fairy tale. Kinda like watching Ariel's wedding to Prince Eric or Tiana's wedding to Prince Naveen."

"I'd rather see The Hat in the Cat."

"Your dissent is duly noted. How about Little Einsteins instead?"

No answer. Only an impressive royal pout. Apparently, the only Royal Wedding that's going to matter to Her Majesty will be her own.

The Hobbit Joins our Absurdist Musical

2011-04-15T07:36:00.000-04:00

This morning I decided to take The Hobbit to school because he needed to take an AR Test. I knew he was feeling feisty because he threatened me with a banana saying, "It's loaded, and I know how to use it...okay, not really. I don't know how to fire a banana." I gave him my patented Mom-has-not-had-coffee-yet look, and he beat a hasty retreat to the car.

We hadn't even reached the end of the subdivision before he decided to go all philosophical on me asking, "Which do you like better, original Tron or Tron Legacy?" To my credit, I actually tried to think about his question. But I failed. So I gave him the answer for every question at that point of the morning: Coffee.

Immediately, my nine-year-old started singing a song to the tune of Ernie's "Rubber Duckie;"

Mommy's coffee, you're the one. You make Mommy lots of fun. Mommy's coffee, I'm awfully fond of you....boo boop be doo..."

Coffee or no, I had to smile at that. I may even start singing it--once I've finally had that cup of coffee.

The Apocalypse is Nigh, or What Happened as I Put the Dawdlekids to Bed

2011-04-01T21:21:00.003-04:00

I should have known I was in for an interesting evening when brother and sister hunched around the trash can to peel their clementines together. While humming Stars and Stripes Forever at the top of their respective lungs. Another clue I was currently residing in an alternate universe centered on how Her Majesty has been singing a variety of songs to the tune of the Peaches and Herb classic: Shake Your Groove Thing. We started with “It’s April Fool’s Day, April Fool’s Day…yeah,yeah” and progressed to “I am awesome, I am awesome..yeah, yeah” to “Take my shoes off, take my shoes off…yeah,yeah.” It is possible I have exposed my children to entirely too much disco. I blame Pandora.

Anyhoo, the littlest one took her turn at Just Dance and went to the bathroom willingly only to request a “manzana” immediately after her bath. How better to stall a former Spanish teacher than to demonstrate you’ve learned a new word in Spanish? I, of course, caved and let her have an apple. The Hobbit fixed his own cereal then went to the bathroom with considerably more prodding. He, of course, had to see a man about a horse. Why equine negotiations can’t take place at another time of day, I don’t know. I suppose I could scout out the stables to see if the deal was legit, but I really didn’t want to. By the time he emerged, I was trying to dry Her Majesty’s hair. At this point, he had to poke his little sister until she giggled causing her to move around and making it very hard to dry her hair. Even better, the two of them started singing her rendition of You are My Sunshine. You know, the one that includes the verse “you smack me happy when skies are gray.” Much playful smacking ensued.

I threatened him to within an inch of his life and he jumped in the shower, but I still had to brush Her Majesty’s teeth. While I wrestled with the toothpaste cap, she flung back the shower curtain to hear her brother squeal like a girl. At some point anti-Justin Bieber sentiment was also expressed. Why that came up in the bathroom, I’ll never know.

Now, here’s the kicker: before she went to bed, Her Majesty WILLINGLY started picking up toys without being asked. Again, it’s really late and she needs to be in bed, but what am I supposed to say? Quit cleaning your room? I think not. I have prayed for this day. I had not, however, prayed she would be singing Rick Astley as she cleaned. (If you haven’t seen Beaker as Rick Astley, you really must) Just as I get her settled into bed, the Hobbit emerges wearing nothing but a towel and shouting “To-ga party! To-ga! To-ga! To-ga!” I have to chase him from the room amidst Her Majesty’s giggles. In retrospect, I probably should have at least paused to complement him on his creative over-the-shoulder fastening of said toga/towel, but I guess I’m just not a good mother.

By that point, I knew I needed to write all of this down so I came in and started to type. I realized it was quiet. Too quiet. I went to turn off The Hobbit’s light, and he asks oh-so politely, “Can I please finish the last chapter?” Foiled again! Not only am I sucker for reading, but he’s reading a classic—The Time Machine—and he knows I know he needs to take more AR tests at school. So here I am typing while he is finishing his chapter. Here I go to hopefully put the last Dawdlekid to bed….

And, miraculously, he has finished the book and is ready for bed. It’s 9:08, at least 30 minutes later than when the two of them should be in bed. If anyone had told me having children would be, at times, akin to living in an episode of The Muppet Show, I would have laughed in her face. But I would have been wrong.

And if you think this is some kind of elaborate April Fool’s joke, you, too, are wrong. I’m a writer, and I can’t make this sh*t up.

And She Turned into Her Mother...

2011-02-23T09:56:00.000-05:00

Anybody else see the skit where Julia Sweeney is getting ready to go out and starts lapsing into her mother? I was hoping to be ultra cool and put a video of the skit here, but it's not on YouTube. I'm going to stop and let that sink in for a moment. Yep, I'm so old I'm referencing a 1992 SNL skit that is NOT on You Tube.

Anyhoo, the episode includes Sweeney lapsing into a voice reminiscent of "Pat" about needing "a nice pant suit." Her husband looks at her askance, and they play the dramatic music followed by, "And she turned into her mother..."

Earlier this week, I was trying to psyche myself up to clean the house. I actually changed into workout clothes and stopped to put on my tennis shoes. I paused at the foot of the bed and muttered to myself, "And she turned into her mother!"

Oh well, if I had to turn into someone else, I think I would pick her.

The Cereal Bar Standoff

2011-01-27T09:51:00.000-05:00

I often thank the good Lord He saw fit to have me teach for a while before I had children. Believe it or not, teenagers and toddlers are not that different. For that matter, teenagers and four-year-olds are not that different, either. Who knew those eight years of figuring out who was chewing gum, who had the cell phone that was ringing, and who actually threw the paper wad would all pay off some day?

Her Majesty doesn't like breakfast, an it is a struggle to get her to eat anything other than Cheeze-its or, say, a bowl of shredded cheddar. This morning I fixed chocolate milk and handed her a cereal bar. She gamely ate two thirds of the cereal bar and drank about three quarters of the milk before trying to hand both back to me. I said, "You need to finish your breakfast. Then I'll get you some blueberries."

Normally the promise of blueberries would inspire great feats like lifting one end of an Escalade, but today? Nothing. I walked over to the chair and saw that she had neither cereal bar nor milk. My eyes shifted to the breakfast room table where the sippy cup of milk sat across from the trash can. My eyes narrowed.

"Lorelai, did you put your cereal bar in the trash can?"

[In the distance a lonely western whistle. Tumbleweeds float across the living room behind me.]

She cocked her head to one side. "Did you SEE the cereal bar in the trash can?"

My eyebrows leaped up to my hair line because I no longer had to see to believe. "Did. You. Put. Your. Cereal bar. In. The. Trash. Can?"

Her eyes shifted to the left. "Yes."

I blow away the figurative smoke from my figuratively smoking six shooter and break out the standard mom lectures on the importance of a) not lying to/misleading your mother and b) eating breakfast. Today I won the showdown of truth and cereal bars.

But tomorrow I may not be so lucky.

Her Majesty: The Musical

2011-01-20T12:25:00.000-05:00

So, yesterday afternoon was fun. Her Majesty decided to sing all of her responses between one and three. It started in the potty. (italics indicate song)

Me: You okay in there?

Her Majesty: Yes, but I have to poooottt-ttteeeee.

Me: You gonna let me know when you’re done? (A question I asked because there was a plunger in that bathroom. And I was deeply concerned.)

Her Majesty: I am done, I am done, but now I have to wiiiiiiipe my bot….tom.

Me: O….kay

Her Majesty: I have wiped my booty-booty, and I now I MUST…..wash my hands, wash my hands, wash my hands.

Then, she started singing about snack time:

Me: Okay, little lady, what do you want for your snack?

Her Majesty: (in an almost Figaro-like melody) Blueberries, blueberries, blue…ber….RIES!!!!

And then as she played with her new Princess Leia doll:

Her Majesty: Now you need your man look, your man look, your man look. Then you’ll wear that girl look, that girl look, or THAT….girl….look.

(And for those of you wondering, Leia’s “man look” is the sweat suit looking outfit she wears on Hoth in The Empire Strikes Back. The “girl look” includes any and everything from the infamous bikini to one of her other dresses.)

A Typical Kilpatrick Sunday

2011-01-09T18:00:00.000-05:00

Things get tense in the Kilpatrick house when The Hobbit is signed up for sports.

First, he inherited absolutely no athletic ability from his mother. Second, his introverted nature is such that his natural inclination is to shy away from large groups of people, a tendency that does not bode well for sports like soccer and basketball. In the meantime, Ryan and I have to wrestle with Her Majesty who can't understand why the spotlight isn't on her. Today's refrain was, "I'm hungry. Why can't I have a snack?" No matter how many times I pointed out to her that only the athletes had snacks, she persisted in her need for a Capri Sun and some Cheeze-its.

So, while Ryan clutched the Flip and I wrestled with Her Majesty, Connor sat out the first part of the game. Then the second. Finally, as the opposing team put their first string back in, he got to enter the game. As the only guy among girls. Suffice to say, he didn't have a great first basketball practice/game. On the way home, a general discussion about his surly attitude led to a discussion of gratitude.

Me: You've got to start focusing on what you have instead of what you don't have.

The Hobbit: (with curled lip) What does that have to do with anything?

Me: [insert typical mother's rant here about children who don't have food, clothing or shelter much less enough toys for a small specialty shop] So, you can see you have a lot to be grateful for. There are a lot of children in this country who are going hungry tonight.

Her Majesty: Like me!

Me: (under my breath): Help me, Jesus.

Her Majesty: Oh, He will. I'll make Him help you!

And, thanks to the littlest one, the tension evaporated into laughter. Now all are fed and sassy, and I'm left to contemplate how Her Majesty got a direct line to the Big Guy.

Well, and to wonder what possessed me to sign the oldest child up for basketball.

Resolutions for the New Year

2011-01-04T11:00:00.000-05:00

Actually, I've decided against resolutions. The word is so unyielding and unforgiving. Resolute. It's the kind of word that makes you feel as though you might as well give up on your best intentions if you mess up even in the slightest way.

So, I have goals for 2011. One of my goals is to add a new post to my blog at least once a week. Another is to join Weight Watchers and to get my self straightened out. Still another is to revise Beulah and submit to a minimum of 50 editors/agents as well as writing a new entry for this year--already halfway plotted. Of course, there are home goals, too. Some of those goals revolve around keeping the house cleaner. Others revolve around being a better wife and mother.

So, what about you? Any goals for 2011?

Christmas Songs to Avoid

2010-12-20T21:36:00.000-05:00

You know, there are some Christmas songs I just can't abide. Hopefully, that doesn't make me a Scrooge, but you know there are a few that you turn off as quickly as they come on the radio. Here are my top 3 Christmas songs to avoid:

3. "Do you Hear What I Hear?" I'm with the song until we get to the part where "a child, a child..shivers in the cold...let us bring him silver and gold..." How about a blanket? Not only does the tune irritate me, but the lyrics--both the repetition of them and the stupidity of that line in particular make me cringe.

2. "The Christmas Shoes" Good heavens, this song is depressing. The only reason it's not number one is that I'll at least give them a little credit for the redemption of the narrator of the song. Still, grungy boy buying shoes for his dying mama on Christmas Eve? That makes the middle part of It's a Wonderful Life look cheerful.

1. "Same Old Lang Syne" Please explain to me the popularity of this song. Let's run into an old lover who's NOT married happily and have a six pack of beer in a parking lot on Christmas Eve. Ugh. Way to bring down my Christmas cheer, Dan Fogelberg. Pandora, don't you even think about throwing that one in with all of my Big Band/New Orleans Christmas music!

So, what about you? Any songs you'd like to ban? Oh, and be sure to tune in tomorrow for my faves.

This Week's Reason my House Isn't Clean: Haint Misbehavin'

2010-12-15T18:45:00.002-05:00

Okay, so actually this is last week's reason my house isn't clean, but I'm always happy to share books that reel me in and distract me from cleaning. (See my last entry on The Front Porch Prophet, another excellent book.)

I just finished Haint Misbehavin' by Maureen Hardegree, a YA novel from Bell Bridge books. Have a teen or tween who's interested in what might happen if a girl inherited a ghost along with her menstrual cycle? This is the book for you. Like a good read about a middle child who can't seem to get anything right? This book might be better than therapy--and it would definitely be cheaper.

Hardegree has an easy to like protagonist, Heather, and she captures the awkwardness of being a teenager so well, I winced a few times in memory. My favorite part of the story, though, revolves around the ghost herself. At first, Heather can't figure out why Amy, the ghost, is hanging around. Over the course of the novel, though, she grows up enough to focus more on helping Amy than on the pain Amy's drama causes her--and that part of the mystery is so much fun to unravel.

Hardegree also leaves the book open for potential future stories, and I really love the two male characters: the dreamy lifeguard Heather lusts after and the loyal geek who lusts after her. I left the book wanting Xavier to have his day, but I'll just have to wait until Book 2 in the Ghost Handler series to see if he has any luck.

If you, a teen, or a tween are looking for a good read, be sure to check out Haint Misbehavin'. Oh, and as always, you have my leave to ignore dusting, dishes, and laundry to just enjoy.

She-Ra

2010-11-18T17:16:00.000-05:00

Today's selection of child entertainment is She-Ra. I've learned a few things from watching this show so many years after I watched it as a child:

1. Girl Power still rocks!
2. 80s cartoons required weird characters to undercut any possible serious undertones.
3. The toys are still cool.
4. The entrance music isn't as offensive as I thought it would be. Here, take a look for yourself:
She-Ra opening theme

What about you? Any particular cartoons or toys that you want to make a point of sharing with your kids?

Her Majesty's Treatise on Bears

2010-11-17T14:55:00.000-05:00

This all started with the song Lorelai was singing on the way home from preschool, a song in a Native American tongue that I have yet to identify. I swear I have to start tape recording these car conversations:

Lorelai sings her song

[pause]

Lorelai: I’m so hungry I could eat a bear.

Mom: You need to be careful because the bear might eat you.

Lorelai: Do you want to eat a bear?

Mom: No, they’re probably tough and all gristle.

Lorelai: Indians ate the whole bear and the gristly skin.

Mom: Yes, Indians believed in using every part of any animal that they caught.

[pause]

Lorelai: But you can’t eat bears.

Mom: That’s right

Lorelai: Because they will eat you.

Mom: They might. It’d be a good idea to stay out of any bear’s way.

[pause]

Lorelai: And bears will scratch you with their sharp fingernails.

Mom: Claws?

Lorelai: Yes, bears have sharp claws, and they will scratch you. Or eat you. Or maybe scratch you.

[pause]

Lorelai: Some bears are mean.

Mom: Just some bears?

Lorelai: [deliberates] No, all bears are mean.

Mom: Okay, all bears are mean.

Lorelai: Except gummy bears. Gummy bears are nice.

Mom: Okay, all bears are mean except Gummy bears.

Lorelai: Some bears live in the jungle.

Mom: Do all bears live in the jungle?

Lorelai: Noooooo! Yes, all bears live in the jungle.

Mom: What about polar bears?

Lorelai: [decides to ignore that exception to her blanket proclamation] But bears will eat you if you try to eat them first!

Mom: [Noncommittal agreement noise]

Lorelai: Can we go to Chick-fil-a?

The Front Porch Prophet, or This Week's Reason My House Isn't Clean

2010-11-16T15:43:00.000-05:00

I've noticed an interesting trend: every time I get close to getting the house under control, a book grabs my interest to the point that I sit, read, and ignore the filth. Therefore, I will start a new award for the book of the week that distracts me the best.

Last week, the "offending" book was The Front Porch Prophet by Raymond Atkins. I took a class with Ray while getting my masters and greatly enjoyed the novel he was workshoping: Camp Redemption. It came as no surprise that The Front Porch Prophet was just as enjoyable if not more so. So here's the premise: A.J. Longstreet struggles to take care of his childhood friend, Eugene Purdue, after Eugene reveals he is dying of pancreatic cancer. I know this premise does not sound funny, but I promise you I laughed out loud more times than you can count. In the great southern tradition, The Front Porch Prophet finds humor and poignancy in the vicissitudes of life and the odd assortment of characters that endure them. Atkins tells the story with all of the wonderfully entertaining digressions one would expect from a Front Porch Prophet, and the story contains several surprises I wouldn't dream of revealing here. This is southern fiction at its best.

So, ignore the dishes in the sink and laundry on the couch. I personally give you permission to sit and read The Front Porch Prophet because it will be good for your soul. I promise, the mess isn't going anywhere

Monday's moment of truth...and a story!

2010-11-15T13:06:00.000-05:00

So today I weigh 154 pounds. I'm still trying to figure this one out because I had lost a pound as of Friday, a hard fought victory. Two meals out in Knoxville--one of them a salad--and I'm up 2 pounds? Grr. To make matters more embarrassing, you gotta hear what happened yesterday.

Okay, so I have two pair of jeans that mostly fit, and now both of them are tight. When we got home from the road, I draped the jeans over the side of the hamper and found a pair of pajama pants to wear until it was time to meet the girls for a dinner out. I had put my driver's license and credit cards in the back pocket, so when I put the jeans back on to go out, I didn't think to get my purse or anything. Everything was in my back pocket, right? Wrong.

After supper, I reach back for my credit cards, and I don't have them. I had to bum money off a friend as well as contemplate a hundred different scenarios of stopping both credit cards and going to the DMV for a new license. I rushed home and there were the credit cards in the hamper where they had slid out of my pocket when I draped the jeans over the side of the hamper.

And the moral of the story? If I hadn't allowed my weight to get out of hand, I would not have felt the need to take off my pants and thus would not have been embarrassed in front of a group of new friends. Even worse? That was the pair of pants that wouldn't stay up a year and a half ago. *sigh*

Oh, well. Back to the drawing board with salads and egg white sandwiches. I started lifting weights again in the gym and put in an extra 10 minutes of cardio while chatting with some of my lady friends who are trying to talk me into Monday morning yoga. If I can just stay out of the Halloween candy, I think that would be an excellent start!

Another Revelation

2010-11-12T14:45:00.000-05:00

Okay, here's a post for all of the relatively new mothers out there. Do you ever feel as though you can't go to the bathroom by yourself? No, I'm not talking about when you go to a public place and take a friend just so you can have someone to entertain you while you wait in an insanely long line. I'm talking about within the privacy of your own home.

It occurred to me earlier today that we have brought this phenomenon upon ourselves.

First, we put great emphasis on potty-training--and for obvious reasons. We join our progeny in the bathroom and wait for things to happen, then cheer when things come to pass, or look sternly upon mishaps. When the kiddies are young, they have to join us in the stalls of public restrooms because we are afraid someone will snatch them. Is it any wonder they think they should always join us? Even if we indicate we might like some alone time.

Like so many other things, though, we will have our sweet revenge when they become teenagers. By that time, we'll be used to the company, and we will follow them around often speaking through doors closed in our faces. Not only that, but we will have finally overcome embarrassment, conquered it after being sprayed by ever bodily fluid known to man, after having a child scream bloody murder at the top of her lungs in a crowded store, after escorting a toddler back into a store with an item he has pilfered. Yes, just as our teenage children reach the point that everything embarrasses them, we will have reached a point where almost nothing embarrasses us.

And that, I believe, is poetic jusice. Or at least the great circle of communal pottying.

A Missive to Mother Nature

2010-11-09T12:38:00.000-05:00

Dear Mother Nature,

I know that I'm on the verge of being a "woman of a certain age," and in light of that fact we need to have a little chat. I understand that I'm going to have an accordion fan of tiny wrinkles around my eyes, especially when squinting into the sunlight or laughing. I understand that I have deep lines etched into my brow and battle scars criss-crossing my belly--my kids put them there, and I wouldn't change those. I understand that sitting Indian style isn't my forte and that it's completely normal to have one stop at the top of my quad that's given up on the concept of flexibility.

But, Mother Nature, what is up with the acne? Does it not seem cruel to you to sprinkle me with acne even as you line me with wrinkles? Seriously, I did my time back in my teenage years. I'd love to be able to say, "Well, at least I don't have to worry about zits any more." Is that really too much to ask?

Sincerely,
Sally

Monday's moment of truth

2010-11-08T17:55:00.000-05:00

152. Otherwise known as Revenge of Halloween Candy.

On the bright side I have been to the gym 3 times a week for 3 weeks. We have to run out of candy some time....

Over at the Healthy Writer

2010-11-05T00:03:00.000-04:00

If you get a chance, hop on over to The Healthy Writer to see what I have to say about getting back in shape after a long hiatus from proper diet and exercise. Then stick around because they're good gals with much more valuable info than I've been able to accrue thus far.

A Moment about Fiction

2010-11-02T22:56:00.000-04:00

I just took a survey about the npr book page. Sure enough, when I finished the survey, they put up a list of books I might want to read. I think there was a category about dog-grooming, but certainly no romance.

I know it's a dead horse.

I know it's a dead horse that's been beat to death.

I just want to know why romance is a genre so maligned? Jane Eyre and Sense and Sensibility? Both romances. The Thornbirds and Gone with the Wind? Uh, romance. Moreover, if you've been reading romances since the late 80s, you've seen the quality and intelligence of the books increase dramatically. I can't speak to some of the categories from the 60s and 70s because I didn't read them, but I think women's fiction, in general, has increased in quality.

To include science fiction, fantasy, mystery, and thriller, but to dismiss romance is a slap in the face. Wake up, npr. Smart people read romances, too. All too often, "literature" includes an unhappy ending just for the sake of having an unhappy ending. Just because I like to read books about relationships that end happily does not make me a simpleton.

Besides, optimists live longer.

Uh, Tuesday's Moment of Truth?

2010-11-02T22:51:00.002-04:00

I weighed in at 151--hey that's a half pound down. Or it was before I ate that hamburger and fries for lunch today. Let's hope all the walking in Chattanooga off-set my poor food choice. : )

NaNoWriMo

2010-11-01T15:17:00.000-04:00

I am going to participate in NaNoWriMo. I am going to practice self-discipline in my writing. I am going to learn to tell my internal editor to shove it...when appropriate, of course.

At the very least, those are the things I'm telling myself as I gear up for the November novel writing challenge. Today it was nigh upon impossible to log in, and I had to think of a 5K. Think of all those runners already at the front of the pack. Then think of all of the runners who start with me but then leave me coughing in their dust. Just like finishing a road race, however, the goal is to simply finish.

I'm not a pretty writer, and I'm certainly not a pretty runner, but I'm going to give this a shot. If you break down the 50,000 words over 30 days, you're looking at about 1700 words a day. I've already written 953 today--so, come on, folks. Remember that the journey of a thousand miles begins with one step; a novel of 50,000 words begins with 1 word.

Want to know what I'm talking about? Visit the official National Novel Writing Month web site at www.nanowrimo.org. If you want to buddy up, you can find me under s_kilpatrick!

Let's write!

The Riveting Conclusion of The Pink Fuzzy Slippers

2010-10-29T00:02:00.003-04:00

“Dammit, girl, get out from under the bed!”

And that’s when I saw part of a tennis ball poking underneath the dust ruffle a few feet from the pink fuzzy slipper.

“Grandma?”

She took a shuffling step back, and I rolled out from under the bed, covered in dust bunnies.

“What were you thinking locking me outside like that? Good thing that door doesn’t close all the way and the deadbolt hadn’t caught. And I don’t know why you left the broom out there yesterday. I had to borrow the slippers just to go out there and get it.”

“Sorry, Grandma.”

“I bet.” She crossed her arms over her chest as best she could thanks to the permanent stoop of osteoporosis.

She shooed me into the kitchen where I cleaned up the mess, and we finished supper. A full-blown storm raged and whistled outside putting a premature end to trick-or-treating. Grandma watched me as I did the dishes, savoring one of her Milky Ways. I poured the last of the spaghetti sauce into a spare container and opened the fridge to put it inside.

I had almost closed the refrigerator door when a glint registered, a glint coming from underneath the glass shelf just above the crisper drawer. I bent to open the door and found a bottle of Corona beside the lettuce.

“How in the heck did that get in here?” asked Grandma. “I poured all that mess out after your Aunt Elinor died.”

Hours later, Grandma snoozed in her chair as Leno soliloquized on the state of the union. I crept to the fridge and took out my prize. The cap popped off the bottle, and I looked to Grandma. She didn’t stir. I took a long sip of Corona.

And that’s when I heard the knock at the back door.

Shave and a haircut. Two bits.

Biblical Moment

2010-10-28T16:17:00.000-04:00

When the going gets tough, the tough buy books. That's why, after a rough Monday, I bought a new version of Amy Knapp's Family Organizer. I bought my first one last year and have thoroughly enjoyed the layout as well as the perforated sections that make great grocery lists and bookmarks. This year, I decided to buy the "Christian" family organizer. (Which makes me ask if there's a pagan one, but that's another post for another day.)

As I was transferring data, I came across the verse for the week of September 30:

Endure hardships as discipline; God is treating you as sons. For what son is not disciplined by his father?

Somewhere deep in the recesses of my brain, I'm trying to make a connection between bad things and "discipline," but we were also taught that it rains on the just and the unjust. So, is there a way to think that "hardships" are a way of discipline, or does that veer too closely to an idea of an angry Old Testament God who smites the wicked? (That can be a rhetorical question, BTW.)

If you have a thought, feel free to express it. I'll be back to something less than philosophical tomorrow. : )

Cinnamon toast

2010-10-27T00:01:00.000-04:00

As I made cinnamon toast today, I wondered if the relatively simple recipe would be lost to my children just as I'll never figure out exactly how Granny Rowlett made biscuits. For all posterity, here's how it ought to be done:

Preheat the broiler on the oven to high.

Put four pieces of bread on a cookie sheet. (All of my recipes are like this)

Spread a thin layer of butter on top.

Mix two teaspoons of cinnamon and two teaspoons of sugar in a small container and mix well then sift evenly on top of the bread.

Put toast under the broiler, but don't walk away. Not even for a minute. And how I know that is another story for another day.

Uh, Tuesday's Moment of Truth?

2010-10-26T18:15:00.000-04:00

151.5 So I'm down 0.5 ounce from when I started on August 27th. Am I going to make 135 by Christmas? Uh, no. Can I make "thin enough to fit in my pants" before Christmas? Lord, I hope so.

Monday's moment of truth

2010-09-27T13:52:00.002-04:00

150. Yep. I got as low as 148.5 last week and 148 the week before, but 150.

Maybe I should look into hypnosis to supplement what little will power I have.

The Bold, Beautiful, and Often Nude

2010-09-24T08:18:00.000-04:00

I can't help it. Sometimes when I go to check on Lorelai, I eavesdrop to see what's happening in her dollhouse. I have decided that it would make a pretty good 80s style soap opera. Here's the cast:

And the cast sometimes even does commercials. Does this shot remind you of any product in particular?

And, no, I don't know why Tiana is in a tub with a bunch of grapes and a plastic sparkly dolphin.

Maybe if things continue to be entertaining, I'll keep you updated on the secret life of Lorelai's dolls.

Just wanted to reassure you...

2010-09-22T08:57:00.000-04:00

that I'm not dead yet. No, I'm still planning the M&M conference, and it's more fun than a barrel of monkeys! I do hope to update my blog more frequently once we get past the conference, but I'm choosing to revise my novel with my writing time these days. I MIGHT actually be getting the hang of this whole revision thing.

So, don't abandon me completely. The two sources of the majority of my funny stories arrive home this evening, plus I'm thinking about a post about whether or not being irritated at demonstrative with indefinite antecedents makes me a bad mother. Or do I score some brownie points for not throwing so many grammatical terms at my children? Hey, you can chew on that while I wrap up the conference!

Uh, Tuesday's Moment of Truth?

2010-09-07T09:46:00.000-04:00

So the scale says 150. Yep, I think it was 151.5 for my first moment of truth, and, I confess, there have been some veiled half truths in there. Still, I'm pleased with the 1.5 pounds gone considering I went to Knoxville over the weekend and hit some of my favorite haunts: Litton's and Louie's. Oh, and when I ordered the 12 oz beer at SoccerTaco, the waitress actually brought a 32 oz beer. This was a beer so large that it will increase in size with each retelling of the story. At the moment, I think Ryan refers to it as the 275 oz beer.

I'm loving my new app, MyNetDiary--it keeps up with my calories, my weight, and adjusts my daily caloric intake based on exercise. Now, if I could only get my stubborn foot to heal, I would actually be able to exercise. With a little exercise I think I might actually burn some more calories and get back down to 135 where I belong.

So, here are my tips for the time being: MyNetDiary app, weight control oatmeal, and dancing like a fool while you clean the house. Oh, and walking Knoxville hills before and after your 275 oz beer.

More Grammar, Old School

2010-09-01T00:01:00.003-04:00

So, I got a rejection letter this week. Even though it was a really nice rejection letter, there are still a few interjections I wanted to use. I'll let you guess what they were.

Cutting up

2010-08-31T00:01:00.001-04:00

Who would've thought that a four-year-old would be so determined to have homework? Lorelai got a box of art supplies for her birthday and has been diligently cutting paper into tiny pieces and coloring/marking everything she could find. (Stay tuned for purple hands at a later date.)

This is yet another example of what happens when I'm doing housework/playing on Facebook/trying to revise my novel:

Maternal Karma

2010-08-30T10:05:00.001-04:00

So, I've done a bad, bad thing. I told my four-year-old daughter that people who don't eat breakfast are more likely to be overweight than those who do. Sure, I was telling her the truth, but I didn't feel too hot about introducing the subject of weight to a preschooler. That said, I was desperate because she refuses to eat breakfast before going to preschool, and I feel for her teachers and classmates if she gets hungry. I swear she was a suffragette who mastered the concept of hunger strikes back in the day. Besides, it worked! She ate her breakfast.

Once again it's Monday. Once again Her Majesty doesn't want to eat her breakfast. Once again I remind her of the importance of eating breakfast and, finally, mention the threat of obesity. She looks me in the eye and says, "But you ate breakfast, and you're fat. I'm not."

You can't argue with kid logic like that because, ladies and gentlemen, it's maternal karma.

Monday's moment of truth

2010-08-30T08:06:00.000-04:00

Okay, blogosphere, I still weigh 151.5. Even though most folks save their confessions for Friday, this is my confession for the day. I'm hoping that the new school year and my new calorie counting iPhone app will help me make some progress, but I'm still wrestling with my sprained ankle. Funny thing about that: I won't be able to use it for another 5 to 7 weeks. Apparently, most cardio actually requires you to put weight on your foot in one way or another.

That said, I put my Jillian Michaels protein in my oatmeal this morning, so I'm sure to be ripped by Wednesday. : )

Our first winner!

2010-08-27T13:24:00.000-04:00

I know it's been forever, but I wanted everyone to see that I did, indeed, reward Pamela Mason with her very own bottle of Mad Housewife wine. And I learned to stick with things that ship from this point forward.

If you see Pam, congratulate her!

Dear Harlequin,

2010-08-23T00:01:00.004-04:00

We have to talk about the titles you choose for books these days. As an intelligent woman with an advanced degree, I don't turn my nose up at your category offerings. No, I consider a good category romance to be a fine sherbet, a way to cleanse my palate between courses of meaty literary and nonfiction books. Your stories of heroes and heroines who grow and change in order to triumph over adversity and find true love bring a cathartic twinge to my usually cynical heart.

Alas, I have to confess I feel stupid carrying around books that pertain only to cowboys, firemen, and secret sons. Some of them sound like personal ads--Dusty: Wild Cowboy, comes to mind. What about His Hired Baby? The first thing that comes to my twisted mind is a bounty hunter baby or a petite mafioso. And just how many books do you have that play on some version of a cowboy and a son? I love cowboys as much as the next girl, but the picture on the front would probably suffice to get the point across.

The first Harlequin I ever read was by Leigh Michaels and called Sell Me a Dream, an appropriate title considering the heroine sold real estate. My best friend Janette and I also were great fans of Flirtation River by Bethany Campbell--another title you don't see every day. What about The Daddy Trap or The Ties that Blind? (also by Leigh Michaels) I'm pretty sure Penny Jordan's Man-Hater was a provocative title back in 1984, and what about her Dangerous Interloper or Island of the Dawn? Are we women so simple that we have to have short titles devoid of all symbolism in order to pick up a book? I hope not.

So, Harlequin, keep up the good work finding intelligent authors who craft wonderful stories that are, for the most part, for women and by women, but please work on those titles. Heaven knows romance authors have enough trouble getting respect without being saddled with short, unimaginative titles. More importantly, I'm awful at titles and could really use your help. After all, I wrote a prospective Harlequin called "Married to the Mortician." Obviously, I could use a little help with titles myself.

Most Sincerely,
Sally

Okay, folks, what are some of your favorite or least favorite titles? (No need to list "Married to the Mortician;" it didn't exactly make it to publication.)

I'm Not Dead Yet!

2010-08-19T09:21:00.000-04:00

Just wanted to write something down on my poor, poor neglected blog. Alas, Moonlight and Magnolias Conference is taking up a great deal of my time so I may not have many new posts here for a while. There's also the question of laundry and, once again, finding what has died in the kitchen. (The latter is particularly disturbing because the kitchen is relatively clean at the moment.)

Stay tuned for a heartfelt letter to Harlequin about their titles, a Monday reality check about my quest to lose weight permanently, and a Day in the Life of Lorelai. These are posts that have been nebulously planned in my gray matter, at least.

In the meantime, for the sake of my sanity, please sign up for Moonlight and Magnolias and bring along 2 or 10 friends. It's going to be a great conference for a great price!

Maggie Finalist!!!

2010-08-09T07:48:00.000-04:00

After complaining to Stephanie Bond that I had never so much as even placed in a contest, I managed to win the Duel on the Delta with Beulah Land and the Happy Hour Choir. Then, on Friday night I found out I am a finalist for this year's unpublished Maggies with the same manuscript! It's some stiff competition, but I can honestly say that it's an honor to be nominated. (That and my manuscript goes to Latoya Smith of Grand Central, and there's not enough room for all the "yay"s that should then go here for that.)

It all goes to show we should always keep plugging along. It's only taken 13 years and 5 manuscripts to learn some valuable lessons and to find my voice and genre. You can find out more about those lessons on Thursday when I blog over at the Petit Fours and Hot Tamales.

Pardon me, I'll be walking on Cloud Nine!

News from Nationals

2010-08-02T08:08:00.000-04:00

Ladies and gents,

I had a blast at Nationals. Free signed books, people. It was a dangerous place for me, especially since my TBR pile was already approaching the height of the Big Chicken.

That said, all the news that is news? I did get two requests for partials of Beulah Land. (Yay!) And more big news? Starting this week or next, I'll be moving to a once or twice a week format.

For today, I have to go be a mom. Not feeling so super, but I'm glad to be home on mommy duty and super-excited to work on the "writer" part, too.

Back from Vacation

2010-07-26T17:43:00.000-04:00

Sorry for the break, folks. I took a wonderful trip home to visit the folks in West Tennessee. I'll be posting about home later since going home always recharges the creative batteries.

This week, however, I'll be preparing for a trip to Nationals, so we may be a little scarce on posts the next couple of weeks. Rest assured that Superwritermom will be back on duty at the beginning of August when the kiddies have to gear up for school.

A Word to the Wise...

2010-07-16T00:01:00.000-04:00

It really does take a village to raise a child. Today's word to the wise features one of my extra mothers, Lynn. If only I could say with such cheer what she told us one day:

"Go on outside and play, girlies. I've got PMS, and people have killed for less."

I miss you, Lynn, and think of you often--at the very least once a month. The world could use more ladies with such an elegant mixture of grace and spunk.

Beulah Land Comes to Jesus

2010-07-15T00:01:00.000-04:00

Here's the prologue to my current WIP:

Feel free to tell me what you think.

My name is Beulah Land, and I’m here to give my testimony.
Please forgive me if I seem a little nervous. I’ve never been a fan of standing in front of the congregation to confess your sins. Sure, I sat through countless testimonies as the daughter of a Baptist deacon, and I heard the words adultery, alcoholism, and fornication before I learned the difference between “near” and “far” from Sesame Street. It surprised me when Luke, of all people, wanted me to tell my story. He said that telling it might help others, and I want to help even if I can’t see how rehashing my mistakes could ever do that.
I suppose I could start my story on the day I was born, the day my parents saddled me with the name Beulah Land in reference to their favorite hymn. Or I could start with the fifties brick ranch where my father took his job as head of the household too seriously and where my mother ruled the roost by swatting at us with a burned up wooden spoon. I could start the story with my biggest mistake or my unlikely redemption, but I think the best place to start the story is where Luke walked in. We can pick up the rest as we go along.

Grammar moment

2010-07-14T00:01:00.004-04:00

Every now and then I like to visit the classics from SchoolHouse Rock. Here's one of my favorites:

What are your favorite SchoolHouse Rock moments?

Paying for my raising?

2010-07-13T00:01:00.001-04:00

Would someone please explain to me why my youngest child will not go play in her room with her toys? Better yet, please explain why I waste money on said toys?

Apparently, she would rather crawl under the dining room table and cry than go play.

Accountability

2010-07-12T00:01:00.001-04:00

So, last week I outed myself weightwise. Today I'm down to 151.5--just 7.5 pounds over what I need to weigh to be able to wear my professional clothes for Nationals. Here are some of my supposed keys to success although it'll be interesting to see how well these work now that I have the bulk of my trip weight off:

1. Whole foods. After reading Master Your Metabolism I am trying Jillian Michaels's suggestion to avoid processed foods and to eat organic whenever possible. I'm also avoiding artifical sweeteners.
2. Exercise. I've made it to the gym twice this week, ran once, and danced my little heart out to Wii's Just Dance.
3. Supplements. I'm taking my multivitamins, calcium, fish oil, and fiber again--the biggest change here was an increase in energy.

So, that's the plan for now. I'll be including more updates as Mondays roll along because I won't want to admit to all of you that I backslid!

Anybody have any helpful hints?

Why Her Majesty Wakes me Up...

2010-07-09T07:33:00.000-04:00

It's five o' clock in the morning, and Lorelai is shrieking. As any good mother would do, I race down the hall and throw back the door.
"What's wrong, baby?"

She's sitting up, but I can only tell that by the shadow. Her little shoulders shake with sobs, "You pushed the elevator button."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Next time I'll let you push the button. Now, go back to--"

"No, the doors closed and you left me! You left me!"

"It was just a bad dream, now put your head on the pillow and dream of something nice like ice cream."

"Okay."

The door creaks as I close it, and I shake my head. Three months ago SHE was the one who jumped in the elevator and let the doors close on ME before I raced down three flights of stairs to catch her. So, who should be having the nightmare here?

I just want to finish my coffee

2010-07-08T09:38:00.002-04:00

That's it. Well, and on Sundays I want to finish reading the paper. I'm pretty sure the world will end if I ever make it all the way through a cup of coffee.

The Ugly Truth

2010-07-07T09:24:00.000-04:00

So I came back from Saint Louis weighing 155 pounds. At my leanest, I was a trim and healthy 124--but that was at 22. I hit 135 a few years ago, a comfortable size 6, so why did I let myself gain 20 pounds? And how am I going to fit into my professional clothing for Nationals?

These are my questions. At the moment I'm trying to eat almost all whole foods, so we may have a blog on that in a few weeks.

In the meantime, I'm going to blame my weight on stress. Based on everything I've read so far, I must be making a lot of cortisol and putting that fat on the belly. It's probably dreams like last night's one where I lost Lorelai at her Kindergarten orientation. Oh, wait. There's still time for that one to come true.

Monday Poem

2010-07-05T00:01:00.001-04:00

Here's another poem I'm considering sending out there into the wild world. Comments and suggestions are welcome. And, yes, I know I need to move beyond the "considering."

First Failed Swim Lesson

Chlorine stings your nostrils
as you open the double doors.
The top of the water is motion in stillness
like wavy colonial glass.
You want to slip under the silk surface,
cold at first them warmer
as you wear it.
You want to glide aimlessly, effortlessly
or float on your back studying
stark naked rafters. You want
to be a child again—splashing,
cannonballing, dipping, and diving with ease.

But you are not a child.
You’re the mother of the one
who won’t put his head underwater even
as his peers splash and their parents snicker
because at the end of the night
they will go on and he will have to repeat
this level. You can’t swim for him
and you can’t convince him to trust you.
No, you are forced to watch
his apprehension and reluctance
to be where you yearn to be.

And if you know my pediatrician, please reassure her that, yes, we're going to keep trying swim lessons until we get it right.

Happy Fourth of July!

2010-07-02T00:01:00.003-04:00

In honor of the holiday, I think we should review our American history with a little help from one of my favorite SchoolHouse Rock videos:

May you find glorious fireworks!

A Word to the Wise...

2010-07-01T00:01:00.001-04:00

Don't kid around about nudism on Facebook. If you do, a random stranger from New Hampshire will want to befriend you because he doesn't understand that you were simply frustrated by all of the laundry you had to do.

Motherhood Makes it Better

2010-06-30T00:01:00.001-04:00

Last week I wrote about 5 of the killjoys of motherhood. Today I'm going to tackle 5 things that are better with kids:

5. The Zoo. Nothing makes the zoo more fun than having little ones of any age point and smile or even talk to the animals. And, oh, all the pictures you can take!
4. Ice Cream. Going out for ice cream by yourself is fun, but sharing your ice cream with your kids is even better. Especially when the oldest gets a dollop of bright green sherbet on the tip of his nose.
3. Defrosting the freezer and washing the car. Both of these chores become a game with kids. They see the joy in throwing chunks of ice, not the drudgery of moving the freezer. They squeal with delight when you spray them with the hose, not grunt as they bend to scrub the undercarriage.
2. Reading. I still love reading on my own, but there is nothing better than having a little one nestle into your lap or sit beside you with a downy head just under your chin.
1. Christmas. It really is better to give than to receive.

Those are just 5 of the millions of things that kids make better. Have any more you want to offer?

Superwritermom is not home right now...

2010-06-29T00:01:00.000-04:00

She's on the mothership: Petit Fours and Hot Tamales. Please amble on over to find out how rappers are like romance writers.

If Laundry and Pounds were Dollars and Words

2010-06-28T00:01:00.001-04:00

It never ceases to amaze me how hard it is to strike a balance in life. Why do we have too much of the things we want less of (pounds, laundry) and too little of the things we need (dollars, words)? And, oh, what tangled webs we weave because each seemingly different thing is hopelessly interrelated.

I often feel that trying to find balance in life is trying to solve a messed up Rubick's cube. If I spend less money, I have to buy cheaper, less healthy foods. If I buy fresh, organic foods, I spend more money. If I keep up with the laundry, I write fewer words. If I go to the gym, I write fewer words. And let's not forget that if I stay up and make my word count, I usually end up eating too much.

Anyone out there have any hints? I haven't even started on the issues of spirituality and balancing children's activities with family time. Or trying to create a social life with other married couples so your children won't be deprived of other friendships.

I'm the master of making things more difficult than they ought to be, so feel free to enlighten me!

Why I Didn't Shave My Legs Today...

2010-06-25T00:01:00.001-04:00

Because I didn't want to. : P

The Killjoy of Motherhood

2010-06-24T00:01:00.002-04:00

You know, motherhood sucks the joy out of some things. Here are five things that are no longer fun:

5. Play-Doh. I don't like picking up little pieces of Play-Doh off the floor. And Silly Putty has been permanently banned from this house thanks to the damage it can do.
4. Water rides. I can't entirely explain this one, but I think it has something to due with adulthood's increased likelihood of chafing.
3. Chewing gum. It gets into hair, the carpet of the car floorboard, ends up in stomachs. Being a teacher didn't help my disdain for gum--my apologies to everyone who's had to suffer my coffee breath due to my chewing gum embargo.
2. Markers. Oh, how I loved markers. I would use markers until they were completely out of ink. Now, I cringe at the sight of them because it usually means Lorelai has found the stash and decorated herself a la Goldie Hawn on Laugh-In.
1. Swimming. Okay, so this one is really the killjoy of womanhood. Swimming was so much more fun when it involved putting on a bathing suit and heading out the door. I don't even mind collecting the towels and accouterments, but I HATE, HATE the landscaping required. I hate that more than the thought of all my extra pounds showing.

So, what about you? What has motherhood taken the joy out of? Kool-Aid? Water balloons? Frog catching?

We have a winner!

2010-06-22T15:38:00.000-04:00

Pamela Mason, you are the winner of a nice bottle of Mad Housewife wine. Your name was selected through an ultrascientific process: I put the names into my son's replica Civil War soldier hat, and he pulled it out.

You can expect to receive the bottle just as soon as I either a) find my checkbook or b) meet up with you at a GRW meeting.

Congratulations!

Superwritermom is not home right now...

2010-06-22T00:01:00.001-04:00

Please leave a message after the beep. Or, better yet, take a stroll over to the Healthy Writers and learn about my complex feelings for my Wii.

Another 10 Ways to Know if You're a Bad Housekeeper...

2010-06-21T11:43:00.000-04:00

Due to the popularity of the first ten--and that I could come up with examples of bad housekeeping until the end of time--here are another 10 ways to know you're a bad housekeeper. Leave a comment with your own example for a chance to score either a bottle of Mad Housewife or a Publix giftcard to buy one.

10. Your son announces, “I have a new way to get dust off the ceiling fan: bat balloons at it!”
9. Georgia Tech scientists have consulted you as an expert in their latest paper: Stages of Mold in the North Georgia Toilet.
8. Your children’s friends spend precious playtime to tug on your sleeve and inform you that your child really, really needs to clean his room.
7. A favorite family game is Find that Smell. (In all fairness, this one could generally be subtitled: Where did the baby hide the sippy cup of chocolate milk this time?)
6. When you finally do get around to cleaning the refrigerator, you find a casserole that you can’t remember making.
5. You’d rather be in your car.
4. You now know what mummified green beans look like.
3. Your children refer to your bathroom as “the hairy bathroom.”
2. Your son considers defrosting the outdoor freezer a recreational sport.
1. The Island of Sodor has invaded your living room and taken up permanent residence causing everyone passing through to step over bridges and accidentally kick Thomas the Tank Engine and his friends across the room. And they thought running out of that special gold dust stuff was a problem.

Motherhood: the Fashion Faux Pas Adventure

2010-06-15T00:02:00.002-04:00

When I'm rushing kids to Vacation Bible School, Choir Practice, a soccer game, I don't feel glamorous. There's certainly nothing exciting about sitting in car pool. In fact, I hate car pool with a passion most people reserve for fire ants or taxes.

Imagine my surprise when I discovered that Indiana Jones and I actually have something in common.

I may not have to run from boulders, but I'm often in a hurry. I also usually need to keep my hands free, so what do I do? I sling my purse over one shoulder just like Indy does with his satchel.

Other mothers may wince at my lack of style, but sometimes pragmatism beats out fashion sense. I can't catch my three-year-old if I'm holding a Coach clutch. And I have no experience in the area, but I'm sure having your daughter stuff a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in a Louis Vuitton would be enough to send you over the edge. But, hey, just try damaging a khaki mesh purse that you got for three dollar on clearance at Kohl's. That's the kind of purse you can't destroy as an excuse to get a new purse; it's the kind of purse that doesn't die just to spite you.

And, to tell you the truth, I wouldn't want my shoulder bag to fray or tear. After all, running after kids can sometimes be just as scary as running away from massive boulders. So tell me about your purse. Are you practical? fashion forward? Somewhere in-between? Do have any purse-meets-kids horror stories?

Not a Mad Housewife, Just Not a Good One...

2010-06-14T00:01:00.003-04:00

Here are the top ten ways you know you're not a good housewife:

10. You children get excited when you fire up the vacuum because they don't see it that often.
9. Your family considers the pile of laundry on the couch as part of the overall decorating scheme.
8. There are stains on the carpet you can't explain and you can't remember how they got there. You just know they're not poop. You promise they are not poop.
7. Dust bunnies are congregating on the fringes of your hardwood floor. You think they are fomenting a rebellion.
6. It takes you a month to realize you've run out of Scrubbing Bubbles.
5. Your lovely aquarium hand soap bottles now feature fish in atomic sludge because you forgot and bought the orange hand soap instead of the clear hand soap.
4. The shower rod in your guest bathroom just fell for the third time because you are still using the "temporary" tension rod you bought at Big Lots ten years ago.
3. Your children have asked their grandparents to help them change out the burned out light bulbs in their bedroom light fixtures.
2. When you apologize to the bug guy for the state of your house, he says "Hey, I've seen worse" but he can't actually give you examples.
1. The more you clean up, the less you can find.

If you answered yes to more than four of these, I suggest we celebrate with a bottle of Mad Housewife and forget about being bad housewives. Salut!

Another Poem....Don't Worry I Don't Have Many More!

2010-06-11T00:09:00.005-04:00

Okay, ya'll. I didn't get any comments on my bad poetry last time, so I'm going to assume that the ghazal about potty training is a no go. Take a look at this one, and let me know what you think.

Is this one ready to submit to journals? Does it still need polish? Should I promise not to quit my day job?

The Gospel Truth

The smoke detector in the garage squeaks,
An intermittent plea for a new battery.
I vow to ignore it and have almost succeeded
when I hear mama, mama, mama, mama—
my second reminder this is the Lord’s Day
and I need to rejoice in it. Instead, I grumble and
retrieve my alarm clock, the cuddly doe-eyed one,
ensconce her beneath the comforter
where she, too, succumbs to drowsy warmth.
Just as I drift off, closing my eyes to the
clock that declares it time to shower,
my oldest wake-up call, my trustiest alarm,
Belly-flops on the bed to hug and tickle
his sister whose squeal reminds me of
the smoke detector, still beeping patiently.
Defeated, I leave the invaded sanctity
of the bed to fix breakfast, but it is too
late to go to church, impossible to herd two
unwilling children and their equally unwilling
father into stiff Sunday clothes and stiffer pews.
Later, when all are fed and sassy, I turn on cartoons
and drink my coffee while reading the paper, wincing
at each piece of evidence that all is not right with
the world. But then it’s time for Sunday
lunch, and my only course of action is
to pray and wash away my sins
in the cathedral of my shower.

Dear Pandora...

2010-06-09T00:13:00.006-04:00

How aptly named you are, iphone app that has opened up a can of worms as well as a world of musical possibilities! I confess that I am now addicted to you, especially as I make long car trips. Where else can I build a radio station around James Brown? Where else can I mix K.C. and the Sunshine Band with the Black-Eyed Peas?

That said, there are a few things we must discuss, Pandora. I really don't want Celine Dion and Peabo Bryson's "Beauty and the Beast" mixed in with my Britney Spears. I know she once worked for Disney, but those days are long gone.

Also, when I say that I like a Ludacris song, please don't load me down with rap. Unfortunately, there are tender ears in the backseat who don't need to hear "You're now turned into the m$#@-f%$$#@ greatest." We all need to get a little dirt off our shoulders from time to time, but could you please consider radio edit?

Oh, and when I skip Gwen Stefani's "Hollaback Girl," it's not because I don't like her music. It's because I don't want my three-year-old running around saying, "This my s$#@!" (See plea for radio edits above.) You don't have to send me to the Backstreet Boys. Please don't send me to the Backstreet Boys.

And I'm sorry I blew your mind by pairing Sam & Dave with the Jackson 5 and the Beatles. I didn't know that was going to blow your mind. And I sure didn't know that the love child of those three acts was Stevie Wonder.

Finally, I thank you. I thank you for a radio station dedicated to crooners--although you can go light on the Mel Torme. I thank you for my radio station dedicated to Dr. John even if it does make me want to flee to Bourbon Street.

I know our relationship has already had a few ups and downs, but I can't wait to see what you're going to do with movie soundtracks or 50s music. I think this is love, Pandora. I think we're in it for the long haul.

Thank You, Sweet Ginger!

2010-05-18T19:53:00.000-04:00

So, today's entry is a helpful hint--pay attention I don't have a lot of these. Yesterday, I admitted that I was suffering from a mild case of food poisoning, and there's nothing like a upset stomach to upset your schedule and to make your kids think they have carte blanche to destroy everything in the house. (I even took a nap, but the house is still standing.)

Last night, I was desperate. So desperate that I looked for a solution on the Internet. I know, right? I found a home remedy for stomach aches that said to make a cup of Chamomile tea and to add one teaspoon of ginger and honey. With a little experimentation, I discovered that it would take three teaspoons of honey to get the ginger tea down, but it worked almost instantaneously! I had a little relapse today, fixed another cup, and, again, my stomach was better almost immediately.

So, the next time your tummy is giving you that angry rumble, feel free to try this concoction. Of course, if you do, you are taking complete responsibility for any ill effects. (If I had a lawyer, he would make me say that.)

The Monday Blues

2010-05-17T08:52:00.002-04:00

Wow. Today is not going to be a particularly enlightening day because I'm still suffering the ill-effects of an Egg McMuffin from Saturday morning. I don't know about you, but I can't stand it when my stomach is upset. I don't feel like writing or doing the laundry that needs to be done. My stomach doesn't crave the foods that I should be eating, and--here's the worst part--I'm afraid to drink my coffee because it's so acidic.

Ugh! Definitely not SuperWriterMom today--more of a Barely Functioning Mom. That said, I did sign up for my appointment at Nationals in Orlando. There. I did something to further my writing career. Now, off to clothe the naked child!

Submit or Trash

2010-05-14T13:33:00.002-04:00

I'm getting ready to submit some poems--because I need help. So here's my infamous ghazal. Do you think I should submit it? Is it edgy or just silly?

The Humble Request of the Mother of a Preschooler

I wheedle, I cajole, I plead
Wanting you to use the potty.

Princess dress, pony, lollypop
All yours when you learn to go potty.

Money, jewels, liberal kisses to feet
I would give if someone else would teach you to potty.

No pails, no pull-ups, no heavy bags
Just as soon as you learn to potty.

No accidents, no spills, no stains
Once it all finds the potty.

If only your will wasn’t your own
And I could mold you like putty.

But independence, spirit, and babyish charm
Will be lost if I make you go potty.

The First Day of the Rest of Your Life

2010-05-13T11:30:00.002-04:00

I thought it appropriate to start today, just two days after I graduated, with my new blog. I've been trying to decide on an identity. You can see that I don't dream big of anything. I just want to be a SuperWriterMom. To paraphrase Jon Lovitz, is that so wrong? (You'll have to imagine the whiny voice part.)

In keeping with what I'm sure will be a theme, I'm going to have to stop my post for the day because I need to pick up my daughter from preschool. Taking off the writer hat (Hey, wrote a short story today!) and putting on the mom hat. As for the "Super" part? That was just wishful thinking.

Have a great day, everyone, and keep on making it up as you go along.

Part II of Ally Dan and the Magic Lamp.

2010-02-20T20:10:00.000-05:00

If you missed part one, please visit the new and improved Petit Fours and Hot Tamales web site.

Ally returned late and leaned her forehead against the cool door with a grin. Jacob was wrong about dark magic; Dylan wanted to elope right then. She needed a change of clothes and a toothbrush, and they would be off to Paris. Dylan said he would take care of the rest. Maybe it was crazy, but it was the most romantic thing she had ever heard of, a fairy tale coming true thanks to her friend the genie.
She fished in her purse for her keys. At the sound of a crack and then a grunt, she stood up straight. What was going on in her apartment? She grabbed the keys, dropped them, and broke a nail picking them up from the floor. Her hands shook as she jiggled the key in the lock.
Finally, the door gave way. A hulking red genie, the traditional sort with the devilish face, wielded a whip over Jacob’s back. Open, angry gashes criss-crossed his back. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be with that Dylan guy.”
“I needed a toothbrush,” she said in a small voice. She turned her attention to the other genie. “Who are you and what are you doing to Jacob?”
“I am Ali, and he has broken the law; he has touched a human. He must receive his punishment.”
Ali swung the whip again, his black ponytail swaying.
It took a moment for Ally to process what the devil genie said. “No, stop! He didn’t mean to! I did it. It was my fault.”
“So you would take the lashes for him?”
Ally bit her lip. Take the lashes? She would crumple like a stomped meringue puff. “Isn’t there another way? It was an accident, after all?”
“You can wish for his freedom, but you will lose everything else you wished for.” The red genie shrugged. “Or he can take his next ten licks, and you can get your toothbrush and rush off to your happily ever after. It is as you wish.” He bowed low.
Give it all up? Go back to being frumpy Ally with thick glasses, frumpy Ally who pined for Dylan Michaels from afar? But there was beautiful Jacob with welts across his back—could she be happy knowing her happiness came from his pain?
“Ally, don’t be silly,” Jacob said. “These lashes will heal. You’ve made wise wishes; you could beat the darkness of the magic.”
Could she enjoy Paris cafes, or would she think of Jacob willingly taking an unfair punishment for her happiness. She swallowed hard, shaking her head no.
“Ally, don’t do anything stupid,” Jacob said. I haven’t been touched in a hundred years, and I would gladly take these last ten licks for that one moment.”
Ally remembered the moment, remembered his strong embrace, his breath on the top of her head. She remembered how he smelled of sandalwood with just a hint of curry. And she remembered that moment when she saw Dylan in the sun, when he pinched his secretary’s behind.
“I wish.” Her mouth hung open, and both genies stared at her expectantly. No one dared breathe. She couldn’t be happy at Jacob’s expense. She couldn’t do it, even if it meant giving up Paris and Mr. Wonderful himself. If he were truly wonderful, then he would love frumpy Ally with her glasses and her thrift store wardrobe. If he really loved her, then he would still want to elope with her when she walked down the stairs as her true self. “I wish for Jacob’s freedom.”
Wind whipped through her hair and the catalog on the kitchen counter fluttered in the breeze; the world hazed without her glasses. She felt the cellulite returning to her hips and felt herself shrinking. Her fingertips danced around on the side table for her glasses, but it was Jacob who gently pushed them up her nose.
“I can’t give you anything to thank you for what you’ve done,” he said. She blinked twice. The red genie and his menacing whip were gone. The golden bracelets from Jacob’s wrists were gone.
“I couldn’t leave you like that,” she said. She took him by the arm and turned him around to look at his back. He winced at her touch. “We need to take care of you.”
“No, first you need to go downstairs and meet Dylan. And go to Paris.”
Ally laughed. “Do you really think he’s still going to want to elope? With the real me?”
Jacob ran a hand down her cheek. “If he’s smart he will. Now, you’d better hurry.”
She looked over her shoulder before she opened the door. If she went downstairs, would Jacob still be there when she got back?
###
Ally closed the apartment door behind her. Dylan hadn’t recognized her as the same person when she went downstairs. At the sight of her, his aunt in Poughkeepsie had keeled over and necessitated his presence at a split-second funeral.
Now, with the lights out and the apartment silent, it seemed that Jacob had abandoned her, too. Silly, but the thought he had left was far more depressing that missing out with Dylan. After all, in the back of her mind, she had always known Dylan appeared more handsome from across the cubicle farm.
Then she heard the gasp.
Her heart leapt before her feet moved in the direction of the bathroom where a sliver of light shone from under the door. Her knuckled grazed the door. “Jacob?”
“Come in,” he said. “I’m afraid I could use your help.”
She closed her eyes and exhaled in relief. She pushed open the door slowly, taking in the tableau of the six foot guy trying to twist around to reach the worst spots on his back. “You shouldn’t do this yourself.”
“Well, you shouldn’t be here with me. You should be on your way to Paris.”
Ally smiled. “Oddly enough, the sight of the real me caused his aunt to have a heart attack on the spot. He had to rush to Poughkeepsie.”
“Jerk.” Jacob hissed as she dabbed one of the worst stripes with a disinfectant laden cotton ball.
“So, how long are you going to stick around?” she asked. “I’m assuming you can’t quite fit in your lamp anymore, and you’re welcome to crash here for a while.”
He turned around to face her, and she realized his black eyes had lightened into an intriguing bluish hazel. “I’ve been thinking about that, and I hope you’ll forgive me because I was hoping your Mr. Michaels would be a jerk. I would like to stay wherever you are. Forever. In my two hundred years, I haven’t seen another woman like you.”
Ally swallowed hard. “Jacob, I’d say this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
He leaned closer. “Or the beginning of something more.” His lips touched hers, a tingling fire that sent her arms around his neck and her body next to his. Sometimes the best wishes are the ones you never think to wish.

Welcome!

2010-02-20T20:09:00.001-05:00

This is going to by my blog. Someday. And it's going to have a spiffy name. Someday. In the meantime, please enjoy my random musings.