A Remembrancer, Designedly Dropt.

My writing used to be described as one of two things: family humor or inspirational. The family humor appeared as a weekly newspaper column for several years. But it came to end as soon as the kids became old enough to realize they were being exploited.

The inspirational writing - wow. It sounds all sparkly and heavenly and possibly nauseating, doesn't it? It was obnoxious of me, but it was mostly in the 90's and I'm pretty sure that The Entire World agreed we wouldn't hold each other accountable for the 90's.

My stories were published in various inspirational anthologies, and they were sold by those anthologies to various magazines. They were used in newsletters and Actual Church Sermons. (I know because I google myself in private.)

I was all kinds of In Your Face Inspiration.

I don't know what happened, but at some point I began to doubt I was channeling anything other than my own bullshit. The Man-God who I'd thought had been constantly trying to communicate with me via various asinine methods - well - He and I grew apart. (Don't worry - I promise this isn't a Bitter Atheist post.) I came to see a falling star as being a falling star. Not a Message From the Great Beyond. And so my inspirational writing disappeared, along with any ability I thought I'd had to phone a friend in Heaven.

If this were the 90's, I might make a pathetic attempt at making sense out of the Boston Marathon bombings. Or the West, Texas fertilizer plant explosion. Or school shootings. But this is not the 90's and our world is post 9/11 and I'm not that girl, anymore. Heck - even if 90% of you begged and pleaded for me to write something inspirational about the current pain and suffering being experienced in our country, I wouldn't do it. I'm like the Senate in that way.

Me and God - we don't talk so much anymore. But don't despair! I haven't completely hardened my heart. *Oh dear, I either just quoted the Book of Hebrews or Pat Benetar - not entirely sure which.

Sometimes, out of the blue, I'm reminded how fantastic and insane it is that I'm here, at all. That any of us are here at all. It's that sudden awareness, consciousness, or cognizance of my part in the Grand Scheme of Things that just blows me away. Is there a scheme? I don't know. Usually, I dont' think so. But sometimes I get the unexpected feeling that I'm privy to something - just for a millisecond - to something BIG. And my small part is illuminated in a stillness of time.

Yesterday, Jules mentioned he enjoyed the poetry of Robert Frost. Specifically, he enjoyed Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening. When he was a little kid, he had a picture book illustrating this poem. I'd read it to him, occasionally. I never thought he'd listened. But he had.

So back to yesterday. Never one to ignore an intro, I jumped on his comment and ran hysterically into my bedroom to grab my Bible - also known as Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman. It is so rare that I'm granted an opportunity to talk poetry, you see. I was thrilled. Thrilled, I say! I ran back into the dining room and Jules was still sitting there, so I hastily flipped through the book to come to the well-worn pages of the 6th verse of "Song of Myself." This is the verse where a child has said, "What is the grass?"

I read:

How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he.
I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven.
Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt,
Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark,
And say Whose?

The other day I was driving into town, I noticed something placed in front of me and remarked, Whose? It was silly, really. And you very well might read this all the way to the end and say, "That was weird." But I'll do my best to convey my moment of wonder.

It was a dreary day. One of those days where everything is gray. The highway was gray, the sky was overcast and gray, the landscape was gray and brown. Even the cars on the road were various shades of black, brown, and gray. But then a yellow Volkswagen Beetle passed me on the left. Whoosh!

I watched as it darted in and out of the monochromatic cars in front of me, like a bee skipping from bloom to bloom. It looked as if it had been photo-shopped into a black and white scene. As if someone had placed it there to draw just a bit of attention - to see if anyone would notice, and remark, Whose?

I looked in my rear view mirror at the two lanes of gray, black, and brown cars behind me. And I smiled. Because at that moment I realized I was in a red car.

I felt very much like a remembrancer, designedly dropt. And I admit to wondering...Whose?

It's Really Deep...on the Surface

I have a confession to make. Are you ready?

I'm shallow on Facebook.

There! I said it! And I feel so much....better? Dang. I don't feel better. Because gosh, Facebook, I wasn't feeling badly about my shallow status updates to begin with. Because they're status updates and you're, well, you're Facebook. Even though, apparently, there is a discussion going on Out There about how people are not being honest about their eternally happy selves and their seemingly perfect children and locally grown and 100% organic lunches on Facebook.

Someone wrote an article about all of this, and I heard her interviewed on NPR. She sounded super-duper intelligent and I'm sure she's an excellent writer but I just didn't really care about (nor was I surprised by) the whole Facebook Shallowness topic.

The writer was concerned that people are giving false impressions of themselves and their lives on social media. Der...ya think? She felt that people would be sitting around at home thinking their lives were the only lives that weren't perfect. After all - what if you're depressed and unable to leave your house and you have to look at endless status updates and pictures of people hiking, biking, dining out, etc? What if your kids are juvenile delinquents and you're having to look at endless updates about how other people's kids are being inducted into the National Honor Society in between feeding the homeless and qualifying for the Olympic rowing team? What if you're doing good to stop by McDonald's and you have to look at endless pictures of That Girl You Didn't Like In High School's gourmet meals that she made from vegetables she grew in her own garden? I mean, don't you think people should be HONEST so you can feel better about yourself?

For me - the answer to that is a big old NO. Really - don't post a picture of your bunion on my account. I'd rather see a picture of that deer that comes by every morning and nibbles on your honeysuckle.

Let's consider my own Fake and Oh So Pleasant Facebook Life. This is my current profile picture.

I don't always look like this. I am not always smiling happily whilst clinging to my happy husband. I know - you're shocked, right? And this was a particularly decent hair day. My hair is sometimes excessively curly. And not in a pretty way. On curly days, Joel calls me Hagrid. As in this:

I'm guilty of posting a lot about my kids. Yesterday I posted how they'd cooked breakfast and lunch. Before that I'd posted a picture of a freaking perfect vegan espresso layered cake Camille baked ALL BY HERSELF SO THERE. I'm sorry if it upset anybody.

This might come as a huge surprise to you if you think that nothing happens in my home that I don't post on Facebook - but my kids are not perfect. Sometimes they argue, they make enormous messes and refuse to clean them up or they say they'll clean them up and then disappear for the appropriate amount of time they think it will take for me to either forget about it or clean it up myself. They're noisy. They are sometimes listless and don't seem to care about anything. They sleep a lot. They game a lot. They are hungry a lot. But I'm not going to get on Facebook and tell everyone everything they do that isn't made of awesomesauce. It would be massively disrespectful to the children, who are luckily, not using my failures and examples of lack of perfection as their status updates. In fact, I can't post anything at all about Camille without her permission - she feels rather strongly about that. So my lack of My Kids Are Horrible!! status updates doesn't indicate my children are perfect - nor is it an attempt on my part to convince you that they are - it is merely me respecting them and their privacy.

I tend to post when I'm happy. But I'm not always happy. But people are rarely taking pictures of me when I'm in the middle of a temper tantrum. I don't have a picture to post.

I also tend to post when something good has happened. But bad things happen to me, too. In fact, if you know me and this really seems to be the crux of the situation, most of my Facebook Friends do not really Know Me you know that some very bad things have happened to me. I have had family tragedies and financial distress. I've suffered loss and the pain of illness. Is it really necessary to discuss this on Facebook? (And for those of you who suffered my seemingly endless flu posts - okay - so sometimes I do a little public suffering.)

I just don't get the point of the article or the discussion that has ensued in its wake. And there is a discussion going on - I'm seeing it on Facebook. In the past week I've seen several people post about this article while saying something along the lines of, "I'm guilty of this, too." As if  they've done something to feel guilty about by not baring their souls to people they don't really know all that well on a social network.

So what are social networks for? What constitutes a friend if it isn't someone who follows you on Twitter or friends you on Facebook?

Social networks are for networking. They're for meeting people who might share common interests or goals. They're also avenues of expression and means of giving and receiving information and, often, advice. And let's not forget - they're where you can see images of Grumpy Cat at all hours of the day. As to what constitutes a friend - well, a friend is the person who reads your status updates and says, "That's bullshit."

I do think that social networking sites and blogs (!!) can be excellent places to make Real Friends - although obviously - you have to be careful. Have you seen the documentary, Catfish? If not, you should. But anyway, assuming that young female writer you just met isn't actually this guy

you can make some great Real Friends. Two of my very best friends are women I met right here on this little old blog. That's right! Leave me a comment and you, too, can have me and my neediness as your very own endless vacuum of angst all wrapped up with a bow! (It isn't easy being my friend - so be careful what you wish for.) I recently picked up a friend via Twitter. Remember that Twitter Pitch Contest I entered? I didn't win. I came in 2nd. Actually, I was named an alternate but I'm calling that 2nd because it kind of is. And actually there were 2 alternates so it's quite possible I came in 3rd but since nobody will ever know, I'll say I came in 2nd. I could say the other alternate came in 3rd but since she is my New Best Friend and will probably read this, I'll say we Share Second.

I'm pretty sure my New Best Friend is already regretting having met me, by the way. She's thinking She's not like she is on Twitter at all! She's a whiny mess! She never shuts up! She is quickly discouraged and easily downtrodden! If only she'd been more honest about herself on Twitter... I bet that stupid picture of her in the baseball cap is at least 4 years old.  **Not only is it old - it's photo-shopped. Shhhh!!

I don't think most people really want to know more about me than I share on Facebook. And I don't really want to know all that much more about them, either. And whenever I give in and post something political, I've noticed that whatever I post next - be it a picture of my new shoes or a recipe - will receive a ton of likes, as if everyone's encouraging me to behave myself.

Once I received an Un-Friending Threat following a political post - but c'mon people - it was about THIS GUY.



So is this really a thing - this Facebook Non-Reality? Are you concerned about it?

I'm not. I'm happy to hear what you had for breakfast, see a picture of your new car, hear about your kid getting accepted into college. I know this isn't all that goes on in your lives. I know that behind every perfect pie there are many that were total disasters. I know that your kids probably yell at you, that at times you worry you're a horrible mother and you've messed everything up. I know that sometimes you can't sleep at night because of bills, or illness, or marital issues. I think it's because of these things that the picture you posted of the butterfly outside your kitchen window makes me so happy. The butterfly isn't a lie - it's not a false representation of the person who took it - it's hope and optimism. And it's important.

Carry on with your fake self, Facebook. Carry on.

I Request a (Decent) Audience

I'll be watching the Grammys tonight and it has me thinking about performers and their audiences. Is it just me or has audience behavior gone down the tubes? The endless texting drives me nuts, but not nearly as much as when people use those same phones to film entire performances. At the Red Hot Chili Peppers concerts we went to last year (yes - I said concerts - we went to more than one) we stood behind people who experienced the Chili Peppers entirely through their phones. Watching anything on a phone is pretty much an exercise in frustration - so why would you want to watch a band on your phone when they're RIGHT THERE IN FRONT OF YOU? Like Life-Size and stuff?

I'm a nervous concert-goer simply because of the audience experience. The concert is only going to be as good as the asshat in front of you or behind you. I always fixate beforehand, wondering what my fellow audience members will be like - or at least the ones in my general vicinity - because they have the power to make it or break it for me.

Depending on the band - I'll expect to either sit or stand. People get very worked up over this particular issue - you have Staunch Sitters who paid good money for their tickets by golly (Staunch Sitters, in my experience, tend to say things like "by golly") and you have those who want to stand and dance no matter what - even if you're in a quaint acoustical setting. I've suffered through both scenarios - having been told to sit down repeatedly and having asked others to do so repeatedly.

With the Red Hot Chili Peppers, you're going to stand and dance. If you don't, the funk will build up to dangerous levels and you'll explode.

I know this is an old photo with John Frusciante instead of Josh Klinghoffer, but I'm still not at a point in my recovery where I am able to actually post a pic of Josh Klinghoffer.

At one of the Chili Peppers concerts, we were lucky enough to be on the floor, fairly close to the stage. I watched nervously as my fellow concert-goers arrived to take their seats around us. The people 2 rows in front of us? A squeaky clean family with young kids. GULP. The guys directly in front of us? Had their phones at the ready to record. DOUBLE GULP and I was already irritated. But the absolute worst was the couple behind us. He had that eager, crazed look of the First Date gleaming in his eyes - and she was overly made up, dressed for a cocktail party, and looking around for somebody better than the guy she'd walked in with.

The show started and everyone jumped to their feet THANK GOD. Mom and Dad put their kids on the chairs so they could see better, and both kids immediately covered their ears with their hands. "What a waste of good seats!" I yelled to Jeff. He agreed. The guys directly in front of us predictably began watching through their phones. I was in awe of their ability to stand so still and hold their arms up like that for so long. Idiots.

The couple behind us immediately began their first date chit-chat, which had to be executed through screaming, so lucky for us, we got to hear all of it. For the record - I was right - she wasn't into him at all. They didn't even remotely pay attention to the band and I wanted to turn around and yell at them that this was THE FLOOR and no place for amateurs, but that didn't seem to be the case. We were in Amateur Central down there, with the families and the phone-filmers and the corporate types. The only person I had an ounce of respect for was the girl across the aisle - she was old-school and never once gave up in her attempts to rush the stage. A Mean Security Guard Man thwarted her every effort, but she never gave up and you have to respect that, you really do.

The best audiences are the ones who love the performers they've come to see - but it's rare to end up in a devoted crowd of followers these days, even in small venues. We went to see Matisyahu at a tiny little theatre - tickets were ridiculously expensive. It was just Matisyahu, a stool, and his guitarist - should have been perfect.

I'm still embarrassed to see him without his beard - it's like he's naked. OH GOD I'M BLUSHING.

But the crowd was so-so. It was a fundraiser so a lot of the people there weren't really fans. For example, when he asked what he should perform for his closing number, the woman behind us (who had talked loudly through the entire performance) screamed out, "King Without a Crown!" triumphantly, to let everyone know she Actually Knew of a Song. Unfortunately (and as Matisyahu, himself, informed her) that had been the song he'd opened with. She either a) hadn't heard it for all of her own talking or b) had no idea what the song sounded like. Add to that a drunk guy in the balcony who yelled at oddly quiet and inappropriate times - and yeah - it could have been better.

The Jane's Addiction crowd was probably the best audience we encountered last year. That concert was also at a small venue - and I could tell immediately that it was going to be a good night.

As the audience poured in, I nodded approvingly. They were all dressed like total freaks - I had high hopes. The guys who sat down next to us wanted to get cozy and immediately began asking us when we'd first heard Jane and what did we love about them and what was our favorite album - they were pumped and I loved them so so so much for being pumped. We had Joel and his friend with us - and I think they enjoyed the crowd as much as they did the band. One guy, who was out of his mind On Something, would turn to Joel and grab him by the shoulders and just scream in his face before turning around to resume body slamming everyone. Joel was only frightened the first time or two that it happened, after that, he was totally into it. His buddy, Austen, spent a good bit of time crawling around the floor because the woman behind us was dancing so hard that her trifocals flew off her head (so we were an OLD CROWD so what?) and Austen, being the nice young man that he is, tried to help her find them.

My seat was the best seat in the house because it gave me a direct line of sight to Dave Navarro. He was right smack in front of me - I had a perfect view - and it made me happy. Dave still rocks the leather pants. Now, there are some guys still trying to rock the leather pants who just leave you feeling sad and empty inside - but with Dave - well, it does other things, none of which are sad. Anyway, so at one point Joel's screaming neighbor moved directly in front of me. He was huge and out of control. But I was like one of those women who gain super-human strength and courage when their children are trapped in burning vehicles - I poked him in his beefy bicep and explained to him that he was coming between me and Dave and the leather pants. He was stunned, at first, but then he moved over. "Can you see now Mama?" he asked. I gave him a thumbs up and he grinned.

In my mind, the Jane's Addiction concert was the best concert of the year - but I think it had as much, if not more, to do with the audience as it did the band.

We also went to see k.d. lang - who I have loved since Absolute Torch and Twang - and we were stuck in the balcony with the losers. The woman in front of us was a texter - and a facebooker - and a tweeter. And she was doing all of those things WITH HER ENTIRE BODY. She didn't just text with her fingers - she flapped her elbows around and bopped her head while she held the phone Way Up High so as to illuminate the 5 rows behind her. She was front-row balcony - and that meant she propped her feet up on the railing - big pointy shoes that she crossed and uncrossed repeatedly. I could see her status updates: I'm at the Katie Lang concert! (That's right - she didn't know how to spell the performer's name), and her texts: I'm in the balcony, where are you?, and her tweets: Having a great time at the Katie Lang concert! SHE NEVER ONCE LOOKED AT THE STAGE. Also - she was wearing too much perfume and with all of the commotion and flurry of her activities - it was wafting up into our faces. Ellie and Camille were with me, and Ellie is scent-sensitive (she's also idiot-sensitive, which was probably the bigger issue) and so we moved to the very, very, very back of the balcony area.

Down below things were different. The devoted fans were down there - so it was just k.d. lang and several thousand lesbians and they all seemed to be having a significantly better time than we were. Even so - when there's a voice like velvet in the house - you can't be completely miserable, even with a Full-Body Texter in front of you.

Pure velvet.

I'd like to say that classical arts audiences are better behaved, but they're not. At piano recitals, people come in late, whisper back and forth, jingle their keys, etc. At The Nutcracker this year, we literally sat behind a family reunion where Grandma distributed Crunch 'n Munch out of a bag by scooping it into paper cups and passing it down the rows to family members who then began to (just like you'd expect) crunch and munch. And when the act with the angels was over - a mass exodus of grandparents began. It's like they said, "I sat here as long as I could - my grandkid is now done - I'm outta here." The problem was, as they painstakingly made their ways down the steps and aisles - none of the rest of us could see the stage.

During Copellia, I watched as people tried to extend intermission into the 3rd act by simply refusing to take their seats. When MY OWN FLESH AND BLOOD made her entrance onto the stage, I couldn't see her because the people in front of us were still standing and visiting, even though the lights had gone off and the music had started and the curtain had risen.

I long for the good old days when people showed up for performances with rotten tomatoes. I know just where I'd throw them..

So tell me - what was your latest audience experience like?

The Other F-Word

So that previous post - the one where I wrote some sort of horrible inspirational dribble about the flu's silver lining - it was total bullshit. Purge it from your consciousness. Because the flu totally bites - The End.

I think I might have believed that nonsense when I wrote it - but that was before we went to the pediatrician for the secondary infections and before he casually said, "I keep seeing people come in with one flu strain only to come back a week or so later with the second strain," and before I dismissively responded, "Wow, that would suck."

It was before I CAME DOWN WITH THE SECOND STRAIN.

I went from type B to type A, which is the nastier of the two strains (I know because I am unfortunately an expert now).

At the moment, poor Camille has it. I'm hoping it stops with her but it probably won't because The Universe is apparently pooping flu on us. When it's all over I fear we'll have no choice but to burn our house down with all of our belongings inside.

I have been well (and I use that term loosely) for about a week. And I still can't hear out of my right ear and I sound like I smoke 3 packs a day. It took Jules less time to recover from brain surgery last summer.

Seriously, people, I do not think I am going to be able to end this post with any type of inspirational/upbeat commentary, whatsoever. It can't be done under the circumstances. Although, thinking of last summer, and the brain surgery and all that - oh dear, here it comes - there are worse things than a house full of otherwise healthy people coming down with the flu. There is a mother somewhere who, at this very moment, would gratefully trade places with me.

I have been that mother.

So listen to me you Stupid Dumb Stupid Flu - you're not as badass as you think you are.

Oh dear God - I think I just issued it a challenge.

BRING IT.

A Little Extra Something for the Holidays

The holidays went off without a hitch. And by without a hitch, I don't mean I did everything that should have been done - that could never happen. But there was holiday food bought, prepared and served. Gifts were purchased, wrapped, given, and received.

Gift Highlights:
Camille opening a Taylor Swift ticket.
She stared at it, trying to figure out what it was for a full minute. Then her eyes lifted to mine, she smiled hugely, and made a beeline for me. She hadn't expected that gift - we'd explained to her that concert tickets are expensive and it had been a Red Hot Chili Peppers year..

Jasper and his Mood Lighting and Soft Sheets.
I admit it. I have a set of wickless LED candles I bought at Costco. We have a little half-moon window right above our bed and they look pretty there. The remote control that came with them? BONUS. Didn't even know about it until I got them home. Jeff likes to hit the button and make hubba hubba eyes - and Jasper goes nuts. He fully appreciates the candles AND their handy dandy remote control. I don't know how the candles came to be referred to as "mood lighting" but they did and so for the past 3 months Jasper has been asking for mood lighting for his bedroom, much to the chagrin of his brother who shares the room. He also asked for new sheets - the SOFT KIND. So on Christmas he opened many toys and a few Lego sets but man oh man - you want to make an 8-year-old happy - give him some new sheets and mood lighting to go with it. BEST GIFT EVER. All that's missing now is the bear skin rug.

It was a bed sheets theme.
My dad also asked for sheets for Christmas. He didn't specify that they be "soft" but the old guy likes quality so I headed to Target with the rest of the 99%. They actually had some decent thread counts. I was pleasantly surprised. But the "high quality" sheets with the decent thread counts were marketed as PERFORMANCE SHEETS.

Performance sheets? That gave me pause. Did he NEED performance sheets? What did this mean? Were the sheets expected to perform in a certain manner or was he? And what would he perform? I checked to see if the sheets were possibly the official sponsor of the I don't know...PORN INDUSTRY...but found no such reference.

When he opened them we were sure to point out that they were Performance Sheets. Jasper looked a bit jealous.

Other than that, not much stands out in my memory in the way of gifts. I got my usual array of things I'd picked out and wrapped myself. Jeff did, too. The Joels received their usual gig of Dork/Geek items (including a poster of Vladimir Putin). Ellie was, as usual, delightfully puzzled by her gifts. Salt rocks to remove the negative ions from the air, thereby reducing stress? Um....okay, Mom. Sure. Thanks for giving me VOO DOO. Again.

We had friends (mostly Ellie's/Joel's friends) and family over for New Year's Eve. We snuck in a camping trip on New Year's Day. And the entire time we were camping in the COLD AND FREEZING TEMPS I was looking forward to one thing: Our Anniversary.

Our anniversary is January 4th - and we were only going to mark it with an evening out but man oh man had I been looking forward to it! The holidays are hectic - and we're always the hub of All Holiday Activity - and the camping was basically uncomfortable and had taken a lot of effort in packing, cooking, preparing, etc. So I was really, really, really looking forward to a romantic dinner out where I could relax and regroup with my husband.

Well, our anniversary turned out to be more than I'd expected. We spent the entire day in bed.  A lot of writhing and moaning took place and we didn't even have performance sheets. What we DID have was the flu. Type B specifically.

The children, like dominoes, began to succumb one by one. Only Ellie didn't fall - she has too much self-discipline, I suppose. We were sick on Jules' 15th birthday, and we were still sick the next day on Camille's 11th. We were sick when the day for her sleepover came along, and she didn't even care when we cancelled it. The Flu was The Boss of Us.

We're all just now getting back to normal. I still have that "sick smell" in my nose, and nothing tastes right. There is a lot of coughing and I imagine there will be for quite some time. But it's gone. It just left a mess in it's wake. But you know what? Please don't think I'm crazy but it had it's good points, The Flu did. It's quite astounding when you're of the mindset that you have Things to Do and the world will fall apart if you don't do them and then something slams into you and says that you're basically not at all as important as you thought you were and guess what? You HAVE TO STOP.

I don't stop very often.

It was weird - to stop. But I did. All of the plans I'd made came and went while I napped, coughed, and groaned. Camille and Jasper were in bed with me and we watched cooking shows and read books - all while the sun moved from one window to the other - until the room was orange like it gets in late afternoon - until the room cooled off with the evening air and all became quiet. Another day had gone by - and we'd somehow spent it doing nothing but being. Just being sick. And the rest of the world allowed it - because we had The Flu after all. The world looked at us and said, "Oh well, you have The Flu. I'll just keep going but you stay right where you are, just mark your place for a while. It's perfectly acceptable."

It was, at times, almost nice.

Today we're back to our usual life. The dishwasher is going and so is the dryer. I can hear the television in one room and my teenage sons messing around in another. Ellie has gone back to college - Jeff is at work. I am happy to feel well, and more appreciative than ever of what that means. But also, I'm strangely appreciative of the experience of having been forced to stop.

Maybe, just maybe, I should do it more often. Maybe I should take a day, every now and then, to climb in bed with my babies to nap and read and watch the sun go from one window to the next... and tell the rest of the world it's just going to have to wait.

Pumpkin Bombing. Again.

YES! We bombed the river with pumpkins on Thanksgiving, again. I know you've been dying with curiosity...

If you're new to the blog and you're all like WHAT IS PUMPKIN BOMBING? It is exactly what it sounds like. About twelve years ago, as I drove over the old rickety wooden bridge that crossed the San Antonio river...the one on our dirt road...I thought to myself, "Dang. I sure would like to drop a pumpkin over the bridge into the river. I bet it would make a big splash." And yes, twelve years ago - I was technically well into adulthood. Anyway - since that Thanksgiving found us with a couple of pumpkins still intact, we decided to see if it would be as much fun as it sounded.

IT WAS. They made huge gigantic wonderful splashes!! Some of them even exploded upon impact!! We were hooked.

We've done it every year since. Sometimes with a lot of people, sometimes with a few. We used to hold onto the kids by their pants so they wouldn't follow the pumpkins into the river. Now they're all bigg-ish and such and we don't do that anymore. A few other changes - in the name of progress - our delightful wooden bridge was torn down and a butt-ugly concrete one was put in its place. The dirt road was paved. So our pumpkin bombing isn't as picturesque as it once was, but it is still freakishly fun.

We had a small Thanksgiving this year - it was just what I needed. By small, I mean our family of 7, plus El's boyfriend, my dad and sister, and a few friends.

My dad is counting down back there. It's good that he counted down. Because when he tosses he cheats. How can you cheat at pumpkin tossing you ask?

Well, you'd think the bombing and the splashing and whatnot would be enough. But this gang wants a WINNER. Actually, it was probably Ellie who started that. Let's say it was.

Once the pumpkins are tossed, everyone runs across to the other side of the bridge to see who's pumpkin comes out the other side first. And if you're wondering how we tell the pumpkins apart, let me just say that I don't think we can. Hence the ensuing arguments as to who won. Here is the winning pumpkin. Who is belongs to is still being debated.

Before the tossing, there is all kinds of posturing. Here is The Joels.

Then there's posing for pics. Papa with Camille, Ellie, and Jasper. 

And here's ME and the man.

And finally, as we left the pumpkins, the river, and a gaggle of gawkers who never did figure out what we were doing but seemed to enjoy themselves, nonetheless...Camille took this lovely picture.

It would be perfect without the power lines.

I hope your Thanksgiving was as lovely, even if you wasted your pumpkins by baking them in pies.

The Next Big Thing!

I'm participating in #PitchWars - a contest where a few writers are chosen by writing mentors to hook up with and prepare pitches for agents. There's a Writing Meme going around and the hopefuls are participating. I'm a hopeful, so here I go.

*Clears throat and announces* The Next Big Thing (!!)

This is my attempt at concise answers STOP LAUGHING.

1. What is the title of your book?

Just a Little Sting. Look at me being concise!

2. Where did the idea come from for the book?

I met two people in the span of two weeks who were synesthetes - meaning they had synesthesia - meaning they actually freaking see sounds as colors, shapes, and even thoughts and smells. This just blew me away. I'd gone my entire life without having met a single person with synesthesia and now I knew two of them! Clearly, The Universe was trying to tell me something. It's very concerned with me and my daily goings on.

My mind began whirring with the possibilities of creating a character with synesthesia. Both of the people I'd met were classical musicians, and so it seemed only natural that my character would be a musician, too. Only mine is of the electric guitar variety.

Most people with synesthesia find it to be a minor inconvenience, at times. Who wants to read a story about someone who is minorly inconvenienced? Not me! So my character is often completely crippled by his synesthesia. It's been a problem throughout his entire life and it's led to some bad behavior. In other words, my bad boy has issues. Poor baby.

That was me not being concise. I'll make up for it on the next question.

3. What genre does your book fall under?

Contemporary Romance

4. What actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

Cleo, my red-headed 30-years-old and still trying to find her way in life heroine, would ideally be played by Amy Adams. Isn't she adorable?

Julian, my guitar-wielding hero, would have to be a conglomeration. Casting people! Get on that! *snaps fingers*

The actor would have to look a little like John Frusciante when he's playing guitar:

And he'd have to have tattoos like Adam Levine.

And he simply MUST talk like Russell Brand. We're all suckers for accents. Especially if they're colourful!

So basically, I don't know who would play Julian, but it would NOT be this.

5. What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?


Oh dear. If I write a huge run-on sentence that makes all other run-on sentences look like they were merely jogging or possibly running in place, do you think anyone would notice?

Here goes:

Julian risks his hard-won sanity and sobriety by stepping back into the spotlight of rock and roll in order to win the affections of Cleo, a woman he mistakenly believes can't love him without fame - because without fame, he thinks he's just a freak.

That wasn't so bad. I inserted a hyphen in there all smooth-like, though. Technically STILL ONE SENTENCE. And it leaves out so much and this is why I so desperately want to be chosen for #PitchWars....I need the help!! HELP ME.

6. Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

The world of self-publishing has changed. It really has. It isn't your grandmother's world of self-publishing, anymore. There's more to self-publishing now than people hawking cookbooks and memoirs in the back rooms of conferences. But I want an agent. Agents know things. They know smarty-smart-smart things. Also? I work better with a buddy.

7. How long did it take you to write the first draft of your novel?

A freakishly long time. I foolishly thought the transition from nonfiction to fiction would be easy. Aren't I kind of cute when I'm all innocent and naive?

It was not easy. I'm a huge reader, and I thought I'd instinctively know how to write fiction because of it. But I didn't. People know a book is bad when they're reading it, but they don't know why it's bad. I had to learn the whys of the bad, and then I worked on the ways of the good. Like a Jedi.

It took over two years. Don't judge! I did it while dealing with the sexual irresponsibility we like to call our five kids! And during this time, one of them had brain surgery. That's right - I'm playing the brain surgery card. 

The novel I'm writing now is progressing at lightning speed in comparison. Thank God.

8. What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

I like my romance steamy, but I like my characters to have depth. I like layers to dig through, and humor is a must. If you like the novels written by Susan Elizabeth Phillips or Rachel Gibson, you'll like Just a Little Sting.

9. Who or what inspired you to write this book?

As I stated above, I met two musicians with synesthesia and that got the ball rolling.

10. What else about your book might pique the reader's interest?

The characters in this story are trying to reconcile who they used to be with who they want to be, while who they really are slowly creeps up on them. It's what we're all doing, really. Only my characters are prettier than we are while they're doing it. Also? Sex scenes where a synesthete is involved are colorful, to say the least.

Excerpt

     This situation was annoying as hell and hadn't gone at all according to plan. The plan had been to whip off his sunglasses and cook the redhead with a smoldering look even though nobody wearing a stained t-shirt and some sort of horrible men's trunks deserved one. In no part of his plan was he supposed to be wearing women's clothing while suffering the scathing scrutiny of an unimpressed pint-sized bundle of bravado.

     He lifted his eyes towards hers and did what he did best; a highly perfected sexy glance, followed by a boyish gaze through the lashes. He deliberately pulled his eyes away from her brilliant green peepers for a greedy stop at her mouth, where he noticed she was nervously biting her bottom lip. Cute. Then he let his eyes drift intentionally lower to make the obligatory pause at the breasts. Okay, more than a pause. White t-shirt. No bra. Very nice.

     When his eyes made it back to hers, he was gratified by a furious blush spreading across her cheeks.