Breathe In Breathe Out

Self-Acceptance, Denial, and Dancing!

2012-01-26T15:06:00.000-08:00

I just turned down an invitation to a scrapbooking, stamping, card-making party. Here’s what I told my friend Becca.

Thank you for the invite, but after prayer and counseling, I finally gave myself permission to be uncrafty. Now I’m a free woman! Thank-you, Jesus! And the only time I do crafts is when volunteering in my kids’ classrooms and even their teachers are learning that it’s best not to assign Mrs. Denmark to the craft table.

It’s true. Well, ok, not the counseling part. But I did struggle with this for a long time. I have friends who create the most beautiful cards and scrapbooks. And when I see their work, I feel like my macaroni art is somehow less-than. But finally I realized that I don’t have to be crafty to be a valuable member of the party-planning committee for my second-grader’s class. Help is always needed at the games station or the food table.

And when my boys graduate, get married, or hack the Pentagon, they will not expect a magnificent scrapbook detailing every step of the journey. Their wives or the FBI might ask for such documentation, but I will send them some version of the email I sent Becca.

Now, you might be asking, and rightly so, when I plan to apply this same process of self-acceptance to my exercise endeavors. When am I going to come to the realization that I cannot and will never be able to Zumba?

All I can tell you is that I’m still in that stage of wanting so badly to be like my friend Rebecca, who happens to be a Zumba instructor and happens to rock hardcore. I’m still hoping that if I keep going, keep trying, what I do in Zumba class will someday look a little like what Rebecca does. I know, I have some disastrously-executed scrapbook pages that should clue me in otherwise.

In Zumba world, I’m still trying to be someone I’m not. Still lamenting, “Why, oh why, was I born without rhythm?”

Recently my husband came home from a Boy Scout pack meeting where a Native American dance troop performed traditional dances.

“You should have been there,” he teased, “You look more Native American than all of those dancers combined.”

He’s right. All my family’s Native American heritage seemed to come out in me. Which is cool. I like my cheekbones and dark hair.

Kory went on to complain about his headache. “Do they have to use the drum for every song?”

“Yes,” I explained. “My people have no rhythm. Without the drum, it’s just random stomping and screaming.”

Oh, to be Latin! To move like a flame! Like an exotic bird in flight! Like a river of melted chocolate! Heck, I’d even settle for dancing like a cucumber in a sombrero.

But it’s not to be, and someday, with prayer and counseling, I will accept my rhythm-less state. I’ll stop asking God why he made me with these hips and this badonkadonk yet gave me the moves of a walrus. At that point, I will probably buy a curly, red wig and start clogging. Maybe I can tap my Irish roots for a little Riverdancing magic.

So what about you? What have you given your self permission to stink at? What are you in denial about? And what are you going to keep working on just in case the term "a natural" is for the birds?

What do You Collect?

2012-01-18T08:19:00.000-08:00

Owls.

To some they’re creepy. To some they’re cute. To some they’re Ordinary Wizarding Levels, exams every Hogwarts student must take.

I find them fascinating.

And sometimes creepy.

And sometimes cute.

In all honesty, I can’t explain their appeal to me. I’d like to say something clever about owl symbolism. But I don’t think wisdom had anything to do with my impulse purchase of owl towels, or the incessant begging that got me my owl PJs for Christmas.

And I certainly can’t claim any sort of dignity in this picture. I showed it to my kids and when Monkey laughed, Chunky leaped to my defense. “Don’t laugh at Mommy,” he told his older brother.

“It’s all right,” I said, “Mommy is wearing an owl hat. You can laugh at Mommy when she’s wearing an owl hat.”

Sometimes there’s an explanation behind why we like certain things. I know several people who love butterflies because they represent metamorphosis. My friend and critique partner, Beth Vogt, who gave me the awesome owl hat, loves hummingbirds and has a lovely reason for doing so.

She isn’t fond of owls, however, after a particularly nasty one sprang from my imagination into the pages of my novel and made her skin crawl. I think giving me the hat was her way of saying she accepts me despite the crazy things I make her read. Either that or she wanted to see if I'd wear it to the next writing conference I attend.

Another friend, also named Beth, who made my awesome steampunk owl bag, is all about octopi. She doesn't exactly collect them, yet. But she is developing her own line of steampunk baby accessories called Kinder Kraken. I hope someday to write children's stories about the adorable baby kraken she's created.

Speaking of writing, as I said before, owls have already made it into one of my books. Yes, Blood Beak the owl is horrifying and unnatural not cute and cuddly, but I’ve already thought of another character, Woot the owl, who might make an appearance in a children’s book someday. And he WILL be soft and downy and squishy in all the right ways.

I also collect ornate keys and love clocks, and I have stories brewing that involve those items. Even if at first we struggle to explain why we like a certain thing, if we reflect a moment we often discover that the object ignites our imagination or connects with our emotions.

So I’d love to know, what do you like? What draws you to a shop window? What do you collect? Is there a specific reason or does it simply capture your fancy?

And how do YOU feel about owls? Creepy? Cute? Equivalent to the SATs? Please share.

Writing, Weaponry, and my 2012 Song of the Year

2012-01-05T18:35:00.000-08:00

Here we go with the New Year thing again. It seems like everyone is picking a special word for the year. A term that represents a goal to strive for. Dream. Reach. Scrub. A worthy discipline to inspire them. Love. Forgive. Sabotage.

I like this new trend of picking one word instead of making an unkeepable New Year’s resolution. Really, I do. The problem is, I have trouble staying focused on one word. Still, I decided to give it a shot. I concentrated and tried to come up with a word for myself for 2012. This is what happened:

Surrender
Thrive
Digest
Blueberry

Yeah, you see the problem. They’re all such great words! I couldn’t possibly pick one.

After I gave myself a migraine trying to think about only one word for more than a nanosecond, I admitted defeat and decided to carry on my tradition of picking a song for the year.

It took me all of two seconds to realize the obvious choice for 2012’s song of the year. Given my near constant state of career frustration, it could be none other than Vampire Weekend’s "Giving Up the Gun."

Let me explain.

On second thought, I think I’ll make you watch the video before I explain. That’ll be more fun.

All I’m going to say is, I’m pretty sure this song is NOT about making a career as a novelist or meant to be any sort of commentary on the publishing industry. But it could be.

I love it! So many good moments. Joe Jonas’ fancy footwork, disinterested handshake and disgusted shirt wipe. The samurai who hacks the ball in half. The fake blonde twins. The ambiguous guys in racing gear. Ahem, THE AMAZON! Overconfident Jake Gyllenhaal getting pinged on the butt. And, of course, Little Red Tights playing her way to the top only to face her toughest competitor—herself.

I laugh every time I see that video, but it wasn’t in my thoughts when I adopted "Giving Up the Gun" as this year’s song. Really it was the title and lyrics that sprang into my mind when I anticipated the coming year. Apparently, the song refers to a period in Japanese history when the country extradited foreigners, cut off trade, and instead of using guns, reverted back to the sword. Sorta rocks, doesn't it? But it’s the weary tone that strikes me. There such a sense of loss, regret, longing, defeat, and, of course, flaming tennis balls.

You see how I can relate?

Just as I did at this time last year, I find myself discouraged, without a contract, without direction, in between projects and wondering why bother? Why pour myself into another 90,000 word manuscript that no one cares about? How can I do this to my family? Aren’t I depriving them of time and resources and balanced meals for my own selfish, unrealistic goals of being an author?

My husband has heard all of this whiney mumbo jumbo about a thousand times, but, because he is awesome, he doesn’t tell me to give it up and go get a job. He probably should, but he doesn’t. Instead he is patient, understanding, and encouraging. Despite his crusty, logical exterior, he has an artist’s heart. After one of my recent rants he told me to put all the publishing stuff aside and just write because it’s what I love. Instead of trying harder to make money and advance my career, he encouraged me to let go of the stuff that weighs me down the most—my continued professional failure—and just do what I love.

In the writing world there’s a collective joke about getting stuck somewhere in your plot. If you say, “Man enters with a gun,” around writers, they’ll chuckle and recognize that the author is trying to force action and excitement into a scene that has gone wandering off into La La Land. “Man enters with a gun” is a last ditch effort to save something probably not worth saving. Better to go back, rewrite, or start fresh.

This year I am giving up the gun. I refuse to use force—to push and strive and cry and sweat in my attempt to achieve my goals. I am going to write for fun and for love and because I have the most awesome husband on the planet and because I can’t make myself think about one word at a time and because I love my writing community and because my brother wants me to blog more. I will accept and revel in any opportunities God places in my lap, but I will not enter into any professional encounters holding a gun.

If you’re wondering if I intend to start carrying a rusty sword around, or a tennis racket for that matter, you can rest assured that I will be weapon-free for the next twelve months. I may have to get a pair of red tights, which, on certain legs (not mine), can be slightly intimidating. But I promise to use my crimson hosiery only for good.

Mom's Twelve Days of Christmas

2011-12-19T19:25:00.000-08:00

On the first day of Christmas,
my mother said to me
Don’t eat all the sugar cookies.

On the second day of Christmas,
my mother said to me
You still have chores,
And don’t eat all the sugar cookies.

On the third day of Christmas,
my mother said to me
Don’t pinch him,
You still have chores,
And don’t eat all the sugar cookies.

On the fourth day of Christmas,
my mother said to me
Gum drops aren’t Legos,
Don’t pinch him,
You still have chores,
And don’t eat all the sugar cookies.

On the fifth day of Christmas,
my mother said to me
Try thinking of others,
Gum drops aren’t Legos,
Don’t pinch him,
You still have chores,
And don’t eat all the sugar cookies.

On the sixth day of Christmas,
my mother said to me
The dog is not a reindeer,
Try thinking of others,
Gum drops aren’t Legos,
Don’t pinch him,
You still have chores,
And don’t eat all the sugar cookies.

On the seventh day of Christmas,
my mother said to me
Wear a clean shirt for pictures,
The dog is not a reindeer,
Try thinking of others,
Gum drops aren’t Legos,
Don’t pinch him,
You still have chores,
And don’t eat all the sugar cookies.

On the eighth day of Christmas,
my mother said to me
Find me some earplugs,
Wear a clean shirt for pictures,
The dog is not a reindeer,
Try thinking of others,
Gum drops aren’t Legos,
Don’t pinch him,
You still have chores,
And don’t eat all the sugar cookies.

On the ninth day of Christmas,
my mother said to me
Santa’s never coming,
Find me some earplugs,
Wear a clean shirt for pictures,
The dog is not a reindeer,
Try thinking of others,
Gum drops aren’t Legos,
Don’t pinch him,
You still have chores,
And don’t eat all the sugar cookies.

On the tenth day of Christmas,
my mother said to me
I’m calling Grandma,
Santa’s never coming,
Find me some earplugs,
Wear a clean shirt for pictures,
The dog is not a reindeer,
Try thinking of others,
Gum drops aren’t Legos,
Don’t pinch him,
You still have chores,
And don’t eat all the sugar cookies.

On the eleventh day of Christmas,
my mother said to me
Fudge is not for finger-painting
I’m calling Grandma,
Santa’s never coming,
Find me some earplugs,
Wear a clean shirt for pictures,
The dog is not a reindeer,
Try thinking of others,
Gum drops aren’t Legos,
Don’t pinch him,
You still have chores,
And don’t eat all the sugar cookies.

On the twelfth day of Christmas,
my mother said to me
Surely school is coming,
Fudge is not for finger-painting
I’m calling Grandma,
Santa’s never coming,
Find me some earplugs,
Wear a clean shirt for pictures,
The dog is not a reindeer,
Try thinking of others,
Gum drops aren’t Legos,
Don’t pinch him,
You still have chores,
And don’t eat all the sugar cookies.

Merry Christmas to all you frazzled moms out there!

Crouching Caterpillar, Hidden Unibrow

2011-12-12T20:58:00.000-08:00

Last week, on a whim, I got my eyebrows waxed. As you might’ve guessed, I’ve never gone under the wax before. Somehow I grew up blissfully unaware of my own forehead fleece. I’m not sure when I realized my brows were denser than the rainforest. I think it slowly dawned on me, not unlike my need for a training bra in fifth grade.

A couple friends have invited me along to their regular brow waxing appointments. Not like, “You get eyebrows waxed, me give you banana,” but in a friendly, non gorilla-hating way.

So, I figured, what the heck?

But I wanted to experience my first de-browing alone. I mean, it is sorta personal, right?

I went to the salon where mom and I get our pedicures. When I walked in without her, they assumed I was there to buy a gift certificate. When I boldly stated, “I want a manicure and brow wax,” Vivian beamed her approval. I like Vivian. She always adds cool water to the pedicure basin because she knows I’m a wimp and can’t take the hot stuff. And she’s not overly enthusiastic with the heel file. In short, she doesn’t make beauty hurt.

Unfortunately, Vivian doesn’t do the waxing.

But I didn’t know that, so I relaxed while she gave me a gel manicure. I admit, her drawn-on purple eyebrows gave me pause. Would I have to draw my own brows back on when she was done with me? Surely sweet Vivian wouldn’t be that extreme.

When Vivian finished with my nails, she sent me to a closet room in the back and went on to her next client. That’s when I got a little nervous. The woman in the wax room didn’t offer her name, but pointed to a blanket-covered cot with a pillow for my head.

I tried to subtly scope out her brows while I got situated. What I saw didn’t put my mind at ease. Did this woman understand I just wanted a trim? Or would I leave the salon pink, shiny, and permanently surprised?

I tried to explain. I told her I was used to having heavy brows. I almost ran. But then it was too late.

The first strip wasn’t even as bad as pulling off a band-aid. No sweat, I thought. By the third I was wincing. But it didn’t take long. Pretty soon she gooped the space between my brows, smoothed the paper on, and worked her magic.

I prepared to leave, confident I at least had some remaining hair. That’s when the tweezers came out. She yanked away at my newly-waxed skin and actually started talking to me.

“You beautiful.”

The way she said it made it sound like I was due to be sacrificed to a volcano any minute. I was confused but responded with a “thank-you.”

She pursed her lips, plucked, shook her head and again said in a tragic voice, “You beautiful.”

I half-expected her to add, “too bad you’ll turn back into a Yeti when you leave here.”

Again I mumbled my thanks.

Finally it seemed like she was wrapping up with the torture. She sighed and held up two fingers. “You come back. Two weeks! You come back. You beautiful. Go see.”

She directed me to the mirror, and I peered in to discover she had indeed left a few of my dark brows—and a lot of pink skin.

“See. You like. Not so messy. You come back. Two weeks!”

I promised to return for more pain and beat it out of the room. I’m still not used to the new me. For one thing, my street cred with the native Sasquatches took a huge hit. And I keep getting carried away with the eye shadow. And then there are the bumps. An uncooked Christmas turkey’s got nothing on me in the dimple department.

Yeah, I know, you want a picture. All I have is this one of me trying to figure out how to use the camera on Persephone. You can’t see my eyebrows, but I think my confused expression says it all.

Does every new iPhone owner have similar picture? I’m just curious.

But I do have something almost as wooly as my pre-waxed eyebrows to share with you. Yes, these guys have way too much time on their hands, but their dogs are awesome!

Intelligent Women with Interesting Names

2011-12-06T18:55:00.000-08:00

We'll get to those smart ladies in a minute. There's always a lead-up, you know?

Poor Monkey got hit with a whammy this weekend. He is still recovering from an awful case of stomach flu. We went to Urgent Care on Sunday when he couldn’t keep anything down and couldn’t stop crying. At first they told us to prepare for a trip to the hospital in case it was appendicitis, but thankfully it turned out to be a virus. They gave him a magic dissolves-on-contact pill that not only allowed him to keep those vital liquids down, but also made him inexplicably chatty. He went from a moaning lump under a blanket to a pale but animated boy, detailing the war between medicine and sickness going on in his body. Kory and I laughed and cringed at his added sound effects, especially the explosions.

During all of this, my phone died. I mean really died. For the last time. Kory tried to resuscitate it, but this time there was no Lazarus moment for the old Blackberry.

We’ve both had our Blackberry Storms for a few years now and have talked about upgrading, but we tend to put off those expenditures until they’re absolutely necessary. Yes, until no amount of prayer, techno wizardry, or duct tape will do the trick.

I’m not sure why this is the case because Kory loves gadgets. But, you see, I also love boots, and it could be that my boot budget is stomping the gadget budget. Gadget budget. That’s fun to say. Go, go Gadget Budget!

Ahem.

Knowing his wife could not go long without a phone—and, more importantly, knowing she’d be late to or forget every appointment without one—Kory started shopping for a new mobile right away. He sent me a few links and asked my opinion. When he couldn’t get more out of me than, “The iPhone is pretty,” he took matters into his own hands.

I walked through the office on the way to the bathroom, and he gave me a look that either meant, “Don’t go in there” or “I’ve done something out of character.” Naturally, I froze and lifted one eyebrow.

“I bought us new phones.”

I said, “Oh, you got one, too? Did you get the really fancy one you were talking about?”

“I got us both iPhones. Yes, I got you the white one.”

Squeal!

I can’t wait to interact with my intelligent assistant, Siri, who comes with the new iPhone. I’m hoping she’ll be something like Siri Mitchell, one of my favorite authors. The next time I get stuck on a plot point in a novel, I’ll just ask Siri for help. I can’t lose! Siri and I are gonna write some awesome stuff. Well, the real Siri Mitchell already rights awesome stuff, but her namesake and I, we’re gonna make waves.

Despite the whole virtual assistant thing, I thought naming my new iPhone Siri was a little on the nose. Since it’s white and sparkly, I briefly toyed with naming it Edward, but then I decided to act my age.

All the snow/ice/winter names went through my head, especially since we’ve just had a cold snap. But then I hit on the perfect name. I’m calling my new phone Persephone, after the albino heroine in Leanna Renee Hieber's Strangely Beautiful series. Isn’t that perfect?

If, right now, you’re scratching your head and wondering who in their right mind names their iPhone Persephone, then clearly you’re reading the wrong blog.

Come on, I know I’m not the only one who names my phone, my van, my credit card debt. What’s the strangest thing you’ve named? And no, this is not the forum for divulging nicknamed body parts. Yes, we all do it, but my mother reads this blog, so we’re gonna pretend we don’t. Deal?

Wuthering Wednesday

2011-11-29T21:12:00.000-08:00

“A ruffled mind makes a restless pillow.” –Charlotte Brontë

I can’t read this quote without picturing feathers poking out of my ears.

I know we're all struggling to get back into routine after Thanksgiving plus get a leg-up on all the holiday stuff. I’m certainly hurting for sleep, but when I finally go to bed, my mind scours endless lists. Last night I actually prayed I’d remember to call the insurance company and pay the toll bill today. I know. Lame, right? Here there’s famine and loss and disease and I’m like, “God, help me remember to pay the stupid bills.”

Every year I tell myself I’m going to be smart, restrained. I’m going to make time to enjoy what really matters in the Christmas season. And every year, I spend way too much money, frantically bake a bazillion cookies, and make one or two poor gift choices.

For instance, last night I was determined to take advantage of any and all Cyber Monday deals, even if that meant sitting glued to a chair, endlessly clicking through clogged websites. My mom’s been looking for a new handbag, and Sam Moon had free shipping. I figured, if I can’t find something there, then the right bag just doesn’t exist. Unfortunately, Chunky kept trying to help with my Cyber Monday shopping. His tastes run a little flashy.

Once I reigned in my 7-year-old fashion guru, I clicked through page after page of purses. And you know what? I DID NOT find the right one. So I didn’t buy anything. For me, this is growth. I still went to bed and imagined all the names on my list and mentally arranged purchased a yet-to-be-purchased presents beneath them, and, then, yes, prayed about the bills. Come to think of it, I’m sure I’m not the only one doing that right about now.

It’s not all fuss and bother though. I love opening our box of Christmas books every year. I love that my boys still let me read them aloud. I love that every year we wonder how in the world we’re going to put up a 12-foot tree in our living room and every year it fits.

I love that Kory and I have the same argument about white lights versus colored lights. We'll be in our nineties, and he'll still be trying to string those obnoxious neon LED lights all over the house, and I'll shake my cane at him and say, "You can put those outside! Only classy white lights on MY Christmas tree." And I love that we watch the same stupid movie every year—Just Friends, which is NOT a traditional family film but somehow has become a tradition for the two of us.

I look forward to the annual Christmas party our friends' give that lasts longer than planned because of a board game or heated round of Guitar Hero. Inevitably, several children lose the battle to exhaustion and have to be carried to the car, arms dangling limp over Daddy's back. I think I may have exited the party in the same manner a time or two.

And then there are the dozens of letters Chunky will write to Santa. (This year he discovered the Amazon wish list and asked me what Santa's email address was.) I look forward to the hours Monkey will spend quietly absorbed with new Lego sets on Christmas day. Legos are the only thing in the universe that CAN quietly absorb Monkey. Oh dear! I just had a horrible Lego/Borg mash-up vision starring my ten-year-old pop into my head.

It's time to put the feathers to rest.

So what about you? What gets you ruffled this time of year? And what bits of craziness do you savor?

Not As Planned

2011-11-21T19:44:00.000-08:00

I have survived another turducken feast. I’m a little bit terrified that this will become a family tradition for my mother’s birthday. It all started last year when she announced she wanted to order a turkey, stuffed with a chicken, stuffed with a duck. And she wanted me to cook it. Being a turducken virgin, I listened wide-eyed, mouth agape. People really eat such abominations?

It turned out to be much less grisly than I thought. You can read an account of Turducken: Year One here.

This year, things did not go as planned. A few weeks ago Mom informed me that she’d ordered two turduckens with seafood stuffing. I reminded her of Kory’s shellfish allergy. She rang up Cajun Grocer and changed the order to pork-stuffed turduckens. That’s right, turkey, chicken, duck AND pork. Oh, my!

Imagine our surprise when two giant Styrofoam crates containing FOUR turduckens landed on our doorstep last week. The Cajun Grocer shipped both orders, and I had four, obscenely-filled birds to wrestle into my freezer. Luckily I hadn’t been to Costco in awhile. Mom’s assistant, Becca, and I rearranged, hoisted, hauled, and grunted all that poultry into the chest freezer. At one point I thought of sitting on the lid while Becca tied it down with a rope, but in the end we declared victory over mutant barnyard fowl.

Our two extra turduckens found homes of their own without us having to set up a pen in the Wal-mart parking lot, trusting their cuteness would ensnare passersby.

We cleaned and cooked all weekend and Sunday evening our guests arrived. The five boys immediately suited up in a mixture of Clone Trooper gear, knight costumes, and Nerf weaponry. Then they staged a medieval Star Wars smackdown before dinner. In the process, 7-year-old Chunky got his feelings hurt. You know how these political conflicts can be.

We sat down to eat, and I noticed Chunky sitting in an armchair, refusing to take his place at the table. But I was too busy serving to deal with it. A few minutes later I looked over and he’d vanished. I found him in his room, underneath his giant pillow pet, bawling. He explained the situation in Snot Cry, which most people can speak but very few can interpret. Distracted, I gave him a hug, delivered the you-have-a-chance-to-forgive speech, and told him to come down to dinner when he’d finished crying.

I returned to our guests wondering how I could get Chunky into acting and siphon some of the drama from his personality. He never came down to dinner, so when all the other kids finished eating, I called Monkey over and told him to go up and tell his brother that the others were done and he should come down and eat.

Moments later Monkey returned with a note from Chunky. It said, “Tell her to bring it up.”

I laughed. Ah, the audacity of a wounded 7-year-old. I sent Monkey up again but he returned with another note.

“And bring a table.”

Clearly Chunky was enjoying his role as little lord of the manor.

I sent Monkey up again and after awhile he came back with yet another note from his brother.

“I’m still hungry.”

This time I went up. Chunky and I had a chat that included more Snot Cry. Eventually, he pulled it together and appeared, pale and sniffing, to devour two turkey legs. Drama makes a boy hungry.

Thankfully everyone else behaved much better and we had an enjoyable evening. When our friends went home I collapsed on the couch, only waking when Kory said he was going to bed.

This morning I awoke to a terrible realization. I never put the rest of the turducken in the fridge. All that meat gone to waste. I felt like a pile of discarded gizzards as one by one my family members asked, “Where’s the turducken?”

I can only hope this means that next year I will not be trusted with the bird of many names. With my luck, we’ll go luau and I’ll have to roast a pig in the back yard. Can I just say now that I don’t want to wear coconuts and a grass skirt in November?

Wuthering Wednesdays

2011-11-15T17:23:00.000-08:00

For some time I’ve wanted to incorporate a weekly post sharing fun and interesting Brontë quotes and facts with you, my hapless blog readers. In order to give you fair warning, I’ve come up with the tidy moniker Wuthering Wednesdays. So when you see Wuthering Wednesday in your inbox or on your blog feed, you’ll know the post will be Brontë related.

As I said, I hope to make Wuthering Wednesday a regular thing here on Breathe In Breathe Out. Naturally this means it will be hit and miss, half the entries will show up on Thursday because I’ve forgotten whereabouts in the week Wednesday is, and I will likely go off on tangents about footwear or cheese.

As an introduction, the Brontës were a nineteenth-century family living in Yorkshire where Patrick Brontë was a curate. The siblings’ creativity is legendary, with Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre and Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights hailed as classics of English literature. I’m sure most of you are familiar with this extraordinary, tragic family so I’m not going to give you a history lesson or rehash any of my college essays. I’d rather give a brief background or relevant info with each quote, so let’s get to it.

“A person who has not done one half his day's work by ten o’ clock, runs a chance of leaving the other half undone.”

This quote is from Wuthering Heights. Nelly, who plays many roles in the novel—from nurse, to servant, to confidant—is chiding Mr. Lockwood, renter of Thrushcross Grange, for staying up late and sleeping in come morning.

In the scene, Lockwood begs Nelly to continue her story—that of Heathcliff and Catherine—even though it’s eleven o’clock and Nelly wants to go to bed. After all, she’s the housekeeper and she probably gets up before everyone else.

I have to say, I have sympathy for both the characters. Like Nelly, I’ve been on the receiving end of pleading eyes and “it’s not that late really,” and “please, just one more chapter.” Of course, those requests come from my kids, not from a grown man who is also my employer. But I feel for whiney ol’ Lockwood, too. I’ve become engrossed in a story and stayed up way too late greedily consuming every word. Last night was one of those nights. I blame Lisa Bergren and her River of Time series for that.

The difference, of course, is that Lockwood can sleep in, and neither Nelly nor I can. We have work to do. And a ten o’clock deadline, apparently.

Of Birthdays, Bags and Robots

2011-11-08T11:13:00.000-08:00

Yesterday was my birthday but I believe in celebrating pretty much all week. I started on Saturday by shopping with my friend, Steampunk Beth. Here is what you should know about Beth:

1. She has an engineering degree and a cool math/science brain. She actually understands what my husband does for a living.
2. In an extremely unfair double sprinkle from the talent shaker, Beth came into some wicked creative skills. She writes fantastic fiction and non-fiction.
3. She’s an artist who specializes in octopi. Yes, octopi. Multiple octopuses.
4. She has great legs that make me jealous.

Ok, I think that covers it. Hmm, it sorta looks like I hate Steampunk Beth. I don’t! She’s awesome and even though she’s off-the-charts talented, she’s also really nice so I don’t club her knees or anything when I see her.

So Beth and I have been trying to go to The-Store-That-Is-Never-Open for months now. I’m not sure how Beth learned of this little place, or if she’s ever actually been into the store, or if anyone has for that matter. But we’ve both stood staring into the window at normal times of the day, like 11:00 AM on a Saturday or 2:30 PM on a Tuesday. The sign on the door helpfully proclaims their hours as 10:00 AM-4:00 PM Monday through Saturday, or something like that. And yet, they are never open.

Saturday was no exception, so we window gazed at the retro fashions and intriguing items that hinted at steampunk flair possibilities in the hands of someone fabulous like Beth.

Then she took me to the surplus store in Old Colorado City. I have never been in a surplus store and rather wondered if they’d take a look at my high-heeled, lace-up boots and make me leave, especially when Beth disappeared and left me--surrounded by racks of camo--alone in a foreign land.

Turns out surplussy folks are nice, and they really admired Beth’s handmade-by-her, embellished military messenger bag. You can buy one of these cool bags on Etsy. I, however, am getting one for my birthday. See, it IS possible for people with shapely legs to be incredibly sweet and not at all worthy of incineration by death ray vision.

Next we hit Manitou Springs, which, if you’re not in The Springs and don’t know, is where cool people shop and hang out. I pretended I was cool and bought this hat!

Awesomesauce!

When I got home, Kory and I went out for a celebration date. We saw Real Steel. If you’re wondering how it is that I ended up seeing a robot boxing movie for MY birthday, let me just say, you’re not the only one. But it had Hugh Jackman in it and turned out to be pretty good, if a little manly.

The next evening, Sunday, the boys insisted on celebrating my birthday by watching a family movie. They informed me that I got to choose the movie, as long as it wasn’t girly, grown-up, or scary. As you can imagine, it was pretty hard to choose given such freedom, but we ended up watching Despicable Me, which has one of my favorite lines: “That book was accidentally destroyed maliciously.” The same thing may have happened to one or two of my boys’ books over the years.

Yesterday, on my actual birthday, Mom and I went out for pedicures and Greek food—finally some girl time! Then Chunky helped me bake a chocolate chip cookie boy when he got home from school. Using the gingerbread boy pan was his idea. So was using extra chocolate chips to make hair, shoes, hands, etc. Willie the Heeler decided she should help celebrate by eating one of Choco Boy’s feet while he was cooling on the counter. Thankfully, she didn’t get sick.

And there you have it, my very self-involved blog about my birthday. But maybe it’ll be okay if I end by saying thank-you to my awesome family and friends for celebrating with me. I am blessed.

The Peanut-Free Ninja

2011-11-01T09:00:00.000-07:00

Like most moms I don’t buy candy on a regular basis, so Halloween is a big deal for my kiddos. It’s funny because they actually don’t gorge themselves. It’s all about numbers. They love counting their candy, sorting it, and hording it, much like Smaug the Dragon in The Hobbit.

And I can’t complain because for me Halloween has always meant an excuse to eat Snickers, Peanut M&Ms, Reese's, Butterfingers—anything with peanuts! With Kory and our youngest son both allergic to peanuts, it’s always been my job to purge dangerous goodies from Chunky’s stash.

But this year, Chunky wised up.

Dressed as a fire ninja (red costume with black wrappings I kept calling ribbons much to his chagrin), Chunky bolted from door to door like a tiny streak of lightning. When the door opened, he'd holler, “Trick-or-treat-I-can’t-have-peanuts!”

He said it so fast that most people didn’t understand, so Monkey (dressed as Bobba Fett) stepped in to explain. Naturally, this baffled the average person who just wanted to get back to their dinner or Castle episode as quickly as possible.

House after house, we heard some variation of the following:

Ding dong.

Chunky: Trick-or-treat-I-can’t-have-peanuts!

Unsuspecting neighbor: What?

Monkey: My brother can’t have peanuts.

Neighbor: You can’t have peanuts?

Monkey: No, I CAN have peanuts, but he’s allergic to them.

Chunky: I’m also allergic to eggs and grass.

Neighbor *confused silence, awkwardly rifles through candy bowl*: Do Butterfingers have peanuts?

Monkey and Chunky: YES!

At this point they'd take matters into their own hands, pointing to acceptable candy and sometimes just relieving the person of the candy bowl and pawing through it themselves while Kory and I winced from the driveway and called out vague reminders to be polite.

It probably took us twice as long to trick-or-treat. At first Kory and I chuckled at the boys’ routine, but it got old fast, especially when I realized there’d be no stash of peanut-y goodness for me.

Recognizing my growing alarm, Kory swiped a Reese's for me at a neighbor's house that had games, a bonfire and other distractions to cover adult candy pilfering. I jammed it in my pocket, but it must’ve fallen out at some point because it wasn’t there when we got home.

The boys counted their candy. (Monkey=126, Chunky=116) I whined about my lost Reese's but tried to be grown-up about missing out on my usual haul. Then Monkey disappeared to the other room where he’d stowed his pile and returned to present one Reese's Peanut Butter Cup and a package of Reese's Pieces to me.

So it looks like our Halloween tradition has changed a bit. We may have left confused neighbors in our wake, but Chunky learned to be proactive in his candy quest. Monkey not only looked out for the brother he usually tortures but also shared some of his bounty with his deprived mother. And next year, I'll know to buy my own bag of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups.

Psych. You'll See.

2011-10-26T14:05:00.000-07:00

Ugh! The past few weeks have not been kind. I’ve been in hiding, editing like a mad scientist, eating like a sumo wrestler.

I’m telling you, I’ve really done it this time. Last night I had the opportunity to speak to a writing group in Denver. This meant wearing something other than yoga pants. Why doesn’t someone design a line of professional-looking yoga wear? The tag line could be something like “Now Every Day is Casual Friday.” Or, “Too many business lunches? Don’t worry, our fashions hide the bulge.” Or something really catchy, like “Pro-ga.”

I’ve been trying to ignore some weird symptoms, telling myself I’d get things checked out when I finished editing the novel.

Some stuff happened—you don’t want to know—I ended up at the doctor’s office yesterday. Our family has been going to the same practice for at least six years. I consider the staff friends. Which is why I had a heart attack when I heard, “Oh my goodness!” outside the exam room door after the PA decided to run a pregnancy test.

Wouldn’t it be cool if the eating and the yoga pants and the symptoms were all leading up to a big reveal?

Cool for you maybe. Not for me.

No, not pregnant.

So what is wrong with me? Darned if I know. The PA sent me home with muscle relaxers for back spasms and a strict warning that, even though he gave me the prescription that doesn’t cause drowsiness, I was not to drive a car until I’d gotten used to the side effects. My husband quickly echoed this caution. Then my friend Steampunk Beth added cycling to the taboo list just to be safe. The last time I took muscle relaxers, I couldn’t even walk like a normal person.

So I’m back to sitting in a chair and eating. Oh, help.

The good news is, today I finished my first round of edits on The Immortal Heathcliff.

I now solemnly promise to:
Start eating something besides apples, cheese, and peanut butter.
Go back to Zumba before my butt-a won’t fit-a through the door-a.
Take something besides dark chocolate and Coke Zero for my migraines.
Feed my family.
Clean the toilet.
Tend to the grays.
Return phone calls and emails.
Figure out what Occupy Wall Street is about.
Figure out what Occupy Evangeline’s Closet is about.
Take the dog in for her heartworm test.
Take the Wookies in for their haircuts.
Do something, er, fun with my husband.
Blog.
Sleep.
Brush my teeth.

During my house arrest, I did read two awesome books. My friend Brandy Vallance's not-yet-published Victorian novel The Covered Deep, a delightful mix between Anne of Green Gables, Indiana Jones, and Around the World in Eighty Days. I know! You can't tell me you don't want to read that book. Brandy is going to do awesome things for the historical romance genre. I also read Jenny B. Jones's There You’ll Find Me. I’m being honest here. I didn’t realize how much I needed this book until I read it. It blessed me. Read it.

That’s all for now, folks. The laundry’s calling and who knows how long it’ll take to get out of this chair and across the house to the laundry room.

She's Alive!

2011-10-07T17:01:00.000-07:00

Yes, this post is long overdue.

At the St. Louis Arch

No, I didn’t get lost between Colorado Springs and St. Louis. Although Kory did joke that since this was my first solo flight, he was going to have the flight attendant hold my hand and walk me to my connecting plane.

Writer buddy Beth Vogt

With new friends Gina Conroy, Andy Meisenheimer, and Randy Ingermanson, who has awesome steampunk duds

The conference was amazing. Although I got very little actual sleep, the time spent with other writers studying the craft refreshed and energized me. I had great appointments with two agents and came home psyched to edit my novel and send it in.

Flat on the floor of the hotel room

"Distressing Potatoes" from breakfast at conference

Things were slightly bumpier on the home front. Kory took time off work (translation: he worked from home and only drove in for one meeting) to take care of Monkey and Chunky. While I was gone, Mom was admitted to the hospital for an infection. Kory called me from the ER, and in the background I heard the boys’ voices. I may have freaked out slightly and ordered him to dip my children in Purell.

For reasons unknown, Chunky’s eye swelled up. (I swear it wasn't related to overuse of hand sanitizer.) When I got home my 7-year-old looked like he’d wandered through a bar fight. We never figured out exactly what caused it, but the doctor attributed it to allergies.

Believe it or not, this was no worse than the last time I went away for a few days. At least on this trip I didn’t hear an account of how daddy threw rocks at a rattle snake from my four-year-old. Not to mention my then six-year-old’s incident of public nudity.

On the drive home, after picking me up at the airport, my husband said, “Well, I hope you had a good time, because I didn’t.”

Naturally this earned him a “Welcome to my world, Sucka!”

Since I’ve been home, things haven’t calmed down. I’ve brought Mom home from the hospital, been attacked by a vacuum cleaner that smelled like cat pee, visited a school with two box turtles, done a book-signing, staged and executed a party, nursed a sick kid, dealt with a dental disaster, helped Mom pack for her cruise, driven her to the airport, and attended a memorial service for my husband’s grandmother.

Mom and I at a booksigning

My edits are waiting. My enthusiasm for my project went on the back burner, but it’s still simmering. I’ve promised to submit my edited novel by the end of October. And so, I’m taking this month off from blogging.

Unless, of course, one of the boys does something hilarious, like lean over at a memorial service and loudly whisper, “Mom, I forgot to put my deodorant on!” If something like that happens, I’ll let you know.

Creative Frustrations

2011-09-20T09:50:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow I leave for the American Christian Fiction Writers conference in St. Louis. I’ll be talking with editors and agents, presenting my work, and hoping, always hoping, to get one step closer to publishing a novel.

It seems my son is in the same boat.

Yesterday, Chunky ran out of school waving a stack of papers. He couldn’t wait to tell me about it, so he started yelling the minute he saw me across the school lawn.

“MOMMY, I WROTE A MONSTER BOOK!”

He jabbered on about it as we walked to the car, ran a couple errands, and then drove home. Once in the house, he set to work adding pages to his book. What once was The 4 Page Monster Book became The 7 Page Monster Fun Book.

Finally I had a minute to sit down and go through each wonderfully illustrated page with him. He was so proud. With good reason. The 7 Page Monster Fun Book is a masterpiece!

But then we hit a snag. Chunky wanted to print a copy of his book for each of his classmates because, and I quote, “I want to be nice to them, and I want them to think I’m a nice kid.”

But our printer isn’t working right, and, let’s face it, 25 color copies won’t be cheap.

He fussed and fumed about his frustration until Kory came home from work. The minute his dad walked through the door, Chunky assailed him with his dilemma.

“I wrote a book and our printer doesn’t work! And I want to make one for every kid in my class. I want them to like me. But our printer puts a black line through everything, and if it puts a line through the Domo monster, he’ll just be Do!”

Kory looked to me for an explanation.

I shrugged and said, “He wrote a book. He needs a publisher.”

Kory laughed but kindly and wisely didn’t draw any comparisons between his whiney 7-year-old and his career-frustrated wife.

I’m thinking maybe I should take Chunky’s approach at the conference. I’ll just start yelling across the hotel lobby or conference room about my creative masterpiece the minute I see anyone who can help me reach my goal. And I won’t take “no” for an answer. After all, I want to be nice to people, and I think giving them something fun to read is a nice thing to do. And I want them to think I’m nice too (translation: a good author.)

Too bad I’m not an adorable 7-year-old with a fresh literary voice and kid-approved illustrations.

Boys!

2011-09-15T09:56:00.000-07:00

Yesterday my almost 10-year-old tried to convince me that he couldn’t possibly make his school reading goal if I continued my unreasonable requirement that he bathe regularly.

We finally had to tell him that bathing was one of his chores, and if he didn’t do it, he would not get his allowance.

As is often the case, once I got him in the tub, I couldn’t get him out.

Exhausted and ready for some grown-up time, I trudged back and forth between the boys’ bedroom and the bathroom, hollering at my kids to finish their bedtime tasks.

Eventually I gave up and flopped down on the bedroom floor where my youngest cuddled our dog with the dedication of an alligator wrestler. Chunky squeezed Willie, making comments like, “Her heart is beating really fast. I think she might be sick. I can hear something in her chest.”

I ignored my little wannabe vet until I heard it. The unmistakable rolling heave of a dog about to hurl. I jumped up, yelling for Kory to call the dog and get her outside. When he didn’t respond, Chunky and I ran down the stairs, urging Willie to follow. We raced for the back door.

She stopped in the kitchen and hunched.

“No!” I screamed and flung the door open. She made it to the rug in front of the door and let loose.

At this point, Chunky was beside himself with excitement, squealing, “Willie barfed! Willie barfed! Willie barfed!”

Monkey, wrapped in a towel and dripping, showed up to inspect the vomit.

Grumbling, I retrieved paper towels and carpet cleaner—really she had to get the carpet, not the deck or even the wood floor. I returned to my defiled doormat to find my boys standing over the dog puke, my youngest giving a blow-by-blow account of the incident.

“And then she put her ears down. And then it sounded like she was coughing. And then her tail did this.” (He demonstrated tail tucking with his hand.) “And then she puked! And I see her dog food and the carrots from dinner in it.”

I got that mess cleaned up and almost had the boys in bed when Willie lost it again on the stairs. This time Kory got the honor of cleaning it up but not before the boys tumbled out of their room to gawk at the spectacle.

After devotions I noticed Chunky was pale. He huddled on his bed, whimpering. “Mommy, I don’t feel so good. I think it’s because of Willie’s barf.”

“Stop thinking about it,” I told him.

“I’m trying to, but I can’t.”

“Maybe next time you shouldn’t describe it to your brother in such detail.”

I got him calmed down and put a Phinneas and Ferb CD on to distract him, but all the while I was thinking, “This kid’s gonna make a great writer someday!”

Wrapping a Novel

2011-09-14T10:18:00.000-07:00

So I’ve been out-of-sorts lately. In fact, I texted my husband yesterday and told him I was out-of-sorts. For the rest of the day, he texted me back, asking if I was “sort-of-in” yet.

“Sort-of-in” is a great way to put it actually. When I was on the migraine meds I was sort-of-in a fog. I lost a week and a half chasing words around my brain, only to have them fly away whenever I got close.

Finally I decided to take a break from the medication since it turns out I’m pretty miserable without my ability to catch words. Things have been better, and though I’ve had headaches ever since, none of them flared into migraines.

I'm preparing for a conference next week, trying to assemble all the proper tools writers use to try to sell their work. One sheets, synopses, proposals, hooks and one lines. These tools can be tricky. On the one hand it’s vital that an author be able to convey in succinct fashion what her story is about. On the other, it’s hard to boil down a ninety thousand word novel into a paragraph.

I’ve also done my homework, checking out agents and editors and what projects they're looking for. That prompted a brainstorming session with my personal novel doctor, my brother. Then yesterday, as I struggled to pull together the beginning threads of two story concepts, I realized why I’ve been so frustrated.

I’m not creating. It’s like I’m wrapping a ceramic vase carefully in packing peanuts, the right-sized box, and the perfect wrapping paper that will say to the intended recipient, “I know how to make a package look pretty.” But I'd rather be sitting at the pottery wheel, my hands covered in clay, forming that vase.

But I’ll get back to the creative process soon enough, and knowing that will get me through the polishing and presenting—the whole “I know how to use scissors, make a nice crease, and exercise restraint when it comes to tape” thing.

But since I’m thinking about trying my hand at a YA novel, I wanted to ask a question of the women out there. If you’re twenty or older, what draws you to a young adult novel like The Hunger Games or Twilight? Since many YA titles cross generations, I think it’s reasonable to find out what readers my age expect from those titles. Is it the nostalgia of teen topics like first love? The freedom from the boring responsibilities of adult life? The possibility of a more unique adventure than you might find in adult fiction?

I’d love to hear your thoughts.

New Wuthering Heights Movie

2011-09-07T13:35:00.000-07:00

My friend, autor Kristin Billerbeck, mentioned the new Wuthering Heights movie on her blog today. Since I’ve been immersed in all things WH for the last two years, I was aware that the movie was being made, but until recently could find very little information about it.

There still not a whole lot out there, but I did find this great >review from The Guardian. (Profanity warning!)

This particular sentence from the review caught my eye: As youngsters, Heathcliff and Cathy (played first by Shannon Beer and then by Kaya Scoledario) exist in a kind of primitive Eden where they are neither quite siblings or lovers but some innocent hybrid of the two.

I’ve heard this take on the novel before, and it actually fits better than trying to view the story through the traditional framework of a romance. In fact, I think we’ve done ourselves a disservice in continuing to remake Wuthering Heights as a love story. It’s more of a need story. And “need” can be an ugly word.

Maybe it’s because of where I’m at in life, raising kids, watching as their emotional needs grow deeper day by day—but I find I read Wuthering Heights differently now. Basically, I see a story of two people who had the one thing, or person, they needed taken away.

Heathcliff and Catherine were everything to each other. It's hard to overstate this fact. They believed they had one soul between the two of them. Juvenile? Yes, sure, of course. But when I look into my son’s eyes and see an utter need for an anchor in an unknown world, it doesn’t matter to me if his emotional framework is immature. The need is all the greater for it. It breaks my heart to think of my little boy without a tether—without any link at all to the love a human being cannot survive without.

Emily Brontë, genius freak that she was, dared to write a book about a boy just like that.

I could not write that book. It would break my heart.

The novel I just completed, The Immortal Heathcliff, takes that ruined man and sends him on a journey for redemption, and ultimately, a love that will anchor his soul. My job was far easier than Emily’s, partly because I could never claim to have her insight into suffering and human nature, nor her tortured genius. But also because writing hope is easier on the writer’s heart than crafting ultimate despair.

This may sound absurd, but Brontë's greatest feat as an author may have been to leave her characters in the ashes of their choices. There is no happy ending. The woman was as unrelenting as a Pilates instructor!

So, anyway, what do you think about the upcoming movie? Please someone out there tell me you’ve read the book! Much is being made of the choice to have a black actor portray Heathcliff. Scholars agree it is unlikely that the character of Heathcliff was meant to be black. For a break down of the textual support of this claim click this link and scroll down to the heading “Was Heathcliff Black?” But putting that detail aside, I think it’s a great move from an emotional and artistic standpoint. I’m more excited about the apparent choice to take a young adult approach since the main action of the story happens when the characters are teens.

You might as well go ahead and comment with whatever comes to mind about the movie, WH, or crazy/lovely Emily Brontë. You should know I will keep talking at you about the subject regardless. By the way, the UK release date is September 30. I didn't find a date for the US.

Would you like some blood with your coffee?

2011-09-02T11:32:00.000-07:00

This morning I was lying in bed, dreaming about my husband’s grandparents. An instant later I was awake, my lip bleeding, with a wrestling match involving a 7-year-old, a 9-year-old, and a Blue Heeler happening on top of me.

My husband opened the sliding door between the bathroom and bedroom and said sarcastically over the noise, “Are the boys awake?”

From underneath the chaos I told him, “You know, at least you can count on boys to be obvious.”

He went to shut the bedroom window so the rest of the neighborhood didn’t have to wake up to WWF. Then he handed me a tissue for my lip and escaped downstairs. Luckily, the circus soon followed him.

Chunky did apologize for the stray head butt that split my lip. And in the boys’ defense, staging the wrestling match on top of me was just their way of including me in their enthusiasm for the day.

When it’s Friday morning, and you’re already bruised and bleeding and you haven’t even gotten out of bed yet, the only real option you have is to jump up and yell, “Bring it on! Where’s the coffee?”

So that’s what I did.

Disaster Preparedness

2011-08-29T15:34:00.000-07:00

We don’t have hurricanes in Colorado. We do have blizzards, but all the preparation they require is a trip to the store for milk and chocolate chip cookie ingredients.

Nevertheless, I like to be prepared for emergencies.

That’s why on the first day of school I went to the office and picked up the required paperwork to keep my son’s rescue inhaler at the school. I was wearing my Evangeline is A Responsible Parent hat. EARP for short.

That’s also why I made arrangements to lie low this weekend while adjusting to a new migraine medication that has a lot of possible side effects. It’s a good thing too, because Saturday was weird. I was dizzy and sleepy and at one point, deep. I tried to explain this to Kory.

He asked me if I felt hyper-aware of my surroundings.

“No,” I said, “just deep.”

He said, “You mean, profound?”

I said, “No, just deep.”

Considering my new-found affinity with the Mariana Trench, we agreed that Grandma would drive the boys to school this morning on her way to the YMCA. After all, driving while dizzy and “deep” would not qualify me to wear my EARP hat.

So Mom and the boys scooted off to school, and I tooled around the house for awhile. Then, right as I was getting in the shower, and I do mean right, the phone rang.

I grabbed a towel and answered it.

“Mrs. Denmark, we have your son here in the office. He needs to use his inhaler.”

Hand to forehead. Towel to floor.

You see, while I did wear my EARP hat to pick up the paperwork, I didn’t keep it on long enough to fill out said paperwork and get it and the medication back to the school.

What’s a drugged, naked, vehicle-less woman to do?

They reassured me that it wasn’t an emergency. Monkey was wheezing but not having an attack. I knew Mom was probably in the pool doing her water exercises and wouldn’t be able to get out quickly. I couldn’t think much beyond that, so I decided to ride my bike—under the influence—to the school and deliver my son’s inhaler.

Thank God I put clothes on first.

I did fine until I needed to cross the street. I don’t know why I didn’t do it at the crosswalk as I rode out of our neighborhood. I guess I figured there would be another opportunity further up the road. Or maybe I thought dolphins would appear and ferry me across the street on their backs.

I kept riding, going past the road I needed to turn on to get to the school. I was now almost to the YMCA where my van was parked. Finally, I just got off my bike and jaywalked across the street and back in the direction I needed to go.

I’m pretty sure I never got back on my bike after that. I do remember walking up to the school and catching sight of myself in the reflective front door. My bicycle helmet was on backwards.

I got Monkey his inhaler and—minor miracle—got myself home again.

But somewhere along the way I lost my EARP hat. I’m probably going to have to get another one anyway. Something like Parent Fail Trust (PFT!) or Do Not Leave Unattended (DNLU), or Doesn’t Understand Medication or Bicycling (DUMB). Or maybe just Woman Trying to Function (WTF).

The Boys' Table

2011-08-26T12:30:00.000-07:00

On Tuesday Monkey had four baby teeth pulled. I’m not sure why I didn’t realize this would have a significant impact on his diet. Maybe because at the beginning of this week I could only spare brain cells for my novel, WHICH IS DONE!

Anyway, back to Monkey. Except for the back molar on each side, he has no grinding teeth in his upper mouth. The following is a list of foods he will eat, in these, the most trying days of his existence so far:

1. mashed potatoes
2. pudding
3. applesauce
4. jello
5. ice cream

He was inconsolable Tuesday night, knowing he’d have to go to school the next day, until I promised to meet him for lunch and bring the required five food groups.

That is how I ended up sitting at "the boys’ table” in the school cafeteria. On bean burrito day.

There are things women should not have to endure. Bean burrito day with fourth grade boys tops the list. Right up there with being allergic to chocolate and being weighed in front of a panel that includes Angelina Jolie, your high school boyfriend, and your mother-in-law.

As the boys crashed into their seats, lunch trays wobbling in their hands, I noticed bigger than usual grins on their faces. Whispers, punctuated by highly descriptive words, spread from one end of the table to the other. Then delighted laughter erupted as one buzz-cut boy took his seat. But soon after his arrival the other boys pulled their shirts up over their noses. The fact that they continued eating in this position is a tribute to male ingenuity. And Tide with Bleach.

I must’ve looked worried. Or horrified. One boy surfaced from his shirt and told me matter-of-factly, “He has a tendency to let really stinky ones.”

I immediately felt for Buzz Kid's mom. I mean, when your son can intimidate a table full of accomplished farters?—that’s serious.

Needless to say, I gave up trying to eat the salad I’d brought and all but spoon-fed Monkey in my haste to get the pinto outta there.

That night I related my experience at the boys’ table. Monkey informed me that the kid who gave me the skinny on the stinky was the General of the Boys, having been elected to this enviable position by his peers.

Apparently his duties can be summed up in two words: Torture Girls.

Naturally this led to a discussion of peer pressure and whether or not it's right to torture girls just because your friends do. (If you are unclear on this subject, you are probably reading the wrong blog.) Finally, Grandma asked Monkey, “If the general jumped off a cliff, what would you do?”

Monkey looked at her and said, “Get a new general.”

I’m hoping the positions of General of the Boys and Chief Officer of Flatulence never become available. In Monkey’s case, neither campaign has home support.

Push!

2011-08-17T13:59:00.000-07:00

I started this summer off with about twenty thousand words left to write on my novel. If you’re not a writer, then to give you a clue, one chapter (for me) is around three thousand words. So I needed approximately six chapters in order to make my final wordcount goal. Right now, if you’re NOT a writer, you’re thinking, “Something’s wrong with her math.”

Anyway, I usually average about a chapter a week. But, it being summer, and me being on the brink of hurling myself into a kiddie pool filled with Ho Hos all day every day, I only managed to get around ten thousand words out.

The kids went back to school on Monday.

Let us now pause to give thanks. And snarf a Ho Ho from the stash we kept in case of emergencies.

So. On Monday. I wrote. FIVE THOUSAND WORDS!

I was pretty excited. I mean, compared to my summer average of one and a half sentences per day, FIVE THOUSAND is pretty good, am I right?

What’s even better is that this is the climax, the most exciting part of the book. Action. Danger. Suspense. Wuv! Truw Wuv! Aside from a brief detour where I had to rethink a Stupid Heroine Moment—“Oh, maybe I should run to safety instead of investigating the scary noise”—the words were flowing.

My critique group meets on Tuesdays, so Monday night—feeling a little giddy and punch-drunk from my writing spree—I sent them an email promising that my chapter would contain a . . . wait for it . . . SHIRTLESS CONFESSION TO MURDER.

How much better could it get, right? Hunky guy, sans shirt, drops a bomb on unsuspecting, love-blind heroine.

Squee!

I even told my husband about the exciting SHIRTLESS CONFESSION TO MURDER. He immediately assumed his best East German accent and confessed to murder while demanding that I “watch his pecs dance.”

Men! They just can’t take these things seriously.

At least my critique group responded more appropriately.

“Is it hot in here?”

Nearing the end of a book is intoxicating. No, this isn’t my first novel. But this one was a doozy—the equivalent of giving birth to a 10-pound baby after thirty-six hours of labor. And two years of pregnancy.

The nice thing about birthing books is that it’s common practice—even recommended—that you put them on a shelf for a week, maybe longer, and take a breather after typing “The End.”

I expect to be breathing, relaxing, having a mani-pedi, and chowing on Ho Hos (of course) about this time next week.

I’ll send you a birth announcement. And maybe a picture of my sweaty, bloated, happy face.

Heartbreak! With Unicorns and Aliens

2011-08-11T20:22:00.000-07:00

My baby’s in love. Again.

No, I’m not talking about almost 10-year-old Monkey. He still thinks girls are water gun targets.

It’s Chunky who’s met the girl of his dreams. For the third time. We knew we were in trouble when he came home from preschool declaring he was going to marry one of his classmates. He spent the rest of that year telling me how things would change when he and Chante married and moved into our house. And painted it green.

But time moves on. Girlfriends throw temper tantrums and move to China. You mature. Your tastes change. And kindergarten hits! There you meet a tall blonde with glasses who gives you hugs when you fall off the monkey bars and sits at the peanut-free table with you even though she isn’t allergic.

Chunky was devoted to his precious Kari all through kindergarten AND first grade. They even got married during one of their playdates. Kari told him firmly that they would be skipping the kissing part of the ceremony. Chunky married her anyway.

But, alas, it seems elementary school relationships are as changeable as the cafeteria menu.

A couple of weeks ago, Chunky came home from science camp and informed us he’d met someone new.

“What’s her name?” I asked.

“I don’t know. But she has blonde hair and she likes me too.”

“Maybe you should introduce yourself,” I suggested.

By the next day he knew all he needed to know. I asked him about his new friend and he said, “Her name is Catherine, and she’s a unicorn underneath her skin.”

Oh dear, I thought. If he marries someone as creative as he is, they’ll starve.

Things got a little bit worse from there. I said something to the affect of, “Oh, she likes to play pretend like you?”

“No, Mom. She really IS a unicorn. AND she’s seen a dead alien. It washed up on the beach.”

Houston, we have a problem.

My voice went to that hanging-on-by-a-Hershey-bar pitch. “The beach? Here in Colorado, honey? Because we don’t have a beach.”

This fact was apparently irrelevant. Catherine has seen a dead alien. Phinneas and Ferb, eat your hearts out!

The two exchanged phone numbers. Chunky promptly lost hers. So on the last day of camp I introduced myself to her parents and we talked playdates. I’m no better than my son it turns out. I gave them my contact info but failed to get theirs.

And Catherine hasn’t called.

Every day my freckled-nosed 7-year-old says with his sad little voice, “When is Catherine going to call? I WISH I hadn’t lost her number! I miss Catherine!”

Sniff.

My poor baby! Why must girls be so cruel? Especially the really cool, popular ones. You know, the undercover unicorns who think they’re all that because they hang with washed-up extra-terrestrials. Sheesh! Some things never change.

I have a feeling Chunky’s teen years are going to be very hard. On me.

Cooking with Love and Gas

2011-08-01T08:52:00.000-07:00

It might behoove me to learn a little more about the devices installed in my home that are supposed to keep my family alive.

See, the other day I was cooking chicken. Let me just say right now that cooking meat is not my thing. I don’t really care to eat meat myself, but for some reason my family likes it—still—even after eating my charred attempts throughout the years.

I fail no matter what cooking method I use, but the other day I was using a particularly troublesome stovetop grill doohickey. My mom picked up this gadget in one of her optimistic attempts to help me not ruin dinner. Theoretically, it combines grilling with the healthful benefits of steam cooking. You add liquid (we’ll talk about what constitutes liquid in a minute) to the metal ring that circles your stove top burner. Then, you place a metal plate on top of the ring, and you’re ready to half-steam, half-fry your food.

Naturally I’ve lost the directions to this device, which is why I have to call it a device when it probably has a catchy name like Food Blackener or The Inferno. But I did remember the crucial step of adding liquid to the ring. I remembered you could add water, broth, or even juice for added flavor.

Since I was making Italian chicken, I thought I’d use the Marsala wine I’d had in the garage fridge for ages. Wine is liquid, right? Well, it pours anyway.

I had the chicken sizzling and the water for the pasta boiling when a high-pitched screech blistered my eardrums. Being an idiot, I started for the smoke alarm, realized I couldn’t reach it, turned around and grabbed a kitchen chair, then dragged it across the floor and stood on it. I yanked the battery out of the alarm while yelling at it to “Shut up!” It didn’t.

The boys were now circling me, Chunky crying, “It hurts my ears!” I got down and grabbed a paper bag to fan the malfunctioning smoke detector and told Chunky to find my cell phone so we could call Dad.

I climbed back on the chair with my paper bag and phone and dialed my husband’s number while frantically waving the bag at the alarm. I can only imagine what he heard when he answered.

Kory: Hello?

Smoke Alarm: SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECH!

Me: THE SMOKE ALARM IS GOING OFF!

Kory: You don’t say.

Smoke Alarm: SCREEEEEEEEEEEEECH!

Me: I TOOK THE BATTERIES OUT AND IT WON’T SHUT UP! HOW DO I MAKE IT SHUT UP?!

At this point, for reasons unknown, the smoke alarm stopped beeping.

Kory: What are you doing?

Me: Cooking dinner.(Duh!) When will you be home?

Kory: 15 minutes.

I hung up and went to burning the chicken, but no sooner had I returned to my domestic duty when the blankety blank thing went off again. This time I decided to try a different approach. On a different device. For grins, I unplugged the carbon monoxide detector which promptly changed sounds from a horrendous screech to an equally piercing series of beeps. It also started flashing codes at me. So while yelling at my crying children to open the windows (did I mention it was raining?), I ran upstairs and grabbed the other carbon monoxide detector which was also going off, wrapped them both up in a sleeping bag, and chucked the whole thing into the garage.

While all this was going on Monkey doubled over and complained that it hurt to breathe. We searched for his inhaler, and I made him stand by the door where the rain now pelted into the kitchen. But the fresh air and Albuterol quickly counteracted my poisonous food preparation.

Ah. No more beeping. Child breathing. I finished burning dinner.

Kory came home to a quiet house and a disgusting meal.

But before we sat down, he retrieved the carbon monoxide detectors and read the instructions on the side. (There are instructions on the side!) Then he started quizzing me on what the beep sounded like.

Me: Awful! Horrible! My brain was bleeding!

Kory: Was it a continuous beep or a series of beeps?

Me: I don’t know! It just wouldn’t stop!

Kory: And that didn’t concern you?

Me: OF COURSE it concerned me!

By now we were both wondering if we shouldn’t get out of the house all together. I finally determined that the beep was continual, and Kory went to look it up online. I called after him, “It displayed some kind of code. 228, I think.”

A few minutes later, he said, “I couldn’t find 228, but did it maybe say GAS?”

Me: Um, yeah, it said GAS too.

Kory: It was detecting explosive gas. What were you cooking with?

Me: Wine.

Now, people cook with wine all the time. In fact, there are sites you can go to that will tell you HOW to cook with wine, such as the very helpful What's Cooking America which told me this:

All wines contain at least some small amount of sulfites. They are a natural result of the same fermentation process that turns grape juice into alcohol. …

When cooking with wine containing sulfites, you do not concentrate them as you would flavor, but rather they evaporate like alcohol. The sulfite goes through a conversion in the liquid of the wine to produce sulfur dioxide. This is actually the compound that prevents the oxidation. It also is a gas, and when subjected to heat, it dissipates into the air.

Well, ok, now I know. I still don’t know why it set off the carbon monoxide detector. Maybe I used too much wine. Maybe it was too old. Maybe the carbon monoxide detector, like all the other members of my family, just doesn’t like the way I cook meat.

One thing’s for sure, I found a good tactic to get out of cooking. Now if I could only find a way to subsidize our restaurant budget.

Cabins are for Me!

2011-07-25T10:04:00.000-07:00

I’ve made no secret of the fact that I find camping unpleasant. If I wanted to sleep on the dirty ground surrounded by wild animals, I’d throw a sleeping bag on my boys’ bedroom floor.

That’s why I was glad our annual we-live-in-Colorado-and-should-go-to-the-mountains trip involved staying in a cabin at the YMCA of the Rockies. Aside from uncomfortable beds and one dead spider, the cabin pretty much rocked. Translation: it was clean, had running water, and some retro Lincoln Logs and Tinker Toys to entertain the boys.

The information packet we received upon checking in instructed us to dial 222 in case of emergency. I nearly called twice. Once because my laptop detected no Wi-Fi. And once because, although the cabin kitchen had a coffee maker, there was no coffee provided.

My husband informed me these were not actual emergencies.

Whatever.

The cabin also came with a “stocked” reading shelf. These were my options:

Thankfully, I brought my own book.

The boys spent a lot of time theorizing on whether or not a bear could get in the cabin. My favorite scenario involved the bear climbing down the chimney. We didn’t bother to point out the unlikelihood of this event because their paranoia had them cleaning up after themselves to avoid attracting bears. I may start faking bear sightings around our neighborhood to duplicate this effect.

Willie the Heeler got to come along on this trip, and she was thrilled to be able to keep track of her herd—us. She even met two other Heelers. The first we met at the camp-sponsored Yappy Hour. All guests with pooches were invited to attend, and they even had a contest for best pet costume.

We’d intended to bring Willie’s Native American princess costume for this event, but we forgot. Probably just as well. We think it embarrasses her. She didn’t need any further humiliation at Yappy Hour. Apparently, female Heelers don’t like each other and aren’t shy about saying so.

All in all, the trip was a success. We took nature walks, swam, made crafts, played Bingo and had meltdowns over hiking (Monkey), mini-golf (Chunky), being left alone in the cabin (Willie), bait (Kory), no blow dryer (Evangeline), and lack of chimney access (bear), but we can’t wait to go back.

How's your summer going? Had any vacation adventures?

Let Me be the First to Reassure You

2011-07-10T23:14:00.000-07:00

I know we’re not supposed to worry about what the neighbors think. But I’m pretty sure that advice applies to comparisons over whose grass is greener and whose car is nicer and whose kid is smartest.

For a little over a week now I’ve become increasingly concerned about what our neighbors think of my husband’s latest construction project—an elaborate turtle habitat for Roger and Molly.

I feel compelled to knock on the doors of the folks living near us and explain to them that he is NOT building a coffin in our garage, and that every member of the family is still very much alive.

Furthermore, this is not a sleep-during-daylight-on-your-home-soil type of situation. We all drink Coke Zero not blood, and with the possible exception of a questionable bag of sweet potatoes, we are not undead.

However, knocking on people’s doors to tell them the above information might be termed “fishy” or “disturbing” or “wacko,” so I really think in this case a sign would be a good idea. Something in a nice friendly font that reads: We’re alive and kicking! How ‘bout you?

Or maybe just an informational notice: Turtle habitat under construction. It is NOT a coffin.

Or, the very subtle: No, no vampires live here. Not a one. Thanks for asking.

I’m thinking that to make it look not quite so weird, we could put some other signs out. You’ve probably noticed the trend among roofing companies and landscapers of putting signs in yards that say: Another Quality Job by Nail in Your Foot Construction. Well, we could make a couple of those signs and stick them out there to camouflage my attempt at reassuring passersby that hubby hasn’t gone off the deep end.

Then again, he has been working a lot of overtime lately. And there’s the talking to himself, the lab experiments in the basement, the strange smell from the closet. And, of course, the sweet potatoes that seem to be forming their own civilization.

All coincidence, I’m sure. At least he hasn’t asked me to climb inside and lay down so he could check his measurements.

You’ll be glad to know that Kory’s team made their deadline last Friday and now we have a week off to relax, have some family fun, and build whatever pet habitats we please. If you drive by and see a crypt in the front yard, just keep going and don’t worry. The boys have been asking for a pet zombie.

It's Harder Than It Looks

2011-06-29T12:43:00.000-07:00

With the exception of housework, I don’t like to leave things undone. So much so, in fact, that when I’m singing a song and I can’t remember the words I will finish it by saying, “The rest of the song.” My husband finds this hilarious and will wait for me to hum myself into a corner and be forced to sing something like, “la, la, la, yeah…the rest of the song.”

Right now I’m just about out of my mind because I’m nearly done with the novel I’ve been working on for a year and a half. But it’s summer, the kids are home. They are so home. So very, very home. Help! Somebody save me! They’re HOME!

I try all day to keep them busy, entertained, and not killing each other. Bedtime comes late. I wish I had the energy to write once they’ve finally gone to sleep, but instead I end up slouched on the sofa, watching Mr. Bean and thanking God that I made it through another day. And hoping my ADHD kiddo doesn’t grow up to BE Mr. Bean.

Even though I’m not getting a lot of writing done, my Work In Progress is on my mind all the time. Kory is forced to live in whatever story world I’m working on and has become accustomed to me rattling on about fictional characters and problems. Sometimes he listens and gives me great feedback. Sometimes he nods and says, “Uh, huh.”

The other day I was rambling about a plot problem, just thinking out loud while he relaxed on the sofa—probably wishing for some peace and quiet. I finally figured out how I was going to cause the disaster I needed to precipitate the book’s climax. I must’ve stopped babbling abruptly because Kory looked up from his position on the couch, quirked a brow at me and said, “The rest of the book?”

Exactly. I wish it were that easy!

British Television: A Rant

2011-06-23T16:47:00.000-07:00

What is with those Brits anyway? Why can’t they make TV shows like regular people? Don’t they know it’s frustrating when they produce riveting programs like Downton Abbey and Sherlock Holmes but only offer the public a diet portion?

Seriously!

So lately my hubby’s been working bizarre hours which translated to a few nights of solo telly for me.

For you criminal types who read my blog: He’s back to his normal routine of being home at night. And during the day, for that matter. And at dawn, and early evening, and late evening, and at 2:00 in the afternoon. And should he ever step out, we have a cattle dog who’s turned herd protection into a psychosis.

Back to British television.

I’m prone to watching odd programs on Netflix on the rare occasions when Kory’s not around. See this post about my traumatizing All Creatures Great and Small experience.

So after a couple of strange movies—Ondine and Working Girl—I decided I needed something more classy. I checked out Downton Abbey and was immediately hooked. But here in the US, even small children know that a season consists of around twenty-two episodes aired weekly from some time in the fall to some time in the spring.

In the UK, seven episodes are considered sufficient for a season. Seven episodes are just enough to keep you awake for nearly two nights in a row. They are NOT enough to be dubbed a season. I’d like to go ahead and officially demand more of this show.

Apparently, others have voiced similar opinions because according to the Wikipedia article a new “season” will start in August of this year. However, this “season” consists of only eight episodes plus a Christmas special.

What?!

As if this wasn’t bad enough, along comes the Masterpiece Mystery series, Sherlock. Set in modern times with an aspy Sherlock and a Watson who reminds me of David Gray, this adaptation has all of the fascinating cerebral details of earlier renditions with the added fun of technology. If you haven’t seen the show, you might think that CSI units and DNA testing would ruin Sherlock’s brilliant deductive reasoning technique. But I think the concept has always been about mind games, and I like the way they’ve incorporated modern gadgetry into the show. For instance, when Sherlock or Watson receives a text, we see the message float on the screen. We also see bits and pieces of Sherlock’s thought process in the same manner. Quite fun for a modern audience used to ingesting data in abbreviated formats.

The only un-fun thing about Sherlock? Its season consists of three, yes three, episodes. Apparently, the Powers That Be have deigned to give us three more episodes later this summer. I’m not sure if I should be happy about that or not. Seems more of a cruelty than a kindness.

So there you have it. My rant against the stingy makers of superb British television. Now it’s your turn. What are you watching this summer? Any shows got your knickers in a twist?

Wheels, Trees, and a Little Cheese

2011-06-13T19:48:00.000-07:00

So my husband is an optimist. Who knew?

A couple weeks ago, out of nowhere, he said, “I was thinking we should get you a bike.”

My first thought was, But I don’t go outside.

My second thought was, Has he forgotten what happened last time I was on a bike?

When we were dating, he witnessed my first bicycle ride as an adult. I rode into a tree. Sadly this wasn’t the first time I’d ridden into a tree. I drove a snowmobile into one when I was around 13 or 14. I’m pretty sure if I’d ridden a horse more than once in my life, I also would have somehow managed to navigate the both of us into a tree. It seems that riding astride of things (ahem!) is not my strong suit.

But Kory had faith in me, and after my initial resistance to the idea of two wheels, I actually got excited about getting a bicycle. Especially when Kory started sending me pictures of cute cruisers and comfort bikes with seats like sofa cushions. Not to mention the baskets! I pictured a 50s version of myself riding down the street in bobby socks and a ponytail. Oh, I would immediately drop 30 pounds and be adorable on my retro bike with a basket and fancy rims and maybe even a bell.

We finally found the right one and ordered it AND the basket AND the matching helmet (Wait! What about my ponytail?) It came today, Kory put it together—he has the necessary education for such a task—and I took my first ride.

Oh. My. Gosh. As it turns out, one needs muscles to ride a bike. I seem to have none. Whatsoever. But going downhill was fun. I can’t wait to get on it again and build up some strength. Maybe I will get rid of that 30 pounds after all.

At the risk of sounding a little corny (ugh! Hate corny!), my husband has no idea what this pretty bike means to me. I had no idea when he suggested getting me a bicycle that it would actually touch my heart. (Ew! I know, I know. This is so not me.) But when I was a little girl I desperately wanted a pink and purple ten speed. And the permed, blonde 80s hair to go with it. What I had was a hand-me-down dirt bike. And straight, almost-black hair.

Time passed. I forgot about the pink and purple ten speed. 80s fashions wilted, thank goodness, and I learned to like my straight, dark hair. I didn’t know there was a part of me that still longed for a sleek, stylish bicycle. Until my husband said, “I want to buy you a bike.” Then he let me pick out the prettiest, most girly one we could find, and when I balked at the price he said, “You’re worth it.”

All that remains is picking out a worthy name for my lovely cruiser. Any suggestions?

Lemonade Economics

2011-06-09T18:59:00.000-07:00

We tried an experiment this week. We’ve been looking for new and effective ways to promote books and subsidize my mom’s jewelry-making habit, so we decided to try our luck with a booth at a local farmer’s market.

Thinking this would be a good opportunity for the boys to learn a little about commerce, we suggested that they run a lemonade stand next to our table. They really got into the idea, so on Wednesday we loaded tables, chairs, a canopy, boxes of books, jewelry, a cooler, and two little boys into the van.

Setting up was a nightmare. Just putting the canopy up requires an engineering degree. I’d only had a crash course on the front lawn given by my overworked hubby. When I couldn’t get the framework in place, I called him. He was on his way home from working a night shift at the test lab but agreed to come to my rescue. Thankfully, help came from several of the other folks at the market, and Kory got to go home and sleep.

With everything set up, more or less, we were open and ready for business. That’s when we learned a hard truth about retail. Selling something is easy when you’re seven and nine-years-old and adorable. In fact, you can sell a small cup of lemonade for twenty-five cents and people will give you a dollar and say, “Keep the change.”

The boys made a killing.

Monkey, in particular, got into the whole salesman thing. He hollered, “You want some lemonade?” at every passerby, and when things were slow, he went out and tracked down customers. He hounded the other merchants in our row so relentlessly that I thought he’d get some cross looks. But they were all patient, and most eventually gave in and bought some lemonade. Unfortunately, being Monkey, he didn’t remember they’d already bought some and continued harassing them.

It’s nice to know he has career options if his whole playing-video-games-for-money plan doesn’t work out.

But you should have seen the boys' faces when we told them they had to pay Daddy three dollars for supplies. “What?” “Are you kidding?” We explained that in a real business, you have to purchase your supplies and that money comes out of your profit.

I almost told them they had to pay me for actually making the lemonade, but they were so indignant about their overhead I didn’t want to bring labor costs into the picture. Next time.

As for the other, less adorable and less obnoxious members of our enterprise, well, we did all right. Decent, in fact. But I’m not sure if we’ll try again. The canopy snapped halfway into the afternoon, and we had to enlist the help of some customers to take it down before it crashed on our heads. We lost a few necklaces to the wind. They were blown off and broke on the pavement. We did sell some books and met some great people, but it’s kind of humiliating to be outsold by a couple of little boys trying to earn enough money for a Lego set.

Then again, if anyone ever tells you the life of an author is glamorous, they're probably trying to sell you something.

In honor of the boys success, I think it's appropriate to share this YouTube of a clearly ADHD duck and his take on lemonade stands.

The Birds, the Bees, and the Turtles?

2011-06-02T19:13:00.000-07:00

So Roger and Molly, our box turtles, went on their first vet visit today. We have the best vet ever. He’s a man of remarkable dedication. I’ve seen him cuddle a snake.

It was basically a Well Turtle check-up, but even though we’ve done our research, he had some excellent advice for taking care of our herptilian friends. I learned:

1. That it’s illegal to “trade” in ornate box turtles. Oops! I feel like a criminal! Actually, we didn’t buy these guys. We got them from a rescue, so I think we’re ok.

2. Proper turtle care requires that I buy two thermometers. Thankfully, they’re not for taking the turtles’ temp but to monitor their habitat.

3. Iceburg lettuce has no nutritional value. Actually I knew that from all those 80s movies about Anorexia.

4. Crickets are the equivalent of Cheetos for turtles.

5. To make crickets healthy, I must Gut Load them by placing a slice of apple or potato in their container for the crickets to munch. I should also purchase a product called Reptical. I’m supposed to put the powdery Reptical in a baggie, then place the crickets inside and “shake to coat” before I feed them to Roger and Molly. Yep, you got it. Turtle Shake ‘n Bake!

6. Turtles, like most reptiles, pee when they’re nervous. I’m guessing our vet has experienced much worse. He took it in stride.

Unfortunately, I neglected the most crucial question: Is there such a thing as a Depo shot for a turtle? What exactly do we do to keep our turtles from getting that lovin’ feeling? We’ve already severely restricted the amount of Barry White music played in their earshot. And, of course, we have a strict ban on candle-burning. Having once burned my big toe on a candle flame, I can tell you those waxy traps are far from romantic. But Roger and Molly don’t know that, so no candlelit dinners for them!

We’re settling in to turtle ownership, and Kory plans to build an elaborate habitat for them. I suggested a combination coffee table/turtle enclosure with Plexiglas sides so we can still see them when they burrow. We’ll keep you updated on Project Turtle Palace.

Hope your summer is off to a good start!

Summer Reading

2011-05-30T09:13:00.000-07:00

I just finished Lisa Tawn Bergren’s Waterfall and can’t wait to get the sequel Cascade. With satisfying doses of romance, action, and time-travel for us paranormal fans, the River of Time series couldn’t be better for your summer reading list.

When Gabriella and her sister, Evangelia, enter an ancient Etruscan tomb at an archaeological site in Italy, they have no idea they’ll emerge in medieval Tuscany—in the midst of a battle no less. Gabi cannot find her sister anywhere and is soon carted away to the Castle Forelli. Taken in by the powerful Forelli family, Gabi struggles to adapt to everything from the language to the customs to the barbaric realities of medieval war.

Marcello Forelli, the second son and leader of the knights, is practically a fantasy hero with his Italian good looks and abundance of virulent manliness. Too bad for Gabi, the guy is taken, engaged to the daughter of the Forelli’s political ally. But that doesn’t stop a sizzling bond from growing between the two. And as the friction between the Forellis and their enemies mounts, Gabriella and Marcello find themselves enmeshed in a dangerous plot to rescue Gabi’s sister and conquer their treacherous adversaries.

I particularly liked the heroine Gabi, who has the strength and fortitude to thrive in her frightening circumstances, but also has all the vulnerability and self-doubt of any modern young woman. Bergren does a superb job of crafting a heroine that both teens and women will embrace. And, of course, Marcello is a drool-worthy hero with an honorable heart and lovely, big muscles. Sigh.

I’m curious to see how the time-travel element plays out in the rest of the series and anxious to get back to Bergren’s vivid Tuscan setting. Warning: This book will make you want to go to Italy. Probably not Italy in the 1300s, unless you think using a chamber pot would be a hoot and a half. But what girl doesn’t want to visit castle ruins, stroll through a breath-taking piazza, and eat pasta in a local café? Sign me up!

So, has anyone else read any great books lately? What’s on your summer reading list?

Purple Hair, U2, and Field Trip Fun

2011-05-24T14:13:00.000-07:00

Things in my house which are now purple:

My pillowcase
My hairbrush
My fingernails
My scalp

Every time I take a shower a certain Prince song takes over my bathroom. Even the ceiling has little purple dots on it. I had no idea I washed my hair so enthusiastically.

I’m not sure why the purple stain we put in my hair last week is still washing out. All I can say is that I’m sure glad it has come off my skin, mostly. I did come up with some fun story ideas about The Purple-Eared Fairy though. My stylist and I thought it would be a good name for a drink. Can’t you see a brawny guy walking into a bar and asking the bartender for a Purple-Eared Fairy? That’s something I’ve just got to use in a book.

So last Saturday Kory and I went with friends to the U2 concert at Invesco Stadium in Denver. This was my third U2 concert, and they were just as awesome as ever, even from the nosebleed section where people huddle together for warmth and make geeky Star Wars references about doing what you have to do to stay alive.

Like I said, this was my third time seeing U2 and you know what’s weird? Their fans are getting really old! We played an ongoing game with our friends called “Can you spot a teenager?” I got excited when I found a whole cluster of young people in the mad crush of folks exiting the stadium after the concert. They probably wondered why an old, purple-haired lady felt the need to congratulate them for having good taste in music.

Today I had the pleasure of herding third graders around downtown Colorado Springs for a scavenger hunt field trip.

Highlights included:

Rain and sleet
Lots and lots of walking
Finding “Phil” (each adult with a clue was called Phil)
Street names unpronounceable by third graders
Being offered “brownies” by strangers in the park

Actually, stranger danger aside, it was a lot of fun. After our soggy hunt we went to the Pioneer Museum. I got all excited about a TB exhibit since I’ve been researching tuberculosis for my work-in-progress. Sometimes being a writer makes you awfully weird.

So that’s what I’ve been up to. Purple hair. U2. Field Trip.

Anyone else done anything exciting in the past few days?

Help! I Have a Creative Child.

2011-05-19T14:54:00.000-07:00

The other night I was sitting between my two boys, helping them with their math homework.

Monkey, my third grader is doing fractions. I vaguely remember fractions as going something like this.

Problem:
If Evangeline eats 2/3 of a pie, how much pie will be left for Evangeline to share with her friends?

Answer:
Evangeline is a pig.

Needless to say, I wasn’t much help to my son. For one thing, it seems they do math differently nowadays, and even though I could tell he was working with fractions, the presentation looked like alien bathroom art.

But I tried. He kept asking me if his answers were right, and I kept trying to avoid admitting I didn’t know.

Meanwhile, my first grader had a sheet of simple addition problems.

Chunky: Mommy, what’s nine plus nine?
Me: You figure it out.
Chunky: But I can’t.
Me: Then go get those jelly beans. Count out nine, then count out nine more. Then add them together.

While Chunky fetched the jelly beans, I turned back to Monkey’s Martian graffiti. After an irrelevant and somewhat desperate lecture against defacing property, I checked back with Chunky to see if he had made two groups of nine jelly beans.

Chunky: Look, Mom, I made an exclamation mark out of jelly beans.
Me: That’s great. Now count out two groups of nine.
Chunky: No! That’ll mess up my design.
Me: Oooookay.

Monkey claimed my attention again. I eventually had to send him to his dad for confirmation that his answers were, indeed, correct.

When I looked at Chunky’s paper again, he’d come up with an interesting way to show his work.

Here was the problem.

Clearly he was supposed to draw groups of dots or write out a word problem, but Chunky chose, instead, to illustrate his creative process.

It really is a picture of how he solved the problem--by sitting at the table, rubbing his antenna together, and eventually coming up with the answer. The fact that it in no way shows his mathematical method is arguably irrelevant.

No, he doesn’t have a future as a mathematician. I’m thinking we have an LAS major on our hands. English? Fine Art? Communications? Philosophy? Cringe. Let’s hope, like his mother, he marries well.

Arts, Crafts, and Other Mysteries of the Universe

2011-05-10T12:52:00.000-07:00

There are two kinds of women in this country. Those who took Home Ec in high school. And those who couldn’t fit it into their busy flirting schedule.

For those of us in the dubious second category, adulthood brings certain challenges. Things like lost buttons, ripped seams, high-altitude baking, and school play costume requirements send us into a panic.

But perhaps the worst part of being domestically challenged is the blatant lack of crafting skills. While our industrious sisters scrapbook memories, stencil walls, and sew everything from quilts to purses made out of jeans, we reformed flirts struggle to make a model of a popsicle stick out of . . . a popsicle stick.

Thankfully, our wiser and more accomplished peers have developed a plan to rescue us from our own silliness.

The Craft Fair!

At these wonderful events it is possible to buy a homemade craft, take it home, and after removing the price tag, PRETEND you made it. Genius, I know.

If you cower at the sight of a glue gun and reach for band-aids along with a needle and thread, then join me at the Rocky Mountain Calvary Craft Sale this weekend. Mom and I will be signing books, and I’ll be shopping for homemade items to make my book club think I’m cool and convince my mother-in-law that her son didn’t marry a ninny. (Disclaimer: My MIL is pretty cool. I don’t think she holds my crafting disability against me.)

We hope to see you there. I’ll be the one looking awed and slightly befuddled.

The High Fashion World of Turtle Ownership

2011-05-03T11:50:00.000-07:00

Roger and Molly are here! They are three-year-old (approximately) Colorado native ornate box turtles. I brought them home last Wednesday even though it meant rushing around to get their habitat together instead of emptying my entire closet onto my bed in preparation for the Pikes Peak Writers Conference which started Thursday.

When it comes to packing for out-of-town conferences, I usually start a week in advance. Try everything I own on. Go buy shapewear. Try everything I own on over new, lung-constricting undergarments. Go buy new clothes. Pack my suitcase with well-planned, coordinating outfits and enough girdles to do my grandma’s hourglass figure proud.

But since this conference was in town, and I spent the week before planning and executing a certain someone’s spectacular Easter/animal birthday party extravaganza, I left everything till the last minute.

At this point I would like to ask my beloved, hard-working husband to STOP READING THIS POST.

So, for those of you who are not Kory—

Imagine my consternation, after spending over $200 to outfit Roger and Molly in their new digs, only to discover that I had no idea what I’d be wearing to the conference the next day.

I panicked. I went to Target and bought a black shell, an indiscriminate assortment of body-squeezing underwear, and an odd, blue shirt.

Back home, I frantically yanked clothes out of my closet, crammed my arm into pair after pair of black tights to check for holes, and ironed my jean jacket, of all things.

Then I carefully assembled what appeared, at 1 AM, to be stylish outfits.

The next day I got up, decided I had a blind engineer’s fashion sense, wore something entirely different, and was late to the conference.

I never wore the black shell. I never wore the odd, blue shirt.
I did wear the Spanx, of course.

I think I did all right. No one asked me to go home and change. But I’ll let you in on a secret. No matter what I’m wearing, I always feel about as dignified as this poor creature.

Speaking of poor taste, we're having an edible turtle contest over at The Dragon and the Turtle. Stop by. It's not as horrible as you think!

Birthday, Easter, and Green Mama Winner!

2011-04-25T12:27:00.000-07:00

It’s Monday. I’m home. Alone. With the Easter candy. Help!

There’s also lots of cake and ice cream around the house.

Today is my baby’s 7th birthday. We had a party on Friday night that included an egg hunt. Thank goodness our annual Easter snow held off until Sunday.

If you read my Green Mama posts last week, you know I had some guilt over the plastic eggs. Things went from bad to worse when I discovered I hadn’t bought enough. Turns out I can’t multiply 7X24 in my head at The Dollar Store. I had to run out last minute and purchase more eggs to reach a total of 168 (thank God for calculators and Wal-Mart.) I do solemnly swear to keep the eggs and re-use them next year and the year after and the year after…

Chunky’s party also featured a visit from Kritter Karavan. The kids got to touch hedgehogs and see them play in paper towel tubes. They saw chinchillas take a dust bath and snakes eat mice. The mice were dead and came out of a frozen package much like a TV dinner. I found it utterly disturbing, but the kids loved it. The same can be said for actual TV dinners. They also saw turtles and a blue-tongued skink, a kind of lizard that does, indeed, have a blue tongue.

We had a lovely Easter. If you’re in the mood to read my reflections on the Easter story as it pertains to the craft of writing, hop on over to The Inkwell blog. We hosted lunch at our house, and the boys were thoroughly spoiled by their grandparents, aunt, and cousin. Aunt Kathy even brought an Easter basket for Willie the Heeler.

Now I’m gearing up for The Pikes Peak Writers Conference at the end of this week and two possible herptilian additions to our family. We’ve been talking about getting a turtle ever since The Dragon and the Turtle came out. Just last week we heard of two box turtles in need of a home, so we’re hoping they’ll come live with us. Maybe my next post will be their introduction.

I hope you all had a blessed Easter and have found a way to cope with your sugared-up children and your own weakness for Cadbury chocolate and robin’s egg malt balls. Or is that just me?

One more thing. Congratulations to Sonia who won the signed copy of Tracey Bianchi’s Green Mama. Please send your contact info to me at Evangelinedenmark at msn dot com.

Green Mama, Part Two

2011-04-21T07:46:00.000-07:00

Thanks for coming back for the second half of my interview with Tracey Bianchi, author of Green Mama: The Guilt-Free Guide to Helping You and Your Kids Save the Planet. Remember to leave a comment to be entered to win a signed copy of Tracey's book.

Without further ado, here's more from Tracey.

ED: In the chapter “Your One Big Thing: Think Big, Start Small” you talk about teaching your children to love the earth so they will want to save it. I found out that assigning dog pile duty in the back yard does NOT produce warm fuzzies toward the environment. Can you give us ideas for activities that will help kids learn to love God’s creation?

TB: Adopting an animal from the local zoo. Picking a favorite trail or open space area and helping clean it up with a bunch of friends and neighbors. Getting books on certain animals and issues from the library or doing craft projects around an idea you choose can help kids get excited about conservation.

ED: In your experience, which are the best trees to hug?

TB: The ones your kids are climbing ;)

ED: You have an entire chapter dedicated to greening up holidays. Easter is almost here, and I have to admit, I have five bags of plastic eggs ready for our festivities. I’m already feeling guilty about how many of those eggs will end up in the trash. What could I have done differently to make our event more green?

TB: Reusing eggs from last year. Using real eggs and then eating them and just putting the candy in the baskets. Skipping out on the plastic grass and using real grass or no grass at all. Picking up decorations from a resale or Goodwill shop are a few ideas. I also did a blog post on skipping new Easter clothes for your kids. Some great ideas there could help too! Whatever works for you, don’t make yourself crazy with it all or you will end up overwhelmed and not wanting to do anything. Holidays are already hectic enough right?

ED: Your book has me seeing everything differently, but one of the greatest truths in Green Mama is that people and the environment are inexorably linked. You said it best in the chapter “Plant a Tree: Looking Out for Every Mom.” It is impossible to lavish the fullest expression of God’s love to other people without caring for his creation. To care for God’s people is to care for the earth. The two are inseparable. Can you give one example of this principle?

TB: A great story that I just put in my blog for April 18th is the story of a village in Ethiopia where the water source dried up due to misuse and not knowing how to care for the local ecosystems. So the girls in that village had to stop going to school because they now had to walk farther each day to get water. So something as simple as not knowing how to care for a water source prevented a whole village of girls from getting an education. As a nation with a ton of education and experience we can get involved in environmental projects both at home and across the world. It may seem like a trend here in the US but caring about these issues is life and death in some cultures and it shows that by simply caring about a water source that we really care about the people and their lives.

ED: Do you have a website where we can get more information about Green Mama?

http://traceybianchi.com

ED: Silly bonus question: Do you think it’s true that Twinkies will outlast the apocalypse?

TB: TOTALLY!

Yesterday a few readers commented on green changes and resources from their own lives. If you have anything to add to the conversation or if you have a question or dilemma please share. If you'd like to make a less-than-green confession (plastic Easter eggs anyone?), this is also the place to do it. Tracey is all about exchanging guilt for small, practical changes. I like that approach.

You have until Monday, April 25th to leave comments. I'll draw a winner on the 25th and post the name here on Breathe In Breathe Out.

Green Mama, Part One

2011-04-19T19:51:00.000-07:00

In the past few months I’ve developed an inconvenient habit of filling extra garbage pails with soda cans, appropriating buckets to store empty plastic bottles, and tucking used grocery bags into any available nook. My house and garage are overrun with recyclables. We don’t yet have recycling service with our waste disposal, but I got to the point where picturing those cans, bottles, and bags in the dump made me uncomfortable. But I didn’t know what to do. After all, if I fully committed to recycling, wouldn’t my life quickly be hijacked by green Dos and Don’ts?

And then I read Tracey Bianchi’s Green Mama: The Guilt-Free Guide to Helping You and Your Kids Save the Planet. I’m not kidding when I say that this book has me seeing everything differently, but best of all, Tracey gives moms like me permission to care, to change, to do our best, and to NOT FEEL GUILTY for what we simply can’t do.

Tracey agreed to do an interview for Breathe In Breathe Out. We’re giving you a chance to win a signed copy of her book so be sure to comment to have your name entered in the drawing. This will be a two part interview so come back tomorrow for more green tips and comment again to have your name entered in the drawing a second time.

Ok, here we go!

ED: Your book is full of green tips and ideas tailored specifically for busy moms, but I wondered if you’d share one simple thing we moms can do in our daily routine to be more green—maybe one habit to break or one little extra step we might not have thought about before.

TB: Taking our time and just slowing down! Sometimes this is one of the greenest things we can do. We get so caught up in the hustle and bustle of life with our kids and it moves fast. But when we actually stop and think for a moment we find that we have the time to make smarter choices in how we eat, and what we carry around with us. We have time to remember the reusable coffee mug or time to walk to an errand rather than drive. Sometimes all it takes is a minute to take a deep breath and think straight. So I would say slowing down a bit is a huge step!

ED: I was particularly excited to read that by purchasing certain kinds of chocolate or coffee, I can actually do right by the earth and help someone thousands of miles away (thereby offsetting my calorie guilt.) Can you talk about fair trade and give us some of your favorite brands?

TB: Fair trade is a growing conversation that so many people find exciting because it gives us as the consumer more power in our purchases. Most of us want to make a difference but we just don’t know how. And, most of us will make regular purchases of some sort, whether groceries or gifts for people etc. Fair Trade is a great way to make all those purchases count. Fair Trade, simply put, means that the people who made the product you purchase were paid fairly and treated equitably for their work. Something that is not as common around the globe as we might think. Living in the US there are labor laws to protect our workers. This is not the case around the world and in many countries from whom we import goods. I am a raving fan of a few organizations that offer lots of fair trade items. Ten Thousand Villages and World of Good are to organizations that sell a wide variety of crafts and art. I also love Equal Exchange for their chocolate and coffee.

ED: If you could be an environmental superhero what would be your superhero name and what super power would you have?

TB: Oooh, that is a fun one. I think I would name myself the Caffeine Queen. Not exactly a green name but I do believe that with the right amount of coffee (fair trade of course) anything is possible. So I would be the Caffeine Queen and my power would be to get rid of all the single use items we use in a day. From plastic bags to sandwich baggies to water bottles.

ED: You recommend buying local produce whenever possible, but here in Colorado that would mean we’d only have vegetables three months out of the year due to our short growing season. What’s a mom to do?

TB: Good question. I actually lived in Denver for a few years so I feel your pain! It is hard to get fresh stuff in some climates. You can buy stuff that is as local as possible whenever true local food is not available. For example, if you buy your apples from the grocer, buy the apples from Washington State rather than the apples from New Zealand. Also, think about eating seasonally. You will get a longer growing season from which to buy your local produce if you eat what is in season in your area rather than what is in season in Southern California.

Be sure to check back tomorrow for more from Tracey and leave a comment for your chance to win Green Mama!

The Unforgivable Curse

2011-04-11T16:42:00.000-07:00

The other day the neighborhood boys were having one of their epic battles. If you have boys you're probably familiar with this sort of play scenario. A troop of little boys treks around spouting lingo from their favorite movie or video game and pointing imaginary weapons, plastic light sabers, or sticks at each other. There are a lot of sound effects and arguments over who is immune, immortal, or invulnerable.

This particular battle happened to be of the Harry Potter variety, so the group of little boys brandished imaginary wands and shouted spells and curses at each other.

“Expecto Patronum!”

“Wingardium Leviosa!”

“Avada Kedavra!” (which in most of their cases came out sounding like “Avacado!”)

Kory and I, who were out cheering Chunky’s transition from four wheels to two, had all but tuned out the magical skirmish. Until one little boy pointed his wand and shouted, “Gluteus Maximus!”

You know, it’s all fun and games until someone gets hit with the big bottom curse.

I’m pretty sure, when I was a baby, the dark wizard, Lord Voldemuffin, marked me with the Gluteus Maximus curse. And I've suffered. Oh, how I've suffered.

But little did Voldemuffin know that the day he cursed me with extreme bootyliciousness he also bestowed the very power I would need to someday defeat him. If I ever come across Voldemuffin again, I’ll simply sit on him and end his reign of terror forever!

Now, to write a best-selling series about my adventures...

Ultimate Blog Party Post

2011-04-05T16:58:00.000-07:00

Hello All.

I’m participating in the 5 Minutes for Moms Ultimate Blog Party so this will be a party post designed to introduce you to me. Or me to you. Or us to each other. Make sense?

Ok, here we go.

I’m Evangeline Denmark.

I write books (not the one in the middle),

love cheese,

and sometimes have pink hair.

I’m wife to this guy.

Mom to these two.

And ineffective owner of this.

I blog about motherhood, wifehood, womanhood, and writerhood, but never about the hood because that would be rather inauthentic of me.

Although the children’s books I co-wrote with my mom, author Donita K. Paul, have been published (The Dragon and the Turtle, The Dragon and the Turtle Go on Safari), my passion is to write supernatural romance with an eye toward the light.

I hope you’ll get a chuckle and some encouragement from my blog. I believe in lifting up women in any way I can. If you’re visiting, don't be a stranger. If you’ve been here for awhile, then chances are you're a bit strange just like me. If you’re just passing through, there may be hope for you yet.

Birds, Bees, and Baby Squirrels

2011-03-29T16:11:00.000-07:00

On our last trip to the orthodontist, Chunky accompanied his brother and me back to the large, open exam room where patients wait in snazzy recliners for their monthly combo of metal and rubber bands.

While Monkey fidgeted in his chair, Chunky looked out the wall of windows. He pointed toward a couple of pine trees near a fence. “Mommy, look. I see two squirrels playing.”

I smiled and said, “I bet it’s a mommy and a daddy squirrel.”

Chunky’s eyes got big and he nodded. “I think it is a mommy and daddy squirrel because I saw them kissing on the lips.”

Without thinking, I said, “Oh, it’s spring time. Soon there’ll be baby squirrels.”

Later that afternoon, I performed my own little spring ritual of lying on the couch with watery eyes closed, desperately trying to escape the misery of my allergy-afflicted sinuses for a few minutes. Chunky arrived on the scene with a whump to my stomach. I knew my attempt at a nap was over but resolutely kept my eyes squeezed shut. Chunky declared, “I love you, Mommy!” and deployed Operation Attack Kiss.

I know families deal with kissing differently, but in ours, the rule is, only Daddy gets to kiss Mommy’s lips. That’s why I jumped when Chunky planted a smacker on my mouth. I gave him the sort of half-hearted reprimand one gives cheeky little boys.

His Adorable Innocence responded, “But Mommy, I had to kiss your mouth so you’ll have another baby.”

Crud.

“Sweetie, that only works with Mommies and Daddies.”

“Oh, well, when Daddy comes home I want you to kiss him on the mouth so you can have another baby.”

Deploy Evasive Maneuver #312: “But why would I want another baby when I have you?”

“I’m not a baby anymore.”

Evasive Maneuver #457: “That’s right, you’re a super fun six-year-old.”

“But I want a brother.”

“You already have a brother.”

Chunky wasn’t having any of it. He kept arguing the merits of lip-kissing and baby brothers until I was out of tricks. Finally, genius struck. I looked him in the eye.

“You know it might not be a baby brother. It might be a baby sister.”

Disgusted silence. Then, “Well, she’d have to sleep in the guest room because our room is full.”

Contest Winner and Some Blog Changes

2011-03-26T10:45:00.000-07:00

Just a quick post today to let you all know that Renee won the Saint Patrick’s Day drawing for a copy of The Dragon and the Turtle Go on Safari. Renee, if you didn’t see my comment on your blog, please email your address to evangelinedenmark at msn dot com. By the way, Renee has mad cake decorating skills. Check out this gorgeous cake she made for a baby shower. If I’d been invited, I would’ve brandished a pair of deadly plastic forks and prevented hungry and misguided guests from destroying/eating her art. Perhaps this is why no one invites me to parties anymore.

I also wanted to let you all know that I hope to bring some changes to Breathe In Breathe Out. In an effort to post more often, I plan to incorporate stream of consciousness writing and random selections from the phone book.

Or, if it turns out that Abe Aarnt and Adele Abercrombie don’t want me to post their phone numbers on my blog, I may dig a little deeper for quality content. I’ll still be posting mom humor because, frankly, I need to in order to stay sane. But I’d also like to explore my passion for supernatural stories.

My friend, Sarah Sawyer, does an awesome job of exploring fantasy elements on her blog. I admire her for her scholarship, elegant writing, and treatment of spiritual themes within the fantasy genre. While I know I don’t have Sarah’s style or skill, I’d like to follow her example and be part of the discussion in my own superficial, romance-junkie way.

I’d also like to bring more book reviews to the blog. One of the first questions I ask my girlfriends when we get together is, “What are you reading?” I don’t expect a book report, I just want a quick recommendation on where I should spend my limited reading time and even more limited brain power.

So far, I have no official plan for implementing my proposed changes. I know some folks would take a Monday/Wednesday/Friday approach, assigning a specific topic to each day. But that’s not how I roll. We’ll just do this Forrest Gump style and chew on whatever we happen to pull from the box.

I hope you'll enjoy the selection.

A Day at the Spa, Or, How I Got That Bruise

2011-03-23T18:26:00.000-07:00

Occasionally, one becomes so psychotic with stress that one’s family demands action be taken. That is why last week I found myself entering a dimly lit room with candles burning, tranquil music playing, and massage table waiting.

My mom, God bless her, is forever trying to get me to relax using strange and suspicious techniques. She buys me vitamins and gift certificates for massages, facials, and pedicures. I know. I know. She’s up to something.

Anyway, after being shown into this little cocoon of warm earth tones and Chinese letter art, my matronly massage therapist instructed me to “undress to my comfort level.” She then left, shutting the door behind her.

I have no comfort level with nudity. I’d prefer to take my showers fully clothed.

But I gave it the old college try. I removed one or two articles of clothing and quickly slid under the fluffy blanket on the massage table. After awhile, my therapist came back.

Even from my face down position, I could tell something was wrong. Her Danskos appeared in the blurry oval of my vision and she clucked. “You don’t want your back done, then?”

Me, out loud: “Yes, I want my back done.” Me, not out loud: My back is the only part of me I want you to touch!

She gently informed me that I’d failed at basic undressing and suggested ways to rectify the situation. Since she was nice and very non-threatening, I complied.

To my surprise, even as a near nudie patootie, I was able to relax and enjoy my massage. We talked about Crocs, her vacation plans, and my poor posture.

Everything was fine until she finished and told me to stay put for my facial.

She left and I was once again alone in a room, listening to Sounds of Nature for the Small of Bladder.

Oh, a gentle spring rain.

Oh, a trickling brook.

Oh, a thundering waterfall.

Oh, a tidal wave.

It became harder and harder to relax.

But what could I do? Any moment the aesthetician would walk through the door. I was stuck. Naked and uncomfortable. Every moment she didn’t come became a wasted opportunity to bolt out of my cocoon, toss on my clothes, and make a run for the restroom.

Tick, tick.

Don’t they usually provide robes?

Tick.

Not a robe in sight.

Tick, tick.

Ok, now I’ll go.

No, wait. What if she comes?

Tick.

Now!

No, no. I can’t risk it.

Tick, tick.

Finally I could wait no longer. I decided a Shock and Awe approach was my best bet. I tossed away the blanket and tumbled off the table, completely forgetting my well-oiled feet. The following spectacle involved one or two squeals, a crash, some mild bruising, and way too much exposed skin.

Too traumatized to slow down, and convinced that any moment alarmed staff would arrive on scene, I pulled on my jeans and top, skipping certain items supportive in nature. I tiptoed out to the lobby and asked for the restroom in a hushed and appropriate, only slightly desperate tone.

The attendant, who looked like a bouncer, informed me the restrooms were outside the salon in the lobby of the building. As I jiggled my way to the door, I heard him mutter, “We’re not offering that one any water.”

Leprechaun Traps and Book Drawing

2011-03-16T13:33:00.000-07:00

Happy Saint Patrick’s Day. I love the story of Saint Patrick. So much so, in fact, that Chunky’s middle name is Padraig, the Gaelic version of Patrick. More on that later.

Of course everyone’s familiar with the tale, but if you’re interested in a good fictional account of Patrick’s life, I recommend Stephen Lawhead’s Patrick: Son of Ireland. Or, this informative short (9 minutes) from Big Idea.

I have to admit, whenever I use a metaphor in my writing, I find myself mumbling, “Oh great metaphor” in a cheesy Irish accent.

So we always celebrate Saint Patrick’s Day in some form or another. We’ve tried attending parades but Monkey is very sensitive to strong odors and loudly objects to the horses and a few of the bagpipers. I usually make corned beef and cabbage or Guinness stew, which Monkey also loudly objects to.

For several years I tried to make Irish soda bread, but I’ve only ever managed to make Irish soda rocks. This year my brother is in town, and since he’s an accomplished baker, he’ll be the one cutting an X on the dough to let the fairies escape.

Speaking of fairies, my six-year-old constructed a leprechaun trap out of a cardboard box, wrapping paper tube, and popsicle sticks. This required the poor kid to eat five or six popsicles in a row. I’m not sure how he survived the brain freeze.

If you follow this blog, you know about our recent Epic Tooth Fairy Fail. I’m worried we’re headed for the Great Leprechaun Disappointment. So worried, in fact, that I tried to convince my husband to let me buy a hamster to put in the leprechaun trap. I planned to tell Chunky the legend of Binky the Leprechaun, a rather jumpy member of the wee folk, who turns into a hamster when startled.

Being sane, my husband gently discouraged my scheme. So I found this instead.

I’m going to leave it in the trap with a note from the “real” leprechaun. I just hope this doesn’t lead to a new tradition of yet another benevolent fairytale creature funded by Mom and Dad’s savings account. But if it does, at least we’ll make some fun memories along the way to bankruptcy.

I’m curious. Do you celebrate Saint Patrick’s Day? How? If you leave me a comment about how you spend your St. Patty’s Days, I’ll put your name in a drawing for The Dragon and the Turtle Go on Safari. After all, it’s not a coincidence that both my son and the little red dragon are named after Saint Patrick.

To give you time to party, sober up, and make up a good story, I’ll give you a week to make comments. I’ll do the drawing next Thursday, March 24th.

Now get your green on!

Books I Love

2011-03-11T08:48:00.000-08:00

First, an update on Mom: The surgery went well and she is on the right track for recovery—working hard for those meanie physical therapists. Yesterday she moved to the rehab floor at the hospital. We don’t know how long she’ll stay there, but since she’s struggled with a little dizziness when she gets up, her progress has been slowed just a little bit. Thanks for continuing to pray for her! We so appreciate it.

Now, I thought I’d share some decidedly delicious books I’ve read lately. Reading is definitely stress relief for me, and my first choice of brain candy is a good ol’, toe-tingling romance.

Kristin Billerbeck has been one of my favorite authors since I discovered her Ashley Stockingdale series. Her latest novel A Billion Reasons Why is a classy, rich read packed with sizzling romantic tension. I could identify with heroine Katie McKenna, who felt she always had to make the safe, “right” choice to make up for past mistakes. When Katie is forced to return to New Orleans, she must deal with the events that caused her to choose her current risk-free life. Top of the list is Luc DeForges, her college boyfriend who broke her heart.

I love Kristin’s vivid storytelling. A Billion Reasons Why is full of 1940’s flair, and Kristin’s descriptions make you feel like you’re watching a Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers movie in color. Katie’s love of all things retro had me searching the Internet for 40’s style dresses. But even though I can’t help wishing for a little more glamour in my life when I read a Billerbeck novel, I always feel grounded by her characters’ growth throughout the story. She has a knack for gently yet firmly presenting truth. One of the themes of A Billion Reasons Why is that you must be who God created you to be and not who other people tell you to be. I could see my own issues and hang-ups in Katie’s struggle to choose to shine as God made her, and I think many women will feel the same as they read this book. Check it out if you haven’t already!

My other recent favorite read is Jenny B. Jones’s Save The Date. Jenny’s blog is a thing of beauty, like a free sample at the Russell Stover’s store. Her books are like eating the whole box.

Jenny’s characters are people you want to know, but at the same time they’re larger than life. You can’t help loving Lucy, the big-hearted heroine who agrees to an engagement of convenience in order to save her home for girls who’ve aged out of the foster care system. But while spunky and sassy are expected in this genre, Lucy isn’t the typical romantic comedy character. She’s a sci-fi nerd for one thing. I loved all the geek references and could totally picture her group of friends, The Hobbits.

Alex is romantic lead worthy of the best rom-com. I wanted to hate him because he’s an ex-football player and I hate football. But darn that Jenny Jones, she made him lovable. As the story progresses you see behind Alex’s persona and it’s impossible not to root for him. Plus, the pages all but smoke with the romantic tension between Alex and Lucy.

There are some wonderful secondary characters in Save The Date. Julian. That’s all I’m gonna say. Read the book.

I hope you’ll pick up these two books. You won’t be sorry, unless, well, unless you’re a guy and then you might be like, “Where are the car chases and exploding buildings?” In which case, you’re reading the wrong blog.

That's Life, Baby

2011-03-06T20:21:00.000-08:00

Things come easy to my second son. Compared to his ADHD brother, Chunky lives a charmed life. That’s why this last week was so devastating for him. I’m afraid reality invaded his bubble.

First came what we’re calling the Epic Tooth Fairy Fail. It’s exactly what it sounds like folks. Chunky woke up, ran to check the special tooth pillow we hang on the doorknob and managed to catch the wall at just the wrong place. He went sprawling but picked himself up and limped on, only to discover the Tooth Fairy had forgotten our house.

After curling into a ball and sobbing on Mom and Dad’s bed, he decided the Tooth Fairy must’ve been out of the country because it was the end of the month. I enthusiastically endorsed this theory.

You’ll be happy to know, the Tooth Fairy came through on night number two.

But that wasn’t Chunky’s only brush with disappointment.

Saturday the boys attended their first Cub Scout Pinewood Derby. We didn’t know what to expect, but since the boys both picked the same design—an army tank—we figured we couldn’t go too far wrong with nearly identical cars.

Monkey’s tank won every heat and came out the overall winner for his den. Chunky’s car—the exact same design—came in fourth for his den, just missing a chance for a trophy. Oh, the bitter tears.

We hung around for the finals in which Monkey placed seventh, earning an opportunity to go on to the district finals.

There’s no logical explanation for why Monkey’s car did so well and Chunky’s didn’t, and that makes it all the harder. We told him all the things you tell your child in this situation.

“It’s not winning that matters, it’s having fun.”

“There are lots of other boys who didn’t get a trophy.”

“We can be happy for your brother and your friends who placed.”

And Chunky tried. He accepted hugs from his brother and cheered for his friends’ cars in the finals. But all he really wanted to do was huddle in Mommy’s lap.

I posted about the difficult lesson we were learning on Facebook, and a friend commented that adults struggle with similar emotions.

I agree. Every time one of my manuscripts is rejected, for no good reason it seems, I want to curl up in a ball and cry. I want to point to some published book and say, “That book isn’t as good as mine. It doesn’t deserve to win!”

But that doesn’t make the pain go away. In the end, I have to crawl up in my Father’s lap and just wait for the ache to subside.

The good news for Chunky, and for me, is that we can try again. We can keep building, keep creating, keep racing. We can learn to rejoice with our friends even as they commiserate with our frustration.

And those of us who remain stubbornly out of touch with reality can tell ourselves, “It’s okay. The Book Contract Fairy is on vacation today. Maybe she’ll come tomorrow.”

Our family would appreciate your prayers in the following weeks as my mom goes in for hip replacement this Tuesday. I’ll keep you posted on her recovery. Thanks!

Flirting 101 for Zombies and Married People

2011-02-24T19:07:00.000-08:00

When it comes to flirting, Chunky is the only member of our family who’s got game. He had his first girlfriend in preschool and met his current main squeeze in kindergarten.

Monkey, on the other hand, calls girls “g-words” and spends inordinate amounts of time plotting their destruction with his schoolyard buddies. That’s why we were a little surprised recently when he asked our waitress if she got a lunch break.

I did a double take. Was that my nine-year-old?

The waitress laughed and explained the concept of a shift to Monkey. His eyes glazed over and soon he began studying the table top.

Kory beamed. “That’s my little future engineer! Throw a pick up line at the pretty girl then avert your gaze.”

That’s pretty much how it’s done folks. My favorite engineer joke goes something like this:

“How can you spot an extroverted engineer?”

“How?”

“He looks at your feet while you’re talking instead of his own.”

I’m not much better at the art of flirtation. I never got beyond the often misinterpreted meaningful stare.

“Excuse me, miss. Are you okay? Miss? How many fingers am I holding up?”

Yeah, I got skillz.

I’m just as clueless at 32 as I was at 16.

The other day I was at the grocery store with my boys. I happened upon a large blond man in the frozen fish section. His size and the fact that he was wearing shorts in February caught my attention. Then I noticed a tiny dog in the crook of his arm. I felt I should share this spectacle with someone. So, under the guise of showing my boys the cute puppy, I called attention to Surfer Dude with Poodle.

Chunky informed our new friend that he better not let the police catch him with a dog in King Soopers. Surfer Dude—who had an Australian accent to go with his highlights—sheepishly admitted that he never suspected it was against store policy.

It didn’t occur to me until I was unloading the groceries at home that Surfer Dude with Poodle was trolling for chicks. Oops! There I was wasting his valuable time. I should have directed him to the produce section where all the Pilates Bodies go for their daily celery stick.

Which brings me to a very serious subject.

You know that expression—I may be married, but I’m not dead? Well, it worries me a bit. I seem to be both married and dead—a predicament that naturally reminds me of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies.

If you haven’t read the book, I’m not spoiling anything by telling you that Charlotte Lucas is tragically bitten and becomes a zombie. No one, not even her husband, Mr. Collins, seems to notice the change until Elizabeth Bennet, zombie ninja extraordinaire, comes along.

You can see the parallels can’t you?

So how do I break it to my husband gently that his wife is a zombie? Since I haven’t started losing appendages yet and am satisfying this strange new hunger with large amounts of cauliflower, the only thing I can come up with is this.

Anyone else have any suggestions?

My Cheesy Valentine

2011-02-10T16:57:00.000-08:00

Valentine’s Day approacheth. I thought I’d blog about something I love in honor of the holiday. No, no. I’ll not be gushing about my husband. He already knows I love him. I tell him every time I buy a pair of boots.

Instead I thought I’d express my devotion for a certain something I’ve been missing lately. You see, I’ve gone four whole weeks without eating CHEESE.

I’m pretty sure this is some kind of experiment in sociopathic behavior brought on by food deprivation. I keep expecting to see guys in white coats shadowing me and documenting my every outburst.

But the torture is almost over. Soon I will be reunited with the object of my affection. As you can see, I’ve made a few preparations for the big day.

I even wrote a poem.

Cheese, I love you.
Cheese, I do.
I bought a special pill.
So you won’t go right through.

Cheese, it seems an eternity,
That we have been apart.
My meals are sad without you.
Holes of Swiss gape in my heart. (Yeah, I wanted to rhyme something else with “apart,” but my mom reads this blog.)

Oh, Cheese, how I have wished
That you would come to stay.
My love, the wait is almost over.
I’ll devour you on Saturday.

Good enough for a Hallmark card, don’t you think?

One of the things I’m excited to make with all my glorious cheese, is a low-carb chocolate almond cheesecake. Let me know if you’d like the recipe and I’ll gladly share it in the comments or by email.

If anyone out there has a good cheese soup recipe, I’d love to have it. I’ve had trouble finding a good one. I think the next recipe I’ll be trying is Cheesy Chipotle Soup. I sure hope my trusty enzymes and probiotics are ready for that one.

In case you’re wondering, I’m not lactose intolerant. Apparently, I am “lactose challenged.” I wonder if I can get one of those magnetic ribbons to go on my car so I can raise awareness for the cause. Should I organize a walkathon? Maybe I should go to counseling to learn how to deal with my disability. Or, I could just take my little pill and stop blogging about my indigestion.

My Eyes! My Eyes!

2011-02-01T14:23:00.000-08:00

February is here! I made green cookies today to celebrate.

What’s that?

Green is for March?

Dang it! I knew something wasn’t right.

Actually, we’re stuck inside because the temperature is -10. They cancelled school, but I had no intention of taking my kids anyway. As a family, we’re quite dedicated to our one shared hobby, Asthma. Our lungs have been known to seize up if we leave the freezer door open too long.

The weather guys were saying this would be a big storm, so Kory spent last night on a co-worker's couch. Let me just insert here that I am extremely high maintenance in my need to have my hubby near. I knew at a very early age that I could never be a military wife because functioning alone for months on end was just not acceptable. My inability to make chicken and play the piano ruled out pastor’s wife. And my love of shoes and dislike for the out-of-doors ruled out farmer’s wife.

Anyhoo, last night I was on my own. I’m not going to lie to you. It was tough.

My first precaution against accidental death from lack of spouse was to don fleece pajamas. Without hubby to keep me warm I knew I better go one step up from my normal head-to-toe flannel.

Next I settled in to check out a program I’ve been meaning to watch for research. The novel I’m working on is set in Yorkshire, so I figured All Creatures Great and Small would show me a little of the countryside. It showed me a lot more than that.

People, do you know about this show? Have you seen it?! Oh, my gosh! I had to cover my eyes. How could something made the year I was born be so graphic?

Admittedly, I had to admire actor Christopher Timothy’s dedication to the craft. I think if we asked Matthew Fox to stick his hand you-know-where on a cow, he’d sue or something. I don’t see how they could have faked some of the more bovine intrusive scenes.

Ick!

Did I mention I wasn’t cut out to be a farmer’s wife?

Thankfully, the show couples shots of Yorkshire scenery with some lilting instrumentals, so I knew it was safe to peek when I heard the happy music.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t so successful at understanding all the dialect. I don’t think I had the option of using Closed Captioning with streaming Netflix, and I’m pretty sure it couldn’t keep up with the dialogue anyway. It’d probably look something like this.

“Mawt goon t’orth fer shoot tha lug soet ma summat doon.”

Which, roughly translated, means, “My cow is sick and I hope you brought full hazmat gear.”

In case you’re wondering, there are animals in my book, but they’re all in excellent health. If any of them get sick, well, they’ll just have to die. I’m too traumatized to introduce a vet.

I’m so glad my husband will be home tonight to keep me from watching British horror shows from the 70s.

Here's something I bet you've never seen. Don't worry, you won't have to cover your eyes.

I May be Fat, but I Sound Cool

2011-01-19T15:40:00.000-08:00

There’s a reason shopping is called retail therapy. This morning I felt icky, then I did me some shopping. Now I feel better. Simple enough.

Check out my present to myself.

This is perfect because many of my friends call me “E”—out of affection or laziness I’m not sure. But having lived with the name Evangeline Elnora (Tompkins) Denmark, my whole life, I don’t blame anyone for shortening that mouthful.

Anyway, you may wonder why I’ve turned to shopping to numb my stress instead of my usual go-to, food. Or, maybe you’re operating on all cylinders today and you assumed that, like the rest of the nation, I’m on a diet. Oh the misery! The horror! The lack of tasty snacks! Right now I’m craving cranberry Wensleydale cheese like nobody’s business.

This time around, Kory decided to join me in my tribulation. Isn’t he a saint? It does make cooking easier. But the other day Chunky asked me, “Why is Daddy on a diet too? Is he just keeping you company?”

Isn’t that cute? Bless his stinkin’ little heart.

I try not to use the D word around the house because the experts seem to think hearing it will damage my children’s self-esteem. I’m sure there are exceptions, but I think that principle must apply to girls. I can’t see overhearing the word diet making any kind of a dent in my boys’ unshakable belief that they are the center of the universe.

Still, it’d be nice if we could put a more positive spin on the whole self-inflicted starvation thing. Oh sure, I’ve heard it termed “getting healthy,” but that little euphemism isn’t fooling anyone. What if we had a different code for dieting?

While I was thinking about the joys of “healthy eating,” it occurred to me that I’ve had to find other interests to fill the time I would have normally spent eating. I already knew I liked to shop, but I’m discovering other pastimes now that my absorbing passion for food is simmering on the back burner. Like watching classic 80s movies, re-organizing Legos, and reading strange, free books on my Kindle.

Wouldn’t I sound cool if, instead of turning down invitations to food-centric events and being forced to admit that I’m on a diet (as if it’s a secret that I need to lose weight), I could say, “I’m sorry I can’t come. I’m exploring alternative forms of entertainment.”

Just picture it.

A business contact says, “Let’s meet for lunch.”

I say, “I’m exploring alternative forms of entertainment. How about we meet at a museum?”

Family friends invite us over for dinner.

I say, “We’re exploring alternative forms of entertainment. How about a game night?”

My mom says, “Let me take you out for coffee.”

I say, “I’m exploring alternative forms of entertainment. Will you take me out for a nose piercing?”

Our small group leader asks, “Are you going to the church potluck?”

I say, “I’m exploring alternative forms of entertainment. Let’s go to that hookah bar downtown.”

The head of the PTA suggests, “Ladies, let’s do brunch.”

I say, “I’m exploring alternative forms of entertainment. Let’s do interpretive dance.”

See how much cooler that sounds? I don’t see any potential problems with this, do you?

I Don't Have a Special Word!

2011-01-10T10:10:00.000-08:00

So it’s January. I realize everyone else is used to the idea, but I toasted the New Year with the highly-addictive cocktail of Albuterol nebulizer treatments and Codeine-laced cough syrup. I can’t remember the stroke of midnight, but I do recall uncontrollable twitching from my bronchodilator “upper” and odd dreams from my narcotic “downer.”

Luckily I was prepared beforehand with some, in my opinion, pretty stellar resolutions.

1. Stop buying cheap shoes.
2. Stop buying cheap bras.

But, according to the social media powers that be, resolutions are SO last year. It seems the thing to do nowadays is pick one word to be your theme word for the year. You know, like Courage. Or Forgiveness. Or Contentment. Or Pizza. Or Fluffy.

This is a way cool idea. But telling me to pick one word to guide my year is like sending me into Payless to buy one shoe. I couldn’t do it even if I tried. And the results would be entirely inadequate.

What’s a girl to do?

Well, nothing, for awhile anyway. I spent the first week of the year in resolution-less, special word-less limbo. In not unrelated news, I also officially decided to give up writing several times during this gray, unpleasant week. I told my husband that the neon signs read, “Stop wasting time trying to get published.” He disagreed, but I have never been one to listen the first time he says something. See Household Budget.

Despite having officially quit writing, I still spent the two extra seconds I had last week working on my novel. During these little creative spurts, I just pretended not to feel the weight of discouragement and not to see the signs that told me, “Your time would be better spent scrubbing grout with a toothbrush.”

The more I practiced this intentional ignorance, the happier I became. Pretty soon a song started running through my head, and I realized I had my theme for the year. In willful defiance of The Signs, I choose to move forward, to continue writing, and to not allow any time for regret.

So here’s my resolution, my theme, my determination for 2011. I choose to Forget and Not Slow Down.

New Year, New Job?

2011-01-03T09:21:00.000-08:00

Monday, January 3, 2011

Ah, yes. Back to life. Back to reality. My husband, who originally intended to work through his vacation, ended up taking more than a week off, partly because I got a nasty respiratory virus. We did next to nothing for the whole break. I sat around coughing and reading, and he tinkered on the ever-present household projects.

Unfortunately, one of those projects was the budget. Whenever matters of finance come up, my utter uselessness becomes apparent. Kory is very good about never pointing out my lack of contribution, but it doesn’t take a genius to realize that one income is insufficient when you live like you have two.

Last night I lay in bed, unable to go to sleep at 11 PM after a week of 1 AM bedtimes, and wondered what people like me do in the real world. My English degree is one step up from Philosophy in terms of career opportunities. I haven’t had a real job in ten years, and I have few marketable skills.

I asked Kory what I might be qualified for, and this is the list we came up with.

1. Retail
2. Fortune cookie writer
3. Professional Twitter and Facebook updater
4. That thing husbands always suggest that they’d really only allow if they were the sole audience member
5. Medical research test subject
6. Spokesperson for an awareness campaign for people with two different-sized feet
7. Designer of stretchy shoes
8. Psychic (Kory assured me I didn’t really have to be psychic for this job.)
9. Motivational speaker
10. Circus entertainer

Not very encouraging options are they? With the economic downturn, I hear retail jobs are scarce, and then there’s the near certainty that I’d spend my entire paycheck at whatever store I worked at. Unless it was Lowe’s or Tire World, of course.

Number 2 might be out as well if they require you to know Chinese. And there aren’t many people who can afford to pay someone else to update their social media. Numbers 4 through 8 are a bit of a stretch, and number 9 relies on the Jerry Springer principle that others would feel better about themselves once I told them what a loser I am.

Which leaves number 10. As of today I will see what I can do about growing a beard. Until it comes in, perhaps I’ll do the world a favor and stay off the job market.

That is, unless anyone out there has some good career advice for me. Please keep in mind, I have no organizational skills whatsoever, am squeamish about all things medical, and seem to have no control whatsoever over children.

Holiday Misfires

2010-12-20T09:20:00.000-08:00

So, like every other mother in America, I’ve spent the last couple of weeks running around like an elf on Ritalin. Now the kids are out of school and we’ve all got the sniffles, but things are finally starting to slow down. I thought I’d share some Christmas funnies in the off chance that you have a slow moment to read this week.

We'll start with children and gifts. I think Chunky has written a dozen letters to Santa asking for things like a billion dollars and to be turned into a dragon. He has us scratching our heads. Even Santa was a little baffled when Chunky sat on his lap and asked for, of all things, a lava lamp.

Monkey is a little more straight forward. In fact, subtlety escapes him entirely. A few weeks ago he came up from downstairs with a wrapped gift. He showed it to me and said, “Mommy, this is for you, but you can’t open it until Christmas, and I’m not going to tell you what it is.” Chunky wanted in on the secret, so Monkey went over to tell him. Monkey got right up next to his brother’s ear, started whispering then looked over his shoulder at me. “Mom, what are those things you wear in your ears called?”

Without blinking, I said, “Earrings.”

I did blink, however, when I saw these in a store recently.

I’m not going to tell you what store because I love the place and consider this to be an error in judgment best left to the ghost of Christmas past. I have to wonder what Mary would have to say about this pink sparkly representation of her. After all these years in blue and white, maybe she’d appreciate a little bling.

Speaking of Mary, I’d like to write a letter to the folks who made my nativity set.

Dear Manufacturers of Porcelain Nativity,

Why have you left Joseph out? Every year when I unpack my set, I wonder if one of the FOUR wise men is supposed to be Joseph, but since they’re all holding a gift—gold, frankincense, myrrh, and fruitcake?—I figure they have to be the magi.

Then there’s the shepherd carrying his sheep. Clearly, he’s not Joseph.

The camel and the donkey are a nice touch, but still I think you could’ve left one of them out in favor of Mary’s husband. I know, biologically speaking, Joseph wasn’t necessary, but having given birth myself, I can state with certainty that it’s nice to have a man to yell at. I think Mary was glad he was there, and I’d be glad if the arrangement on my hutch was a little more balanced.

If you ever make a Joseph, please let me know. Unless, of course, he looks like this.

Sincerely,
Evangeline Denmark

If you have a Christmas funny to share, please leave a comment. With all the stress and rush of the season, it helps to share a little merry.

How Evangeline Couldn't Steal Christmas

2010-12-08T08:06:00.000-08:00

The Season is here with a vengeance.

I have already:

1. Injured myself putting up decorations
2. Spent too much money
3. Decorated sugar cookies with white, green, and pink frosting
4. Donned a little black dress
5. Sat on a large replica of a sea turtle

Aren’t the holidays magical?

Actually, if I’m honest with you, I’m not feeling very Christmas-y this year. I think, like the Grinch, my heart is two sizes too small, leaving me cranky, selfish, and slightly green.

I feel sorry for the Whos affected by my deficient heart. But, well, they are annoyingly chipper, and they sing nonsense songs, dress funny, and then there’s the noise. NOISE, NOISE, NOISE.

You know, it’s not a totally bad thing to feel disconnected from the hustle and bustle of the holidays. My state-of-mind has made one thing clear to me. Christmas is not found in the ginormous boxes that hold the sections of our twelve foot tree. I can’t bring it home in a shopping bag. And I can’t put it on with my party dress.

But I think its spirit was here when my six-year-old insisted that we make a cross cutout cookie because Jesus came to die for our sins. And I think Christmas whispered in my nine-year-old's ear as he added the words “and that everyone would have a good Christmas” to his list for Santa. And the merry part of it showed up when I bemoaned the fact that I didn’t buy the all-over squeezy thing to go under my black dress, and my husband quirked a brow at me and asked, “Who is Oliver?” and then told me I looked beautiful.

If, like me, you’re feeling that your Santa costume wouldn’t fool Cindy-Lou Who, then I encourage you to at least recognize the moments when God reaches into your cold cave and touches your reluctant heart. I'm glad my Grinchyness can't stop Christmas from coming. I hope at some point this holiday season that I can be talked down from my ledge and convinced to join those weird little Whos in celebrating Christmas.

Attack of the Giant Mutant Barnyard Fowl

2010-11-24T11:55:00.000-08:00

I have to say, thankfulness was not my first emotion when Mom informed me she’d ordered a turducken for me to cook for her sixtieth birthday celebration. I have difficulties eating, handling, and even thinking about meat. No one understands this, least of all me.

A chicken stuffed inside a duck that is stuffed inside a turkey sounded like a monster from a horror film in my opinion. I pictured a giant, featherless mutant bird stomping down a deserted city street, flapping its naked wings while I desperately tried to get away. Needless to say, I had more than one nightmare about the whole thing.

When the turducken arrived last Friday, it looked innocuous enough in a vacuum-sealed cooler plopped on my doorstep by the FedEx guy. I was all for leaving it in the neat packaging, but since I was supposed to cook it the next day, I knew I’d have to lift the sarcophagus lid and remove and defrost the mummy within.

Having cooked a Thanksgiving turkey before, I knew what I might be facing: raw, yellowish skin, that horrible, gaping cavity, the disgusting stuff they put back in the cavity, maybe a feather or two.

Excuse me, I think I just threw up a little in my mouth.

Ok, back to the turducken. It wasn’t anywhere near as bad as a turkey. You see, turduckens come already assembled. I assume the folks who do this are pitiable inhabitants of a mental institution. After all, if you told me I had to stuff a chicken inside a duck then stuff that duck inside a turkey, I’d kill you and then plead insanity.

Thankfully, the only drastic measure necessary for our turducken was an extra-long ice water bath. The next day, Mom’s birthday, all I had to do was unwrap the thing, put it in a roasting pan, and stick it in the oven.

Here’s proof that I did it.

It came out so well, I didn’t even have time for a picture of the finished product before it was eaten. A few of Mom’s birthday guests volunteered to let me take a picture of their full tummies, but I told them that was just weird.

We had a wonderful celebration but never managed to agree on exactly how the chicken came to be inside a duck that ended up in a turkey. Here are a few of our theories:

1. Time-travel
2. Alien abduction
3. Genetic engineering
4. “Beam me up, Scottie” gone terribly wrong
5. Splinching, similar to #4 but with a Harry Potter twist. After all, if Ron Weasley can’t apparate, then how can we expect dim-witted barnyard fowl to do it?
6. “A turkey, a duck, and a chicken walk into a bar…”

If you have any ideas of your own, please share. Let’s remember to keep it PG, shall we?

Oh, and Happy Thanksgiving!

Christmas: The Joy of Giving, Celebrating, and Doing Time

2010-11-12T09:18:00.000-08:00

My mom is going to jail! Apparently, she's been found guilty of being big-hearted and will be locked up for GOOD next week. You can help post her bail AND help kids with muscular dystrophy by donating at the following site.

MDA Lock-Up

After you've done something good for someone else, then it's time to do something good for yourself.

To celebrate the release of Mom's Christmas novella, Two Tickets to the Christmas Ball, Waterbrook Multnomah Publishing Group is sponsoring an awesome contest. The winner gets two tickets to the Glen Eyrie Castle Christmas Madrigal Banquet plus airfare to Colorado Springs, plus two copies of Two Tickets to the Christmas Ball!

How cool is that?!

Kory and I have been to the Madrigal Banquet, and it is truly a unique and wonderful experience. Most guests wear formal attire, but since this is Colorado a few misinformed cowboys might show up in jeans. Be nice to them. They didn't get the memo.

Here's how the Glen Eyrie site describes the evening:

The Glen Eyrie Christmas Madrigal is a gourmet 5 course meal surrounded by all the glorious pomp and circumstance you can imagine, reminiscent of a bygone era!

Be greeted with complimentary valet at the entrance to the Castle, warm by the fire with a cup of wassail, immerse yourself in the joyous festivities of a Renaissance Castle Christmas where you will enjoy a variety of song and dance, musical instruments and tales presented by the Lord and Lady of the Manor.

Be treated like royalty in an unforgettable night!

If you'd like to enter the contest (I sure wish I could), go to the following link and scroll down until you see Two Tickets Sweepstakes.

Waterbrook Multnomah Contests and Giveaways

Oh, and donate and enter today. Mom's scheduled to be arrested November 18th, and the Two Tickets Sweepstakes deadline is November 17th! That's next week, people!

Things You Shouldn’t Do After Eye Surgery

2010-11-04T10:02:00.000-07:00

Ok, it wasn’t exactly eye surgery, but a week ago I had a mole removed from my eyelid. Since it was so near my tear duct, I went to an ocular-plastic surgeon for the procedure. He was a nice guy and did a great job, but I thought it was sort of strange that he numbed my eyeball with drops and gave me the first of several shots before asking me to sign a waiver. I’m pretty sure my signature looked like it was written by a second-grader on a sugar high.

The procedure was quick and painless, aside from the numbing shots. When he was done, I asked, “How bad does it look? Is it really gross?”

He laughed. “No, not at all. Here, I’ll show you.”

He held a mirror up to my face, and even half-blind I could see the bloody hole in my eyelid. So I asked him, “What is your definition of gross? Because this is mine.”

He insisted that I did not need an eye patch despite my argument that it would get me cool points with my boys. So I put my sunglasses on and stumbled out to the waiting room where my Mom waited to drive me home. And here begins my list of things you should not do after having eye surgery:

1. Drive. The doctor warned me about this one, so I brought Mom along to help. He did not warn me about the next thing on the list.
2. Walk. We had to stop at Walgreens for my prescription. At this point I could see out of both eyes, but I didn’t know my depth perception was off. I walked into the car in the parking space beside us.
3. Read, upside down, in the dark, to 25 third-graders. Yeah, perhaps I shouldn’t have volunteered to read scary stories for the fall party the day after my surgery.
4. Stare at the laptop screen.
5. Watch TV.
6. Wear eyeliner.
7. Light jack-o-lanterns.
8. Gaze romantically into husband’s eyes. “Ew, honey! Your eye is oozing.”
9. Do anything that makes you cry, including chopping onions, paying bills, and watching Toy Story 3.
10. Eat Thai food.

You’ll be happy to know that, a week later, I’m nearly healed. I still wish I’d gotten that eye patch though.

Storycrafters coming to Denver on November 13th

2010-10-27T20:33:00.000-07:00

Just a quick note today to tell you all how excited I am about Susan May Warren's Storycrafters Seminer coming to Denver. Below is all the pertinent info you need to come to this fabulous workshop, but let me just say that to character-driven, seat-of-the-pants writers like me, Susie is a superhero. She completely throws herself into helping other writers take their plot inklings and turn them into workable novels. I think her middle name is Brainstorm. And if you're looking for an all-around good read, pick up any of her titles. The PJ Sugar series is one of my faves.

If you're interested in writing, I hope you'll join me November 13th. Remember, registration ends November 1st.

The Storycrafter's Seminar
Featuring Susan May Warren
RITA Award Winning Novelist and Writing Coach
Saturday, November 13th, 2010—8:30 am - 4 pm
Registration check-in and continental breakfast begin at 8:30 am, seminar begins at 9
Graystone Castle Event Center
(formerly Radisson Graystone Castle)
I-25 & 120th Avenue
Thornton, Colorado
Have you always wanted to write a story but didn’t know where to start? If so, the Storycrafter's Seminar is for you! RITA Award-winning author and writing coach Susan May Warren will teach you story structure, go step-by-step in the character creation and plotting process, then show you how to apply it to your story. She’ll brainstorm your idea, share essential secrets of storytelling, and finally, you'll take home a plan that will act as a map for your novel. With time for writing, as well as learning, it’s a day for writers of all levels that will jumpstart your novel onto the road to publication.

Speaker

Susan May Warren is the RITA award-winning author of twenty-five novels with Tyndale, Barbour and Steeple Hill. A RITA winner, as well as a four-time Christy award finalist, she’s also a multi-winner of the Inspirational Readers Choice award, and the ACFW Book of the Year. A seasoned women’s events speaker, she’s a popular writing teacher at conferences around the nation and the author of the beginning writer’s workbook: From the Inside-Out: discover, create and publish the novel in you!. She is also the founder of www.MyBookTherapy.com, a story-crafting service that helps authors discover their voice. A full listing of her titles, reviews and awards can be found at www.susanmaywarren.com.

Registration
Cost is $109 and Registration ends November 1, 2010.
The event will be held in Thornton, Colorado, 12 miles north of downtown Denver and 30 minutes from the airport, in the Graystone Castle Event Center (formerly Radisson Graystone Castle). Admission to the event includes:

Storycrafter's workbook
Continental breakfast
Deli lunch buffet

Register on-line at www.acfwcolorado.com/events

Stuck Alive

2010-10-21T11:02:00.000-07:00

Is it selfish to go to church because it inspires you to write? That’s not the only reason I go to church, but I confess I often find myself walking down the aisle on Sunday morning (late as usual) and thinking, “Man, I need this.” And it never fails. Something in the music or the pastor’s sermon starts my brain whirring with ideas on character, plot, or theme. Then I have to struggle not to zone out, thinking about my Work In Progress, for the rest of service.

Last Sunday was no different, but who would have suspected I’d find a correlation to my WIP in Luke 2, the Christmas story? And who would have suspected that we’d be studying Luke 2, the Christmas story, in October?

Despite my church’s apparent calendar confusion, the following passage was very timely for me:

At that time there was a man in Jerusalem named Simeon. He was righteous and devout and was eagerly waiting for the Messiah to come and rescue Israel. The Holy Spirit was upon him and had revealed to him that he would not die until he had seen the Lord’s Messiah. That day the Spirit led him to the Temple. So when Mary and Joseph came to present the baby Jesus to the Lord as the law required, Simeon was there. He took the child in his arms and praised God, saying,
“Sovereign Lord, now let your servant die in peace,
as you have promised.
I have seen your salvation,
which you have prepared for all people.
He is a light to reveal God to the nations,
and he is the glory of your people Israel!”
Luke 2:25-32

Cool, huh? God would not allow Simeon to die until he saw salvation, the Messiah. I wonder how old Simeon was. Did he wake up every morning and wonder if that day was the day he would see Christ…and die? Did he get tired of waiting? Did he ever feel like going to look for redemption instead of waiting for the promise to come to him?

We get the sense from the passage in Luke that Simeon was a good guy, and the promise of living to see the Messiah was a gift, even if somedays he woke up cursing his arthritic knees.

But what if you resolutely refused to see the Messiah, as many do, and God decided to keep you alive until your stubbornness ran out? Talk about extreme octogenarians!

That--minus the gray hair and degenerating joints--is the concept of my book, The Immortal Heathcliff. Although at the end of Emily Brontë's classic tale, Wuthering Heights, Heathcliff recognizes that his elaborate revenge has left him hollow, he still goes to the grave unrepentant. In my novel, he climbs out of the grave still unrepentant and wanting nothing more than to die for good like normal folks. Instead he’s stuck in an immortal state, searching for deliverance, atonement, and release from his unnatural life.

But what he views as a curse is actually a gift. He will not die until he sees redemption. He sets about looking for it, trying to earn it, instead of waiting for it to come to him. After two hundred years of failing to obtain his freedom, grace breaks down the barriers he's constructed. Now all that remains, is for him to finally open his eyes and see his salvation.

The idea of being stuck alive fascinates me, and I hope it will fascinate readers as well.

Question: What would you do with immortality on earth? Would you accumulate wealth? Visit every corner of the globe?

Me? I'd read. Everything.

Singing, Sailing, Speaking

2010-10-12T09:11:00.000-07:00

Last January, my friend Beth Vogt (aka The Evil Editor) asked me to speak to a group of writers. Beth is the kind of friend who makes you see yourself as you always dreamed you could be, which for me means covered in green paint and belting out Defying Gravity on a Broadway stage.

Naturally I agreed.

After the exhilaration faded, and I realized I would not be singing in green body paint, I got nervous.

As the February date of my workshop drew nearer, my nerves turned into a clump of cold spaghetti. I practiced and practiced my talk on Moving Beyond Clichés. The day arrived and with it a snowstorm. The event was cancelled, and my spaghetti knot unwound.

Beth and Scoti at Springs Writers rescheduled me for October, which was far enough away for my spaghetti to be lulled into warm, buttery sense of security.

But, as you know, time tends to pass. Autumn arrived, and I started having internal pasta trouble around October 1st.

Last night, at 6:30, time was up. I finally gave my first workshop. Beth Vogt and Mild-Mannered Missionary Mary came along to heckle, I mean, cheer me on. During my talk I had a little moment when a realization hit me. It went something like this:

No, I wasn’t tied to the podium, and there was no deranged psychologist waiting in the wings, but I did experience a tingle of exhilaration when I realized that I can do this. I speak now. I’m a speaker. Isn’t this some kind of breakthrough? I’m a speaker!

Ahoy!

Picture Day Meltdown

2010-09-22T16:24:00.000-07:00

Have I mentioned that I hate Picture Day? I don’t remember it being traumatic as a kid, but as an adult, this school event always has me flummoxed.

On the night before Picture Day, I usually lay out the boys’ outfits from the previous Easter--which they didn’t wear because we always have blizzards on Easter—only to discover the next day that they grew three inches overnight and can no longer wear the Easter outfits they never wore in the first place!

This year, I bought them short-sleeved, button-up shirts with stripes. Yeah. Thrilling. I couldn’t be more excited. Really.

At least I bought the shirts one size up so as not to be caught off guard by a visit from the Miracle Grow Fairy.

But this year, I had a new challenge to tackle. I didn’t have time to make sure Monkey took a bath last night, so I had to get him to take a shower this morning before school. Do all nine-year-old boys loathe bathing? Is it normal for them to come out of the bathroom after a shower just as filthy as they went in? Do other moms besides me have to stand outside the door and remind them to wash their faces and armpits?

I wasted too much time narrating my son’s shower from behind the bathroom door this morning. When he finally finished, I raced upstairs to brush my teeth and get dressed, hollering to Chunky that he needed to get dressed. (His picture day is tomorrow. Yay. I get to do this all over again.)

I’d just starting brushing when the smoke alarm went off. If I was the sort of mom who actually served a home-cooked breakfast in the morning, I might have been worried. But I knew kid-tampering was the only reason the fire alarm would go off on a Tuesday morning at 8:20 AM with me still in PJ’s, brushing my teeth, and already horrendously late for Picture Day.

I ran downstairs, saliva pooling around the toothbrush still in my mouth, and glared up at the smoke alarm. Why do we do this? Why is our first reaction to stare at the screeching device instead of look for fire?

Anyway, as I dragged a chair into the hall and climbed up to push the button, I hollered around my mouthful of toothbrush and drool, “Monkey, what did you do?”

“Nothing,” he muttered.

I silenced the alarm then looked at Monkey, who stood there with hair combed, wearing his Picture Day best, and holding the carbon monoxide detector.

“Why did you unplug the carbon monoxide detector?”

“I dunno.”

At this point Chunky shows up, completely dressed, but without socks.

“Go get your socks on, Chunky.”

“I threw them downstairs.”

“Then go find them and put them on.”

“Here they are.”

“Those aren’t your socks. Those belong to one of your brother’s friends.” (If I knew which friend, I’d return them.)

Chunky starts bawling. “Where are my socks?”

“FOR THE LOVE OF ALL, go upstairs and get new ones! WE’RE LATE!”

Chunky sobs back up the stairs. I go spit.

Chunky comes back down the stairs holding thick dinosaur slipper socks.

“If you wear those socks, your shoes will be too tight! Get new ones. Never mind! I’ll do it!”

I go up, get his socks, come back down, sit him on the chair I used to reach the alarm, and cram his feet into socks and shoes. He wails the whole time, and Monkey says, “Mom, why are you yelling at Chunky?”

“Because it’s PICTURE DAY, that’s why!”

As we're trotting into school, long after the bell has rung, I notice Monkey buttoning the top button of his shirt.

"Don't do that. You only button the top button if you're wearing a tie."

"But I don't want anyone to see my neck?"

What is that about?

"Sweetie, you will look like a dork if you button the top button."

"But I like it this way."

And that's when I officially gave up. I can’t believe I actual pay for this nightmare. Every year.

Things a Nine-Year-Old Does

2010-09-15T13:09:00.000-07:00

Monkey will turn nine in a few days. Apparently, the little twerp has decided to grow up. Fast!

The other day he sighed and said, “I’m getting older and that means more chores. Like taking baths. Because bigger bodies get more stinky.”

You can tell what topic of conversation has come up in our house recently.

His last growth spurt rivaled the Hulk’s transformation, but thankfully my not-so-little-anymore boy isn’t green. Unless he’s eaten a green popsicle, that is.

The grown-ups in the house have marveled at the recent changes in Monkey’s maturity level. As a late bloomer, he’s always been behind the curve, but now he seems eager to dash ahead.

He made a splash in swim lessons this year. His instructor said he was the strongest swimmer in his group. We’ve finally managed to get him to piano lessons regularly, and his teacher calls him “a natural.” When he was assigned “Ode to Joy,” I told him it was my favorite piece of music and that we played it at our wedding. Now when I tell him to practice it, he rolls his eyes and says, “Yeah, I know, Mom. It’s your favorite song.” Then he plays it, looks at me with a twinkle in his eye, and asks, “How was that, Mom? Was it good? Did you like it?”

Yep. Puddle of mom right there on the floor next to the piano.

I think part of being a late bloomer is being a bit of a mama’s boy. Sometimes I don’t mind. Like when he holds his little, brown, Cherokee-kissed arm out next to mine and says, “We have the same skin, right Mom?”

But there’s another side to being mother to a clingy boy—always being the security blanket, having to push him to take responsibility, to remember the simplest things, like brushing teeth and wearing clothes, without being reminded.

My good friend whose son is a high-functioning autistic says, “Someday he’ll be a rocket scientist, but I’ll still have to pack his lunch and drive him to work every morning.”

I can totally relate.

But recently Monkey hit a milestone in his journey to becoming a healthy, well-balanced, apron-string-free man. Mom and I had picked the boys up from school and were heading to another author’s booksigning at Mardel. The boys were talking about their day at school and Monkey piped up.

“Mom, did you know they’re going to have career day at school?”

In fact, I’d already signed up to be involved, excited that this year I could participate as a published author.

“Yes,” I told him, “and Grandma and I will be there, and we’ll get to talk about The Dragon and the Turtle with all your school friends.”

It was quiet for a second then a hesitant voice said, “Well, ok, Mom, . . . but doesn’t Dad build things that go up into space?”

Ouch.

Yes, my feathers were just a teensy bit ruffled. I mean, come on, my book was published this summer! That’s gotta earn me some cool points with the offspring, right? But at the same time I was cheering inside. If you have boys, then you know how important it is for them to loosen their koala-tight hold on mommy and look to dad as their role model.

We talked for awhile about Dad’s cool job and how the products he works on go in rocket ships and satellites and help keep our country safe. Monkey quickly concocted a special ops scenario in which bad guys were trying to steal Dad’s plans for a super secret totally awesome weapon. I gently brought him back to reality and silently wondered if we might have yet another storyteller in the family.

I guess we’ll find out when Monkey grows up.

Cub Scout Mom

2010-09-02T13:56:00.000-07:00

Monkey and Chunky are Cub Scouts! When we starting looking into Cub Scouts naturally the first thing I thought was, “Oh, they’ll look so cute in their uniforms!” The rest of the program sounded good too. Character training, fun activities, positive socialization, summer camp, lots of opportunities to wear out the boys.

Summer camp was our initiation. After hiking half a mile in my flip flops to drop the boys off at the camp location, I began to suspect that I was not quite prepared to be a scout mom. The other women I saw were in tennis shoes or hiking boots, and furthermore, seemed to possess some hidden control over their little Cub Scouts. While my kids darted around and shrieked like pterodactyls, the other scouts stood quietly waiting for the day’s activities to begin.

Undaunted, I returned the next day with my tennis shoes and Willie, our Blue Heeler, who is convinced that Monkey and Chunky are her cows and must be kept in line. Hey, whatever it takes. We managed to get through the week of camp, and the boys had fun once they quit acting like prehistoric terrors.

The start of school has also brought the start of regular Cub Scout meetings. This week it was finally time to get those adorable little uniforms. I made the trek to what is known as the Council Store and had what can only be described as a completely novel experience.

I didn’t know how to shop!

That’s never happened to me before!

The shirts, pants, belts and hats weren’t intimidating. But an entire row made up of bin after bin filled with mysterious patches was enough to make me shake in my destroyed denim. Then there were neckerchiefs, slides, insignia, badges, belt thingamabobs, and socks, and even Boy Scout party supplies.

I must have looked lost because a very nice, insignia-bedecked young man asked if he could help. I told him I had no idea what I needed, and he started asking questions.

“What pack are you in?”

“Um, I have a first grader and a third grader.”

“Ok, that means you have a tiger cub and a bear cub.”

“Tell me about it. They’re wild.”

“But what pack are you in, ma’am?”

“You mean the numbers?”

“Yes, the numbers.”

Once I remembered what pack we were in, he handed me number badges, a council patch, and some other things I still haven’t identified. Then he loaded me down with the rest of the paraphernalia. I followed dumbly as a man did my shopping for me.

We’ll pause here for me to recover from the humiliation. I’m gonna need a moment before we go on.

Ok. So we finally made it to the register, and I plunked my armload onto the counter. My friendly personal shopper began ringing me up, and I pawed through the various patches, trying to sort them out.

I turned a patch over and without giving it much thought, asked, “Are these supposed to be sewn on?”

“Yes, ma’am, they’re sew-on.”

“But I don’t know how to sew.”

Awkward silence.

I cringed. I’d failed again at being a good scout mom. I’m pretty sure my polite, bearded friend behind the cash register could sew on a patch with his eyes closed.

“We have Badge Magic.”

I breathed a sigh of relief and followed my Boy Scout Guide to what I’m guessing was the Single Dad section of the store where they have ready-made kits for home-economics drop-outs like myself.

I had this wild impulse to tell the guy that I can cook—like that would redeem me in his eyes. But I didn’t. I mean, let’s face it, Kraft Mac n’ Cheese doesn’t exactly scream June Cleaver.

I made my purchases, thanked him—he really was nice—and fled in shame.

Today I pulled all the stuff out of the bag, read the instructions on Badge Magic—So Simple, Even a Scout Can Do It!—got all the patches ready, and ironed the shirts. I know! Ironing! I haven’t done that in years! Then I traced the badges, cut out the shapes, affixed the Badge Magic to the badges, and stuck the badges onto the shirts. I only had one snafu and it was easily fixed. But the real test will be Monkey’s den meeting tonight. We’ll see if I managed to get all those patches on in the right spots. But for now, I’m pretty proud of myself.

Next challenge. Popcorn sales. Are scouts wearing braces exempt?

Claim

2010-08-19T13:53:00.000-07:00

I recently read Lisa T. Bergren’s novel, Claim. I’ve never read one of her books before, for which I should be flogged. But really, having missed out on her excellent fiction is punishment enough, don’t you think? Now I’m wiser and will be stocking up on Bergren novels like I’m anticipating nuclear winter.

I was a little concerned about reading the third book in The Homeward Bound Trilogy before reading the first two, but I had no problem diving into the lives of siblings Dominic, Moira, and Odessa St. Clair.

Claim is primarily Dominic’s journey to love, home, and his place in the world, and right from the start I felt like I knew the guy and understood where he was coming from. Bergren is fantastic at conveying the little pieces that add up to make an authentic character. Her pacing is flawless as well. She kept me wondering what was going to happen next but never frustrated me by jumping too soon to another character’s point of view.

Moira, Dominic’s sister, also has a journey to take in Claim. The bulk of her story is told in the second novel, Breathe, and I look forward to reading it. But I liked the way Bergren showed that even if you think you’ve found where you belong, you still need to deal with your past in order to heal. The twist at the end of Moira’s journey surprised me and added an unexpected level of tension.

I took Claim with me on a camping trip, and the surroundings were perfect for reading a story set in the Colorado mountains. That is, when I managed to block out the sounds of the horde of wild children roaming the campsite.

Kory took this picture and said it was me in my natural habitat. He’s wrong. This is the equivalent of a goldfish in a water-filled baggie. I’m far from where I belong—a comfy chair INDOORS—but I still have what I need for survival. A good book.

School Supplies Make Me Cry

2010-08-10T13:58:00.000-07:00

The Dragon and the Turtle releases today! Look for it in your local Christian bookstore, Barnes & Noble, Borders, Amazon—anywhere but my garage.

To celebrate the release of our children’s book, I went shopping for school supplies today. Yeah, that was a joke.

Just once I’d like to go back-to-school shopping and not end up blubbering in the junk food aisle. Seriously, those school supply lists make me question the goodness of God.

I have a theory. I think teachers make these lists with the intent to torture parents one last time before the kids return to school. Most of the time, I like teachers. Several of my close personal friends teach, and my boys have been blessed with some really dedicated educators in their short school careers. But as I squeeze through the school supply aisle at Wal-Mart, I lose touch with reality a little bit.

I mean, come on. How can I not go bonkers when instructed to purchase three packages of Crayola Washable Markers, 10 Count. You can buy REGULAR Crayola Markers, 10 Count. And you can buy Crayola Washable Markers, 8 Count. But you CANNOT buy Crayola Washable Markers, 10 Count. Apparently, they don’t make them.

Then there are the index cards. I’m supposed to buy pastel index cards. Pastel! Guess what my choices are in office supplies. White and NEON! I smell Conspiracy to Drive Parents Insane, don’t you?

And then there are items like this:

1 package colored copy paper (NOT multi-color) Huh??

2 red felt tip pens (fine tip, NOT permanent) Um, this is in addition to the three packages of Crayola Washable Markers 10 Count?

Chunky is supposed to have 24 No. 2 Standard Yellow Pencils (Papermate Brand) and Monkey is supposed to have 48 (forty-freakin’-eight?!) No. 2 Standard Yellow Pencils (Papermate Brand.) I could not even find ONE Papermate Brand pencil, let alone SEVENTY-TWO!

Now I know someone is going to say I’m over-thinking this. People are always telling me I’m over-thinking things. My mom says it. My husband says it. My counselor says it. The guy who gave me a tissue next to the Little Debbie display said it. But what can I say? I’m just trying to follow directions and keep either of my boys from being known as “that weird kid who only has 8 markers instead of 10.” Or worse, “that freak with the neon index cards.”

I know if I can survive this crisis, my kids will go back to school next week, and I will have eight blissful hours of quiet time every weekday until sometime next June. But for now, I have to count crayons, organize folders by color and type (pockets or brads?), and make sure the box of Kleenex I bought has a minimum of 175 tissues in it.

Please go buy The Dragon and the Turtle. My mental health bill is going to be high.

Lucky Baby

2010-08-01T14:18:00.000-07:00

Meredith Efken’s Lucky Baby could not have come at a better time for me. Feelings of inadequacy in the mom department all but smothered me this summer. And although my boys are adopted from another planet, not from China, I had plenty to relate to in this fantastic book about a woman's journey to become a mother in all the real and good senses of the word.

Meg Lindsay, the heroine of Lucky Baby, seeks to repair her wounded heart by stitching together a family of her own. She and her husband, Lewis, set out to adopt an orphan, Zhen An, from China, but their journey exposes more than their own hurts.

Wen Ming, a slightly older blind girl, is Zhen An’s only friend in the Chinese Orphanage. Her side of the story is one not often heard in the typical adoption account. Wen Ming—with her strength, tenacity, and fierce love—serves as a counterpart to Meg Lindsay’s desperate but at times tentative affection for her daughter.

The two struggle to forge the true bonds of family and move beyond the losses they've suffered.

The author weaves Meg and Wen Ming’s tales together with exquisite prose. I loved her use of magical realism. Each of the symbolic elements felt like a feast. I told myself I’d savor the delectable words, and then I gobbled them up anyway. But the best thing about a good book is that you can always read it again.

Lucky Baby is a fragrant and satisfying story of family and healing and how the two are possible despite the pain of rejection. I highly recommend it for moms and anyone who enjoys rich, evocative, magical tales.

You can find out more about Meredith Efken and her books at her website.

Pink Hair and Jury Duty

2010-07-22T07:29:00.000-07:00

My friend Daphne, The Perky Pessimist, is the kind of friend who keeps you young in the best, non-night-in-jail kind of ways. A week ago, Daphne dyed some of her hair pink and posted the pics on Facebook.

I loved it and told her so. A few days later, I somehow ended up with pink hair of my own through a blurred process that involved lots of laughter, margaritas, and some very strange smells.

We started out by dying just the tips of my hair pink so I could cut them off if it was too much. The opposite was true. I loved my pink ends and wanted more pink. So Daphne obliged. We used a different brand of dye mistakenly labeled something innocuous like Sweet Ruby. Unfortunately, on me it looked like Bozo’s Wig.

This time it was too much and I had Kory cut off a few inches of pink. But I still have a lot in my hair even though it doesn’t show up on camera too well. We discovered that the “food” setting on the camera works best for picking up paranormal hair. Just a hint for all you color junkies out there.

I still forget about my pink hair and wake up every morning startled by what I see on the pillowcase or in the mirror. This is a nice break from waking up every morning startled by the number on the scale.

When asked “Why pink?” I usually say, “I had to cover up the gray somehow.” But the truth is, it was time for something fun, and . . . I thought maybe the color would help me get out of jury duty.

Yep, that’s right. I got the dreaded notice in the mail last month. I arranged for my mom to watch my kids in the morning and a friend to watch them in the afternoon so I could go have a fun day at court. I ended up in the jury box—much to my horror. Even worse, it was a criminal trial. Incidentally, you know that questionnaire they make you fill out? There’s no box to check for “Is your hair an unnatural shade and does that reflect your outlook on life?”

For awhile it looked like I was going to have to resort to favors, bribes, and complicated scheduling charts to arrange for child care for the rest of the week. But, where my pink hair failed to get me off the jury, my conservative views on prior felonies did the trick. The defense sent me packing, and—forgive the cliché—I was one happy camper.

Don’t get me wrong. I support and believe in our justice system, but, HELLO? Summertime! The kids are more than just home. They are black holes of summer boredom, restless energy, and brother-bating power. They managed to put my mom back on oxygen after she spent only a few hours with them. I’m not kidding. My boys are forces of nature not to be taken lightly or even approached without proper protective gear.

So, I’m now off the hook in more ways than one. I’m relieved of jury duty and a pretty hip mama if I do say so myself.

And the Winner Is

2010-07-09T10:11:00.000-07:00

So last week when I announced my little contest, I didn’t know that we would receive our advanced copies of The Dragon and the Turtle this week. I thought I’d be telling the winner, “I’ll send your copy as soon as I can get one.”

But on Tuesday our beloved UPS man delivered our first copies. I screamed. The boys screamed. The dog barked. It was exciting.

After the screaming, I sat down and read the book to my boys. They loved seeing Roger and Padraig on the page after hearing about their many adventures in bedtime stories.

Since then, they’ve been handing out The Dragon and the Turtle bookmarks everywhere we go. It’s pretty funny actually. They’ll go up to other kids in the store and hand them a bookmark. Sometimes they say things like, “This is from my grandma” or “My mommy and grandma wrote this book. For me.” Sometimes they just throw the bookmark at the unsuspecting child and run away. When that happens I feel compelled to explain, or maybe laugh, point, and say, “You’ve just been bookmarked.”

So far, this family marketing thing is pretty fun, but I’m a little worried that we’ll end up traveling the country in a VW van, putting on The Dragon and Turtle Family Show in libraries, bookstores, and schools. My kids will suddenly sport bowl-cuts and bell-bottoms. My husband will start using words like “wholesome” and “groovy.” And I will take up playing the tambourine.

Help! Help!

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Okay. Panic attack over. This is 2010 not 1970, and no one can make me play a tambourine and wear polyester if I don’t want to.

I bet you didn’t come to this blog to read about my Partridge family nightmares. You probably want to know who won the contest. All right, without further histrionics from me, the winner is:

Andrea Downs, who suggested I sign my name with the tag “Every day can be an adventure.”

I loved this and have already used it when I signed some books for friends. Andrea is the brave mother of three boys and can testify that every day is an adventure. Unlike me, I bet she never hides from the day’s adventure under the covers or in the bathroom.

I also must give an honorable mention to Corey White whose clever “May there be nothing rotten in your state, E. Denmark” cracked me up, but would go over the heads of most 4 to 8 year olds.

Colorado Springs folks, don’t forget, Mom and I will be signing books August 14th at Mardel from 1 to 3 PM, and August 21st at the north Barnes and Noble from 1 to 3 PM. We’d love to see you and sign a book for you.

I’m sure we’ll be giving more copies away in the future, so watch this blog and Mom’s blog, Dragon Bloggin'

Win a copy of The Dragon and the Turtle!

2010-07-02T10:14:00.000-07:00

My husband took this picture at Colorado Gators when we visited the San Luis Valley a few weeks ago. It reminded me of the picture book Mom and I wrote together that will release August 10th.

The Dragon and the Turtle is a story about the fun of making friends with someone who is different from you. Obviously the alligator and the turtle in this picture have worked out some system of friendship since they live in the same pond. I wanted to ask someone why the alligator didn’t attack the turtle, but nobody was around for me to question.

Monkey and Chunky were a little reluctant to visit the alligator farm. They kept asking, “Won’t the alligators get us?” Kory and I wondered if they really thought we’d take them someplace where alligators roamed free in search of tasty little boys. Maybe we should stop threatening them with Death by Alligator when they misbehave.

Once we got to Colorado Gators and the boys saw that all the animals were behind fences, they relaxed and had a blast. What is it about reptiles and amphibians that fascinates little boys? I could barely get past the smell.

Mom and I hope the scales, claws, and tails factor will attract young readers to our Dragon and Turtle stories. We had two particular little boys very much in mind as we created the characters. And for you moms out there, you’ll be relieved to know this is not a scratch and sniff book.

If you’re in the Colorado Springs area, we have two booksignings in August. The first is at Mardel on North Powers on Saturday the 14th from 1:00 to 3:00. The second is at the Briargate Barnes and Noble on Saturday the 21st from 1:00 to 3:00. We’d love to see you there!

Which brings me to a dilemma that only occurred to me as we were arranging the B&N signing last weekend. How am I going to sign my name? I mean, I know no one really cares. Anyone standing in line to get their book signed is there for Donita K. Paul’s signature. I could sign my name:

Your very own raving lunatic,
Evangeline Denmark

and no one would even notice. Still, for my own satisfaction, I’d like to have a cool signature line. Any suggestions?

Hugs and kisses,
Evangeline Denmark

A little too touchy-feely?

Your rockin’ friend,
Evangeline Denmark

A little too 1950’s?

Chillax,
Evangeline Denmark

A little too middle-schooler?

See, I need help. Let’s make this a contest. Submit your suggestions and if I pick yours, you’ll win a copy of The Dragon and the Turtle. Next Friday, July 9th, will be the cut off for submitting your suggestion. Then I’ll pick my fave and announce it here on Breathe In Breathe Out.

Don’t worry, I’ll have Donita K. Paul sign the winner’s copy too.

The Hidden Talents of Little Boys

2010-06-24T13:00:00.000-07:00

I’ve long suspected that my first son has a career as a professional interrogator ahead of him. All kids have that special ability to ask “Why?” until their parents would joyfully swallow nails in order to get them to stop. But Monkey—Monkey is something else. With his auditory processing disorder and the hyper-focusing that sometimes accompanies ADHD, Monkey could get innocent men to confess to murder with no other weapon but the word why.

I’ve expanded my theory about Monkey’s usefulness in the interrogation room and come up with, what I think, is a brilliant method our military might want to look into when trying to get information from suspected terrorists.

I’d like to put forth the hypothesis that using no means other than a group of little boys, our military powers-that-be could get more intel faster than they do with their current methods. And so, I’d like to present my top ten list of ways to use the mysterious, obnoxious power of little boys to break hardened criminals.

10. Star Wars references. To one not enamored with all things Skywalker, the ability of boys to endlessly discuss Star Wars can, AND WILL, drive the non-little boy mind quite thoroughly mad.

9. Beans. The concept is simple, yes, but mind-blowing in its implications. Feed five little boys beans. Wait two to four hours. Release . . . um . . . well, just release on suspected criminal.

8. Cafeteria line. This sorta goes with number 9. Why not make the suspects feed the five little boys? Anyone who has ever tried to fill the hollow, gaping black holes that are little boys’ mouths will know that it’s a task similar to spinning plates. As soon as you’ve shoveled chow into the mouth of the last boy in line, you’ve gotta go back and start over again.

7. Yellow alert. It’s crude, yes, but this is for the really bad guys. Suspect must clean up after little boys take a bathroom break. “You missed a spot.”

6. Transformers: Give each boy a brand new, still-packaged Transformer. Suspect must remove toy from packaging, then transform toy from character to vehicle following directions in Japanese. (Unless, suspect is Japanese, then I recommend Icelandic instructions.) This also works like the spinning plate game. No sooner will the suspect finish with the last Transformer than he’ll have to start over again and transform them back to vehicles.

5. Stupid jokes. Boy Number One: “Two guys walk into a bar and FART!” Boys Two through Four: “HAHAHAHAHA!” Repeat indefinitely.

4. Legos. Put boys in room with approximately 1 billion Legos. Come back and remove boys in one hour. Put terrorist in room barefoot. Turn off lights.

3. Put your shoes on. This is like those horrible word problems you had to do in elementary school math. You have five boys. Each boy has two feet. How many shoes do you need? 10. How many shoes do you have? 9. And none of them match. “Show your work.”

2. Car ride: All the fun of numbers 10 through 3, but in an enclosed space.

And finally, the number one way to break a terrorist suspect using the incapacitating power of little boys:

1. My Turn! One game system. Two controllers. Five boys. Terrorist must negotiate turn-taking.

Moms of boys, am I on to something here?

Un-Camping and Other Adventures

2010-06-17T14:41:00.000-07:00

Why does it take more than a week to recover from being out of town for three days? Maybe the recovery time is proportionate to the number of children taken on the trip and the intensity of activity performed. Makes sense, doesn’t it?

Last week our family went on an un-camping trip to the Sand Dunes in the southwestern section of Colorado. There were no campsites available so *insert dramatic sigh* we HAD to stay in a hotel. This suited me just fine. I don’t even like to be outside in my own backyard, so having an indoor pool, TV, and comfy bed instead of a sleeping bag was definitely my kind of “camping.” We even had a microwave in our room so we were able to make s’mores. I know some of you outdoor, granola types are rolling your eyes, but this city girl enjoyed her warm showers, thank you very much.

The boys loved the sand and the undulating creek. They each brought an entire dune home in their pockets. I had to use that fire-fighting nozzle attachment on the garden hose to clean their clothes out. I considered using it on them, but thought peeling the top layer of their skin off was going a bit too far.

All three of my boys have affectionate relationships with water. Chunky loves it with the enthusiasm of a typical 6-year-old. It seems to tame the ADHD beast in Monkey. Get him near water and he’s happy. And Kory could sit by a lake and throw pebbles in for hours. I think it has something to do with the fact that most of the time his brain is crowded by all things technical and engineer-y. When he’s in nature, simple pleasures take over.

But my water-crazy boys got a little out of hand when we hiked up to Zapata Falls, a 30 foot waterfall cutting through a rock crevasse south of the Sand Dunes. Monkey and Chunky whined all the way up the half mile hike from the trailhead but stopped complaining as soon as they spied the rushing, frigid stream. Kory hiked upstream and into the cave to see the actual falls while the boys and I scrambled over rocks and caught tiny blue butterflies. Only one butterfly didn’t survive the experience.

When Kory came back—his feet numb from the just-melted snow—we went downstream to the sluice gate where a deep, icy pool overflows its barriers and tumbles on down the mountain. Kory introduced the boys to his favorite water-related activity, throwing rocks, then he set off to explore the surrounding area.
Things got out of hand fast. My boys quickly tired of throwing pebbles and small stones into the pool. Everybody knows bigger things make better splashes. Soon they were digging up the largest rocks they could find and carting them over to the edge.

I twitched as I watched my kids lug heavy stones to the pool, teeter on the rim, then hoist the rocks into the water. Back and forth I went between Monkey and Chunkey, who naturally had chosen separate spots for their aquatic experiments.

Kory’s exploration had taken him out sight, but finally he returned.“Whew,” I thought. Now I have another set of hands to shadow my daredevil boys.

Nope. Wrong. Kory began helping the kids dig up bigger and bigger rocks. When the stones were too heavy for the boys, he carried them over and launched them into the clear, green depths himself.

There are times when a mom of only boys feels very alone with her femininity. I knew it was pointless to bring up my reservations about safety, so I contented myself with watching very closely and taking pictures.

Stupid Pet-Owner Tricks

2010-05-28T09:30:00.000-07:00

I’m writing in hopes that there are other families like ours who have stumbled into a problem they don’t quite know how to handle. I’m talking, of course, of owning a pet that is smarter than you.

If you follow this blog you know the story of how we ended up with our Blue Heeler, Willie. She was not the breed we set out to adopt, but we fell in love with her cute face, beautiful markings, and silly, long legs.

We looked up Heelers online and pretty much ignored all the “negative” things said about them. Let me re-phrase. There aren’t tons of warnings about Heelers out there, it’s just that many sites say they are one person dogs and not right for a family.

No one ever told Willie she was a one person dog, so she seems to love us all equally.

The herding thing—well, that is something to contend with. We quickly learned that Willie prefers the whole family to be in one room. If most of us are in the living room and one person is upstairs, she will go back and forth between the separated people, whining until the rogue member is back where he or she belongs.

This really isn’t too bad because usually you can tell her to mind her own business and she’ll slink away with a few reproachful glances. But when the kids get riled up, Willie’s patience is severely tried. We’re pretty sure she thinks of Monkey and Chunky as her cows. If they run ahead of her, she runs and circles them, then runs back to Kory or I, making loops between cowboy and cattle.

She doesn’t understand that sometimes boys are just wild. They’ll bounce off the walls, she’ll try to corral them, and then look at us as if to say, “People, don’t you see what your cows are doing?”

When we don’t do anything to calm the kids down, she whines and barks at us in a little doggie lecture. I can almost hear her say, “You do not know how to control your cows. If you’d just let me give them each a good nip, they’d get in line. I know it.”

Poor, harried herder.

Our vet told us that she was so smart she would need a job to do or she would dig up the yard, build a catapult, and conquer the neighbors. He was right. Unfortunately, we’ve been a little busy lately, and Willie has had some quantity (not quality) outdoor time. She has begun what appear to be preparations for a siege in the backyard.

She’s also learned how to operate our automatic trashcan. The lid opens when you wave a hand over the sensor. Willie is now so good at this that she checks the trashcan for snacks the way the boys check the pantry every time they go by it. Yesterday, I found her like this.

I have to wrap this blog up now. Willie needs to go outside, but she won’t go unless I give her a treat.

Are any of you other pet owners out there so well-trained by your pet that you’re thinking about handing over the mortgage to Fido?

Full of Surprises

2010-05-21T09:41:00.000-07:00

Yes, you haven’t heard from me in awhile. That might be a good thing.

It’s been a rough couple of weeks. I feel like a dried gourd, all scraped and hollow on the inside, but still round on the outside.

The last thing I wanted to do this week was accompany seventy-five second graders to the Denver Museum of Nature and Science. Well, obviously it wasn’t the last thing I wanted to do. My bathrooms still need cleaning.

But Monkey wanted me to go with him, and I thought, before long he’ll be begging me not to go with him because I’ll embarrass him in front of his friends.

So I went.

It. Was. Exhausting!

The second graders were “hunting” animals, which meant they had to buy a license for a certain animal, find the animal (this involved lots of stairs), then once they’d “caught” their quarry, they had to fill out a bunch of paperwork. I don’t know about you, but I’m thirty-one and I hate paperwork. Asking over-excited eight-year-olds to find information on a museum placard and transpose it into a report using complete sentences is like asking a Chihuahua to read the nightly news.

Poor Monkey with his ADHD (Advanced and Dedicated Hooligan Disorder) was really out of his element. But his team—three other classmates, one other mom and myself—hung in there and ended up winning the most prize money for our hunt.

If you have any experience with ADHD kids, you know that their thinking processes can be mystifying. For instance, the team had chosen to hunt a tree kangaroo. We found the right exhibit and were attempting to extrapolate the information we needed. Monkey appeared to be off in La La Land, hanging on the edge of the group and barely attending to the task. The team was trying to list the distinguishing characteristics of the tree kangaroo, when out of nowhere Monkey says, “It has a long tail and sharp claws.”

My eyes bulged. Up until that moment I thought my child was far away in his own world where life is an endless video game and someone is always there to bring you snacks. But instead he was thinking about the assignment, making good observations, and—miracle of miracles—paying attention.

Yesterday I got another completely unexpected surprise from Monkey. It seems that while I’ve been thinking about how tired and drained I am and how I really don’t want to do extra things for my family right now, he’s been thinking, well, this…

I love you
You are the best mom ever
So you love me and you make me happy.
You’re the true mom I could ever have
So why won’t you be mine
You are so pretty and beautiful
So that is why I wrote this poem for you

Wow! I am full and overflowing. And so unworthy.

Maybe it's Maybelline

2010-05-11T13:53:00.000-07:00

I hope all you fabulous moms had a wonderful Mother’s Day.

In general I’ve given up on making plans for Mother’s Day. Just like Easter in Colorado, Mom’s Day often involves nice dresses, picnic plans, and snow. This year all I wanted was to go see Ironman 2. I am, after all, the mother of two boys.

But since those boys are not old enough to see Ironman 2, and no one wants to babysit on Mother’s Day, and Monkey and I came down with Strep, we had to put the movie on hold.

But it turned out to be a pretty sweet holiday despite being Robert Downey Jr-less.

On Friday I went to the Mother’s Day Makeover at Chunky’s kindergarten. Thankfully, I’ve already been through this adorable, tear-jerking event with one son, so I knew what to expect.

Chunky escorted me into his classroom and to my seat. Then the kids presented a musical performance designed to wring every tear from every female eye within a ten-mile radius. It worked. Nothing says Happy Mother’s Day like a room full of bawling kindergarten moms.

After the tear fest, it was time for the makeover. Chunky painted my fingernails and toenails and did my makeup and hair, all the while telling me, “You’re bootiful, Mommy.” You know what? When your six-year-old tells you that, you just believe it. If I looked like Scarlett Johannson and my husband told me every day I was beautiful, I still wouldn’t believe him. But, coming from one of my boys, well, it just has to be true.

This is why I’m still wearing the green fingernail polish he painted on my nails.

After the makeover, we headed straight to the doctor for Strep tests. I quickly forgot that Chunky had streaked plum-colored blush on my cheeks and decorated my eyelids with extra emphasis on the dark-shadowed corners. I also totally spaced the hot pink barrettes he put in my hair.

We had several errands that day. I explained the reason for my chic Shrek nails to everyone I met, but didn’t once think about my imaginative makeup job.

On Saturday, Kory went to work while I lay around trying to breathe around tonsils the size of bowling balls. Mom took the boys Mother’s Day shopping, and they came back with flower bouquets they’d used as light sabers in the store.

They giddily wrapped the presents they bought then spent the rest of the day trying to get each other to accidentally spill the beans. They did manage to keep the gifts a surprise. On Sunday I unwrapped a lovely green ring that matches my nails, a bead necklace, and a red hat which they say makes me look like a pilgrim.

I can’t say I disagree.

So, though it didn’t go as planned, I had a fantastic Mother’s Day and I have my family to thank.

Did anyone else have a non-traditional Mother’s Day? Or receive gifts that could rival mine in splendor and specialness? As if that were even possible.

Mom of the Year Award

2010-04-30T16:10:00.001-07:00

Well, just in case any of you got the mistaken impression from Tuesday’s post that I am some sort of cool mom, I thought I’d give you a laundry list of this week’s foul-ups.

Tuesday night I continued with my excellent tradition of throwing dinner together at the last minute. We had breakfast. Monkey has refused to eat pancakes for all of his almost nine years. I never pushed the issue because, pancakes are, well, pancakes. By no stretch of the word can they be deemed healthy.

But I just wanted to fulfill my responsibility to get something down his throat and into his tiny belly. A jar of sprinkles sat on my counter next to the stove, and I got an idea. Cut to the dinner table—a pile of pancakes with cooked-in sprinkles awaited my undernourished family. Monkey broke down in the face of my novelty flapjacks. He took one bite and proclaimed, “I love pancakes. I want to have pancakes for breakfast everyday! And syrup! I can’t believe I’ve missed out on syrup!”

Please nobody tell Jamie Oliver what I’ve done.

On Wednesday, Monkey woke up with a sore throat. I told him it was allergies and made him go to school. He came home with a 101 temperature. I never can call these things. He’s faked me out so many times I wish there was a lie detector app for my Blackberry.

Wednesday afternoon I managed to lock myself out on the back deck without shoes. I was trying to bring a really heavy pot inside and not drop it on the dog who thinks she’s my appendage. Anyway, while I went out the back door, Chunky went out the front door. The air pressure slammed the back door shut. To make matters worse, Chunky then started ringing the doorbell. My boys think they should never have to open a door for themselves and will do all manner of annoying things to get others to do it for them. So I’m pounding on the back door and Chunky is marathon-ringing the front doorbell. Monkey, sick and lying on the couch, hollers, “Can you get that, Mom?”

On Thursday, Monkey stayed home, but I couldn’t miss an opportunity to screw up, so I sent Chunky to school in a sweatshirt. It snowed.

Today I wrapped up my Mom of the Year weekend by buying something I swore I would never buy. Cheeseballs. I have many food weaknesses, but Cheetos, cheeseballs, and most puffy, orange foods are not among them. I think they’re junk so I just don’t buy them. But Monkey has been sick and watching Alvin and the Chipmunks, The Squeakquel A LOT. Cheeseballs are the chipmunks' food of choice, and Monkey kept asking for them. I caved and bought him some.

Turns out Willie the Healer likes cheeseballs too. I accused Monkey of getting a third helping, then turned around to see Willie, paws on the counter, munching neon orange snack food.

I’ll end with this. I’ve succeeded in really freaking my boys out. They are constantly telling me I need to trim my fingernails. I occasionally consider fingernail hygiene but never manage to follow through. I’ve grown a truly scary pinkie nail, and my boys look at it the way one might look at a rat with two tails.

There you have it folks. My week’s been stellar. Happy Friday everybody.

Here There be Pirates

2010-04-27T11:20:00.000-07:00

So I’m a recovering pirate. Piracy, it seems, is an addiction and before long you’re using ‘Argh’ and ‘Matey’ in everyday conversation and this gets you frowned at in the grocery store.

I’m wondering if there’s a twelve-step program for moms who’ve thrown their six-year-olds a pirate-themed birthday party and now just can't leave their bandana and eye patch behind.

I know, I know. You want pictures. And honestly, I had every intention of posing in my pirate get up and posting the proof on this blog. But I got too busy! My husband had the camera, and in true traitor-male fashion, only managed to capture unflattering angles of my costumed splendor.

Chunky’s party was an epic success despite the spring snow storm we had the day before that prompted the district to cancel school.

We had 34 mini-pirates. No one mutinied. No one was shipwrecked. No one got scurvy. No one walked the plank. Well, ok, they did walk the plank, but not into Davy Jones’s locker.

It turns out I had no real concept of what 34 kids in one house looks like. Thankfully, my husband, my mother, his mother, and several friends rescued me from my own madness by stepping in to help. I owe these people all the buried treasure on my island!

I should have known better. My brother and I grew up with this kind of huge home party. We never had any money, but we always had these spectacular and unique birthday parties. I remember one I had where the guests were told to bring their teddy bears. My family built bleachers for the bears, and during the party, our favorite toys got to watch us play games. We even made pennants so they could cheer us on.

I don’t think I’ll be repeating a legendary bash like this one anytime soon, but that’s ok. I’m pretty sure Chunky will never forget his sixth birthday. Sunday night we put the boys to bed then Kory and I headed to the living room to watch Sherlock Holmes. Monkey and Chunky were making lots of noise in their room and were told to settle down and go to sleep several times. Finally, Chunky called down, “I just can’t go to sleep because of my awesome birthday party yesterday!” A good excuse if I ever heard one.

What about you? Do you remember any special birthday parties from your childhood? Have you done anything really unique for your child’s birthday? I’d love to hear about it.

Not Impressed, Mom

2010-04-20T14:01:00.000-07:00

So last week I was thinking I was pretty cool stuff for being the author, ok co-author, of a real, live children’s book. Mom and I got an email from our publisher with the initial sketches for our second picture book, The Dragon and the Turtle go on Safari (WaterBrook, January 2011.) We were also asked to go through the text and come up with six more illustration ideas. So we printed the pages we had, arranged them on the floor, and I literally crawled through the story with a pair of scissors and a pen. It was so fun!

Mom and I love our illustrator, Vincent Nguyen. He has really brought Roger the Turtle and Padraig the Dragon to life. There is nothing like seeing a character that existed in your imagination suddenly on the page with expression and personality and LIFE. It’s awesome!

I was in the middle of this creative high when Chunky came home with the dinosaur book his kindergarten class wrote and illustrated. We were supposed to read the book together then write a note on the last couple of pages about our family’s impressions of the book.

I offered to endorse the dinosaur book.

Chunky said, “What’s endorse?”

I explained that when someone writes a book, they look for other authors to endorse it or say it’s really good. I told him that his grandmother and I were real authors and thus qualified to say that the kindergarten dinosaur book was really good.

“So, do you want Mommy to endorse your book?” I asked again.

Chunky thought a minute then said, “No. I want Willie (the dog) to say she really liked it.”

There you have it. The opinion of the family pet out-ranks mine. Which begs the question, how do I earn my son’s approval—aside from serving chicken nuggets and mac ‘n cheese at every meal?

I’m not sure, but I will try again this weekend when I dress up as a pirate and throw an epic birthday party for my soon-to-be six-year-old. If that doesn’t do it, I’m not sure what will.

Any ideas?

Green Tea

2010-04-09T09:40:00.000-07:00

You know you’re sick when you get excited about new ways to remove mucous from your sinuses.

And while we’re on the subject, there should be a name for the feeling you get when you blow a pound of gunk from your nose. It’s a weird/surprised/proud/relieved kind of emotion and, inexplicably, you feel the need to share your experience with the person you love the most. Thus the unfortunate announcement, “Honey, you’re not gonna believe what just came out of my nose!”

I say we call it Mucous Satisfaction.

You might have guessed that I have a cold. Yesterday I finally went to the doctor because it felt like I had a Pomeranian crammed in my right ear. The doctor looked in my ear, leaned back and said, “You actually have an infection in there. Adults don’t usually get ear infections.”

Nice to know one part of my body is still youthful.

He fixed me up with some meds, so off I went to Walgreens. While waiting for my prescription to get filled, I discovered the Neti Pot. It looked so homey, so comforting, so British. I thought, Wow, this has got to be gentler than the sinus rinse. You know the sinus rinse? You fill a sports bottle with warm water and saline, cram it in your nostril, and proceed to irrigate your brain. It’s . . . unpleasant.

An aside: Now is as good a time as ever to talk about what I call The Denmark Mating Call. My husband, while possessing some really spectacular genes in most regards, unfortunately has a cursed sinus cavity. It runs in the family. As we were dating and I got to know his family, I discovered that all the males emit a certain sound almost unconsciously and entirely without warning. It sounds something like this:

Shhhhhrrronk!

I liken this noise to the calls of certain wild animals one sees on the Discovery Channel. You know, where the male of the species puffs up his feathers or fur or whatever he has and screeches and you think, how is that going to get him a girl?

All this to say, I’m well-acquainted with the sinus rinse. It’s a fixture in our bathroom—along with body glitter. But that’s another story.

I didn’t buy the Neti Pot. But I told my husband about it at dinner, because when you’ve been married eleven years, you talk about drainage at the dinner table. My husband looked at me and said, “You have to be coordinated to use that.”

“Oh,” I said, shoulders drooping. We both know that excludes me from the possible benefits of the Neti Pot.

“Well, I thought it looked gentler than the sinus rinse,” I told him.

“It’s basically a tea pot for your sinuses.”

“Oh. I thought maybe you just breathed the steam. “

“No.” Kory mimed holding a tea pot up to his face, tipped his head and said, “You have to poor it in one nostril then let if flow into the other and drain out.”

I assume this process creates the most disgusting “tea” ever concocted by mankind. But I’ll never know. The Neti Pot is not for me and my lack of fine or gross motor skills. I’d probably manage to spill it all over myself and the floor. Then I’d slip in the puddle, smack my head and end up in the ER, where I would have to explain that the accident was caused by “green” tea.

Wuthering Heights

2010-04-02T09:30:00.000-07:00

This week I’ve been slogging through Wuthering Heights to the accompaniment of howling winds buffeting my house. Spring in Colorado means wind—cold, strong, inescapable wind. I have to say, it’s perfect weather for Emily Brontë’s passionate, disturbing novel set in the harsh Yorkshire moors.

When I mention Wuthering Heights and the research I’m doing for my next novel, most folks say, “I hated that book,” or “I just couldn’t get into it,” or “the characters in that novel are monsters.”

Then there are the wacky English majors like me who find it fascinating. Although cruelty and obsession reign in the novel and religion is presented as little more than vindictive judgment, this song by David Crowder Band has come to mind as I’ve studied the suffering.

Like the characters in Wuthering Heights, we often find it impossible to escape the mire we’ve created with our own poor choices and selfish desires. Indeed, we cannot escape the mess of our sin without His mercy. I think that’s what strikes me about the book—while the characters are exaggerated, intense, even supernatural, their essence remains so very human. So very in need of a Savior.

I know this hasn’t been my usual light-hearted post. Don’t worry. I can’t stay serious for long. But I thought Good Friday was an appropriate day to share these thoughts. I love that redemption waits even for a heart as black as Heathcliff’s.

Watching New Moon with my Husband

2010-03-26T14:30:00.000-07:00

My husband is pretty secure in his masculinity and thus able to withstand most chick flicks I hurl at him. Although his tastes run more toward Face Punch that Love Spelled Backwards is Love, he tolerates almost anything as long as it doesn’t have Meryl Streep in it.

The other night I lured him into watching New Moon with the promise of decent special effects. I felt slightly uncomfortable, just like I did when we watched Twilight together. I kept waiting for him to turn to me, raise one eyebrow and say, “Really?”

But like I said, he’s pretty tolerant.

Then about the time Bella starts to figure out that Jacob is a werewolf, Kory let out a small exasperated sigh and said, “Why don’t they throw in a couple more mythical creatures for her to fall in love with? Like a warlock or a goblin…”

“Or a troll,” I suggested.

“Right,” he muttered.

We went back to watching the movie. All was quiet. Then my husband grunted in mock torture, “Thag love Bella.”

I dissolved into laughter but pulled it together to play my part. “I love you, too, Thag. But you’re too good for me.”

“Thag will always be troll. Always live under bridge. Bella must live happy life without Thag.”

“No, Thag! Make me a troll too! Then we can live under the bridge together forever!”

“But, Bella . . . oh, . . . hold on a sec. Hey you! Yeah, you in rain jacket. You no cross bridge. You bring Thag two juicy goats. Then cross bridge.”

That’s about the time I lost it. Ever since my first pregnancy when Kory discovered that if he made me laugh too hard I’d pee, he’s regarded that ability as a super power and sought to repeat those moments of glory. Cruel, cruel man.

I recovered--after a trip to the bathroom--and Kory restrained his extracuricular comments for the rest of the movie, but I'm not sure I'll ever be able to watch New Moon again without thinking of poor Thag and his undiscovered storyline.

Anyway whether you’re a troll, a vampire, a clumsy girl, or an ordinary person with an unreliable bladder, one thing is true: All relationships require compromise. I think I owe my husband a guy movie night. Any suggestions?

Good News is Way Better than Dieting

2010-03-19T15:09:00.000-07:00

First, congratulations to Atypical Girl. You won a copy of Tracey Bateman’s Thirsty. I know you’re going to love it. I encourage everybody else to go out and buy it. And if you like to read Christian fantasy/allegory/speculative fiction/COOL stuff, then go to your local Christian bookstore and ask them to order it for you if they don’t have it. I, and other bright and attractive folks like me, would love to see this genre grow.

Have you ever had something wonderful slap you out of your own miserable belly-button contemplation? That happened to me this week. I’ve been on an angst-ridden what-do-I-do-now treadmill since Secret Agent Man called and said we weren’t getting anywhere with my supernatural romance. (See above sentiments about speculative genres.) He asked me to come up with a new project to pitch.

I brainstormed with my mom, my brother, and some other trusted writer friends, sent off a couple emails, then boarded a flight to Poor Me Land. I haven’t heard back from Secret Agent Man, which means he’s

A. Really busy
B. Afraid I’ll cry over the phone
C. Captured by the enemy and being tortured for information

I hope it’s not C.

In the midst of my career hiccup and corresponding with my children’s spring break, I decided to go on a diet. My husband tried to convince me this was a somewhat dangerous idea, but I assured him that—despite knowing me better than anyone else—he was mistaken.

Seasoned dieters know what the day before you start the diet looks like, so I’m not going spell it out, but the initials are P-i-g O-u-t. The fun thing is, the diet I’m on actually encourages this and even has a technical, guilt-reducing name for it: Loading. Doesn’t that sound official and medical and reasonable? I like it.

I met my friend at PF Chang’s in order to load, and she shared some wonderful news with me. It was as if some giant hand reached down and picked me out of my stinky, self-absorbed swamp. I was and am so genuinely happy. For someone else!

Maybe this doesn’t seem like such an accomplishment to you. And no, I’m not some selfish, stingy jerk who can never celebrate another’s success. But the moment I experienced the other day was just so completely joyful that I had to stop and take note and just revel in the Wonderful.

I hope your spring break brings some Wonderful your way. And for those of you asking, what was the news? Well, it’s not mine to share. Besides, this blog is about me.

Thirsty

2010-03-11T13:18:00.000-08:00

I’m giving away a copy of Thirsty by Tracey Bateman! See details at the end of this post.

I felt like cheering when I heard that Tracey Bateman was writing a vampire novel for a Christian audience. With the recent surge in popularity of all things blood-sucking (well, maybe not mosquitoes), I was hoping a Christian publisher would see the value in exploring the depths of metaphor within vampire lore.

Let me take a step back for a second and say that my love for finding symbolism within legends, myths, and ghost stories is rooted in my highschool discovery of Bram Stoker’s Dracula and Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. Contrary to pop culture treatment of these Halloween monsters, the actual literary works dealt with heavy themes of good and evil, mankind’s thirst for power, and God’s ultimate control.

I’ve pretty much been enamored with the vehicles of metaphor ever since. I probably drove my college professors nuts with my endless interpretations of symbolism in the driest and most straight-forward of texts. Apparently, my physics professor didn’t want to hear my extrapolated thoughts on Newton’s Laws of Motion.

I’ve learned to chain my inner allegory addict when I’m around science-y types, but I’m pretty sure none of them read my blog, so I should be safe as I applaud the exquisite use of metaphor in Thirsty.

In my opinion, Thirsty is a dead-on (notice I didn’t say undead-on) example of how and why we can, and should, use a vampire character to bring scope and breadth to the theme of a Christian book.

Nina Parker, the protagonist in Thirsty, is a recovering alcoholic. Her addiction has destroyed her marriage and her relationships with her family, and now she’s forced to move back to her hometown. But something other than Nina’s personal demons haunts Abbey Hills, Missouri. As the origins of Nina’s curse surface, she struggles to navigate her new path of sobriety while piecing her life back together.

Nina’s striking neighbor offers support, friendship, and the possibility of new love, but something about Marcus is unsettling, alien, or maybe all too familiar. As their friendship grows, Marcus recounts the story of another family curse, couched in local legend, that bears an alarming similarity to Nina’s own destructive legacy.

As two obsessions collide, Nina and her daughter, Meagan, are caught in a very real nightmare. Desire and addiction threaten to consume Nina’s existence as she takes step by tenuous step toward the only true source of strength.

Thirsty is a satisfying and, yes, uplifting read. I think no one is immune to the call of addiction in some form or other. If we’re honest, we’ll see shades of ourselves in Nina’s story. But we’ll also see grace and strength for the battle.

The visionary folks at Waterbrook graciously provided me with a copy of Thirsty to give away. Leave me a comment and tell me your favorite vampire or monster story or your favorite character in one of those stories. I’ll draw a name on Friday, March 19th.

I’ll start.

My favorite vamp has got to be the charismatic and ever-searching Lestat from Anne Rice’s The Vampire Chronicles.

The Knife, Literally

2010-03-03T13:06:00.000-08:00

So I wrote my first stabbing scene yesterday. It was both challenging and fun. The fact that it was challenging is reassuring because it suggests that I have never been stabbed nor stabbed anything more alive than a rare steak. The fact that it was fun is disturbing because it suggests I might want to. I’ll be seeking professional help for that last one.

Already, this new book I’m working on is more gritty, more edgy, more raw. I’m finding I need to fight my own love of words with this novel. I keep having to resist the urge to make my sentences pretty.

I confess to having a crush on the English language. While I’m not so far gone as to be a poet, I still flirt with my prose way more than a mature writer should. By the way, I don’t claim to be a mature writer. I merely aspire to maturity. Someday.

I really had to walk the line with the fight scene I wrote. The action needed to be clear. The pain and emotion needed the immediacy of concrete language. This was not a time for simile. After all, if I’d written, “The knife slid into my stomach like a serving spoon into Aunt Mildred’s Waldorf salad,” it would have really killed the energy of the scene.

This experience got me thinking about art and metaphor and abstract representation. And also about the complexities of literal, meaning-rich expression. Which naturally brought to mind the video at the end of this post. I think the visual images in this clip are a good reminder not to let our creativity trample our, well, common sense, grip on reality, and choice of hairstyle. The words in this clip? Well, I’ll let them speak for themselves.

Warning: This clip contains no profanity but has some mildly off-color humor. If you’re easily offended, skip it. If your sense of humor occupies the same spectrum as mine, grab a pair of Depends.

Is There Room for Me?

2010-02-19T17:06:00.000-08:00

This week I heard, yet again, “Your life would be better if you were more organized.”

This is undoubtedly true.

But sometimes I wonder if my disorganization is not merely a bad habit but an actual genetic feature—like my brown eyes and my SUV hips.

There’s only so much you can do with genetics. Sure there’s exercise and cosmetic surgery, but do people get personality lifts? I suppose they call that counseling. And, yes, I’ve been told I need that too.

Apparently, I should be spending more time in the self-help section at Barnes and Noble and less time in fantasy.

But I’m not the only one out there. This guy, for instance, probably knows what it’s like in my loosy goosy noggin.

I seem to be cursed, ahem, blessed, with lots of very organized friends. They do things like plan meals a month in advance, put their kids to bed at 7 o’clock every night, and scrapbook.

My life would be better if I did all those things. But just as I don’t have the genes to be a figure skater, nature, it seems, also left out the domestic management skills.

Is there anyone else out there like me? Do you feel like a failure because you don’t know what you’re having for dinner next Thursday night? Will your sons’ future wives look at you in disgust when you don’t hand over eighteen color-coded, cloth-bound, perfectly-journaled memory books at the rehearsal dinner?

Am I all alone here?

Or, is there room for women like me, who—even if they did know what was for dinner a week from yesterday—would decided at 5 pm Thursday evening that beef stroganoff sounds yucky and chicken quesadillas would be much better?

Maybe you’ve thought about joining a support group for deviant women who don’t find fulfillment in cropping photos. NOT that there’s anything wrong with scrapbooking. Believe me, if I could make my hips smaller and my picture memories neater, I WOULD!

I guess I’m just looking for some sisterhood here. Can I get an ‘amen?’ Someone in the back, would you raise your hand and confess along with me that your kids were up until 9 last night on a SCHOOL night?

Or you can just leave me all alone, up in the front, singing “Just As I Am” at the top of my lungs. It’s okay. I’ll lead the revolution. But if you ever want to share your fall from the pantheon of domestic goddesses, shoot on over to my blog and leave an anonymous comment.

Like,

“Today I wore two different shoes and didn’t notice until 2 o’clock.”

Or,

“For dinner we had leftover mac n’ cheese, a can of fruit cocktail, and half a bag of gummy worms.’

Or,

“I forgot my camera and didn’t take one picture at my kindergartner’s play. And instead of staring through a lens, I actually got to watch my son be Carl the Cart-wheeling Carrot.”

Go ahead, let me hear it!

Valentimes

2010-02-10T13:37:00.000-08:00

Yes, I wrote –times on purpose. Monkey and Chunky still call it Valentimes Day, which I find funny.

Sunday’s the big day. Are you looking forward to it? Me neither.

Have you noticed that American holidays are all about candy? Now, I have nothing against candy, but instead of packaging the same chocolate-covered marshmallow goo in a Santa shape, then a heart, then a shamrock, then an egg, and so forth, why don’t they make a generic holiday chocolate blob? After all, that’s sort of what Americans are turning into, right? Generic holiday blobs.

Michelle Obama thinks so.

Side note: I’m so glad Mrs. Obama is going to make the elementary school provide vegetables so my kids will have another opportunity to refuse to eat them. Now I can share my mom guilt.

Ok, I’m not really a Valentine’s Day hater. I know some women detest the annual love fest because some guy in their past has gotten it horribly wrong. I don’t blame them. But I’ve never experienced the dreaded V-Day/D-Day. Sure I had some romance-less Valentine’s Days.

Once my boyfriend equivalent called to tell me he thought about sending me flowers. Yeah, that was touching. Actually, I didn’t care because I’d just bought myself some really awesome combat boots. What can I say? It was the nineties. I had a crush on Doc Martin. I guess I needed this shirt.

Kory and I have had some fun Valentine’s Days. In fact, we kissed for the first time on Valentine’s Day. Awww! And one year we made our own pasta, and he gave me a dozen roses, and I dragged him to see Titanic for the third time.

But now we don’t usually make a fuss over the day. Our anniversary is in January. So we’ve just celebrated our relationship and love and all that mushy stuff and when Valentine’s Day comes around, it just seems redundant. I mean, no one needs that much love, do they?

Last year I came up with an idea that I think is a nice, sane alternative to overpriced flowers and chocolate. I suggested we buy each other music for Valentine’s Day. Actually, it’s kind of a personal gift, don’t you think? You have to put some thought into it.

Naturally, I haven’t put any thought into it. I have no idea what CD I’ll buy him this year. But I’m absolutely sure he’s completely forgotten about our new tradition, so at least I’m one step ahead of my husband.

Which brings us to another holiday tradition: The Valentine’s Day Expectations/Guilt Cycle. Usually women are the perpetrators. We buy something really over-the-top for our guy, knowing full well that he isn’t even aware it’s February, let alone that Cupid’s celebration approaches. Then we present it to him on the 14th and watch him squirm. Why are we so evil? I suggest we all go buy a pair of combat boots, or whatever shoes make you happy, and call it good.

How about you? Do you hate Valentine’s Day? Love it? Do you have any super memories to share? How about not-so-super memories?

Let’s regurgitate all our pink and red nonsense and remind ourselves that showing love is meaningful any day of the year. Except, maybe, February 14th.

Oh, and if any of you know my husband well enough to know what CD he’d like, please clue me in.

Downward-facing Dog

2010-01-29T12:09:00.000-08:00

I have a love/hate relationship with my Wii. I love that I can exercise in my living room when no one else is home. I hate pretty much everything else about exercising, including the Wii. So there you go.

Still, I’ve been doing around twenty minutes of Wii Fit every morning for the past few weeks and yeah, yeah, it’s been good for me.

After each exercise you’re scored and ranked, and then the Wii trainer offers you helpful advice along the lines of—“If you did this more often, you’d be in better shape, Dummy!”

I’m obsessed with duping my Wii trainer. So much so that I will cheat and hold onto things to keep my yoga poses steady. When the instructor, Miss Perfect Yoga Body, claps for me, I feel an evil satisfaction at having fooled her empty head.

But our new dog is messing with my cheating yoga routine. Like most young children, she thinks that any movement more vigorous than reaching for a coffee cup is an invitation to play.

So as soon as I step on the Wii board, she shows up, stub wagging, ready to have fun. She circles around me as I breathe deeply.

A side note: I REALLY hate it when I score low on breathing. Come on! Are you kidding me? I can breathe! I’ve been doing it for twenty-nine years, give or take a couple.

Where was I? The dog. So the dog comes and plops her head on the Wii board next to my foot, and Miss Perfect Yoga Body tells me, “You’re a little shaky. Try to stabilize your back and legs.”

I say nasty things about her leotard while trying to stabilize my back and legs.

When the exercise is over, I nudge the dog away and move on to the next pose.

But it gets really bad when I try to work on the floor. The other day, I wrangled my body into the cobra pose, which is suppose to look kinda like Ariel up on that rock in Disney’s The Little Mermaid. But with my body it looks more like The Little Orca. I’ve got my tummy, hips, and legs on the floor and am raising my torso up with my arms when Willie (the DOG, not the gardener, or the mailman, or the UPS guy—this needs to be clear) trots over and starts licking my neck.

I squirm and giggle and squeal for Willie to stop. Yoga Body says something really helpful like, “You’re a little unbalanced.” To which I respond, “You’re an anorexic pixel with gray skin and unnaturally shifting boobies.”

Of course, the witch gives me a low score for that and a lecture on doing yoga every day to improve my form and posture. But I’m starting to think maybe I need more interaction with the outside world. I’m picking fights with an avatar for crying out loud.

Books, Beef, and Bad-Mannered Bellies

2010-01-22T16:34:00.000-08:00

I wish kids had an early warning system—a billboard above their heads that read, “Warning: In approximately 5 hours I’m going to start puking.” That way, I wouldn’t stay up till midnight reading, only to be woken up two hours later by a forty pound Mount Vesuvius.

Poor Chunky redefined his nickname earlier this week. But you’ll be glad to know he’s back to his little dumpling self, and the rest of us managed to avoid gastronomic catastrophe.

This reminds me of a story Mild-mannered Missionary Mary once told me. Apparently she and her husband—we like to call him Bill—once had a very harrowing boat ride in the middle of a serious storm. Mary was sitting with her suitcase on her lap, the ocean round her ankles, and a serious case of “God if you get me through this, I promise to…” when she spotted a mysteriously smiling stranger.

Immediately, Mary experienced a profound peace. The man had to be an angel. No human could be calm in the middle of such a storm. Mary’s reassurance lasted right up until the smiling man lost his lunch. She now refers to him as The Puking Angel.

Good book title don’t you think? Speaking of books, I finally finished mine. It’s tentatively called Flower in the Sky: A Faerie Tale. Technically, I finished the manuscript last week, but the epilogue revolted. I flogged it a few times and it finally surrendered.

Yesterday I met with Secret Agent Man, and he and I brainstormed titles for a series. After some free association and thesaurus consulting, we came up with The Faerie Link Trilogy. What do you think?

The series follows three individuals whose lives are hijacked by the Fair Folk. In the first, cloudy-headed Elodie Lessard discovers a brounie living in the wall of her apartment. He’s hot, he cleans, and no one else can see him. Awkward!

I am really excited about the sequel, but I have to give my brother, the plot doctor, a call. People, never doubt that mad D&D skills come in handy. My brother, once a basement-dwelling geek, is now consultant to the literary stars. Ok, that’s overstating it a bit. How about, consultant to the dimly-lit light bulbs?

But if the Big Pens ever discover my brother’s genius, I’ll have to start paying him to rescue me from my plot ledges.

With my book done, I’m filling my downtime with odd tasks. Today I made our second annual trek to what we in The Springs call Kansas but is really just Falcon. Mom and I picked up our half a cow, and then I transferred Cudbert, all four boxes of him, into the freezer. I now have about four hundred pounds of beef in the garage and no idea what to make for dinner.

If you have any beef recipes or experience with intrusive faeries, feel free to share!

Faerie Breath

2010-01-15T16:11:00.000-08:00

My week began in frustration. Everyday Stuff kept getting in the way of what I really wanted to do, which was FINISH MY NOVEL.

On Tuesday I was reminded to be thankful for my everyday stuff. Amidst the heart-rending coverage of the earthquake in Haiti, I experienced flashes of amazement as organizations and individuals sprang into action. It takes my breath away to think that for a moment, we can step outside ourselves and experience the prompting of the Divine.

Some of you know that I am attempting to write supernatural romance for a Christian audience. I know I’m going to face the question, “What do you think you’re doing mixing faith and faeries?”

I’m not the first to have to answer the question, but I’ll take a stab at it.

The truth is, I’m addicted to those moments that take me out of myself. Please don’t misunderstand. Of course, I’m not talking about using the suffering of others to remind myself that I’m alive. Rather, I’m referring to the displays of compassion, bravery, and selflessness that result from those tragedies.

Like most folks, I spend way too much time in Humdrumville, focused on my messy house, what to fix for dinner, and how to wrangle Thing One and Thing Two into doing their homework.

And then my little life is hijacked by the sublime. I see people pour themselves out in response to dire need. Or I read a story that opens my eyes to some new aspect of God. Or one of my sons says something profound. And I get goose bumps--like faerie breath on my skin.

Do just a tiny bit of research and you’ll find that faerie tales and mythology have been around for a long, long time. As human beings, we’ve been combining our Faerie Breath Moments with our need to process truth through story since we started scratching marks on cave walls.

I chose to write a supernatural romance novel because the concept crammed my imagination with opportunities to explore the extraordinary. And this is my contribution to the cave paintings, my record of faerie breath on my skin, my attempt at widening my gaze to include the reality of the unseen.

If you’d like an opportunity to step out of yourself, please consider donating to one of the many organizations rushing aid to Haiti.

Compassion International and World Vision are two worthy channels.

Why You Need Powers

2010-01-04T10:25:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite things about the holidays is guilt-free reading time. Moms never really go on vacation; we just experience a slight increase in our favorite leisure activities. Unfortunately, this means we sometimes mistake a really bad cold for vacation.

“I’ve been in bed for three days, and I’ve finished four novels. I must be on vacation!”

The best book I read this holiday season was Powers by John B. Olson. Check out his site here for a cool book trailer.

When I read the first book in the series, Shade, I felt like buying ad space—you know, TV, radio, Internet, billboards. The campaign concept was simple: a huge arrow pointing to the swirly shadowy cover of Shade with the words, “This is it!”

Olson wove all the elements together—suspense, action, mystery, romance—into a practically perfect package.

I anxiously awaited the sequel, and when Powers arrived in the mail, I got goose bumps. The book didn’t disappoint.

After a couple literary paragraphs that plunked me right in the middle of a Louisiana swamp and convinced me it was the most beautiful place on earth, the action slammed into high gear.

The story opens with Mariutza, a gypsy girl with Dorothy Gale’s innocence and Catwoman’s mad fighting skills. The man she’s known as her grandfather is murdered by mysterious evil forces, and Mari must leave everything she knows to follow his final instructions to find the prophet Jaazaniah.

If Mari is in touch with her inner Superwoman but a bit out of touch with reality, Jazz is the opposite. His harsh reality, scraping by as a musician in New Orleans, has squelched all but the instinct to survive. Until strange visions, and terrifying, hooded pursuers turn his life into a waking nightmare.

Jazz and Mari’s paths cross, twist together, and lead them further into danger, intrigue, and powerful attraction.

I loved the way the plot expanded to become bigger than all the characters yet still dependent on their choices. I was not ready for it to end, and now I have the bittersweet pleasure of waiting for the next installment.

My imagination lives on books like John Olson’s Shade series. Like Lord of the Rings and Chronicles of Narnia, Olson’s books stoke the soul and feed those inner cravings we all have for something more than our cardboard existence.

If, like me, you’re tired and hungry and you need a vacation from your vacation, I suggest you self-medicate with the exciting, deeply-satisfying, and beautifully-written Powers. Better yet, take two—both Shade and Powers—and call me in the morning. Or whenever you wake up after reading them straight through.

The Great Christmas Puppy Hunt

2009-12-23T15:17:00.000-08:00

Well, last week I told you about our impending trip to the big house to interview a dog for possible adoption. Darbetta the Labradoodle turned out to be an entirely new breed of Labradoodle that looks nothing like a Labradoodle and in fact looks like a mutt. We have nothing against mutts, and it wasn’t her fault she was misrepresented. We met and interacted with Darbetta but quickly figured out she just wasn’t the dog for us. Also, she wasn’t finished with her training and couldn’t come home with us that day.

So we headed back to the Springs—disappointed and dogless. A stop at the Humane Society yielded nothing so we picked the boys up from their grandparents and never breathed a word of our failed mission.

Later that afternoon, I got a hot tip that Labradoodles were being sold in the Safeway parking lot in Falcon. Mom and I jumped in the car, but by the time we got there, they were gone.

The next day we checked back. No Labradoodles. We hopped over to the Wal-Mart across the street just in case, but the dogs weren’t there either. We did get another hot tip though. Blue Heelers for sale at the Circle R. I understood four words of that sentence. What are Blue Heelers? What is a Circle R?

The GPS units in the van and the Blackberry were equally stumped as to the elusive Circle R, but we did find Blue Heelers on the browser.

“Are you sure?” I asked Mom, looking at the pic of a large, mottled gray dog on her tiny screen.

“Oh, I’ve seen these dogs,” she answered. “They’re smart.”

After doubling back between Falcon and the Springs so many times that I couldn’t rightly define ‘back,’ we finally located the Circle R—a feed store. Oh.

We were greeted by Mommy-dog who happily showed off her babies, including this little sweetheart.

Yep. She came home with us.

Kory had Monkey and Chunky waiting in the living room when I walked in holding Willie, named after the whiny blonde in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. Chunky’s eyes got big and a slow smile spread over his face.

Monkey said, “You got us a dog. Great. Now we’re gonna have to pick up poop!” Since then he’s warmed up to our fuzzy new friend. Chunky is absolutely 100% in love with Willie. We’re amazed at her patience as he bear hugs her, carries her around the house, and over-loves the daylights out of her. She thinks he’s another puppy.

The vet gave her a clean bill of health and told us we better give her a “job” or she will “dig up the backyard, take down the fence, and build a catapult into the neighbor’s yard.” Sounds like construction to me. Maybe a doggie hard hat is in order.

Willie has become part of the family in four short days, and I think she’s the best Christmas present any of us could’ve asked for.

Labradoodles, Prisoners, and Johnny Depp--Oh My!

2009-12-16T15:42:00.000-08:00

So the big news in our house is the possible addition of a new furry member. No, we’re not adopting Jacob Black. Although…

Ok, I’m back from my Teen Wolf fantasy.

This Saturday Kory, Mom, and I are off on a stealth mission to meet a certain Labradoodle with the unfortunate, hopefully-changeable name Darbetta. We discovered the 11-month-old dog through a program that pairs inmates with dogs for the purposes of socialization and training. We’re not exactly sure if the socialization applies to the dogs or the prisoners, but we’re happy to support any ambiguous cause this time of year.

When we called about Darbetta—cringe—we were told we were fourth on the list to meet her. We figured there was no way we had a chance since Labradoodles are the Johnny Depps of the dog world. They’re cute, smart, agreeable, hypoallergenic, and don’t shed. See, exactly like Johnny Depp.

But last week we got a call saying she was still available. Being something of a pessimist, my first question was, Why?

Does she bite? Are we dealing with Johnny Depp in Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street?

Or maybe she doesn’t have the best personality—Johnny in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

Does she steal things, drink too much rum, and wear eyeliner? Ok, I’ve taken the comparison too far.

Needless to say, we’re excited to see this pooch—excited enough to drive to Canyon City and visit Darbetta at the Women’s Correctional Facility. Doesn’t it just give you the warm fuzzies? A waggedy-tailed, floppy-eared new dog. A Christmas surprise for two oblivious little boys. A secret trip to the clinker.

And here’s what I need from you: Does anyone have any suggestions for a new name for our potential puppy?

I lobbied for Leia since all my boys are Star Wars fans, but Mom says it reminds her of the thing you wear around your neck when you go to a luau. Since it’s non-stop grass skirts and coconut bras around here, I guess we better come up with something else.

For some reason, I’m stuck on Ls.

Lizzie
Libby
Llama
Lemon
Lightbulb

This is starting to sound like a Sesame Street song.

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Indoor Competitive Walking for Seniors and Dumpy Stay-at-Home Moms

2009-12-06T09:13:00.000-08:00

This week I started a weight loss clinic at my doctor’s office. Because I dearly love the staff, I am not going to make snarky comments about skinny people trying to empathize with fat people. After all, why alienate the few who don’t leave a flaming pile of blame at your door, ring the bell, and hide in the bushes?

So now I’m following the groundbreaking program of “Eat less, Exercise more.”

I like to walk in the mornings, but it’s been a bit nippy here in Colorado. So the other day I went to the indoor track at the Y. This turned out to be more than a little humbling. I followed a trim sixty-five-year-old up the stairs to the elevated track. Grandma then left me in the dust with only a glimpse of her toned fanny.

The only other woman my age was jogging—and clearly had developed the habit throughout all her adult years.

I stuck to the inside track, the slow track, the arthritic track, the recovering from heart surgery track—you get the idea. I got excited when I caught up to one of the seniors. I knew the protocol for passing. After all, Mrs. Career Jogger had lapped me plenty of times.

I sped up and moved to the right—the fast track!—to pass the gray-haired trotter in front of me. But he must have sped up too. Ah, he’s like one of those drivers who won’t go the sped limit but won’t let you pass. I sped up a little more. The old geezer stepped on the gas!

So I’m huffing and puffing in the fast lane, eyeing Grandpa at my left, with Jogger Lady bearing down on me. Who knew you could have road rage on a walking track? Like any respectable, aggressive driver, I responded to the situation by cranking my music up. This backfired as I was wearing headphones and simply blasted my own eardrums with Matchbox 20.

Finally, I managed to pass Gramps, and swerve back into the slow lane in time for Speedy to zoom by. But by then, I was too tired to keep up the pace. My victory was short-lived. Seventy-year-old Recovering Heart Patient passed me with a gleam in his eye.

All in all, it turned out to be a good workout. I plan to go back for a rematch this week. And this time, the gloves are off. I’m bringing a bike horn.

Attack of the 12 Foot Christmas Tree

2009-11-29T15:55:00.000-08:00

I’d like to report that once again we’ve survived our annual “Man vs. Artificial Nature” encounter. It was touch-and-go there for a bit. My husband was very nearly eaten by our 12 foot monstrosity of a Christmas tree.

Three years ago, we bought this mountain of synthetic greenery at Sam’s four days before Christmas. A steal at $150. That spring we started looking for a new house. One of the features on our list of requirements was vaulted ceilings for the tree. The other day, Monkey asked why we moved. Chunky quickly responded, “We needed room for our Christmas tree.”

Every year the thing seems to grow. I have to wonder what it’s snacking on in our garage during its twelve-month hibernation. Every year Kory and I take longer to recover from battling the Spruce Brute.

But all’s well that ends well.

How about you? Did you run into any carnivorous evergreens this weekend? Do you have any funny, or maybe scary, Christmas decorating stories to share? I’d love to hear them.

Thoughts on Love Stories

2009-11-23T11:00:00.000-08:00

So, like the rest of the non-bedridden population, I went to see New Moon this weekend. A couple people have asked me what I thought. My official response is, “It was better than Twilight. I liked it.”

This time I went in fully grasping that universal key to happiness: lowered expectations. I highly recommend you employ this technique in all areas of your life except, perhaps, personal hygiene. Let’s not lower those standards any more folks.

Relax, I’m not going to defend or tear apart The Twilight Saga. I think, maybe, it’s been done already. Suffice it to say, I think the books are so wildly popular because they touch on that universal truth that we were meant for something more. Translated into Hollywood speak, this truth becomes, “Look at me. I’m pretty.”

Sigh.

Ok, on to the purpose of this blog. Ha ha. Like I have some sort of plan, some thesis to my ramblings. Yeah, right.

Anyway, if you’ve read New Moon you know there’s a kind of Romeo and Juliet theme. A few lines of the play are quoted in the movie. *Insert quiet cheer for culture, classic literature, and English geeks like me.*

When Edward rattles off a few lines in a classroom scene—instead of thinking about his general awesomeness—I started thinking about one of my favorite movies, Baz Luhrmann’s adaptation of Romeo and Juliet. Here’s the trailer:

William Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet

I was 18 when this movie came out, and it changed the way I thought about Shakespeare, tragic love stories, and gaudy shirts. No, it’s not perfect. And if you decide to watch it for the first time because of my recommendation, you’re going to think I’m crazy. That is, until Leonardo DiCaprio and Claire Danes spy each other through a fish tank. Then I promise you will be spellbound by performances that take a pair of tired old lovers and turn them into living, breathing, gloriously star-crossed teenagers in love.

The potential for this blazing display of human experience exists in The Twilight Saga because, like Romeo and Juliet, Twilight taps The Love Story. You know, the one on which we build our every understanding and expression of love.

“Once upon a time, there was a love that conquered death.”

I find it funny, ironic, and awe-inspiring that we spend our lives retelling this story over and over again. It will never get old.

So if you find yourself embarrassed to admit your Twilight fanaticism or devotion to the romance genre in general, RELAX. No matter how we may botch the delivery, the message remains imprinted in our DNA.

Ecclesiastes 3:11 “He has planted eternity in the human heart.”

Or,

“Once upon a time, there was a love that conquered death."

By the way, for more on this concept, I recommend John Eldredge's Epic.