Gooooood Morning Tel Aviv! (March 14)

Jet lag is a hard task master. After traveling all day Saturday, flying all night and through the day Sunday, we crawled off the plane to discover that we wouldn't see the light of Sunday from outside our double decker jet...even though our flight was only 12 hours. 12+7 time zones = all day. But did exhaustion stop us from consuming vast amounts of food? No. Did it stop us from walking to the Mediterranean Sea? No. Do I have photos to prove this? Um, no. But as I said, jet lag. Which in this case is jet accel. Bed by 9, up by 4:30. Brent went for a run, I did a bit of my Daniel study and then we went to the beach for the "sunrise." Which is moot considering sunrise happens over high rises and therefore is invisible. The good news is that we expected this. I know where Orion is, and it is decidedly in the west and I found him the night before sitting over the sea.

Watching Israel wake up is lovely whether or not you get a sunrise. Old men in speedos going for their frigid morning dip in the sea. Sand that has been graded so as to not be hardened sand dunes. Husbands and high hopes for the coming days.

Note puffy faces. Remember it is in the five o'clock hour and we've been traveling for two days.

Freshly tilled sand every morning

Puffy Face

I spared you the old man in a speedo.

Our illustrious hotel, the Metropolitan. With our bus in the foreground.

Typical Tel Aviv. Unfinished buildings, wall art, scary traffic....or what will be in a couple hours.

Next up: Caesarea Maritima, when my four-year-old will allow. And yes, I do intend to document pretty much most of my last two weeks, so if you are bored out of your mind, you might not want to check back in for a while. My humblest apologies.

(Non-Spiritual) Things I Learned in the Holy Lands

This is by no means an exhaustive list.

1. Toilet paper is a luxury....one I intend to partake of indefinitely. And while we're on the subject, so are toilet seats, toilets, stall doors and free bathrooms.

2. I am singularly amazed at how little Brent and I have to fight about when the biggest responsibility either of us has is to make it onto the bus by 8:30. Would you like Coke or Pepsi? Oh, whatever you want. Would you like the last drink of this latte? No, that's OK, you finish it. Wanna go for a walk on the beach? Sure.

3. I get claustrophobic. I nearly went stark raving mad one morning on the bus.

4. It is possible to be dressed very conservatively and still be "nekked" in Jerusalem. If you are at the Western Wall, you'd better darn well have your shoulders arms covered. If you are at the Dome of the Rock, cover your head. It will just go better for you.Of course, if you are a man, flip what is covered, when.

blue shawl provided by hysterical offended woman (I was mortified that I had offended so greatly)

You can't see his head covering here, but trust me, he's wearing it. And I made the shawl more manageable.

I was invisible until I flipped the scarf over my head and suddenly people are offering to take our picture.

5. Easter is represented by an ostrich. Somewhere. Not in the states? No? Did we make a mistake?

6. Armenians take their birthplace of Jesus VERY seriously.

7. It is possible to submerge yourself in EVERY body of water in Israel. Which tells you how much water is there.

8. Octopi die of boredom.

9. I had no idea that the statement "Shut Up!" Could make me laugh so hard. In close second is "No with the lafink."

I got in quite a bit of trouble for a woman of 35 years.

10. I am quite capable of eating kosher for two weeks.

11. Brie with cucumbers and tomatoes is my new favorite breakfast. Unfortunately cucumbers and tomatoes won't be in season for four more months...and brie is hard to come by around these parts.

12. I do not fancy anchovies with my brie.


13. Carp aren't good kissers.

St. Peter's fish leave something to be desired.

14. Brent and I are.

I kinda like him. Even with the headdress. (Look at those nekked arms!)

the mountains bow down

It's been a while since I've reviewed a book on here. The move. The life. The kids. And it takes me FOREVER to get through a book these days so I've hesitated to agree to review any....until now. I was just intrigued.
Alaska.
Cruise.
Need I say more?
Probably.

About The Mountains Bow Down: Everything's going to work out. Time away always makes things better . . ..

That's what FBI Special Agent Raleigh Harmon believes as she boards a cruise to Alaska. A land of mountains and gems and minerals, The Last Frontier is a dream destination for this forensic geologist who's hoping to leave behind a hectic work schedule and an engagement drained of romance.

But when a passenger goes missing and winds up dead, Raleigh's vacation suddenly gets lost at sea. The ship's security chief tries to rule the death a suicide, but Raleigh's forensics background points to a much darker conclusion: Somewhere onboard, a ruthless murderer walks free.

Engulfed by one of her toughest cases yet, Raleigh requests assistance from the FBI and receives her nemesis-perpetual ladies man Special Agent Jack Stephanson. As the cruise ship sails through the Inside Passage, Raleigh has five days to solve a high-profile murder, provide consultation for a movie filming onboard, and figure out her increasingly complicated feelings for Jack-who might not be such a jerk after all.

And that's only her work life. Family offers even more challenges. Joined on the cruise by her mother and aunt, Raleigh watches helplessly as disturbing rifts splinter her family.

Like the scenery that surrounds the cruise ship, Raleigh discovers a situation so steep and so complex that even the mountains might bow down.

Jamie sez: Let me tell you, it was a lot of fun to read a book totally out of my element. It's been a while since I've read a murder mystery (I believe this one might be deemed a "cozy"--oops, no, the cover says suspense, and I would agree with that (but I'm kind of a weenie when it comes to scary so I didn't want to overbill it)). And Raleigh is in to rocks, which I'm not, but might decide to be now.

Anyhoo, my understanding is that this is the third book in the Raleigh Harmon book series, but it was totally readable mid-series. I do, however, now want to read the first two.

(And Psssst! Guess What? You can get The Stones Cry Out  for Kindle for $2.99!)

And you know how I told you it takes me forever to get through a book these days? You guessed it, done in a weekend. It's that good. So buy some frozen pizza for your family to eat and order yourself The Mountains Bow Down.

But be prepared, there is definitely some room for another book. Don't worry, murder solved, but expect to have a few questions when you're through.

And maybe a new passion to see some neon blue stones. ;)

Hey, check this out!

Sibella’s celebrating the release of The Mountains Bow Down by giving away a Cruise prize pack worth over $500.00!

One Grand Prize winner will receive:

• A $500 gift certificate toward the cruise of their choice from Vacations To Go.
• The entire set of the Raleigh Harmon series.

To enter go here!

Then tell your friends. And enter soon - the giveaway ends on 4/1! The winner will be announced at Sibella’s Raleigh Harmon Book Club Party on FB April 5th, 2011! Don’t miss the fun – prizes, books and gab!

About the Facebook Party: Join Sibella and fans of the Raleigh Harmon series on April 5th at 5:00 pm PST (6 MST, 7 CST & 8 EST) for a Facebook Book Club Party. Sibella will be giving away some fun prizes, testing your trivia skills and hosting a book chat about the Raleigh Harmon books. Please RSVP  and if you have questions you'd like to chat about - leave them on the Event page.

And to see what other bloggers have to say about The Mountains Bow Down, go here 

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About Sibella: Sibella Giorello grew up in Alaska and majored in geology at Mount Holyoke College. After riding a motorcycle across the country, she worked as a features writer for the Richmond Times-Dispatch. Her stories have won state and national awards, including two nominations for the Pulitzer Prize. She now lives in Washington state with her husband and sons. Find out more about Sibella and her other books at her website. www.sibellagiorello.com

So Glad I'm Not In Labor....Selfish, I Know

But Thank You Lord for my Charming who gives every day spice.And by "spice" I mean the good, the bad, and the why-would-anyone-like-this? But that's life. And it's kinda fun to have a kid who can smile for a camera and wants his picture taken every time I grab it. And, yes, he likes to pose with his favorite toys as if what's important in the photo is the props.

Lord, get me through this, the fourth year. I pray that my attitude holds and I remember how very precious this one chance to see Charming at four really is.
Even if it sometimes makes me want to run screaming for the hills.

Content

That seems to be my status quo since we moved. Content. And I'm not saying everything is easy. Not in the least. It's more like....

Hacked off at my husband....and content.
Tired of my kids fighting...and content.
Sick of the cold....and content.
Annoyed by people...and content.
Wishing there were a Target nearby...and content.
Craving Chinese food...and content.
Desperate for my house to sell...and content.
Unable to sleep well...and content. (And perpetually sleepy.)
Worried about the state of the country...and content.
With few friends (people are friend-LY, but I still spend most of my time with people who have to put up with me because we're related rather than because they genuinely desire my companionship)...and content.

I'll be driving down the street, rehearsing something in my mind, furious at something said or done to me or someone else, and realize I'm the only one on the road and I heave a breath and discover that under all that fury, I'm content.

Superboy and his X-Ray Vision

Charming: I have X-ray vision
Mom: You do?
Charming: Yep. I can see frew fings.
Mom: Really? That's cool.
Charming: Yup. It only work on some fings, though.
Mom: What things are those?
Charming: I see frew windows.


***


Charming: I using my X-Ray vision
Dad: What do you see?
Charming (holds Sonic cup up to his face): I see peach. Yep, it's peach.

Never mind he'd already had half the cup.

Only in the 'Boro, Mail Edition

My parents and I are both on rural delivery mail. Why, I'm uncertain, as we both live In Town according to most anyone who would visit our homes. Granted, we live on opposite sides of our one mile by two mile town. (They live on the eastern side of the two mile stretch, I, on the southern end of the one mile half.) Although if you were to get technical, I'd bet the town is larger than one by two if you were to walk it out. Which brings us back to why we live "in town" and yet are on the rural route. Apparently the United States Postal Service drew city lines and never shall we go beyond.

Try THAT in the Johnson County suburbs. And yes, I'm speaking to you Shawnee, Lenexa, and Olathe and your massive western expansion.

Anyhoo....my parents' mail comes between 10:30 and 11 AM most days. Mine comes sometime after 2:30, but always before 3:30. Apparently the rural route driver starts west and heads counterclockwise to deliver. Which kinda bums me out, but that's another blog. One I imagine I've written if you go far enough back in my naval gazing to find it.

So, yesterday I was sitting at my parents' table, drinking my coffee and looking out at the birds when the mailman drove up. Instead of dropping the mail in the box and driving on, he brought a package to the door. My dad met him and I overheard the following conversation:

Is that Amy or Jamie?
It's Jamie, here for coffee.
Does she want her package?

OK, first: Seven years I lived in the last house with the same postman. In seven years he couldn't figure out that neither RMS Vending, nor the compulsive gambler Steven Sanders (I'm only guessing this due to all of the online gambling mags we got for him, (if, on the random googlies Steven Sanders cares about his reputation and finds this....you should have let all those gambling sites know you moved)) were any longer residing in our house. I finally just quit writing "not at this address" and returning them and instead threw them away.

So you can imagine my humor to find that my postman recognized me, recognized my parents, recognized that though I don't have the last name my parents have....that I might want my B&N delivery five hours earlier than I would get it traditionally.

All this on top of Thursday's UPS delivery directly into my garage.

Only in the 'Boro.

Ode to Fabruary 16

For the last two days Valentines Day has been the primary conversation topic on Facebook. Who got what, photos of flowers, chocolate, cards, excited exclamations of "going to Vegas!" and "best Valentines EVER!" And then there are the single people who hate Single Awareness Day and go into a three day funk because they didn't get overpriced flowers from someone who has been reminded every day for the last six weeks to think of their special someone.

My gift from the lover of my soul.

I can't make myself really give a hoot about this Day of Love. I'd blame the boyfriend of mine for dumping me on or near Valentines day in the sixth grade, but it seems like maybe I should be over that as we are both happily married to other people. I'd blame the fact that it's my mother's birthday, but I think that's just an excuse for me to pretend it isn't a holiday that needs anything but birthday cake. I'd blame the fact that I worked at a flower shop during February once and saw with my own little eyes that they do, in fact, double the prices of arrangements the week of Valentines. I wonder if I'm just jaded about anything that puts a price on love.

On Sunday, when we'd dropped in at Alco to buy a birthday card for my mom, I decided to also grab valentines for my kiddos. Though it was her birthday, my mother always had a heart shaped box of chocolates sitting on our pillows when we woke up. (You would think this alone would make me love the holiday.) While in line there (after scoffing at the various gifts Alco offered for sale), Hubs accused me of robbing him of any valentines gifts and THAT'S why I never got anything. "You've ousted flowers, you've ousted jewelry, you've ousted chocolate...."

I don't deny it.

And of course, this conversation happened because I offered to go buy myself flowers at the grocery store. Which I did, while buying groceries, and picking up flowers for my mother and Gramps (from Charming who insisted Granny wasn't the only one in need of flowers). Which really means I didn't so much buy them for myself as swipe a few out of their bunches when we put them in the vase.

 My gift to myself, using Hub's money, which I would have skipped had I'd known.

And now the truth comes out: When we were first married, we were broke. I couldn't abide him spending money on flowers that would die in a week when we needed important things like vacuums, or groceries. I don't want him to buy a necklace in a certain shape just because the guys in jewelry design decided that three diamonds in a row symbolized past, present, and future, or whatever. I think this year it was overwhelmingly the open heart collection, but I'm not sure as we have (thank my heavenly father above) DVR.

I don't know why I'm such a crankus about Valentines Day. I guess I would just rather my husband showed up unexpectedly on a Tuesday in June with a flat of annuals for me to plant. That's what says. "I know you" to me. Or a bag of sour gummy worms. Or better yet, a frozen cappuccino from Quick Trip.

This year, after I came home from the grocery store, I discovered a bunch of flowers on my table. During our discussion at Alco, I told him he was allowed to buy me flowers now that we have two dimes to rub together....as long as he bought either the bunches at the grocery store OR a potted plant that won't die. But I'll be honest, I didn't expect him to. I expected him to thank me for buying my own flowers. Instead, I think he was a little exasperated that I did.

 The flowers from my lover. Notice their prime location next to the computer.

Later, we had my parents over for a birthday dinner and then we went to watch our middle son perform as a rapping beaver in the grade school production of The Bear Went Over the Mountain. It was so humorous, my cheeks ached all evening. He then put the squirts to bed, primarily Charming who was making me ca-razy. And disappeared downstairs to watch the shelacking of the Jayhawks while letting me go to bed early. The man knows me.

That, and he let me use my Valentines money saved to buy a new vacuum.

I think I'll keep him.

And rejoice that Valentines Day won't come around for another 363 day.

Sunsets

For all my city friends who have heard me lament the lack of sunsets. God gave me this beauty last night.

I actually gasped when I looked out the window. Stood up from dinner with food in my mouth, grabbed my camera and had five minutes alone with my sunset and its Creator.

And for Andrea, who questions whether I live close enough to call it country: this is what is on the other side of that row of houses. I know Tami wouldn't agree, but after what I've come from, I'll call it close enough.

you know you've moved to a small town when...

You get excited when the grocery store is selling a product you thought was discontinued. You buy it out (it is, after all, on sale and you loved said product) and excitedly rip into aforementioned box to discover they have, in fact, been discontinued. Telltale sign: stale and hard.

Shelf life around here is insane.

(Note: They have not replaced the product I bought out last month.)

Sunsets

A Day of Contrasts

After a day of holding my feverish youngest who wouldn't let me put him down to get any housework done, my house is cleaner than it has been for a while.

Hmmmm.....

Former trip to the doctor:
Call doctor with feverish toddler yanking on ears.
Get appt. for the next afternoon with a PA (if you're lucky)
30 minute drive to clinic.
Arrive at clinic.
Sit in waiting room for 30 minutes.
Summoned by nurse.
Cursory check by nurse.
Wait for PA approx 15 minutes up to 45 minutes.
Cursory check, write scrip.
Stop to pay. Argue about submitting to insurance. Leave without paying.
Drop scrip. Go home. Make dinner.
Go back for scrip.Wait for ten more minutes. Told they only have enough for two days.
Two days later, go back. Wait for 30 minutes.
Six months later, receive bill from doctor's office for $120.

OR: Drive to Walk-in clinic, wait 45 minutes. See a nurse practitioner. Get scrip. Pay her $62. Have it filled at clinic. Wait 45 minutes. Pay $30.

Today:
Call clinic at 4PM. Told to come in. Now.
Drive 1.5 minutes to clinic.
Five minute wait while filling out paperwork.
Nurse. Cursory check. Leaves.
Enter doctor.
Checks ears. Writes scrip.
Check out. $55.
Drop scrip at pharmacy next door.
Five minute wait. $5.

*****


Recycling before the move:
Pay company $5 every other month.
Throw recycling into provided container and place at curbside every Monday.


Recycling now:
First, list of recyclables is so ridiculously confusing I'm flummoxed as to how anyone knows what can and can not be recycled.
Separate recyclables.
Drive to recycling center.
Which is only open twice a week.
Two hours at a time.
get out of nice warm car.
Place separated recyclables into individual containers which are only labeled slightly better than if they were in Chinese. (For instance, if we are supposed to separate green and clear soda bottles, why is there no demarcation on the containers of which goes where? And why are the #2 milk containers across the lot from the other #2 plastics.)

Get back in car.
Restore warmth to fingers.
Cost: numb fingers and bruised thumb.

Apparently I'm only as green as curbside pickup.

Words of Wisdom from Martin Luther King Jr

"I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character. I have a dream today!

"have a dream that one day...little black boys and little black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers. I have a dream today!"

Blog Fodder

Blog Fodder.

This is what my mental state says to me when I'm thinking about being irritated. Blog Fodder. Sometimes it works. Today, for example. When I'm thinking there could be an entire blog called Only in (or Near) the 'Boro. And may yet be. Should I grow some motivation.

So, my driver's license was stolen/lost/misplaced last Monday in the Worst City (that I have to visit occasionally) On The Planet. I am also attempting to have a moment of selfishness in my week and attempting to put my youngest in preschool JUST so that I can have two days a week with my TV and a Yoga video. In order to do this I must vaccinate my youngest who, some of you might remember, had a NASTY reaction to vaccination last year. And, since I've moved, I really need to go into the DMV and change my address and get new stickers for my tags.

Hmmmm...this is sounding boring. Hope to fix that.

I now live in a place where the driver's license place and the public health department and the DMV are not open every day. I also live in a place where the building labeled the DMV is not actually the DMV, it is the snowplow place. Story number one.

I look up the address for the DMV (county courthouse suite 105), the driver's license place (county courthouse suite 102) and the public health department (main street) and find the only day they are all open as I must drive TEN MILES to get to them. (This is a big deal. Never mind that I'm used to driving 20 minutes to get anywhere (except Target)). Why drive the ten miles three times when you can do it once? It is, after all, in our rival town where you just don't go (unless you would rather have Gambino's pizza instead of the Hut).

This is mostly tongue in cheek, I must admit.

So, after false starting at the DMV/Snowplow place (as there is no address anywhere on this building, how am I to know it isn't the right DMV?), I find the courthouse where there is all angle parking and all on the other side of the street and off of one way streets and seriously confusing me, but not quite stopping me from making a J turn and hoping against hope that no police will see me do this illegal manuver as I have no license.

I enter said building where none, I repeat NONE, of the offices have numbers anywhere on the doors. I do finally find one labeled <--vehicles where I enter and tell the woman at the desk my story. Long and complicated as it is. I've moved, I've lost my license, I need to change my address and get a new license.

I am not in the right place. I know you are shocked.

She is kind enough to explain the procedure which is to wait until the door (down the hall) opens, and when that guy comes out, I am next.

What? I have to wait? (She says, tongue in cheek again, as she is used to standing in line for a minimum of 45 minutes to get a driver's license).

But while I have to wait, she does change my address on my vehicles so that I can get new stickers for my tags and I can (thankfully!) get my tax bill. (eyeroll) She prints out the forms with my change of address (that she doesn't require ID or proof of change for) on them and hands them to me.

I go down the hall where I wait patiently for the guy to open the door and come out, which he almost immediately does. I go in where the woman tells me "You can't come in here!"

My bad.

The guy isn't done. He just needs to go get some cash. (CASH! Can you believe it? I have brought cash, but only because I can't find a checkbook and though I was sure they took credit, I feared they did not. It appears I am correct. HA! OK, moving on.) I crawl back into my hole, or the bench outside of The Door, whatever the case may be, to wait my turn. The guy leaves the building.

I wait.

And wait.

And wait.

At which point I try to text my husband that only in (or near) the 'boro, does a driver's license place wait for someone to visit the ATM before taking the next person in line. As I am textually challenged, I give up on that and put my phone away. Eventually, the woman across the hall from me (who is in line behind me) asks, "Where do you think he needed to go for his cash?" and I replied, "Apparently an ATM in the 'Boro." (Ten miles away, might I remind you, as he has been gone approximately ten minutes). We laugh.

We wait some more. At which point the lady across from me says, "I should know you." And I told her, "Probably not."

I was wrong, by the way. We eventually decided she knew me because I was a cheerleader 17 years ago and was very visible at that time. As cheerleaders cheer towards 300 people, the 300 people have the advantage of knowing the five of us while we see a sea of faces. And our boyfriend. And probably his parents. And maybe ours. She said I looked exactly the same to which I replied, "Which just means I still have, Hello, I Graduated in 1994 Hair." She laughed. And then I said, "(her last name), I knew a (her last name).......Judy." And she said, "My mother." Ah. Contact established.

I'm not even safe leaving the house ten miles away. I saw as many people there that I knew as I see at Alco. And here I thought I'd get the afternoon off of the "How do I know you" game.

Anyway, the guy comes back with his cash. The lady takes his picture. He leaves. My turn. I explain my dilemma. She looks sad and asks if I have ID. Which I do. Since I intended to travel to Israel last year, I had a passport which SHOULD be better ID than a driver's license. But do I have proof of address? Why no, no I don't. Except for this DMV thing that she just printed next door. That'll work.

Seriously? That woman asked for NO proof, no ID, no nothin' to change my address (though I could give her my name and the county the cars were registered in and my former address, so I guess a total freak would probably not have all that info?) and THIS is all the proof of address I need?

Anyway. Get my driver's license. Head to the public health department which has its own issues, not the least of which is that I know yet another person. However, in this small town they actually TURN ME AWAY for reasons that I won't go into now and which don't really apply to Only in (or near) the 'Boro. The fact that they exercised caution and sent my son away without vaccinations is something that would never have happened in the city where they treat me like an imbecile every time I darken the door of the PHD. For this I am grateful.

See?

I think I can get used to small town living.

Aside from the fact that Target is 55 minutes from my front door and they won't let me open a bank account because I have no driver's license even though they know my parents, in-laws, grandparents in law, aunts, uncles, and watched me cheer for three years, living in the 'Boro is growing on me.

I'm Confused...

I recently moved to a place where I live among a sect of Mennonites (locally?) known as Holdemann. Holderman? Something. I think they are the "Mennonites" (no specific distinction) referred to in Beverly Lewis books. They aren't "Old" Mennonites who wear white caps, but drive cars, and aren't Amish Mennonites who wear white caps and drive buggies. They aren't what we refer to as General Conference Mennonites who, in my personal opinion, could very well be Methodists just as well, and they aren't Mennonite Brethren (which I will soon be again once I can acclimate myself to not dancing in church) who could be described as basically a Baptist without a weekly alter call. They are the Holdemann (whom I can't even spell....) who, when we moved to town in 1990 were known for their cotton shirtwaist dresses and Keds and could drive cars, but they couldn't have chrome on them or radios in them.

Fast forward 22 years. I've left, gone to college, married, had children, lived in the city and returned, the prodigal child. Back to the Mennonites. And what do I find?

*A Mennonite lady who is STUNNING, by the way, without makeup and I still question whether she had some on (not that YOU can't be stunning without makeup, but I sure can't), dressed in her sensible baby blue cotton shirt with DC plaid skate shoes and an Abercrombie and Fitch hoodie.

* A Mennonite lady in a red floral sensible skirt with a SLAMMIN' rhinestone studded, bedazzled AERO(postale) hoodie.

*A group of Mennonite teens at PF Changs. (Not that they aren't allowed to eat out, but I never used to see them in any restaurants where the plates are more than $5 a piece unless it was a Mennonite run establishment). I asked hubs if he thought they were on rumpspringe and he correctly notified me that they would have left their caps home should that have been the case. On the other hand, they weren't texting each other around the table like the group of men behind us. And they had chaperons. And who doesn't like a little Chinese food every now and then? I was there... 

* A Mennonite teen wearing a bubble vest over a tight black long sleeve tee (over her sensible skirt).

* A Mennonite teen in an Underarmour shirt.

*A Mennonite teen with fringe bangs hanging sideways out of her cap. (If it looks like they could have accidentally slipped out, that makes it OK.)

I'm sure this type of thing will cease to amuse me, but for now, I'm going to take all the laughter I can find. Tell me, how does a people group who is not allowed to have chrome on their cars, justify rhinestones on their clothing? And if they are supposed to be in and not of the world (as we all are) how does holding on the the sensible skirt designate them as very much different when mostly what a person sees is the top?

And, OK, I'm not a "rules" girl when it comes to faith, but when you are a "rules" based sect of Mennonite, where does it stop?

Hubs said, not entirely teasing, "They're losing them."

Rules are made to be broken. That is demonstrated all through the Bible. If you have a rule, people will find a way around it. The result can often look silly. Obeying the letter of the law, but not the spirit.

And I'm sure there is something I could say at this point to wrap this up all nice and tidy, but I've got nothin'. I'm just thankful for the freedom found in Jesus. And though I may look silly to the world at large because they don't understand....I guess I don't really care. So why should I care what the Mennonite's are wearing as if I know their rules better than they do? I guess I don't. But I shall find amusement in it for the time being, nonetheless.

Out of the Mouths of Babes

After a move across the state, I petitioned the Lord last night for my children. That in their new school they would find favor. Would exhibit wisdom. Would make appropriate friends. Etc. etc. And I finished the prayer with my desire that I would use my free time in the day to build my relationship with Charming, reading to him, playing with him on his terms, rather than using the electronic babysitter so that I could "get something done" while the older kids were away.

Charming started this morning at 4:30. So while I'm frustrated and sleep deprived and trying to get my older kids off to school in a pleasant manner for their first day in a new school, Charming wants to be held, and cuddled, and held, and rocked, and held. Which is all well and good AFTER the kids are off to school and not so much fun when I need two hands.

In my exasperation, I complained to Hubs, "I KNEW better than to pray! You ask God for something and He answers in the most annoying way POSSIBLE! (complain, complain complain....rant for a few minutes....complain, explain what happened).

Tired of my rant, Charming, who is in my arms at this point (surprise, surprise), grabs my face and turns me to look at him and says, "Mommy, God is good, not bad."

Touche.

Because I'm 35 and, dang it, I can

I have pierced my nose.

So far I have been described as "emo proper" and "crazy." Eldest said, "nasty." Princess said, "I hope you decide you don't like that soon."  I think I have legitimately embarrassed my children. Neither Frodo, nor Charming have noticed it yet. I don't think any of my friends who were at dinner with me approved. I'm almost certain my parents will be mortified.

But I've wanted to do this for years and my husband, whose opinion I most value aside from Jesus, told me it was OK with him. He also used the word "sexy." I think he's lying to try to be supportive, but I treasure him for that.

Wendi went with me.

I love that girl.

Not Becaues I Should, But Because I Can

Chraming Strikes Again!

Mom: quit picking your nose!

Charming: But I'm HUNGRY!

(mom busts a gut)

Consumed

An old friend of mine finally put a word to how I'm feeling.

Consumed.

I can't exactly call it sad or depressed. Hurt. Angry. All are true to an extent, but my daily life hasn't changed by more than a blip on the screen. I haven't seen my beautiful friend for 15 years. Fifteen years since our last road trip. And though I was at her high school graduation, I was doing family stuff and she was doing family stuff and I'm sure I got little more than a hug in. I have no memory of it at all. There was always another day, right? All that aside, knowing that the world has lost a bright light, the only thing that changes in my world is an absence of facebook status updates.

But my thoughts are CONSUMED with the fact that I live in a world where my friends could off themselves at any moment. I dream about it. I go into a yoga pose and I'm focused, focused...focused, and then I burst into tears. And I remember. Not the girl with black hair and a wine glass, but the fourteen year old with braces and a perm, smiling and fitting right in with the group of seniors who weren't sure they really wanted her...until we were. We spent a year protecting her from our bad influence and her parents. She was my little sister. And I spent months trying to talk my future brother in law into going out with her so we could get her to prom (via myself and hubs). So when I see my now sister in law (whom I love dearly and am sure is a better choice for him), I have to make a quick exit and cry my eyes out. And it's insanity.

Consumed.

Not with grief, not even with loss. Just with the magnitude of the thing.

Consumed.

And I know it will lessen and I know it'll get easier and I look forward to the day when time will pass without my thought returning to the ugly and yet I hope I never forget how precious the present with my friends is.

My Christmas List: A Confession

My sister-in-law made this huge, leaping confession about Christmas in which I was painted as a self-sacrificing ideal of gift refusal, and I can no longer allow the misconception to continue. Thus, because it is forced upon me, here is my confession: I have expensive taste.

There it is.

I know I can't have what I want, so you may as well put your money to good use.

When people ask me what I want for Christmas, I have a price point in mind that I assume you are trying to stay within. As there is nothing in said price point that I can't buy for myself (whether I would actually buy it or not doesn't factor in, because we all know I am far too cheap to actually spend $30 on a shirt, but that's another story altogether).

See, I could go out and buy you a $30 sweater that you probably won't like because we have completely different taste. You can go out and buy me a $30 sweater that I may or may not like for the same reason. Neither one of us will admit that we might not wear the sweater. We may have excellent intentions of actually wearing the sweater. We may give it a token wear or two. But, all in all, the $60 has been wasted and on top of that, we have guilt. So why not put the money towards a well and we can have warm fuzzies?

The kink in this theory is that my sister in law actually has given me gifts that I've worn out. I don't know that she can say the same about me.

With all due respect to my parents, we didn't have a whole lot of money growing up and Christmas came with a budget. Christmas was, for the most part, responsible. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I would never in my wildest dreams get video game systems. (And not just because of the money factor. My mom is very anti-digital entertainment.) But video game systems was what I wanted. What child of the 80s didn't want an Atari? (Hubs bought me one after we were married and still makes fun of me for wanting to play it.) I also knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I'd never get a Cabbage Patch Doll and they surprised me. But I believed in Santa for years longer that a child should because Santa gave me gifts that my parents would NEVER EVER buy. (One of the many reasons we don't do Santa here. I like my credit.) I think Santa brought me the single player pac-man game. Go figure. My parents are more selfless than I am.

The first 13 years of my married life, we had no money. In order to survive, we asked people to not buy us gifts so that we wouldn't have to feel obligated to give back. We couldn't give and receiving is too hard without returning the favor. We bought gifts for people HOPING BEYOND HOPE that Grandma would come through with enough cash to cover what we'd purchased. People would lavish stuff on us and we went home feeling like crap because we weren't more generous, vowing that Next Year would be better. And it almost never was. At least if we asked people to give to charity, we could do the same. Give according to what we have and not have to feel like Scrooge when our homemade candy was stacked up against a pile of gifts.

And yes, I do like to give money to starving children in India and water to thirsty orphans in Africa. They wear on my heart and mind in ways I can't even begin to explain. Why, WHY am I given so much when these children have NOTHING, and how DARE I admit that I want something so frivolous as a new coffee maker when I have one that works adequately and there are children picking coffee beans for a subsistence income?

Bah.

So, I could give you my list. It goes a little something like this:

I would like a watch. I really like the $700 ones at Helzberg Diamonds. $30 ones never last more than a month on my arm. I think I have a chemical on me that kills them. Dead.
I would like a Keurig and the cute single serve coffees that come with it.
Unless, of course I want a coffee roaster and green coffee beans.
And until I can decide if I want individual serving expensive coffee or want to roast my own, I'd rather not have both machines cluttering up my kitchen counter.
I want a $600 glass quilt display.
I don't have enough quilts to justify this request.
Which means I probably would like some more quilts.
I want a $700 language learning system so I can learn a romantic language that has no bearing on daily life and hopefully visit the country in which the language is still spoken.
There is a painting on a cruise ship floating somewhere near Cozumel that I want in an insane manner. At last docking it was $1800 and could very well now be sold.
I liked nearly everything I saw in Eddie Bauer last week. Except for the things I didn't like. There was a denim jacket that was awesome. There was also one that was decidedly not. Describe that one on your Christmas list.

So, Tam, there you have it. The reason I ask that you give money for clean water in Africa. It is so much easier than admitting that you can't afford the things I want.

At least you can admit you like gifts and seem content to receive $30 sweaters.

I appreciate that you humor me.

What I Learned This Week

As I struggle to find a new normal in a world where my friends could choose to end their lives, I learned something. Not anything I expected to learn, mind you, and nothing I wished to learn, not yet, but I have learned something.

Don't ask people "How was it?" I know what you mean is, I'm thinking about you. I can tell you are hurting. I love you. You might even be asking, did you get some closure? Did you learn more about why? You could even be asking, were people crying loudly and making spectacles of themselves or did they cry quietly like they do when older people pass after suffering for years with cancer? I know people mean well. There are people who read this blog that did ask and might still ask.

The answer is the following:

Awful. Simply awful. I stood by while they put my friend in the cold ground. My friend who put on a carefree, happy go lucky face no longer walks this earth by her own choosing.

So yes, the words spoken were Nice. Comforting. Even, dare I say it? Funny at times. But "It" was awful. Tragic. Lonely. I sat side by side with my friend in a room full of hurting people, and felt very alone. There was nothing to say to make it better. There were few people to whom I was close enough to offer or receive hugs. I recognized people that I couldn't put names to which made me feel like an idiot and I knew I shouldn't be thinking about myself at all so I felt like even more of a shmuck. I wondered if there was anything I could have done to prevent this tragedy and knew it was stupid of me to think that I was even a blip on the screen. I, who have only been a contact on Facebook in the last 15 years while we both grew up and moved on. And still....she was my friend. A figurative little sister, once. And I hurt and I cry and it's awful. And I know this will pass, but in the meantime...

the show must go on.

I'll miss you, KL.

Yeah

What she said.

So thankful for the memories and the laughter today.

Loss

Denial

Anger

Denial

Anger
Depression
Anger

Acceptance

Anger

Denial

Anger

Depression

Acceptance
Anger

Yeah, Kubler-Ross would be proud.

Life

I suppose if you live long enough, all those things you thought happened to Other People will eventually come round to you.

A friend will die in a drunk driving accident.
you'll miscarry
you'll lose grandparents
you'll see your friends' stillborn sons
a friend's child will die
you'll lose a friend suddenly to a heart attack
a person you love will take her life


Be grateful.

Life is a gift.

Hug your friends for me today, would ya?

Funny Thing

When we bought our house, it never crossed my mind that you enter into the "open kitchen." I aspired to an "open kitchen" which I thought was several thousands of dollars in renovations (most of which were denied me). I was just pleased that my kitchen faces the street as I am in it ALL DAY LONG and like being in the center of activity (i.e. near the front door, able to see my kids play out front without being out there, seeing my neighbors come and go, seeing the salesmen come (so I can hide), etc. Maybe that makes me nosy.....) We have a hole (window ledge) out of my kitchen right over the prep area that looks into the great room and out a picture window into the back yard. Again able to see the kids and their shenanigans out back.

Last summer we whacked out some ugly spindles in our entryway and decided to take the half walls with them because half walls "dated the house." I specifically remember asking if it looked too much like you were entering the dining room and was assured that NO ONE would EVER think so. See that recessed ceiling? That vault? The wedge of sheetrock between the two clearly demarcates the entry from the dining room.

Buyers don't look up, they look down. At the flooring that is continuous through the entry, dining and (eat in if you have a small family) kitchen. Buyers now see an "open plan" kitchen that you wierdly enter via the front door. Granted the "open plan" kitchen is HUGE when you count in the formal dining room and entryway. As opposed to the tiny eat in that I bought.

I still love that my kitchen is up front, but I'm starting to think I'm the only one.

I don't regret the half wall whacking, either. It's the only thing differentiating the only other house remotely close to ours that is still FOR SALE rather than SOLD. That, and their blue countertops.

I almost feel honored that they dropped their price again.

They'll be the only ones.

This time.

Seriously?

Two weeks since our last showing. Two. Weeks.

There are two scheduled for tomorrow. Two.

Two days before we were planning to cancel our listing altogether.

It is pouring and our yard looks like crap. Covered in leaves.

I am not raking 25 bags of wet leaves off my yard in rainy 50 degree weather.

This feels very much like one of those messages from God.

I'll paraphrase. "You have absolutely no control of your life. Do you believe me yet?"

someone do the paper sort

Help! I'm buried in paper! This might be the end of me....

....gasp....
.....choke....
.......sputter.....

I'm finding it supremely difficult to balance the importance of people with keeping my house in order.

You Know You're a Mom When...

You are rocking out in the kitchen, right up until you realize that you're "rocking out" to Backyardigans "Garbage Dump."

A Couple Addendums

1) Super Target does still carry Godiva coffee. Not the plain ole coffee (that I've found yet) but they do have some of their exotic stuff on an end cap, NO WHERE near the coffee or coffee pots. Sadly, Chocolate Truffle, Pepermint Mocha and French Vanilla have no siren call for me. Where's the normal stuff?

2) I was correct. WalMart doesn't carry it.

3) The house two doors down that was priced 20K higher than mine, sold for MY asking price. I don't feel like such a moron. Competing head to head, I might buy the nicer deck also. Still don't know about the other one, but I have to think they moved at least a little bit. Hubs thinks we should go back and list ours for 20K more so that people can underbid us and feel like they are getting a good deal.

For Sale

I find it interesting that the person who doesn't have to keep the house clean, nor cleans the house before showings is the same one who still wants to sell aforementioned house.

Coincidence?

I think not.

Dear (Super)Target

I am gravely disappointed in you.

If you intend to introduce me to to a new product, say Godiva coffee, on a checkout end cap, no less, I would expect you to carry said product for more than three weeks. It is unfeeling of you to feed me a new addiction and then remove any capability for me to feast upon said addiction.

This is wrong on so many levels.

I can no longer enjoy Archer Farms coffee.
Starbucks coffee is a disappointment.
While I know in my head that I enjoy Mahogany Midnight from Caribou, I cannot bring myself to purchase it, fearful that it, too, will be a disappointment. And is $8.50 a pound.

I used to go to Target specifically to buy the Caribou Mahogany Midnight. To my knowledge, Target is the only store within a driving radius that carries this brand.

And then you brought forth the Godiva.

It was pure bliss in a cup. A simple decadent moment in my otherwise harried day. No fancy titles. No fancy flavors. Simple. Godiva. Or Godiva decaf. On sale on the checkout endcap of aisle 9 for $6.99 a pound. And I thought to myself, $6.99 is a fair deal, but what is the regular price? Oh! Sweet mercy! $7.99! That I can do.

Life is too short to drink cheap coffee. Unless you drink a gallon a day, at which point, I say "drink up."

I grabbed a bag to try, not knowing it would be my last opportunity. Had I known, I would have purchased the entire endcap and bought another deep freeze in which to store it.

Surely I can not be the only one, mister corporate buyer for Super Target. Surely not.

Bring it back. Feed my addiction. After all, you are the one who caused the addiction. (Aren't you a good little pusher?) Isn't that what dealers do? Create a need and fulfill that need? You are dropping the ball and it is a grave disappointment.

Unfortunately I cannot even threaten to move my buying power to the Walmart across the street because if Target doesn't carry Godiva, what on earth would make Walmart do so? But I may check. And while I'm there, I might just buy something else.

See how threatening I am, Mister Corporate Buyer for Target?

I have no leverage, but I would appreciate your cooperation in this matter.

Otherwise, I may just have to buy the $15 a pound coffee from Kauai Coffee Company. Don't make me stoop to this snobbery. Just feed my addiction.

That's all I ask.

Thank you, and good day.

Charming...AGAIN

In response to me when I said, "You are so indescribably cute," Charming said, "Yeah, that's right."

And, of course, on Saturday, when I was irritably driving through road construction and calling some very rude drivers Jerk....Charming piped up from the backseat "IDIOT!"

Now he thinks it's a joke. I don't know how to put a stop to it. It's hard when I'm laughing so hard.

My House

My house is lovely when it's clean.

My house is only ever clean if I've spent a minimum of six hours cleaning it so that strangers can walk through it and reject it.

I'm thinking about just keeping it.

Not that it would ever be this clean if I did.

Gentle and Quiet

My amazing friend Beckie opened her gentle and quiet mouth and spewed wisdom, as she so often does and I felt the need to share.

I expressed no small measure of exasperation, again, regarding the gentle and quiet spirit expected of Christian women, indicating myself and "all this--the antithesis of gentle and quiet" when she asked, with a sweet, puzzled look on her face, "Does the Bible say gentle and quiet countenance? No? It says gentle and quiet spirit."

I'm not sure I qualify, yet, but it gives me something that could be feasible...someday.

Charmingisims

Mommy! Why is it waining weaves?!

Wook! It's Daddy's favorite movie....feetball!

If you die, you're out, OK Mommy? That's the word.

It's a Mean, Mean, Mean, Mean World

I recently heard a woman speaking about how very mean the world has gotten and I'm right there with her.

Driving through a parking lot and see someone walking stop abruptly because you're coming, you slam on the brakes, smile and wave, mouth sorry? No return smile, just a dirty look.

I had someone throw a ham sandwich at my car at a four way stop once. I still have no idea why. I let him go first.

If you live in a city larger than 5000 and someone is making eye contact and smiling at the library, what is your first thought? Creepy, right? I have to force myself to not break eye contact. I give them the benefit of the doubt that they were raised in a small town.

Don't make conversation with the cashier. She doesn't want to be there and won't pretend for your sake.

What happened to customer service, in general?

Totally OFF topic, but still kinda on. Last night on the news I heard someone interviewed at the grocery store where the guy was shot and he said, "It's a nice, neighborhood store. Never any problems." I've been shopping there for more than ten years. The managers are nice. I think they recognize me. And, in general, I would use the same words to describe the store IN COMPARISON to other city stores. But, no. I've shopped at nice neighborhood stores. This is a pleasant city grocery where people rarely give you trouble, but are pretty much going to ignore the fact that you are present. On that stream, engage someone over the age of 80 in conversation and you might get a response.

But today....TODAY I was insulted by someone I'd never seen before, had made no judgments about, would frankly had no thoughts regarding her AT ALL had her bumper sticker not screamed at me "I may be fat, but you're UGLY and I can DIET."

I found my blood pressure actually rising. She's judging me. She's assuming that I'm judging her without giving me the chance to perform above her expectations. And she's going to skip right to rudeness rather than give me that chance.

And before you get all "it was supposed to be a joke" on me, since when is it funny to insult a perfect stranger? Is that how we are supposed to treat our fellow man? I mean, I'm not perfect. I have no illusions. I catch eyes and drop them as much as the next guy, but I do try to practice common courtesy. I "please" and "thank you" and "so sorry" and "excuse me." But my patience is wearing thin with people who act like I'm invisible and their story they are telling another person in the Walmart aisle about their daughter's cousin's boyfriends next door neighbor's arthritic cat is more important than my kid's triaminic. Hello! I'm here! And I really, really, REALLY need something just behind your butt! AND I'VE HAD NO SLEEP LADY! THUS THE NEED FOR THE COUGH MEDICINE!

And no, I don't think the lady in the Triaminic aisle affected my response to the bumper sticker at all.

Twisted Day

The good news: we had a showing and even though my beloved was indisposed and couldn't help me clean, I got the house ready with nine minutes to spare.

Thoughts: If we had a showing every three to four days, I don't think it would ever get incredibly messy. On the flip side of that thought is the fact that I walk trough the house like a crazy woman on a rampage scooping up plates before people are done with them and end up doing twice the dishes. That and I screech a lot when I walk into a room that has been put into disarray. I don't like this.

The bad news: A guy was shot four blocks away DURING the showing. (In the leg and drove himself to the hospital. I take it that means he's fine.)

Thoughts: here's hoping the gun had a silencer and the people who looked don't watch the news.

And that is all, for my brain is fried with cleaning product fumes and adrenaline.

My Get Together

What to do when you have promised to have a game day get together the day you return from vacation?

Well, first, you have to get together with some low key people so you don't stress.

Doesn't hurt if you leave your home "show ready" so you come home only to the mess you bring through the door with you.

It certainly helps if you find someone else willing to provide the site--that has a TV much larger than yours. (This was a complete and unexpected turn of events that MADE MY DAY.)

And Chex Mix is a must.

The daddies and a few boys camped in front of the giant screen.

The mommies never quite made it out of the kitchen--NOT because we were cooking, but just because that seems to be where mommies gather.

The kiddos ran the place over and since it was lovely out, they were outside as well.

We all snarfed the the Chex Mix.

The mommies picked out our favorite (Turtle). One mommy picked the gluten free items out of the bag (she isn't celiac, she's just watching it, otherwise I'm not sure she would have gone for it. I'd have had to make Rice Chex Mix if she had been).

The kids dumped Original, Turtle, and Sweet and Salty together and ate it all at once.

The daddies came through and cleaned out what was left.

This, my friends, is the way to have a party.

(Note: I"m still not certain whether the invitation to watch the game at their house was a true one, but they were gracious hosts.)

All I had to do was show up and bring the Chex Mix, plates, napkins, party bowl and disclaimers with coupons (All provided by General Mills).

Every one was happy.

It was a great Game Day Get Together.

Sorry, no photos. Don't know what I was thinking.

And Chex wants you to know this:


"We also would love if you shared information about the The Ultimate Chex Mix Game Day Sweeps! For a chance to win $10,000 in cash and prizes to make your place the ultimate Game Day spot, visit the Game Day Sweeps tab on the Chex Mix Facebook page to enter!"

The Waiting KINDLE Giveaway

Suzanne Woods Fisher is thrilled to announce the release of The Waiting, book two in The Lancaster Secrets Collection. In The Waiting Jorie finds herself caught be two loves and two lives in this compelling page turner about complex people living the simple life.

A must read!

Visit the blog tour and find out what the reviewers are saying!

Learn more about Suzanne and her books at www.suzannewoodsfisher.com!

The Waiting is the next stand alone story in The Lancaster Secrets Collection and follows in the footsteps of the best-selling, The Choice. The Waiting is in stores now and to celebrate Suzanne is hosting The Waiting KINDLE Giveaway.

One Grand Prize winner will receive a Kindle preloaded with Suzanne Woods Fisher titles and a Amazon.com gift certificate! The Prize Pack (valued at over $185.00) includes:

* A brand new KINDLE, Free 3G, 6", Latest Generation

* The Choice by Suzanne Woods Fisher

* The Waiting by Suzanne Woods Fisher

* A $15 dollar Amazon.com Gift Certificate

To enter, simply click on the icons below to fill out the entry form, then tell 5 or more friends about the contest. Oh, and enter soon! Winner will be announced on October 28th at Suzanne's Lancaster Secrets Book Club Party.

Join Suzanne for the Lancaster Secrets Book Club Party on October 28th! She’ll be announcing the winner of the The Waiting KINDLE Giveaway, hosting a book club discussion of The Waiting and The Choice, and giving away copies of both books and HEAPs of readerly prizes! Be sure to join us on Thursday, October 28th at 5:00 PM PST (6:00 MST, 7:00 CST & 8 EST) at Suzanne’s Author Page. 

The Movies and Memories Giveaway from Sarah Sundin!

Sarah Sundin presents The Movies and Memories Giveaway in honor of book 2 in the Wings of Glory series. A Memory Between Us is available for purchase wherever fine books are sold. From the English countryside to the perilous skies over France, A Memory Between Us takes you on a journey through love, forgiveness, and sacrifice.




To celebrate Sarah is giving one lucky winner A Movie and Memory Prize Package! One grand prize winner will receive:

* Make-your-own-photo book from Mypublisher.com (Capture your own Memories)

* Netflix Subscription (New or Nostalgic Movies delivered right to your house)

* Starbucks gift card (To keep your engine revvin’)

*Gourmet chocolate (A favorite in the 1940’s and now)

* British specialty teas in carved wooden box (Timeless tradition)

* Miniature model of a B-17 Flying Fortress bomber & C-47 cargo plane (Everyone needs a few toy planes)

*Big Band music CD (Break out your dancing shoes)

* WWII authentic poster playing cards (Cards – a perfect game for two)

* Keep Calm and Carry On (Uplifting sayings WWII, a boost for troubled times)

To enter simple click on the icons below (contest runs 9/27 - 10/17!)

One of the worst feelings a Christian person can have is the one that accompanies seeing an ambulance pull up in front of her agnostic neighbor's house.

Inane Car Games (and the subject that won't go away)

One of the great joys of having pre-teens is re-living those awkward years all over again. This time more indignant and hopefully wise, but unfortunately, meanwhile, being the recipient of the eye roll and the you-don't-understands.

It also means your kids learn inane car games from their friends. It started with "Bingo" (which means "yellow car"). Which, of course, becomes "red car," "blue car," "white car." And is, at that point, rendered pointless.

So I taught my kids "beetle bop" also known as "slug bug" in some areas of the country. But with all the PT Cruisers and Mini Coopers floating around these days, also is confusing. At least to start. Now it's just three car games in one. Or four when you throw in Bingo on top of it. (Beetle Bop Bingo, being the ultimate in winning calls.)

Our average car ride conversation sounds something like this: Mom? Yeah? Mom, I want a....BINGO!...I want a.....CRUISER RED!....a new....BEETLE BOP GREEN!.....a new folder for my....MINI COOPER STRIPED!...for my....FUNKY CAR!(I forgot this one....any car with a paint job or body worthy of mention)...BEETLE BOP....NO...CRUISER SILVER! Uh, Mom? Yes? I forgot. BINGO!

All while Charming is screaming "beetwal bop gween" whether or not there is, in fact, a green beetle bop. There may be a green CAR. And there may not. And if he calls it, you must respond "stinker" because Eldest will call anyone who calls a car before him "stinker." And if you now call a beetle bop with Charming in the car, he will, in fact, holler, "Stinker! I was cawing that!" So, in the midst of the aforementioned conversation, insert Charming's speech. Because if I wrote that all in, you're mind would overload.

And, because it has become so insane that Hubs and I can't even talk in the car anymore, I started a new game called SILVER VAN!

So now our conversations sound something like this: SILVER VAN! SILVER VAN! SILVER VAN! SILVER VAN! SILVERVANSILVERVANSILVERVANSILVERVAN!

Hubs is not amused.

Actual Conversation That Took Place in our Silver Minivan a Moment Ago

Me: Boy, if those B12 I'm taking are supposed to give me more energy, I'd hate to think about how I'd be feeling without them.

Hubs: Feeling pretty drained, huh?

Me: I just can't make myself care.

Hubs: Pretty sure the bottle doesn't say, "Cure for the common apathy."

Proud Mama (a.k.a. The Healer's Apprentice)

Five years ago, September, in a hotel lobby in Nashville, I met a lovely young lady by the name of Melanie Dickerson whose soft southern drawl appealed to me almost as much as her humility. She was there to promote her semi-autobiographical "missionary story" at the same time I was trying to promote my semi-autobiographical "infertility story." Neither one sold, mind you. I don't know what our first clues were: the agents panel saying they don't do missionary/issues books, or the authors saying anything semi-autobiographical won't sell. (Though we both met just enough published authors who were the exception to the rule to give us hope everlasting.)

We both went home from conference, continued to work on our doomed books, subbing them out and getting rejections, critiquing each other, subbing, getting rejections, crying, sympathizing (bored! she actually used the word BORED! sniff.  Bored? What book was she reading?) And then one day, Melanie shot me something totally new and fresh and alive. A loose retelling of Sleeping Beauty that she called The Woodcutter's Daughter. Something that hadn't had the life critiqued out of it. Something that had kept her up, her mind wild with ideas, and I said, (in case you wondered) "Melanie, this one will see print!" Chapter one was that good.

That beginning, however exciting it was, bit the dust at some point. But that's beside the point.

I'd go through my day, thinking about "this great book I'm reading" and then remember I couldn't just go pick it up at will, and I'd harass Melanie for another chapter. She started feeding us (our motley crit group) a few hundred words at a time.

I was glued to my computer.

Well, the other day I got my bound copy in the mail retitled to be called The Healer's Apprentice which, incidentally, is an even better title. I found my name in the acknowledgments. I cried. And I sat down to read the final version of a labor of love by my sweet, humble, friend. And I confess, I didn't read it in one sitting (kinda knew where it was going), and I could put it down (again, kinda knew where it was going), and I spent most of my read playing find-something-in-here-I-haven't-seen-before and oooooo-that-added-a-lot! But mostly, my friends, it is the same book I couldn't peel my eyeballs from when I was reading it on screen. I was actually quite surprised at how very little changed in the intervening re-writes, and critiques, and edits.

And, let me tell ya, she has one that is just as stinkin' good on her harddrive that is a better version of Beauty and the Beast, so nag her and her publisher about it, K? Of course, not until you've read The Healer's Apprentice.

A bit about the book (from the back cover):

Rose has been appointed as a healer's apprentice at Hagenheim Castle, a rare opportinity for a woodcutter's daughter like her. While she often feels uneasy at the sight of blood, rose is determined to prove herself capable. Failure will mean returning home to marry the aging bachelor her mother has chosen fr her--a bloated, disgusting merchant who makes Rose feel ill.

When Lord Hamlin, the future duke, is injured, it is Rose who must tend to him. As she works to heal his wound, she begins to understand emotions she's never felt before and wonders is he feels the same. But falling in love is forbidden, as Lord Hamlin is betrothed to a mysterious young woman in hiding. As Rose's life spins toward confusion, she must take the first steps on a journey to discover her own destiny.