The Summer Doldrums



I’ve been stuck in summertime writing limbo.

I feel horribly guilty. For two weeks Kiddo has been in summer camp eight hours a day. And I accomplished nearly nothing.

Okay, for one of those weeks he kept me up all night coughing and was home sick for a day. And I absolutely do not function without sleep. (Thank God he was an angel baby, because there is no way we would have survived if he had been one of those infants who had their days and nights mixed up or didn’t sleep more than a few hours at a stretch for two years.) Being the kind and generous kid that he is, he shared his sickness with his Mommy, who always gets it ten times worse. Kinda hard to write when your skull is pounding or you’re floating away in a medicine-induced fog. Before the sick set in I caught up on my errands, did some minor focus group work, attempted to plan a birthday getaway, dealt with insane familial dramas… And made excuses.

After 28,000 words, I am at a major transition point in my novel. There is a total setting change. I’m about to introduce a ton of new characters and I need to curve the plot in a different direction. I took some time to immerse myself in my new local–scanning photos, digging for video, reading blogs to bring me back. I need to feel the weight of the saturated air, hear the sounds of the lush jungle around me, smell the ever present beans and rice mixed with the briny sea air to send me back and create my world.

I also am attempting to figure out my “black moment” and all the technicalities that go along with it. I know how my story ends, but how do I bring together all the loose ends and tie them into a giant knot that will have readers caring enough to untie? Should I add some more elements of mystery? Make it a bit more comical? Both?

Decisions must be made about tense as well. I had been writing in first person present tense, but I think I must switch to past tense.

Decisions, decisions…

Later this week the Romance Writers of America National Conference will be swinging through my part of the world and a few of my fellow book club members have decided to crash the book signing event. I’m hoping a gathering of such talent and tenacity–authors who managed to muddle through all the muck to actually complete and PUBLISH books–will inspire me and make me get moving again. Or perhaps I can just hope for some miracle of osmosis.

On the bright side, I have finally been savoring some great (and a few not so great) summer reads.

For now I have only three weeks of summer vacation left to enjoy with my Kiddo. I need to take advantage of our scant time together, soak in the sunshine, the play time, and create a few memories.

And get rid of this dang flu.

The Beautiful People…






 Beauty is in the eye of the beholder?

I just returned from a 40th birthday party overflowing with the Beautiful People and I’m feeling a little old, a bit saggy, and Marilyn Manson is echoing through my head…

You know who I’m talking about, right? The Beautiful People? All the girls had salon blown-out hair, chemically golden tans, blindingly white teeth, full makeup (in the pool), fat-phobic bodies (except for their enhanced curves) and microscopic bikinis. The boys were buff, golden, flashing the cash and…well, boys don’t really need much else, do they?

The party was a plastic surgeon’s dream come true. There was so much silicone and saline now floating around the pool I suspected the surgeon was lurking about handing out cards and offering on-the-spot consultations to those admiring his work. I wouldn’t be surprised if the few guests who had crossed the 30’s threshold already had several discrete visits for Botox as well.

The average age, I’m guessing, was about 25.  Keep in mind this was a 40th birthday party. But a McMansion on the lake, a live reggae band, free booze, fast boats, and the promise of fellow Beautiful People to ogle and hit on at seemed to draw them out.

Where did these people come from? None of these people live in my neighborhood. I do not see them at my grocery store or park. I do not know where they hide during the day. The gym perhaps? Swanky office jobs? Upscale shopping venues? Even when I was young, single, and cute I still did not know these people. I don’t know where they congregate at night–I am not hip or beautiful enough I suppose to be included.

And the bikinis… I don’t consider myself modest. I am proud to say that even in my (eek!) mid-thirties and having born a child I will still wear a bikini in public and feel relatively comfortable with myself. But the suits these girls were wearing were about 1/2 the size of my swimsuit. Dental floss, a few beads, and blind faith were all that held most of their bikinis together. And what’s with these new bottoms that look like you have a wedgie before you even put them on? I just looked them up on Victoria’s Secret and found that they are called “cheekies” because they don’t even leave the crack up to anyone’s imagination. How comfortable can they be? I also discovered that’s where most of the girls bought their swimsuits. And heels! I somehow forgot that I am supposed to be wearing 4 inch heels while trouncing around in my bikini…

The boys seemed rather pleased with the views though, to say the least. The few of us who were actually closer to the Birthday Boy’s ripe old age clustered together in a corner of the pool. The old boys just stared in amazement while we ancient girls made catty comments.  There were only a handful of us who were actually married and I was one of only three wives in attendance. The married boys (sans wives) tried to talk around me as they commented and rated the girls, known only by their bikini color. As in Oh Man, check out Pink. Yeah, I bet she’ll be on the Birthday Boy’s boat. Or Damn, where did green go? She is one of my favorites.

{Sigh}

As I was told by them, they are married, not dead. So apparently, we wives are death. Way to make us feel good boys.

I couldn’t even focus on the pretty boys in attendance. Lots of muscle, funky trendy sunglasses (who said huge white plastic frames look good?) and board shorts. By the size of their biceps and darkness of their tans I would assume they don’t spend much time reading or keeping up with current events. I don’t think I could have held a cohesive conversation with any of them. Nothing like a boy who is dumber than a pile of bricks–which is why I ‘ll never understand all the girls who love Jason on True Blood, but that’s another story…

I felt as if I had been transported to Cancun during spring break. I was waiting for someone to break out the beer bong and start the wet t-shirt contest. Maybe the Girls Gone Wild bus paid a visit after we left and the party really got going.

Perhaps these are just the ramblings of a cranky SAHM who is offended by and out of touch with this world of wannabe-nouveau-rich-glitterati.

Or maybe I just like my friends to be like my favorite books: whether their covers are brilliantly enticing or homely and plain, what lies beneath must have beauty and substance to be of value.

Beauty IS in the eye of the beholder.

I’m ready for the Tooth Fairy…

My Kiddo, who is only a few months away from tuning seven (OMG!) finally has a loose tooth.

We have been awaiting this day with great anticipation for at least a year or so. I have fielded nearly constant questions about why EVERYONE ELSE has lost teeth and been rewarded by the Tooth Fairy and HE has not.

We have been checking on its wiggle-ability for a week now. While smiling and trying to figure out a somewhat believable story about the Tooth Fairy’s existence (because there is not nearly as much background available for her as there is for Santa or even the Easter Bunny) I realized I had nothing to put the tooth in. No special little pillow or chest or envelope. And it HAS to go in something or it could get lost or eaten by the cat or spend eternity rolling around in the chaos under the bed until he packs for college and we get grossed out by our discovery.

I looked online. All I could find were overpriced little girly things. I still have my little girly tooth pillow and although it is blue, the stuffed angel/fairy thing just wasn’t going to cut it. What do you do for a boy?

I finally stumbled into the world of crafting blogs, a place I had feared and avoided until now. I am just not a crafty girl. I don’t create unique heirloom gifts for family and friends. I don’t scrapbook. Every craft supply I have optimistically purchased for Kiddo to create masterpieces with has turned into shredded cat toy. It’s just not our thing.

But I had to do something. So I found some simple, step-by-step instructions on a beautifully rendered blog (which also made me feel horribly inferior and lacking in creativity).

And I did it. I crafted. It…doesn’t look half bad…

So thank you to the purl bee for making your Tooth Fairy Bags simple enough for an utterly inept mother/crafter/seamstress like me.

Kiddo loves it. Now we just have to wait for the tooth to fall out…and figure out the Tooth Fairy’s going rate for a body part…

Musings of a former book snob


The book snob in me gave up reading “real” books when I had a child. Most other moms thought I was nuts to even attempt to read any novel, but I knew I would go insane if I completely lost my one passion, my outlet, my primary form of entertainment.

I vividly remember the day several years ago when I raced home from the library, a copy of One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez in my book bag. I made it through about four pages (which took several hours) before I gave up. I had a toddler running circles around me, interrupting me every thirty seconds while he was awake, and once he was in bed I was pretty much brain dead. Yes, it seemed to be beautifully written, but if the paragraphs were more than a few sentences long (forget about pages long) it just wasn’t going to happen.

It seemed I was doomed to read only bathroom literature. Anything that couldn’t be broken into simple two minute sections wasn’t going to make my reading list for a while. I felt like a literary failure.

Luckily this was about the time Chick Lit was hitting the shelves with a vengeance. I could grab an easily digestible novel and actually follow the plot amidst the never ending distractions of my daily chaos. I still could revel in my escapism. And they were actually quite fun. I learned to ignore the pink covers and plunge into the stories held between.

I also learned that by being a book snob I had missed out on endless hours of pure laughter, suspense, and fulfilling entertainment. Even now that I have more spare moments and greater control of my sanity I refuse to return to my highbrow ways, deciding that reading for fun is the most constructive use of my time.

On that note, I was immensely irritated by my last two book selections.

I picked up Jane Green’s Promises to Keep expecting the usual light and breezy beach read about relationships and romance. It’s summer and I just wanted some entertainment while I sat by the pool. I was quite ticked off when instead I was sucked into a tearjerker.

That was not what I signed on for.

I read the last hundred pages in a huff, scanning through the chapters chanting, “I will not cry, I will not cry.” It did not quite work, but I only let a few stubborn tears sneak through instead of the Kleenex-box-full that threatened to spew if I had let myself stay sucked into the story.

Damn you, Jane Green. But I’ll still eagerly pick up your next book–just please don’t do that to me again.

Next I read Imperial Bedrooms by Bret Easton Ellis. I knew better. I had read his other books. I was traumatized by the raw and vivid images of Less Than Zero in the 80’s. I read it anyway.

His stream-of-conscious run-on prose made me feel as if I was in a drug-induced haze. Thankfully, it was an extremely short book so I could handle the onslaught…or so I thought.

His books did to me what Easy Rider did to my Dad decades ago: they made me afraid of people. I am not so naive as to think that there is good in the hearts of most people or even that we can shield ourselves from the rank depravity that some people call their existence. His books expose the demons that crawl through the souls of what should be ordinary people. Are his characters just utterly lacking in conscience or consequences? Or perhaps they are just people who have no souls inhabiting their cold-blooded bodies.

All I know is I needed several showers to wash the images from my mind. It didn’t work.

So now I’m taking a break from heartbreak and depravity. My next read shall be light, airy, and full of fluff.

I deserve it.

June Book List

The Rule of Nine–Steve Martini
Insatiable–Meg Cabot
The Burning Wire–Jeffery Deaver
Promises to Keep–Jane Green
Imperial Bedrooms–Bret Easton Ellis

Summer Camp Savages

It’s summer break, and my Kiddo is enjoying his first week of our city’s summer day camp program. As an only child, it seems he gets bored and lonely a little quicker than kids with siblings to play with or pester. At 6 1/2 he is an outgoing and social little boy, so since he was finally old enough, I figured it was time for a new experience. I signed Kiddo up for two weeks, just to test the waters, give him something to do, and some other kids to play with.

I did not realize I was sending him to participate in The Lord of the Flies.

Day 1: My sweat-soaked and slightly sunburned son shook his head at me when I arrived and did not want to leave. I told him he could stay longer the next day since he had so much fun.

Day 2: I arrived an hour later, and he put his muddy little hands together as if in a prayer and begged to stay longer. He said he was having too much fun to go home.

Day 3: I was out shopping, ran late, and rushed to pick him up in a guilty panic, assuming he would think I had forgotten about him and left him there for the night. I find him drenched (it had just started to rain), filthy (he IS a little boy), and smiling. He announced he wanted to say in camp ALL summer long. No harm done, right?

In the car he announces that he was in a fight. With a taller kid. And he won. He is beaming.

I’m not sure what to say.

I am kind of mortified…and kind of proud…

I decide to try to get as much information out of him as possible, which is usually like pulling teeth. I keep a calm, interested tone while interviewing him. And wonder how to handle this.

This is a whole new world for me. I was a shy, timid girl and I have never thrown a punch in my life. I just don’t “get” physical fighting. But boys are different. My Hubby would get into fights occasionally when he was a kid and says that is just how boys are. My Dad preached you should never be the one to start a fight, but always be the one to finish it–victoriously, of course.

Today, any form of fighting, especially in school, is considered unacceptable. There is zero tolerance and BOTH participants are likely to be punished, no matter who started it or for what reason. Sure, that’s all well and great in a perfect world where kids are always rigidly supervised, but what about when they are not?

My Kiddo is not a bully and I have no worry that he ever will become one. He is kind, outgoing, and pretty laid back. But I do not want him to BE bullied. I have actually been waiting for the day when he would come home crying because he got punched for giving the wrong kid a hug.

When we talked about fighting, I always said he should avoid physically fighting to the best of his abilities. Try to talk it out, get out of the situation, find a teacher… But what should a boy do if another boy punches him? If he runs away or starts crying he is likely to be bullied and picked on again. If he hits back he risks getting pummeled and/or facing serious consequences.

What’s a boy to do?

At the moment, I’m voting for hitting back. Why shouldn’t kids be allowed to defend themselves? Sure, with another kid on the playground it just may be an issue of social standing, self-confidence, and a bloody nose, but what about in the real world? What if it is a stranger trying to take him off the playground? Shouldn’t we teach our kids to defend themselves and not just stand there, placidly looking for an authority figure to step in, while any number of unimaginable things could happen to them?

I am hoping that my Hubby and I are raising our son with enough moral character, judgment, and self-respect that he will know when it’s time for fight or flight. But then again, now he is only 6.

From the scant bits of information I was finally able to cajole out of the Kiddo, I think he did the right thing. It had just started to rain and the counselors had been busy trying to corral the zillions of campers under pavilions or inside. A bigger kid was picking on and hurting Kiddo’s friend. Kiddo told him to stop. The bigger kid started pushing Kiddo. So he pushed back. In the end, somehow, my lanky little boy was sitting on the bigger kid until he cried, “time out, I’m done.” The fight was over, and my little underdog had prevailed.

I know many parents would be raising a complete fit with the counselors for even “letting” this happen. As long as this remains an isolated incident, I’ll deal with it.

There will always be good kids and bad kids. No matter how much we try to shelter and micromanage our children they will come in contact with each other. It is our responsibility to teach our children how to properly deal with adverse situations by themselves so they can grow into competent and self-sufficient adults.

Well, we can at least try…

It will be time to pick the Kiddo up from camp soon. I will admit I am slightly nervous and more than a tab bit curious… I can’t wait to hear what happened on the playground today.

Time to read = tools to write?

“If you don’t have time to read, you don’t have the time (or the tools) to write. Simple as that.”
Stephen King

Okay, Stephen, easy for you to say. If you still manage to kick out a 1,000 page best seller every other month while leisurely reading away your afternoons, you must have some type of time machine. Or work in two dimensions. Or have a ghost writer.

I am not so lucky. I have none of those things. But I do have an antsy 6-year-old telling me each morning, “I’m bored. I want to do something fun today…” My fun would be sitting at my desk all day, my fingers flying over the keyboard, cranking out another 2,500 words.

His idea of fun is Chuck E. Cheese, Aquatica, or inviting a half dozen kids over to terrorize my house. But it is summer break and he will only be little for a little while longer. It won’t be too many summers from now when he will be running away from me, not wanting me to run with him. So I shall quietly enjoy my Mommy duty and do my best to quit my kvetching.

I have still been getting quite a satisfactory amount of writing done (thanks partly to the Hubby taking over kid duty when he can). Yesterday I cranked out another 2,500 words. Last week, 6,500. Kiddo was partially in school three days though. I think my summer goal will be 5,000 words per week. Let’s see if the words keep coming…

But since I have started kicking out the pages, I have notice that I am having a very hard time reading for leisure. I am so focused on my own storyline I can’t be completely sucked into someone else’s. Two weeks into this month and I have read one easy novel. That is crazy for me.

I am spending too much time analyzing sentence structure or how exactly the scene was set up or the author’s use of point of view. I want to be rereading my old AP English and college journalism textbooks to brush up on all of the grammar I have completely forgotten. But I need to keep reading.

Stephen King says so.

March

Momzillas–Jill Kargman
Split Image–Robert B. Parker
Lamb–Christopher Moore
Bahamarama–Bob Morris
Every Day in Tuscany : Seasons of an Italian Life–Frances Mayes
House Rules–Jodi Picoult

April
Deception–Johnathan Kellerman
Flirting with Forty–Jane Porter
The Girl Who Chased the Moon–Sarah Addison Allen
Just Breathe–Susan Wiggs
The 19th Wife–David Ebershof
Deliver Us From Evil–David Baldacci
Odd Mom Out–Jane Porter
The Blonde Theory–Kristin Harmel

May
Island Beneath the Sea–Isabel Allende
Innocent–Scott Turow
Dead in the Family–Charlaine Harris
Heart of the Matter –Emily Giffin
All We Ever Wanted Was Everything–Janelle Brown
The School of Essential Ingredients–Erica Bauermeister
Fever Dream–Preston and Child

The Weekday Weekend Novelist


I have actually been making some headway writing–yeah! The few times I have had chunks of time to write I have been dedicating myself to The Novel instead of blogging, and I had no idea it had been so long since my last post. Oops. I’m trying to run with my inspiration when I have it, and if that makes me an unreliable and lackadaisical blogger, so be it.

I found I had been spending too much time dwelling on the plot and I was a bit unsure how to formulate some of the characters. Not to mention I was terrified of actually testing my dormant writing ability. After reading some glowing recommendations, I picked up a copy of Robert J. Ray’s The Weekend Novelist to help give me some focus. I felt I needed a bit of a blueprint, not necessarily a “formula” for writing a novel, but a little guidance about the order I needed to proceed.

Ray claims to have a specific formula for writing, which if followed, would lead to a completed novel in just 52 weekends. Now, I don’t write much on weekends (hello, family time), and I’m not very good at following any type of formula (which explains those embarrassing math grades). His book did finally get me moving in the right direction.

I made it through week 10 in his structured exercises. I found it was a great help in character work, and I completed my character bio’s, time lines, and description sheets over the last several weeks. I even went so far as to find pictures to be the basis of some of my characters. He, he, he, Facebook comes in very handy sometimes…

I have been wracking my brain over the climax/catharsis scene, the pinnacle of the book. Then I finally realized I don’t have to have EVERYTHING plotted out exactly, I need some freedom to see where my characters may go and grow on their own.

I realized that I can only prepare for and put off the deed for so long. Then I sat down to write.

Some days it’s still research and a few paragraphs or a scene sketch. Two days ago, I spit out 2500 words. Today another 1000. It’s progress. I’m working on it….

And of course, I get this motivation and progress the week before school lets out for the summer. Two entire months rapidly approaching with a hyper 6-year-old who claims he has absolutely nothing to do.

I need a schedule. I need some time to myself. I need to figure out how the Kiddo are not going to kill each other over the loooonnngg summer break…

Censorship is Senseless–Get a Grip Mom

One of our local mothers has decided that she has the literary expertise and moral superiority necessary decide what we should all be reading. Or more appropriately, NOT reading. Apparently, we are not able to handle the Gossip Girl or It Girl novels and she has created her own little crusade to protect us from ourselves…by hiding the books in her closet.

Yes, Tina Harden has been stashing four of MY library’s copies of Cecily von Ziegesar‘s young adult novels in her closet for two years. According to the Orlando Sentinel, Harden leafed through the books after her then 13-year-old daughter checked them out from the local public library. She was outraged over the “numerous curse words” and terms such as “stoned” and “marijuana” she found within. She decided that as a taxpayer she should be able to choose which “material is inappropriate for minors” and should be made unavailable to them. After all, librarians are just “public servants.”

I’m sure no respectable 13-year-old has ever been exposed to any of “those words,” right? By hiding the books, she can prevent her daughter from ever knowing about such sordid topics, I’m sure. AND she can also protect us from corrupting ourselves, should we choose to read such filth and depravity.

Now, I never read any of the Gossip Girl books. From what I have heard, they are a bit racier than the Sweet Valley High and Girls of Canby Hall young adult novels I read as a child. But I read those when I was in elementary school. The only time I was ever denied a book was when I was caught reading Judy Blume’s Forever when I was about 10. By the time I was 13 I had read Gone With the Wind twice, was speed-reading through Stephen King’s vast anthology, and was studying Lord of the Flies in English class. Somehow, I managed to resist the urge to become a promiscuous-paranormal-prejudicial-psychopath, just because I had read about such things.

Has she considered what a shining example she is providing her daughter by breaking the law? By refusing to return the books or pay the $85 overdue fine she is stealing from us, the taxpayers, and she appears to be proud of her crime. Which direction is her mercurial moral compass pointing now?

Harden is blind to two crucial points. First, it is each individual parent’s responsibility to decide what their own child may read. If you don’t want your kids to read a book, that is your decision. But don’t you dare impose your tastes, morals, or righteousness on me and my family. And second, in today’s hyper-stimulated, digital society we should be thrilled anytime a kid is picking up a book instead of a joystick, phone, or remote. By holding a tangible paper and ink book in their hands and engulfing the flow of actual compete sentences into their brain, these kids are an example of a nearly endangered species which we should be protecting and encouraging at all costs.

I hope the library has sent her fines to a collection agency. I am tempted to purchase copies of all four books and donate them to the library, rendering her silly and irresponsible cause obsolete. Perhaps I should send her a copy of Fahrenheit 451 and 1984 while I am at it.

As responsible parents, it is a crucial part of our job to guide our OWN children through the ever-changing world of media. But it is my kid, my choice.

And whatever you do, keep your hands of MY books.

Killer Whales and Kindness



Sunday the Kiddo and I escaped to Sea World for one of our Mommy & Son bonding days full of sharks, sandboxes, and, of course, Shamu. We have had annual passes since the Kiddo was not even two, and although we cannot go nearly as much as we used to due to school schedules, we cherish these days of fun and learning.

Our local news has been in an uproar over the death of a Killer Whale trainer last month at Sea World. The press has been playing a vicious blame game with Sea World, accusing them of unsafe working conditions, animal maltreatment and exploitation. Now OSHA and PETA are also going after them, and even Capitol Hill is supposedly holding a hearing Tuesday to determine if marine mammals should be held in captivity.

Amidst all this unnecessary brouhaha, I made it a priority to see Believe, the current orca show which highlights not only the majesty of these animals but their integral relationships with their trainers. I have seen the show dozens of times over its 4-year run, and it is always different. Some days the whales were ON, seemingly feeding off the audience’s energy, amazing me with their synchronized jump, flips, and splashes. Other days they seemed distracted or perhaps a bit lazy, showing off only a few behaviors, yet still delighting the crowds of first-time watchers. I love it, no matter what they do. Just to be in their proximity is enough. I secretly yearn to be one of the lucky trainers in the water with these awe-inspiring creatures, communicating with them, stroking their shiny skin, feeling their power, their intelligence, their affection.

Sea World trainers during the Believe show May 2009.

The changes in the show we witnessed Sunday were drastic. The trainers were no longer allowed in the water with the orcas (which was the main component of the show) and they had to stay several feet back from the water even when feeding them. The “show” element did not disturb me however, but the lack of physical attention these animals were now receiving saddened me. They are used to getting rub downs, hugs, tongue scratches and genuine affection from their trainers and now it was being forcefully withheld from them. I always believed that the attention, affection, and positive rewards that they received was one of the main reasons they tolerated captivity.

Later that day, we walked around to the rear of Shamu Stadium to the underwater viewing tank. Some days we are lucky and one or more of the whales would be swimming around in the rear tank and we would see them only a few feet away from us. I saw a glimpse of black passing by so the Kiddo and I ran down for a closer look. Kiddo was up right against the glass when the whale swam by and bumped the glass.

Now, when a creature weighing several tons “bumps” anything, it is a bit forceful and quite a surprise. Everyone crowded around the window jumped back a little and gave an amazed laugh. The whale came back again, and bumped a bit harder. When it circled back the next time, it paused directly in front of Kiddo and opened it’s mouth wide before moving on. Even though there was a thick glass, I clamped onto him and gave a very nervous laugh. A visitor behind us asked Kiddo if the whale had any cavities, because he sure saw ALL her teeth. We stayed there for one more loop of the tank and window bump before I decided I had enough. This was not normal behavior. It seemed aggressive, and thought we were perfectly safe, I was uncomfortable.

We started to leave when I spotted the employee usually stationed at the viewing area to educate guests and answer questions. I casually asked, “What’s up with the glass bumping? I’ve been here dozens of times and never seen that.” She gave a very nervous laugh, pasted a fake smile on her face, and said she had never seen it either. She had just called the behavior in to the trainers. Maybe the whale had a toothache and was trying to get someone’s attention. She was obviously trying to communicate something, but what?

I left feeling very sorry for these orcas and the people that love them.

Not because these whales and other animals live here in captivity. I firmly believe that Sea World does an outstanding job of caring for their animals and educating the masses about the wonders of these creatures. No, their lives are not the same as if they were in the wild. Many of the animals in the park have been rescued from certain death in the wild, and if possible they are rehabilitated and released.

Each person that has the opportunity to see one of these magnificent animals (which they would never have the chance to see in the wild) leaves with a better understanding, a greater appreciation, and a heart more willing to help protect them and the conserve their environment. There is just no comparison between watching a nature show on t.v. versus actually seeing a dolphin, making eye contact, watching it frolic and play (sometimes with real toys) to gain an understanding and respect for these amazing mammals. The few kept in captivity are essentially ambassadors for their species.

OSHA and the press need to chill on their witch hunt as well. They are treating the trainers as if they are children who don’t know they are playing with fire and that fire can burn. No one becomes a killer whale trainer without knowing the inherent dangers of the job. It is not a career one chooses because they are tired of flipping burgers. It is a passion, a lifestyle, chosen by compassionate and intelligent individuals whose love for these animals overshadows the risks involved. The bond between the animals and their trainers has now been stretched, and all parties are suffering.

Perhaps that is what she was trying to tell us…with all of the bureaucratic bumbling, please show us some kindness and don’t forget what we need…

Have wine, will travel…

As I was stuck in the carpool line this morning with only the annoyingly chatty radio morning show hosts to keep me company, I actually heard them mention something that caught my attention: a wine purse for “box” wine. Now, I do consider myself to be a a connoisseur of cheap wine, and many, uh, boxes of wine have tickled my palate. It’s not ALL Franzia White Zin anymore, thankfully. There are actually some decent ones out there such as Black Box, or Banrock Station.

As soon as I got home this morning I had to check it out.
Although most wine lovers believe boxed wine to be the epitome of gaucheness, I think this Baggy Winecoat from Scandinavian Design Center is absolutely brilliant.

You simply take the bag of wine out of its box (so technically it’s “bagged” wine anyway), insert in the chic little black bag, and voila, the perfect wine tote and dispenser. Imagine the “ooohhhs” after you set your little black bag down on the table at your next soiree or picnic, grab a glass, and start dispensing some stylish Shiraz.

I’m hoping the next version will come with a little bit of room to carry a cell phone and lipstick as well. Leave it to those ingenious Scandinavians…I adore them for giving me IKEA, but this takes the cake.

I also stumbled upon The Wine Rack–perfect for any wine loving woman seeking not only an easy way to tote her vino, but an enhanced bustline as well.

It’s a little bit Victoria’s Secret crossed with Animal House perhaps, but it could be fun and practical. Instead of paying the exorbitant going rate for beer at sporting events and concerts (for wine is rarely even offered), you now can have an enticingly clever method of bringing in your own. Hopefully the ushers will be so distracted by your new found cleavage they wouldn’t even imagine it was enhanced with contraband.

So, if you’re looking for a stylish sports bra that can turn your A cup into a D and can hold 750 ml of your favorite beverage, this model is only $29.95 at BaronBob.com.

Yes, I may be a smidge offended if the Hubby gave me one of these wrapped up for Mother’s Day now, but how I wish I had one of these back in college…