Irony is a Bitch…

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I feel as if I have opened Pandora’s Box . I know it is not possible to make things happen just by thinking about them, but I do not particularly believe in coincidence. I do happen to have a scathing appreciation of irony, however, which somehow always manages to be justified…

My Father-In-Law passed away Monday afternoon. Wait, no, “passed away” makes it seem nice and peaceful. He had a massive heart attack and dropped dead at the foot of the stairs in front of my shocked Mother-In-Law. We packed up and raced to her side after dropping off the Kiddo at my parents, trying to hold it together, not knowing what to expect. I did not expect to see him still laying there on his E.R. gurney. I did not expect to be standing over him, head bowed while a minister prayed over his ashen body. I am not a religious person, and I have no real experience with death. I had been unbelievably fortunate to have lived in ignorant bliss regarding the nature of the physical death of a loved one and the business negotiations that unfortunately follow. Luckily, I am a quick study.

I am able to learn from one of the most experienced people I have ever met, my Mother-In-Law. This is the third time she has had to suffer the loss of a husband. She lost her second husband three months after my hubby and I started dating. I only had the chance to meet him once. My first funeral, and I was thrust right at the front of the receiving line, the hundreds of mourners passing by, shaking my hand, quietly saying “I’m so sorry for your loss.” And I didn’t even really know the man. I was there to support my then boyfriend. I’d never seen a man cry as he did. I was too petrified to remember much of anything of that time, 11 long years ago.

This time I am in the thick of things. The phone calls, the arrangements, passing the tissues, accepting the food, and explaining death to a 6-year-old. How do you tell a child that his beloved Grandpa is dead, that he will never hug him again, never hear his deep and joyful laugh, never play cars or go to the beach or spend a birthday with him ever again? Very simply apparently. Children never cease to amaze me. He took it in stride, looked me straight in the eyes and asked to go inside and see his Grandma so he could give her a big hug. Throughout the day he would make comments that bewildered me, such as “It’s okay, I knew he was going to die today,” or “I need to stay with Grandma so she won’t be alone until she finds someone else to marry.” WTF? And he was curious about the actual process, asking where his body was and what happens to it now. It is going to get extremely interesting at the funeral when they start taking about God and Heaven, two concepts we have never discussed with him…

And what does this all have to do with Pandora and her notorious Box? One of the main things I have been researching over the last few weeks is what it’s like being a widow. I’ve been browsing blogs, reading about the grieving process, trying to figure out what happens to assets after death, attempting to understand how children of a certain age handle death. See, my protagonist was to be a young widow with a 5-year-old. I was changing the timeline of my story to a year after her husbands death because I realized I was woefully inept in my abilities to grasp such emotions I had never seen or experienced. Now not only am I getting a front row seat for the show, but a supporting role. Too bad that in both acting and life I always utterly sucked at improve. Instead I usually rely on a precise script to follow telling me exactly what to say, where to stand, and how to feel. Not going to work this time. No need for any more passive research.

But enough about me and my inconsequential thoughts.

We lost an amazing man Monday. He only entered our lives seven short years ago, but he somehow managed to share with us a lifetime of love, kindness, gentle guidance, and wisdom. Our world was a much better place with him in it and I am so grateful we had the honor of knowing him. We will miss him.

Colds and Characters

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It has been an absolutely irregular week, and I am whupped. For some bizarre reason, the kiddo only had three days of school this week, and each of those days had a 1 p.m. early release. Nothing like a wired and whiney 6-year-old to put the breaks on any creative progress. But we did have some adventures, including traipsing through a state park to learn about endangered species , fighting the crowds and Mother Nature at a EPCOT, then heading out-of-town to enjoy a special friend’s birthday. Meanwhile, we all have been dealing with a wicked cough that has been causing severe sleep deprivation and monumental cases of the crankies….

On the creative front, I have been agonizing over character details and plot timelines. And realizing that half my premise won’t work. Since part of the story takes place in a foreign country, I have been researching some laws and discovered my main character wouldn’t be allowed to do what the entire book was to revolve around. Crap! Time to restructure and rethink…everything… Notes are getting out of control and I did not have any time last week to get them organized.

I have been wondering if we like characters more when they share our flaws and weaknesses or when they are modeled on who we wish we could be? I suppose part of the equation depends on if we want them to be empathetic or emulated. I have notice in some novels that the authors seem to be following a formula, and their flat, predictable heroines are the result. For example: pretty girl + fabulous job + rocking city life + supportive friends + enviable wardrobe – one or two flaws (spends too much money, has frizzy hair, size 10 instead of 4) = best selling protagonist. Do we want our protagonist to be our best friend? projections of our ideal selves? How damaged should she be in order for us to root for her, want stick with her until the end?

All right, that’s it. My head is clogged, my writing is crap, and I need to quit now and go bury my face in a book. It’s a Sunday afternoon and I can’t ignore the call of the hammock any longer…

All I Need to Know About How to Get Girls I Learned From My 6-year-old Son…

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I am proud to say my son is a Casanova-In-Training. He has had girls chasing him since his first play group at a mere 18-months-old. And he is smart enough to let the right ones catch him, at least for the time being.

Lesson 1: Charm the Mother, and you are home free.
There were always pig-tailed little girls following him around, vying for his attention, then running back to their Mommies in tears when they couldn’t get it. He would bring them a flower he had just picked to make them happy and stop their crying. They would fight over who got to hold his hand. He would explain that they needed to take turns and there was plenty of him to go around. And all the Moms LOVED him. The Little Lover Boy learned that being polite, kind, adorable, and a bit funny charmed even the over-30 set. I have had to promise dates for him ten years in advance.

Lesson 2: Older girls can fall for younger boys.
Cougars in training perhaps? When he was 3, he entered the Early Childhood Education Program at our local high school . So basically he was fawned over and adored by cute teenage girls for several hours each day. Some major neurons were firing in his little brain, and he quickly figured out this was a pretty sweet deal. He had them all wrapped around his tiny little fingers before you could say “Ashton Kutcher is my hero”. Even now we will occasionally bump into one of his “older ladies” and they will gush on about how they will NEVER forget him.

Lesson 3: Chicks dig cool hair.
This was also the year he decided to grow his hair long. I am assuming he could see the “cool” big boys on the campus outside his little playground and figured he could be just like them. The hair set him apart. It gave him a little bit of the bad boy aura. And, well, I guess it kind of made him look like the dude from High School Musical all the girls were swooning over. I’m telling you, this kid is brilliant.

Lesson 5: If a girl has competition, she will fight for you even harder.
At 4 he entered VPK at a tiny school with a class of only seven. I was a bit concerned he would get his ass kicked because he had the dangerous habit of hugging and kissing everyone good-bye each day. No need to worry about my Little Lady Killer though. In less than a week the girls were fighting over who got to hug and kiss him first. They were already flaunting their virtues–one was trying to woo him with her brute strength (she would lift him as she gave him a monster hug and kiss), another was bribing him with treats from her lunch so he would sit next to her, and yet another was sending him home with carefully crafted artwork depicting him as her Prince Charming. That year he was suave yet nonchalant with all of them, giving each at turn at being his favorite for a day, not letting any be excluded from his attentions for too long

Needless to say, my husband is a bit jealous. This kid had snagged more action before the age of 5 than my poor husband did until he met me. I figured that it would all slow down this year in Kindergarten, with public school’s strict policies on touching and appropriate behaviors. I was preparing for the black eye that I was sure to come from some little mean-girl-in-training or jealous bully though.

Not to worry. Instead my 6-year-old son is engaged.

Lesson 6: If you are serious about a girl, prove it by committing?
Her name is Delilah and apparently she is the most beautiful girl in the whole world. First she was just his girlfriend. A few weeks later I was asking how the fair Delilah was doing and my son’s eyes grow wide with adoration as he exclaimed, “I’m going to marry her!” (Pause. Smile. Deep breath.) Really? Have you asked her yet? “Uh, yeah…” Oh…and, what did she say? (Grunt of disbelief) “well YES, of course, ” (rolling eyes). And when, prey tell, do you plan on actually getting married? “Eh, I don’t know. Someday. We haven’t really discussed it.” At that point I gently expounded upon the importance of waiting until AFTER college. So after college it is.

Lesson 7: Let the girl have the freedom to make her own decisions.
Fast forward a month or so. He very carefully climbs into the car after school cradling a blue pottery bowl he made in art class. “I’m going to keep this forever. Some day when I die I’m going to pass it along to my kids…IF Delilah decides to have any.” I do my best not to swallow my gum and hit the stop sign. Liberated and in love. God, I must be doing something right.

Last night we learned they had done the deed. They had kissed. A REAL kiss, on the mouth no less, in the lunchroom. But she didn’t kiss him back, just coyly blew him a kiss across the table when he sat back down. I cannot believe I have not received a phone call from this girl’s father.

Should I just buy him a sports car and a guitar now? I’m more worried I should be buying stock in condoms… We’ve got a LOT of talking to do…

Lit For Chicks With Some Soul

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How pathetic am I that I can’t even remember what books I have read over the last two weeks? I am once again attempting to keep a running list of what I have read for reference, to avoid re-reading (I can’t tell you how many times I have started a book only to realize the characters and the plot were just a little too familiar), and, well, just for fun.

My husband jokes that I don’t read books, I eat them, and I would have to agree. I devour them at a rapid rate, let them digest for a few days, then they are mostly flushed out of my system to make room for more. I blame it all on the speed reading course I took in 7th grade gifted English. While other kids were still sounding out Judy Blume, my class was being timed on how many pages per minute of Lord of the Flies we could read and comprehend. And I learned that when I read quickly, I could read more. So while my husband can list all the characters in the last five novels he has read, I have a difficult time telling you what books I returned to the library yesterday. They were great, I enjoyed them, but now I am moving on.

So that made one of today’s exercises much more mind-boggling than it had any right to be. It should have been so simple to make a list of my favorite Chick Lit books, the memorable reads that not only provided a few blissful hours of escapism, but also touched on some deeper topics, some bursting with joy, some with parts almost too painful to read. All had to be novels I ate in two days or less because I simply could not put them down and used every excuse to put off my daily grind for a few extra hours of indulgence.

To check out the winners at the moment:
Lit for Chicks With A Soul Lit for Chicks With A Soul

On another note, I have noticed that as I am spending so many more hours attached to this dang computer, my dear munchkin is becoming more addicted to Santa’s generous gift of a wii. It is absolutely amazing how quickly a 6-year-old mind can meld with a controller and a screen. Perhaps a Jedi mind trick? I keep wondering why he doesn’t want to spend his free time lost in a book as well. Granted, I realized back when he was in the womb that boys are hard wired differently from girls in just about every way imaginable. It practically takes duct tape to get him to sit still for any period of time, but I still yearn for him to want to snuggle up to me with a book of his own. I have also realized that I need to watch how many hours my ass is attached to this comfy desk chair before it becomes to wide to fit into it. I don’t plan on trading my size 4 jeans I worked so hard to get into for a size 14 anytime soon, so maybe I should stop typing and go do some pilates or something…I can dream, can’t I?

Chick Lit and Chapter One

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Today I actually started Chapter One.

I am basically trying to write what may be classified as a “Chick Lit” novel. Now before you go start directing your puke at the first pink-covered book you see, let me explain. Chick lit is no longer just about shallow shopaholics who care about nothing but their next sample sale. It is simply another name for contemporary literature that appeals mainly to women. The category has branched out into every aspect of women’s lives today, from divorce and death to twin sets and twizzlers. There is now Mom Lit, Hen Lit, Tart Noir, Bride Lit, and who can forget the several popular categories of Paranormal Lit hitting the mainstream. Apparently, even zombies and vampires have relationship issues. In most cases, the protagonists have developed into an empathetic everywoman, with quite a sense of humor, flaws we can all appreciate, and challenges we face everyday. They just may dress better than we could ever dream to. The characters generally don’t take themselves too seriously, and usually the readers don’t either. Yes, it is often light reading, but it’s not all fluff.

I cringed at the first pink cover I saw and thought I would have to have a few beach drinks in me as I lounged poolside before I could dumb myself down enough to deal with that kind of frivolity. I never read romances. I never touched teen lit, unless you include a few Sweet Valley High books when I was 8, (but then again I was 8, I have a valid excuse). In my teens I was running through the lists of classics interspersed with some Steven King gore, historical dramas, and espionage thrillers. Romance, I thought, was for old housewives to read during their soap opera commercial breaks.

But then I became a SAHM. And I had a crazed little imp running around my house, and it seemed that every two seconds I was needed to wipe hands, and clean up accidents, and blow noses, and kiss boo-boos, and force-feed food, and…there was no time left for me. And not much time left for me to read, which was the sure enough way to quickly erode my last straggling bits of sanity. This just happened to coincide with the explosion of Chick Lit onto the bookstore shelves. After having to put down too many “works of serious literature” to count, I finally picked up a pink book and gave it a try out of sheer desperation. And I just happened to love it.

Sometimes you just need a book that you can read for five minutes at time. Actually, if you have kids, sometimes a paragraph is a major accomplishment. The books made me laugh. Occasionally they gave me a much needed excuse to cry (it’s the book Honey, not that I am covered in baby puke, haven’t left the house in two days, and haven’t showered in a week, really…). They made me feel like I was having a temporary escape from my child-focused existence with a good friend who was available whenever I had a second or two. And sometimes a girl just needs that little moment of escapism to make it through the day until the kiddos are in bed and the glass of wine beckons.

And yes, I read MUCH more than just Chick Lit. The genre probably only embodies ten percent of my usual reading repertoire. But it is something I know. It is how I live, I think, I love, and at the moment, what I write. Wish me luck.

Being There: Volcan Arenal , Costa Rica

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My 250 word travel essay.

It was 4 a.m. and it was time to go. I had just woken up and discovered the persistent clouds had finally cleared. The glowing-red cone of the volcano was silhouetted against the inky pre-dawn sky.

Still in our pajamas, we drove over pothole strewn dirt roads to the active side of Arenal, hoping for just a glimpse of the light show I had waited my entire life to see. From the time I was a child I held a near-phobic fascination with volcanoes. Yet here I was, thirty years later, racing with my family to confront my greatest fear…and fantasy.

We parked on a deserted flood plain we had forded during the previous afternoon’s storm and ran to the steel bridge. My 5-year-old son danced with excitement as we caught our first glance of glowing red lava going down the mountain. Rumbles and crashes soon broke the silence as we watched molten boulders the size of cars tumbling down the volcano, breaking into tiny pieces, like fireworks falling into a darkened sea. Again and again they fell, leaving trails of smoke and steam in their wake.

As it grew light, the outlines of the vivid green jungle around us slipped out of the mist. My son and husband collected volcanic rocks along the rushing river bank while the morning sky turned a perfect shade of blue. Just another day in the paradise of La Fortuna, Costa Rica. And it was not even time for breakfast yet.

Layouts and Lockdown

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Today has been just a bit ridiculous. I now have only 35 minutes before I have to pick up the moppet from school and I feel I have accomplished absolutely nothing even though I have been working at the computer all day. I have my dirty breakfast and lunch dishes still sitting here next to me on my desk. The dryer’s annoying end of cycle signal is screaming at me to get up and attend to it. And I’m still in my pajamas. What gives?

First of all, I have been trying to discover a new layout for the blog. I never realized how many friggin layouts there were to choose from. And they are all downloaded differently . And they can massively screw up your layout. I think I have wasted over an hour trying to figure out how to get my dashboard back–unsuccessfully, I must add. Why was I not granted the gift of understanding computers? I consider myself pretty good at layout and design (I was editor of my high school yearbook eons ago) but the thought of html just makes me queasy. I know the look I’m going for, I just don’t know how to achieve it. It would also help it my computer wasn’t elderly and sluggish. Hard to believe something only 5-years-old can be ancient–I suppose in that case I must be a fossil.

Meanwhile, I am supposed to be writing. More ideas keep flooding in at all hours of the day and night. My husband is starting to think I am loosing it when I grab my slip of paper on my nightstand and jot down another detail. He asked last night if I was going to start building monoliths out of mashed potatoes or writing on walls. Thanks for the vote of confidence, Hon. You just compared me to a obsessive UFO hunter and an insane sadist. All I want to do is write a readable, sellable novel. Perhaps I am just as crazy as those two characters, if not more…

…Two hours later and I am finally home. My lovely little suburban paradise is on lockdown. Literally. There are police at all entrances to my neighborhood and major intersections turning cars away. The sound of a chopper circling overhead is NOT music to my ears. Don’t we all escape to suburbia to escape this crap? They better catch this “armed suspect” soon. I currently have no husband, weapons, or wine in my house. Just another day in paradise….

Begin the Beguine

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I always have lofty aspirations for myself this time of year. The ghosts of resolutions past are still whispering their warnings in my ear, yet I routinely ignore them and set ridiculous new goals. Do I ever keep my New Year’s Resolutions? Does anyone? Or am I just trying too hard, searching for the golden apple that will make me feel proud, complete, and validated?

This year I once again vow to write. As I did last year. And the year before. Last year I actually worked on an outline and characters for my novel, yet I chickened out when I couldn’t find my main characters motivation. Perhaps she is suffering from the same lack of confidence and skill as her would-be creator.

I used to be an excellent writer. Now I find myself looking up every last punctuation placement and I can’t remember what imperfect clauses or dangling participles are to save my life. I suppose I am ahead of the masses a little bit since I at least know they are not cartoon characters or reality show stunts.

But today I actually did it–did something at least. I sent in my first essay to be considered for publication in 20 plus years. Granted, it was only a 250 word travel essay, but it is a quantifiable start. And if our local paper selects my work (and I don’t see how they can’t–the crap they sometimes print is embarrassing) I will be a published writer.

I have been writing down ideas for a new novel for a few days now. There are scraps of paper littering my desks, countertops, and nightstands. Hopefully, I will be able to decipher my writing–thank God for keyboards. It is a start. Now to see if I can finish.

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I just realized that I had completely flopped out on my aspirations for starting a blog and encouraging myself to write once again. It has been a year since I checked in…and what a year that has been. Good, bad, very ugly, full of joys and despairs…I suppose just like every one’s life pretty much.

Now I am just feeling the bug to get some of it out. I am in the middle of renovating my 37ish year old ranch home in the suburbs on a shoestring budget, working hard, and proud of some of my accomplishments. I don’t have the money to pay anyone for labor, but I have time. I am still a SAHM, even though my one and only started Kindergarten. Like I could even attempt to find a job now, with the economy in the tanker and 6 years out of the job market. So I have put myself to work. I never imagined I would be doing construction when I was slaving away in college (okay, so I was partying with occasional bouts of studying) but I still was bound to be a white-collar girl. Instead I must get creative, get dirty, and get working. If no one from my previous life could see me as a SAHM in the suburbs, they certainly could never fathom me slinging concrete.

I blame it all on HGTV and DIY Network. They make everything look SO easy. Anyone should be able to build a bookshelf, paint a mural, sew slipcovers, tile a shower. Yeah. No problem. They make you forget you are afraid of saws and don’t own a nail gun. I have discovered that every “easy” project takes at least three times the amount of time you have estimated, a coat of paint is not always the answer, and nothing ever works like the directions say. And I truly believe whoever writes instruction manuals (in six languages no less) has a very warped sense of humor and is completely disassociated from our reality.

I am slowly learning, and making progress. I am not sure if I should star in Design on a Dime or Ten Grand in Your Hand, but I have gotten more accomplished on a $30,000 budget than most people could dream of.

I have seen this on so many people’s blogs, and I know it is nothing new or special, or even anything anyone should care about, but it seems to be a great way to focus at the end of the day on what really counts.

What I’m grateful for today:

1. I have health insurance and am able to take my kiddo for a check-up, and that he is healthy and growing strong.
2. I picked up several new best-sellers at the library. I can engage in my passion and hobby for free–thank you public libraries!
3. Another beautiful day with windows open and no a.c.–no sweating while working and maybe the electric bill will go down.

And now, I hear my glass of vino calling…

how the hell did I end up as a SAHM?

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I am a SAHM of a hyperactive nearly 5 year old moppet, trapped here in a little ranch house in suburbia. I never dreamed I would be here. Ever. Ever, ever. But somehow, here I am…

I was going to be Carrie Bradshaw long before I ever read Sex and the City. I was going to be a fashion magazine editor living the high life in NYC, or maybe an ad exec in Chicago or a photographer in Seattle. I was a pretty damn good actress in high school, the lead in all of the school plays, so I fully planned on being at least nominated for an Oscar at some point as well. (I always HATED Nicole Kidman because from the first moment I saw her in Days of Thunder and I KNEW she was going to steal all of MY roles…)

I always knew I was going to go to college. I dreamed of Columbia or Northwestern, but did not want to be saddled with the student loans so I ended up at the best state school. I wonder every day what would have happened if I had been able to go to the 4 year Master’s in Journalism program at Northwestern. I guarantee I wouldn’t be sitting here.

I was going to be a career woman. It was expected of me. I graduated in the top 5% of my high school class, I was English student of the year, and everyone had such high expectations of me. Yet I spent my morning shop vac’ing my house, cleaning the cat puke up off the porch and fetching the moppet processed fruit snacks. Right now I SHOULD be heading out to local wholesale club for my bargain groceries.

Instead I think I will type here for a while so I don’t explode. Or perhaps implode would be more accurate. Folding up into myself because I don’t really exist for anyone except maybe my DS, my DH, and my parents….

So, while in college I changed my major from journalism (because I discovered I could write—at least at the time—but I could NOT spell to save my life) to advertising. I loved the creative aspect of it. By the time I realized that all of the jobs were in the sales side it was too late and I just wanted to graduate. I had to get away from the college town, the disintegrating long-term relationship with the “bad boy” and start my life.

I still have not found what I want to be when I grow up. I know I don’t want to work in retail again, no matter how high up the food chain. I sure as hell don’t want to work in anything related to the bridal industry again. I do want to help people and make a difference, but not as a hands-tied social worker again. I DO want to make sure I can make my son the most amazing person he wants to be. SO that’s what I have been doing for the last 4 years.

My mom was a homemaker until I went off to college. I hated her for it. I resented the fact that she gave up her life, her ability to be something, to vacuum the floors every day. Her days seemed like they just floated off the ditto machine, one after the other, nothing to distinguish them, nothing to look foreword to, just…nothing…. (God, I LOVED the smell of fresh dittos…) Make breakfast (alternate between pancakes, oatmeal, waffles, cream of wheat, all from scratch of course); get the hubby and kiddo off to work/school; vacuum 1200 square foot house, mop, dust, make sure there is not an item out of place. Make the house perfection. Laundry. Maybe eat lunch (usually too busy to finish). Clean the pool; work on tan; do aerobics. Watch some soaps. Wait for family to come home. Shower. Make dinner (homemade meatloaf, spaghetti, the usual). Clean up. In bed by 7:30. Wake up at 5:30 a.m. And do it all again.

I just could not understand how she wasn’t insane.

Maybe she was.

Yet here I am. Career-less. A bit hopeless. Filled with loneliness. And I HATE to clean.

I have googled some of my best friends from high school. They all look great and seem to have fabulous careers in the big cities. Lawyers, internet gurus, communications consultants, political advisers, radio personalities… I feel as if they would be so disappointed in me if they saw me now. I didn’t escape our childhoods. I’m back in the suburban safe bubble we longed to escape, only in a different city. I think they would be so disappointed in me. I think they would hate me. And sometimes I hate myself for that.

But I have to remind myself what I have that they don’t. I found my “soul mate” (I think) and have been happily married for…8 1/2 years now…wow… I have the most amazing son, who is smart, sensitive, funny, and adorable. I CAN stay at home with him, raise him to be the best man he can be, not ship him off to daycare for someone else to raise. That would have broken my heart. I haven’t had to miss one step, one word, one potty training mishap. Okay, perhaps it would have been nice if I could have dumped him off at a potty training school for a week to have him come home fresh, clean, and diaperless. My floors and washing machine would have thanked me for sure…

What are the chances those fabulous career women would look at my life and want to trade places? Are they longing for a home of their own, a kind husband, 2 cats in the yard, a few moppets running around, and the ability to enjoy it all….?

I just don’t know. So that’s one of the reasons I enjoy my cheap wine at the end of a long day. In a big plastic wine glass. What can I say…we’re on a tight budget, have tile floors, and a bouncing little boy. Need I say more?