From the Ridiculous . . . (Lynn K)

. . . to the Sublime.

Well, sorta Sublime. But let’s start with Ridiculous, because that’s where I‘ve spent the worser part of the last two weeks. To define the location more specifically, let’s just say it should be emblazoned with a sign that reads, Abandon Dignity, All Ye Who Enter Here.

I already wrote about my colonoscopy, and I don’t intend to follow up by describing the follow-up test. Let’s just say the “prep” portion of the festivities was equally repellent, and it will require a Swat team to drag me to another medical test that involves drinking gallons of Vile Gunk and having tubes poked up my backside. Thus far, no negative results that I know of, so I remain optimistic while awaiting the final reports.

Meantime, I am awash in music. Not sure how this is connected to the recent ordeals, but after more than a dozen years not singing a note, not even in the shower, I’m trilling like a songbird on steroids.

The main event this weekend is Handel’s Messiah, for which the Pacific Academy of Ecclesiastical Music (PACEM) and the Tijuana Opera chorus are joining forces. Belatedly. We got together Wednesday night for the first time—the dress rehearsal—and it was like entering another dimension.

For one thing, the charming and no doubt gifted Mexican conductor is handsome and, um, diminutive. Almost none of us could see him. I was ensconced behind a bass player the size of an SUV, trying to catch a glimpse of the conductor’s baton through the small opening at the crook of the bass player’s elbow as he worked the frets.

Also, the tempo was nearly light speed. I like a fast Messiah, but this was beyond anything I’d ever experienced. At least we’ll get home early Saturday night. That’s when we’ll be performing in Tijuana. Tonight, under the baton our own choral director, we sing at St. Paul’s Cathedral here in San Diego, with a party afterwards. It’s much fun, really, and we all know Messiah well enough to go with the flow. I’m hoping a friend will take some pictures.

With most of week clogged up, wouldn’t you know I’d choose last night to join my local parish Loft Choir. It’s small, only a dozen singers at the rehearsal, but they’re good and do some interesting music. So now I’m singing on Sunday mornings as well.

And by Monday or Tuesday, my new guitar strings should arrive. I haven’t touched the guitar since 1984, and I never could play it worth beans. Yes, that's me in the picture, back in the day, singing (probably) "House of the Rising Sun" or "Quiet Land of Erin."

Now I’ll be starting from scratch again, even needing a buddy to restring the guitar and show me some of the basic chords. By July, I intend to be ready to torment my friends at the Romance Writers of America Conference in San Francisco. Lots of them claim to sing, including our own Sister Krissie (and she can). We shall see about the others. Hootenanny time!

Meantime, my neighbors will suffer. I’m a terrible guitar player with a really strong voice. They’ll just luuuuve me. Heh. Thea, across the street, says they won’t even hear me. Not over the beeping from the backing-up trucks at the Construction Project That Never Ends.

Oh, yes, they will. Certainly I’ll be considerate. I know how to live in a community. Nun-Life teaches you that. But when there’s been thumping and quarreling and screaming infants shooting me out of bed at 2am, well, Vengeance Will Be Mine!

And thus I make a U-Turn back to the Ridiculous . . .

Holiday Magick!

Obligatory disclaimer: I couldn't get blogger to upload any pics this time. Sorry. I'll get some extras for next week. Might even have my tree up by then!

I was feeling a bit slow about getting into the holiday spirit, but I think it's starting to creep up on me. I've purchased just a handful of gifts online, and plan to put in some quality time with actual physical shopping this afternoon. I've had the soundtrack from the film ELF in my CD player in the car since Thanksgiving, along with the John Denver and the Muppets Christmas CD. I've woken up to snow several mornings in a row now, and while it's green outside now (thank goodness, and I'll tell you why in a second!) we're supposed to get walloped later in the week. Snow always puts me in the spirit, even if I'm bundled up out in the driveway with a shovel!

But what really makes me feel good is doing something for other people. People less fortunate. And while I give to several charitable organizations, I really enjoy it more when I can do something for someone close to home. So my eyes are open awaiting an opportunity and the kernel of an idea has begun to germinate in my mind.

But I have to go back a bit to get to that. First, yesterday I spent the entire day babysitting for my grandson Sean. His mom got stuck for a sitter, and since she has the sort of job where she has to show up every day (she's a teacher) I stepped up to the plate as designated sitter. (Wow, that was pretty clever, wasn't it?) Sean and I had a great day, but spending it alone with him made me re-think my earlier certainty that I could still have another baby and raise it all by myself. Not gonna happen. I'll need a full time partner or a live in nanny. Or both. Heh heh. Don't get me wrong, he's a GREAT child. Smart as a whip too. But at 20 months old, he's a handful. I was wiped out by day's end. But we had a great time together.

Anyway, all that aside, I'm so glad that I have a job that allows me to be available to the girls when they need me. I'm so glad they turn to me when they need emergency help and that they can feel confident I'll always jump in. I'm so glad for all the baby hugs and kisses I received yesterday. It was all great.

Then I came home, and the house felt chilly, so I cranked up the thermostat, and sat down with the laptop to play catch up. Time passed, and I still felt chilly, so I cranked it up a few more degrees, and went back to work. And after awhile, I realized I still felt chilly, and I paused in my work, to listen, and oddly, didn't hear the furnace running. So I went to the thermostat and actually looked at it this time. The room temperature was 65. The thermostat was set at 72. And I got that sinking feeling. Uh-oh. I was out of fuel.

Now, I'm rapidly speeding toward a deadline, and still a bit behind, and totally distracted from everything else. Last Sunday I realized it had been quite some time since I'd paid any bills, so I took time off from writing and grabbed a big stack of them and started writing checks and punching the buttons on my calculator. Several of them were past due, including the one from the company that delivers my fuel. Uh-oh. I put the checks all into the mail Monday morning, having no idea how dangerously low my fuel tank was. Now here I was, after hours on a Wednesday night with no fuel.

How lucky am I, I thought, that this happened on a night when it didn't get much below 35 degrees all night. The wind was making it feel a lot colder, but temperature-wise, last night was the warmest night we've had in quite a while. And how lucky am I, I thought, that I have a fireplace sitting here in my living room, and laundry that needs to be done too? So I cranked up the washer, and then the dryer, which heated up part of the house, and I started the fire in my fireplace, which warmed up the living room. I slept on the couch, the dogs in front of the fireplace, the cat curled up underneath my covers, and I stayed quite comfortable all night. How lucky am I?

First thing this morning, after bringing in firewood, (there's still some left from the previous owner, stacked conveniently beside the front door--how lucky am I?) and stoking the fire, I phoned the fuel company. They got my check yesterday, and promised to bring more fuel today, and this time I'll pay for it immediately, which gives me a discount anyway, and not have to worry about forgetting to mail a check. And how lucky am I that I can do that? I have money in the bank to pay for fuel.

With the prices the way they are, there must be a lot of people facing a similar situation with a far different outcome. Maybe they don't have the ability to pay the bill right away. Maybe they don't have a fireplace and a ready supply of wood sitting there waiting for them. Maybe they ran out of fuel, and instead of laughing at their own forgetfulness, shaking their head, and dealing with it the next day, as I did, they see it as a major crisis, and maybe for them it really is one.

So I think that's how I'm going to help a local family this year. I think I'm going to pay their outstanding fuel bill, or part of it anyway. I'm not sure how to make it work, unless I just go down to the company, and give them a check and ask them to apply it to the customer they feel needs it the most. (It's a smalltown, local company and they're really sweet and kind and never got nasty at all over my payment being late, so I have no doubt they'll know where the money could be best used.) I don't need to know a name. I don't need them to know mine. I'll feel good to know someone's holidays are a bit brighter. I do okay for myself and giving back keeps the energy flowing. So that's my plan for today. And I'm also planning to go buy some Dunkin' Donut gift cards for my mailman and a couple extras for the UPS and FED-Ex guys, to have on hand to give them the next time they stop by with a delivery. I'm going to buy holiday cards, made on recycled paper, today, and start sending them out. I'm going to set aside a cash gift for my garbage hauler, who's gone above and beyond on a regular basis. And I'm going to buy a toy for the Toys for Tots drive, too.

Yep, the holiday spirit caught up to me. Maybe that flickering fire in the hearth last night had something to do with it. Maybe it's the promise of snow later in the week. Maybe it's just that I'm so incredibly happy right now that I want to spread that feeling around. Maybe it's that I've been giving thanks daily by making a list of things I'm grateful for and burning a candle, and it seems like this is a bigger, even more active way to show my gratitude.

I think I'll get my tree this weekend, too.

Enjoy the spirit of the season, which is the same, really, no matter what you celebrate. Want to know why?
Because the celebration that takes place at this time of year goes back way further than religion. It was the earliest people who realized the sun, on which they depended for their very lives, had a cycle, and that on the Winter Solstice, the sun was at its weakest, that being the shortest day of the year. The very next day, the days begin getting longer again. They created stories to explain this, most of which surrounded the idea of the sun dying and being reborn, a symbol of their belief that life always wins out, and death is only illusion, and a temporary one at that. The shortest day/longest night of the year was a reminder of the promise of the sun's return, of life returning, time after time, no matter what. The promise that no matter how dark it gets, the sun will always come back into your life. Really, this season is a celebration of the certainty of life, in the midst of a time when the world seems to be hibernating.

Okay, I have a holiday question for you so when you comment, you'll have a topic. What's your favorite holiday song?
Mine is Santa, Baby. The Ertha Kitt version. No contest. I sing it all the time. I make up new verses, to suit my needs at the time or just because they sound good. It's on the ELF soundtrack, which is why it's my favorite. So tell me your favorite song, or your made up verses to an existing song, or what you do to give back or how the holiday spirit is manifesting (or not) in your lives. And enjoy the season!

Lots of love,
Maggie

Welcome Jerry!

This is Taylor Marie - taken this morning from her throne. (The back of the couch in the front window.) If you ask her, she'd tell you that she's pissed. Royally. (She's a princess.) Her kingdom has been invaded. No matter that she was lonely. No matter that she likes the company. Princesses, by nature, have to have their moment of disdain and this is hers.


Because...

This is Jerry Lee. Our newly adopted son. He's a five month old cockapoo. (Half cocker spaniel, half poodle.) He's had a rough five months. He didn't ask to be born. And did nothing to bring anger upon himself, but he has suffered. Our little guy cowers when people come near. He crawls on his belly, sensing that danger is imminent. He crawls upstairs. And then cries because he is afraid to come down.

But he loves his older, smaller sister. With her he is all puppy. He prances and plays and follows her. He gobbles his food and wants hers, too. He runs with her toys and chases after her in the yard. He wasn't mistreated by another dog, you see. It was a member of our two legged race who used a defenseless little puppy for anger management.

And...we must whisper this part...Taylor Marie has taken this bigger than her little fellow under her wing. She watches his every move. When he was afraid to come upstairs to the office with us, she stood at the top of the stairs and talked him up. She checks on him when he cries. She plays with him and pounces on him, prances around him and flips her little body around in circles for him. She tells him when he's overstepped his boundaries, teaching him the ways of the world. (Or at least the household.) She's accepting him as part of her family as though he's always been there. Recognizing without question that he has as much right to the position as I do. Or her daddy does.

We've had Jerry four days. And already he's taught me so much. In four days time this little guy has opened his heart and his life to the possibility of good to come his way. In spite of what life has been for him, he trusts us to make it better. He's here with me now, laying at my feet. He's at my feet, or my side, or in my lap every single minute of the day. When I'm working he quietly lays his head on my knee and looks up at me. When we call him, he drops to his belly and crawls - but he comes to us with a wagging tail. Jerry hasn't seen a lot of good in his young life. But he has hope. He wants to believe that he is deserving of love.

Or, at least, that's how I see it. Bad things happen sometimes. To all of us. But that doesn't mean we're bad. We only have to have hope, to be willing to be open and to try to trust, to believe that we're deserving of love. It wasn't Jerry's abuse that gained him a solid place in a loving family. It was his willingness to be loved in spite of the abuse. It was his hopeful spirit.

Jerry isn't a victim. He's a believer, who, in spite of the bad, seeks out the good.

Jerry isn't the only one who has taught me this lesson. A couple of weeks ago I was honored to share space with three other dogs who were born to abuse, but who were open to being loved.

This is Katy, Allie and Ting Ting Potter. They're already famous here as their mother has told you how they complete her life. They touch mine, too. Katy is the one on the left. She's still a bit timid, but not nearly as much as she was a year ago. Allie, her sister, is bold and bright and full of her right to be adored. And Ting Ting (on the right) deigned to spend long enough with the Wild Indians to get her picture taken. Ting is a trooper. In spite of less than fair early beginnings, she is secure with her place in the world, at peace with her right to be loved and cared for, and gives love back tenfold. She makes almost daily rounds at the nursing home, stopping as she proudly struts her little, almost blind self, up to wheel chairs, to give a bit of love to whomever is sitting there. She allows any hand to touch her, to absorb her energy. No matter that it's waning. There will always be more.

Dogs might be just pets to some. They might be considered a lesser race by others. To me, dogs are angels, sent directly from heaven, to help us lowly humans along our journeys through this life. Dogs aren't picky about financial status, or race or creed. They don't care about physical beauty or college degrees. They care about people. About loving and being loved. (And they like to eat.)

So...as we enter this Christmas season, I am hopeful. Bad happens, sadness exists, and love is always available if we are open to its arrival. Just ask Jerry.

OOPS!

Guess who forgot it was her day to blog? My apologies, but as excuses go, but I have the perfect one. I finished my book! The never ending novel has an ending!!!!! It’s done. THE BOOK IS DONE!!!!!

It has a title too—THE PRIVATE CONCIERGE—and I was up well into the night, putting the final touches on the manuscript and trying to figure out how to use the insert function on my new Word 2007 Business Edition software so that I could merge all the chapters and email the manuscript in one big file. Maybe I should be blogging about a Word program so impossibly complicated that merely doing a header takes nearly a dozen different steps! Sheesh.

Small wonder I never figured out the insert function. But thank goodness for cut and paste. It was laborious and the entire process of putting everything together and fixing formatting problems, which insert does automatically, was a challenge to say the least, but the manuscript gods were with me and my chapters are now one big happy family, all tucked into bed together.

Some of you are probably asking yourselves why I didn’t write the manuscript in one big file to begin with? I’m asking myself the same thing, lol. Obviously no inserting or cutting and pasting would have been necessary, and I did consider going that route. But I chickened out. To be honest I consider it with every book—and chicken out. The thought of losing everything in one swell foop is just too horrible to contemplate. I’m getting a nervous rash thinking about it. And in this case, it would have been just over five-hundred pages. G-g-g-g-g-one.

No thank you! I do the book in batches, several chapters to a file, and then glue them all together when I’m ready to submit the ms. It’s a very simple process that takes mere moments with Word 2003, which I’ve been using up until this book. And would happily use again if I could only find the silly program. Somehow we’ve misplaced it, and since the new laptop came with 2007, I foolishly went were the tech-impaired fear to tred. Did I mention that Word 2007 Business Edition is unbeleeeeeevably complicated???

Sorry to go on at such length about all the technical details of manuscript submissions. I know it has be a snoozer to anyone who doesn’t have to do this sort of thing for a living. But I hope you’ll indulge me this one time because it’s very exciting to me. Why?

Because the book is done!!!!!!!!

Suz, who’s off to DQ today to celebrate

The Grinch

So I'm not feeling Christmas-y at all. Which isn't such a big deal -- it's only a few days after Thanksgiving, but the thing is, I've always been such a Christmas-y soul. Christmas plates, glasses, mugs. Christmas towels and sheets (for every bed in the house), pillow and rugs. Shower curtains and duvet covers and tableclothes. Trees by the gazillion. Fifty-three thousand Christmas CDs, and more Christmas clothes than there are days in the season.
And this year I'm not feeling it.
I suppose part of it is that I'm depressed. Trying new meds, which seem to be helping, but not enough to give me that rosy red and green glow. I'm also not entirely back from my surgery last spring, and my body hurts and my mind worries. I don't want to put Christmas in Connecticut and Scrooged and White Christmas on the dvd player. I don't want to listen to the McGarrigle Family Christmas CD. All I'm interested in is Linda Eder singing "Where are you Christmas?"
Sigh.
It's early days yet. Maybe I'll cheer up. Or maybe I'll stay like this:

I think I'll start slow, not try to cram it down my throat. Maybe a little George Winston or other Windham Hill Christmas cds. Do just a wee bit of online shopping (though nobody really needs anything and I'm in such credit card debt that I don't want to make it any worse.

Does anybody have any ideas on how to get the holiday season into my gloomy soul? What are your tips for making merry. How do you enjoy the season without being crushed by the stress?

All suggestions gloomily accepted.
Bah humbug.

Sunday Cat Blogging (Lymond de Sevigny)

King of All I Survey.
This is my "Feed Me" stare. But the Can-Opener has got her nose buried in a book. Where are your priorities?!

Deep Thought:
I am, therefore I am.

Leftover turkey for lunch. Again.
Tryptophan.
Naptime.

A Thanks To Dogs (Patricia Potter)

Saturday – blog day – crept up on me this week.

There’s something about holiday weeks that throw off established schedules, and so I woke up, realized I was delinquent and frantically searched my mind for a topic. Then one of my dogs jumped on my chest, licked my face and I knew immediately what to address this day.

I've read the other blogs this week about Thanksgiving and all we have to be grateful for. I too have much to be thankful for. Warm house. Career. Family. Friends. More food than I should have.

And I’m truly thankful for the animals that share my life now and have so enriched it in the past.

I’ve always loved animals. Anything with four legs and a tail, but, truth be told, I also admire geese, chickens, parrots and, well, you get the idea.

Nearly every book I’ve written includes a critter of some description. Mostly dogs, but then there has been ferrets, a rascally monkey, a mouse named Abner, several cats, a pig, a chicken named Herietta and most recently an African Grey Parrot (Catch A Shadpw – March release).

But mostly my heroines/heroes have dogs. I can’t imagine, or believe in, a heroine and hero who does not dote on animals.

Dogs are epidemic in my family, at least the current generation. We gathered at Thanksgiving and discovered that among six family units,we have seventeen dogs. There’s not a family without one, and one – my niece and her husband – have five (all rescues). Another niece has three. I have three. Two nephews have two each.

So holidays sometimes bring confusion since occasionally a family canine cannot remain home for one reason or another. I hosted one such visitor Thanksgiving night,, a disaster since she decided she did NOT like one of my Aussies, so she was passed on to another family the next day.

Well, there are always a few tensions among family members . . .

My elderly Shih Tzu frequently attends family occasions, but then she’s the perfect guest. She walks in, ignores all the other canines, stakes out a spot and sleeps the entire time until it’s time to go. She's always welcomed because of her somnolent ways. But despite the fact she’s nearly unconscious during the visit, she loves to go. The mere thought of getting in the car makes her giddy with delight.

The other two – the Aussie sisters – are not quite ready for prime time visits. They are much too enthusiastic upon seeing new people. They want to love everyone to death which is fine, except some people – even dog people – draw the line at being licked on the face. Repeatedly.

As I write now, the three are all within reach. Three dog beds occupied by three sprawled out bodies. They’re ready to spring to life the moment I stand. They’ll follow me down stairs when I finish, happy just to be at my side. And they fill my heart with their uncomplicated and unquestioning love. I love them dearly.

Ting Ting, the Shih Tzu, and Katy and Allie, the Australian Shepherds – follow a long line of the best dogs ever. In fact, I’ve never had a dog that wasn’t the best dog ever. They are each so very special in their own way. They have their own way of worming themselves into a heart and life.

All three are rescue dogs. So are most of the other fourteen in the family. Most of the dogs I’ve owned – and who have owned me –have been rescues. And so this Thanksgiving, I give thanks for them, and to all the people who devote much of their lives to rescuing unwanted dogs and making them into the wonderful companions and friends that share – and enrich – our lives.

Overstuffed and Outa Time (LynnK)

Burp.

I'm just home after a six hours of good company, non-stop conversation, and a fabulous Thanksgiving Dinner. The picture is of our host, John, who probably isn't holding a gun under that napkin. Across the table is Richard, who can best be described as unique. My efforts to capture the splendor of Mohammed and our hostess, Thea, were unsatisfactory. But as you can see to the right of the not-probable gun, John's home-made pumpkin pie and apple torte were superb.

So was the entire evening. Sometimes, getting together for a holiday with family isn't possible. For some, it isn't exactly desirable. After all, we can't choose our families, and not all of us luck out in that regard. Some of us, like me, have no close family within reach.

But we can choose our friends, and I got to share a treat of an evening with two fairly new ones (John and Thea, who live across the street) and two who are utterly new. I like them all enormously, and there wasn't a boring moment in our vicinity.

Well, from my perspective. I yammered a lot, and for all I know, they were all itching to shut me up. Hmm. Maybe that was why John's hand, the one nearest my mouth, was making nice with the napkin.

I'd tell you more about the evening, what I can remember after the excellent wine, but in four hours . . . the stores open for Black Friday!

It was not my intention to stalk the Wild Bargain. Never crossed my mind. Crazed shoppers in crowded malls? Not for me. Long lines waiting to pay for StuffIDon'tNeed? Na Gonna Happen.

Then the newspaper, fat with brochures and advertisements, thumped against my door. My nose lifted, sniffing a Sale. My fingers reached out, nails extending toward my wallet and credit cards. The Goddess of Hunter-Gatherers lit a fire inside me.

"Go forth, brave pilgrim, and seek out the pre-lit artificial Christmas tree for twenty bucks." Hey. I haven't had a tree for nearly twenty years. Must be a Sign from Heaven. Time to use those ornaments you've collected from all over the world and never displayed.

And I need those 5:00 a.m. Doorbuster specials. Already I forget what they are, but I remember wanting them. I even made a list of which stores to hit, what time they open, and what they have that I crave. Now I can't find it, but Walgreen's featured prominently. Who shops for Christmas gifts at Walgreen's? Me? Am I that tacky?

But Macy's was on the list as well, for good stuff, and mostly I intend to stock up on staples while the getting is good.

Assuming I plunge into the nutsiness at all. My late-night intentions (especially after infusions of wine) do not always match up with what I do when the alarm clock goes off. In this case, that will be three hours from now, at which time the Goddess of Hunter-Gatherers will do battle with the Lynn of Roll-Over-and-Go-Back-to-Sleep.

Right now my wine-woozy money is on Lazy Lynn. She'll win if I actually go to bed. But Greedy Lynn is thinking about napping in the recliner and working off some of tonight's feast with a morning of Power Shopping.

At this point, the dice are still spinning. I'll report back in Comments to let you know what did (or did not) happen.

Meantime, did you brave the malls on Black Friday? Or do you stealth-shop away from the crowds? Any tips on how to find the best gifts at prices that don't break the bank?

Freedom From Want

Happy Thanksgiving!

My mom loved Norman Rockwell's art. I always miss her a bit more at holiday time, so I was thinking of her this morning as I was pondering my post, and I decided Rockwell's "Freedom from Want" would make the perfect illustration for today. He had a way of capturing the idealized American dream that no one else has managed to equal.

But being me, the title of the piece made me ask questions. That's what writers do. We question everything, and that, as much as anything, is where our stories come from. So I was asking myself if "freedom from want" is really a possibility. I honestly don't think it is. If we stop wanting, we stop living, really. We stop reaching for new goals, we stop dreaming new dreams, we stop hoping for better and better things. And it's just not human nature to do that. Freedom from hardship is possible. Freedom from dire lack. Freedom from pain and neediness. Those are all possible. But no matter how wonderful things are for us, we'll always want. Wanting is desire, and that's a good thing!

I think the key to being content and happy is in focusing more on what we have than on what we don't. Gratitude is powerful. And the equally important second half of that key is in focusing on the things we want with a sense of excited anticipation rather than a sense of lack.

Thoughts like, "I don't have enough money" can be replaced with thoughts of gratitude (I have more money than I used to have, I have more than a lot of people in the world, I'm so glad I have what I do) and thoughts of anticipation (I have limitless potential to earn more, boy it's going to feel good when it gets here, I don't have any doubts that it will.)

It's a subtle mind shift, but a vital one. Focusing on lack creates more lack. Focusing on abundance creates more abundance. Removing thoughts that make you feel bad and replacing them with thoughts that feel good, removes the resistance and allows that abundance to flow.

The thing about gratitude is that in that moment when you're mentally listing all the things for which you are grateful, you aren't doubting, or worrying, or feeling lack. You can't. Your mind is too full and too busy. And resistance falls away.
So gratitude is really the best possible attitude. (That rhymes!)

So begin your thanksgiving day thinking about all you have, and do it with an honest and deeply felt attitude of thankfulness. And throughout the day, say thank you to all those people and places and things that you appreciate. Try to keep it going as you go about your day.

And everytime you start to feel negatively about something, try to shift it into a positive feeling thought instead. It's easier than you think, and it gets easier with practice.

"I'm so bummed that I have to work on Thanksgiving," can be twisted and reshaped into, "Thank goodness I have a job." Think about the good things about that job, the people you meet, the skills you are developing, the paycheck that it provides. Look forward excitedly to the portion of the day you will get to spend with your family, rather than resenting the portion that you don't.

"I've got more to do today than I can possibly get done, and no one's helping me!" Can easily be shifted to, "Look at all this abundance, all this food I'm working to prepare. I'm so glad to be the one who gets to host the meal this year. I'm going to be so pleased when I put this beautiful food on the table and my guests' eyes light up. I'm going to feel so proud of myself for pulling this off."

"I wish my family wasn't so irritating. I wish it were more like those people in that Rockwell painting." This one's easy. "I don't require other people to act in a way that makes me feel good. I am in charge of how I feel, and I'm going to have a wonderful day. I'm glad I'll get to see my relatives, and just as glad they'll be going home after the holiday, and I intend to have fun and enjoy myself no matter how everyone else acts. I'm in control of me. They aren't. And I'm thrilled that they're alive and well and able to share this day with me. Even the irritating ones."

Remember to try to relax and enjoy all you do today. Remember that the screw ups that make you crazy today will be the memories you're laughing about tomorrow and talking about in years to come. Remember that it's only food and everyone is going to be so enamored of the dishes you put on the table that they won't notice anything that might be missing. Relax. Take a breath. Take your time. Relish the little moments that come and go throughout the day, the ones that make you smile. Smile more. Laugh more. Expect joy and let it in. Don't stress. You can't get it right and you never get it done, and you can't get it right because it's never done. So do what you can, and let the rest fall into place as it will. Relax.

It's only food.

And every time you start to feel that tense feeling, where you want to throw the turkey across the room, pause for just a moment and look around, and smile and be glad for all you have. Whisper a word of thanks, and breathe, and then move on.

And tomorrow, try to carry that attitude with you. It'll serve you well every day of the year.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Maggie

Pies and Such

I remember the first time I was cooking for Thanksgiving. I was in my own rented condo, my daughter was a baby, and I was having people over. I decided to make an apple pie. I'd baked a lot as a kid - dessert was usually my job, along with the salad, for dinner each night - but I'd done mostly puddings and cakes. And cookies. Never a pie. Of any kind.

But how hard can it be? I'm a smart woman. I can read. I had a couple of great recipe books. The thing only took a few ingredients. There were a few lines of instructions. I could knock this thing out in no time.

And I did. That apple pie was the first thing prepared. It took about five minutes and it was in the oven. What was the big deal? Why hadn't I made pies before?

It had to bake a while. And for the last ten minutes, the top had to be covered. (I was making french apple pie with the cinnamon crunch on top.) The house smelled heavenly. Perfect. I couldn't wait to serve up my culinary treat.

But wait I did. Not even a finger dip until the next day when, dinner over, I picked up knife and server and plates and vanilla ice cream and, with a nervous smile on my face, proceeded to gift my guests with my surprise. Trepidation had built up overnight. What if it wasn't good? What would I offer for dessert? And yet, I was excited for my first bite and anyone who knows me knows that food is not something I get excited about. (Unless it's homemade sugar cookies at Christmas, but that's another story.)

The pie was a little bit tough to cut. No worry, though. I'd put in extra apples. That was, and is, my way when it comes to following directions in the kitchen. I take their suggestions, but the dishes are mine and I know that some things just taste better with a little change here and there. Definitely, I knew, more apples would add to this pie.

And it did. Boy did it. Oh my gosh did those extra apples add to that pie.

It held up well. My first worry was over. I served up tall and firm pieces of pie - no slumping over, watery masses on those plates! If I'd had a camera I would probably have taken pictures. Could maybe even have submitted them to some cooking magazine. Pure apple pie beauty.

I served myself last. And sat, fork in hand, waiting for everyone around the table to take their first bites. And to give me their opinions. I could have tasted my own pie, but it wasn't my opinion that really mattered. I needed to know I'd pleased my guests.

Everyone bit. And chewed. And chewed. And swallowed. They took another bite. And chewed. Talk went on. About this and that and things I can't remember. What I remember is that no one said a word about that pie. Deflated, thinking no one cared, I took a bite myself, still determined to take joy and pleasure from my first attempt at pie baking.

I bit. But I couldn't chew. Just couldn't make myself do it. Whatever was in my mouth did not in any way resemble the pie on my plate. Or the one in my dreams. There was something rancid in it. It wasn't the apples. I could taste them. They were there. They were good. But something was getting in the way of them.

I tried to be polite, but I was the hostess, it was my pie, and I couldn't find it in myself to be polite to me and make myself get that thing down. I spit it out. (Delicately, I promise.) And looked around the table at those sweet people trying to get that entire piece of pie down their throats.

I told them to stop. That something was wrong. I was truly perplexed. What could it be? I wondered aloud. I reiterated, step by step what I'd done to make my pie. I got out the cookbook. Read the instructions again.

I was supposed to slice apples, mix them with cinnamon and some other things and put them in a pie shell and top them with the crunch topping and bake it. I did all of that. Exactly like that. Could cinnamon go bad, I wondered? Also out loud. Could is form this stringy, unchewable substance that was throughout every single piece of pie on the table?

And then, one kind woman asked softly, Tara did you peel the apples before you sliced them?

Peel them? I asked. It didn't say to peel them. Look. I showed her my cookbook. No, it doesn't say to peel them, she agreed. But...

She was too kind to finish that sentence. Anyone in their right mind, without blond hair, would have KNOWN that you peel apples before you put them in pie.

We had ice cream for dessert. Everyone was full. And not just with food. We laughed and commiserated. Others told stories of their own first attempts at things. We grew closer over that ruined pie than we would have over ten perfect ones.

And isn't that what life is all about? We make mistakes and learn from them and are forgiven for them and gain not only knowledge but a closer understanding with those around us. We have to sit up to the fire to feel the warmth. We have experience it to truly know. We're imperfect because that makes life perfect.

I'm thankful for that.

And for those who are wondering, I went on to become THE Thanksgiving pie maker. Wherever I am for Thanksgiving, I bring the pies. I make four every year - a pecan, two pumpkin, and yes, an apple. And every single bite is eaten. Every year. The apples aren't baking yet, but they will be within hours. The house will smell heavenly. And tomorrow, everyone at my table will be glad that the trash is filled with peels.

A Square Inch of Silence (Suzanne Forster)

Silence isn’t something I usually spend a lot of time thinking about, but it’s been on my mind all week, ever since I read an article about what a small band of adventurers claim is the quietest place in the continental United States. Actually it wasn’t the business about silence that first caught my eye when I saw the article. It was the photograph of Hurricane Ridge, nearly hidden in a canopy of mist, just the tips of the tallest evergreens jutting through a ghostly blanket of white.

The eerily beautiful scene resembles something out of our primordial past, evoking images of the dawn of time, and it seems the perfect setting for this most quiet of places. It’s also a part of my past. Hurricane Ridge is part of the serene Olympic National Forest in the state of Washington, which is where I was born and raised, married and gave birth, and eventually left for warmer climes. But I did spend twenty-three years there and I took many trips to the rain forest in that time. However, I didn’t know about the silence.

No one told me about the square inch of silence in the vast Olympic National Park because no one knew it existed until Gordon Hempton, an Emmy-winning natural-sounds recording artist, discovered it in 2005. According to the article, Hempton felt bombarded by the noisiness of our world after recovering from a temporary bout of deafness, and he declared it his mission to find a “sanctuary of quiet.” He chose the Hoh Rain Forest, a primeval setting, if ever there was one.

I didn’t know electricity made noise. But apparently when people are asked to hum it’s almost always in the key of B-natural. That’s the same sound that electrical currents make as they blast through the wires and circuits of our lives. I also didn’t know that today’s car stereos can easily out-amplify the speakers the Beatles used in Shea Stadium. Today, we are surrounded by roaring electricity, blaring sound systems, screeching phones, babbling headsets, rumbling engines, and noise noise noise.

Is one square inch of perfect silence sounding better to you? That was Hempton’s thought, too. In his quest for quiet, he theorized that if noise could expand to fill all the nooks and crannies of our lives, then maybe silence could as well. He called it the One Square Inch Project and he’s quoted as saying: “One Square Inch is just that, an inch I’m defending from noise.”

According to Edward Readicker-Henderson, author of the article, the point was this: “Protect just one inch from sound and the quiet should radiate even more powerfully than noise does.”

Already, I love this idea. A man recovering from deafness and three of his friends, who call themselves “sound pilgrims” set out to scour the Olympic National Forest in my home state for a square inch of real estate that has only radiating silence to recommend it. A worthy mission, to my way of thinking, and I was wishing them well as I read about their quest, but as it turned out, not an easy mission, and sadly they never quite found their perfect sanctuary.

What they did find was Mount Tom Creek Meadow, a tiny valley where their noise meters began to register the lowest levels of their trek. As Readicker-Henderson puts it, the ringing in his ears was the loudest thing that could be heard. Deep in this valley, hidden in an old elk trail, they staked out their square inch, and for the space of minutes, they heard nothing but the most intimate sounds of nature and their own breathing. This was it, a noiseless Nirvana. They believed they’d found it until the buzz of an engine and the shadow of wings turned out to be a small plane flying north.

Of course, they were crushed, and so was I. I hope the sound pilgrims continue their quest, mapping the globe and all its quiet places, but meanwhile, they’ve sparked my imagination and my hunger for some deep, soothing silence, even if it’s only for a matter of moments. They say when it’s that quiet all you can hear are the workings of your own mind—and being forced into such intimate conversations is how you truly come to know yourself.

You can bet my next visit home will include at least one trip to the Hoh Rain Forest, and I promise to report back on whether or not I find the Inch. I already know it’s going to be a lovely, renewing experience, regardless, and what I’m really hoping to find is that space of silence inside where I can retreat and regroup no matter where I am in the world. But wouldn’t it be cool if they’re right about silence being more powerful than noise?

Quiet blessings,

Suz

Orgasmatron

So you all know that television is my life, right? Apart from books, that is. Television fed my fantasies and got me through a rough childhood (I used to sneak downstairs after my parents went to bed and watch old Errol Flynn movies on the Late Show). And, horror of horrors, our big 32" Sony died after fifteen years of faithful service.
It was a monster, that tv, generally referred to as Bubba, the Chinese TV (we paid for it with royalties from a sale of rights to China). It weighed about two hundred pounds (so much that two grown men could barely lift it), it was about three feet deep, and it was lovely, but all good things must come to an end (including arc-ing at the electricians).
But it was late May, and we only had enough money for either a lawn tractor or a new tv, and my husband never gets any toys (he's a saint). So I nobly said we could wait for the next advance check, due in the fall (I'm a saint and a liar).
We've made do with a grainy, 25 inch tv that's been sheer misery, awaiting the time I could get my lovely flat screen HDTV.
That day was yesterday. And I, er, did get carried away. My friends Sally and Jenny have 42 inch flat screens, and they just looked a wee bit small. So we bought a 50 inch, brought it home, and I set it up. All the good stuff, fixing the stereo system, hooking up the dvd and the vcr and the speakers. And everything works! (Let's hear a round of applause for Sister Krissie the Electronics Queen).
But oh my god is it obscenely huge! I should feel ashamed, embarrassed. Instead, after months of depression, I'm giggling.
(And no, I'm not bipolar. If I were bipolar I would have bought the television and a million other things this summer). Delayed gratification is actually quite nice. After I finish cleaning the living room and making it cozy I intend to have a visual feast of Howl's Moving Castle, Phantom of the Opera, Final Fantasy: Advent Children, The Last Samurai, and god knows what else.
Oh, joy, oh rapture. Who would have thought an obscenely large television could bring happiness?
So here's the question for the day. What movies should I watch to get the full glory of my magnificent orgasmatron? What would make my senses soar as the sound pounds through the speakers and the visuals fill my soul?

Thanksgiving

The Season of Holiday Madness is upon us. But for these few days, just before the travel, cleaning, family, shopping, and cooking, we pause to consider our blessings and be thankful.



Well, maybe not this guy.











If the universe has lavished you with good things, your list will be long.









But sometimes, when life seems bleak, we turn instead to our dreams. We open a window to the future and make plans. We are thankful for the gift of hope.



What's on your list this year? Share it with us. And if you have anyone you want to thank, do it here in cyberspace, where gratitude is forever!

"Rotten Reviews" (Patricia Potter)

I just received the page proofs of my March book, “Catch A Shadow." It’s my last chance to fix things. I always agonize over every word, worrying that I picked a less effective one than I wanted, that I repeated too much information, that a little more tweaking is not only needed but essential.

The publisher disapproves of that last minute tinkering, but I fear I’m a chronic offender.

I wince when I see something really . . . ah, wretched, because I know the page proofs are also on the way to reviewers and buyers. The book, I worry, is terrible. It’s that way with every book, and it takes five years before I pick it up again and decide, hey, this isn’t really so bad.

But for this moment in time, I worry about what the reviewers will say, and I reach for one of my most read volumes, “Rotten Reviews.” It always comforts me.

It’s a compilation of truly rotten reviews of classic books. I thought, for this blog, I would share a few of them with you.

My all time favorite is a comment on “Wuthering Heights” by Emily Bronte. Said James Lorimer of The North British Review, “Here all the faults of ‘Jane Eyre’ (by Charlotte Bronte) are magnified a thousand fold, and the only consolation which we have in reflecting upon it is that it will never be generally read.”

And about Jane Austen, Ralph Waldo Emerson had this to say, “I am at a loss to understand why people hold Miss Austen’s novels at so high a rate, which seem to me vulgar in tone, sterile in artistic invention, imprisoned in the wretched conventions of English society, without genius, wit, or knowledge of the world.”

But then Mr. Emerson had detractors himself. Thomas Carlyle called him a “hoary-headed and toothless baboon.” And Edgar Allen Poe had this to say about Mr. Emerson: “Belongs to a class of gentlemen with whom we have no patience whatever – the mystics for mysticism’s sake. . . the best answer to his twaddle is ‘cui bono’ . . .”

One editor with The San Francisco Examiner wrote this note to Rudyard Kipling, “I’m sorry, Mr. Kipling, but you just don’t know how to use the English language.”

“Moby Dick” drew this criticism from a magazine, “. . .an ill-compounded mixture of romance and matter of fact . . . Mr. Melville has to thank himself only if his errors and his heroics are flung aside by the general reader as so much trash belonging to the worst school of Bedlam literature - since he seems not so much unable to learn as disdainful of learning he craft of an artist.”

About “Common Sense” by Thomas Paine, “Shallow, violent and scuriless.”

Shakespeare was the recipient of some of the worst reviews. “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” inspired this comment: “The most insipid, ridiculous play that I ever saw in my life.” And, “Romeo and Juliet,” “. . . it is a play of itself the worst that ever I heard in my life, and the worst acted that ever I saw these people do.” Both comments were made by Samuel Pepys in 1662.

He was not alone in his opinions: George Bernard Shaw in The Saturday Review had this to say about Shakepeare’s “Julius Caesar”: “There is not a single sentence uttered by Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar that is, I will not say worthy of him, but worthy of an average Tammany boss.” He was equally as critical of “Hamlet.” This, Shaw complained, “is a vulgar and barbarous drama, which would not be tolerated by the vilest populace of France, or Italy . . . one would imagine this piece to be the work of a drunken savage.”

The Christian Science Monitor gave this review of “From Here To Eternity”: “Certainly America has something better to offer the world, along with its arms and its armies, than such a confession of spiritual vacuum as this.”

There are also predictions of short-lived fame.

According to The Atlantic Monthly, “An eccentric, dreamy, half-educated recluse (Emily Dickinson) in an out-of- the way New England village – or anywhere else – cannot with impunity set at defiance the laws of gravitation and grammar. . . Oblivion lingers in the immediate neighborhood.”

And poor Charles Dickens was skewered. Says the Saturday Review, “We do not believe in the permanence of his reputation . . . fifty years hence, most of his allusions will be harder to understand than the allusions in 'The Dunciad', and our children will wonder what their ancestors could have meant by putting Mr. Dickens at the head of novelists of his day.”

One of the most excruciatingly brutal reviews was written by Mark Twain. The book was “The Deerslayer” by James Fenimore Cooper. “In one place in Deerslayer, and in the restricted space of two thirds of a page,” Mr. Twain wrote, “Cooper has scored 114 offences against literary art out of a possible 115. It breaks a record.”

There’s more. Much more. But you get the idea. Whenever review time comes, I read this handy little book and no longer worry a bad review will doom my career.

In fact, the opposite just might be true.

The Backside of Life (LynnK)

It’s been a strange few days. First they starved me. Then they fed me foul-tasting cleaning fluid. Next came a long wait, a common tactic to make the victim’s fear and stress level go off the charts. It didn’t help that I could hear, from an adjacent room, the moans of a man in pain. By the time they took me to the Room of Invasion, I was begging for drugs.

As you can probably tell, they gave me some. Not nearly enough for the procedure itself, though. I was clear-minded and starkly aware of what was being done to me. It hurt. I would have confessed to anything. But they weren’t asking.

Later, I bought tomatoes, limes, a loaf of bread, and a banana. See, I told you I was clear-minded. Later still, I drove (strictly forbidden, I think) to evening choral rehearsal and thought I sounded pretty good. Delusional, I suspect. But otherwise I felt just fine, except for the memories, and had no difficulty making the short trip to and from Handel’s Messiah.

It’s today that the drugs have set in. I am foggy-brained and useless. Now I’d cheerfully lie back, ignore what was happening, and think of England. Not like then, when I was alert and resistant. Too little, Doc, and too late.

What it was, was a colonoscopy. My HMO is big on preventative care, which is a good thing. Well, so long as they don’t mess with me. I’m happier skipping through Denial-Land, where nothing will go wrong with this finely-tuned instrument of a body. Har.

Two patient and generous friends drove me to the Torture Chamber itself. And because this sort of thing never goes right with me, the doctor was delayed and they had to wait for a very, very long time. That’s while I was stretched out on a gurney with an IV plugged into my arm, wincing at the cries from next door. Torture and guilt are a potent combination. I’d have spilled my guts to anyone.

But the Vile Gunk That Must Be Drunk had already washed them clean.

Here’s how it works. The day before the Event, one prepares oneself with a clear-liquid diet. For me that meant tea, chicken broth, apple juice, and club soda. I began fantasizing about the loaf of crusty multigrain bread I’d wolf down when the ordeal was done.

Inside the refrigerator, a gallon of pee-colored colon cleanser was chilling. A kindly soul had advised me to add Crystal Light Lemonade powder, and while it failed to enhance the Gunk’s appearance, the flavoring and some ice and a straw made a difference. All the long day, I dreaded the arrival of 6 pm. That’s when I was supposed to down eight ounces of repellant goo every ten minutes. Aiyee!

I did manage to force-drink nearly all of it within the allotted three hours, although I spent much of that time wearing a groove in the floor running back and forth to the loo. After considering the cat’s reaction to my peregrinations, I will spare you any further details.

I, for one, forgot them all when the doctor strode up to my gurney the next day. He was handsome (in the mode of Richard Dean Anderson on Stargate SG-1), professional, and candid. Not nearly so gorgeous as my darling OB/GYN, Dr. K, who could be Doctor July on a Hunks of Medicine Calendar, but I’m not complaining. The Patron Saint of Romance Novelists continues to bless me with attractive, attention-diverting physicians.

Ultimately, the colonoscopy was a waste of time. Turns out that my surgery of a few years ago pretty much rendered my colon inaccessible to a scope. Even a pediatric scope, it seems. I feel mildly insulted. And as I write this, it occurs to me the operation that saved my life might now be preventing the timely discovery of another form of cancer. Ironic, huh?

But I don’t expect that’s the case. Except for the Incident of nearly eight years ago, I’ve been healthy all my life. And I was prescribed another kind of back-door test that might help find trouble, if there is any. So today, in full brave-girl mode, I called to make the appointment. Only to hear, in essence, this recorded message: “Wait three days until the paperwork reaches us.”

What’s the matter with these people? Don’t they know that given a chance to put off an unpleasantness, I’ll put it off forever and ever. Hallelujah.

Or, not. I’m lucky enough to have health insurance with a provider that doesn’t stint on preventative services. To waste that privilege (not to mention what I’m paying for it!) would be a crime. I also know the miserable results (late-stage ovarian cancer) of a delayed diagnosis. That I survived and continue to thrive is something of a miracle.

And truly, the colonoscopy wasn’t all that bad. Several friends who recently had the procedure felt no pain whatever. Mine was only because my insides had got messed up. All in all, I recommend a colonoscopy every five years to everyone remotely at risk. It will detect and swiftly remove anything that might later develop into a killer disease.

That’s surely worth a one-day liquid diet and a Gallon of Gunk!

P.S. The crusty loaf of multigrain bread is really hitting the spot. It’s also undoing the diet benefits of a day and a half of fasting, but who cares? I deserves me some chewy, buttery goodness.

My First Book Trailer Video (Maggie)

Today's focus is my brand new book trailer video, for the novel DEMON'S KISS which goes on sale November 20th. The trailer is really very very good, and it was a new experience for me. You can see it at www.maggieshayne.com (unless Tara has managed to find a way to put it here as well, in which case, check it out!)

It was quite an experience. I worked with my publicist, Shannon Aviles and through her, with one of the teams at Circle of Seven Productions. I wrote the script, and sent it out to them. Shannon and I went back and forth with it a few times, and then we sent it on. It was re-written for us a couple of times, but after a bit of back and forth, we got the message across that we didn't want it re-written. We liked what we had. Greg Burkart, however, had some invaluable input as he suggested moving a few things around, which gave them greater impact.

After going round and round with the script a few times, we moved on to choosing the actors. Now this was really fun, because we were sent photos and bios of a number of actors who fit the descriptions we've given of the characters, and it was amazing how well those sent to us matched up with my own vision. I was able to go through the photos, and watch video snips of the actors, and to choose my favorites. As I was looking through them, I saw one actor who didn't fit my idea of Seth at all. But Jon Woodward was the PERFECT Reaper. I knew it from one look and one photo. (Reaper is kind of the leader of this ragtag gang of vampires you'll be meeting in DEMON'S KISS. But his book is book three, ANGEL'S PAIN.) Still, he had a role in this story and in the video, so I chose him right away.

I also knew the other two actors as soon as I saw them. And while I chose several for the casting call, I knew who would be in the roles of Vixen and Seth at first glance.

After all the actors, some I had chosen and others who just showed up or were called in by the producer, I was sent the audition footage, so I could see them in action. For the auditions, the producer had the actors read a scene from the pilot episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. It was a scene between Buffy and Giles, her mentor. Odd choice, I thought, since this was a father/daughter type relationship and I was looking for a totally different type of chemistry. None the less, it showed me the actors in action, and confirmed that my instincts were on target. My first choices were the ones I went with.

I can't tell you how excited I was to get the rough cut footage of my video. It had all the scenes, but none of the special effects, no music, no sound effects, no animation in those animated sun/moon/cloudy sky bits. And even then, without all that, I could see that this was going to work for me.

I watched it six ways to Sunday, asked for a few changes, but very few. There was a line that needed more volume. There was a back shot when I wanted a front shot (it was of Jon, so you all probably would agree with me.) Tiny things like that. We tweaked, and picked, and got it just right.

And then, finally, I got the final cut. And I love, love, love it. I think I love the shorter version better than the full length one, so I'm glad it's the one being most widely distributed. But honestly, I love them both.

This was an adventure. There's something so cool about seeing your characters come to life on the screen, even if it's only in a trailer.

Jon has agreed to continue his role as Reaper in future book trailers for me. And I'm already preparing to write the script for the next one, LOVER'S BITE, which goes on sale in May, followed by one for ANGEL'S PAIN, on sale next October.

Life in general has been difficult to the point of painful these past couple of weeks. So having this fun project come to fruition right now was just the thing to distract me and give me something to feel good about.

I'm dying to know what you think. Do you like the video? Do you think it would make you more apt to buy the book? Do you think it makes any difference in how you think of the author of the piece when you see a book trailer on their site? In what way?

Let's talk about this. It's not cheap, so I'm dying for feedback. Is it worth it?

Hugs,
Maggie

The Beauty of Words - Or Not

I love words. I always have. They are food for my spirit, the pathway to my soul. When I was in college my mother bought me a large, hard cover Webster's Dictionary for Christmas. I've received many many Christmas gifts, many I specifically remember, but none probably as clearly as I remember that gift. I spent a good part of that day reading that dictionary, skipping from word to word. Like a kid in a candy shop, I couldn't land in one bin, but had to jump from page to page, tasting all the words. I still have that dictionary. It's right here with me on my desk. I use it for every book I write. There are a lot newer editions. I know that. And still, I gently and reverently turn the pages of my original Webster's.

And yet, as with everything in life, there is a shadow side to the wondrous gift of words.


I once had a friend tell me that words cause damage that cannot be repaired. I argued the point. I figured that the beauty of words was that for every one that was said, there was another that could follow. If I misspoke, I could always speak again to retract the miss. I could apologize, explain, beg for forgiveness, admit that I didn't really mean what I said. I still believe this to some extent. But as I've lived and grown, I've found that my friend was also right. Some words hit a mark so deep they cannot be removed from the heart. Or the mind. They are remembered. Repeated silently. The pain they caused lingers. On and on. And the scariest thing about this is that you never know which words you say in any given day will have this effect on someone.

I can remember two teachers in school who said one or two words that have stayed with me my entire life. They helped shape me. One was positive. One was not. I had an English teacher in high school who thought my writing was incredible. I can still remember the look on her face one Friday afternoon as I stood at her desk after class. I was there to retrieve a paper I'd written and the joy she expressed as she handed it back, the belief she had in my future as a writer, solidified the dream I'd had since I was a little girl. The dream to be a writer. Her words made me FEEL like a writer.

The second was a typing teacher. No matter how many times I corrected her on the pronunciation of my name, she absolutely refused to say it right. I knew it was attitude. I could type 50 words per minute then and was in a typing I class. The fault wasn't hers or mine. It was a school requirement that in order to take advanced typing you had to take the first course. There was no provision for testing out of a class at that time. She seemed to resent the fact that I finished in five minutes assignments that were supposed to take the whole hour. Anyway, that woman's disrespect has always made me feel just a little bit unworthy for any good accomplishment I manage to produce. I have always felt the need to apologize for any talent I might have that could be any better than anyone else's talent in the same area.

Both life changing experiences resulted from a few words that those ladies probably don't even remember saying. And certainly, they'd just been speaking off the tops of their heads - throwing words out there just as we all do pretty much all the time. I'm fairly certain that neither of them knew that their words hit a very deep mark in my heart.

I've said words that replay themselves in my mind. Over and over. Torturing me with the possible pain they've inflicted. Words said on the spur of the moment. Words said without forethought. Or any thought. What if those words hit a deep mark? What if my carelessly uttered burst of emotion scarred the heart of another? What if it caused damage that can never be repaired?

One such sentence was uttered last year at just about this time. It was the holiday season - early December. My daughter and I were tangling with each other as she struggled to establish and maintain her independence and I struggled not to be hurt by her very natural and healthy need to leave my emoional nest. (She'd already left the house.) The tension and pain of the separation got the better of me and I announced that she and I were no longer connected at the hip. I regret those words more than any other I've ever said. She will always be connected to my hip. To my heart. Whether in this lifetime or another.

I've been privy to other ugly words. Things said in anger. In pain. Most of the time, I think, we can determine the source of those words - the anger or hurt - and take them with a grain of salt. But what about those times when we can't? Or don't? How do we know when we've hit a mark that will irrevocably change the heart of another? Or what if, instead of being erased when the argument is over, the words linger, to be added to by the next argument, and the next, until years later, one misspoken word ends an entire relationship. Because it was the one word that, added to years of others, finally killed the heart those words had been steadily piercing throughout a lifetime.

Sometimes painful words are said with the justification of honesty as if stabbing a dagger in a heart is okay. Sometimes they're said with the trust that we're speaking to someone who loves us so much they'll understand and let the words pass away. Yet, after a time, no matter how unconditional the love, the ugly words become a form of abuse. Those words that seem the most safe are, in truth, the most dangerous as they damage the greatest of loves. The love between parents and children. Between spouses. Between lovers.

And sometimes it only takes a word or two to save a life. To heal a heart. An honest word of encouragement, an avowal of love, these words go straight to the heart, too. But instead of piercing it, they gently hold the heart, wrapping it in a cloud from heaven. How often do we fail to tell someone how much we care about them? And why? When a couple of words can change an entire day - or a lifetime. A year or two ago a writer friend and I were spending some non-writing time together during a conference. She told me she valued of my friendship. A couple of words she probably doesn't even remember. And yet, throughout this past, very very difficult year, there have been many nights that those couple of words, tucked carefully in the heaven cloud in my heart, have given me the strength to continue forward, to continue believing in my worth.

Think of it. Every single one of us, every single day, has the power, with very little effort, to change lives. Whether a prisoner or the president, we all have the ability to choose our words. We can choose how they effect those around us. We can choose, today, just by opening our mouths responsibly, to make our little portion of the world a more happy, positive place simply by saying something nice.

I love words. Overall, I truly believe they contribute far more good than bad in this world as they allow us to communicate our thoughts, our love, our knowledge. They allow us to create stories that take people to far away places. They give us an avenue for dreams. In a way, the negative side of words only makes me love words more as it points out to me the power and impact that a few simple words can have - good or bad. That shadow side puts in stark relief, the beauty of words.

How about everyone else? Can you remember a few casually spoken words that stuck with you, that changed your life?

A Chance of Pace (Suzanne Forster)

I was going to talk about pacing today. Not pacing in books, pacing in life. I am seriously beginning to believe that’s the key to it all—happiness, long life, the whole shebang. Pacing may not be what makes everything work, but when it’s off, nothing works. I just haven’t figured out how to do it yet!

But that blog will have to wait a bit. I’m still on d-d-d-d-deadline, didn’t pace my day correctly and wasn’t able to get it written! Plus, a friend sent me this analysis of the differences between men and women, and I just had to share. We all need a little more laughter therapy anyway, don’t we? Enjoy!

Relationships:

First of all, a man does not call a relationship a relationship - he refers to it as "that time when me and Suzie was doing it on a semi-regular basis". When a relationship ends, a woman will cry and pour her heart out to her girlfriends, and she will write a poem titled "All Men Are Idiots". Then she will get on with her life.

A man has a little more trouble letting go. Six months after the break-up, at 3:00 a.m. on a Saturday night, he will call and say, "I just wanted to let you know you ruined my life, and I'll never forgive you, and I hate you, and you're a total floozy. But I want you to know there's always a chance for us". This is known as the "I Hate You/I Love You" drunken phone call, that 99% of all men have made at least once. There are community colleges that offer courses to help men get over this need; alas, these classes rarely prove effective.

Sex:

Women prefer 30 - 45 minutes of foreplay. Men prefer 30 - 45 seconds of foreplay. Men consider driving back to her place as part of the foreplay.

Maturity:

Women mature much faster than men. Most 17-year-old females can function as adults. Most 17-year-old males are still trading baseball cards and giving each other wedgies after gym class. This is why high school romances rarely work.

Hats:

Women look good in hats; men look like dinks.

Comedy:

Let's say a small group of men and women are in a room, watching television, and an episode of "The Three Stooges" comes on. Immediately, the men will get very excited; they will laugh uproariously, and even try to imitate the actions of Curly, man's favorite stooge. The women will roll their eyes and groan and wait it out.

Handwriting:

To their credit, men do not decorate their penmanship. They just chicken-scratch. Women use scented, colored stationary and they dot their "i's" with circles and hearts. Women use ridiculously large loops in their "p's" and "g's". It is a royal pain to read a note from a woman. Even when she's dumping you, she'll put a smiley face at the end of the note.

Bathrooms:

A man has at most six items in his bathroom - a toothbrush, toothpaste, shaving cream, razor, a bar of Dial soap, and a towel from the Holiday Inn. The average number of items in a typical woman's bathroom is 437. A man would not be able to identify most of these items.

Magazines:

Men's magazines often feature pictures of naked ladies. Women's magazine also feature pictures of naked ladies. This is because the female body is a beautiful work of art, while the male body is hairy and lumpy and should not be seen by the light of day.

Groceries:

A woman makes a list of things she needs and then goes to the store and buys these things. A man waits till the only items left in his fridge are half a lemon and something turning green. Then he goes grocery shopping. He buys everything that looks good. By the time a man reaches the checkout counter, his cart is packed tighter that the Clampett's car on Beverly Hillbillies. Of course, this will not stop him from going to the 10-items-or-less lane.

Going out:

When a man says he is ready to go out, it means he is ready to go out. When a woman says she is ready to go out, it means she will be ready to go out, as soon as she finds her other earring, finishes putting on her makeup...

Shoes:

When preparing for work, a woman will put on a Mondi wool suit, and then slip into Reebok sneakers. She will carry her dress shoes in a plastic bag from Saks. When a woman gets to work, she will put on her dress shoes. Five minutes later, she will kick them off because her feet are under her desk. A man will wear one pair of shoes for the entire day.

Leg warmers:

Leg warmers are sexy. A woman, even if she's walking the dog or doing the dishes, is allowed to wear leg warmers. She can wear them any time she wants. A man can only wear leg warmers if he is auditioning for the "Gimme the Ball" number in "A Chorus Line".

Cats:

Women love cats. Men say they love cats, but when women aren't looking, men kick cats.

Mirrors:

Men are vain; they will check themselves out in the mirror. Women are ridiculous; they will check out their reflections in any shiny surface--mirrors, spoons, store windows, toasters, Joe Garagiola's head.

Garages:

Women use garages to park their cars and to store their lawnmowers. Men use garages for many things. They hang license plates in garages, and they watch TV in garages, and they build useless lopsided benches in garages.

Movies:

For women, their favorite movie scene is when Clark Gable kisses Vivien Leigh for the first time in "Gone With The Wind". For men, it's when Jimmy Cagney shoves a grapefruit in Mae Clark's face in "Public Enemy".

Jewelry:

Women look nice when they wear jewelry. A man can get away with wearing one ring, and that's it. Any more than that, and he will look like a lounge singer named Vic.

Menopause:

When a woman reaches menopause, she goes through a variety of complicated emotional, psychological, and biological changes. The nature and degree of the changes varies with the individual. Menopause in a man provokes a uniform reaction--he buys aviator glasses, a snazzy French cap and leather driving gloves, and goes shopping for a Porsche.

The Telephone:

Men see the telephone as a communications tool. They use the telephone to send short messages to other people. A woman can visit her girlfriend for two weeks, and upon returning home, she will call the same friend and they will talk for three hours.

Low Blows:

Let's say a man and a woman are watching a boxing match on television. One of the fighters is felled by a low blow. The woman says "Oh, gee, that must hurt." The man doubles over and actually feels pain.

Directions:

If a woman is out driving and she finds herself in unfamiliar surroundings, she will stop at a gas station and ask for directions. Men consider this to be a sign of weakness. Men will never stop and ask for directions. Men will drive in a circle for hours, all the while saying things like, "Looks like I've found a new way to get there", and, "I know I'm in the neighborhood. I recognize that White Hen store".

Admitting Mistakes:

Women will sometimes admit making a mistake. The last man who admitted that he was wrong was Gen. George Custer.

It’s all so true, isn’t it, especially that one about directions? If we knew why guys won’t ask for directions, we might just unlock all the mysteries of the male sex. OTOH, maybe we're better off not knowing.

Smiles,
Suz

Peace

I'm sitting here in my blue chenille robe, the one that zips up to the neck, in my bright red recliner, with my mini-Maine coon cat on my chest, low enough so that I can see over her royal fluffiness. The sun is shining brightly outside, probably because it's about 20 degrees, and it's another day, another dollar. Every now and then I stop and rub Pooska's head (my daughter named her -- she just showed up at our house one day and she's been with us ever since, along with Phantom, who arrived about eight years later and was lured inside with cheese. Did I mention we're a sucker for cats? We also have Cello, also known as Tubster, Meatwad, and other genial insults. It's not our fault he's so fat. We inherited him from my former brother-in-law, and he's a mellow, slightly OCD, bright orange cat not unlike Garfield, though less pugnacious.
Rosie, our English Springer Spaniel, is lying in the sunlight at my feet, calm for the moment (she's extremely neurotic, and we can't figure out why). When you've got your animals around you, including one planted on your chest, purring against your heart, then things can never look that bad.
I'm dealing with depression right now, for a variety of reasons (career, financial, my aging mother, my complicated children) and I have to say, the absolute best cure for it is having a cat or dog curl up with you and keep you company. Better than gorging on chocolate any day.

What's your cure for the blues? Got any ideas that aren't unhealthy, like compulsive shopping (never good when your worries are financial) or overeating or drinking? I could use all the help I can get.

Sunday Fun-Day

Jo Beverley directs us to an addictive game where we can test our vocabularies, learn a lot of new words we'll never use, scare the cat when we get one wrong (Drat! I knew that!), and help end world hunger.

Yup. For every word you get right, the non-intrusive site sponsor