What Remains (Maggie)

Most of you already know that I lost my beloved pals, Wrinkles and Sally, most of my possessions and about 90% of my home to fire last Thursday night. For those who don't, I'll recap briefly. Thursday night I was out. About 10:13 pm, my alarm system went off, indicating a housefire. Firefighters arrived within about 15 minutes, and I arrived only a few more minutes behind them, though at that point, I had no idea what was happening. I was beyond cell phone range while they were trying to call me. The volunteers from the Cuyler, Truxton, and Deruyter NY FDs tried valiantly to rescue the dogs, but they'd already succumbed to the carbon monoxide. No burns, thank goodness. And it looks as if there wasn't much time for either of them to suffer. It was fast. Those who've followed my blogs here have read lots of my tales about Wrinkles and Sally. Wrinkles was 14, far beyond the life expectancy of an English bulldog. She'd had an adventurous life that included one other adventure that involved firefighters, when she fell into an abandoned and thankfully, dry, well in 2006, and the South Otselic volunteers raced to my aid and managed to get her out again. Wrinkles' health has been going downhill rather rapidly and for quite some time now she's really done very little besides sleep. Sally was a great dane, and while I'd only had her a little over a year, she's been a friend for much longer. She was eleven, also an advanced age for her breed. She started out as my mother's dog, but that was brief. She ended up with my oldest daughter, Jena, and lived with her for 8 or 9 years quite happily. She and Jena went through thick and thin together. And every single time I visited, she would stick to me like glue. When Jena's first baby was born, Sally came to live with me as a precaution. She was nervous old girl and she'd snapped at small children twice over the course of her long life. We didn't want to risk her biting Sean, even though we knew it would be unintended and immediately regretted. (Sally could look more remorseful than any dog I've ever seen.) So she came to my house, and we were really happy together. She was an easy dog to love, with the way she would put her great big head into my lap, and turn it nearly upside down and start "talking" to me in Great Danish. Row-row-roo-roo-row!" The way she would still play with her toys as if she was a puppy. Sally's health has been beginning to decline too, though not as severely yet as Wrinkles' had. I think she had a few good years left, while I'm convinced Wrinkles' passing was imminent. I loved them both and I will miss them for a long, long time.

My kitty, Glory, survived intact, somehow, and for that, I'm grateful.

I'm not going to post a whole lot of photos here. I don't want this to be too terribly negative a blog post and the photos of the house are pretty dark. So I've only put up two of them.

Serenity is a mess right now, but she's still standing. The first floor, with the exception of the office area, will be have to be entirely gutted. On the second floor, two of the three bedrooms must likewise, be gutted. The bedroom that doesn't, and the upstairs bathroom, will need significant work. The furniture is nearly all gone. Actually, today's the day I have to meet with appraisers and make a list of everything that was inside the house that is gone. So I thought I would spend this morning reminding myself of what remains.


The office area of the first floor was once a two car garage. It's separated from the rest of the ground floor by a long entry hall, and a doorway that was, thankfully, closed. My office is pretty big. It has its own bathroom, with a jacuzzi tub and oversized shower stall, a double sink and huge mirror. That bathroom is unharmed, aside from the smoky smell all over everything. The office area also has a walk-in closet full, and its own entrance, French doors that lead out onto the deck. The deck too was unburned. And while the rest of the house is utterly ruined, everything that didn't burn being totally blackened with soot and ash, the office walls are still white. Dirty, but white. And everything that was inside the office is also safe. I'd just bought an elliptical, and my bowflex, purchased last year, was in there. Two desktop computers are probably all right. My futon, minus the mattress/cushion, survived. My desk and chair. A 27", old style tv, and cheap DVD player, and a stereo system all seem to be intact, though we can't test them until we have power.

The cleanup company believes they can clean that office section, and then let me use it as a self-contained apartment while the rest of the house is restored. And that's what I intend to do.

Most of my clothing survived. It all needs to be professionally cleaned to get the smoke smell out, and I have no doubt there will be a lot of items that can't be saved, particularly anything white or light colored. But still, a lot of the clothes will be fine once they're cleaned. Right now I have three pairs of jeans and the shirt I was wearing at the time, plus two tops, some socks, and a nighty I've picked up at Walmart since. I've been carrying all my clothes everywhere I go, in a bag I also bought at Walmart. I took my facial cleanser and moisturizers with me the first time I returned, then washed the containers thoroughly to rid them of the smell. And that's just about everything I have at the moment.

Up to now I've been hopping around, staying with the people closest to me, which includes my daughters, and kind switching back and forth from one night to the next. But it's been a week now, and this is not very efficient. Each place I stay is no less than a half hour from my house, and I'm constantly having to run back and forth to deal with insurance, cleanup, and investigative people. (Though how people with day jobs manage this, I'll never know. They seem to need me on site on a daily basis, whether the place is locked up or not!) At any rate, I had hoped things would move faster. I'd been told emergency power (just for the furnace and pump) would be restored Monday and my apartment area ready in a week. It's now been a week, and the power still isn't on. So I've booked myself a room at a gorgeous place in Cincinnatus, the town closest to my house. It's a bed & breakfast, and the owner, Mary seems absolutely delightful. I'll have a suite to myself, with no other guests on my floor, because this is the off season. My own bathroom, tv, wi-fi internet access, are included, and I'll be within cell phone range and only ten minutes from Serenity. I've booked it for two weeks beginning tomorrow (Friday.)
It'll be nice to have a place to hang the clothes I've been wearing and washing and wearing again, and not have to carry them with me everywhere I go. It'll be great to be close to home, and to have a "home base" to work from. It'll be great to be able to log on daily and get my email again, and especially, to begin writing again.

My laptop was destroyed, but some of my writing friends took up a collection to replace it for me, so I wouldn't have to wait for the insurance settlement to get a new one. My BFF Michele is taking me to do that on Saturday, and we're going to meet with some of my other wonderful sister-friends, who are dying to see me.

And everything is going to be okay.

My DVD collection looks, to the naked eye, as if it survived, though that cabinet was in the room where the fire started and they got very hot. We won't know until we try them. The cases didn't melt, though. My dishes in the kitchen cupboards, including the new holiday set the girls got me for Christmas, is black and sooted, but intact. A lot of my sculptures seem to be okay, beneath the soot, though with some I can't tell if the paint burned off or if they cracked from the heat, and won't know until I get them cleaned. My precious Iphone was with me, thank goodness, so it was saved. My Bunn Coffeemaker might be okay, but again, we won't know until we try it, and I wonder if there's even a way to clean the inside so the coffee won't taste like smoke? Many, many books are unburned, but smoke-laden and dirty. Whether we can get the smell out using tubs of kitty litter (a tip passed on by a friend) remains to be seen, but they aren't burned. My John Waterhouse prints, all framed, and some piece on canvas, were universally destroyed, and I really regret losing them more than nearly anything else, including the swan-fainting couch and the big screen TV, which melted.

But when it comes down to it, it's all just stuff, and while some of it was precious to me, and a handful of personal items with nothing but sentimental value, will never be able to replaced, most of it can be. I had excellent insurance coverage with full replacement value on the house and contents, with a company I'll probably never leave, if they come through the way it looks like they're going to.

So I choose to focus on the positive.
I wasn't home at the time of the fire. If I had been, I might not be posting this.

I had an alarm system that alerted the authorities, even when I couldn't do so myself. Interestingly, I'd burned some steaks only a few weeks prior, and had a false alarm, resolved with a quick phone call so no harm done. But a day or two later, the security people called to remind me to reset the system, which I'd forgotten to do. I did it, while on the line with them. If they hadn't made that extra call, I might never have gotten around to it before the fire, and things would have been far worse.

If I'd returned home even five or ten minutes sooner, and beaten the emergency vehicles there, I'd have gone inside after the dogs and possibly not made it back out. As it was, there were firemen there to prevent me doing that, though I tried.

I have great people in my life who are taking excellent care of me. I have a place to stay. I had more than 900 emails waiting the first time I got back on line, and my phone messages have to be retrieved daily, both on the home and cell lines, or the voicemail boxes overflow. People truly care.

My dogs didn't suffer. There may have been a minute, perhaps two, of fear for Sally. Just long enough for her to run upstairs, where she collapsed before she even reached my bedroom, where she was heading. I doubt there was even that much for Wrinkles, who was lying in her usual spot, where she was constantly napping, without a paw track in the soot around her, as if she never even woke up.

I have no doubt I would have been dealing with Wrinkles' loss before this year was out. Dogs don't live forever, and at Sally's age, we can't sure how much time she would have had. Maybe they'd have deteriorated gradually, growing less and less comfortable as I struggled with deciding how long to let it go on. Maybe. Who knows? I only know I was blessed to have them in my life at all, and I'm grateful for that opportunity. And while I'm suffering their loss now (as is everyone who ever met them) they are fine. They have crossed over into bliss, and total, absolute peace, and perfect alignment with source, and I know they're fine. I take a lot of comfort in that.

There are a lot of positives here. Serenity will be restored, and perhaps even be improved. Goodness knows there were a lot of little tweaks I was talking about doing, here and there, throughout the house, and those can be done all at once now in tandem with the repairing. My readers know I'm likely to get more than one story idea from this trauma. I was riveted while the arson investigators did their work, and even then, the girls downstairs seemed to be gathering bits and pieces to chew on for possible future use. (The cause, they think was a DVD/VCR that may have shorted out, though it wasn't ON at the time, it was plugged in--and there's a warning in that for us all. I hear leaving toasters plugged in causes a huge number of fires too!)

The thing is, I'm okay, and I'm glad of that, because while I have no fear of crossing that veil, I'm not done here yet. And when I think on it a bit, I realize that's because I've been enjoying the hell out of my life. Okay, so this was a bad episode. A very bad episode. But that's part of the ride, it's part of why we're here, for the adventure of it all. At the bottom of it all, at the very core of it, everything is fine. Nothing has changed. The dogs live on, just a different frequency and the rest is just a matter of a few months of inconvenience, and a new experience at riding out the storm. No, dancing in the rain.

Dancing in the ashes, in this case.

And I can do that.

I want to send out a great big thank you for all of the emails, message posts, phone calls, all the concern and worry and sympathy, all the positive energy and hopes and prayers from every one of you. It touches me deeply. But do not worry about me. I always land on my feet.

Much love,
Maggie

Backward

I love that song, from the Rascal Flatts about playing a country song backward. I have to admit, I'm not much of a country music aficiondo. Not because I have anything against country music, I've just never really been exposed to it. My father was a musician. From the big band era. I grew up on My Cup Runneth Over with Love and Danny Boy. Barbra Streisand, and when Dad really got with it, we moved on to John Denver. He was a gifted pianist. A gifted any kind of instrument he ever picked up. He played by ear and could hear a song on the radio and somehow just make it happen as soon as he had an instrument in his hands. When I was growing up I'd fall asleep many nights to my father at the piano, playing, sometimes singing, always making love to the keys. There was magic there. I miss it. I miss him.

And I've recently been exposed to country music. Well, not all that recently. I saw Kenny Rogers in concert a few years ago. In Vegas. Linda Davis was his back up. So I'm sitting there and he's playing to his crowd and song after song he talks about how he knows everyone knows this one and invites them all to sing alone (us all, I guess) and they all burst into song and I've never heard the tune before. Let alone the words. I'll never forget when he introduced this song called Lucille. Everyone went crazy. It was the oldest. The most famous. The best loved. I'd never heard it before in my life.

And then Linda Davis came on. I didn't know if she was supposed to be famous or not - if to that crowd she was famous. She could have been a waitress for all I knew. She took the mic and after much Kenny gushing started to sing. I bought her cd immediately. And in about a week, knew every word to every song. I was semi-hooked on country music.

Then came Colin Raye and his song about Grandma and Grandpa and 'don't give up on me.' Now that was a song. I bought that cd, too. And soon knew every word to every song. I've found a few others, more recently as I'm married to a man who loves country music. But then he loves rock and roll, too. Led Zeppelin variety. Eagles and Hotel California. And he loves the Mama and Papas and will even listen to Celine Dion and Barry Manilow if I'm in his good graces. This past weekend we took a road trip to Amish country and did Pink Floyd's The Wall. Now there's a road trip album. A rock opera that was so loaded with talent it should have won every music award every created. Maybe it did. In it's era, my era, to me it was just good songs. I was completely unaware of the rare piece of art it really was.

We're all just bricks in the wall. Or do I have that backwards? We all put bricks in walls. We build walls and then hate the confinement. We freeze ourselves out from pain and disappointment, live a lifetime semi-numb, and then we reach a point where the numbness wears off, where the 'drugs' we took to get on with the show, no longer work. And we start to feel. The walls come crumbling down. And so often times, we wish we could go backward.

I saw an old movie tonight. Click. With Adam Sandler. It's a great movie. Entertaining. Funny. Light. Until it isn't. He has this magic remote that lets him fast forward to all the things he wants in life. Mostly to his promotions that make him a mint and are supposed to solidify a great life with the wife and kids he adores, but never makes priorities. And the thing is, much like life, when he fast forwarded, he went on auto pilot. He went through the motions, waiting to get where he really wanted to be. But when he got there, he found that, in missing all of the daily grind, the daily ups and downs and boring family dinners, he'd missed all of life. He was the CEO, and he was virtually alone. Of course, in the end of the movie, Adam Sandler got to go backward and do it all over again, to get it right.

Just like that country song. When you sing a country song backward you get your best friend Jack back, your first and second wife back. You get it all back.

But to what end? To make life perfect? Is that what we want? Perfection? No lessons to learn. No progress to make? No surprises? Or do we just need to appreciate each moment, as we have it? Live life. Experience every moment. Be aware of the breath and grateful that we are alive?

I don't know, maybe I've got it all backward...

But I do like country music.

Your Own Personal Awards Ceremony (Suzanne Forster)

As I was watching the Academy Awards on Sunday, it occurred to me that we ordinary folks ought to have our own awards ceremonies. And why wait a whole year? Make it once a week. Gather your family or friends around the dinner table and hand out awards. Celebrate your small victories and your unsung acts right along with your major triumphs, which are always too few and far between.

I don’t see any reason why actors and film makers should get all the awards. Everyday life is lots more challenging than acting, as far as I’m concerned. Most if not all of us do award-worthy things every day. Some days just getting up is an act of courage. Did you get up this morning? Get dressed? Give yourself an award.

It’s probably hard to find someone who doesn’t do at least one honorable thing every day, even if it’s just holding the door open for someone. Or smiling at a stranger. Did you resist throwing that litter out the window of your car today? Bravo! Most of us have built into us the desire to aid our fellow man and to preserve the planet. Thank goodness, or we might not have survived as a species.

I would also suggest that you name the award. Maybe your own name? I think I’ll go with the name I grew up with, Suzi.

This week I’m awarding myself a Suzi for surviving the crud. Damn bugs may have won every round so far, but they haven’t kayo’d me yet. I’m still fighting, and I honestly feel a bit like champ for hanging in there this long. It did occur to me this weekend that I should probably see the doctor and get some ammo to help me do battle against the little nano-terrorists that have invaded my nasal passages and sinus cavities and taken up residence in my lungs.

No doubt they consider this a great vacation. And here I am, flat on my back, while they’re doing the backstroke in my fluid-filled chest.

I’m already making mental notes of various kudos for the dh at our next ceremony. He will definitely be getting a round of applause for searching out the best possible deal on a new washer and dryer. We may have to drink a toast to the appliance sales man, too, who steered us away from a name brand that’s become questionable. He actually recommended a less expensive set from another maker, to the detriment of his own commission. Better quality and service, he told us. Now, that’s honorable.

My Storybroad compatriots are also deserving of awards. They’re courageous women all, and each a survivor in her own way. Maggie Shayne certainly deserves an award, not just for surviving, but for rising like a Phoenix, again and again. Literally, this time. If you read the blog about Maggie recently, you know her house was badly damaged in a fire, and her two dogs were lost. It was a terrible tragedy, but at least Maggie wasn’t hurt, and we were grateful to know that her sweet dogs fell asleep, expiring from carbon monoxide and not from the fire.

There probably aren’t enough awards for courage where Maggie’s concerned. This week, I’m also going to try and tempt her with an award for letting others show her their love and support, which I know is a little tougher for Maggie. She’s an earth mother of the first order, always sharing inspiration and loving advice.

Which brings me to you, gentle blog reader. What are you awarding yourself? How did you show valor and courage this week? Or was it patience? Did you clear the way or hold the door for someone older or disabled? Did you brave the grocery store with your brood? As for valor, even parallel parking the car counts as far as I’m concerned.

It’s a new week. Celebrate yourself!

Suz

Ups and Downs (Anne Stuart)

I'm sitting here in my recliner, my swollen and painted knee propped up in front of me (and be very glad I decided NOT to take a picture of it). Arthroscopic knee surgery last Thursday, and I'm hobbling about, unable to drive, even worse, unable to sew.

Why should "unable to sew" be so traumatic? First, because I love to sew. Second, because I just adopted a new to me Bernina to join my family of Vikings and Janomes. (I took a photo but Blogger is being recalcitrant with the uploading).

So all I can do is stare longingly at the new Bernina, which will need a name. The Viking is Berthe, for Big Bertha (I gave her younger sister, Lily, to my daughter for her 21st birthday). The Janome Gem is Gemma (not original but it works). But the Bernina will need something magnificent. Bernie is too undignified. She needs something pretty and lacy, like Allison or Leslie. She's a class, elderly lady -- a 1000 model, so nothing too hip.
Berthe is, of course, Swedish. The Bernina is Swiss, so the name can be German, Italian or French (nice of the Swiss to be multi-lingual).

Any suggestions?

It's been a tough time for a couple of friends -- one had what seemed close to a psychotic break, another nearly lost her life in a house fire (and did lose her precious dogs). Those crazy shifts I talked about last week still seem lurking, and I still alternate between being upbeat and being tearful (no, I'm not bipolar, I'm emotional). Good things, bad things, joy and sorrow, danger and safety. I guess that's what life is all about.

But I'm ready to move forward. Me and my Mac computer (Lagoud), my fancy schmancy sewing machine (Berthe) and my brand new classic Bernina.

I've got stories to tell -- serial killers and talking dogs and happy ever after. I've got quilts to make. I've got people to love.

And even though it's almost March and Vermont is bleak and cold and ugly, I'm thinking maybe spring might come after all.

So, here's your task for the week: come up with a name for the Bernina and give me some ideas for staying upbeat during the worst time of year.

That's something we could all use.

Sad News

We just learned that last night, our treasured Maggie lost much of her house, many of her possessions, and her beloved dogs (Wrinkles the Bulldog and Sally the Great Dane) in a house fire. The kitty managed to escape.

Maggie's staying with her daughter Jena right now. When she has the time and internet access, we hope to hear from her. We do know that she's insured, but nothing can replace her artworks, collectibles, and beloved pets.

When she tells us what she needs that we can provide, we'll all be there for her. Meantime, she will be in our thoughts and prayers.

Update:
We're all relieved to learn Wrinkles and Sally appear to have died of carbon monoxide poisoning. They were not burned.

Lynn and Pat's Excellent Adventure (LynnK)

Patricia Potter, Master and Commander, sets out in search of the Great Beast, aka the Grey Whale, and not for the first time. A year ago, she and Tara braved the waves aboard this same vessel as rain and wind whipped about them. Nary a whale did they see.

Which is why the Dynamic Duo (me a weak substitute for the fearless Tara) came aboard in the face of a threatening storm. Pat Wants to See a Whale. She has seen whales before, but not here in San Diego. And Pat never gives up.

She’s here for a writers retreat, which will formally commence this evening. By formally, I mean we’ll probably start feeling guilty for not doing anything writing-related. This group always defaults to fun.

Our get-togethers follow a familiar path. First stop: Wine. Marginally decent wine, because Pat, Alicia, and I have—shall we say?—undiscriminating palates. The quality will soar when Carol arrives with selections from her excellent cellar.



Next stop: Food. Pat likes to cook, so here she is—after ten hours of traveling—fixin’ up some burgers. Last night we made our traditional visit to an Irish pub for onion rings, fish ‘n’ chips, and other deep-fried goodies. And yes, we will commence our diets next week.

Constantly: Talk. Hours and hours of talk. That’s what comes of having interesting (and interested) friends. We never run out of topics or things to say.

Occasionally: Excursions. Which is how Pat and I found ourselves aboard the whale boat. Alicia, who gets seasick, wisely gave it a pass. And speaking of passes, we had two freebies because Pat and Tara failed to see whales last year.

You guessed it. No whales this year, either. Just four hours of swells and troughs that had us lurching across the decks and hanging on to the railings with death grips. Thank God for Dramamine.

Did we have fun? Sure. We don’t believe in not having fun, especially when things don’t go our way. We just laugh and enjoy ourselves.

We learned that whales, dolphins and porpoises are closely related descendants of land mammals (much like hippos) who returned to the ocean about three million years ago.

“What’s the difference between dolphins and porpoises?” asked Pat. Not hardly any, it turns out, and most distinctions are biological and invisible to us. But it seems that porpoises have spade-shaped teeth and dolphins have pointy teeth. Good to know!

As we staggered off the boat, each of us holding a free pass for yet another whale-seeking voyage, Pat handed me her ticket and confided, sotto voce, that she would not be repeating this particular adventure.

Me, neither!

Rassin' Frassin' Winter (Maggie)

That's my self portrait for today. Grumpy. I seem to have a dwarf thing going on lately. I've dealt with Sleepy, and then Grumpy and now Sneezy, and it's no fun, so I've morphed myself into Grumpy. I'm trying for Happy, but I'm afraid it might take some more drastic measures than usual to get me there.

The weatherman told me it was going to be 50 degrees here on Monday. I was excited about it all weekend long. I was going to go outside for a run. I haven’t been outside for a run in weeks and weeks, because I’m a wimp, (isn't there a dwarf named Wimpy?) and I just can’t handle it in the cold. Oh, I’ve tried. I bought the Under Armor and the face mask and the ear-muffins. (They’ve always been called ear-muffins in my family. One of the girls, when she was very young, actually thought that’s what they were, so we’ve called them that ever since.) So anyway, I did all that. But I can only get a half mile before my lungs feel like they’ve frozen from within, and you just can’t run if you can’t breathe.

And I can’t complain. I’m luckier than a lot of people. I’ve got a great Bowflex, a fabulous elliptical, a yoga ball, a pair of those stretchy bands, a set of handheld weights, a stair stepper, and about a hundred and twelve workout DVDs. I’ve got as many sets of workout clothes as I have blue jeans. And I have a lot of jeans!

And I use it. All of it. Since February hit, I’ve been really good about working out almost every day. But what I really want is to go outside in the sunshine in my shorts, slicked up with sunblock and smelling like coconut. So I was really looking forward to that fifty-degree Monday.

What the weatherguy failed to mention (or I failed to hear) is that the high temperature that day struck at about 6 a.m., and began to plummet immediately thereafter. By 8 it was in the 30’s. And there’s no sign it’s going to rebound any time soon.

Outside my windows, all I see is snow. The temperatures for the next seven days don’t even climb out of the twenties. There are those irritating little snowflake icons decorating the graphics for nearly every single day over the next week. My furnace burned five hundred bucks worth of fuel in the last three weeks. My water pipes have frozen up twice. My trash cans are overflowing because I’m so sick of the cold I can’t even bring myself to bundle up long enough to go outside and drag them to the curb. I can’t remember the last time I had to run a simple errand that I didn’t have to go outside and brush snow and scrape ice off my car and then let it warm up for fifteen minutes first. I’m tired of winter. Tired, tired, tired. I need sunshine. I need warmth. I need a beach.

The first snowfall of the year was beautiful and magical and nice. I remember taking pictures and blogging here about it. The ice storms have been glittery like melted diamonds on the trees. I took pictures of those too. But I’m done with pictures of winter. I want to photograph the first snowdrops and crocuses peeking up out of the soil. I want to run to the mailbox barefoot. Heck, I want to go everywhere barefoot.

I think this is what they call cabin fever, and while I am venting about it here, I’m not letting it consume me. I do know the value of staying positive, so I just shift my focus to things that make me feel good, and don’t focus on the cold. I put on sunblock every now and then so I can smell that summery, coconut smell. I look at the calendar and think how much closer spring is now than it was the last time I looked. I really shouldn’t live in the north. I really shouldn’t. There’s not one thing I like about winter. But my daughters are all here, and their kids are here, and as mad as everyone was about me moving a half hour further from them, think of the fireworks if I actually left this horrendous, tax-hungry state. So I have to think of other solutions.

And I think I have one. I have to get ahead a little bit more financially, but the second I do, I’m going to start looking for a tropical paradise I can make my own. I don’t have to live there, but I could go there for several weeks in the winter each year, and if I gave each of the girls a turn to use it, they couldn’t get mad, right?

But in the meantime, I think I need a road trip. And I think I’m going to do it alone. At least, that’s how I’m feeling today. I’d like to flip open a map and plot a course down the east coast with no firm destination in mind. I’d like to just put my finger on a date on the calendar, take the dogs to the kennel, and leave. I’d like to drive until I see something that looks interesting, and then stop and check it out. Find an out of the way place to spend the night. Eat breakfast as I watch the sun rise over the ocean, then go for a run in the sand. Stop at every theme park or museum I see. Take a boat tour if the mood strikes me. And just keep driving. If I take the laptop I can work on the road. If I take the cell phone, everyone who needs to reach me can, if I choose to turn the damn thing on at all, which I might not.

So in short, I’ve got a bad case of cabin fever, and I’m dreaming about running away from home. I might not actually do it, but then again, maybe I will. It would probably do me a world of good.

On the up side, I only have one more column to write this month. And then it will be March. March. One more month till April.

Hey, readers, if you have any suggestions to help get past the winter blahs without chucking it all and running away from home, post them here. I’m wide open to suggestions.

Maggie

Just a Question (Need Responses!!!)

Hey, all, I have an important research question (people research.) If you can take a minute and give me your opinion (gut reaction) about what this question means, I'd appreciate it greatly!!!

Reason for and results of the research will be posted tomorrow in the comment section of this post.

Thanks!!

Question:

What does it mean when your significant other says 'We have to talk?'

The Crud (Suzanne Forster)

That title probably says it all. It’s flu season in the Forster household. Between this week and last week we’ve had three different versions of the flu around here, and it’s just easier to lump it all together and call it The Crud.

Last week I had the crud that brings with it aches, pain, chills and fever. No cold, no cough, no sore throat, and no stomach flu. Guess who thought she got off lucky. But by Sunday I had that tell tale tickle in my throat, the one that makes you feel as if you want to cough, but you always write it off as nothing, or at least I do … until I’m up all night coughing. Of course, I’m never prepared, except with cough drops, which are virtually useless for anything but the tickle. I’ve gone through a bag already.

This morning the cough and scratchy throat were essentially gone, and again, I thought I’d gotten off lucky. That was before the headache hit, and it’s a skull cracker. Think torture device, as in metal head band with little spikes that some unseen fiend is drawing tighter while laughing diabolically.

Headaches are an all-new flu symptom for me, and I thought maybe it was a fluke. But I asked the dh over the bowl of chicken soup that was our dinner, and he said he’d had a splitting headache for two days running. Thanks for that, I said. He’s the one who gave me both of this year’s versions of the crud. He brought them home with him from the Boys and Girls Club, where he works with scads of adorable, but highly infectious, tots. Kids, you gotta love them, but let’s be honest, they’re walking petrie dishes. Little germ factories, they are.

So, I’m writing this at two in the morning because the coughing is back. It woke me up. No stomach flu so far. Maybe I’ll be lucky?

Any other crud sufferers, please come and commiserate. Or if you have remedies, post them here. All advice and virtual healing welcome!

Suz

Ch-ch-ch-changes (Anne Stuart)

So it's not just me that's feeling restless. According to astrology, we're all on the cusp of a huge change, and I've been teetering on the razor edge for the last six months. I want to move from the place I've lived for the past thirty-seven years (and before that I spent every summer there). My kids seem to have finally flown the coop (or at least I hope so, even though the thought is melancholy), and when you're a writer you can live anywhere.

And I don't want to go backwards. I looked at cheap houses in the west and they looked like the quirky little house Richie and I first lived in. And I don't want shabby/quirky. Not right now. I want sleek and low-maintenance.

I don't want to go backwards in my work either. I don't want to write books for the market, at this point in my life. I'm facing 60, and been writing and published for 34 years, and by this time it should be up to me.
Problem is, I don't know where I want to go. I've got ideas in my head, but my heart isn't on board yet.

I'm still at a crossroads. There's a great change coming and it's still looming on the horizon. Until it hits I'm going to feel unsettled and restless, and I'm not sure there's anything I can do about it.

How are the rest of you doing? Do you feel like there's something huge on the horizon, that life is about to make a major shift?

Any ideas on what to do while we're waiting? As Tom Petty says, "the waiting is the hardest part."

Sunday Cat Blogging (Lymond de Sevigny)

What's this?! The Can-Opener has posted a picture of another cat?!


When she headed out for the Wild Animal Park, I knew there'd be trouble.





Apparently size does matter.







This is one of his consorts. He has at least two. The swine! And within a couple of weeks, they produced seven cubs. The trollops!





Humpf! If not for an ill-fated visit to the vet, I would have been a Wild One too. Sired kittens. Been a contender!


Oh, well. I yam what I yam.

As are we all.

I Won't, I Won't! Darn, I did it!.

Okay, everyone, I have a compulsive personality. One unread book is not enough. Neither is three, or five or even ten. Only piles will do. I go into a frenzy of despair if my to-be-read pile is not a mile high.

I become a mad woman at sales. I love sales. I buy, buy, buy, relishing that $50 blouse that’s on sale for $8 even if I’ll probably never wear it. Well, one day . . .

I can’t play bridge for an hour. I want to play for a day. Two days.

So what prompted all these confessions? I’m going to visit fellow blogger Lynn Kerstan and other friends this coming week. Seven days, including two days of mostly traveling. Five true whole days on the ocean. Five days of friendship. Five days of bliss. Five days of relaxation. No meetings to go to. Nothing to dress up for. Just lazy days doing fun friend stuff.

Five weeks ago, I started thinking about packing. (Anticipation is part of a joyful trip). Easy this time. Jeans. T-shirts. A pair of slacks. Two blouses. Small carry-on suitcase. I can do that. No one needs more.

Unless, of course, you have a compulsive personality. And second thoughts. Many of them. We’re going whale watching in a boat. It’s cold on the water in February. Even in San Diego. Maybe I should throw in a heavy sweatshirt and extra thick jacket. Maybe even two sweatshirts for walks on the beach. A trip to the closet reveals four favorite sweatshirts. Which one? Can’t make up my mind. I’ll take all four.

Maybe I should add my wonderfully soft bathrobe to wear while viewing a sunrise. A little thick but this trip is my great gift to myself and I want it to be perfect. In goes the robe and some thick fluffy socks. Maybe an extra pair of shoes would be good for walking. And some sandals if it warms up.

I think a larger suitcase is in order.

Okay, almost finished. New thought. What if we suddenly decide to go to a nice restaurant? Or a concert? Jeans won’t do. Perhaps I’ll throw in a nice pants suit. But then I’ll need a nicer coat . . .

There’s the bundle of cosmetics, including hair stuff. A scarf. Maybe two. And books. One book isn’t enough. Nor is two. Sigh. I know I’m not going to have time to read. This is friendship time. And I desperately need to read my work in progress on the flight to and from, but still . . . I can’t go any where without a book. Preferably three.

Oops, forgot the nuts. I promised to bring a big container of my roasted butter-soaked pecans. Can’t have those pecans without wine. In goes a wine opener. Speaking of food and drink, what if the place doesn’t have a coffee pot? Maybe I should go to Walmart and find one of those little traveling coffee pots. I can’t survive morning without ten cups of coffee. And a mug. Most certainly I must bring my favorite traveling thermal mug.

I’d better get out my largest suitcase. There’s a fifty-pound limit, isn’t there? I think I might have passed that.

I look at all the stuff on the bed. And groan. And think of my greatest real-life heroine, Libby Hall. She was president of Romance Writers of America when I first went on the national board. We hold a conference every year, and board members spend about ten days in the conference hotel. There’s a multitude of meetings, many parties and more than a few dressy events. I always dragged along the world’s biggest suitcase, and Libby would get off the plane with one carry-on. One carry-on for ten days!!!!! To this day, I marvel at that feat, and wish I could be just like her when I grow up.

One more glance at the infamously bulging suitcase. A hoodie would be a good idea . . . And the kitchen sink. What if there isn’t one where we’re staying? One must be prepared for all contingencies.

I put aside my poor little carry-on case. I don't know why I ever bought the thing. I keep telling myself I will not overpack. I won't!

My intentions are good. The execution sucks. Lynn, I hope your car is very, very big.

Now tell me about your packing adventures. Are you a Libby Hall or, alas, a Pat
Potter?

NEW BOOK ALERT

Since I will not be blogging next Saturday, I wanted to alert you that my new romantic suspense, "Catch A Shadow," will be on sale the first week in March.
Shameless promotion here: Romantic Times gave it the top rating of four and a half stars and said it wasn't to be missed. Romance Readers Today gave it a "A Perfect 10" and nominated it for best book of the year. It's all about a good deed gone terribly, terribly awry.

Lynn's Law . . . (LynnK)

. . . of Simultaneous Occurrences. Also known as LLOSO. Sounds like Loss-O, and Loss is the operative word.

Why is it that days, weeks, or months can stretch out like an arid desert with nothing important happening? With nothing special to look forward to?

And then, as if life were micro-managed by a dyspeptic imp, one day or week or month is suddenly crammed with conflicting obligations and pleasures? Last month alone, I got four delightful invitations. Three were for events on the same afternoon. The other was for that evening.

What to do? Can’t do them all. Whom to cut loose? My friends and family would be understanding. They’d let me off the hook. But I profoundly believe that we should save our best for the people we most care about.

Not to mention that when good things are on offer, I can’t help wanting to do what I most enjoy. What about meeeeeee?

You got it, Sherlock. That’s what’s happening right now. A treasured friend (Alicia Rasley) is in town, and I have never spent an unpleasurable moment in her company. The chance to brainstorm my current book-in-progress with a brilliant writer-teacher is not to be surrendered.

But! I’m singing in a fabulous concert tonight and have been tied up with rehearsals. No time for book brainstorming.

Happily, Alicia and StoryBroad fans Thea and John will be in the audience. It’s always more fun to be singing for people you know. But no partying afterward, because tomorrow I am presenting a writing workshop. Must be fresh. Perky. Coherent.

Good luck with that, Lynn.

And then, on Thursday next, Pat Potter is flying out to join us for an informal Writer Retreat. Another busy writer-friend, Carol Prescott (She of the Prestigious Day Job), can manage a weekend here. Wine and talk will flow like rivers. We might even get some work done.

But all too soon, the February of Many Pleasures will be over. Right now I’m giddy with delight, frustrated with lack of time to enjoy, and dreading the end of the music and the time spent with much-loved friends.

But there will be more music, that’s for sure. At long last, I will have another go at playing the guitar. Pat and I will plan our rambling drive up the California Coast to San Francisco for the RWA Conference in July. In fact, my calendar for the next few months is already filling up.

And naturally, LLOSO is kicking in. Nearly all the really juicy events are pushing themselves into conflict with one another. Too bad about that.

Then again, perhaps the long stretches of isolation are gifts from the Muse, large chunks of time meant for intensive writing. I know lots of writers who would be grateful for the quiet times looming all too soon in my future.

I should be grateful. And I am.

But I should also be disciplined. And I’m not.

So . . . what are you looking forward to in the next few weeks or months? And do you wisely use your empty times, or do you fritter them away?

Maybe we need to form a support group. Fritterers Anonymous!

Valentine's Day! (Maggie)

Okay, it's that day. That day that has the same affect on every female in the western world. It pisses them off.

I know, it shouldn't. It's not supposed to. It's supposed to be a day about romance, a day to celebrate that Mister Wonderful in your own life. It's supposed to be a day that only makes single woman feel like shit. Right?

Wrong, wrong, wrong. It doesn't matter if you're single, married, dating, flirting, gay, or celibate. It pisses us all of. Why, you ask? I'll tell you why.

Because Valentine's Day is the one day of the year when women fully believe their guy is going to suddenly turn into Prince Charming. It's the day when your guy, be he a lumberjack, a short order cook, or a bus driver, is expected to magically appear before you in the guise of--well, okay, let's face it--a romance novel hero. He's going to do things for you that he has never done before. Like . . . shave. Shower. Put on a suit. Go an entire day without once scratching his ass or belching out loud, or releasing clouds of noxious gas from the other end.

Instead of you asking him what he wants for dinner, or cooking it, or wheedling and pleading until he actually takes you out for a change, you think he's going to turn it around today. He's going to be the one to suggest you go out to dinner. He might even pay. Or else he'll cook for you, and put a little rose in a bud vase on a tray and serve you.

Even though, up to now, you've seen no sign he even knows what a bud vase is.

He's going to come up with the perfect, perfect gift. Something so romantic, even YOU haven't thought of it yet. He's going to whisper words into your ears that are mostly outside the range of his vocabulary--not because he's a dummy, but because they're just not words with which guys are familiar. He's not going to call your cerulean blue eyes like limpid pools of crystalline stardust. To him the word limpid probably sounds like an insult. He's not going to say he loves you with every "fiber of his being." To him fiber is the reason he's choking down that gritty drink mix every morning. He's not going to tell you you're the most beautiful woman on the entire planet, because you're not, and mostly, men haven't yet learned the benefit of little white lies for the greater good.

He's not going to rent a white limo for the day, or a tux either for that matter, or suddenly develop the ability to dance you around a floor like Gene Kelly, either.

Women are mostly miserable on Valentine's Day because we build the day up in our minds to a matter of so much importance that no living male mortal could possibly live up to our expectations and wishful thoughts. No matter what these poor guys do, it's not going to quite measure up to what most women are hoping for on this day. So take heart, singles--your sisters who are in relationships are miserable today too.

But there is hope. I do have advice. Well of course I do, I'm an advice columnist AND a romance novelist, which makes me an expert here. Uh . . . I guess.

Remember that the men in our books are creations of women. They're our imaginations. They can do all the right things, say all the right words, even present us with the perfect facial expressions, touch us precisely the right way, get us off every single time--because they're not real. They're US. It's mental masturbation, ladies. These guys are fictional.

Oh, but real men. Real men are so much better. Because you don't know what to expect. And because for most of them, romance and emotions and sappy sugary stuff like that doesn't come easily. So if a real man manages to squeeze out a compliment, it's heartfelt. If he gives you a card in which he's only managed to scrawl his name, rather than lines of a sonnet singing your praises, he's out done himself. He's really trying, and that means more than all the perfect imaginary stuff in the world, because it's real.

If he loves you, that's worth its weight in gold. If he loves you, it doesn't matter what else he comes up with to celebrate the day. And if you're not that far yet, if he's fond of you, cares for you, likes being with you, that's all good too.

Let's give our guys a break. If you want a Vermont Teddy Bear or a Pajama-Gram, remember that those are sort of the things women would think of and most men wouldn't. So buy one for yourself, and let the poor guy off the hook. Frankly, if he remembers it's a holiday and actually shows up with any token, no matter how lame, it should mean the whole world to you.

So enjoy it.

And single gals, just wait until tomorrow, baby. All those leftover heart shaped boxes of chocolate will be on sale for next to nothing! Wooo-hooo! Talk about a sweet celebration!

Maggie

Taking Control (Tara Taylor Quinn)

Life is crazy. I've lived a few decades and from where I sit now, what I can tell you for sure is that life is nuts. Everyone has his or her own perspective and bungles around trying to fit that view in with the next guys, or, more often, to convince the next guy that his is right in an effort to gain validation for his own perspective. Freedom of thought and choice are the mainstay of our existence in America. They are the core rights that we fight to the death to maintain. And yet, by the very nature of the beast, we aren't really all that free. How can I go out and act upon my own choices when they directly, or indirectly effect others who have the right to not be effected if they choose not to be?

I've been making myself nuts lately trying to give everyone their space (from the stranger in the grocery store, to my closest loved ones) to be who they are. I'be been trying so hard to be open minded and non-judgemental and to recognize that everyone has the right to his or her own thoughts and choices as much as I do and to honor that right. I've been making myself nuts because I hear so many different voices in my head, all the different perspectives that creep in when I keep myself so open, and I'm left with a cacophony of mixed messages that are, at best, confusing.

Of course, I'm neck deep in the book that's due now, a dark dark tale that is more reality than fiction, a tale about the shadow sides we all possess. And the good sides that sometimes balance them and sometimes don't. I'm up to my ears in the voices of the demons that drive some people, and the voices of fear that try to control others. I'm researching things like infant death (baby boys are dying) and other horrors so unspeakable I can't write them here. And I'm finding out that everyone has a heart, and that people's hearts can get twisted through no fault of their own.

I'm also realizing that people really can make choices, no matter their circumstances, to make their lives joyful and productive. We can choose to rise above circumstance, to realize that the sun will shine again - even in Ohio in the dreary dead of winter. We can find pleasure in little things if the big things are out of our control. We can take small steps toward controlling more of the big things in our lives. We can choose to see beauty in the greyness. It's always there.

We can wait around for life to be perfect. We can place blame and feel justified in our rightness while we sit around thinking about the reasons why we aren't happy. Or we can find the things in our lives, right now, that make us happy. I have a little companion who sits in my chair beside me every single day. It's as if this being is an angel sent from God to watch out for me. If I get up, she does, too, and she stands and waits to see what I'm going to do next. If I go downstairs, she's right there on the stairs with me. If I'm in the bathroom, she sits there, too. (She hasn't learned manners and respecting space, yet!) I can sit in my chair and think of reasons why my heart is breaking. I can look to the future and be afraid. Or I can see that little body curled up into my thigh. I can touch her and let her warmth seep into my fingers and warm my heart. When I focus on her, she truly brings me joy. Every single time. I just have to choose to see her there.

I can feel like a victim. Or I can feel lucky. With the same set of circumstances. The choice is mine.

And some days, it's just damned hard to make choices. Or to know what choices are going to bring the most joy. Some days, a lot of days for me while I'm caught up in the dark world that I'm inhabiting while I finish this thriller that's due, it's hard to even remember that we have choices. Or to believe in the ability to see beauty or take control. But I've tapped back into a source I've long known about, to combat those days of darkness, and I wanted to share it with you all.

It's the wonderful, magical world of color. It's been scientifically proven that colors do things to our psyches, and our emotions, without us even being aware of its effects. Certain colors bring about certain feelings or drives. And if we know which colors do what, we've suddenly gained a very accessible way to take control, right now, in an instant, and to head ourselves on a more sure path to joy. All we have to do is surround ourselves with the color we need to tend to whatever situation we find ourselves in. We can paint a room in that color and sit in it - or simply color a piece of typing paper with a crayon and put it within sight. We can choose our clothes to effect our moods and desires. And our screensavers and computer color schemes.

Today, I very consciously chose purple. I'm wearing purple shirts (it's cold here and I've been forced into layering!) And purple jewelry. I'm in my office that is largely accented in purple. I look at the artwork above my desk that encompasses a purple heart - and is framed with a purple mat. And I take time to look at a fairy book that is accented in purples.

I'm doing this, consciously, because I recognize the negative effect this book is having on my belief system. I'm fighting back simply by consciously choosing to surround myself with purple. The color purple symbolizes transcendental expression. It increases philosophical expansion, enhances spiritual awareness, promotes enhanced intuition, advances communication with the soul and encourages optimism. I love purple!!

So...here's an experiment for everyone. Following is a list of colors and their properties. (This list comes from many sources as color properties seem to be universally recognized.) You'll see some carry overs and sameness in some of the color properties, but that has to be as the colors themselves are related. For instance, orange is made of red and yellow so some of the properties for orange can also be found in red and yellow. Find yourself, what you think might help you find more joy in your current situation, and surround yourself with that color. Just for a day. Give it a try and see what happens. On the shadow side (I need more purple!!!) if it doesn't work, you haven't lost anything. Color doesn't cost anything, this doesn't take any extra time (unless you decide to paint a room) it doesn't hurt and it isn't bad for your health in any way! So here's the list (purple is listed above.)

Red: symbolizes will, assertiveness, power, anger. It stimulates, arms, excites, and cheers; provides quick energy; counteracts feeling depressed; encourages constructive anger; increases physical strength.

Green: symbolizes growth, springtime, love, prosperity. It promotes serenity; enhances desire to evolve; provides inner balance and harmony; encourages properity; increases fertility

Yellow: symbolizes intellectual stimulation, clarity. It stimulates creative potential; encourages a cerebral approach; promotes communication; advances understanding; fosters educational enrichment; enhances ability to be open-minded.

Dark Red: symbolizes power, sexuality, passion. It releases old karmic anger; encourages intensity; enhances sexual passion; increases determination and drive; provides an increase in enduring energy.

Brown: symbolizes being earthy, reliable. It concentrates on reality; encourages discipline and responsibility; maintains focus on goals; promotes connection to body for all healing to occur.

Silver Blue: symbolizes feeling, calm serenity. It promotes relaxation; encourages creative expression; aids in accessing emotion; calms anger and agitation; shields against negative emotional influences.

Gold: sumbolizes authentic connections from the heart. It creates self-confidence; builds self-love and self-respect; provides warm connections to others; promotes courage

Rose Pink: symbolizes balance, harmony and cooperation. It encourages cooperation; enhances understanding in relationships; promotes creativiety; creates air of refinement; increases harmony and balance.

Electric Blue: symbolizes individuality and originality. It encourages uniqueness; stimulates need for humanism; creates innovation; enhances ability to be open-minded; promotes being rational.

Lavendar: symbolizes spirit, connection to God. It increases spiritual awareness; promotes attunement with higher consciousness; cleanses psychic channels; encourages self-forgiveness; promotes communication with the soul; creates meditative states that encourage rest and healing.

Orange: symbolizes healing and energizing. It manifests feelings of well-being; decreases depression; decreases fears; increases physical healing when emotions have created pain; creates self-confidence.

Today I am purple. What color are you???

the Longevity Update (Suzanne Forster)

Are there awards for drinking an 11.5 ounce can of V8 juice every morning, because I sure am eligible. A few weeks ago I blogged about a new study that said you could add fourteen years to your life by making just four health changes: Stop smoking, exercise moderately, drink moderately, and eat five servings of fruits and vegetables every day.

How hard could that be, right?

Right.

Actually for me the first change really was a cinch, since I haven’t smoked in years. The next two were also doable, although I’m still probably closer to light than moderate on the exercise and the drinking. The hard part? Those pesky vegetables!

In my earlier blog, I complained about the truckloads of produce I had to eat and someone suggested V8 juice. I can still remember the face I made. V8? No way. I’m tough. I’m eating real vegetables. And besides, I don’t like the stuff. It’s not the taste as much as the consistency. It’s thick and mushy and clings to the side of the glass like congealed blood plasma. Bleeeech. However, after two consecutive nights of tucking away mounds of steamed spinach before bed to get in my five servings, I decided maybe I would check out the juice aisle next time I was at the grocery store. And guess what? It’s true. An 11.5 ounce can of V8 really is equal to two servings of vegetables. That’s almost half the daily requirement!

I took two six packs home with me, and I’ve been drinking it ever since. First thing every morning, before I do anything else, even have a cup of tea, I slosh down that can of V8. And for that alone, people, I do believe I deserve an award.

Now, I know that some of us here love V8—that would be our Ms. Potter—but I would like to respectfully submit that loving V8 should make you ineligible for this award. If you’re not fighting your gag reflex when you drink it then to my mind you’re not a contender for the V8 Medal of Valor. Okay, I just made up that rule, but fair’s fair!

Seriously, though, V8 has made the difference. Since I started with the daily can, I’m now able to make the five required servings. Sometimes six! And another interesting development—I’m losing weight. That surprised me because I expected to gain weight. I’m definitely eating more, but I do find that, for example, when I have a tuna fish sandwich, I load it up with so much lettuce that I’m full before I get to the corn chips. Got to get in those extra servings and chips don’t count. They aren’t fruits or vegetables. Or wait, maybe they are. Corn? Hm, wonder how many chips it would take …

Weird, I know, but that’s how my mind is working these days. You do not want to get between me and a catsup bottle.

There’s also another reason you might lose weight eating this way. It’s a lot of work! I didn’t know this, but apparently the calories it takes to eat and digest certain foods cancels out the amount of calories in the food. This is especially true of raw, crunchy vegetables like celery and carrots. I still find that hard to believe, but I read it in one of the AOL features on health. Apparently any fibrous food is good for losing weight and cleansing the system because of the bulk and the extra effort the body must make to break it down.

One last plug for V8. There actually are things you can do to make it more palatable. I loved Thea’s suggestion so I tried a splash of Tabasco and a sprinkle of celery salt with my juice. It tasted lots better, but I found my tummy wasn’t ready for Tabasco at seven in the morning. Maybe if I were to delay the V8 until mid-morning and pretend it was brunch or wait until the evening and have a V8 Happy Hour. But to be honest, that’s not likely. Getting it over with seems to be only workable strategy right now.

Has anyone else given the four health changes a try? Tara mentioned drinking V8, so possibly she’s giving it whirl. I think the real trick to any lifestyle change is to be very forgiving of lapses. There are days I can’t do the V8, so I don’t. And at least once a week, I take a vacation from anything resembling produce … unless raspberry sherbet counts. I actually like fruits and vegetables, and I want to keep liking them, so I try not to get obsessive and make it a chore. It needs to be fun and there should be rewards. Hence, my medal. Besides anything tastes good after V8, and overall, I really am eating much healthier than I was.

Happy crunching,
Suz

LIVING THE DREAM (Anne Stuart)

Well, it took me days to get to Jenny Crusie's magic house in the woods in Ohio -- snowstorms in Vermont and Chicago shut down airports -- but I've been here since Thursday and we've been working like crazy, and I tell ya, this kind of thing is Living the Dream of being a writer. Hanging out in a huge house with your two best writer buddies, hashing out issues in the rough draft of our collaboration, talking craft in general, going shopping, sitting in front of a fire with our knitting and crocheting and arguing about prologues and flashbacks (we all agree on no headhopping) while the wind howls outside and the river rises to flood stage and the dogs cuddle with each of us. Man, life is good.
Even a brief foray into the business, for a booksigning where I got to see my buddy Tara Taylor Quinn was good, despite the fact that I don't want to think about the business.
Times like these make the frustration of publishing worth it. You gotta let go of the bad stuff and embrace the good. Lani (Diane Rich) and Jenny (Crusie) are teaching me that. Considering that Lani's been published for 4 years, Jenny for 15, and me for 34, I guess I'm just an appallingly slow learner.
But then, Let Go and Let God was always my favorite 12 step slogan, and step 3 always my favorite step.
Hell, we need a PWA (Published Writers Anonymous) just to get through all this. Hmmmm.
Stay tuned for more.

Life In the Danger Zone (LynnK)

After a long, excruciating apprenticeship, I am now the official Dark Vortex of Construction Projects Gone Bad. This is an honor I would cheerfully relinquish.
Some of you are familiar with my next-door horror story, the Never-Ending Renovation of an historical building (dates all the way back to 1911), a former dormitory that should have been labeled Do Not Resuscitate. The restoration began in 2004. This picture was taken yesterday.

I do not expect to outlive this project.

“I guess you’re getting used to the noise by now,” someone said to me the other day. Weakened by sleep deprivation, I refrained from smacking him upside the head. But in fact, the neighborhood is being transformed in unexpected ways. Local mockingbirds in breeding season have begun mimicking backing-up truck beepers. And across the street, a house being remodeled now sports a prominent stained-glass window depicting the Virgin Mary. I expect she’s meant to ward off the Evil Demons of Faulty Rebuilding.

Meantime, the apartment directly above mine is under the hammer. It is a truth universally acknowledged that a man, whatever his age, will revert to eight years old when given the chance to demolish, well, just about anything.

And thus it is that the very nice maintenance man, “Gumbah,” and his trusty sidekick charged up the stairs like storm troopers to have their wicked way with hapless floors, ceilings, walls, and my peace of mind. Not to mention my tiny loo.

Into each life some rain must fall. In this case, the rain sounded like gravel as it hit the lowered plastic ceiling in the bathroom. After the second day, light from the fluorescent tubes above the ceiling could not penetrate the layers of silt, chipped paint, wood splinters, fragments of dry wall, and chunks of cement. I showered in the dark.

Then came the avalanche. And I can’t say I wasn’t warned. It’s reported that cats are able to detect early, otherwise imperceptible indications of an impending earthquake or volcanic eruption. In this case, I’m sure Lymond knew disaster was at hand. Poised at scampering distance from the Demolition Derby, ears pricked up, he was making low noises in his throat and shooting meaningful looks over his shoulder at me. “Did you hear that?”

Upstairs, the guys were banging and crashing and ripping up and laughing. Gravel-rain was falling. Business as usual. “It’s all right, “ I assured the watch-cat. At which point, all hell broke loose.

I learned that even when the sky is falling, inertia remains my natural state. It didn’t occur to me I should bolt for safety. Not so Lymond, who made it to the top of the cat tree in record time. I just sat there in front of the laptop, which I closed against the cloud of dust, and waited until the last few cement lumps hit the sink.


Finally, after everything else had fallen, silence fell. I dragged myself up, sauntered as far I could get into the bathroom, and looked up. Above me, through a hole the size of a jacuzzi, I saw Gumbah and sidekick gazing down at what they had wrought.

“I’ll expect I’ll be seeing the clean-up crew in a minute or two,” I said with a friendly smile. Never, ever, antagonize the maintenance men! Besides, I really like those guys. And sure enough, they quickly appeared with brooms and did the usual lousy job one expects from men who’d rather be wreaking havoc. But they did replace the sacrificial plastic panel, which will protect me and cat from falling debris for, well, who knows?

I’m not sure if there’s any connection between all the construction and destruction surrounding me and a sudden rash of computer problems. Maybe the cable company is messing up again. I suspect that’s the case. At home I can’t seem to stay on-line for any degree of time, which makes it hard to upload blog posts, so I’m sending this from a friend’s condo. She has wireless. It works. I have Time-Warner. Disaster takes many forms.

Update: Lymond de Sevigny wishes to thank StoryBroads’ commenters for their kind and understanding words after his traumatic week. He hopes they will inspire me to coddle him with Sheba cat food. Which, as it happens, I saw at Ralph’s yesterday. $1.49 for a teensy-weensy can! Don’t hold your breath, cat.

The Internet Is A Dangerous Thing (Patricia Potter)

I think we all have discovered the internet can be a very dangerous thing. With me, it’s a time consumer. The first thing I do in the morning is check my email before turning to the work in progress. Bad move. Yet I can’t seem to help myself. What if there’s an offer to sell the rights of the latest book -- or an old one -- to Russia, or Japan, or Germany? What if there’s an urgent message from my editor? What if a long lost friend has contacted me?

I tell myself I can wait and check after finishing a certain number of pages. I’m hurrying to meet a deadline before dashing off for a much needed holiday in Coronado with fellow blogger Lynn, she of the falling ceiling and much put upon cat, Lyman. One hundred pages must be finished in a week.

But still my fingers ignore good intentions and take me to the internet and my mailbox. Nine hundred and two messages listed (no kidding). I'm on lots and lots of loops, and I don't erase some emails because I intend to answer them when I have time (never happens, but I always have hope). Check email. No new offers, darn it. No urgent messages. I skim over the most recent, erasing spam, leaving others. I'll do something about those later. Time to leave.

But . . . maybe while I'm here, I’ll take a second to check out one of the on-line communities of which I’m a member.

Ah, someone mentions a book in which the devil appears. My mind whirls backward. I once read a book in which a heroine had an affair with the devil. Years ago. Many, many years ago. Yet I remembered that there was thunder when they made love.

Ignoring passing time, I try to remember the title and author of the book. As is my wont, when a question seizes my thinking process, I can’t let go. The question will nag at me until I answer it. And I can't disappear in that magical, creative world done when something nags at me.

Two names come to mind as possible authors of said tale. Anya Seton and Kathleen Winsor. I was reading both about the time I THINK I read the devil's story. I was enthralled with both authors. Kathleen Winsor’s “Forever Amber,” was my first guilty pleasure. As a teenager, I read it under the covers with a flashlight. I go to Kathleen Winsor on the web to try to find the elusive book I'm hunting. Nothing concerning the devil, but there is a lot about "Forever Amber." “Forever Amber,” it said, “was forbidden, banned in fourteen states," in part, according to one attorney general, "for seventy references to sexual intercourse" and “10 descriptions of women undressing in the presence of men.”

I read avidly. I learn that "Forever Amber" was Kathleen Winsor's first book, and it was the fifth draft of the book that was accepted for publication? The publishers promptly edited the book down to one-fifth of its original size. The resulting novel was 972 pages long. “The saga frolicked through Restoration England and vivid images of fashion, politics, bedrooms and public disasters at the time, including he plague and the Great Fire of London," according to one review.

I now know more about Kathleen Winsor, including her divorce and marriage to Artie Shaw, the band leader, but I find no mention of a book with a love affair between the heroine and the devil.

I’ll try Anya Seton next. She too was one of my early favorite authors.
On to Wikipedia. Yep, she wrote "Dragonwyck," one of my first gothics. Loved it. Then there was “Katherine,” a magnificent historical romance. And “Foxfire” and “Green Darkness.” Oh my, how I loved those books.

I also learned that her father was one of the founders of the Boy Scouts.

But still no devil . . ..

However, entranced by old and very fond memories, I go to Amazon and order copies of six novels by Kathleen Winsor and Anya Seton. Are they really as good as I remember?

The day is gone, sucked away by the internet and my quest. The pages that were to be written are not.

Six great novels, though, will soon be on top of my sky-high to-be-read pile.

The internet is truly a dangerous thing.

And, sadly, I still haven’t found that story that instigated this journey through delicious books of the past. So I plead here, does anyone remember a story/novella/book in which the devil tempts a woman who lands in his domain? Can anyone put me out of my misery?

And secondly, do you have any guilty pleasures like “Forever Amber” in your past?

Today, the Ceiling Fell In (Lymond de Sevigny)

Only the bathroom ceiling. Not to worry. My own litter box was unaffected.

But the Can Opener (aka LynnK) has issues with the mess in her private space. And she'd have been here to rant, except that her computer is also on the fritz. I don't know what that means, but it can't be good.

Someone (not me) is posting this on her behalf, and she says she'll try on Sunday to 'splain what happened.

All I know is that the loud noises are hurting my ears and I only got dry food all day.

Woe is I.

Happy Birthday To Me! (Maggie)

Yesterday (Wednesday) was my birthday. If you want to know my age, ask my grandson. When he asked, I said, "twenty-nine, hon." He says, "but I thought you were already twenty-nine." I said, "yep, that's right." And he said, "but my mom is twenty-seven." And I said, "that's very good, dear. My goodness, you're smart."

He's getting a little too smart, but oh, well. You're as young as you feel, right? And it's just a number and it only has the meaning we give it. I choose not to give it any.

But since it's my birthday, I've been reviewing the past year, and noticing the highlights. There was Thelma & Louise whirlwind trip to Arizona, with my pal Michele, which was one of the best trips of my life. There was the camping weekend at Letchworth, with the whitewater kayaking. There was the weekend I performed my best friend's daughter's wedding. The past year has brought me a new vehicle, new hardwood floors, a pretty new fainting couch with a swan design, a new big screen TV, an Iphone. This was the year I finally upgraded to DVR. I lost twelve pounds. I had my first running injury, or to keep this positive, I recovered from my first running injury. I started my new column. I released the first novel in a whole new phase of the vampire series. I hired and fired a publicist.


This year, there were a solar eclipse and a new moon that both fell on my birthday. This is supposed to be ushering in a very positive set of changes and opportunities and growth in my life. I'm really excited about that. But then again, that's what I look for on every birthday, and every New Year's Day as well. I'm always thinking of new cycles beginning and looking ahead to what the year will bring. (Read your own horoscopes from the most accurate, insightful astrologer I've ever met, Susan Miller, at www.astrologyzone.com.)

One of the main features of this past year has been the way my relationships have grown, deepened, and changed. Every one of them is at a better, firmer, closer level now, but some of them--no, I think it's safe to say ALL of them -- took a rather painful route to get there. And yet, they're better now than ever before. There's more communication, more real feeling, more closeness, more understanding. Depth. It's a beautiful thing to have that sort of a bond with someone.

So what will this coming year bring? It's exciting just to contemplate it. Life is such a ride, isn't it? It's one I'm enjoying I'l tell you. Even the times when it gets bad--or bad according to my limited point of view while living it--it just makes me want more of the good stuff, and appreciate it more when it comes, as it inevitably does. And I've learned over the course of this year that you can predict what's coming, according to what you want, and your attitude toward it. If you desire something, your desire creates it, and if you can go through life happy, positive, and joyously expecting your desires to be fulfilled, they will be. (Most of us spend our lives grumpily grinching that our desires aren't here yet--which prevents them from coming.)

There's a house down the road from my own wonderful Serenity. And I love that house. And I love this house too. But that one sits right on the water, and that really appeals to me. I would have bought it if it had been for sale when I'd found this one, but it wasn't. And I do love where I am. But I think I might like that one better. I feel very certain that house is in my future. It's still not for sale. It's waiting for me to be ready to buy it, I think.

Huge financial changes are in my future. Eradication of debt is one of my chief focuses of the year. It'll be fun getting there.

I have no doubt more fun trips are in my future. I totally intend to do Letchworth again, not just for my annual group trip there, but for a side trip, for some more kayaking, and horseback riding and hot air balloon rides and hiking and swimming and stuff. It's a great park. I'm craving another, bigger trip too, to one of my favorite places. Somewhere hot and sunny with water nearby. Salem. New Orleans. Virginia Beach. Somewhere tropical, maybe. No doubt about it, this year I'm going to travel.

I have a new living room set in my immediate future. That's not going to be put off much longer. I've been vibrating that for a long while now and it's about ready to manifest.

There's a new book contract in my future as well. This summer, in fact.

It occurs to me that there's a way to use numerology and the Tarot to determine the main focus of your year. You take your birthdate, only you substitute the current year for the year of your birth. (So for me that would be 2/6/2008 this year.) Then you add those numbers together. 2 + 6 + 2 + 0 + 0 + 8 = 18.

(If the sum is 23 or more, you need to add those two digits together until you get an answer that is 22 or less.)

Now you match your year number to the Major Arcana card in the Tarot that bears the matching number. This can sometimes be eerily accurate. For example, the year my mom died, my youngest left home, and my marriage ended was a year in which my year card was The Tower. Anyone with even a passing knowledge of Tarot knows that's a pretty good match.

(You can find more on finding your personal power cards of the Tarot in the book TAROT FOR YOUR SELF by Mary K. Greer.)

So this year my year card is The Moon. So I'll be meditating on that card and its meaning, and watching for my life to follow a moonlit path through this coming year. The moon is associated with water, too, so that bodes well for my love of and longing to be near the wet stuff!

A birthday tarot reading is an annual treat for me. Any of you have any fun or slightly mystical birthday traditions to share?
Even the traditional birthday candle has its roots in folk magick, you know. (It's where you least expect it, isn't it?)

Share your birthday thoughts and ideas. I celebrate all week, so I can still adopt some of them! Oh, and hey, while we're at it, if you post your birthday in the comments section, I'll post back and tell you which card is your focus for the year! This could be fun!

Best,
Maggie

Speaking From The Heart

Speaking from the heart is something I can't do today. I've been denied access. Does that ever happen to anyone else? I'm not sure why it happens, but today, I am not welcome inside.

Maybe because yesterday, I told my heart I didn't like it. I told it it had messed up (only I didn't use a word as nice as that one.) Of course, today I realize that it was me that messed up, not my heart. I must have messed up listening to it, or interpreting what I heard. 'Cause hearts don't mess up do they?

Anyway, the powers that be that guide the heart didn't quite strike me with lightning for my blasphemy, but they're teaching me a little (or a huge) lesson. Today I have a headache - the kind that make you feel a little dizzy and like all you want to do is sleep - and no access to the inner sanctum.

Not that that's necessarily a bad thing. I mean, after all, I'm pissed at it anyway, right?

So...I'll show it! I'm pouring diet coke down my throat as quickly as I can. I don't know for sure (okay, at all) how it gets from down my throat to up in my head, but I hope it hurries on its way. That'll take that headache out with such force it won't know what hit it. Either that or I'm just going to be making a lot trips downstairs from my office to use the under construction room with a bath in it.

It was there, this month, that I learned how to use a hammer drill. (First I learned what one was.) And I've used this tool that shoots real 22 caliber bullets to put screws in cement block which is what this beautiful old cottage is made of. And I also mastered two different kinds of nail guns that work off an air compressor - one of the guns is automatically shooting. Now those put some story ideas in the head. (Maybe that's why it's hurting?)

The bathroom has now become attached to the master bedroom. (We blew a hole in the cement block wall between the two.) Actually, there was no blowing involved. It was backbreaking work breaking through one block at a time so the house didn't fall down on us. But the doorway that has arrived is beautiful! I wasn't sure what my husband was doing when he started buying way too many boards and measuring and having me help him saw. (Until it got too cold out there and he was one his own!) I mean, did he see that little space we had to work with? If we put up all these boards there was no way even I would fit through that opening. But slowly, as I trusted and worked, I saw this artfully constructed, true to the time period of the house, doorway appear. Amazing, really. Gives a whole new meaning to doorways. Until this point, I've always taken them for granted. You find them and walk through them. Done. Now, when I'm sitting around daydreaming, I'm noticing the framing on everything, windows, doors, archways.

Next we're tackling the vanities (we're putting in double sinks) and then a new and moved other necessary bathroom piece, and ceramic tile on the floor. The bath - a very old cast iron tub that is in remarkably good shape - is staying right where it is! But might be refinished, if I ever get up the guts and energy and time to use the stuff we bought to do that.

So maybe this is what happened to my heart. I became too guylike and daydream about framing, instead of about love and being happy.

Nah, I don't think so. I think I'm in the doghouse. (Ha ha! Now here was a freudian slip. When I typed doghouse it came out godhouse.) I know it's up to me. I have to make peace with my heart. And, knowing me, I'll get around to it. It let me down and hurt me a lot, but without it, I can't experience the joy. Isn't that just like life? For every bad there is a good? Sometimes I hate that.

Yeah, yeah, I know. For every good there is a bad, too. And I gotta take it just like everyone else. But I don't have to like it.

Well, the diet coke's working. Sort of. To go with the rest of my liquid diet of orange juice and cranberry juice. There's V8 downstairs, too - thanks to Suz and her blasted post that now makes me drink that horrid stuff.

And you know, the thing about love is, it's not real when it's only there if times are good. Hell, like and lust and illusion can do that. Love is only real if it's there, to sit with you, when you aren't perfect, or even slightly imperfect. It's real when it's there to sit with you when you are out of your head with panic or pain, even if you shouldn't be. It's there when you're a mess and ugly and screaming to be heard. It holds you and comforts you simply because it can't not.

Unless, of course, you can't access your heart. So, here's a weird one. Anyone got any clue how to make peace with one's own heart? Hurry on down with suggestions. My headache's roaring again.

The Things We Do for Research! (Suzanne Forster)

Writing novels is one strange way to making a living. Here’s part of the reason why: The Idiot’s Guide to Tantric Sex; The Encyclopedia of Erotic Wisdom; A Natural History of the Senses; Harem, the World Behind the Veil; Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus and You Just Don’t Understand Me, which, by the way, is an excellent book on communication between the sexes by Deborah Tannen.

Those are just a tiny sampling of my research books from the early days of writing romantic fiction. I also came across some fascinating studies on the science of sexual attraction and the underlying meaning of our romantic fantasies. Can you believe it? Writers actually get paid to research these things! I’d love to tell you it was grueling and tedious work, but what could be more compelling than learning about the dynamics of relationships and the intricacies of our romantic attractions? These are the mysteries of the ages and the driving forces behind our stories. The truth is I enjoyed the research so much I could probably give Doctor Ruth a run for her money.

My repertoire has expanded a bit since then. I’m now writing romantic suspense and the research includes books on exotic poisons, crime scenes and forensic evidence, abnormal psychology, serial killers, and a truly excellent book on how to spot a sexual predator called The Gift of Fear by Gavin De Becker.

Writing the books is by far the easiest—and the safest—part. Researching a suspense novel can get a little dicey at times. Some years ago a friend was working on a novel that dealt with the assassination of the President. This friend, who was a solid citizen and a long-time member of his community, had the FBI show up at his door to ask a few questions. They were vague about how he’d come to be a “person of interest,” even when he asked them directly. Eventually he came to the conclusion that they must have come across his Internet searches. Scary, especially since this was before the days of Homeland Security and the specter of illegal wiretapping.

My friend said he and the FBI agents had a nice talk, wherein he explained that he was writing a novel, gave them a copy of his manuscript and that was the end of it. They left and he didn’t hear from them again. He was fairly blaise about it. I however, have never looked at Internet research in the same way since. Call me paranoid, but I don’t want Homeland Security camping out on my lawn. I use my own computer for routine research, but if there’s murder and mayhem involved, I’ve convinced Allan, the dh, to use the local library’s computers.

My new story idea is set in the Pacific Northwest and one of the characters is an assassin with a very unique way of dispatching his victims. It took lots of research and some brainstorming, but I really wanted something more interesting than the typical sniper’s rifle with a high-powered scope. Pressed into service again, Allan did the research at work and emailed me several links on freak accidents and bizarre methods of assassination, hoping it would trigger an idea. It also triggered a problem. Allan’s boss, who monitors email, had some questions about what Allan does in his spare time.

Brainstorming in public places is also risky. People within earshot do double takes when they hear multiple references to sniper rifles, assassinations and wet work coming from my table. My writer friends and I should learn to talk softly about such things, but plotting a book is actually fun and once we get caught up in the momentum of it, we tend forget that we may be chattering about death and destruction. Or sex. On one occasion when the brainstorming turned into an enthusiastic discussion of all things erotic, we were politely asked to finish our Oolong and leave the lovely patio restaurant where we were having afternoon tea.

Another sure way to get strange looks is to leave a draft of your book lying around where people can read it. I have a habit of carrying a hard copy of the current draft wherever I go, just in case I’m stuck in traffic or hung up at the doctor’s office and get a chance to work on it. It’s usually only a few chapters, but I have this regrettable tendency to leave the pages in the most inopportune places. Why is it always the sex scenes I forget in my doctor’s office? Or the torture scene that delves into the twisted mind of a psychopath? I once wrote a scene that still gives me chills about brainwashed hostages and mind control. Where did I leave it? In the waiting room of the local IRS office! I’d stopped in there to get some estimated tax return forms and walked out without my pages. When they called to ask if I was Suzanne Forster and told me what they’d found, I pretended to be someone else. I’m probably lucky not to be wearing a straight jacket right now, and brainstorming my ideas in a locked ward for the criminally insane.

This last anecdote is one I’ve never told. It’s embarrassing and more than a little frightening, but perhaps it will serve as a warning about getting into a car with a stranger. I’ll admit to being young, foolish, and desperate to get the inside scoop from a real Justice Department agent. Or so he said. I’d run out of gas on the freeway on my way to local romance writers chapter meeting. A car pulled onto the shoulder ahead of me and a man came back to ask if I needed help. I told him I was waiting for a Triple A truck. He asked where I was going, I mentioned the writers’ meeting, and that sparked his interest. He inquired about the book I was working on—and swore he’d worked for the Justice Department. Suddenly he was a font of information. I got out my notebook, at which point I was well and truly hooked.

The Triple A truck didn’t show up and he offered to drive me to the nearest gas station. I agreed, hoping for more time with him and more information. I actually took notes as we drove to the station. I’m now convinced he was a serial killer or maybe an aspiring one and the only reason I’m alive today is because he thought I might immortalize him in a book, which was irresistible to his ego. I’m sure he didn’t give me his right name, and I wasn’t planning to call him anyway. At some point on the ride back from the gas station, I knew darn well that I’d made a mistake. The conversation had turned to subjects that were salacious and had nothing to do with my story, and the vibe in the car was really intense. Thank goodness for the Triple A! I spotted the truck as we neared my car and shrieked so loudly that the “agent” pulled over immediately. And then he apologized for having upset me.

Okay, so maybe he wasn’t a serial killer. Maybe he was just a weird man with a need to rescue stranded women and be a hero, but I’m going to continue to believe the worst possible scenario. Maybe it will keep me from ever doing anything that crazy again.

Ah, the writing life. I wonder what else could be as sublime and ridiculous at the same time. Possibly, something you’re doing or have done? When was the last time you left something embarrassing at the doctor’s office? Just please don’t tell me you got in a car with someone you didn’t know.

Suz

Off to Ohio (Anne Stuart)

Not quite as cool as off to see the Wizard (of OZ = Australia) but still cool, because I get to go spend time with Jenny Cruisie and Lani Diane Rich in the magic house by the river. We'll work our butts off on Dogs and Goddesses, eat at IHop, go to Hobby Lobby almost every single day (interspersed with great quilt and fabric stores) and generally have a fabulous time. And I absolutely can't wait.

I'm bringing my camera so I can keep you guys updated in our travels. We're going to finish on Valentine's Day, having a fabulous book and a wonderful vacation. I promise not to sing (the photo is of me as Kate Smith with my poor little godson looking on while I serenaded the masses). Unless asked.

But basically I get an eight day vacation with the girls, and life couldn't be sweeter. So, anyone out there have some fabulous suggestions for us? Great movies we can't miss (on DVD or in the theatre)? Great places to eat in the Cincinnati area? Quilt stores, Asian stores, quirky little places? Maybe we'll all go to a spa and be made beautiful.

Naaah -- we're gorgeous enough.

In the meantime, check out the fabric store we're going to:
http://www.sttheresatextile.com

Doesn't that just look delicious? And I'll have RITA books to read (if they ever get here) and wonderful to write and the company of two of the very best people in the world.

Life doesn't get much better.

Do you ever get to have a girls' escape/holiday? What do you do and where do you go? Any suggestions for our Merry Trio?

All God's Creatures (Patricia Potter)

Fairy dust must be falling amongst us this week because we all seem to have the same idea. Honestly, we don’t plan this stuff.

I had planned this blog all week and then Lynn steals my thunder, and Tara the day before in talking about the good and bad in our society.

I meant to blog about Best Friends, an animal sanctuary in the rock country of Southern Utah, and for a moment yesterday after reading Lynn’s blog, I thought I would wait a few weeks. After all, we don’t want to drown you all in our causes. But then I couldn’t resist because this week I read the organization's stories on the “Vicktory” dogs.

The Vicktory dogs are the pit bulls rescued from Atlanta Falcons Quarterback Michael Vick’s dog fighting ring. They were seized by the state of Virginia and – for a while – there were fears the animals would be destroyed. The judge, though, thought differently, and several animal rescue organizations stepped in and took the surviving dogs. Best Friends took twenty-two of them.

I've had a love affair going with Best Friends since I first heard of the sanctuary in aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. The organization took the lead in rescuing abandoned and lost animals and reuniting dogs with their owners. They did heroic work for months.

Then they flew to Lebanon to rescue cats and dogs abandoned and injured during the war there last year and its volunteers went to Puerto Rico, again to rescue animals after a catastrophe. They are instrumental in drawing legislation against dog fighting and puppy mills. They train vets. At any one time, they care for 2,000 animals: dogs, cats, horses, birds, rabbits. But what’s truly remarkable is that they take in sick and old animals and give them a loving home and veternarian care, even if they aren’t adoptable and never will be. Once in their care, “we make sure nothing bad will happen to them again.” Some go to good new homes. Others find lifelong care at the nation’s largest sanctuary.

There are dog trainers – whisperers – that work with dogs that have never known anything but cruelty or – in the case of puppy mills – have never been out of a small cage for six or seven years, never known a touch of affection. Most of the time the trainers and caretakers can make them adoptable. If not, they stay at the sanctuary, cared for by staff and hundreds of volunteers who love and care for the rejects of the animal world.

The web site is marvelous. If you go there, be prepared to spend an afternoon, just as Lynn spent an afternoon looking for people to help. There’s the story of Noble, a puppy mill dog who was all fear and anger when he arrived at Dogtown. Now he’s happily adopted, but it took nine months of intensive work to get him that way.

The National Geographic Society Channel featured Best Friends in three programs in January and will have four more programs in March. Look for them. You’ll fall in love with this organization because they believe every living creature deserves a chance to live well, even if it comes very late in the animal’s life. They will provide transportation for an old, sick bulldog from Louisiana because they feel it’s only right to that the dog have a few good months.

But back to the Vicktory dogs.

When they first arrived at the sanctuary, “they were a bit weary from the trip, but lots of tails wagging. And for us, it was a mix of emotions, seeing their big smiling eyes against the scars on their faces from all the fighting. Most of all, we were just glad they were here and safe.”

“As we were unloading the dogs,” one staff member said, “I asked John Garcia, one of our dog trainers, if we had any cupcakes on board. ‘Pittie cupcake’ is a term we use for our tough-looking but extra-loveable pitties. John smiled and said he found a new category and that is the ‘belly’. He fondly refers to Ellen as ‘Ellen Belly’ as she presents her belly for you to rub almost instantly when you meet.”

This staff member said that when they were discussing bringing the dogs to Best Friends, “we were in a constant powwow trying to figure out the space and how we would cover their needs. What if they were completely shutdown and it was too late . . . would we have a chance a redemption?

The answer is a resounding yes. They believe it won’t be long now before they receive photos of “these guys happily in their homes with truly a new lease on life.”

One staff member wrote about her experience with Ellen, a Pittie from the Vick dog fighting farm this way, "Lying in Ellen's room here at the sanctuary, I am mushing her head around with my hands and she is licking my face. We are like two girlfriends lying on our bellies looking at a magazine, telling secrets, talking about boys. I love her. She's been through so much and when I focus on the scars she bears on her face, I tear up every time. To think that anyone would take advantage of her makes me incredibly angry. . ."

I know that next time there’s a flood or fire or hurricane or war, or just plain human neglect and/or cruelty, Best Friends will be there. They will be angry about man's abuse, but the staff and volunteers are passionate about making things right.

A visit to their sanctuary (volunteers are welcomed) is on my bucket list (Things I’m going to do before kicking the bucket). In the meantime I can always visit via website, Best Friends.org., and live vicariously.

Out of the Depths (LynnK)

A few days ago—Monday, to be exact—I was feeling lower than a snake’s belly at the bottom of a well.

Okay, not so bad as that. Problems befall nearly all of us from time to time, and dwelling on them is a dark road to nowhere. Some depression, to be sure, requires help from therapists and/or medication. But my own troubles are of the ordinary sort. And right now, they are hardly worth mentioning, if only because so many of us are similarly stricken.

I speak of finances. My own net worth, nothing to boast about at any point in my life, has been battered by the economic downturn. I’ve pretty much lost the ability to do the things I have longed for and dreamed of. I’m scrimping like mad.

But . . . big hairy deal. Compared to most people in the world, I am still exceedingly fortunate.

Nonetheless, I was feeling pretty pitiful on Monday, and none of my usual evasive tactics were working. I can’t bear to wallow in my own misery, and feeling put-upon changes nothing. Not for the good. It only drags the important people in our lives down with us.

So I usually read a good book, take a walk, listen to music, or clean a closet. There is pleasure to be had, even in troubled times, and almost anything is better than curling up in a weepy ball.

On Monday, though, I couldn’t distract myself. The problems will affect all my plans for the present and the future. I needed radical action. Beaten down by money problems, what’s the most radical thing I could do?

Give some money away. That’s the ticket!

The thought leaped out at me, or from me, and it felt exactly right. Not because I imagined a little (very little) Monday generosity would change my own situation. But maybe I could help change someone else’s.

For no reason, I thought of Muhammad Yunus. Not a name likely to pop into one’s head, including mine, and it didn’t. But I remembered the founder of a bank in Bangladesh who won the Nobel Peace Prize in 2006 for developing “microcredit.”

Inspired by his charitable mother, he was a teacher when he gave $27 of his own money to a woman who wove bamboo stools and needed cash to buy the materials. No bank would look at her, and the interest on cash advances from loan sharks ate up all her profit.

Rather to his surprise, the loan was quickly repaid. And through experience, he learned that lending money to groups of four or five entrepreneurs who would each guarantee the entire loan resulted in a default rate of about 1.5%. Personal pride and reputation in the village made the difference. By contrast, bank loans in Bangladesh to “qualified” borrowers averaged a 50% default rate. The banks survived by being owned or subsidized by the government.

The bank founded by Yunus made good money, but it also helped transform his extremely poor country. Nearly all the loans were made to women, because they worked hard and channeled resources into the family. Their success is also helping raise the status of women in areas where females have traditionally been exploited or treated like chattel.

With the help of Google, I discovered the name of this wonderful man and reviewed his story. I also learned that ordinary people like me can now join in this splendid endeavor. One way is through MicroPlace.com, a subsidiary of eBay and an SEC-registered broker-dealer. It has its advantages and virtues, especially for big lenders and those wanting to earn interest on their loans.

But I was drawn to Kiva, an on-line non-profit center that helps small-time lenders merge as little as $25 with other contributors to provide funding to entrepreneurs in poverty-stricken countries.
Kiva works with local organizations that vet the applicants and handle the ground work. About 99% of the loans are repaid on time, and the funds are returned (without interest) to the lenders.

All very virtuous and, truly, world-changing. But as I discovered on Monday, it’s also great fun. At www.kiva.org, I spent a pleasant half hour looking at only a few of the many individuals and groups in search of a small loan to start or develop a business. All had submitted a business plan, provided background information, and been evaluated by the local organizations.

I could hardly make up my mind. All of them seemed wonderful to me. I could have spent the whole day reading their stories, imagining their lives, and deciding whether I wanted to subsidize goats, tailoring, cereal sales, rug-making, small property investment . . . name it, someone believes a profit can be made by doing it.

At the end, I went for the country of origin. I’m told my father’s father’s family originated in the Ukraine, so perhaps this fine lady is a distant relation. Kiva provided her picture and bio:


Mariya Stooparik is divorced with a 21-year-old daughter. She is from Ivano-Frankivsk where she runs a small business selling sportswear and caps in the central city market. Mariya used to work at a confectionery factory. After she got downsized she decided to start her own small venture selling clothing items. She has been in this business for 8 years. Mariya has been an outstanding client with “Nadiya Ukraine”. She has received and promptly repaid all of her loans which have had a considerable impact on the growth of her business. Presently, Mariya has about $6,000of working capital, and her income amounts to around $1,000 per month.

“Mariya has requested a loan of $500 to purchase 60 sportswear sets and 60 caps. She believes that a good variety of clothing items which are both comfortable and durable will sell well and will help her generate additional profit. Mariya is hoping to invest part of her profits in fulfilling one of her long-term plans of opening a second vending facility in the same market and significantly expanding her business.”

What’s not to like? I’ve always been addicted to pretty clothes (pretty much wasted on me!), and each new outfit she provides to he customers will make them happy as well. No reason for me to indulge in retail therapy for my own woes. In my imagination, I can visit Mariya’s shop and see her smile. One question: are the outfits in the picture what passes for sportswear in the Ukraine?!

Anyway . . . within one day, my loan to Mariya had been combined with seventeen others. The lenders come from Finland, Australia, Canada, France, Norway, Switzerland, and ten U.S. states. Their names and pictures (when submitted) are sent to all members of the “team.” The loan is due to be repaid in two months. At that time, we can each get our money back or apply it to another Kiva loan.

I can hardly wait to choose my next entrepreneur. In fact, I’ve resolved to make a new loan every month, not counting the repaid loans I’ll keep recycling. This is fun. I’m doing a little bit of good. And now I can’t spare a thought for my own troubles, because the cliche turns out to be true. It really is better to give than to receive,

Not that I wouldn’t mind giving and receiving! But first things first.