This photo really captures the essence of my weekend. Roses, gifts, candles, and a romantic dinner cruise around Alexandria Bay. It was a weekend I'll never forget, and much needed after the busy, eventful weeks we've had of late. Shoot, it's been so crazy, I forgot to blog last week! Not to mention that my advice column missed deadline by a half hour! Apologies for those slips. I'll try not to let it happen again! Despite the busy-ness of this month, everything is good, still. Busy, maybe a little stressful, but not in a negative way. Just a lot to be taken care of and little time to do it. But we'll get to that later. My weekend was a gift, and I'm still floating on a cloud of bliss.




This is the view from beside the little cabin where I spent the weekend with the man I love, at Lakeside Lodge, on the shores of Black Lake in northern N.Y. We had a great time, amazing, magical and as romantic as one of my novels! Dozer had a blast too. He loves the water and everyone he meets, human or canine! He got a lot of time splashing in the water, tasting seashells and lily pads and weeds and sand. He'll taste anything, the nut. He did show me that, though I think I can handle him, he is fully capable of pulling me right off my feet when he sees someone he wants to play with. This let me know that it's time for some more serious training on the leash--preferably before he gains another hundred or so pounds! I met a woman the other day who has an English Mastiff, Hank. He's tan, not brindle like The Doze. He's four years old and weighs a whopping 230 pounds! Talking to her made me really KNOW I have to get Dozer to behave because he wants to, not because I'm making him. Obviously, the time when I'll be able to MAKE him do anything is rapidly coming to an end!

But on to my busy stuff. I remember posting here about my oldest daughter, Jena, and her close call with the pregnancy two weeks ago. Since then, she's been ordered to stay off her feet, not an easy task with a two-year-old. Her husband Mike has to work, naturally, so I've been pitching in. Jena can't be left alone, so we've been making sure she never is. But I've had lots of help, too, from my other daughters, and from Mike's mom. It takes a village! LOL. And it's all been good. I've had some quality time with little Sean, and that's been the best part of all of it.
Here's Sean now "driving" my Murano. He's very excited about his soon to be born baby brother, Jamey, and he's been a really good boy during all of this upheaval. Amazingly good, to be honest. He's turned "Terrible Two" into "Terrific Two." Not that I'm biased or anything, but I think all my grandkids are exceptionally amazing, brilliant, angels that bless the planet with their very presence. And I am exaggerating . . . not one bit. =)

If all goes as planned, Jena will deliver her baby on this coming Monday, and after a few days in the hospital, life will settle back into a normal routine. Well, for me it will, anyway. For Jena, Mike, Sean and Jamey, it might take a little longer.

Needless to say, I'm not in San Francisco at the RWA convention this week. Plans change and family comes first. Should the Universe deliver that RITA Award Saturday night, my editor and agent will be happy to accept it for me, and I'll still have something to look forward to. Being present to win one at some future ceremony! (Although if I win two when I'm not there, after losing 13 when I was there, I might start to think it's good luck to stay home!) The nominated book, by the way, is DEMON'S KISS. Keep a good thought for it, will you?



Besides my bonding more closely with Sean, there's been another silver lining to spending so much time at Jena's beautiful home. Chloe, the yellow lab pup who lives there. I think I mentioned her too, two weeks ago, but I didn't have pics yet. She's six months old, just like Dozer, and he is in love with her. They have such a great time together! Though it's hectic--more work keeping track of them than of Sean! They tear through the house, race and run outside, make a break for the woods if I let them out of sight, jump, growl, play-fight, roll around, knock each other down, and just raise complete you know what.

What I love about it is that Dozer is so worn out after a day with Chloe that he sleeps all night without getting me up once. Which is rare on any other night. It even occurred to me that he might need a playmate at home. But then I thought I'd have to be insane to want to deal with THAT kind of craziness all day, every day, just so I could sleep through the nights. He'll get to that sooner or later anyway.

Even when the two tire out (Dozer far sooner than Chloe) they lie down and continue playing, or at the very least, nuzzle each other while they rest, and cuddle while they nap.

Dozer's enjoying this situation more than anyone else, I think, except perhaps for Chloe. I just love seeing them together. It's sheer, unbridled joy. It's how we humans ought to spend more time feeling. We can learn a lot from a pair of pups in love.

Oh, and as for work--yes, I'm still trying to finish a book by August 1. I have 30 pages to go, more or less--just basically the final few scenes. And it looks like it will be done on time, which is no wonder, since I've stated emphatically that it would be, and never doubted it, and so it can't really happen otherwise. I was slated to be at Jena's today, but her poor husband is sicker than sick and had to call in to work today. So him being home, I was given the day off, which means another day to make significant progress on the book. With this pregnancy culminating soon, it'll be great to get it off my desk as soon as possible. And in spite of all the lovely distractions (and I'm not being sarcastic at all, I love being able to be where I'm needed) the story is coming along beautifully. I love every page so far, and I think its readers will too.

Life is good, good, good.

I hope it is for you too!

Until next time--when I might actually have new baby pics to post--be happy!
Maggie

You Are My Carpenter (Tara Taylor Quinn)

I've got this old song running through my head. I don't know who sang it. Or what the name of it is, but it goes something like "If I were a carpenter, and you were a lady, would you marry me anyway..."

So...yeah. I married an engineer. But he's a carpenter, too. A gifted one. And now...tada...I'm one. Really. No tongue in cheek here. (Well, maybe the tip, but that's all.) I had so much fun this weekend. And that's straight up. When I was kid I was always wanting to play with my brothers lincoln log sets and erector sets and chemistry sets. They got all the fun stuff. The stuff with gadgets and things that you actually did stuff with to make different stuff. Maybe it was the creator in me, even then, but I always loved creating things. As I grew up, I learned how to create in the girly world.

My first piece, that I can remember, was a macrame purse. It was pretty small, with these too big plastic brown handles. My mom helped me line it. (Okay, she lined it.) But I sure loved that purse. Then there was the decoupage box purse. Believe it or not, I still have that one. It's pictures are yellowed and faded beyond recognition, but boy the gloss of that decoupage still shines! I made sure of that. I wanted it to be like glass and I put on lots and lots of coats.

Then there was the summer that I turned twelve and on our yearly family vacation at the cabin with my best friend and her family, I learned how to cross stitch. She'd brought us identical kits to work on. They were printed, color coded fabric. All you had to do was bring up a needle with blue thread on the tip of a blue 'x', take it back down again on the opposite tip, bring it back up again on the other side and repeat and tada, you had one cross stitch. It was mostly words. It said "A True Friend Is A Gift from God." She and I had been best friends since she was four and I was five. And she was still my soul mate on the day she was killed in a car accident eight years ago. I still have that cross stitch, too. I finished it long long ago and it's here with me, in my new little old cottage on the hill.

Then...same friend...and crocheting. We were fifteen or sixteen or maybe a little older when she came to the cabin for our yearly family vacation with yarn and a crochet hook and a half completed afghan that she was making for her boyfriend. Or at least for a boy she liked. It was
the old stand by 'ripple' pattern. (I know this now as I have mastered pretty much every crochet stitch ever invented.) Of course, because she and I did everything the same, I had to learn to crochet a ripple afghan. I did. It was brown and an orangey gold. I probably still have it, too. I just haven't unpacked the box of old blankets and throws that made it upstairs to the attic.

I made a cross stitch Normal Rockwell Christmas stocking once with an old photo, a piece of graph paper, and a whole lot of guts and ignorance. And determination. When I was done, no one knew it hadn't come from a kit. A pattern. I still have that, too. And a tree full of homemade Christmas ornaments out of every kind of craft I could find and learn. I've made afghans, the most intricate patterns I could find, for everyone I could find who wanted one. (Some people knew how to make them themselves and didn't need one!) I even went through a phase where I made Christmas afghans for everyone who I'd already made afghans for!

When my mother was last in town she helped me unpack my craft closet. She'd agreed to the project before she'd come to town. All of my craft stuff had been packed in boxes for a year and I was missing it all so much. A day and a half later, we were finally making sense out of chaos, if this gives any clue as to how much craft stuff I actually own. She even worked that evening while I was out mowing the grass. And worked on yard organization while we watched a movie later that night.

So...I need another skill right? More tools and supplies with which to create. To build beauty in the world around me. Well...maybe not, but I've never been a conformist!

This past weekend, I was once again on the path to learning a new form of creation. Friday night I watched carefully as one wall of our new barn was framed - helping only where the job couldn't be a one man job. I was a not so able assistant. (I'd been sick all day, give me a break!) And on Saturday, a carpenter was born. I measured off, marked and laid walls two and three. Completely on my own. (Except for a little figuring help for the door cripples and size on the third wall. I wasn't sure how big the door was supposed to be.) When that third wall was lifted up into place, I felt like I'd invented the moon! But I wasn't done yet. The top of the wall frames needed support for the roof. And suddenly, with my honey up on a ladder with the nail gun, it seemed inefficient for him to be climbing down to saw the logs he needed. So there I was at the miter saw, where I'd stood and watched him for months, only I was sliding boards in, measuring, marking, taking blade in hand, dropping it...and presto, I handed him a perfectly sized board. And another. And another. I did the door truss, too, while he nailed.

So..."If I were a carpenter..." You betcha!

Now, come on, tell us what you all have created!

p.s. If this posts out of order, I apologize. I'm actually writing it early because Tim and I, too, are going 'on the road' like several others of my storybroad sisters for our conference in San Francisco. I can't wait to meet up with them! Pat and Lynn and Tim and I and fellow author Alicia Rasley will be sharing drinks and tall tales and making new memories. San Francisco is where it all began many years ago for Lynn and I - at a dinner table, with a fight over onion rings. But that's a story she tells much better than I do! We hope you'll all be checking next Saturday night on www.rwanational.org to cheer on Krissie and Maggie and Pat and I as we sit at the RITA awards. Winners will be posted live on the RWA site.

Omigosh, Is It Tuesday? (Suzanne Forster)

This should have been Trip Report #3, but I seem to have lost track of what day of the week it is—and I can’t blame the ghosts for this one. They’ve been relatively polite and quiet since I last posted. Even my car alarm is behaving, believe it or not, although it does emit a menacing beep when I get anywhere near the trunk. Makes me wonder if there’s something in there I’m not supposed to see. But that’s where it stops, at wondering. No way am I going to open it. I’m not worried about what’s inside as much as I am the damage to my eardrums if that alarm goes off again.

I suppose I could blame my memory lapse on not being home and having access to the usual cues to orient me, like the calendar magnet that sticks to the front of my file cabinet or the morning paper with the day and date on every page. Even the television programming up here is just different enough to be confusing. But whatever the reason, I just realized it was Tuesday, and I’m scrambling to get this posted, so it’s going to be shortish.

Two things I’ve learned from my travels this time (besides checking the calendar occasionally!): Make lists of what you have as well as what you don’t have. I tucked a travel-size tube of toothpaste in my toiletries case, then forgot I’d done it and tucked another one in my carry on. By the time I got to Olympia, via the stopover in Seattle, I’d picked up another tube. Ah, well, can’t have too much toothpaste, and it really doesn’t go bad. I’m not sure that’s true of peanut butter. Every time I get here, I buy new peanut butter and then don’t use it. I now have three unopened jars of peanut butter in the cabinet. How long does peanut butter last? Maybe I could donate a couple of them. Or make cookies, lots of cookies.

The other thing is don’t watch old Alfred Hitchcock movies when you’re all alone late at night. I was channel surfing last night because I couldn’t sleep and came across an old black and white Hitchcock classic called The Rope. Now, that is one strange picture, almost torturous to watch, at least for me, but at the same time, compelling in the same way that watching an accident is compelling. I didn’t hang in for the entire thing. I could feel myself getting twitchy. As I lay there afterward, too wired to sleep and listening for strange noises, I debated getting up and going out to the garage to check the trunk of the Honda … just to see if one of the relatives had stashed anything in there … like a body.

Those who have seen The Rope will know what I mean.

Suz

On the Road Again

I'm heading off to San Francisco for the Romance Writers of America's national conference, and I've decided to have an absolutely fabulous time! Despite various challenges. You see, I went to my hairdresser to get something entertaining done to my hair, and I wanted edgy, so she did highlights, which I do almost every year and blends perfectly with my ash blonde hair and accumulating gray, and dark streaks as well so I can look like a tawny jungle beast. Actually more like a plump tabby cat but you get the idea.
Apparently I'm allergic to something in the dye. I've got nasty itchy things all around my scalp line like a ring of fire, and across my neck and throat (I can't figure out why with that one). It got so bad last night I was considering canceling my trip, but fate has been kind and I look as glorious as the demure Sister K can look.
If anyone's in the SF area they should come to the literacy reception and see almost all of the Storybroads in their full glory.
So I'm packing, singing along with my iPod (currently on -- The Proclaimers singing Whole Wide World) and getting ready to party down.
But before the demoralizing madness of a romance conference, I'm going to spend a blissful night at the Hotel Kabuki, where I can wallow in Japanese-ness and try not to flirt with every male in sight.
Then back to Vermont to hide in my cabin and write non-stop until SILVER FALLS is finished, come hell or high water. It's going to be wonderful, but it's hard work and challenging, and I tend to like things easy.
In the meantime, for those of you who aren't going to RWA, here's a little video to cheer you up.

And come over to Facebook and be my friend. I want masses of them, so I'll feel special.

Our Magnificent Adventure Continued (Patricia Potter)i

Today I take wing for Lynn’s and Pat’s magnificent adventure. Lynn filled you in on some of the details yesterday.

Yes indeed, the car will be bulging. It’s not easy to pack for ten days, including several formal outfit and clothes for both hot and cool climes. At least it’s not easy for pack rates (moi). Of course, I had to throw in several books. Books to me are like blankets were for Linus in “Peanuts.”

But I’m trying. I’m honestly trying. I have one bulging medium size suitcase and a carry on. I can only hope Lynn’s car is like one of those in the circus. You know, the tiny car that had twenty clowns piling out.

So by the time you read this, I should be on the way. I go from Memphis to San Diego via Atlanta. It would be nice if someone made sense of that. I get in at 10:30 p.m., only to meet Lynn’s edict that I be ready at 7 a.m. to be on the road.

Coming back from San Francisco, I leave at 6 a.m. from San Francisco, stop in Salt Lake City, then stop again in Atlanta (some 500 miles east of Memphis) before reaching home late Monday.

Good thing that I’m one of the few remaining souls alive who still likes flying.
I love airports. I love flying. I don’t mind waits. I don’t mind taking off my sandals at security. I don’t even mind sitting on the tarmac (Now I might if it stretched into three or four hours). I love the uninterrupted time for reading. I like sitting in a bar and watching people. I like the pace of an airport.

No question that it isn’t nearly as much fun as it used to be. I remember the days when airlines gave you beef filet dinners in coach. That’s long gone, and then the days of chicken passed, and the following boxed snacks disappeared and now even the peanuts are gone unless you pay for them.

Ah well, I still get excited when I go into an airport. I love the lift of the plane when we take off, and I particularly love staring out at the landscape below, the way the country eases from forests into perfect agricultural circles and squares and then into the mountains. I like looking for those scattered lights and wonder who lives in some of those seemingly bleak areas. Stories form in my head.

I usually like to spend a few moments getting to know my seat neighbor, then turn and bury my head in a book. I plug in the music, and I’m in an undisturbed world for two, or three or four hours. Heaven. Sheer heaven.

So I am really looking forward to this trip. Every second of it. The days lazily spent in getting to the conference, then the frenetic pace at the conference itself. I always call it The Rendezvous. More than a hundred and fifty years ago, trappers got together in the west once a year in an event they called the Rendezvous. They would drink and dance and exchange tall tales. For men who led a solitary life, it was a time to let to socialize.

Our conference is much like that. I’ll see friends who started writing with me twenty-five years ago (we call each other the Suvivor Broads). I’ll see newer friends, and I’ll make even newer ones. We will party and dance and drink and tell tall tales.

Because of that, I probably won’t be posting next Saturday. Due to Lynn’s luggage edict, I’m not taking a laptop, and I expect some 2,000 writers will be vying for the hotel’s computers.

But I’ll give a full report the next Saturday.

Road Trip! (LynnK)

Sunday morning, PatP and I will load an unconscionable amount of luggage into my small, long-suffering Toyota Corolla and head north from San Diego. Pat will be running alongside the car, carrying the bags and bottles of wine we couldn't fit into the car.

Well, I hope it won't come to that. But it might.

We plan to hug the coast between here and our goal, the Romance Writers of America Conference in San Francisco. "Beach!!" she said when I asked what she wanted to see. So I chose Cayucos, which lies about seven miles north of Morro Bay for our first overnight stop. The picture above is sunset over a pier built around 1870 by an entrepreneur from New England who saw the potential of the town as a shipping port. He prospered, but the center of shipping slipped south to Los Angeles and San Pedro.

Now Cayucos (the name is derived from the local Native Americans' term for fishing kayak) is practically the last of the old-time funky beach towns of the 60s. Here's a view from the air.







We have only one night there, in the Birdhouse Bungalow at the Seaside Motel.




On thw road again, after passing by the Hearst Castle (not on an agenda titled "Beach"), we'll visit a colony of elephant seals before reaching the Really Scary Part of Highway 1. It lasts a long time, too, and once you're on it, there's no turning back.

The only thing Scarier than Highway 1 going north is Highway 1 going south. There, with mere inches of asphalt between you and a long, long fall to your death (you could play a game of checkers before you splatted into the ocean), a driver's best hope is a quick heart attack from fear and panic.

At least, that's how I see Highway 1, which I have never dared to approach. Only for Pat's sake would I risk this. You can bet that when I'm driving home all alone, I'm taking another route. A bleak, boring, unscenic route, but that will do me just fine.

If we survive the Highway of Death, we'll spend a couple of days on the Monterey Peninsula, where I lived for several year in Leave It to Beaver times (the fifties) when I was a kid. I can't wait to revisit my old haunts, like the 17-Mile Drive, where we used to ride our bicycles, and the wharf where we fished for tom cod. That was the name. They were really small. And scary smart. In four years of devoted effort, I caught maybe three of them.

We'll be staying here, at a bed-and-breakfast in Carmel Valley, enjoying the pool and the hot tub when we get worn down from touristing.

So come along with us, virtually speaking. I'll be taking lots of pictures. And when we get to San Francisco, we'll report on the RWA Conference and Sister Krissie's fabulous outfits.

The Cycle of Life

I wish you all could see what I see right now. I'm sitting in my round window room looking out over the backyard and the half acre of thick woods behind the yard. Movement catches my eye in a little closer. And there, right at the window, fluttering and staring in at me is the cutest little humming bird. He might be humming, I can't tell, can't hear, but he's a happy little guy, a busy guy, fluttering there, watching us. I wonder what he thinks of Taylor, sitting on the back of the couch looking out. I wonder if he can see Jerry lying here at my feet chewing on his bone. (It's a rawhide that his mama insisted on buying him last weekend against his daddy's protests that it would be a waste of money because he'd never chew on it. There are just things mamas know!!! When will daddies ever get that???)

I wonder if our little humming bird friend wants to come in and join us? And, if he did, would he hurt Taylor? Pecking at her? Would Jerry hurt him? Would he dive bomb my head? Or would he flutter around us dropping some kind of unseen fairy dust? I go for the latter. But am aware of the formers.

He's supposed to live outside. That's the cycle of his life. And ours. We live in. He lives out. We look at each other. We might wonder. But this is our life and that is his.

By the way, this room that I sit in, at my laptop at the table that Tim and I built, was originally built as an artist studio. I recently talked to the woman's close friend. She'd had this house built over sixty years ago, but not with any architectural plans. The house was built by the uncle of the woman I spoke with - the original owner's friend. And when he and his helpers would come to work on the house, the woman would give him instructions on what room she wanted where, and how she wanted it to look. Which explains why this house is so odd - and yet so wonderful. There aren't lines that flow. There are strange angles and half ceilings and a master bedroom off the kitchen. And yet, the moment I walked in this house last fall, I knew it was mine. It spoke to me. (Luckily it spoke to the love of my life, too!) Not so oddly, the house had also been owned, and loved, in the interim, by another artist. It's a haven for creative people. Put here by no mistake.

Here's another irony. My husband's mother was an artist. A painter. I knew her thirty years ago. (Of course, while she painted then, what I remember most about her was her telling her son - my college sweetheart - to get that girl home at a more decent hour!) She died before Tim and I found our way back to each other and I regret that so much. Yet her paintings are on the walls of our home. Tim remembers when they were painted. And where. Last Sunday we visited one of the spots and he shared his memories of playing there as a boy with his brother while their mother painted. And now, from this woman who spoke to me about her friend, the original owner of my home, I find out that the woman who designed this room in which I sit, who worked here, was a teacher and friend to Tim's mother. They were in an art league together. My mother-in-law is here with us. Sharing a part of our life with us. We bought a house because it spoke to us and then, a year later, find out that the woman who designed the house was a friend of Tim's mother's. I feel close to her even though I didn't get to be here to help her when her health started to fail.

Last week, as I looked out these windows, I saw a deer, a doe, step out of the woods and into my backyard. Standing on the very edge of the grass, she turned and started nibbling off my tree. She was only about fifteen feet from me, and whether she knew I was here, watching her or not, she didn't seem concerned. She moved then, seeming at home in my yard, nibbling, and...she stumbled. I sat up straighter. Waited for her to move again. And again she stumbled. Finally she took a step. And that's when I saw that her front left leg was broken. I cried out. Jumped up. Had to do something to help her. But what could I do? She's a lot bigger than I am. I'm not all that strong. And I am the least medical person I know. She continued to move in the yard, going from one tree to the next, nibbling, and stumbling, as her broken leg continued to give way on her. I called my husband. This, after all, is his part of the country, his culture. He'd know what to do. Sort of. He told me to call the vet and then call him back. I called the vet. Immediately. And was told that not only was there nothing I could do, but that if I even attempted to help her, I could end up in jail. In this state, it's against the law to come to the aid of wildlife.

I called Tim back. And told him how ludicrous his state was (never mind that I was born here!) I sputtered and spit and watched as my precious doe eventually made her way back into our woods and on to her life elsewhere. And I've looked for her every day since. I go into the woods and look for signs of her. I wait for her to come out in the evenings. I worry about her.

And I try to understand attrition. And overpopulation. And nature taking its course. And how the ebb and flow is meant to be, even when life is ebbing and I need so badly for it to flow.

It's the cycle of life. The strange set of circumstances that weave us all together. Sometimes closely, sometimes forever, sometimes not so closely. Sometimes we touch each other from a distance, like my fluttering little guy outside. And the doe who captured a small part of my heart - probably forever. She and I spent an afternoon together once. And she taught me about life - about life being okay, even when it seems that it's not. I appeared to be far more upset about her leg than she was. I got sick to my stomach watching her suffer. She calmly ate.

It's all about perspective, I guess. Or being at different places in our journeys. And that's okay, too. Some haven't learned what I've learned yet. Some have learned far more than I have. Some never will learn.

Some just know. Some won't ever know.

And yet we're all connected in this tapestry. We all play a part. Many parts. We effect each others lives, sometimes obviously, sometimes not. Sometimes it appears that we're more of a hindrance to an other's life than an asset, and yet, even in those ebb times, we're serving a greater purpose. Life is cycling as it's meant to do. As it needs to do. As it will do whether we fight the cycle or not. Sometimes what looks like an ebb is a flow that we just can't see. And that's as it should be, don't you think?

Trip Report #2: The Haunted Honda (Suzanne Forster)

Whoever said the journey is more fulfilling than the destination said a mouthful. Last week’s trip up the west coast was amazingly lovely, an oasis in the desert of my life. Well, maybe not that lovely, but I’ve always wanted to say that. I blogged about the stopover in Seattle, and it really was one of my best visits ever to the city. The weather was perfect, the food delicious and the sight-seeing spectacular. I went on my first ever harbor cruise and was treated to gorgeous views of the Emerald City from the water.

So, with everything going so well, I was eager to get to the family condo in Olympia. I’d been warned that it wasn’t in pristine shape. My brother and sister-in-law who usually spend a few days at the condo in late June and always leave the place sparkling had not made their annual visit this year. So, I was in for a bit of a shock.

A sinkful of dirty dishes greeted me, left by various family members who’d visited in the year since I’ve been here. The entire place was badly in need of sweeping, mopping, vacuuming and especially dusting. The cobwebs in the courtyard entry and the back decks looked as if they’d been accumulating since I left. Worse, there was evidence of muddy foot prints on the hard wood floors and coffee stains on the carpet. Not fun to clean up.

But dirty dishes? I couldn’t believe that. In protest I didn’t do anything for three days, including the dishes. But by Thursday of last week, I couldn’t take it anymore. The minute I hit the floor that morning I began cleaning like a mad woman. It took me six hours in all, but when I got done the place actually was sparkling—and I was a total mess. My feet, legs and hands were coated with dirt as fine as soot. I had burrs stuck to my bare feet and seagull feathers in my hair, all from sweeping out the entry courtyard, the most labor-intensive chore. I even swept up pieces of seashells that the seagulls dropped, apparently to crack them open for the bounty inside.

I broke a fingernail and smashed a toenail when the vacuum got away from me in the guest bathroom. I'd adjusted the setting to Hard Floors, which I assumed included tile, but this vacuum is self-propelled and it skated across the tile floor like it was an ice rink, taking me with it. When I yanked it back, it rebounded into my poor big toe which still looks like an abstract painting. It’s not broken or even sprained, but the nail is very colorful.

Housecleaning should come with hazard pay. I’m still wondering how much of that fine dirt I inhaled. Believe me, I had to shower when I was done. Thoroughly.

My next surprise was the two television sets. Someone had been messing with the very complicated pair of remotes that each set requires and neither set would turn on. I got to know the Comcast Cable lady really well one afternoon. She and I spent nearly forty-five minutes together on the phone, just to get one TV working! The other one’s still dark and it can stay that way.

Since I’m in the midst of a writing project, I also had to get the Epson Ink Jet printer working, which I knew might be a problem since I hadn’t used it in more than a year. I was prepared for that but not the shock of having the laptop and printer pretend they’d never met. I guess it’s possible they hadn’t. The laptop is just a little over a year old. Long story short, I now know how to install drivers, do a nozzle check, clean heads and align the type. I could repair Epson printers! Despite that, getting my little Ink Jet operational took three days.

Of course, at one point the cell phone started making strange noises and didn’t want to hold a charge. It still doesn’t, but the noises have stopped. I have no idea what that was about. This is not a new cell phone, but it was making new noises.

Then came the real nightmare. The first person to notice the back tire on my mom’s ancient Honda was the guy collecting the grocery carts in Safeway's parking lot. He came right over to tell me I probably shouldn’t be driving on a tire that low and gave me directions to the nearest Les Schwab, where they fill tires for free. This was not good news—the low tire, not the free air—because the tires were brand new. I’d bought them the year before because one had the tires had a lump the size of an orange that made the steering wheel jump. But the car had been in storage in the condo’s garage until this trip, so the last thing I expected was trouble with the tires. Anything and everything else, yes, but not my brand new tires.

So, I headed straight over to Les Schwab, only to be told the tire had a piece of metal in it, and I should come back the next day. A metal spike in the tire of a car that had been in storage a year? But wait, it gets worse. When I went back the next day, he told me the spike was in the sidewall and the tire couldn’t be repaired. I would have to get a new one. And then to rub it in, he told me Les Schwab offers free road hazard warrantees with all their tires. If I’d bought the tires there, it would have been replaced at no cost. Wonderful.

You’d better believe I tracked down the culprit who’d been driving the car and made that sucker pay for the new tire. And I’m happy to say it’s a Les Schwab special with a free road hazard warrantee. I no longer live in fear of metal spikes. Yay.

Another lesson learned: Don’t entertain friends with tales of your mishaps and then joke about what else could go wrong. Just about everything could.

The night I drove home on my new tire, I remember thinking if bad news came in threes then I was safe. While I was downstairs in the bathroom, changing into warmer clothes to go out to a Mexican restaurant, I heard a car alarm. It was obnoxiously loud, and I wondered why in the world the neighbors didn’t do something. As I trudged upstairs to see what the heck was going on, I realized it was the Honda! Hereinafter to be known as the haunted Honda.

I hit the panic button to turn the alarm off, but it didn't work. Eventually I managed to silence the monster, but everything I did turned it back on again, and it was break-your-eardrums loud. I'm surprised the whole neighborhood wasn't over here.

I have now learned that AAA will not come rescue you when your car alarm goes nuts. They claim to know nothing about car alarms. I sometimes wonder why I've had AAA all these years and never used it. The one time I need them, they can't help me! Desperate, I called the mechanic who installed the system, and he told me to disengage the in-line fuse from the positive side of the battery. HUH???

What battery? What fuse? I don't know from the inside of a car engine. Fortunately, I didn’t have to enter the belly of the beast. I locked and unlocked the doors, using the remote. When I’d tried that before it had set off the alarm, but this time it didn’t. I tried it once more. No alarm. Then I got brave enough to open the door. No alarm. I got in the car and sat down. No alarm. I took a deep breath and put the key in the ignition. This was the real test. I turned it on and the car started up. NO ALARM!

Enough excitement, you're thinking? I wish. Just one last little problem lay in wait for me, although it had nothing to do with cars. Some rather embarrassing medication went missing. My doctor gave me samples of the meds, which I brought with me on this trip. I left the prescription home, thinking what I had would be plenty. But somehow, I lost the samples en route, so I put in a call to the dh, who Fedexed me the prescription. The next day, just after the Fedex package arrived, I found the samples in a drawer that I don’t remember putting them in. Really, I have absolutely no recollection, and I’m sure I would have remembered. Now, I’ve lost the Fedexed prescription. It’s just gone. It was sitting on the bottom of the bed when I last saw it. I was hurriedly cleaning up because company was coming over, and maybe I put it somewhere, but I’ve looked everywhere, including the drawer I don’t remember putting the sample in.

Is someone messing with me? Sure seems like it, except that there’s no one here except me. Last time I was up here my credit card number was stolen and whoever did it charged a couple thousand dollars to my card. The credit card company actually caught the discrepancy before I did and didn’t pay the charges. The time before the furnace went bad and there was a CO leak. That was pretty terrifying, and another lesson learned. I now have a new furnace. More important, we installed smoke and CO detectors.

Friends have already suggested the condo might be haunted. In years past the creaking and cracking noises were really alarming, especially at night. It sounded like guns going off. My sister-in-law stayed here alone one night and didn’t sleep a wink. The noises were particularly loud in the winter when I was using the furnace. The new furnace seems to have taken care of that, thank goodness.

Actually, if anything’s haunted around here, I'm thinking it has to be the car. The alarm has gone off twice since the garage episode, and for no known reason. If it happens again, I’m going to pull the fuse. Hear that, ghosts? I now know where the battery is, and I’m not afraid to go there.

Suz, daring to go where the AAA fears to …

Inner Barbie (Anne Stuart)

It's conference time, and I've been busy channeling my inner Barbie. I'm not a girly girl kind of person, and I'm not a jock. I guess, in fact, I'm a drama queen, who likes dress up and fantasy except for most of my life when it's jeans and tee shirts. But when it comes time for the RWA National Conference it's glitz and glamour (if I'm in the mood).

So I've been shopping on eBay for strange and wondrous things, sewing, making odd jewelry, buying makeup (and I only use my makeup five or six times a year so it's such a waste. Tant pis.)
Anyway, I'm getting my hair done so I thought I'd find a site where I can try out various styles. I hit the mother lode -- eyeliner and lipstick and hair dye, oh my!

First, I'm brave enough to show you all Krissie - Raw.

Then there's what my sister calls my Tori Spelling look.

Then there's my personal favorite, even though I intend to be a silvery blonde, thanks to my hairdresser.



And of course I had to send it to Crusie and Rich for them to try. Most of these are relatively straight attempts at beauty. However, I may be in the mood for gothic funk, so check this one out:

God only knows what I'm going to end up looking like at the conference, but if you're in the San Francisco area come on by the Marriott Hotel on 4th Street on Wednesday, July 30 for the biggest romance autographing party (all for the benefit of literacy). I promised Crusie I wouldn't wear a dead swan on my head, but apart from that, all bets are off.

The lovely site for makeovers is http://makeover.ivillage.com/makeover/index.jsp

So go ahead and play, and tell me what you think of the results. I think I look tres glamorous. But maybe the purple hair has to go.

The Chemistry of Love, Pt. 2

Unrequited Love,
bronze sculpture by David Kraisler

Romantic love can be intense, irrational, and enduring, all at the same time. Love stories tend to focus on that intense and irrational period of attraction and the compelling need that leads to the commitment we expect in a romance novel.

While the happy-ever-after ending is a hallmark of the romance genre, there are treasured love stories that don't end that way. Gone with the Wind, for example, or Romeo and Juliet. But the intensity and irrationality are usually present in one form or another. They keep the pages turning.

Helen Fisher, scientist and expert in the study of romantic love, tells of a ruler (died 760 a.d. in Tikal, Guatemala) who built a temple to be his tomb and across from it, another for his beloved wife. The Mayans, like the creators of Stonehenge and so many other ancient builders, were experts in the science of astronomy.

And so it is that every year at the spring and autumn equinoxes, as the sun rises behind the ruler's temple, it casts a shadow over the tomb of his wife. And as the sun sets behind her temple, its shadow bathes his temple. In this symbolic and utterly romantic way, each lover continues, through the centuries, to touch the other.

Fisher also offers an example of passionate and unrequited love, calling this poem at least the equivalent of the most powerful poetic expressions of romantic love in history. Whatever you may think of that evaluation, there is no mistaking the cry of a broken heart for a love that is not to be. It was written in 1896 by an anonymous indigenous native of Southern Alaska at the departure of a missionary.

Fire runs through my body with the pain of loving you
Pain runs through my body with the fires of my love for you
Pain like a boil about to burst with my love for you
Consumed by fire with my love for you.

I remember what you said to me
I am thinking of your love for me
I am torn by your love for me
Pain and more pain
Where are you going with my love?

I am told you will go from here
I am told you will leave me here
My body is torn with grief
Remember what I said, my love
Goodbye, my love. Goodbye.

Fisher reports that anthropologists have found evidence of romantic love in 170 societies. They have never found a society without it.

A Passion for the Celts (Patricia Potter)

I am a happy person today.

Small things make me happy. In this case, it's finding a three-CD collection, "Music Of Celtic Ladies" for $9.99.

In truth, I would have paid much, much more.

This is not to be confused with Celtic Woman of which I am a great fan (I attended one of their concerts, and it was incredible). This collection is obviously an attempt to capitalize on the their success, but in my humble opinion these CDs are better because each song is a Celtic classic. Nothing modern. Just the wonderfully sweet and often sad strains of the Irish ballad.

To make things better, I have a new car with a CD player and sun roof. Is there anything better than zipping down the road with fresh air rushing in the car, the sky lit by the moon and the sounds of Ireland wafting through the air.

I really can't think of anything at this moment.

But then I'm a devotee of all things Irish and Scottish, especially the music. There is something particularly yearning and haunting that is absent in any other country's music. I dearly love the pipes and the drums and the flute and fiddle.

This particular collection features three marvelous female singers. There is accompaniment but the emphasis is on the song. It includes such favorites as "Danny Boy," "Skye Boat Song," "Molly Malone"and "Greensleves," along with a particularly poignant version of "Amazing Grace." It also includes more obscure ballads, but all touch the heart. I think that's why I love it so much. The Irish tell stories in their songs.

I've also always loved bagpipe music. It has inspired many of my Scottish historicals. I've always wanted to write an Irish book, but publishers say no. I once asked why, and the answer was there were no happy endings in Irish history. Until recently it's been a tragic land, and that tragedy has influenced its music.

It must be the one-fourth part of me that's Scot-Irish that is so drawn to Celtic music. Whenever traveling, I know I'll end up in an Irish pub if there's one within a hundred miles. Lynn Kerstan, Tara and I have sampled many of them in search of Irish music as well as great fish and chips. There is an Irish pub in Memphis that has live Celtic music for Sunday brunch. Guess where you 'll find me then.

But between my live Celtic music fixes, I now can relish this new collection. And I am a very happy person.

So what is your favorite music? And why?

The Chemistry of Love (LynnK)

“It was love at first sight!”

Too many people, long married, have told me that for me to doubt the existence of instant certainty. But I always doubted anyway. Attraction at first sight, maybe. Or lust. Nothing wrong with good, healthy lust.

As a romance novelist, I’m naturally fascinated about the reasons people are drawn to form a pair bond. We know the usual ones, which involve relative equality in socio-economic position, intelligence, good looks, religious values, influences from childhood, that sort of thing. Statistically, these reasons correspond to the facts on the ground. If you see a good-looking female with an ugly guy, chances are he’s got money or power.

All that can be considered practical love. But what about “opposites attract”? And what sort of thing is romantic love? Does it exist only in our fantasies, or is it real?

If “real,” is it a response to pheremones? A welling up of chemicals produced in our bodies at the sight of a suitable, prospective mate? Or an unlikely one who happens to shiver our timbers? What causes the phenomenon? Why do people risk everything for love? Kill when they lose it?

Dr. Helen Fisher is an anthropologist specializing in romantic love who examines the effects on the brain of love and of rejection. According to her studies, and while she acknowledges there will always be”magic” involved, love is deeply embedded in the brain.


For her work, she uses Magnetic Resonance Imaging (MRI), often seen on the teevee as an expert describes certain portions of the brain “lighting up” during a stimulus of some sort, such as pain or hearing a terrific joke. As Dr. Fisher explains, “...each brain region sucks up blood as it is working because it needs the glucose and the oxygen from the blood.” The MRI picks up that increase in blood to areas of the brain.

In a study of people happily in love, she found the emotions moored in the “reptilian” section of the brain. Romantic love is “a basic drive focused on a single individual,” as opposed to the sex drive, which casts its net far and wide. Sometimes, when a child results, a couple can form an “attachment” in order to raise the child.

So we’re talking about romantic love, the sex drive, and attachments, which are related but quite different. For example, romantic love is an obsession. The lover craves to possess the object of his/her passion. When a lover is rejected or reflecting on having been rejected, the “love” activity in the brain is even more intense. The reaction also lights up the area of the brain with which we calculate wins, losses, and risks. Often, overwhelmed with emotion, the rejected lover dares to risk everything, including life itself, to win the object of desire. Or destroy it.

That “risk” aspect of love and its affects on certain parts of the brain can help sustain long-term relationships. As Dr. Fisher suggests, “...do novel, exciting, slightly dangerous things together. Novelty drives up the activity of dopamine in the brain. That’s why vacations can be so exciting. Just doing something new.”

I’ll come back to this subject later, maybe on Sunday, from the perspective of a romance novelist. For more on the brain-science angle, go to http://www.HelenFisher.com

And if you’ve had the “Love at First Sight” experience, tell us about it in Comments. Or if you’ve been dumped by someone you loved, how did you feel and react?

The Crazies Can't Faze Super-Woman! (Maggie)

There's always something major going on in my family, and I think maybe that's because it's such a big family. So since I wouldn't trade any of my kids for the world, I deal with the constant . . . events, let's call them . . . without a single regret. And while we always seem to be teetering on the brink of one crisis or another, the main thing to keep in mind is that we're always okay in the end. And further, these events bring us closer, every single time, so there's a silver lining.

Last week, my oldest daughter had some pretty severe bleeding. She's 33 weeks pregnant and has a complete placenta previa going on, so this was serious. She called 911, and I rushed to the hospital to meet her there. Only when I got there, she hadn't yet arrived, because the ambulance couldn't find her house. The fire dept. is 5 minutes from her. You make a right, you make a left, she's right there. It's not hard.

45 minutes later, a second fire department we sent after my daughter, arrived, about the same time the first one we'd called did. Fortunately, the bleeding had slowed on its own by then, otherwise it could have been a tragic outcome. And I need to just let that go, because what could have happened is too horrible to think about, and it really doesn't serve any purpose. It didn't happen. She's okay, and I need to focus on that and let the rest go.

Anyway, she was taken to the local hospital, then transferred to a larger one in Syracuse, where she spent the next five days. And now she's home again, but on orders to stay in bed constantly. Her husband has to work, so the rest of us are pulling together to be with her and take care of Sean. She can't be left alone after such a close call. And she certainly can't care for a two year old. The family are pulling together as we always do, to pitch in. Her mother in law is with her today, I was yesterday, and will be tomorrow, her husband will be home over the weekend, and next week we start it all over again. And I wouldn't want to be anywhere else. I don't even like letting someone else take their turn, I worry so much, though we know how counterproductive worrying is.

So we do this for the next two full weeks, and then they're going to schedule a C-section, and all will be well and fine and peaceful and perfect.

It's frustrating for Jena to have to be in bed for this long. It's frustrating for Mike to have to go to work and leave her side when things are so delicate. It's frustrating for Sean too, who, I'm sure, doesn't understand why mommy's unable to get up and play with him like she usually does. The whole family is in a bit of upheaval, though I think now that she's home, things will begin to settle into a new routine, and everyone can relax a little.

I have to take the camera tomorrow, when I report for duty. Because naturally, me being there all day means Dozer goes with me. And there's certain a yellow lab named Chloe, who is also six months old, and the two have fallen madly in love. This pic is of the day Sean got her for his birthday. She's much bigger now of course. And that's Jena with him in the pic. The two dogs raced and ran all day, tumbling over each other, chewing on each other, chasing each other. When they settled down for a brief rest, they snuggled together. They act like they'd like to do more, (and I'm keeping an eye on that) but neither knows what they're doing. Chloe seems to think she belongs on top, and when they get that order corrected, Dozer winds up on the wrong end. It's kind of funny. But we do need to watch it, as neither has been "fixed" yet. And the last thing Jena needs is a brand new baby, a two year old, AND a litter of yellow-lab-mastiff pups!

Dozer came home with me last night so worn out that he went to sleep at 8 and didn't get up again until about 8 this morning. He never gets through an entire night without at least one trip outside, and usually two or three. But not last night. I'm starting to wonder if the chaotic days of having two dogs in the same house would be worth it to have restful, uninterrupted nights. But I kind of think not so much. =)

I would like another Great Dane, though. Now that would be a litter of pups, wouldn't it? Great Dane-Mastiffs? Well, it's a thought. =) I did notice that my well-behaved Dozer won't even sit on command when he's with Chloe. Maybe it's a macho thing.

Anyway, today I have to focus on the book that's due in two weeks--same time as Jena's baby! I had to skip my advice column this week, and I've bowed out of my other group blog site, the Witchy Chicks. But the book is not something I can put off or set aside or delay. It needs to be on time. I got way behind during my mom's illness and death and the divorce, and then the fire happened, and I was just getting caught up and got a little behind again. Now I'm right back on schedule and I have no intention of getting behind again. Besides, in this family, if I get behind during every crisis--I'll always be behind. Nope, this one will be on time. And fabulous to boot. I'm determined.

And I work best under pressure anyway.

But I have to say, I've reached a powerful place in my life, where I'm dealing with all of this more efficiently, more calmly, with more confidence, than I would have been able to manage at any other time. Before, I might have felt frustrated and overwhelmed, and worried about the deadline, seeing it as impossible under the circumstances, resenting anyone in the family who was unable to help out, and so on. But instead, I'm totally zen about it, and not only that, but my state of joy is undiminished. I'm still waking up happy, going to bed happy, seeing things to appreciate and relish every single day. And I know there are two main things in my life contributing to that state. One is my work with the Law of Attraction, and the Abraham teachings. It has empowered me to the point where I don't think anything could knock me off balance now. The other is the love I have in my life right now. It feeds my soul. It's passionate, but it's also calming, healing, easy, supportive, and perfect for me. There's no pressure, no bickering, no guilt trips. Every minute we're together, I'm in a state of relaxed bliss. After the most frustrating day ever, it takes only one hug, sometimes even just a smile, and I can feel all the tension flow right out the door, and I'm fine again.

So let me take stock. Jena's having a difficult pregnancy. She needs my help. I love to be needed. I love Jena. I love helping out. It makes me feel wonderful that I'm able to. The baby's up to about 5 pounds now, and so he'll be fine even if we don't go two more weeks.

I'm facing a tight deadline. Which makes me really focus on the book when I have any free time at all. And my focus is so intense during those times that I get a lot done, and it's really high quality writing. I don't have any doubt I'll get it done on time, and I'll feel like Super Woman when I do.

I will probably not be able to attend the RWA convention this year, as it too, comes in two weeks. (Is it just me or is everything in my life culminating around the first of August? LOL!) But I wasn't looking forward to that long flight, and I was quite concerned about leaving Dozer for an entire week anyway. Maybe it'll work out so I can fly out just for the weekend. If it does, great, and if not, that's cool too. There will be lots of other conventions in the future. I'm not upset over it.

Oh, and they've begun painting the house! Upstairs ceilings today. No workers on Fridays, but next week they'll be doing the walls. Then they'll move to the first floor.

I got a speeding ticket after visiting Jena in the hospital two days ago. Third one in six months--well, the first one was thrown out because the judge thought I'd been through enough when the house burned right after I got it. The second one was never written--the officer and I joked about my "BEWICH" license plates and he just gave me a warning. This guy had no such sympathy, and honestly, when I saw him behind me, I wasn't the least bit concerned, as I really didn't think I'd been speeding. And I had. But I was that distracted with everything going on. I think the Universe is warning me to watch it, to slow down, to be completely present when I'm driving. And if I listen, I'll probably avoid something a lot worse than a ticket. So I'm taking it as the Universe watching out for me, and not whining or moping about the ticket. It happens. You live and you learn.

So now I'm off to conquer Mount "Bloodline" (that's the book I'm trying to finish.) And if there's time I'll mow the lawn and make a few important phone calls. And tonight I'll be with my favorite person in the world, and tomorrow I'll be ready to take on every challenge again. And I'll do it too!

Okay, what challenges are you facing lately? Need feedback? Encouragement? Advice? Let me know! I'm Super Woman this week you know. =)

Maggie

From The Ground Up (Tara Taylor Quinn)

We're at it again - my honey and I. We're adding on to the house. Sort of. We're adding on to the garage - building what he calls a barn and I call a one room house without plumbing. It's 13x16 square feet - or probably will be close to that. One never knows for sure! Or at least I don't. And it will have a large, covered porch for a swing and our wicker furniture.

I've roofed, shingled. I've remodeled a bathroom, laid tile, laid wood floor, built a solid block wall, finished off a garage, built a table, and now I'm ready for the real thing - starting from scratch. So far, the hardest part has been squaring off the space that will, hopefully by the weekend, become a room. That took hours. We're adding the room on at the end of the garage and the garage is not straight! It's a weirdly angled thing that, in its original form 70 years ago was a carport. Over the years and with various owners it was added on to, a workroom here, a wall there, and it became this thing that is much wider in front than it is in back. We're adding on to the back. But for 'curb appeal' and general aesthetics, we kind of need to follow the lines of the house with this new room. Except that the lines are angled. Even I know that trying to build and roof an angled room would not be an easy task.

So, after we cut down the tree that was in the middle of our new room - and made firewood out of it - we roped off, measured, staked, measured, moved stakes, tautened ropes, measured some more, stood and stared, for a long time on Sunday. The end result was a compromise that seems to work.

On Monday we tilled. Some of you might remember our little cottage sits on the top of a wooded hill. The land that is going to hold our room is not flat. But it has to be before we can lay our foundation. A tiller is a wonderful thing. I worked it once. I could do it if I had to. I'd be whip lashed, but I could do it. Ours is a one man hand held thing with dangerous spikes that make mincemeat of all it touches. Unfortunately, it doesn't come with a removal basket, or vacuum, or...anything. It makes mincemeat and leaves it there. I can work a chainsaw, a table saw, a compound miter saw, various drills and guns, a tractor - but I've never actually shoveled before. On Monday, I shoveled. A lot. And told my husband that I'd never wanted to be a farmer, still didn't. His reply - digging is good for the soul.

Ah Ha. My life lesson. Digging is good for the soul. The deeper you dig, the more treasures you find - things you've buried, good and bad, that are there to serve you. To teach you. To help you on your journey through this lifetime. To help you progress and grow and move closer to ultimate joy and happiness.

So I dug. A lot. I unburied an old cement thing with metal fingers protruding from it. An old light post we think - from when the garage was a car port. Together my soul mate and I filled our dump bin on the back of the tractor. Several times. I'd drive it down the path mowed through our trees to the wood pile down the hill at the back of our property. (Well, Taylor and I drove it down. That girl insists on being a part of everything - of running every show.) We'd dump, hoe, and then back up the hill to the tilled land and more shoveling. I'd love so much to say we ended up with a level plot of land. But we have about ten more loads to go before that miracle takes place, my husband guesses. That's tonight. But I'm okay with that. I'm with him. Working side by side with him. Building a barn. A room. A life. Building dreams. Digging deeper. Finding the peace that has been so elusive most of my life. Finding acceptance.

And miracles and magic, too. There are some ugly things in the dirt. Bugs and slugs and things I'd rather not have to deal with. But I find that when I tackle them, rather than avoid them, they're fairly easy to manage. And there are some treasures. Evidence of life lived long ago. Roots. We're sweating. We're talking. We're laughing and listening to music.

A structure might appear - by the weekend my optimistic partner thinks - but as far as I'm concerned, this project isn't about the end result. The true benefit isn't going to be a barn or a structure or a room to store our treasures. We're getting the true benefit right now. At the very beginning, when all we have is rope and stakes and dirt. And each other. And dreams.

"If you build it, they will come." We're building! And our family is emerging. We had a gathering, a cook out, and a fire in the fire pit earlier this summer. Members of our family were there, talking and sharing until after midnight. It was a wonderful evening. And someday, we're going to be sitting out on our porch, made by our own hands, with a fire, and each other, laughing while our three beautiful girls regale us, and each other, with tales of their adventures as they venture forth and tackle the lives we helped give them.

Because we're making a barn this week.

What about you? What are you building?

Notes From the Road (Suzanne Forster)

Technically, I’m not on the road right now. It just feels like it. It’s late and I’m pooped, having just arrived at my final destination after a glorious few days in Seattle, basking in some of the best weather I can remember in wet and wild Washington State. It’s clear why people are migrating here in droves. Anyone who visits the Pacific Northwest this time of year would never want to leave … until the rains start.

But I learned an interesting factoid on a Puget Sound harbor cruise this weekend. Seattle is not the leading city in precipitation. Among others, New York and Miami are wetter. The thing about Seattle is that while it rains less, it rains longer, nearly nine months out of the year. Jodi, the cruise’s tour guide described it as drizzle. Seattle drizzles. All of western Washington drizzles. That’s why it’s so gorgeous when the drizzling stops and the sun comes out.

What I loved most about Seattle this trip, aside from the always bustling and colorful Pike’s Place Market, where the fishmongers throw freshly caught fish to each other—and the customers—and historic Pioneer Square, where they were setting up for a Firefighters’ Challenge (which I couldn’t stay to see, darnit) were the flowers.

Flowers! Really, I thought I was in the Garden of Eden. On every street, window boxes and hanging plants overflowed with lush greenery and brilliant blooms. It was impossible not inhale all you could get of the balmy, lightly perfumed air. The skies were crystalline blue and seemingly infinite, and best of all, there was no perceptible humidity and no bugs! Sounds like the definition of Paradise, doesn’t it.

Although I’m not sure the city fathers would appreciate it, I’ve come to think of Seattle as the City of Smells. You all know about the coffee, I’m sure. Next week, after I’ve caught up on my sleep, I’ll be back with a real trip report that goes into all the various sights and smells of Seattle, including the musty, labyrinthine book stores that line the streets of Pioneer Square and the mysterious cartography shop that I have plans to put in an upcoming story.

Right now I’d better power down the computer and head for bed, or I’ll be typing in my sleep. Road notes to be continued…

Suz

Mea Maxima Culpa (Anne Stuart)

I was having too much fun last week to remember to blog. I'm nothing but evil. (My Latin comes from three years of Latin class, plus a few occasions of dressing up like a nun).
I was in Jenny Crusie's fabulous castle in the forbidden forest in southern Ohio (in the mountains) with Lani Diane Rich, her two daughters, Sweetness and Light, three dachshunds, one elderly Beagle mix, a cat, and lots of mosquitoes. We ate at Steak and Shake, went to Hobby Lobby, did art projects, watched old movies (a high point was Jenny, Lani and me warbling "Once Upon a Dream" from Sleeping Beauty while Sweetness and Light held their ears.) Lani made out like a bandit -- Jenny and I got her a vintage Bernina so she could learn to so (all goddesses need Berninas) and Jenny gave her her classic iPod since she uses her iPhone for everything. However, she had the six year old and the nine year old, so she needed comfort.
We got the cover to DOGS AND GODDESSES and were and were very pleased. I even managed to work on SILVER FALLS most days while the others napped. Such a lovely time! We ate Cheetos and bagel pizzas and bran cereal and lots of IHOP breakfasts, and there was laugher and magic and fun. Grand times!

I think the perfect life would be to have a house on a lake in the mountains (yeah, I know, that's what we've got now, but the town is changing, the lake is changing, and we need to move) and a tiny house in Jenny's magic town in southern Ohio that was all my own. I could come and stay for sabbaticals and writing sessions and Steak and Shake, but still have my home with Richie. I looked at real estate while Lani and I were there and it was amazingly cheap.

We've created our own family, Jenny and Lani and me, and we want to have our own town as well. It's easier for Lani -- she can pack up Sweetness and Light (and Fish, her husband) as soon as the next book sells, but Richie (my husband) says he won't live in Ohio -- too much poison ivy. Since I adore him I don't want to move without him, but a little place of my own would be sooo cool. There's a plain little house there for 54k that would be just perfect, if I were rich and famous.

So that's my current daydream. We'd have a new place, probably in the Pacific Northwest, and I'd have a tiny house in southern Ohio on the edge of the Enchanted Forest. I just gotta watch the Steak and Shakes.

Do any of you have a ridiculous dream? Something only a little bit out of reach, impractical but sooo enticing? Tell me some of them.

And if I get a sudden windfall, tell me if I should buy a small house in Southern Ohio, just because I want to be near the people I love.

Sunday Cat Blogging (Lymond de Sevigny)

There is a disturbance in the Force.

The Can-Opener is mopping the kitchen floor!



OMG! Now she's bringing out a suitcase!
She's going away!
Yes, Thea will come to feed me. And I like her.
But I'll be Home Alone. Noooooooo!



Why would anyone even want to leave me?
She must pay.
My inner NinjaCat will see to it.
Vengeance will be mine!

Cliches: Aren't They Wonderful!!! (Patricia Potter)

Like Maggie who blogged Thursday, I’m an eternal optimist.

No matter how bad things get, and there have been some pretty rough times, I know that the next day will be better. Or, if not, the one after that.

I like clouds. I like clear days. I like rain. I like the sun. I like hot summer days and cold snowy ones. I like being busy. I like being lazy. There’s very few people I don’t like. They have to give me a darn good reason to not like them.

I could live any place. I find places – any place – and people infinitely fascinating. There’s not a boring person alive. There’s not a boring town in existence. Truman Capote once said that anyone who survives puberty has a story to tell. I think it starts much younger than that.

So where in the heck am I going with this? Darn good question. This is a perfect example of how my mind wanders, and how the internet leads me from one subject to another. Or it might say a lot about a total lack of focus on my part.

But I intended to introduced a few homilies or cliches to make a point, such as “when one door closes, another opens,” or my very favorite cliche, “I believe in half full glasses, not half empty ones.” (Forgive my fumbling with the exact language)

But then my curiosity seized me. In looking for appropriate cliches, I got hooked. One of my critique partners told me Friday morning that a character in a proposed new book was a cliche. I disagreed rather fervently. The heroine was an abused wife who seized control of her life. An abused wife, said my friend, is a cliche. But then wouldn’t every character be a cliche? There is no such thing as a completely original idea. There’s only a limited number of plots. It’s the way the author tells the story that makes the work unique.

Now that sent me to the internet where I started researching “cliches.”
I found the following definition on www.clichefinder.com: “a cliche is not just something that lots of people say; it’s something that lots of people say and it conveys some sort of idea or message. A cliche is, in other words, a metaphor characterized by its overuse.”

Well now. I disagree. I think they are used because they convey a truth.

Again from www.Clichefinder.com, "A visitor to the site defined a cliche in this way: A cliche is a vivid depiction of an abstract matter that works by means of analogy and/or exaggeration.

“The picture used usually is drawn from everyday experience so that the recipient most probably is able to relate to the depiction by tentatively querying his reaction to what is conveyed in the picture."

Wisdom or gobbleygook?


Well, I had to continue on as the clock moved forward. I collected some cliches.
Like Suz, I love lists, and www.Clichesite.com has a list of 2100 cliches and euphemisms that might fascinate you as they did me.

So here are some of my favorites, some I feel are rarely heard and some everyone knows.

FIRST, THE RARELY HEARD:

Belt down his pride.

Already got one paw on the chicken coop.

Not enough room to swing a cat

A change is as good as a holiday.

As horny as a three balled Tomcat.

Slicker than deer guts on a doorknob.

SOME OF MY PERSONAL FAVORITES:

As dense as a London Fog.

As welcome as a skunk at a lawn party.

Batten down the hatches, lower the boom, raise the mizenmast, full speed ahead.

Whatever flips your switch.

More nervous than a whore in church.

He/she has one oar out of the water.

Sharp as a wet corn flake.

AND THOSE EVERYONE KNOWS:

Always a bridemaid, never a bride.

Afraid of his own shadow.

Cat got your tongue.

Give and take.

Bald as an eagle.

Rats abandon a sinking ship.

Pop your top.

Nose around.


So have fun. Visit the site. Tell us your favorite cliches. And how you feel about cliches in fiction.

How I Spent Last Sunday (LynnK)

That’s the place. The ER. Not nearly so frantic as the one on TV, where bloody patients are regularly rushed in after dire accidents. This facility was crowded but quiet, and the only blood I saw was in several vials-full extracted from me.

If you read the post about my Fourth of July parade appearance, you know I was having problems with shortness of breath and lightheadedness. On Sunday morning they were back, serious enough to scare me. Naturally, I went looking for medical info on the Web. At the American Heart Association site, I discovered that anyone experiencing my symptoms should call 911.

I called a friend. The line was busy. Figuring I’d be consigned to the hospital, I decided to pack a small Bag of Necessities. First item in—you guessed it—a thick book. Reading glasses. Legal pad and pen, in case I was inspired to write something.

Line still busy, so in went an oversized tee-shirt and a robe. The IPod. Cell phone. Address book. Floss. Phone still busy, so being me, I washed my hair. Fed the cat. Finally I shambled across the street and cadged a ride.

A sign in the ER directed people with shortness of breath to the head of the line, and soon I was in a wheelchair under a blanket, waiting for a bed. Reluctant to abandon me, friends Thea and her husband John settled in to watch the tennis match when I was finally wheeled through the Doors of Doom.

We paused at the loo, where I was to produce a urine sample. By this time I was cold to the core, dizzy, and my hands were shaking so badly it’s a wonder I captured a drop. On to room A-4 and the bed, where I was needled with an IV port and hooked up to oxygen and several intimidating machines. Given an EKG. Then I waited.

Most of the five hours I spent in the ER consisted of waiting. And being scared. What scared me most, though, was how little I feared a serious diagnosis. Even a fatal one. I could only think what a relief it would be to escape the pain I’d been living with.

Eventually the young (of course!) doctor came with a notepad and asked a lot of questions. Good ones. At the end, I ventured to suggest the problem was rooted in my four months of Shingles pain and virtually no physical activity.

More waiting. A machine was brought in to take an X-Ray. Waiting. Doctor arrived with the X-Ray and hung it up where I could see it. Da Da Dum! What was that weird growth in the center of my chest? It looked exactly like (pardon me) the tip end of a little boy’s wee-wee. Yikes! No wonder I was sick. I had a vestigial penis growing in my chest!

Or not. The doctor studied the X-Ray and finally said, “Looks fine to me.” I was too stunned to ask what the Killer Penislike-Thingie was.