Oh, Sh-Spit!...as My Mom Would Say (Suzanne Forster)

I woke up this morning knowing I’d forgotten something. Ever have that feeling? You know you’ve forgotten, but you have no clue what you forgot. You wander around the house, thinking you’ll see it—something that sparks a memory trace—and be saved. You check your Monthly Planner, which doesn’t work for me because I don’t remember to look at it. Instead, I drop notes on the floor so I have to step over them when I get out of bed, which reminds me to read them. Sometimes that works. Something it doesn’t. I’m getting pretty good at stepping over them without reading them. But, no notes on my floor this morning. I forgot to write and drop them!

My only excuses for this forgetfulness are creeping senility and brain drain. I’m still working on the never ending proposal with three linked stories and there’s only so much you can hold in your head at one time. Mine’s full. Coming-out-my-ears full, I’m afraid.

So, earlier this am, I gave up on trying remember and went downstairs to get some tea and the paper. When I looked at the paper’s date it hit me. It’s Tuesday. I forgot to blog! There was a reminder in my email yesterday. I see it there now, but I didn’t have time to check email yesterday, so I cleaned missed it.

I wish I were good at whipping a blog together out of nothing, but that takes brainpower, and I have none. So, please accept my apologies—and if any of you have any good methods for jogging your memory so you don’t have to wander around the house, waiting to be saved, they would be very much appreciated.

Suz

Empty Nest (Anne Stuart)

My nest is in the midst of emptying. Tim arrived in New Zealand yesterday, readying for two and half months of hiking, sea kayaking, testing himself and having the trip of his life. He's doing the NOLS (National Outdoor Leadership School) Semester in New Zealand, and he's been looking forward to it for years. In the meantime, though, he's going to be out of touch for months, and we won't see him again till December 22. Talk about a mother having to let go!

And my darling Kate is heading off for San Francisco tomorrow, to attend the Art Institute of California. She gets to live in an apartment right on the edge of Japantown, learn how to design video games, and she's going to have the time of her life. She's a city girl, even though she spent her first 19 years in a town of 700. I know she's going to love it -- she's been ace-ing her online courses, she talented and brilliant. But she's going to be gone as well.

Even my husband, the fabulous Richie, will be gone for the next five days, taking her out there and getting her settled. (My knee is too bad for me to go -- I'd be more of a hindrance than a help). So I'm going to have 5 days of solitude, dealing with the fact that my kids are finally grown.

Maybe I'll dance around the house in my underwear. Or maybe not.

It's bittersweet -- the teenage years were so full of angst that I never want to go through it again. Either their's or mine. But I'm a helicopter parent -- I hover, ready to swoop in and rescue, and I'm not going to be able to do that any more. Kate will be across the country, Tim will be across the world. They're ready to be on their own.

And so am I. I think. Most of my life has been about motherhood -- I wanted babies since I was old enough to know what they were. I went through hell to get them -- infertility treatments with nasty instruments and very big needles . And then when they were finally born a part of my brain has always been reserved for them. Worrying, loving them, defending them, supporting them.
I don't have to do that any more. (Well, the loving thing is a no-brainer). But I finally have to let go and let god, and that's always been hard for me. I tend to think the world can't function without me watching over everything.

But my kids will function very well -- in fact, they'll thrive. And Richie and I will function very well -- we still happen to adore each other after thirty-three years of marriage.

But I still expect to spend most of tomorrow crying. (I cried when I checked the internet sight for Qantas and found Tim had finally taken off).
I just don't want to spend my five days crying.

So those of you who've already dealt with empty nests -- what are some good ways to handle it? One thing what would help would be to turn one of the kids' bedrooms into a sewing room but both of them would be hurt and offended if I did, so those are off-limits.
And dancing around the house in my underwear is out of the question with my bad knee.

Any suggestions to ease the transition?

Friendship beyond Words

Hi all,

Weeks ago, Lynn asked me to guest blog for her today. Knowing that I had a new book coming out October 1, she thought it would give me a chance to “talk it up” to an audience of avid readers. That’s Lynn—a loyal, thoughtful friend.

Well, we writers have to shamelessly seize self-promo opportunities these days, as publishers expect us to pitch in to sell our books. But somehow, I don’t really feel like trying to write some pithy prose concerning my plot and characters, or ramble on about why I find the Regency era so fascinating.

For you see, writing is also an inherently lonely business. We sit in out little rooms, creating people and stories in our heads, and trying to find exactly the right words to bring them to life. It’s exhilarating. But it’s also hard. And frustrating, frightening. So real friendships—especially those with other people who do the same weird thing that you do—take on a special meaning.

I first met Lynn in 1997. I had just sold my first Regency romance to Signet through a serendipitous twist of Fate that I won’t recount here. Suffice it to say, I knew absolutely nothing about the world of publishing or the world of romance. I’d never heard of RWA, I’d never met any fellow romance writers. My new editor told me about the annual RWA Conference and suggested I go to meet other authors. Sounded good, so I blithely got on a plane to Chicago. The trouble was, she had failed to mention that you had to pre-register. When I walked in and announced I was there to attend the workshops, they gave me a pitiful look and explained it didn’t work that way.

Slinking off with my tail between my legs, I did manage to find my editor in the hotel. She shrugged and said not to worry, because I could still attend her Author Dinner (I think to this day it’s the most expensive meal I’ve ever paid for.) So that night I showed up at the restaurant, not in the best of moods. The first thing I heard as I approached the table was a deep, throaty laugh. In my novels, I’d probably describe it as a smoky, sexy sound, reverberating with depth and nuance. Like a Siren’s song, it drew you in.

And so I found myself seated next to Lynn Kerstan. THE Lynn Kerstan. I’d read her books, and was absolutely in awe of her. Now those of you who have met Lynn know she is no shrinking violet. She looms large in every way. But most of all, it’s her heart that overwhelms you. She immediately welcomed a nobody into her circle (naturally everyone was gravitating around her) going out of her way to make me feel part of the group. And then she proceeded to keep the table in stitches with her funny stories, knife-edged wit and insightful observations. I thought she was one of the coolest people I had ever met.

In the Regency, Lynn would have been dubbed an “Original”—a woman who was not bound by the strictures of convention, but dared to be herself, no matter what anyone else thought. In other words, she was true to herself and had the courage and conviction to “live large.” Of course, it helps to have a sense of humor to carry it off. And we all know that Lynn has that, In Spades.

Since the day we met, we’ve been great friends. Lucky me. We live on opposite coasts, so we don’t get to see each other that often. Still, we keep in touch via e-mail, and always get together at conferences to share laughs and wine. We had lunch in San Francisco in early August and I knew she was hurting. But even though her body was causing her pain, her wit and her good cheer were undiminished. When she told me the news about her diagnosis, I . . . well, I guess you all can imagine how I felt. As a writer, I should be able to craft some lyrical passage expressing my feeling, but right now I find myself bereft of words. Except to say I love her very much.

Maybe next week I’ll tell you about my book, but today I just wanted to tell you about my friend.

Andrea Pickens
www.andreapickensonline.com

A Few Minor Disasters.(Patricia Potter)

Ah, Frustration . . .



Why is it true that when one thing goes wrong, it is quickly followed by two or three other disasters?

I was looking forward to this weekend. My friend, Tracy Farrell with Harlequin, was coming to speak to my romance writers group. Tracy bought my first book some twenty-odd years ago and though I've moved to other publishers we remain good friends.

We've made it a habit to go to dinner at the various conferences we attend. We usually try to make it on or near water. One notable instance was when we took a river boat dinner cruise in Nashville during a Romantic Times Convention – a event made notable by the singing nuns, including two of our Broads. They sang during a talent show, then settled down in the hotel bar. I will never forget the sight of other hotel guests going by the bar and stopping, dumbfounded, at the sight of nuns drinking liquor and smoking cigars in the bar. To this day, I smile at the memory.

But I digress, although that particular conference had a few other interesting happenings that are still told and retold.

I was in charge of dinner plans that night, and I immediately found an advertisement for a river boat dinner cruise. Water. River. Dinner. Sounded good to me. I made reservations. Maybe a second thought occurred to me as we left the hotel to a thunderstorm clap. We persevered and arrived at the river boat. We boarded, along with fourteen European gentlemen who apparently didn’t speak English and one couple on their honeymoon. We waited for others to board. Weren’t any others. Others were smart enough to stay warm and dry in their hotels. Rain pelted the riverboat. The wind blew so hard you couldn't go outside. The poor entertainers played to an audience of eighteen. At least it made a darn good story.

We’ve had other adventures as well. Several other riverboats (I have a affinity for boats), hole-in-the-wall dives, late night wanderings at the San Francisco waterfront and other places. We both seem to enjoy the same pleasures.

So I was really looking forward to this visit. The first disaster happened Thursday night after visiting my mom. A light came on in the dashboard of my new car. I got out my trusty thick (very thick) new instruction books. All five of them. Mind you, this was at 10 p.m. Thursday night, and Tracy was to arrive Friday, and my house was a disaster area.

I finally discovered that the light meant that the tire pressure was low. Okay, I can’t get on the expressway to the airport with a flat tire. Maybe I could go by the tire shop first thing in the morning. The dealership would simply take too long.

Started cleaning up the kitchen at 10:30 p.m.. The garbage disposal didn’t work. I’ve been planning dinner Saturday night with my critique group and Tracy. I didn't need a sink full of dirty water. I went upstairs and started calling plumbers. Never mind it was nearing midnight. This was an emergency. Of course, I had no luck.

Then I realized I didn’t have the time of flight of Tracy’s arrival. I wrote a frantic email. But what if she didn’t come into her office before leaving for the airport? Horrors!

Cleaned some more and finally went to bed at 2 a.m. I didn’t sleep, of course. Bad tire. No garbabe disposal. No flight time. House still to be cleaned. Agggggggg.

Woke with a call from the insurance company handling the claims from the recent flooding of my house. After exlaining a loss to them, I called a plumbing company and begged. Groveled. A lot. They finally agreed to sometime between 9 a.m. and noon to fix the disposal unit. No time to get the tire fixed, but a disposal is all important. I effusively (slobbered with gratitude) thanked the scheduling person and went downstairs.

I tried the disposal again. The darn thing worked. I tried again. It worked again. Chagrined, especially after my begging, I called the plumbing company and cancelled. Made another call to Tracy. Not at the office. I left a another frantic message about time of arrival, then ran out to get the tire fixed. An hour later I arrived back home with a repaired tire. There was both an email and phone message from Tracy with her flight number.

Things were improving. I had a hour to change beds and clean the living room. I was so busy I forgot to get Tracy’s cell number, or leave mine with her e-mail.

No problem. The airport isn’t that big. A bit frazzled, I made tracks to the airport. And waited. And waited. And waited. Unfortunately her flight was with an airline that didn’t have many flights in Memphis, and there was no screen announcing whether or not the plane had arrived. I walked across the airport to the one-person counter. The plane had arrived thirty minutes earlier.

I went back to passenger arrival. No Tracy. Not in the passenger area. Not in the baggage area. Not here, nor hither, either. I had her paged. No Tracy.
No cell phone number.

Heart palpitations.

Another turn around the airport. I didn't remember the airport being this large, and it was growing bigger by the moment. Much bigger. Went back to the airline counter, asked the lone lady to page again. Nothing. Another trip back to the other concourses. Palpitations turned into real pounding. Then on my way back, I saw her. She’d been waiting outside on the curb.

Great flood of relief. But now there was only an hour before we were to meet with other RWA members for dinner.

Arrived at dinner late, but dinner was good. Everyone was happy. We finally returned at my house to see the end of the Presidential Debate.

A mouse ran across the room.

I thought a bunch of electronic noise devices had gotten rid of it. Apparently not, and wouldn’t it show its head just now?

So another day is gone. It’s two a.m., and I'm trying to write this blog. Forgive any typos, mistakes, etc. I am not a rational human being at the moment.

I only hope Tracy is asleep and not thinking about a mouse.

###

All my love and prayers go to Lynn. We all love her immensely.

And Now We Know. Maybe. (LynnK)

For some time now, I've been wearing a blindfold and riding a really bumpy roller coaster. Up and down, round and about, the rattle of cars, the squeals of children. The panicky silence of me.

"Many growths inside your chest," says the doctor, pulling out the pictures. "Would you like to see the Cat Scan?"
"Umm, no." I've never been in denial, but some things are best left to the imagination. "Why don't you tell me what's there?"

He looks disappointed. I think he'd have preferred to point to something and provide its technical name. Which would have meant nothing to me, of course. But he did well, giving me a vivid picture that easily morphed into what I now call The Garden of Doom.

Let me tell you, it's no fun carrying around a Garden of Doom in your chest. The plants are always growing, pushing against heart and lungs and chest wall. And so far, doing surprisingly little harm to them. Some growths are twining around the spine, and I think of them as roses climbing a trellis. The enlarged lymph nodes around my waist are gray-pink anemones, waving whenever I move. Most everything is black or gray or white (like my graceful spine), the sorts of colors you'd expect when the plants are fed by Doom.

It's a symbiotic relationship of sorts. If these new inhabitants kill me, they die as well. But I have a medical team looking for the best ways to eliminate them, or at least hold them at bay, so I can't blame the doom flowers for fearing me.

In the past two or three weeks--feels like years--I've heard several prognostications as the doctors ran tests and spoke of "possibilities." From nearly all of them, although it was rarely spoken aloud, the conclusion was "death" in a fairly short time. I got the notion of two or three months in my head, but I couldn't say why or from whom. When I asked someone later, he indicated that was a reasonable speculation.

It was the Garden's fault. It had attached itself to so many parts of me that no surgery could excise the plants without doing dire damage to the innocent portions of my anatomy. "Not a candidate for surgery," I was told. Rats. I'd harbored hope of seeing the gloriously handsome and charming surgeon who saved my life back in 2000.

I started recruiting volunteers to go with me to these appointments and take notes so that all the stuff I forgot would be recorded somewhere. And they were asked to provide a "second opinion"--not about my case, but about my interpretation of what the doctor had said. This was a mixed blessing. The people fond enough of me to haul me around to appointments and take notes are also likely to spray bright yellow optimism over everything.

I'm all for optimism . . . in theory. I'll cheerfully accept any good outcome that settles in my arms. Miracles are good, too. I wouldn't turn one away. But mostly I want to know What Is, or What Is Most Likely To Be, so that I can settle things and sell things and give things away. Make arangements for my cat, my car, and my guitar. Do I have CDs that someone would especially like? Is there money to cover the mounting HMO co-pay bills? And all my books? What about all my books?!

Well, I can't do anything about that tonight. And besides,I don't know What Is or What Is Likely to Be. As of this evening, I have a whole new prognosis! But the call came late, from a doctor passing on the message, and most information will not be available until next Monday. Aiyee! Back on the roller coaster!

So what are they thinking it is now? Non-Hodgkins Lymphona. I must say that Lymphona is a pretty name for a disease. Perhaps the Garden of Doom will become the Lymphoma Garden. Unless the diagnosis turns out to be pretty doomish. Do feet swollen up like melons count? I carefully painted my toenails, and now they can't even be seen!

Now I must Google Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma and see what it's all about. Starting from scratch here, no preconceptions or expectations. My primary obligation, the resettlement of Monsieur le Comte de Sevigny into a suitable abode has been taken care of. In his picture, he doesn't look overly pleased about it, but he'll come around. For one thing, my sister has a lovely home with enticing cat trees. And while her two Abyssinians are not related to the Comte, they were born and raised in the same household. He'll be well-cared for.

Gifts from the Universe (Maggie)

Good morning!

I can remember when someone said "Life begins at forty," and I rolled my eyes at the notion. But I've gotta tell you, for me, it's really proving true. It's not really that life begins, because I certainly had a life before, and there were a lot of great things in it. My kids, my career, all of that. Maybe it's just that life begins AGAIN. And it begins in a whole new way.

As the house has been coming together, other things on my wish list have been falling into place too. Like finding those kayaks I've been wanting for so long, and paying down the debts that have been hanging over me for so long, and this latest new book contract, and the steadily climbing sales, and an ever more blissfully wonderful relationship, and lots of other things.

This past week, two more things I've been wanting for a long time have shown up. First, I was looking for a fireplace insert, and stopped by a pool & spa store where they also sell inserts--only electric ones though, and that's not what I want. But they did have something else--they had my hot tub. I knew it was MY hot tub the minute I walked past it, because it reached out with its invisible hot-tub hand and pulled me right back and said, "Hey, look at me! I've been on your wish list for two years now. And here I am, and I'm on sale. Are you telling me you're just going to walk by?"

And I said, "Of course not."

And so I bought the hot tub. I got a great deal on it, and I didn't give a second thought to where I was going to put it or whether my deck would hold it, or if it would have to go on the ground, or how I would get the ground ready if it did, or the special wiring that would be needed or any of that. This was on my list. It was on my big poster board of things I want. I put it out to the Universe, and the Universe pushed it into my path, and who was I to question that? The Universe would surely take care of all the details. Details are what the Universe does best, after all.

So the next day, I happily told my houseful of workers that I had bought the hot tub. And they were almost as excited as I was. My electrician made himself available to do the wiring a day later, the only day he would have been available for the next three weeks, and also, the day the hot tub was to be delivered. Originally it was scheduled for later in the week, but I got a call only hours earlier, asking if they could bring it the next day instead. My head carpenter checked out the deck and even added a few reinforcements just in case. The hot tub was delivered, and the entire crew helped unload it. Now it's happily bubbling on the deck. Last night was my first time in it, and within five minutes, Dozer was in it with me! (I have a feeling we're going to go through an inordinate number of filters!)

Another thing on my poster board is a yellow pontoon plane. That seems like a pretty big wish, but I'm getting good at this Law of Attraction stuff. I've been saying that I'm going to learn to fly for years now, but I haven't done a thing about it, just kept saying it and figured the Universe would handle the rest. Someday, I said, I'm going to have my pilot's license, and then I'll learn to land on water and then I'll buy myself my very own pontoon plane. A yellow one. It'll go nicely with the giant log cabin on the private lake that is also on my list.

So yesterday, I was driving around nearby Cortland looking for a lumber yard, and I took a wrong turn and decided to drive to the next place up and turn around. The next place up, it turned out, was a tiny airport, with a big sign that said, "Learn to fly here!" So I pulled in, and I stopped the car, and I said, "I can't believe I'm doing this," and I got out and I went inside.

My introductory flight is next Wednesday. (I'll take the camera, I promise.) We'll see how that goes, but I think I'm going to do this. I can't believe it, but I'm really going to do it. It's not expensive one lesson at a time. It is, if you look at the whole thing, but one lesson at a time, it's not so bad, and you take the lessons when you can, and lay off when you can't, so I should be able to swing it. And besides, those are details and the Universe will work those out. It always does.

And I'm one step closer to my yellow pontoon plane. Because here's the really good part. When I told the pilot/flight instructor that the pontoon plane was my ultimate goal, he smiled. He's been flying for twenty years, he said, and he only just got around to getting his seaplane certification. It's only a couple of extra hours training and is, he said, the most fun he's ever had flying. Now how could this NOT have been set up by the Universe to my precise specifications?

Not bad for a week's work, huh? Two more things checked off my wish list. And that means there's only one thing to do. Fill those slots with more wishes, and see how and when the Universe decides to deliver them!

(Psst! A higher-than-ever-before slot on the Times list would be a really nice one, Universe. And with ANGEL'S PAIN going on sale any minute now, this would be a really good time for it. Besides, I'm on a roll! While we're at it, I'd really like another trip to Arizona, a nice long vacation there with my guy would be just wonderful.

There. Empty wish-list slots filled. Mission accomplished. That was easy!

What's on your wish list? Do you have one? If not, why not? Let's talk about wishes!

Maggie

Fingers Crossed

Today Tim and I are in my beloved Arizona. Our plans are to move back here - at least for nine months out of the year - around 2010. And in the meantime, every single time we land, I feel a relief, a sense of peace, as though my inner self communes with the mountains and the valley, with the blessed Arizona air that embraces me, strengthens me, and I am well.

Last night we landed half an hour early. Took care of some business. And then, at 2:30 in the morning Ohio time, we were at my favorite grocery store chain with my mom buying a frozen California Pizza Kitchen pizza which we brought home and the three of us shared. Good times. Right times.

Tonight, family will gather. But first...

They say that everyone gets their day in court. Today is mine.

I pray for the strength to stand up. For the words of truth that must be said. For peace.

Suzanne Takes a Wee Sick Day (Suzanne Forster)

My apologies. It’s nothing serious. Just recovering from some migraine symptoms that make it hard for me to deal with screen glare—and probably brought on by—what else?—putting in too much computer time.

I’ve been working feverishly on a new linked-series idea, which is the equivalent of three stories in one proposal. So, yep, I’ve been a busy girl. The chocolate isn’t helping, either. They say the brain lives on carbohydrates and if my poor overworked brain cells are any indicator, it’s true. I can take or leave chocolate most of the time, but when I’m deadline those shoppers browsing in the candy aisle had better watch out!

So, waaaay too much screen time, with some chocolate and red wine thrown in (for mental health reasons!) and I have myself a lovely thumper, or as the British call them, megrim.

Back next week, well-rested and megrim free, I hope…

Suz

Autumn (Anne Stuart)

For better or worse, Autumn is here in Northern Vermont. We've had our second hard freeze, the trees are turning color bit by bit -- each day is more glorious. Flaming crimsons, bright golds, rich oranges spiced with the deep green of the fir trees. The air smells crisp and clean, it's time for a wood fire and fresh apple cider, and homemade donuts are on the menu.
I'll have to scrape the window on the car this morning if I leave the house before the sun hits it. Gotta start taking down the screens and cleaning the windows so I get a better view as the snow comes. I pulled out my Halloween quilt and my witch's fleece vest (made my moi) and I'm slowly cleaning up my office, my sewing area, and my bedroom.
Because in Autumn I nest, big time. There's something about it that just makes me want to hunker down and count linens. To iron, and clean the silver, and arrange my drawers, and fill large bags for the Salvation Army. It's the equivalent of our ancestors going out hunting for the winter, then bringing home mastodon steaks to freeze. It's nesting time up north.

It's time for the best apple cake in the world:
Sift together 1 3/4 c. sugar, 2 c. flour, 2 t. baking soda, 1/2 t. salt and 2 t. cinnamon
Beat 2 eggs and add 1/2 canola oil and beat again. Add 1 t. vanilla.

Peel and chop 4 c. of fresh apples and 1 c. of pecans
Add the egg mixture to the flower mixture, then pour over the apples and nuts.

Bake in a buttered bundt pan for 45 minutes at 350 and sprinkle with powdered sugar.
Now some people make a cream cheese icing, but I think that's a distraction.
Best to have it with a cup of Celestial Seasonings herbal tea on an early afternoon when the sun goes down at 4:30.

Richie and I will be very much alone. Tim is heading for New Zealand for two and half months of canoeing, sea kayaking, hiking, etc. , with NOLS (National Outdoor Leadership School).
Kate is going to the Art Insititute of California at SF to learn game design, and I know she'll love it there.
So it'll be a very empty next here, at least for a while.

My empty nests have come and gone so often that it no longer depresses me. I adore my children, I fought like hell to have them, I fought like hell to protect them (perhaps a bit too much) and to advocate for them. Now I only have to worry about my husband and me. And my 94 year old mother down the road. And my disabled 64 year old sister. And world peace.

I'm caretaker, and without children to take care of, I have to settle for the house. I'm going to make this as cozy and warm as I can possibly manage, because it's going to be a loooong winter ahead.

Do any of you start nesting in the fall? Do you even like the season? For me, it's my favorite. It seems full of possibilities for me. For others they only see the coming of winter and darkness. And if you're one of the darkness ones, here's a hint: light a candle.

My house is going to be filled with candles, warmth and light. Ready for when the kids come home from the travels, but ready for Richie and me to hunker down and pay attention to why we got married in the first place.

I hope the rest of you are going to have as wonderful an autumn as I am.

Hopes and Dreams (Patricia Potter)

My house is repaired after its recent drenching from a hot water heater gone amok. It took two weeks of intrusive workmen, but the bad produced some good. Things were fixed that needed to be fix before, but I couldn’t help resenting the theft of time.

But now it’s finished, a new proposal as gone out, and waiting time begins. I’ll finally clean up my office, take a try at cleaning closets (good luck) and prepare the garden for fall. Leaves are falling, though we haven’t experienced the real fall festival of color yet. But it’s coming, and I’m looking forward to it.

The annual community garage fair takes place today. I had planned to participate but time crept up on me. Instead, I suppose I will wander among my neighbor’s offerings. But I have my own treasure today. I finally broke down and bought a digital camera. I’ll try to get some pictures of the neighborhood madness for next week.

In the meantime I thought I would talk about today’s television offerings. With few exceptions, they’re pretty dismal these days and if it were just me, I would probably reach for a good book instead. But I usually watch television with my Mom in the evening, and her hearing is such that she can’t keep up with rapid fire dialogue of dramas, so we usually watch news or reality shows. I have learned to like ten-year-old repeats of “Who Wants to be a Millionaire,” and -- the good lord help me -- “Are You Smarter than a fifth grader?” Usually I’m not, but I learn something new. I like that, even though it’s humbling.

Lately we’ve been watching “America Has Talent.” I always detest most of the early programs during which they purposely feature terrible acts for the express purpose of humiliating performers. But as the programs go on, moving stories emerges and talent lights the stage.

One is Donald Braswell, a great romantic singer who lost his voice in a motorcycle accident decades ago, but worked and worked and worked to bring it back. He did, and the audience – and me – love him.

There’s Neal Boyd, a wedding singer who has a voice that might well equal the great Parvaotti (one of my favorites) and moves the audience to tears. His mother couldn't afford to go to Las Vegas to hear him, and their neighbors raised the money. There’s a pretty young blond girl who worked on the assembly line before earning a place in the top ten. I watched her grow in each succeeding performance. Though, sadly, she didn’t make the final five, she unquestionably started the road toward a successful career. There was the three-year- old from “‘Merica ” who won the hearts of everyone who heard her, and a young, autistic lad who could go out on the stage and belt out a song.

I love the emotion of the winners, the hope that shines from their faces and then the joy as they take another step forward. . I suffer with them as they wait on stage to see whether they progress to another level, and I hurt for them. I’m always reminded of when I was a kid, and I stood waiting to be chosen for a baseball game or a race. I remember the hurt when I wasn’t. It was a mighty hurt then. It was nothing, of course, compared to hope and fear of a assembly line worker or a wedding singer waiting to see whether he or she won a million dollars and a contract to play Las Vegas. Each one of these performers is a book. I’m cataloguing them in my mental cupboard.

So now you know the worst about me. I have, albeit reluctantly, become a reality show addict.

And Then the Roof Caved In (LynnK)

Those of you who endured the long posts about my struggle with shingles and Postherpetic Neuralgia (aka The Pain That Never Ends) the first part of this year might be hoping the Universe would cut me a break, if only so I’d stop with the downer stories and the whining on StoryBroads. I was rooting for that as well.

But it seems that life’s ante just leaped to a level I might not be able to afford. New challenges have got me in their claws. I’m not yet sure what those challenges are, though. There is no firm diagnosis. But early murmurings among the doctors indicate trouble dead ahead. So do my own instincts

And that is why, with the kind support of my fellow StoryBroads, I have decided to take readers on this voyage with me, wherever it may lead.

You’ll hear about trying to navigate the HMO system. How to make tough choices. Ways to take control when need be, and how to recognize times when you must surrender control.

I don’t know where this story is going or how it will end. But I’ll always be truthful and completely open about my real-life experiences, good and not so good. If you feel uncomfortable with the story I’m telling, that’s fine. Spend your time with the other StoryBroads. Or come along with me and have your say in the Comments section.

So, let’s get started.

You’ve probably heard the Latin phrase, primum non nocere. Okay, you heard it in English: “First, do no harm.” Although not part of the Hippocratic Oath, it’s firmly implanted in the minds and hearts of many physicians.

What is firmly implanted in the minds and hearts of patients?

Beats me. But after six months of being Lost in the System while experiencing excruciating pain, I figure this would be a good motto to start out with: Don’t Piss Off Your Doctor.

That’s not to say I go around doing that! Not deliberately, anyway. But your clear goal, and mine, is surely to get the best possible treatment. And that cannot happen unless everyone involved in the case is working together. For a very long time, I was not so fortunate.

No matter how often I complained of weakness and shortness of breath, no attention was paid. Even when I took myself to the Emergency Room on account of shortness of breath and dizziness, the followup appointments failed to address my concerns.

At times like these, the patient needs to find a way of putting her major issues on the front burner. It’s not easy. Doctors are overworked and have long lists of patients to attend to. Fear of antagonizing our primary caregiver usually keeps our mouths closed and sealed with a smile.

Meantime, your health may continue to deteriorate. When I found myself in this situation, I made too many wrong choices. I’m not naturally assertive (Stop laughing, those of you who think you know me!), and I am in part responsible for the poor physical condition in which I find myself today.

I did learn an important lesson, though. My real task is to get what I most want, assuming I am sure what that is. And that I’m doing the right thing in wanting it. This is a matter of choosing my battles and not being confrontational. I’m getting better at it, I must say.

Presently I require sedation or strong pain medication when forced to lie on my back for MRIs or CT Scans. The Postherpetic Neuralgia is greatly exacerbated by lying on my back, to the point of making those procedures unendurable. Guys seem to be presuming I’m a weenie. They don’t speak it aloud, but their facial expressions say, “Just suck it up, woman. It’s no big deal.” These guys have yet to experience deep nerve pain!

I’ve never been a sexist, but in some matters, it helps to have a woman take your back. My female pulmonary specialist listened to what I had to say and immediately made the necessary arrangements for my next procedure.

My male primary care physician has still not come around. But I’m seeing him today, and maybe he’ll at least fake a belief that the pain is beyond his own comprehension.

One step at a time, I tell myself. He was the one insisted on the test that showed what was going on inside me, so full credit where credit is due.

Right now, we’re trying to arrange a CT-Scan guided biopsy of fast-growing tissues in my chest. Will write on Sunday about how that was discovered, and what it all seems to mean . . . .

Take care, everyone!

Update1: The Cat-Scan guided biopsy will take place noonish on Tuesay, 23 September. They expect it to take 6-7 hours. Yikes! If I feel pain, of course, I'll be outa there a lot sooner. Imagine me fleeing down the hallways in one of those too-skimpy hospital gowns missing one or both the ties. Believe me, my backside is not suitable for prime-time viewing!

Update2: I am blessedly again in the hands of Dr. Godfrey, oncologist and hematologist, who treated me for ovarian cancer 1999-2005. I trust him absolutely. And I like him a lot! We spoke by phone this morning, and he understands my priorities. I know he'll take good care of me.

Smelling the Roses--Or Water Lilies! (Maggie)

I am a firm believer in taking time to appreciate and relish all the good things in life. So today's post is going to be just that. A post of appreciation, because some really nice things have been happening here and I don't want the Universe to think I haven't noticed and enjoyed every single one of them. So here are a few.

Great things have been happening all week. I was out choosing carpet colors when I spotted a big yellow kayak on the porch of a bait & tackle shop, with a sign that said "Red Tag Sale." Now kayaks have been on my wish list this entire year. There's a picture of them on my big board of intentions. They were in my letter to Santa at the end of last year. So I stopped and I looked, and these were the right kayaks for the right price at the right time. It was perfect. So I bought a pair of them, along with paddles and life jackets.

The next day, Stacie came over and we decided to break them in on a local pond. We had an absolute blast, got some great exercise, and just had an all around good time together. That's where we got the photo of the gorgeous water lily up top.

Below is Stacie with the kayaks, showing off, (it was a chilly day! We were very brave.) And of course a shot of the pond. It's a few miles from my house, and it's called "Forest Lake," a part of Forest Lake campground. But it's clearly a pond. And a fun one! Just the right size for our virgin voyage.










I had a lovely day Tuesday, as well, when I attended a girls soccer game with Jessie and Ben and their niece Gabrielle (a proud member of the OVCS Girls Modified Soccer Team) and little Ben. Also in attendance were my daughter Stacie, and my pal Dozer. Not to mention little Ben (pictured here doing a victory dance with his toy dog--OV won!)

I had a wonderful time, hanging with family and enjoying the sunshine, but what I really appreciated was how good Dozer was! He behaved like a champ. Amazing. He loved being there, being adored and admired by everyone who saw him. He especially enjoyed the kids.

He was most tempted to misbehave by a small poodle who kept prancing back and forth. When that happened he would pull and whine a bit, but he never pulled hard enough to post a real challenge, and after greeting everyone and getting used to the excited energy and all the people, he promptly laid down in the shadiest spot he could find and enjoyed the game. What a great dog I have! I'm so grateful for that!





/>Progress on the house is still . . . progressing. Serenity has beautiful cupboards now, along with that gorgeously finished sloped ceiling above them.





I took a close up shot of the trim around the tops of them. Isn't it pretty? No countertop yets, and no ETA on that part, though I expect one any day now, and I have every confidence it'll be soon if not immediate. =) Other things have been falling into place, too.



Here's the wine rack. Gorgeous, yes?

The washer and dryer are here, but not yet installed. I spent all afternoon picking out lighting yesterday, and that's all here now, with the electricians due to show up any minute now to install it all. And maybe hook up the washer and dryer too! Doors are being stained and painted and hung. Trim is being painted and stained and put up. And all told, there's really very little left to do. The biggest jobs left are flooring and countertops. So it's all good, and it's getting toward the end, and I'm eager and grateful and enjoying every bit of progress as it unfolds.

And there's more. Some long awaited checks have arrived, and the minute they clear some major debts that have been lurking in a menacing manner, will be obliterated.

And not only that, but ANGEL'S PAIN goes on sale October 1st, which means it could be showing up in stores near you as early as next week. (Email me if it does, I like to keep track!)

Even more fun and exciting news--I've been invited by my favorite person in the world, to a Halloween party at one of my favorite places, "The Web" in Black Lake, NY. Costumes are a must, so my guy and I are going as a gunslinger and a saloon girl. And you'd better believe there will be pictures. I've been having a blast picking out costumes, piece by piece, putting them all together, trying them on. What a blast! I love Halloween, and I love Black Lake, and I love The Web, and I love my guy, so put it all together and that makes for one fabulous time. I can hardly wait.

I think if he's a gunslinger and I'm a saloon girl, Dozer should go as our faithful steed. Don't you think? He needs a mane and a saddle. I wonder if I could find something?

So life is good for me, and I am taking the time to really notice and appreciate all the good things that have been happening! I'll have lots more picutres of the house soon, because things are improving on a daily basis! It's so exciting!

Wheee!

Tell me what's good in your life!

Maggie

Guess He Wasn't Done Yet. (Tara Taylor Quinn)

Apparently Ike wasn't satisfied with the tragic trail of destruction he left in the Houston area. Hard to believe, looking at the pictures of Galveston, that he had any evil left in his sails, but sail he did - right on up to Ohio. And we weren't prepared. Ohio doesn't get hurricanes. Tornados, yes. And we have these huge sirens that go off in every town, alerting residents to the possible onset of the funnel like damaging winds. On Sunday afternoon, while we all went about our partly sunny day, all in town was quiet. No sirens. No unrest. People were napping. Playing in their yards. Having dinner with family. Kids were on the computer instant messaging with friends. My brother was moving. The wind started to blow. But, we had a chance of afternoon thundershower, so a little wind was not noteworthy. Then it blew more. It was weird. The trees started to bend. But the sun was shining. There were no funnels. No sirens.

Tim and I got in the truck, went to the store just to get milk. Because we were out. Not because of the possible impending thunder storm. On the way back up our street, a power cord hit the side of the truck. Tim thinks it might have been a cable power cord. No official word what it was. But by the time we were back in our house, we had no electricity.

Thinking it would be on mometarily (it was a small cord and, hey, denial's an amazing thing) we put the milk in the fridge and went out back to work a bit. It would be another hour or so before we knew that we were some of the last customers at the store before it closed. The entire world - or our part of it - closed within the hour. We were being slammed with 80 mile per hour winds. They weren't kind.

Tim and I live in the woods. On a hill. Determining that we were safest outside, where we could hear the trees crack and know what to avoid, we stood out in our little oasis and listened as one tree after another cracked. And then we'd watch to see what fell. We were amazed. Kind of disoriented. We had NO idea we were having a visit from a not subdued Ike. We kept waiting for the thunder storm we'd been half expecting. It never came.

Ike did. We heard another loud crack. On the back side of our property. As with all of the other loud snaps we went over to see what had cracked. This time it was a tree about three feet in diameter. And it was going to come down. On our neighbors block construction garage that was on the edge of our property. The most we could do was cover our ears (and run a few feet) before the tree started to fall. I stood with Tim and his brother and watched as almost seventy year old block construction obliterated right before our eyes. Big cement blocks became sand. Others broke and flew. Completely impossible to believe what we were seeing.

We lost many trees and part trees in that five hours. And we lost electricity. We're going on day four now. This morning, because I had to get on line to work, I drove out of town to a place with wifi. I'm hooked up to my laptop by a special converter box in my car that turns a lighter plug into a house hold plug. (Helps to be married to an electrical engineer!) I'm charging my little mini DVD player and phone, too. And eating dry cereal and drinking diet coke from McDonald's.

Food in refrigerators over many small towns has spoiled. Last night we had the not so fine job of clearing out both the freezer and the refrigerator. I don't know which was harder, watching all that money go into garbage bags, or dealing with the stench. The goods news - it was too dark to see the pools of spoiled somethings that had formed in the bottom. I sprayed it good with disinfectant, wiped with paper towel, threw it away - and still don't know what it was. I'm okay with that.

Kids are out of school. Some businesses are still closed. The county courthouse had no electricity until last night and has been closed. But all in all we've been very lucky. There's destruction unlike anything I've ever seen, and yet, very little talk of death or injury. Of course, we aren't a very connected bunch of folks at the moment, but I hope that good news prevails.

There will be more fall out. The next storm we get, there will be more damage as weakened trees fall. In our yard we can have a huge tree that's cracked at the very top. We're hoping to help it fall. Once we get electric and can use the pole saw.


And I've learned that if I ever have to be stranded on a desert island with my husband, I'd think I was on vacation. Every night we have a fire in our backyard oasis, burning debris that became free firewood - free if you don't count the twelve hours we spent on Monday cleaning up our yard. And on the grill, we boil water. I boil water to wash dishes. And in the evenings we spend about an hour and a half to boil enough water to bathe.

We cooked a pot of ham and bean soup on the grill and had family over to eat it with us. And another night we cooked chili on the grill. And...I made brownies!!! Just like I normally do only when it came time to put them in the oven, I carried them out to Tim. He managed to regulate the heat on the grill by turning burners on and off and they cooked perfectly. Not even burned on the edges. He says they were the best brownies he'd ever had. His brother concurred. I did, too. And not just because I made them. We ate every single crumb. And my niece brought over home baked peanut butter cookies, too. She'd just baked them before the electricity went out!

Most people in our town have electric back now. There are a few of us still out. We aren't sure why. We've been told it might be Sunday before we have it back. Stories are flying around - a transformer out and waiting for parts? Or just not enough manpower? There are more lines down out by us? Tim's theory - and I'm going with this one - they're just telling us Sunday so that when it comes back on today we'll think they're heroes. I have news for them, I already think they're heroes. The task they've faced this week is daunting - overwhelming - and yet all around our little world every few hours there are reports of more electricity coming back on. They must be working around the clock.

And there are still towns around us that are completely dark. Or, at least, without lights. I think it's times that these that we become the most enlightened. When you can sit three days shy of a shower, washing out necessary clothes in the sink, stubbing your toes every time you get up to move, with no television or computers to distract your brain, and still look at the person next to you and find a perfect moment, you know you're in the right place. Last night the entertainment consisted of making up songs about boiling water. Tim showed a new level of talent. I laughed until I had tears in my eyes.

Still, a plug that worked in the house would be nice. I haven't been to a laundramat since college. And I have a husband with an aversion to them, too. If you hear some rumblings this evening - something that in any way resembles an out of tune bellowing about quarters and watching loads go round and round that will be us - finding fun in the challenges life hands us.

Of course, I'm planning on finding the electric on by the time I get home from this parking lot!

And if it isn't, that will be okay, too. Because one thing I've learned very well this past year - In every bad moment, in every hard time, there is something good. Our job is to find it. And to focus on it.

Tim and I have a new 'motto'. "We weather the storms together." The practice isn't new. Our realization of what that really means is much clearer today than it was last week. Or the week before. So take that one, Ike. You hurt us. And we were blessed.

If anyone else can share instances where good things came out of bad, the storybroads would sure love to hear them...

What's With Men & Presents? (Suzanne Forster)

Since I’m fresh off a birthday, I can speak from recent experience about the truly goofball things that some men consider legitimate birthday presents for the women in their lives. Then again, maybe goofball is too strong a word. How about inappropriate?

This Sunday, I got a card for my birthday, which was actually a day later, Monday, but I don’t mind birthdays being moved up. That’s better than having them moved back. Or forgotten altogether. Big thumbs down on that one.

Anyway, the dh left the card on the kitchen table with a cute verse and a pin inside that says: “I have survived almost everything.” Given that he knows better than anyone what’s been going on the last few years, I thought that was pretty sweet of him. The card also listed my birthday presents: #1 was a movie of my choice. #2 was dinner out at the restaurant of my choice.

Pretty cool so far, huh?

#3 was an external hard drive. Of my choice, of course. If you don’t know what an external hard drive is, I’m not going to be much help, except to say that it's a device for backing up the material on your internal hard drive, which is actually inside your computer, for those of you who aren’t as tech savvy as I am. LOLOL.

The year before he got me a set of tires of my car.

Now, to be honest, I was thrilled about the tires. I needed them and royalty money was scarce at the time. I’m also pretty happy about the external hard drive. I often complain about the thumb print drive that came with my computer, but never worked.

So, okay, thoughtful gifts, all in all. And I’m not complaining, exactly. I know there are guys out there who don’t buy gifts at all. But still, external hard drives and tires for the car? What’s next? A stopper replacement kit so I can fix the running toilet?

Would you not say that these presents are inching toward the inappropriate category, if not there already? Especially the hard drive, which he’s more excited about than I am, let me tell you. When I posed this inappropriate birthday gift question to my Yahoo group, I got some backup for my theory.

Actually only one member responded, but her answer was a doozy. To protect both the innocent and the guilty, this member will hereinafter will be referred to as “Mad.”

For their 17th anniversary, Mad’s husband came home with a steam cleaner, telling her it was what she’d asked for. Her response was: “No, I never ever asked for one...I said I was going to CALL a company so THEY could come out and do it.”

Pretty cagey, I’d say. He saves the big bucks a professional would have charged and gets a live-in steam cleaner with one gift.

Hmm, who really got the gift in that situation? Something tells me these guys bearing gifts are dumb like foxes. Mad also shared that another year he “tried” to give her a ring that he said was his mother’s, but the jewel was missing so all she got was a gold band … and then he was upset because she didn’t gush over it!

She solved the problem quite handily by advising him not to buy her anything else. She would do the shopping herself and tell him look, this is what you got me. And regarding that cleaner, she says it’s still in the box, unopened, because it made steam come out her ears.

Mad’s dh is a lucky man. His wife has a great sense of humor—and he’s still alive, lol.

So, now it’s your turn. Have any of you received inappropriate presents over the years? If you have now or have ever had a male significant other in your life, I’d say it’s almost a sure thing.

Suz

P.S. Even Jay Leno knows something about bad presents. As I was writing this, he was going through his funny newspaper clippings, which he often does to open his show. He read this one aloud and almost fell off his chair laughing: “John Deere compact utility tractor. $600. Bought it for the wife. Bad idea. Will sell $400.”

What I've Learned (Anne Stuart)

I just finished The Book That Kicked My Butt (hereafter referred to as TBTKMB). It was hell on wheels for any number of reasons, many of them my own fault. I was depressed when I started (you all know I've got issues with depression on and off, right?) Spring is always particularly bad. So I got further and further behind, and I got a new ICE idea that I desperately wanted to write, plus my publisher came up with an offer for historicals (totally unexpected) which thrilled me, and TBTKMB became harder and harder to find. I did everything I could. I bought books on structure, plotting, characters, I tried different softwares (Scrivener, Writer's Tool Kit, Power Structure, Save the Cat, Storyist.) I filled out 50 index cards with scenes and plot points and put them on a cork board that I propped on a chair so I could look at it and work on my assignment. I worked and I worked, rewrote as I could, and finally gave up, packed up everything and went to hotel for five days to finish the book. Which I did.

I've learned a number of things from all this. All that left brain stuff got in the way of my process. I write instinctively, with an inner knowledge of rhythm and pacing, of story and character. It's part gift, part on the job learning. To try to force my brain into someone else's schedule, order, etc. is asking for trouble. I ended up making it much harder than it needed to be.

It's really hard to let go and let god when you've got a deadline looming over you and other things you want to get to. That's the way most of us write (the deadline part) nowadays. And I did everything I could to speed up the process, most of which were counterproductive.

I also know that I am flat out incapable of writing a bad book. I know, that's awful of me -- I should be much more humble. But I've been writing since the dawn of time, and I know my strengths and weaknesses. I can't write crap.

Plus I had two readers of rough forms of the book who said it was full of great stuff (it was a mess at the time). So it's going to be ok.

Hotel marathons are still a good thing - it was only by walking away from those stupid index cards and all the books and software that I was finally able to jump into the book.

So the bottom line after 35 years. There are no shortcuts. The word formula has a bad connotation in our business, but I'm talking about formula like haiku and sonnets. I can't write with someone else's structure imposed on my work. I have to follow my own innate sense of timing and story.

In the end the book is definitely good, and with my darling baby boy editor it'll be even better. And the good thing is that after 35 years there are still new things to learn.

(BTW I was in my early twenties when I sold my first book).

So today, while I wait to hear from my editor, I will rest on my somewhat prickly laurels and start dreaming about historicals. And maybe reward myself for my hard work with a new Itouch. (Having lusted after Jenny Cruisie's iPhone).

Question for you writers out there -- are you left brained or right brained? Do you outline and plan and use index cards, or do you fly into the mist like Jo Beverley?

Or do you do what I can't do, and write both ways?

Location, Location, Location (Patricia Potter)

I haven’t been able to concentrate much on today’s blog. I’ve been far too concerned about Hurricane Ike.

I’m not in harm’s way, but I have many friends in the Houston area, and I love Galveston Island. Its history has always fascinated me, and I first fell in love with it when I discovered it was home to Pirate Jean Lafitte, hero of the Battle of New Orleans. Its subsequent tragic history, mainly the 1900 hurricane which took 6,000 lives, has haunted me. I’ve always thought, though, that it would be a place I would like to live. Galveston has a small town village atmosphere and a history greatly appeals to me. I’m quickly losing that thought.

We still have people from Hurricane Katrina here in Memphis. They came, and many stayed. I ran into someone a few days ago. He and his family left New Orleans because of the Gustav scare. He said he wasn’t going back this time. He's just finished rebuilding from Katrina a month earlier. He loved New Orleans, but he couldn’t live in fear any longer.

As of now, I don’t know the complete damage to Galveston, but from the television coverage late Friday night, it looks as if the entire island will be flooded. How many will go back and rebuild? How many will say they can’t go through this again?

Galveston is beautiful. As is New Orleans. I love both places but I don’t think I would choose to live in or around them, despite the their attractions. As I said before, I’m a pack rat and animal owner. I’m not sure I could risk losing my treasures (or having them threatened) or live with the prospect of traveling seventeen hours – or more -- with three restless dogs in the car every time a hurricane nears.

So I’ll probably stay here in Memphis, far from the ocean. Far from hurricanes and floods and fires and mudslides, etc. But we do have our own threat. Memphis sits on a major earthquake fault and everyone here has earthquake insurance. Haven’t had one in more than a hundred and fifty years, but experts say we’re due.

And other locations? Kansas has tornadoes. Minnesota has snow and ice storms. The northeast, well, taxes.

I’ve always thought I would be happy wherever I lived. I find great places in every city and hamlet. I like small towns because of the sense of community. I like big cities because of the cultural, entertainment and culinary offerings.

Family brought me to Memphis, but I often think that I would love to retire in some beautiful, exotic spot. Desert or ocean or mountains. Destinations change according to mood. I love to daydream, but then I hear of a hurricane, or fire or flood. I settle down in my big recliner or in front of my computer and am grateful for relative safety. Memphis looks better all the time.

So where do you live, and how did you get there? Did you grow up there? Job? Family? Do you intend to move in the future and, if so, where? And would you trade annual uncertainty for life on a beach?

Out Sick (LynnK)

Image by L.S. at Le Chimaera



Sorry. If I can, I'll post later today. If not, maybe Sunday.

Lynn

Dozer Speaks! (by Dozer, with some help from Maggie)

Hi! I'm posting for Mom today because she's a little on the busy side. So it's left to me, and I really don't mind. A lot of you hear about me in her posts sometimes, but I think I should get to have a say every once in awhile.

Mom says I'm an English Mastiff. I don't know what that means. I'm actually a puppy. I'll be 8 months old next week, and my favorite place to be is in someone's lap. So that mastiff thing is, I guess, just a way to tell you what I look like. (I'm posting some of my favorite pictures to help, too.) I look just like a movie star. If you ever watched my favorite movie, Turner & Hootch, then you've pretty much seen me. (I look like Hootch, not Tom Hanks, just in case there's any confusion.) Except Hootch is a Bull Mastiff, and I'm an English Mastiff, and the only real difference between the two, Mom says, is that I get bigger. Or so I'm told. I don't FEEL big.

But I guess I am. When I jumped onto mom's bed the other night, there was this terrible crunching, clanging sound, and pieces of metal went flying in all directions from somewhere underneath. It really startled me! And now the bed--she calls it a futon--well, it's shaped funny. Like the letter V, mom says, though I wouldn't know, cause I can't read. But when she lies down, she's in a little trench in the middle, and the bed angles up on either side of her. When I get in with her, it flattens out better, if I stay far off to one side. But I'd rather snuggle close, so then the angle makes me roll downward onto Mom. She grunts a groans a lot when that happens. But still, she says it's okay. It's not a real bed anyway. Our real bed is a great big strong one, so once we get that one set up, we should be fine. I don't know why we're not using it already, but I think it has something to do with the noisemakers.

The noisemakers are mostly guys, and one girl--and boy, do I love them! They come over almost every day, and when I hear them arrive, I get so excited! Then mom opens the door of our little room, and I get to run out and say hi. They're pretty good at saying hi back. They pet me and play with me and talk to me in funny voices. But after a few minutes, I have to go back in the room with Mom, and that's when they start making noise. A lot of noise. Sometimes it's okay, but sometimes it's a bit upsetting and I have to bark at them to tell them to quiet down. They pound on things and run machines that growl and cut things and who knows what else?

Every time they go home, Mom and I go out and walk around the rest of the house, the part we don't live in (don't ask me why, it's way bigger than where we DO live. Mom keeps saying we're gong to live out there soon, but I don't know what she's waiting for.) Anyway, every single time we walk around at the end of the day, there' s something different. Sometimes the differences are good--sometimes not so much. There was a lot more room in the "kitchen" before they put those pesky "cupboards" on the walls. But the changes always smell really interesting. Paint and varnish and freshly cut boards have nifty aromas, and I'm enjoying those a lot. And usually, there are lots of goodies on the floor for me to chew. My favorites are sand paper, rubber gloves, and pieces of wood. I can always find something if I snoop long enough. Mom goes upstairs to look around too, and I bet there are things changing up there every day too, but I can't say for sure, because I'm afraid of stairs. They're SCARY.

I've discovered a new game that's the best one ever. Apple picking! There's this big tree on the lawn, and up until lately it was just an ordinary tree, but now it's got these round, sweet smelling, yummy tasting apples growing all over it, and I can reach them. I just love yanking them off the branches, chewing on them a while, throwing them around and then chasing them. When one gets a little chewed up, I just grab another. It's FUN! I really think everyone should try it. You'll love it too. It's almost as much fun as playing with my cat, Glory. Maybe more fun, cause she usually only wants to play for a minute or two and then she gets all twitchy and hissy and then she runs away.

Even though my noisemakers and my mom have been keeping me company, I've had a very lonely week, cause my favorite guy ever (my dad) has been away, and I miss him like I'd miss a meal. It's depressing, I gotta tell you. Nobody plays with me like he does. They try, but it's just not the same. But Mom says he's back today, so I'm pretty wound up about that. I'm going to run right up to him when I see him, and knock him right on the floor and lick his face, so he'll know I missed him. (Mom says she's going to do the same thing, but she's going to have to get in line behind me! People! Sheesh!)

So that's pretty much my story. I like my life a lot. Every day is fun, fun, fun.

Happy Birthday, Baby!

September 11. The date was just an ordinary day. Until September 11, 1985. I did something that day I'd never done before, and have never done since. And every single September 11th since then, the entire day is consumed with the memory of September 11, 1985. And everything that has come after as a result of that day.

September 11, 1985. I had a baby. I labored for almost 19 hours - and for the first 16, thought, hey, this is a piece of cake. Nothing like I'd feared. A bit of a cramp every now and then. I can definitely take this. And then that seventeenth hour hit and I thought I was going to die. Truly. But I didn't. I was gifted instead. At 3:58 am, my sweet baby girl joined this world and my world was changed forever.

I might just be a mom, discardable sometimes as life goes on, the recipient of anger and frustration through the growing years, one who holds long hair out of the way during throw up moments, the cleaner of other dirty things, but I wouldn't trade one second - not one single second - of the ensuing 23 years if it meant I missed having known and raised this child.

I am the keeper of the memories. My baby was 15 months old when the above picture was taken. It was December. In Ohio. I'd waited for months for the appointment for this photograph. The photographer specialized in children and who was more special than my little girl? The day dawned and my little one had a terrible cold. At the runny nose stage. So armed with Kleenexes, and with her bundled to the point of mummified, off we went. And, eventually she had a good time. Here's why:

I told you she was my little girl! Even at the tender age of one, a book did it for her.

On January 29, 1986 my little girl laughed for the first time. I had her upstairs on her changing table. I raised her arms above her head and kissed her. And she laughed out loud. It makes me smile even now, to remember that sound. Of course, it became a ritual after that. Every single day, every single time I changed her, I'd raise her arms and kiss her. And every single time, she'd laugh out loud.

I was alone with her for her first step. Her first words. All moments that are chronolized in my mind forever. I was there the time another little girl came up and wrapped her hands around my little one's throat and watched (while I was running to the rescue) as my baby girl reached up and pulled those arms down and away from her. The other girl was scratched in the process, and then it was up to me to defend my warrior as, initially, the blame was placed on her because of that accidental scratch.

I know I'm nothing special. Moms all over the world love their babies as I love mine. But it feels special. The baby I had on September 11, 1985 is 23 years old tomorrow, and not one ounce of the magic, of that remarkable, powerful love has diminished at all. Not one bit of the joy is gone. The memories don't seem to fade, they just grow more precious.

She's moved on - as children must. She'll have her own family, her own babies, create her own magic and her own memories. And she'll be the keeper of those memories. The giver of unconditional love. And so will I be. As long as I am alive, I have a job. I am her mother. No matter where she goes, who she knows and loves, no matter what choices she makes or who she becomes, I am her mother. She is my baby. She has her future, but I have her past. And I have her beginning. Others will effect her life, but I helped shape it. Shape her. That compassion she gives to those around her - I showed her how to do that. Taught her how important it was to be kind. Her intensity, the way she gets a point in her head and argues it with passion - that's me. I taught her how to cross stitch. I gave her her love for books and for puzzles. Some of her recipes - they came from me. I taught her how to tie shoes. And how to write. I introduced her to the computer. My computer, that I was supposed to be using to write my books, but instead used to play Lexicross with her.

I taught her other things, too. Things I'm not as proud of. I taught her to bury her head in the sand. But the mistakes are examples, too. They give her leeway not to be perfect. They show her how to fail and get up again. To keep moving. To keep trying.

Tomorrow, my baby girl celebrates her 23rd birthday without me. And I'm remembering her first birthday. Something she probably doesn't remember at all.

I bought too many presents. And shopped with her right there in the cart because she had no idea what I was doing. But...

WE HAD FUN!!!!!

And we will have fun again.

September 11 has taken on great significance and meaning in our world. It is a symbol of destruction and sadness and fear. A symbol of the depths of evil. And a symbol of unity. My little girl turned 16 on that awful day in American and World History. Sweet sixteen. Because for every horrible horrible tragedy, there is also a miracle.

Today I feel blessed. Because on September 11, 1985, I experienced a miracle. Happy Birthday, Baby. I love you.

Fluffy to the Rescue! (Suzanne Forster)

First, let me give credit where credit is due. I didn’t come up with the title for this blog. I saw it in a magazine and the picture next to the title caught my eye immediately. Clearly meant to be the Fluffy of the title, it was the sweetest, wide-eyed, perky-eared calico kitten in existence, except for my Mandy, of course.

Apparently, Fluffy is a lifesaver—and so is your cat and mine and all cats. According to the article, if we own a cat, it may cut our risk of dying from a heart attack. And here I thought Mandy was trying to give me a heart attack by racing like a mad thing between my legs as I pick my way