StoryBroads...It's All Good

Getting Ready to Roll (Suzanne Forster)

noreply@blogger.com (Suzanne Forster) — Tue, 08 Jul 2008 07:13:00 +0000

Well, I’m off on another adventure to the Pacific Northwest. I’ll be gone a month, which sounds like a long time, doesn’t it, especially when you take packing into consideration. What to take? More important, what not to take? I checked some online travel tip sites and apparently the most common problem is that people try to take too much. That would definitely be me. But really, how do you pack for a whole month?

The good news is I’ll be staying at the family condo, where there’s a washer and dryer, so I really only need enough clothing for a week … but it never works that way. The weather up there ranges from hot to downright cold. It can get chilly, even this time of year, but when the sun pokes through the marine layer, temps in the low to mid-nineties are not unusual. And all of this means more clothing. Shorts and tank tops for the hot days. Flip flops and sandals. Jeans, sweaters and sneakers for the cool days. Also, it rains a lot, so I’d better throw in some kind of slicker, an umbrella and maybe even boots. Swell.

You’d think by now I’d have it down to a science. I was commuting to Olympia every other month when my mom was ill. Mostly I just kept my bags packed and ready to go, but that was such a draining experience that I’m trying not to dwell on how I managed it. This feels like a new beginning. In some ways, I will be very much at loose ends without my mom to care for and hang out with, and I will miss her greatly, but I’m also trying to see this as an opportunity to rediscover what it means to care for myself. Somehow the thought is a little scary. I’m not quite sure why, but that's okay. It's all part of making this trip an adventure, and a very personal one.

Happily, I will get to spend lots of time with my only child, Kenny, who is well grown by now and has a family of his own. My grandkids are adorable, all three of them, and I’m already plotting and planning all the ways I can spoil them. But I’m hoping to be a guiding force too, so I’ve saved a birthday gift for each of them. We’re going to explore a charitable web site that allows you to pick deserving recipients in depressed countries around the world and invest in their businesses. Once you’ve invested, you can follow their progress and see firsthand the impact of your investment. I want Shea, Ariel and Chance to see the huge difference a very small amount of money can make in a deserving person’s life.

So there’s plenty to look forward to, but I want very much for this trip to be easy, relaxing and fun. I want to replace some of the sad and stressful memories with sweet ones. I’m committed to taking that step and I know it's the right move … but first, all the horrors of travel prep await me. In my dreams I would be able to beam myself and my belongings up to Olympia. I might even take the cat!

And packing is only part of the prep. Before the packing comes the shopping, and my first trip to the mall was a rude awakening. All the summer stuff had been on sale since June. There was nothing left! When will I get it figured out that they don’t sell summer clothes in the summer? You have to start in the spring at the very latest. Winter is better. I don’t know if that’s true elsewhere, but there must be a law on the books here. Shop out of season or don’t shop at all.

Luckily this year my timing was just right for the July 4th sales. Forty and fifty percent off was the norm. Plus coupons! Has anyone else realized that these deeply discounted sales are both a blessing and a curse? When I got to the lingerie department and discovered the breathable knickers I wear were forty percent off if I bought four pair, I just had to do it. I didn’t need four pair. I didn’t even need one pair, but when was I ever going to find a sale like that again? Probably next Fourth of July, but I couldn’t take the chance.

And so, Suzanne is now the proud owner of more breathable underwear than she knows what to do with.

It’s good that I don’t shop often. It’s always a marathon when I do, but I’m sure I save money in the long run. These sales would bankrupt me if I had to face them very often. And then there’s all the justifying when I get home. B-b-b-but, I only had to spend $200 to save $100. Isn’t that great?

Also, traveling’s getting more expensive all the time, and it isn’t just the clothes. Now, they’re charging an extra $25 if your bag is over the weight limit, or if you check more than one bag. I’ve pretty much surrendered to the idea of an extra bag charge. It’s unlikely I could get all the warm and cold-weather gear into one bag, and if I did, I’d surely be over the limit and have to pay the twenty-five bucks anyway.

If only I didn’t overpack. Is there a cure for that? I see people traveling with just their carry-ons. I’ve never been able to manage that, even for a weekend trip. My bathroom products alone would fill the carry-on, but that’s beside the point because my carry-on is actually a rolling office for my various writing projects. Right now I’m working on several story ideas, and I like to carry hard copies, as well as electronic backups because the electronic stuff doesn’t always work. Tell me about it! I’m currently waiting for Sony to mail my laptop back. They sent a repair person over to fix the fan and he killed my nearly new computer dead—and just as I'm leaving on this trip! No way can I be without my computer for a month. So, with great trepidation, I sent it down to their San Diego shop for a complete diagnostic exam. Think good thoughts that I get it back in time.

So, okay, it’s after midnight as I write this, but I’m about to bite the bullet and drag out those suitcases. Does anyone have any handy travel tips? Or things to avoid? I definitely know better than to pack scissors and bottled water. The airport should open a concession to sell all the scissors they’ve confiscated from me. But I’d love to know how to travel light, both light of heart and luggage, so if you have any experience along those lines, I’m all ears.

Suz

(Announcement) Fitness Challenge from Maggie Shayne

noreply@blogger.com (Maggie Shayne) — Sun, 06 Jul 2008 12:49:00 +0000

There are challenges going on all summer, with prizes, over on Maggie's Health and Fitness email list. This next one begins Monday July 7th. If you want to join in, send a blank email to Maggies-health-and-fitness-subscribe@yahoogroups.com
Details below!
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I got this idea from a challenge the Onondaga County Parks Department is doing this month.

The challenge is to exercise for 30 minutes a day, every day, for 30 days.
30-for-30.

So here's what you need to do. Get yourself a calendar or use one you already have. And begin on Monday writing down what you do, and how long you do it.

Now this includes brisk walks, swimming, biking, aerobics, weights, yoga, martial arts, running, jumping on a trampoline, and anything else you can think of. I'd really like us to mix it up and see how many activities we can include in our thirty day marathon.

We'll stay on our weight loss/diet plans, of course. We'll keep weighing in and checking our weight, and sharing that if we want, naturally. And this is going to be tough for me, because it will end AFTER the RWA convention in SF. So I'll have to use a hotel gym for that final week! Yikes!

We'll keep track of everyone who completes the challenge. (Or if no one does, we'll keep track of who managed to get the MOST days in.) And we'll put those names in a hat and draw one to win the grand prize!

The Grand Prize--it's fabulous! It's a full set of 4 workout DVDs from Beachbody.com, Debbie Siebers' SLIM EXPRESS. It includes Cardio Core Express, Cardio Sculpt Express, Cool it Off!, and 6-Minute Abs. It's close to a fifty dollar value with shipping. And appropriately enough, each workout, takes 30 minutes.

I actually just bought this set, thinking I didn't have it yet, but it turned out, I actually had already bought it. It was stored with most of my other belongings, at the cleanup crew's place. They brought my DVDs back last week, and then this arrived like the next day! It's still wrapped, brand new.

So we begin on Monday.

Also, I'm going to try to post daily "tips" that we can each try to incorporate into our daily lives to help boost our progress.

Monday we begin.
Our final day, day 30, will be Tuesday, August 5th.
We'll tally the results and pick a winner on Wednesday August 6th.

Better rest up today. Or gear up! Enjoy your Sunday and congrats on a job well done on our previous challenge!

Maggie

I Pull a Rosie Ruiz (LynnK)

noreply@blogger.com (Lynn Kerstan) — Sun, 06 Jul 2008 07:10:00 +0000

Here's L'il Ms. Firecracker, about to frizzle out several hours after the parade. She wasn't so hot before or during the parade, either.

After a painful night and morning with the Shingles, I finally admitted that waiting in line with hundreds of others and their cars and floats and animals for at least an hour before the parade even started, not to mention the parade walk itself, followed by the long walk home . . . Well, I just wasn't up to it.

But I had the hat! And the teeshirt from my group, the Democratic Club of Coronado, which made me feel obligated to show up. Never underestimate the power of Catholic Guilt.

So I decided to walk slowly to a point about midway on the parade route, jump in amongst my gang, and finish up near the street that would lead me home again. All in all, maybe a mile and a half. Not exactly a winter in Valley Forge.

Conserving my measly strength, I sauntered to the Point of Entry well before the time I estimated the Coronado Dems would arrive there. But they didn't come, and they didn't come. I must have missed them! Dispirited, I headed for a point near the end of the route, hoping to meet up with friends watching the parade at Their Usual Spot. Couldn't find them.

But lo! Here came the Dems, lookin' good in their identical blue teeshirts, demonstrating eco-friendly transportation like peddle carts, bicycles, golf carts, hybrid cars, Segways, and feet. I slipped in and joined the smiling and waving.

For a grand total of two blocks. They were moving fast, possibly because the parade got a late start, and within a short time, I was out of breath and lightheaded. Rather than make a scene mid-parade, I toddled over to a curb on a side street, sat, and buried my head between my knees. No question of going to the club's barbeque after the parade.

Ultimately I slogged home, punctuated with stops for sitting and catching breath.
And that's how I spent the Fourth. I didn't even make it to the great fireworks show over Glorietta Bay, which would have required me to walk another two blocks. Okay, I was watching Mark Harmon on NCIS, which was the main reason I stayed in.

While waiting for my group to show up, I did get to see quite a lot of a very long parade. There's nothing fancy in the line-up. Well, except maybe this.

Coronado has long been a Navy town, so the military bands and troops and vehicles play an important part in our celebrations. The vets are most especially honored, and when they appear, people come to their feet and applaud.

Men in kilts. Yum!

Coronado has long been Fourth of July Central. Its first parade was staged in 1888, and in early years, a lot of drinking before marching was involved. Often, when time came for the parade to start, the participants couldn't find the parade. It's always been a labor of love, though, with citizens donating money to finance the celebration and volunteers doing all the work.

This is a small town (about 29,000, including those in military housing on two large Navy bases), but 80,000 people show up to watch the parade. More thousands crowd the beaches and parks. Dogs are abundantly present. Childen laugh and squeal. With the possible exception of those who can't find a parking place, everyone seems to be having a great time!

Me, too, despite my pathetic performance, and I'm already looking forward to next year's parade.

The Fourth -- I Love It (Patricia Potter).

noreply@blogger.com (Patricia Potter) — Sat, 05 Jul 2008 14:33:00 +0000

Well, the Fourth is over. Kinda.

It's always my favorite holiday. I even like it better than Christmas.

Maybe because it doesn't have all the angst that goes with Christmas. Don't get me wrong. I love Christmas, but there's a certain amount of worry that goes with it. Is this the right gift? Is everyone going to be as happy as I want them to be (think aged mother)? There's all the frantic preparations, mailing of gifts, preparation of food.

But the Fourth of July? I just have to pull out my nearly full-size stuffed Uncle Sam, put a red, white and blue bow on my door and a flag on my mailbox, and voila, I am ready.

I like the fact that the Fourth holiday always lasts several days. This year it started on Sunday with a huge outside patriotic program at Memphis's largest church which is, conveniently, about a half mile from my house. It included a symphony, guest artists and exceptional fireworks. Then other fireworks continued all week. So did parades. There's more coming this weekend. I have to admit I'm a kid about fireworks. Always have been. Always will be.

Because I claim the Fourth as MY holiday, I do my one big family affair of the year: a barbecue with Brunswick stew (I make it once a year -- recipe below), home grown tomatoes and squash casserole, gourmet cheese and bacon burgers, and strawberry shortcake with real whip cream. And lots and lots of cocktail munchies.

This year there was a new twist. My mom's nursing home had a special program July 4th morning, featuring Scouts from Israel. They were terrific. There were ten of them -- five girls and five boys of sixteen and seventeen -- who sang and danced their way into the hearts of a hundred elderly folk. It was ever so touching with the way they knelt next to the seniors, took their hands and sang to them personally. The smiles of the residents were incredible. My nephew from Alabama suddenly appeared at the event, and my mother just beamed with happiness. A very good morning, indeed.

Worth noting: It's also Israel's 60th birthday as well as ours, and both were celebrated with music and song.

Then came my dinner, followed by more fireworks a few blocks away.

Tonight (Saturday) it continues. There's a Fourth celebration at my brother's lake community. All the residents join in a joyous regatta. They decorate their pontoon boats and hold a parade of boats, ending with a massive fireworks display. It's one of the really fun events of the year.

There are so many other things I love about this holiday.

I love the neighborhood parade that features small children and animals in costume, along with a vintage fire engine.

I like the emails sent by my friends. Several included the entire Declaration of Independence which is worth reading every year. Others include snippets of history, or cartoons or just good wishes for a great Fourth.

I love listening to Yankee Doodle Dandy again for the 50th time (it never gets old to me), and "1776," the musical about the founding of our country. I like the Boston Pops Concert the entire family watches together, and the Capitol Fourth concert.

And I appreciate being reminded of what a great country we have. I often wonder why I'm so lucky to have been born here, rather than in a far less free country. It's a good time to count my blessings.

So a happy post Fourth to everyone this weekend!!!

Do you have any special Fourth events, or memories?

###

Recipe for Brunswick Stew:

Cook a chicken in a crock pot. When meat falls off the bones, take chicken out, leaving the broth in crockpot. Separate meat from bones, save about half for sandwichs and put the rest back into crockpot.

Add fresh homegrown (if possible) tomatoes. A bunch of them.

Brown ground sirloin with chopped onions and add to crock pot. Brown ground pork and add as well.

Add vegetables according to taste. I add fresh corn cut from the cob. Others might use peas or lima beans. Bake several potatoes, scoop out of skins and dump in pot (it thickens the stew).

Keep adding garlic (I use minced garlic as well as fresh garlic)throughout process, as well cajun seasoning.

Let simmer. Taste frequently for proper seasoning.

I always start the stew a day before eating, let it simmer, then put in fridge overnight. I let it simmer four or five hours before serving. It easily feeds fifteen people. You can freeze what isn't consumed. It actually gets better.

Sorry I can't give more measurements, but I'm a cook by taste person.

Everyone usually loves it.

Birthday Greetings (Ben Franklin)

noreply@blogger.com (StoryBroads) — Fri, 04 Jul 2008 07:12:00 +0000

So there you are, my fellow citizens, 232 years after the Continental Congress issued the Declaration of Independence in 1776 and cut the ties that bound us as colonists to another nation. Our Constitution was written, adopted, and put into effect between 1877 and 1879.

Exciting times. Frightening times. I was in the middle of it all, appalled and inspired, determined and despairing. As were, I expect, my fellows. We often quarreled. And yet, as I look upon you now, heirs to our creation, I see that what we pulled together has held together.

Well, let us be realistic. It has, at least, not altogether unraveled.

And great advances have been made in ways we could not imagine in 1776. I smile to see women and people of color claiming their rightful places. But there will be more struggles to come. There always are.

I never fail to wonder, as I did during the times that tried my own soul, how it is that we Americans so often teeter on the edge of disaster, only to summon the courage to draw together and renew our commitment to freedom, to our republic, to our Constitution, and to the welfare of humanity.

This is well worth celebrating.

Being a man with a degree of pride, let me remind you of several remarks I made those many years ago that do, I am sure, apply as greatly in your time as they did in mine:

“If any form of government is capable of making a nation happy, ours I think bids fair now for producing that effect. But after all, much depends on the people who are to be governed.”

“Our new Constitution is now established, and has an appearance that promises permanency; but in the world nothing can be said to be certain except death and taxes.”

"Democracy is two wolves and a lamb voting on what to have for lunch. Liberty is a well-armed lamb contesting the vote!"

“They that can give up essential liberty to obtain a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty nor safety.”

"It is the first responsibility of every citizen to question authority."

“Whoever would overthrow the Liberty of a Nation, must begin by subduing the Freeness of Speech.”

“I doubt too whether any other Convention we can obtain, may be able to make a better Constitution: For when you assemble a Number of Men to have the Advantage of their joint Wisdom, you inevitably assemble with those Men all their Prejudices, their Passions, their Errors of Opinion, their local Interests, and their selfish Views. From such an Assembly can a perfect Production be expected? It therefore astonishes me, Sir, to find this System approaching so near to Perfection as it does…Thus I consent, Sir, to this Constitution because I expect no better, and because I am not sure that it is not the best.”

In any case, a Happy Fourth to you all, whatever your nation and customs.

One last thought before I fire up the barbeque:
“Beer is living proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.”

Postscript: Lynn Kerstan is either marching in a Fourth of July Parade, about which she will post on Sunday, or Shingled at home popping aspirin and feeling sorry for herself. Being in the Afterlife, I (Ben) cannot place her because of a mysterious distortion in the universe known as Pacific Coast Time.

Weight Watchers for Money? (Maggie)

noreply@blogger.com (Maggie Shayne) — Thu, 03 Jul 2008 12:52:00 +0000

Here's the latest pic of Dozer and Glory. When he's feeling soft and snuggly, Glory just loves her pup. But when he's feeling rambuctious and treating her like a chew toy, she's not at all as patient. But no worries. She handles him just fine. His hips are getting better all the time, with the new raw food diet and the daily doses of glucosamine chondroitin. So yay!

But today I wanted to talk about money, because it's been on my mind a lot lately. With the divorce and the fire and stuff, I've wracked up a lot of debt, and although I'm beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel at last (thanks Universe!) I'm also aware that I want to get really good at managing finances. I want to be so good at it that this never happens again. I want to be so financially savvy that Suzy Orman comes to me for advice. I'm just not sure how to get there. I dislike math. I dislike anything left brained like that. But I think I could learn to enjoy it, even as I learn to get good at it.

And I started thinking about what things I AM good at, and wondering if I could find a parallel--a way to apply those techniques to money issues. Okay, so what am I good at? I'm really good at storytelling. So what do I do while writing a book that I could apply to finances? They're pretty opposite, for the most part. I write everyday. I suppose if I also spent time every day working on financial stuff, it would go a long way. I tend to tackle bills once a month if that. But once it's done, I feel good. So maybe doing a bit every day would be better. In writing I use my imagination. I'm not sure I'm financially savvy enough yet to get to creative with money issues though. And so far, though I'll think more on it, that's about the only two things I can think of that the two areas might have in common.

So I moved on. What else am I good at? One thing that pops into mind is something that a lot of people have a lot of trouble with. Weight management. I'm very good at that. I know exactly how to take it off. I slack off sometimes, but I always know exactly what I need to do to get where I want to be, and the reason I know, is because of Weight Watchers. (You know I was a Weight Watchers Counciler for a while, way back when.) And I know, this isn't the program that works for everyone, but it is the one that works for me. And knowing that makes me want to know why, exactly, it works for me, and how I could apply it to money.

On Weight Watchers, you begin with your current weight and your normal daily activity level, and based on that you are given a number of "points" for each day. Every food you eat has an assigned number of points attached to it. You eat until you've used up all your points and then you're done. You also get a handful of "bonus points" each week, to be used if you want or need them. But your base number of points are essential. You can't go under. It's the easiest thing in the world for me to follow. (Note--this is the WW Points Program. They also have a Core Program that's slightly different.)

So maybe, I thought, I could create a similar program for money. Maybe my current weight equals my income. And maybe my activity level equals my essential expenses. And maybe we add all that up, and see what's left over, and then those extra dollars get divided up into various categories. Bonus points for other things. Like, oh I don't know--savings? (What are those?) And frivolous spending type stuff. And travel and promotional costs. I was going to put the IRS into this category, but they've convinced me, of late, that they are NOT a frivolous spending item. They are essential. So into the essential category they go. And maybe the savings bit ought to go there too.

Now if I could get this down to a really workable formula, I think I could get to be good at it. But I'm not sure I'm figuring it right. Maybe expenses are the current weight, and income is the activity level. Maybe I'm missing something.

And maybe, just maybe (Universe hear my prayer!) someone has already come up with some kind of formula for this. Maybe somewhere there's a website, like Weight Watchers Online, only for money. Money-Watchers Online. And maybe they have a "tracker" like the WW site has, where you can just punch in what you spent on what today, and it spits out how close you are to your limit. Maybe such a miracle already exists.

Maybe I should email Suzy Orman and ask her. If she doesn't already know of something like this, I'll bet she could create one, and I'd be first in line to sign up.

Anyway, the other thing I'm very good at is getting what I want. When I want something badly enough, if I can just manage to get to a place of feeling good, even before I get it, of not worrying about how long it's taking to come, of just joyously expecting it to appear and having fun in the meantime, then it always, always comes to me. Lately, that tendency of mine has been snowballing. I think that's inevitable. When something I've been wanting for a long time, finally appears, it reassures me that everything else I want can manifest just as easily. But they only come when I start to relax about not having them yet, start to be okay without them, and then, voila! There it is.

So to begin this trip to becoming a financial genius, all I have to do is relax about it, deal with the debt bit by bit, and relax, and I've been doing that, and voila! It looks like there's a gleaming sun on the horizon, getting ready to rise and clear it all away in one fell swoop. (Or one swell foop, as my mom used to say.) As soon as I relaxed, the solution began to appear. Now, to get to be so good at managing money that this problem never returns. I want it. I've been wanting it, and I've been telling the Universe I want it, and I've been relaxing about it. And then this morning, voila! This idea about a program like Weight Watchers hit me. So now I know what I need, the best path for me to get there, would be one like that. So I've told the Universe I want it, and I'm relaxing, and I'm waiting.

And I'll bet that anytime now, I'll discover just such a program, and it'll work wonders for me.

It's interesting to think of myself as a financial wizard. It's such a total switch from the way I've been with money my entire life. But I've been through enough of those total changes to know it's entirely possible. And, entirely up to me.

That's the thing about life. You can become the person you want to be, and it's as easy as visualizing it, wanting it, and becoming happy where you are, even without it. You choose who you want to be, and then you become it. It takes practice. I'm getting good at it, though. And this one is a big challenge for me, but the more things I make happen in my life, the more empowered I feel. I think I can really do this!

Okay, so you financial wizards out there--any tips? Any sites you know of that have what I'm looking for? Any sage advice for an aspiring money-managing queen? Let me know! And also, tell me about how you have, or how you want to change your life! Maybe I can help steer your thoughts in the right direction!

Maggie

Black and White; Right or Wrong; You Tell Me (Tara Taylor Quinn)

noreply@blogger.com (Tara Taylor Quinn) — Wed, 02 Jul 2008 14:10:00 +0000

My favorite colors are…non-colors. And that’s so me. So TTQ. I’ve never been a joiner. Hard to believe from someone who was president of a large writer’s organization, huh? You’d think a person had to be part of the ‘in’ crowd to get to such an elevated position. Except that the position wasn’t elevated, and when I entered the board room for my first term of service, I didn’t know anyone well. And only two people by name. I hadn’t run for office, and had no idea how the current president had ever heard of me or why she thought I was the one she wanted to appoint to a vacated position. After eight years of service, I came away knowing a lot more names, but only a handful of people personally.

It’s not that I like being alone. Or that I don’t want friends. I’ve just always been alone. I grew up with my nose in a book. Literally. By the time I was fourteen, I was reading a Harlequin romance a day. Throughout high school I attended class, did my homework, worked in the nursery at a bowling alley and then at Wendy’s, and I lived for those moments every day that I got to escape into my books – even when those moments had to come in the wee hours of the morning. I graduated from high school never having attended a single party or having gone on a single date.

And this is pertinent today only because I’ve come face to face with myself – with a few major differences. The person I'm facing is a loner, too - one who grew up reading instead of socializing. The difference is that this person is only twenty-three years old. And male. His name’s Ryan Mercedes. He’s Sara’s Son. Ryan isn’t like any other twenty-three year old guy I’ve ever heard of. When he presented himself almost two years ago, the twenty-one year old son of a woman who’d been raped at sixteen, I told him to go away. He came back. He told me that his mother had to meet her rapist. I told him he was nuts. And sent him away. He didn’t go. He just stood there. Silently for a long time. I wondered how he could wait so long without getting tired. Eventually, of course, he won. Because that’s Ryan. He doesn’t believe in losing. He doesn’t believe in giving up. He’s hard headed and stubborn and when he’s sure he’s right, he’s sure he’s right. Period.

And now we’re back to my favorite colors. They’re black and white.

Commercial break for those of you who wanted to see last week's table. I'm not great with the camera yet - I promise the table is centered on its base! The first one is the table as we were tiling it - next to the floor in the bistro room. The right side is the cupboard part. And the middle is my honey enjoying the fruits of our labor. And the photos prove my fetish for black and white!

I’m wearing black and white today. I wear the color combination many times a week. I have many many renditions of black and white fashion accoutrements. Black with white shoes, white with black shoes, white shoes, black shoes, black and white shoes – and purses – and jewelry to match. I have at least seven white button up blouses, and more black or white other types of tops than I can count. I have at least five black cardigan sweaters. Three-quarter length sleeves, long sleeves, long body, short body, heavy, light. I have a black sweater for every occasion. (I get cold a lot!) And Ryan, darn him, showed me that I AM the clothes I wear. Or he is.

A long time ago someone told me once that ‘Life is not lived in black and white. It’s lived in shades of grey.’ This was not someone I knew well. It was not someone I particularly liked. And I liked the message even less. I want things to be clearly delineated. I want there to be right and wrong. One right and wrong meant for every occasion. I want to know that there is a right, best choice that fits every situation (just like my shoes and shirts are made for my black and white days) and I want to do my best to make that best/right choice every single time. Ryan again. That’s him. Exactly.

But Ryan’s more than twenty years younger than I am. He has the ignorance of youth to bolster him. I, on the other hand, have enough years of experience to know that that person I didn’t like all those years ago, that message about life being shades of grey, was pretty accurate. Life isn’t black and white. For every situation there are multiple sides, multiple layers, multiple people with multiple needs that will be effected, and multiple choices that serve different goods. There isn’t one right answer waiting to be found. Or one best choice, either. Rather, life is a learning experience, and a choice that might seem ‘wrong’, if it teaches us a lot, could then be deemed the best choice we could have made. If we grow and progress and get a tiny bit closer to ultimate joy and happiness with that learning, to being able to bring it to others, then how can we pronounce the choice wrong?

I posed the question to Ryan. He argued with me. Adamantly. He stood again. For a long time. Staring at me from the back of my mind. But I’d learned. I knew him. I stood, too. For longer. It was an eternal stalemate. Except, somehow, while Ryan and I stood stubbornly, refusing to budge, we ended up creating Trusting Ryan. (He came up with the title, not me.) See, Ryan orchestrated a meeting between his rapist father and his biological mother in my July ’07 Superromance Sara’s Son. They went behind his back and fell in love. He couldn’t accept that. At all. And he was blaming me.

Readers, on the other hand, thought I did a good job with Sara and Mark, but they were not happy that I’d left Ryan hanging around. They couldn’t leave him behind. They wrote clamoring for more. Ryan, with an unsmiling nod, took this in stride. And he challenged me to give him his own book – his own forum to have his say. Let’s just say, the end result wasn’t quite what he’d been expecting. At all. He, like me, had to grow up. And now, in just a few short days, you’ll all have a chance to see what happened when he and I met head to head. Trusting Ryan, the sequel to Sara’s Son, a 2008 RITA finalist, is a July ’08 Superromance.

Some say I made wrong choices when I gave my high school years to books. I missed a lot. I never learned to socialize. Or make friends. (My best friend was a girl I met when I was five who lived two states away!) I didn’t go to a single dance. I never went to prom. Or even to a movie with a guy. Bad, bad, bad, wrong choices. Yet…all of those years of reading romances instilled in me a need to spend my life with Harlequin books. I was driven to give to the world that which had been given to me. To that end, while others scoffed, or humored me, regarding my ambition to write for Harlequin, I put pen to paper. And then fingers to keyboards. For years. Over and over. I wrote many stories. Opened many rejections. And, like Ryan, I was sure about what I was sure about, I didn’t quit believing. I have no idea why. Ryan could probably tell you. I just knew that I was a writer and I was going to write for Harlequin and I had to write. And now here I am, fifty published novels later, giving you my story. Oh, wait, I mean Ryan’s story. (He made me say that.) Did I mention, Ryan’s a cop?

Anyway, we hope you’ll pick up a copy of our joint effort. And that, if you do, you’ll write and let us know what you think at staff@tarataylorquinn.com.

And right here, right now, tell us…black and white? Or shades of gray? What do you think?

Reduced to Accosting Strangers? (Suzanne Forster)

noreply@blogger.com (Suzanne Forster) — Tue, 01 Jul 2008 14:56:00 +0000

Sadly, that’s what it’s come down to in my search for a decent hair cut. No, I’m not going to accost strangers and ask them to cut my hair. I’m crazy, but not that crazy. I am thinking about accosting the ones with great hair and asking them where they had it done. I’ve already gone through the Yellow Pages, where you can find everything from swanky salons to neighborhood clip joints, but I think we all know the phone book isn’t the best way to find the individual to whom you’ll be entrusting your crowning glory. The Yellow Pages are for the very brave or the very desperate, and I’ve been desperate, which is why I’m no longer brave.

See that picture up in the corner? That could have been me after my trip to Fantastic Sam’s, which I found in the Yellow Pages. Nothing wrong with Fantastic Sam’s. It's a chain that specializes in no-wait hair cutting and has many happy customers, I'm sure. The problem seems to be my hair.

I’ve also quizzed friends and neighbors about their hair care choices, and bless their hearts, they tried. Once my mom and I both needed a hair cut at the same time and a trusted neighbor of hers told us about a place nearby called Great Clips. No appointment needed. They would take you on a walk-in basis. I was filled with trepidation. My mom was all for it, but she was a hair dresser’s dream. Even I could have cut her hair. She wore it close to her head in a feathery white pixie with bangs and would have looked great if they’d messed up and shaved her head. My hair, that’s another story. I have famously straight and stringy locks that apparently no living soul can cut and style—and the poor lady at Great Clips was no exception.

Actually, as it turned out, it wasn’t a good hair day for mom, either. They might as well have shaved her head. She could have joined the Marine’s with the buzz cut she got from her lady. As I think back on that day, I realize that mom’s diminishing eyesight may have been the saving grace. It didn’t allow her to see what had been done to her, and her lady convinced her that her perfectly shaped head and shell-like ears made her the perfect candidate for the bald Irish rock star look (think Sinead O’Connor). Mom was thrilled. Everyone was thrilled, ‘cept me. Once again, I could have been the girl in the picture.

Falling at the opposite end of the spectrum was my trip to a high end salon, suggested by a writer friend who also had problem hair. I’d love to have had her problem! She had too much natural curl. I would kill for a natural bend in my hair, so I wasn’t terribly sympathetic, although when I saw what her new hair stylist had done with his scissors, I begged her for his name and number. He had unlocked and unleashed her curls, turning her into an angel with a halo of ringlets. Think Meg Ryan before she let her hair grow out, only auburn.

My friend was who I’d always wanted to be!

Dusty. That was his name, and I can’t say my friend didn’t warn me. Actually, she flat out told me that Dusty was an overpriced prima donna with an ego to match his gargantuan insecurities. And did I mention he charged eighty bucks a head? (Or that this was ten years ago? You can imagine what he’s charging now!)

Ouch. Still, I rationalized that after a lifetime of bad haircuts, eighty bucks for a magnificent one might be a deal. I could put up with a little diva drama, right? So, expectations soaring, I drove to the salon, arriving just three and a half minutes late because of the unexpectedly heavy rush-hour traffic. I was Dusty’s last appointment of the day, and he'd squeezed me in only as a special favor to my friend. Otherwise, I would have waited months to pay eighty dollars for a haircut. Such luck I have!

I announced myself at the desk and took a seat, waiting thirty minutes to be ushered to La Dusty’s chair, which I couldn’t see because there was a wall just behind the two women who handled the appointments. At thirty-five minutes, I decided to check on the status, only to be told that Dusty couldn’t take me. Why? I asked, so shocked it was all I could think to say. He’s changed his mind was the answer. Wha?

Dusty had changed his mind after letting me sit there for thirty-five minutes? He couldn’t have told me when I arrived? Even that would have been unbelievably rude, but to let me sit there? If I’d languished there an hour, would they have waited that long to tell me? Would they have left me in the shop when they locked up? I don’t know. He’d changed his mind. That was the only explanation I got, and as you can imagine, I’m still pretty peevish about it to this day. Of course, on the drive home I thought of all the perfect things I should have suggested that Dusty do with his magic scissors.

Possibly you can see why I’m now considering accosting strangers. But it’s not just all the Great Clips and the Dustys over the years. I did find a stylist some years ago who excelled at color, which has become increasingly important with each new gray strand, and who wasn’t bad with the scissors, either, although she never mastered the Meg Ryan thing. And I’ve stuck with her all this time, despite her jumps from salon to salon, each of them further away. But this last jump has made the two of us geographically incompatible, what with travel time and gas prices, so once again, I’m on the hunt.

All I really need is someone who can take my problem hair and turn me into Meg before she let hers grow out. That’s not asking too much, is it? Of course, if they could arrange for the gorgeous lips, eyes and bone structure that would be nice too. But I’d settle for the hair.

So, tell me your hair success stories and your disasters, if you've had any. Misery loves company. And if you’ve managed to find exactly the right person, how did you do it? Share and help out a sister who’s on the brink of stalking strangers! Actually, maybe it’s not such a bad idea. If someone came up to me and said they loved my hair and asked where I'd had it done, I’d be flattered. I’d faint, but I’d be flattered.

Suz

Qu'elle week! (Anne Stuart)

noreply@blogger.com (Anne Stuart) — Tue, 01 Jul 2008 01:06:00 +0000

Forgive my lousy French. I have had an absurdly busy week, and I'm going to tell you all about it just so you can be as tired as I am.
First, on Wednesday, I moved my 94 year old mother into her new apartment. (No, not assisted living -- we have strong Scandinavian stock in my family and my mother's still driving and will probably live to 106 like her Aunt Kristine).
So then at 6 am on Thursday morning I hopped in my car, grabbed my BFF Sally and drove to Burlington for the Vermont Quilt Festival. Two hours later I was taking a class with Billie Lauder, making so many mistakes (I was exhausted) that when I said to the retired home ec teacher beside me that it was hard to believe I'd had thirty years of quilting she said, "yes, it is." I guess home ec teachers aren't known for their tact.
Friday I took a class with Carol Anne Gotrian, learning fabric stamping. Since I make absurd wearable art I was particularly interested, and even though my hands cramped up making a tori gate stamp from an eraser and an exacto knife I enjoyed myself completely.
Saturday a class on learning Electric Quilt, with Barbara Vlack. I spent the entire six hours saying "cool," "neat" and "wow." I'm going to have so much fun with it. Saturday night a lecture with Billie Lauder, where I won a stack of fat quarters and a big bag of buttons (I tend to win things) and Sunday a class with Libby Lehman, learning to make scalloped edges for quilts, which I first thought was frivolous but they were so damned cute that I think I'll use it on the two baby quilts I have to make.
We shared a dorm suite with a half a dozen French Canadians (I got to practice my French) and then zipped back home, arriving by 6 pm. Caught up on my email (no email in the dorm), jumped in bed, woke up at 7 this morning and headed off for Rochester, NY. Arrived at Lani Diane Rich's house, picked her and her two darling daughters up, and we headed on toward Jenny Crusie's.

There was a point when I was sure I was living in the twilight zone. I was really tired, and I must have fallen asleep at the wheel for just a fraction of a second (before I arrived at Lani's) and the sounds of those ridges on the side of the Thruway woke me up (so I opened up all the windows, slapped myself a few times, and stopped at the very next rest area).

So I got off the highway, following my GPS, which insisted Lani lived in the graveyard (I kept thinking of that old folk tale about the young man driving the sweet young girl home and coming back and finding her grave). I started thinking that maybe I hadn't woken up and I was dead. I confided this to Lani as we passed a hearse, Pearl Jam started singing "Last Kiss", and I began to have my doubts.

Eventually we decided we needed to find Cracker Barrel, so we plugged it into the GPS, followed directions, and found it had been changed to an Italian restaurant. We got back on the highway and went looking for the next Cracker Barrel (Sweetness and Light's favorite restaurant). This time it was razed. We said "oh, bother" (because there were children in the car) and ate at Bob Evans. Back on the road, listening to Kids music on Sirius, to find our hotel.
Which had sold our room. So they found us another room at a hotel up the road, we plugged it into the GPS, got there, and across the street was a Cracker Barrel (which I cannot say -- I just keep coming up with Crackle Barrel).
So tomorrow morning we go for a swim, jump in Thelma, my electric blue PT Cruiser, and head over to the tiny river town in Southern Ohio that contains the Magic Kingdom, otherwise known as Casa del Crusie.
Where I will curl up in bed and never leave it again. Until we turn around and drive all the way back.
But for a week I'll sit by the river, play with the dogs, watch Sweetness and Light do crafts with Jenny, write my book, and generally have a very good time indeed.

May you all live in interesting times. I know that's supposed to be a Chinese curse but you know, life is always interesting. The alternative isn't pleasant at all .

So tell me what I shouldn't miss on our road trip. And Jenny's got a brand new HDTV -- what would be a great movie to watch?

Sunday Snark: Dorothy Parker

noreply@blogger.com (StoryBroads) — Sun, 29 Jun 2008 07:05:00 +0000

Not long out of the convent school where she was educated, Dorothy Rothschild was working as a drama critic for Vanity Fair when her office-mates, Robert Sherwood and Robert Benchley, drew her into a circle of writers and wits who lunched daily at the Algonquin Hotel.

Plunged into fast company, including James Thurber, Ernest Hemingway, William Faulkner, Alexander Woollcott, Edna Ferber, George Kaufman, and Ring Lardner, young Dorothy more than held her own.

Her first marriage (in her early twenties) to Edward Parker ended in divorce. Some years later she wed Alan Campbell, her collaborator on the script for A Star is Born. Despite a rocky relationship, including divorce, remarriage, and separation, they reunited and stayed together until his death.

A political activist in the 40's, blacklisted in the 50's, Parker died in a NYC hotel room in 1967. She willed her estate to Martin Luther King, Jr.

These days, she is best known for her short, acerbic epigrams and poems. Here’s a small sampling from her rapier pen.

"The cure for boredom is curiosity. There is no cure for curiosity.”

"I require three things in a man. He must be handsome, ruthless, and stupid."

“This is not a novel to be tossed aside lightly. It should be thrown with great force."

"I'm never going to be famous. My name will never be writ large on the roster of Those Who Do Things. I don't do any thing. Not one single thing. I used to bite my nails, but I don't even do that any more."

“Scratch a lover, find a foe.”

“I don’t care what is written about me, as long as it isn’t true.”

If all the girls who attended the Yale prom were laid end to end, I wouldn’t be surprised.

“Brevity is the soul of lingerie.”

“Take care of the luxuries and the necessities will take care of themselves.”

“One more drink and I’ll be under the host.”

“If you want to know what God thinks of money, just look at the people he gave it to.”

“A little bad taste is like a nice dash of paprika.”

A Busy Weekend (Patricia Potter).

noreply@blogger.com (Patricia Potter) — Sat, 28 Jun 2008 13:08:00 +0000

A Busy Weekend (Patricia Potter)

This will be short this week because I spent Friday morning at my critique meeting, Friday afternoon shopping for birthday gifts for four family members in preparation of a family party Friday night, and I’m part of the program Saturday morning at my local RWA meeting.

First a word about my critique group. We meet every Friday morning for breakfast. It’s rare when one of our four can’t show. It’s a must in our lives.

I’m a great fan of critique groups. I’ve been in one for nearly thirty years. The first was mostly composed of unpublished members, including me. The second started when the first dissolved because of job responsibilities and a member who moved. The second lasted nearly twelve years until I moved to Memphis. The fourth has lasted since I arrived some thirteen years ago.

I couldn’t survive without my critique partners. They are so much more than members of a critique group. They are friends, soulmates, sisters. They are there in an emergency, always ready to lend a hand if necessary, always there to listen to are plaints and failures as well as celebrate the victories. They cry with me and laugh with me, and I would be lost without them.

And they help fine tune a book. They keep me from going down a blind alley. They tell me when I’m repeating myself for the twentieth time, and remind me that no hero would do THAT. We brain storm together and often create a story in a few hours. Brainstorming is a joy.

We all have different strengths. One is great on grammar. One on humor. One on emotion. But most of all it’s the day-to-day support we give each other that is so very important. Writing is an incredibly lonely business. You isolate yourself for weeks and months. No one quite understands your quirks except another writer. No one else knows what it’s like to wake in the middle of the night and grab a pencil, or go fifty miles out of your way on a trip because you missed an exit while in another world. No one else understands that writing is actually a job, and a ten-minute interruption can actually destroy a whole day’s writing. And no one else understands the rollercoaster emotions: a sale. a bad review, a bad print run, a good review, a place on a list, a bad cover. Each provokes huge emotions. It’s a wonder any of us retain some sanity.

Then again, maybe some of us don’t.

The meeting ends. Off I go to buy presents for my brother, sister-in-law and two nieces, all of whom have birthdays. Always a problem, but I found what I wanted in late afternoon, just in time to leave for the party.

Now there’s the issue of tomorrow. I’m supposed to talk about point of view. Well, everyone has a different point of view about point of view. POV is probably best explained as the view from which the reader experiences the story. Through which eyes do you want the reader to see the scene, the story, the book.

But writers disagree on how to use point of view. Many are purists. You should have only one point of view throughout book. Others suggest changing point of view only by moving to a new scene. Still other really good story tellers – Nora Roberts, for example – may move seamlesssly from one point of view to another within a scene, even within a paragraph. Or you can have omniscient point of view. That’s God on high looking down and telling the story in a rather objective view, rather than seeing the story unwind from the eyes of a character and feeling what he/she is feeling. You see the latter mostly in literary fiction. But it’s difficult to explain and I’m in for a long night in preparation.

So I have a question for those writers out there. Do you feel strongly about point of view? If so, which do you favor or disfavor?

And readers, do you ever notice point of view? Or care? Do you like first person? Or multiple points of view?.

Woe is I (LynnK)

noreply@blogger.com (Lynn Kerstan) — Fri, 27 Jun 2008 07:10:00 +0000

Really, I don't have the time and inclination for this Shingles nightmare. But here it still is, not getting any better, and some days being positively horrendous. I even looked into a medication designed for neural pain resulting from Shingles, but when I saw the potential side effects--notably "weight gain"--I figured I could live with what I have.

No one need be concerned, let me add. My problems are not at all life-threatening. No one else is affected in a meaningful way. And as we all know from experience, the suffering of someone we love is infinitely worse that whatever troubles are visited upon ourselves.

Which does not stop me from being cranky, crabby, and unfit for non-cat company. Not that I can leave the comfortable chair and the supply of painkillers for very long. Even my once-a-week trip "off-island" for supplies and errands is cut short after a couple of hours. Happily, the need to compress my business corresponds with the rise in gas prices.

And I have good things to look forward to. So all is well, except that for the present, I have nothing interesting to say. ("What's new about that?" comes the chorus from my friends!) Apologies to you all for being a boring grump.

Before I return to my self-indulgent cocoon of misery, I must add that friends, nearby and long-distant, have been wonderfully kind. And for some reason, I'm having no difficulty enjoying high-intensity water aerobics three times a week. The water is warm, and I can work out with startling energy and only the occasional stab of pain. Next week, I may try the more lackadaisical morning class as well. I'm worried about growing roots in this chair if I don't get out and move around.

Meantime, let me share a video that never fails to make me smile. It's the follow-up to a video that delighted me three years ago, all about a sweet, goofy, energetic guy dancing in far away places I've visited or long to visit. The FAQ answers are fun as well. Visit this site and enjoy!

www.wherethehellismatt.com

A Sad Story (sorry) (Maggie)

noreply@blogger.com (Maggie Shayne) — Thu, 26 Jun 2008 07:01:00 +0000

I was reading this via email, but I'm told the original story can be seen here: http://www.slate.com/id/2192178/

The gist of the tale is a love story with the saddest ending since Romeo and Juliet. Only this one is real.
She was in her eighties and he was in his nineties. They both suffered from dementia and lived in the same nursing home. And none of that is unusual. What is unusual is that these two fell in love.

She used to wear the same yellow dress, day in, day out. But once she began this new relationship, she dressed up, did her hair, wore jewelry, smiled and was happy all the time. And her doctors said her health and mental clarity both improved immensely. Similar benefits were seen in him.

But when his son walked in on the couple having sex one day, the anal little prick threw a hissy fit, and demanded someone put a stop to it. When no amount of effort managed to keep the lovers apart, he moved his father to a new place, crushing both their spirits, breaking both their hearts, and robbing them of their last chance at happiness in this lifetime.

Why any human being would want to do so something so hurtful and so cruel and so evil to anyone, much less to his own father, is beyond me. If I believed in hell, I would wish him there. And if he believes in hell, then that's where he's going. (You create your own reality, after all.) The one upside is that the woman's Alzheimer's has caused her to forget. And yet it's clear that she's broken, devastated, just unsure why.

Since reading this story (it made me cry) I've been talking to everyone I see about it, and a lot of nurses have told me that this type of thing happens all the time. People find love in the waning parts of their life, and their relatives tear it apart. It's far more the exception than the rule, but it happens often enough that every nurse I talk to can tell me a brand new story with the same heart-wrenching theme.

Now, if one is living on one's own, alert and sharp and has a significant will to hold over their offsprings' heads, this wouldn't be a problem. But you have to think about what happens if you're ever not.

We all know it's vital, at every point in our lives, to have our wills up to date, to have health care proxies signed and on file, living wills spelled out so even an imbecile would know our wishes regarding life support and extreme measures and DNR orders. We know to be sure everyone and their brother gets a copy. But now we have a new terminology to learn. A Sexual Power of Attorney. If it ever gets to where you think anyone is going to have more power over your sex life than you do, then you need to be the one to decide who it is. And you need to choose someone you trust, and someone who knows what you would want. And then you need to put it in writing and get it on file somewhere. You'd hate to end up meeting the love of your life at the age of 90, and having someone else decide it wasn't a good idea to let you be with him! You might have to beat them to death with your walker!

Now the bright side of the story, because there is one, after all. Isn't it wonderful that the two people I mentioned above, managed to find each other? Isn't it wonderful that he didn't need any help from Viagra to get his engines running? Isn't it beautiful to think that love knows no such thing as age? Isn't it just a hoot that the sex the prudish son walked in on was oral? That's the best part of all, to me. I hope the image burned itself into his brain and that he dreams about it at night! Ha! (If he ever got a BJ of his own, maybe he wouldn't have been so jealous!)

Oh, yeah. I'm evil. It's a good thing I'm not a nurse or an aid. I'd be operating the Underground Booty-Call Railroad, and running interference to keep the offspring from catching on. Shoot, I'd provide music and candles. But then, I'm a romantic at heart.

But seriously, the truly best part of the story for me, is the reminder that love has no limitations. It's never too early and it's never too late. And moreover, the knowing that you still feel like a twitterpated teen when you fall head over heels, no matter what your true age might be. Love is the most powerful force in the universe, and aside from the sad ending, this love story was a good one.

And it's one on which I hope to base a story. Only--you know, I'll fix that ending. Big time.

Here's hoping we all have love in our lives, now and always!
Maggie

The Table (Tara Taylor Quinn)

noreply@blogger.com (Tara Taylor Quinn) — Wed, 25 Jun 2008 12:12:00 +0000

Does anyone remember the Mary Tyler Moore show and Ted Baxter, who, every chance he got, said, "It all started in a little radio station in..." I hear him as I say...

It all started with the fact that my stepdaughter graduated from college. If she hadn't graduated, we wouldn't have thought to have a graduation party for her. And if we hadn't had the party, we wouldn't have thought about having a barbecue and bonfire (we have a fire pit) in our backyard. And if we hadn't had the barbecue and bonfire, we wouldn't have thought about needing a table outside at which people who didn't want sit around the fire, could sit.

So you see, it all started with graduation.

If you look closely there, you can see the table. It has four chairs. (The other part of the depiction - that's my brother in law. He's a Michigan fan. Go Blue all the way. I am, too. But in celebration of his niece, he agreed to open his mind, to honor Ohio State. He kissed the O that I, the other Michigan fan, chose and purchased.)

Back to the table...

That black wrought iron table was the center piece in a very unique and favored room in our home. It's a french bistro room with a wall of windows that looks to the backyard and the woods beyond. We put our laptops there. (The house has wireless Internet.) We can eat on that table. Play cards there. There's a wet bar. It's stocked. There's even a large TV with cable, though we aren't real good about turning it on. The bistro room is a lovely, wonderful, peaceful and fun place in our home.

For the party, we moved the black wrought iron table, that goes with the whole bistro feel, all the french cafe decorations, the black and white checked floor, outside on the semi enclosed patio. And it was great there. The next morning, we sat out there having our coffee (and diet coke, I HATE coffee!) and enjoying the birds and the trees and the breeze. And we knew, that black wrought iron table was perfect out there. We couldn't move it back inside. We'd miss so much.

And then we walked inside. Our laptops were stashed away. Our cards were in a drawer. The TV was silent, as usual. And there was no place for us to be.

Conundrum.

'We'll get a new table for this room', my wise partner in life told me, validating once again what an intelligent choice I made in marrying him. Only we'll really make it fit. We'll get a pub table. And then those two bar stools we have...we can use them!

And so we set out. Three evenings we spent traipsing from place to place, furniture stores, department stores, a pool and patio store, a recreation billiards table store - no one had the perfect bistro table. Unless we wanted to spend a year's worth of gas money and who can do that these days?

On Sunday, we decided to take the hour's drive to a neighboring city and a discount furniture row - several stores on one street. After having told a sales lady to put a sold sign on the table we'd finally found, we decided to take a stroll around the store. And proceeded to talk ourselves out of the table. It was the right height. (We'd been educated by then. We weren't after a pub table. They were 36 inches in height. We needed a bar table. They're 42 inches in height. We didn't have pub stools. We had BAR stools.) The table was fine. It was a price we could afford. (Translated means cheap!) And it had a glass top. I love the look of glass top tables. I don't like to own glass top tables. They make me nervous. Every time I set my glass down and hear that sound, I'm afraid I'm going to break something. But I'm a big girl now. I can adjust. (My motto from the past year.)

Tim wasn't excited about the table either. And he, being the man I was intelligent enough to marry, said, 'hey, let's build one.'

Uh huh. In my dreams I could build a beautiful table. Unfortunately I wasn't sleeping. Fortunately, neither was he. Filled with excitement and plans, my engineer husband and I were off to Lowes. We stood in the aisles staring at wood for about two hours. We talked. No, I didn't want round, I wanted square (I know, so not fung shui). No feet. A square base that had a door that opened and revealed shelves inside. (Because he offered and said it would be easy.) I didn't want two foot square, that would be too small. And upon seeing the four foot square pieces of wood, I knew that would be too big for the room. But there was this nice young man there who took the four foot square piece off for a moment and when he returned, it was a perfect three foot square. And then we moved on to the tile section. Black and white, 6 inch squares would perfectly cover the 36 inch top. And the there were beautifully decorated bull nose finishing pieces.

We bought stuff. Lots of different wood pieces, mostly. And paid far less than we'd have paid for the CHEAP table. It was four o'clock and we still had to drive home.

By ten o'clock Sunday night, we had a table. Unfinished, of course, but there was a top that had been beautifully framed underneath with two inch square long pieces of wood that have a special name that I can't remember. There was a perfect 16 inch square under there, too, in which the 16 inch square base sat perfectly. The base, too, had been framed and then made. I was not the artist, the creator, but I assisted and learned alot and loved every minute of the unveiling. All that was left to finish our creation was the door, shelves, and finishings of trim, paint and tile. On Monday night, the door and shelves appeared. Mitered. Beautiful. Solid wood. The door opens and closes. I could sit on the shelves, they are so solid.

Tonight, we're hoping to get to paint and tile.

We have a custom made, perfect for our perfect room, centerpiece that is fully functional, beautiful and us. And all it took was belief, a willingness to take the time to do it right, a level, a table saw, a miter saw, a miter tool, a screw driver, a hammer gun, two hinges, a door pull, screws, nails and wood. Nothing fancy. Nothing expensive. Nothing out of reach or unattainable.

All it took was the ability to open our minds to the possibilities when it appeared that all life was going to offer us was a chance to settle.

I'd thought my mind was open. I was trying to be open-minded about the glass table top and simple base with no storage. And then my honey opened the doors that I had shut without even knowing I'd locked myself in.

And it occurs to me that that's what we all do for each other, isn't it? We remind each other of possibilities when we're too close to the door to see for ourselves that it's shut. And then we have the chance to open it. That's what we're all about. What America is about. That's the true meaning of freedom. The realization that there are always choices. And that we are allowed to choose. There will be consequences. There will be results. But in America, we are free to choose.

Are there times when you've refused to settle for less? I'd love to hear about them...

Can You Get Heat Stroke From This? (Suzanne Forster)

noreply@blogger.com (Suzanne Forster) — Tue, 24 Jun 2008 06:53:00 +0000

Mother Nature decided to give southern California a wake-up call on Saturday, June 21st, the day after the first official day of summer. The temperature was ninety degrees at nine in the morning, and I feared it was MN’s way of saying this was going to be one very long hot summer. Oy.

The cat and I about expired that day. It just kept getting hotter and hotter. I don’t know what the high was, but the temperature hit three digits, and I kept thinking about Mandy wearing a parka in a heat wave. However, she seemed to be doing better than I was. Crazy cat has an unbelievable tolerance for heat. No matter what the weather, she likes to nap on her cat tree in front of the window, which is one of the house’s hot spots on a sunny summer day. And every time I coaxed her out of there, she went right back up. She’s truly a creature of habit, and that’s where she likes to snooze. Her nose was cool and wet, and she’d been eating and drinking fine, so I just kept an eye on her. Plus, I lowered the shade and pointed a fan at her.

So, what did I do to beat the heat? Take a refreshing dip in the condo swimming pool? Go for an ice cream? Drink gallons of iced tea while fanning myself?

Nope, I brainstormed a new erotic story idea. A sizzler of a story on a scorcher of a day. Or vice versa.

Crazy, huh? Mandy and I are a pretty good pair.

Even stranger, my story idea was inspired by a young adult book I bought my twelve-year old granddaughter for Christmas year before last. I probably shouldn’t admit that, but it’s true. While Christmas shopping that year, I spent hours searching through the young adult books and finally found one that intrigued me immediately. It was about a young girl, uprooted from everything she knew and sent to live with a family of five boys. I didn’t realize when I picked out the book that it was going to be such a hit with my granddaughter, but it’s become family folklore. Arial opened the gift book, read the back blurb and the first couple of pages, and scooted downstairs to her room to read the rest of it, WITHOUT opening any more of her presents.

She loved that storyline, although far from erotic, it wasn’t even a romance. But I reasoned that there must be some key elements that would have appeal to a wider audience, possibly even universal appeal, and I wondered what would happen to an adult woman entering a small society of men? It actually sounded a bit like some historical novels I’ve read. But I wondered if it could work with the kind of story I was thinking of…

Would that be erotic? Or just crowded? I tried to imagine the bathroom accommodations. I didn’t want to think about the kitchen. Any chance that she would have to cook for these guys would totally ruin the mood. Also, was the heroine there of her own free will or was this a captive story? Whoa, she was a captive of five guys? That could get very crowded, lol!

This exercise went on for a couple sweltering hours, with me sorting through scenarios, but I ended up with more questions than answers. And finally it hit me: Can you get heat stroke from this? What am I doing plotting an erotic novel in a condominium that’s turning into a kiln?

I postponed brainstorming and got myself some iced tea and a fan. As intriguing as the idea of a male harem was, it was literally too hot to dwell on the possibilities, and I wanted to think through other premises. However, I did take the scenario to my plot group yesterday (Monday), and it ignited imaginations like you wouldn’t believe. The girls outdid themselves and I came home with a filled notebook and a buzzing brain.

Also, yesterday was passably cool, I’m happy to say, and we guzzled quarts of iced tea as we contemplated what kind of a situation my heroine might find herself in. Wow, quite an education. I’m the only one of the group who’s ever published an erotic novel, but we were talking about things I’d never heard of! You never know what you’re going to discover when you’re delving into a new story idea. Plus, I now have blackmail material on every one of my writing buddies.

Maybe the most important thing I learned is to save the steamy brainstorming for days when the on shores are blowing. Or to put in A.C.!

But enough of my sizzling Saturday. What’s the weather like where you are? Are you into the triple digits yet? And if so, what are you doing to beat the heat? I could use some suggestions, especially if I’m ever going to get this story idea done.

Wishing you cool days and hot reading, or … vice versa,

Suz

I love Alan Rickman (Anne Stuart)

noreply@blogger.com (Anne Stuart) — Mon, 23 Jun 2008 14:21:00 +0000

So I love Alan Rickman. This should come as no surprise -- any writer with taste would adore him. The snark, the wit, the elegance just make him absolutely delicious. I've used him as a hero in countless books and novellas (the impossibly hard to find novella in Avon's TO LOVE AND CHERISH would be the most obvious). I always use Richard Thompson as my sound track to any book that features Alan Rickman, and the combination of the two can inspire me for years.

I thought I knew everything about him, but Jenny Crusie and I were talking about upcoming movies, and she told me they were doing a remake of Robin Hood with Robin as the villain and the sheriff as the hero, with Russell Crowe (be still my heart) playing the sheriff. Which sounds yummy, but there's no way he can ever best Rickman's brilliance as the totally mad sheriff.
Jenny had sent me the link to this video back when I was depressed, but I was too depressed to watch it. Silly moi. If I'd only gone to Youtube my depression would have vanished in a welter of lust. I'm putting it here because it will make your day, your week, your month. I think it's really time for me to write another Rickman hero. Sigh.

Song of the week -- Obviously, it's "In Demand" by Texas (a Scottish group), with "High and Dry" by Radiohead coming in second. And if you have to clean house (heaven forbid) turn on "Mercy" by Duffy. It'll get you rocking.

Trivia question of the week: which movie did NOT have Clive Owen in it?

A. The Bourne Identity
B. The Pink Panther (Steve Martin version)
C. Gosford Park
D. Blow Dry

Have a fabulous week, my dears. I'm off to the Vermont Quilt festival to have fun and recharge my creative juices. It's time when I should be writing (and I will be writing every day) but I figure it's a mental health necessity. Every now and then I need to refill the well.

What do you guys do to recharge your batteries? Walks? Movies? Orgies?

Summer Solstice 2008

noreply@blogger.com (StoryBroads) — Sun, 22 Jun 2008 07:06:00 +0000

Photo credit: Anthony Ayiomamitis

Using a telescopic lens, the photographer captured the rising Solstice moon over the Temple of Poseidon Temple at Cape Sounion in Greece. The first (or only) full moon in June, the month when honey is best harvested, is known as the Honeymoon.

Some ancient peoples, believing the sexual union of God and Goddess occurred at Beltaine in early May, delayed their own weddings until June. In tradition, the concept of June marriages and "honeymoon" became linked.

But isn't the solstice all about the sun? After all, the word "solstice" is derived from the Latin for sun stands still (sol sistit). Astronomically, that means it lies midway (at 90 degrees) between the ecliptic points (day and night are equal in length) of the equinoxes.

Never mind the science. For practical and spiritual reasons, humans have observed and noted and calculated and celebrated solstices and equinoxes for thousands of years. It helped them track the planting and growing and harvesting seasons. Mythologies grew up around the motions of earth, moon, planets, and stars.

The Celts, in particular the Druids, celebrated Alban Heruin (Light of the Shore), aka Summer Solstice, which falls midway between the Alban Eiler (Light of the Earth) spring equinox and Alban Elfed (Light of the Water) fall equinox. This image shows the sun hovering just above Stonehenge in England.

Painting from "Avebury Seasons" by Ric Kemp

There were rites in Avebury as well, where Celts gathered at the stone "highway" and circle to observe the midsummer festival and the miracle of light at its apex. From this point on, remember, the days grow shorter. And so, the Oak King is ceremonially crowned for reaching the apex of his glory, at which point he morphs into his other, darker nature, the Holly King, who rules over the waning year. The apex of the Holly King's rule is honored at the winter solstice.

For now, for some of us, heat and floods and high gas prices are casting a shadow over these long days and short nights. So let us enter into this cycle of life and nature with a Wiccan Blessing for Summer.

Tapestry by Melany Berry

As the sun spirals its longest dance,
Cleanse us
As nature shows bounty and fertility
Bless us
Let all things live with loving intent
And to fulfill their truest destiny

A Canine Play Date (Patricia Potter)

noreply@blogger.com (Patricia Potter) — Sat, 21 Jun 2008 13:21:00 +0000

I chalked up a “first ever” yesterday.

I hosted a dog play date at my house.

I told you all about Memphis, the beautiful Australian Shepherd that continually escaped from home. Apparently she didn’t think it was HER home. My neighbor rescued her twice and we spent one evening trying to find the owner. She returned the next day, and the owner asked if my neighbor wanted to keep her. Otherwise, she was going to the vet.

He couldn’t take her for various reasons, the main being he travels five days out of seven. And I was just about to say . . . heaven help me . . . that I would take her. I really, really liked her. She is an extraordinarily enthusiastic dog who loves everyone and greets life with great optimism.

The day I’d kinda made that decision – reluctantly because three are really enough, especially when one is elderly and ailing – I took the latter for a walk and bumped into another neighbor. I always walk by this particular neighbor's house because the man in the family is a world class gardener as well as a scientist, and his front yard is a marvel of a miniature woodland with carefully tended moss, a wonderful mixture of colorful flowers and plants I’ve never seen before.

Apparently, Memphis had been visiting them, too. They’d received the same offer from the owner and they accepted it. Yes, Memphis has a new home and it’s not mine. But it's a really good one.

She joins three parrots, another dog – a Golden Retriever – and a cat. (I really love these people.)

But she remembers me and the brief time she spent with my Wild Indians, and her new owner said she would stop on every walk and look toward my house and try to pull her over to my door. She picked her family, and I think I was second choice but heck, I’ll take what I can get.

So yesterday they called and suggested a doggy play date at my house (I have a fenced back yard; they rely on walks). Well, I’ve never had a doggy play date before. I mean what do you do on a dog play date? Do you offer snacks? Drinks? I felt socially inept in dog play date etiquette.

I suggested Friday, and spent Thursday cleaning my house and deciding what to wear. Shorts? Slacks? Bathing suit for the pool. I finally decided on jeans and blouse. I made coffee. I made ice tea. I poured almonds in candy dishes. I put out dog snacks.

Then it was time. The door bell rang. My new found friends had not only Memphis but also Abby, the Golden. They said they hoped I didn’t mind an additional guest, and I said, of course not. The more the merrier. They also brought toys and treats, (Something to remember in the rare possibility of being invited to a dog play party).

Well, five dogs meeting for the first time in one room is chaos. Dominance has to be determined. Sniffing furniture and carpet as well as the other dogs’ hind end is mandatory. Manic chasing ensued until I could get them all outside. Then we – my neighbor, her college-age daughter and five dogs – went outside. More sniffing. More exploring, more chasing each other (the dogs, not the humans).
A few new holes in the yard. A fight over a toy. More rear-end exploration.

We tried to tempt Memphis and Abby – the Golden – into my pool but with no luck. My dogs want no part of it, either. All regard it as a pit to be feared, although my Aussies will go to the edge when I swim.

We spent a very pleasant two hours talking animals and ambitions and life. My shirt was muddied by a grateful dog's paw. My carpet turned brown with mud. A few toys sank in the pool.

But all in all, a good time was had by all, especially the fur attendees.

I think I’m now qualified to write a book, “The Etiquette of Dog Play Dates.” No doubt it will be a best seller.

###

Also worth noting this week: my 98-year-old mother just had the first permanent and first manicure in her life. She is delighted with both.

No More Ms. Nice Gal (LynnK)

noreply@blogger.com (Lynn Kerstan) — Fri, 20 Jun 2008 07:05:00 +0000

By now, I should be used to it. The dissing of romance novels, I mean.

It has been going on since a woman first penned a love story. That’s the key, really. If a woman wrote it, how good can it be? Women’s interests are so narrow and frilly and silly and, well, uninteresting.

Men have written love stories, too, of course. But one or the other of the lovers usually dies, or gets killed, or the relationship collapses, or there’s some sort of existential crisis at the end to prove that “this is not just a sappy love story that a female might write.”

I am, of course, excluding the excellent male romance-novel writers in our genre who usually take female or androgynous pseudonyms because they, too, could meet with prejudices over and above those we women writers deal with. Not from romance readers, I suspect. Only from the press, and from people who make themselves feel superior by sliming "girly men" who write about love.

Men’s action fiction, on the other hand, is full of important stuff like saving the world from evil terrorists/Spectre/a rogue asteroid. Or blowing things up . . . including rogue asteroids. These guys are physically the equivalent of deadly weapons or they carry really big guns. I know women who write in this genre, and of course, they use pseudonyms. Sexism operates on many levels in our society.

But its usual target is women, and in fiction, the bull's-eye is a romance novel. Love, commitment, struggles, compromise, risk, choice, family, community . . . yawn. Might as well watch reruns of Thirty Something. Never mind that these days, romance novels also pit valiant women against evil terrorists and asteroids. We’re kick-ass, if need be, in between civilizing the world and raising our kids. But the press has yet to figure that out.

All they know are the cliches. The Myths of the Seventies and Eighties have become ingrained in their saucer-deep minds. Romance novels are all about a silly female and her clothes, her advancement in society, her search for a handsome, wealthy tycoon or sheik or pirate to fulfill her fantasies, and sex.

Mostly about sex. That’s what really interests the journalists and the uninformed public. Especially in America, which is simultaneously hung up about sex and obsessed with it. Sex is forbidden, irresistible territory. So, to a degree, is rape, which made a splash a few decades ago, a splash never forgotten by the press. How bad can rape be, after all, when a romance novel hero does it and winds up with the heroine and a happy-ever-after?

I used to imagine drawing up a list of cliche words and phrases about romance novels and sending the list to the media. Heaven forfend they should leave any time-worn clunker out of the next tedious, phone-it-in article.

What set me off this time was a stupid poll on the MSNBC website. They had excerpted a section of the latest Danielle Steele novel and, about halfway through the posting, invited readers to cast a vote. Here’s the wording:

Do you read romance novels?
Yes, yes, yes! Bodice-rippers are my ultimate escape.
No way. I don't touch those books.
Sometimes, while on vacation or at the beach.

If you are reading this while the poll is still live, here's where you can vote:
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/25191970

The ingrained bigotry chafes my hide. “Bodice-rippers,” for pity’s sake. And why do they split the vote between people who prefer romance novels above all else to those who enjoy them from time to time?

Happily, Barbara Vey promptly took them on in her Publishers Weekly blog. She also kindly included a picture of a bare-chested Daniel Craig (the newest James Bond) emerging from the ocean. Hey, I never said I didn't appreciate a hunky guy!

You can see the picture and read Vey's comments here:
http://www.publishersweekly.com/blog/880000288/post/460028246.html

Let me add that Romance Writers of America (RWA) worked hard for a number of years to begin what is bound to be a long, slow journey to changing the public perception of romance fiction. It was my own preoccupation during the six years I served on the RWA Board of Directors. One major target back then was Publishers Weekly, the Industry magazine. Thanks to open-minded professionals like Daisy Maryles, favorable articles about romance novels and writers are no longer scarcer than nuns at a Vegas blackjack table.

Librarians are becoming our friends as well. I'll write about the vanguard of pro-romance fiction librarians after the San Francisco Conference in July, when I expect to get updates and lots of pictures.

Meantime, I have my own sad dereliction of duty to recount. Used to be, when asked what I wrote, I would answer the somewhat ambiguous Romantic Adventure, or Historical Romantic Suspense, or Paranormal Romantic Adventure . . . well, you get the drift. Weasel words, designed to disguise the Awful Truth and protect me from Negative Public Perception.

But now, sometimes forcing the words past my cowardice, I say, proudly, "Romance Novels." And then I savor the reactions.

Oh. If you're a romance reader, or even if you're not, you'll probably enjoy this video put together by some terrific writers who are rivals in the same category for a prestigious RITA award. We're not all sweetness and light. Check out the Trash Talk!
http://youtube.com/watch?v=y2UXH_LWkic

noreply@blogger.com (Maggie Shayne) — Thu, 19 Jun 2008 14:24:00 +0000

LOOK! My house is starting to look like a house again. There's sheetrock on most of the walls, the upstairs shower is mostly in place, the new windows are almost all in, and as I type this, the crew is installing the first of my two sets of French doors. I was waiting to post, so I could put up a pic of them, but it's taking a bit longer than we thought, and I needed to get this up. I'll add a photo later, or just post it next week.

Things are really looking up around here, guys. Every day now, (well, every weekday at least) ends with some new bit of progress. I can see the new layout of my living room now, and I love how open and roomy it is. I'm looking at paint colors and thinking about furniture and ordering kitchen cabinets, and it's all going to be fantastic.

Only a few weeks ago, walking around the gutted remains of the house was almost too depressing to bear. It was dark, both from charred beams and boarded up windows. It smelled like fire and smoke and soot. It was damp and dreary and so sad. But now, walking through the house is a cheerful experience. I walk into a room and see the progress that's been made, and my imagination kicks in, and I start seeing all the possibilities. What color will it be? What paintings will I hang here? What sort of furniture will I buy? What sort of theme might I incorporate? Rustic? Or Egyptian or Asian inspired, maybe? What kind of bathroom sink will I choose, and what about the vanity and medicine cabinet? Where will the towel racks go? It's all gone from morose and depressing, to exciting and new! And at this point, I've stopped being impatient and frustrated, and instead, am honestly enjoying the unfolding, relishing the journey.

And it's spilling over into other aspects of my life. I'm happy where I am, and I know where I'm going, and the end isn't the important part. It's the journey! Everyday I see signs and evidence that something I've been wanting is drawing closer. And that just makes me more sure it's coming, and that sureness feeds the energy that's bringing it to me.

And it's all good.

So that's my sermon for the week. Find ways to enjoy where you are, because you're ALWAYS where you are. If you can do that, your entire life will be good, rather than just those times when the thing you want arrives. Those times are brief, because by the time the desire manifests, you're already on to wanting the next thing. Life is lived in between wanting and getting. It's all about the process.

It's all about the journey.

Tell me about your journeys!

Hugs,
Maggie

Land of the Free - Warning, A Rant (TTQ)

noreply@blogger.com (Tara Taylor Quinn) — Wed, 18 Jun 2008 11:33:00 +0000

The other night Lee Greenwood's rendition of God Bless the USA was playing on the car stereo. My honey and I were on one of our road trips - a short one - just out for a few hours of freedom and exploration. "If tomorrow all the things were gone I worked for all my life"... I turned up the sound. And started to bellow right along with Lee. "The Flag still stands for freedom and they can't take that away." And then, "I'm proud to be an American where at least I know I'm free..."

I felt every single syllable of that song as I sang myself into a sore throat. "It's time we stand and say..."

And here's where we segue off to the confusing. Because nothing's straightforward in ttq land. God Bless my husband for taking me on! As I sit here this morning, I'm wearing 'the' shirt. I found it several years ago on that mile long street of mall in downtown Denver. I was there for a writer's conference, and, in this tiny little tourist shop, I found the shirt. Mine. Made only for me. (And probably a good majority of the rest of the writer's population.) It's plain black. From collar to hem. Short sleeved. And in the middle, the only relief from the darkness are bold, white block letters that clearly and without apology state:

I live in my own little world, but it's ok...they know me here.

I don't wear 'the' shirt often. Not nearly as often as I think of it! But this morning, when I got up, I knew it was a day when only 'the' shirt would do.

Depending on what book I'm writing, my world can be warm and cozy, or it can be dark and frightening. You know, readers sit down with the pages and escape into the worlds we create. They're there for a few hours. If the book is a suspense, and the writer has done her job well, the reader is going to be afraid. He or she is going to sit on the edge of the chair, experience rapid heart beat, question everything he or she took for granted, jump at a sound, look behind her (or him). The reader is going to experience the thrill of darkness. And then be delievered. The writer follows the same journey - with one major difference. It takes a lot longer for us to be delivered. It takes a lot longer to write those pages than to read them. As writers we live in those worlds. We must immerse ourselves in them to make the stories come to life, to give the reader that emotional, mind grabbing experience. That escape.

I live in my own little world, but it's ok...they know me here. In the past five months I've written two books and a novella. In the past three weeks I've revised two books and a novella. And yesterday started a very short period of time in which I will do line edits and read print outs of two books and a novella. I'm living with battered women - being a battered woman - surviving abuse. I'm living with lies and deceipt and mind manipulation. Oh, wait, I was supposed to be talking about the books here, okay, well, in the books the worlds have been filled with...battered women. Lies. Deceipt. Mind manipulation.

I did mention, I live in my own little world, but it's ok...they know me here.

So...now that we've clearly established that, for a writer such as myself, there are times of darkness, I can get back to my Lee Greenwood song. (Think Edgar Allen Poe, here. Minus any drugs or substance abuse. Dark. Misunderstood. Living in his own little world except I'm not sure even he knew himself there.)

Lee said, "it's time we stand and say..."

I stand to say, I love my country. I love that we're free. I love all that we stand for. And I don't undstand so much. What does freedom mean? Who's really free? People were free to take God out of our schools. Am I free to bring him back in?

Freedom means that people who choose not to work, who choose not to have drive or ambition, who choose not to avail themselves of the help available to them, get to lay their bodies down on the steps of public buildings. They get to urinate in the streets where we walk. They get to stand on street corners, with signs about being out of work, with help wanted signs within view, with very well fed dogs beside them and beg me for the money I'm working my ass off to earn. So...am I free to build a fence and put them behind it? Can I go to every city in the United States and erect fences and force those who are living in the streets due to slothenness to live in a gated community of land that they can sleep on, urinate on, for free?

Let's be very clear. I am not speaking about the members of our population who give everything they have and find themselves in loopholes and circumstances from which they can't escape. I'm not talking about the homeless who will do whatever it takes to get homes. I'm not talking about those good, precious people who are down on their luck, who hang their heads as they enter a shelter for a meal because, in spite of all of their efforts, they are unable to provide one for themselves. Or even those who enter the shelters with smiles, thankful that there is help available to them as they work their way out of untenable situations. I'm talking about the lazy ones. The selfish ones. The entitled ones. Our land of the free seems to attract them. And they impinge upon my freedom.

And what about our gas prices? We're free, right? Gas sure isn't. And I don't expect it to be. However, I should be free to act on behalf of myself and my loved ones, in this land of the free. I mean really act, not picket others to act on my behalf. Instead, my lifestyle, our lifestyles, are in jeopardy as a few powerful people in this country make decisions - or not - that are taking away our ability to travel. We have the technology. The Wright Brothers performed miracles, as have thousands of others after them, developing planes that can take us anywhere, and yet we're held hostage by the gas needed to fly them. So we have oil problems. I get that. But did you know that it's possible for every single one of us to take good old fashioned grease - the kind that is thrown away from the fryers of our fast food restaurants all over the country - and turn it into a moonshine that would safely and effectively drive all of our diesel automobiles? We could do it at home. We could really act.

And did you know that we could grow corn and make ethanol? That vehicles exist that can run on ethanol? The technology is all there. The farming land is there. But it's illegal right now, in our land of the free, to make the ethanol. I'm not sure why. I've asked. Several times. The answers I get are all cluttered with beaurocracy. It doesn't make sense.

Did you know that we could make windmills, have everyone band together to offset the cost, and once they're paid for we could have power for all of us in this land of the free? For free. I'm not sure why we don't do that, either. Maybe someone knows and I'm just ignorant. I'm free to be ignorant. I just wonder...

And did you know that if you're a victim of a crime, you become the criminal until the criminal is proven guilty? The perpetrator has rights. And his rights mean that as the victim you have to take a witness stand and be pummeled by the perpetrators defense counsel that oftentimes you are paying for with your tax dollars. You will be disseminated, made to look like a liar, your life will be on stage and motivations for your actions will be bandied about with no regard for the actual truth, in the name of the perpetrators rights.

Yeah, I get that there are those accused who are not guilty. I don't want a single one of them to pay for a crime they did not commit. But I want to be free, as a victim, to be treated with respect and caring as I tell what happened. I want to be free to live a life where truth and kindness matter more than money and winning.

The USA - land of the free. Land. Have you looked around you these summer days? Do you see the blue skies and sunshine? The lakes and parks and blooms? The gloriously tall trees with huge green leaves that sway gently above trickling streams? Do you know that, as a woman, I'm pretty much not free to take a walk alone among any of it? In this land of the free? I wanted to go to the park this morning to enjoy my diet coke. But there are heavily wooded areas there. And no one was around. I knew it would be stupid, for a few moments of diet coke enjoyment, to take that risk. Look at Central Park in New York. It's gorgeous. A phenomenon. I should be free to enjoy it by moonlight.

I feel caged in the land of the free. Caged by the freedom of others. People have the right to express themselves, to say what they feel even when it hurts others. Don't those being hurt have the freedom to not be hurt?

There's a song by Jewel (I've mentioned it here before) that comes to mind right now. She says, "Be careful with me, I'm sensitive and I'd like to stay that way." In my land of the free, I should be free to live my life as a sensitive creature without having to go into my own little world. Why should I have to develop a tough skin just because others want to live their lives with treachery and deceipt, lying to their loved ones and business associates, killing, destroying, playing games with peoples heads, manipulating. Why should we have to feel like fools for trusting? Or like traitors for wanting to do things another way? Why should we have to work so hard for so little?

I love this land. I love our country. And I want to be free to live here with trust, and heart and soul and love for my neighbor. I'm standing up to say so.

As my father always used to say, This is still America.

Zip Code Secrets! (Suzanne Forster)

noreply@blogger.com (Suzanne Forster) — Tue, 17 Jun 2008 07:22:00 +0000

Maybe only a writer would find this interesting, but someone just emailed me a handy link for finding out all kinds of intriguing things about one’s zip code.

Here’s the email message I got:

“You can sure learn a lot about your zip.

Click here: http://zipskinny.com/
Check out your zipcode; you will not believe the information you will find there!!!

Once open, don't forget to click the tabs across the page top..... if the click doesn’t work, copy and paste into your browser.”

Naturally, I clicked immediately. I can’t resist a url with the word skinny in it, especially when skinny means information. I’m not sure what I expected, but what I got was lots of statistics. It was only as I examined the numbers and percentages that I began to think my zip code might be a little odd. And when I checked another page that allows you to compare your zip’s stats against your neighboring zips and the national average, all doubt vanished. My zip is definitely odd.

Here’s one thing I could not believe: 41% of the people in my Z.C. have never been married. How can this be? My first thought was that we have lots of children here in west Newport, but that can’t be the case because unless I calculated wrong only 14.6% of the population fall in the 0-19 age category. My second guess was lots of surfers, but sadly, surfing figures are not included. No surfers? What kind of a data base is this? Seriously, though, I really would have liked a little more explanatory information.

As it turns out, 38.8% actually are married, which is below the national average at around 45%. However, if it’s still true that 50% of marriages end in divorce, then we’re well below that average with divorces at just 13.4%. That’s pretty good I’d say. We’re also pretty stable with just under 40% living at the same address for five years, but again that’s well below the neighboring zips, who have as high as 60%. Show offs!

Who are all these Never Married People? And where are they? Do we have a convent somewhere in the area? A seminary?

I also discovered that my zip has more males than females in all the age groups, except the very youngest and oldest groups, so if you’re a single woman, this might not be a bad vacation destination. And considering that there are 41% who’ve never married, there’s a pretty good chance the extra guys might be single!

There’s tons more information here, including an entire page with instructions on how to build a widget for my zip code, but since I don’t know what a widget is, even after having looked at the instructions, I’ll leave that to the more technically inclined.

I also found an article on Ten Rules for Stomach Fat, although it doesn’t say why residents of my zip might need these rules. No statistics on weight. Some of us are grateful for that.

There’s lots more about my area, but I’m curious about a place called Tacoma, Washington, where I’m setting a new story idea, so let me just type in that zip and see pops up. Oh, wow, looks like a pretty good place to set a suspense novel. The crime stats are fascinating.

But before I get lost again in Zip Code Land, I’m curious if any of you have seen the zipskinny link before. It was news to me. And if you clicked on it, did you find anything unexpected? I’m about to check out my home town and see if something quirky shows up. But before I do that, I need to figure out why the people of Tacoma don’t seem to have any issues with belly fat … and why there are so few people over forty. Hmmm, maybe that’s why.

Okay, click away,

Suz