Hi, all! I’m over at Popculture Divas today, blogging about TV families.

Duggars? Gosselins? Do you watch any of the new crop of reality families?

Or are you a little old school like me, and pining after the fake families like the Partridges and the Brady Bunch? (“Marsha, Marsha, Marsha!”)

Come read my current take on why the switch over the decades, and weigh in with your own opinion in the comments over there.

(I also mention why I now have my eye on Modern Family. Do you watch that show? Hilarious. …)

Alright, so we’ve covered two of the crucial things every story needs:

• A protagonist
• A goal

Now we’ll cover the third and final element:

• A conflict

A story without a conflict is not really a story. Otherwise the story would end on page 2, because after you introduced the protagonist and the goal, you would simply say “and he won.”

(Which, obviously, would be very boring and there’d be no point in telling it.)

So you need conflict. It’s what people like to read.

Now perhaps you remember all this from high school (I can completely hear Mrs. Kirby in my head covering all this.) (Hello, Mrs. Kirby! Thank you! You too, Mrs. Zukoski and Mr. Drummond!). But for those of us who were passing notes to our friend Dawn, or who were busy drawing hearts on our PeeChee folders, or who were running in late to 6th period every day, here are the four basic types of conflict:

Man vs. self – This is usually where the protagonist is facing some terrible moral dilemma throughout the book, or facing a terrible flaw of his that’s keeping him from his goal. The first book that leaps to mind for me is Phillip Roth’s Saul Bellow, which was a bit of a long, dull read for me, but there it is. (These “man vs. self” books often are, quite frankly.)

Man vs. nature – These are like the stories I used to snatch up off the dining table when I was about 8 and my mom would get Reader’s Digest in the mail. Man, those first-person stories of protagonists battling the Andes, bears, cold, fatigue, sharks, what have you. … I loved those. They’re still popular with the young-adult set. (My kids and I just watched a marathon of “I Survived!” on television recently, in fact.) I’m also thinking of The Hatchet, where the young boy protagonist goes down in a private plane, and the pilot dies, and he has to fend for himself in the wilderness (with only his hatchet, of course). Kids love this stuff. It’s a safe type of “antagonist” for them. And the goal is always very straight-forward: usually “to live.”

Man vs. society – This really means “man versus society’s conventions,” and these tend to be moralistic stories I can’t think of any good examples of. Oh, maybe Lord of the Flies? One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (perhaps? not sure.)? Or a more modern one: the movie Pleasantville. If you have good examples of “man vs. society’s conventions,” throw ‘em at me in comments.

Man vs. man – Ah, here we go – this is by far the most common. It’s the easiest way to tell a story, and the best way to read one: any reader who wants to flip pages furiously loves a good man vs. man story. And think of all those Sylvester Stalone movies! In fact, even when the theme of the story is something esoteric, like “battling for freedom,” an actual human often stands in for the battle (a warden, for instance, or a nurse named Ratchett. …).

Anyway, literary novels can choose from any of the four basic conflicts, but genre novels (and blockbuster movies) usually stick with the last.

So let’s explore the antagonist

Like the protagonist, the antagonist can sometimes be slippery and hard to pin down, but he or she is the principal character in the story who is keeping the protagonist from the goal.

• Iago is an antagonist.
• Sir Leigh Teabing (from The DaVinci Code) is an antagonist.
• Darth Vader is an antagonist.
• Cruella De Vil is an antagonist.
• Alex Forrest (from Fatal Attraction) is an antagonist.

But those are the obvious ones. Some aren’t so obvious, and some are downright subtle. You can discuss long and hard who the antagonist is in certain books, but if you’re struggling with trying to figure it out, always bring it down to the basic question: Who is the main person keeping the protagonist from the goal?

Other questions that come up about the antagonist (usually among writers):

• Is he always evil?
• Can there be more than one?

The antagonist does not need to be evil. In classic stories with classic “villains,” he usually is, but there are plenty of subtle antagonists, too. A loving father can keep a protagonist from his goal. A future love interest can keep a protag from a goal, too. Sometimes subtly is engaging, and a multifaceted antagonist (one with both good and bad qualities) can be the most memorable of all.

As far as there being more than one, the answer to that is no. There can be “minions” to the antagonist – people who are carrying out his wishes to keep the protag from his goal – but there is usually one mastermind. (Now, I’m sure there’s some exception to that, but I’ll bet you dollars to doughnuts it’s a messy, convoluted story.) 

And here’s an interesting question:

• In a romance, can the hero or heroine be the other’s antagonist?

In an online class by Jenny Crusie and Bob Mayer, they answered this and said it’s not wise. Why? Because, in genre fiction, the antagonist never wins. Which means that either your hero or heroine will in some way be a “loser.” And that will probably strip at least some of the romance (and certainly the last triumphant kiss) from your story. (… Just sayin’ …)

So what happens to the antagonist?

Typically, he fails. Typically, the protagonist overcomes him and gets a goal. But not always. In “man vs. self,” it would certainly be a horrible read if we hung in for 300 pages for a protag battling something about himself and then failed. (But I’m sure it’s been done.) And in “man vs. nature,” it would definitely be horrible if we hung in for 30 minutes or 300 pages and find out that he didn’t succeed in battling the elements. (But it’s definitely been done.) And in “man vs. society” and “man vs. man,” we often see the protagonist prevail, but we sometimes see him fail, too.

Again, this leads to great discussion. Because what is the author saying when he has the antagonist win? In “man vs. society,” sometimes society wins, and that always leads to a great discussion.

Genre novels don’t usually play with the ending. They are there to provide you with a great ride, and a feel-good notion that the protagonist will prevail and the antagonist will fail. I think we all need to hear that sometimes.

What about you? Which is your favorite conflict to read? If you are a writer, which is your favorite to write?

Here in earthquake country, we often have “plans” set aside about what we’d do in case of an earthquake: Flashlight? Check. Bottled water? Check. Hard-soled shoes beside the bed? Check.

But what I often think about is what I’m wearing to bed.

Californians – am I alone here?

I often go to bed in … well, I can’t even tell you what I go to bed in. Let’s just say it wouldn’t look very good out on the sidewalk come a good 7.2 on the Richter scale. …

But the stranger thing, perhaps, is that this actually goes through my mind every night.

Am I alone in this?

So earlier we were talking about the basics of critiquing being identifying the protagonist, and identifying the goal.  But both can be a little tricky, so I thought I’d take the discussion to the next level.

What if the protagonist isn’t clear?

Protags can be much trickier than you think. And there are other questions that come up:

• Can there be more than one?
• Is he always the “good guy”?

Identifying the protagonist can be tricky because it can seem like there are lots of “important” people in the book. (And in romance novels, there are always two, right? The hero and a heroine?) Some argue that  there can only be one protagonist, but ensemble pieces will invariably come up in the conversation (The Big Chill, for instance) and shoot that theory out of the water. But generally, yes, there is usually only one protagonist. In romances, it’s generally accepted that the hero or the heroine is considered the protagonist, and the other is usually a “helper.” The protagonist is generally the one who is seeking the biggest goal, and has the most to lose if he doesn’t change. And no, he doesn’t necessarily have to be “good.” He simply has to have a goal and chase it through the book.

• Rambo is a protagonist.
• Madame Bovary is a protagonist.
• Harry Potter is a protagonist.
• Dexter is a protagonist.
• Tom Ripley is a protagonist.

But sometimes it gets really tricky. The Great Gatsby is an example of things getting tricky because the book is told from the point of view of Nick, who is Gatsby’s neighbor. It would be easy to think that Nick is the protagonist. He is telling the entire story, and he ends up embroiled in all of Gatsby’s schemes. And he grows a lot in the book. But Gatsby is still the main character in both stories:  the book itself and the story we are hearing from Nick. Gatsby is the one seeking the main goal (Daisy). Nick tells us this story, and seeks his own goal in a way (the truth about Gatsby), and grows the most (Gatsby doesn’t), but I still ascertain that Gatsby is the protag. (This one is fun to argue, though, especially in light of the fact that Fitzgerald didn’t really want to put Gatsby’s name in the original title, so have at it amongst yourselves. …)

So when you begin your critique, mull over in your head for awhile who the protagonist is – it can be fun to think about, and much more challenging than you might suppose. It’s also fun to analyze why an author chose that person as the protagonist. For instance, why did Truman Capote choose the killer as the protagonist of In Cold Blood instead of, say, a cop?

More on goals

Goals, too, can be tricky and hard to pin down, which makes discussing them fun.

• Can there be more than one goal?
• Can the goal change?
• Is it something “hard” like a chalice, or is it something esoteric, like “fame”?

The answers are yes, yes, and yes — there can be more than one goal (often several characters have them, and they are often opposing, which makes the story exciting). The protagonist can have more than one goal also (although this can get messy and isn’t usually as great as a book where the goal is clear and defined). And yes, the goal can change for the protagonist. It often does, in fact. And yes, the goal can be “hard” and it can also be esoteric: in fact, having one of each is great.

Great example of goals

A great example of a good use of goals is in the recent movie Up in the Air. (I assume these goals are in the book, too, but I haven’t read it, so I’ll just discuss the movie.) (Spoilers-galore here.)

• Protagonist: Ryan Bingham (George Clooney character)
• External goal: a frequent-flier “gold card”
• Internal goal that he acknowledges: Independence, living light and free

By the end of the story, Ryan has gotten his original goal (the gold card) but he realizes it’s not what he really wanted. By the time the movie ends, he realizes he really wanted companionship, and he switches goals at the very end. He doesn’t get that second goal, however, which gives the movie a sad ending.

The reason the movie did such a great job with the goals is that it features an external goal (something literal that the characters are chasing) as well as an internal goal. In Up in the Air, for instance, the gold card clearly represents independence and “flying free,” which Ryan pursues for the first half of the movie. Later in the movie, he is also asked to haul around this giant posterboard of his sister and her fiancé to take pictures of them in front of various national landmarks. This symbol clearly represents companionship and marriage, and the posterboard takes quite a beating throughout the movie as it doesn’t “fit in Ryan’s life” (or his suitcase). It even gets blown into a harbor as he argues with another character about how much he wants to avoid commitment.

Anyway, these “hard” items that represent esoteric goals are called “McGuffins” (a term popularized by Alfred Hitchcock in the late ’30s), and they’re very popular for straightforward storytelling. People grasp them whether they want to or not – you follow the “chalice” while the protagonist chases it through the movie, but really you’re watching an internal goal (wealth, family, history, whatever) get chased.

All of which makes critiquing more fun. You can discuss who the protagonist is, what he or she is chasing, why the protagonist didn’t get the goal, or why he did. What is the author saying if he doesn’t get the goal? That the goal is unimportant? Impossible to have? Not worth chasing? Possible only for certain people?

Hmmmm … that’s where the fun of book discussions begins. …

Next, check out the third segment: The Antagonist and the Conflict.

Interesting discussion the other day on how we all critique. It really made me think about how I approach a story and when I think a book is “good” or if it leaves me feeling flat. Do you ever read a book and just feel “flat”? And maybe your friend just LOVED it, so you wonder what you missed, or didn’t get?

(Yeah, me too. …)

Lauran left a similar comment the other day when we were discussing how we critique  about how, even when reading a book for book club, she sometimes finds it difficult to express what specifically she likes and dislikes. (I hear ya, sister.)

But here’s the deal: It probably comes down to the most basic of reactions to the most basic beginnings of critiquing. It probably has to do with your reaction to the goal.

What’s that?

The most basic plot of any story is that there is a protagonist. And, as the book opens, he has a goal. Every novel, every movie, every short story, is simply watching the protagonist try to get his goal. …

And that’s where your critique begins, whether you want it to or not.

There are really four basic ways this goal-quest can play out:

• Protagonist gets the goal. (Happy ending)
• Protagonist does not get the goal but gets something better. (Happy ending)
• Protagonist does not get the goal. (Sad ending)
• Protagonist gets the goal but realizes it’s not what he wanted. (Sad ending)

Literary novels can select from any of the four.

In a literary novel, the protagonist doesn’t always get his goal. Or sometimes he gets it, but it’s not what he wanted. Or he gets it, but it’s not what he should have wanted. (This storyline is especially popular among the literary set.)

Examples of that last twist would be, say, Of Mice and Men – (Lots of spoilers here, but you probably haven’t thought about reading Of Mice and Men since junior year of high school, so I think I’m safe. … If you’re reading it now, you can skip this part.) The protagonist, George, wants independence and control of his destiny as a migrant field worker during the Great Depression. His mentally disabled friend, Lennie, however, is keeping him from that goal, and George says a few times that he wishes he could travel without Lennie. He gets this goal by the end of the book, when he must shoot Lennie in the back of the head before a lynch mob can find him. But, as he does so, George recognizes the loneliness that becomes a big theme of the book. The goal is not what he really wanted.

Similarly, Madame Bovary makes the goal ultimately undesirable — (More spoilers in case Madame is on your nightstand. …) The protagonist, Emma Bovary, really just wants romance. That’s her goal. In her provincial French town, she pines for it throughout the book. However, she is married to Charles Bovary, a very kind man but not Cassonova, who needs to spend his time making a life, not thinking about romance. Emma lets herself be swept away, then, by a rakish man in a nearby city and has an affair, then she ends up in debt to quiet the affair, and – by the end of the book – she’s completely ruined. So she kills herself. Ironically, the romance she so desired comes after her death, when her husband sets up a shrine to her and loves her entirely. She got her romance, but only after her death.

(Ah, that’s nice and cheery, eh? Sorry. …)

Anyway, genre novels, on the other hand, don’t play around too much with the goal.

Genre novels (and yeah, I know that “literary” is a genre, but, for my purposes here: romance, mysteries, suspense, horror, etc.) have an agreement with their fans that the protagonist will always get the goal. You don’t have to open an Agatha Christie and wonder if Miss Marple is going to solve her case. You don’t read a Stephen King thinking the protagonist is going to die by the end of the book. And romance novels follow the same rules: There is always a hero and a heroine (either can be the protagonist) who has a goal at the beginning (a secret chalice, a long-lost sister, a new career, a solution to a crime) and he/she will always get it (or something better), although that pesky little problem of falling in love will get in the way. (Some people think that, in romance novels, romance is the goal, but this is not true. There’s another goal, and the romance actually gets in the way of it. This is very tricky to write, incidentally.)

Figuring out who the protagonist is and what the goal is is a great place to start your critique.

If something feels “off” to you, it might be an issue of the protagonist and his or her goals. If you’re critiquing or beta-reading for someone, it might be because the author didn’t make the goal clear, or didn’t have the appropriate ending for his or her audience.

If you’re critiquing a published book, it might be that you simply didn’t like or agree with his goal (I felt this way about The Bridges of Madison County, in which the goal, like Madame Bovary, was romance, but it came at the cost of a marriage, which irritated me to no end); it might be because you thought you had a “contract” for a certain ending and it wasn’t delivered (you expected a happy ending and didn’t get it); or it might be because the goal didn’t seem plausible or was something that seemed silly and frivolous to you (getting a job, getting a great pair of shoes).

So what about you? Do you tend to like goals that fall into certain categories above? Do you recall feeling “flat” about a certain book? Did it have to do with the goal?

Next, check out those really difficult-to-decipher protagonists and their sometimes-slippery goals.

I never get tired of watching these inspirational videos of Olympic highlights. There’s something really amazing about watching the faces of these athletes who’ve worked so hard, for so long, and the moment they realize they just won.  I love when a skater or skier or snowboarder turns around to search for the scoreboard, or the face of a coach, and their eyes take it in — and you can see the exact moment it occurs to them. … pure joy.

Anyway, here’s one of my favorite video highlights by Gloriana: The World Is Ours Tonight.

One of the interesting things that came up in comments the other day when we were talking about how we critique was that many seemed to think having a one-on-one critique partner is best.

I can’t really speak to any other option, because I’ve never been part of a critique group, but I do recall my friend Hank once warning me against them. I was about 23, and he was about 55, and he was a senior editor at a previous job. I leaned on every one of his words as if they were gospel. (And he deserved the adoration, if I must say, because he was great with words.) 

Anyway, when I told him I was writing fiction in my free time, he pulled me aside and said, “Whatever you do, don’t join a critique group. Find a partner.” Hank was not always a serious guy, but he was serious about this – as if he were warning me against muggers or crooked IRS agents. I asked why the sudden death grip on my elbow, and he admitted he’d been having trouble with his own group. He pointed out that even though you get six to 10 people reading your stuff, and giving you feedback, you also must invest the time to read the material of those same six or 10 people … every month. And by the time you finish editing, critiquing, unraveling plot holes for all these other people, you often have no time left for your own book.

Huh. …

I took his advice to heart and found a partner instead. I was lucky right off the bat because I had a well-trusted friend from college – someone I not only trusted but loved to read (she was, and is, a great literary writer). (This, incidentally, was in the days before e-mail, if you can believe it. We were literally boxing up our manuscripts and shipping them across the country to each other! Crazy to think of that. …) Anyway, this went on for some time until we both got to the end of our 20s and started families and realized that running a little family is a lot of work. Unfortunately, writing fell by the wayside for both of us.

Flash-forward many, many years, and here I am again, rekindling the writing thing. Of course, I turned to that first college-friend-crit-partner immediately, and she was rekindling at the same time (our kids were at that “old enough for you to write again” stage), but she was staying on the literary track, and I was going to genre. We still read each other’s work, but here’s the thing about genre writers – they write FAST! And I’m trying to keep up. So I’m writing faster, and needing MORE reads than she did, and I realized I needed someone who wrote at the same pace as I did. So that’s my first tip:

-          Pick someone who writes at your pace.

This way, you’ll be exchanging favors at the same time.

My second major tip:

-           Go where you’ll find like-minded people.

I took several online classes and met people who seemed like terrific possible partners. I was asked four or five times if I wanted to join groups or partner up. (It’s a little like dating, in a way. You take a class, and you have your eye on someone – because you can tell they write like you, or you just like their style, or like their humor, or whatever – and you start e-mailing each other offline, and then … someone asks: “Do you want to be crit partners?” You feel like you’ve just been asked to have dinner at Sutra Lounge or something. …)

Anyway, I found a little critique group, by way of a friend by way of an online brainstorming group, and additionally critiqued with a few different people from here or there. But, ultimately, when the sand all settled, Patti and I continued going strong with each other. We just have a great connection.

Patti and I don’t even write in the same exact genre, which is weird. She writes historical romance, while I write contemporary. But we really click. Here’s why:

• We write at the same pace. I know I just said this above, but it’s really important, because I would hate to ask someone to read three novels of mine when I’ve only read one of theirs. In fact, I think it’s more important to find someone who matches your writing pace than someone who matches your genre. Patti and I keep perfect pace with each other, and we tend to finish writing books around the same time. She has two novels majorly finished (as do I), and another in brainstorming stage (as do I), and we have at least two spin-off stories we each want to write. Whenever one is ready to ask for help, the other seems to be at the exact same stage. And we both write every weekend. We’re of the same level of seriousness.
• Her strengths are my weakness, and vice versa. If you’re both excellent at pacing, but both terrible with point-of-view, you’re only going to be able to help each other so much. Patti and I, on the other hand, have opposite strengths. She struggles with grammar, which is a cake-walk for me. And I struggle with “telling” instead of “showing,” which she never does, so she helps me with that. She’s great at invoking all senses: She’ll say “What does the air smell like here?” or “What can he hear when he steps behind that wall?” and I love when she points that out because I never think of it. And I’m good with pacing in dialogue, so I help her delete the beats that make her dialogue seem unnatural. I think we really bring out the best in each other, and help with the not-so-best.
• She compliments as well as critiques. I’m sort of a baby, so this is good for me. You have to know your critique partner’s threshold for criticism, and know when he or she has reached it. (This would be well before the salty language gets thrown around and preferably before the proverbial “throwing in the towel.”) You have to know how to temper the critique with enough enthusiasm to be encouraging for your particular partner. For me, Patti is great at this. She points out the bad stuff, but knows just how to point out enough good stuff, too, to make me want to sit back down the next day and keep going. It’s a really nice balance she’s hit for me, and I try to offer that back in kind.

So what am I forgetting? Is there a great tip you can share for finding a great critique partner? How long did it take you to find yours? Do you switch depending on genre? Do you prefer a group?

So my friend Patti and I are critiquing the hell out of her story. …

I’ve spent the last several weekends on her book – I’m holed up in front of my computer, and my brother-in-law keeps coming by and asking if I’ve seen the light of day yet. But it’s a lot of fun. (And she returns in kind, by the way – she’s given me some of the best advice I’ve ever received on my books.)

Writers — Do you have a great critique partner? How do you help each other?

Readers — Have you ever critiqued for someone? Or maybe done a beta-read? What do you like to read for most — theme? characterization? plot holes? something else?

Please share! I love to hear others’ experiences!

You’d think, after three children, I’d have this mothering thing down pat a little better, and yet I continuously misjudge my youngest son. Experienced parents will agree with me here, but each child is just so different. And what works for one child may not work for another. And blah, blah, blah. … Excuses abound. …

But here’s how I misjudged my son most recently: It all involved three huge misconceptions: (1) that little boys don’t feel attached to toys anymore, (2) the forgotten power and reality of unconditional love, (3) the betrayal of a mother who is always supposed to have your back, and (4) the long-forgotten truism that little pitchers truly do have big ears. …

One night, a couple of years ago, when all my book club friends were over at my house, one friend plopped onto my couch and accidentally found herself perched upon the rubber carcass of what once had been a baby doll, but whose soft, hollow hands were missing. She pulled it out from under her. Startled, she took a closer look and peered at its misshapen little body, at it’s missing hands and toes, at the ballpoint pen marks over its torso. And then … She gasped.

“Oh, I know,” I said, sliding the dessert platter between the coffee cups on the coffee table. “That’s Baby. It’s Nathan’s. He’s had it almost since he was born.”

My friend covered her mouth and stared again at the doll. At first I thought she was covering her mouth in horror, but then I realized she was actually laughing quietly – in a sort of half-horrified, half-incredulous way. She held Baby with careful fingers. She laid Baby on the couch. But every time she looked back at the doll, she began laughing again. Soon, the entire book club was joining in, passing Baby around to take a closer look.

“How can he find comfort in this? It’s actually scary.”

I know.

I do know.

Indeed, Baby is mortifying. She used to be a “Baby Born” doll, given to my daughter for Christmas when she was about four, but for some reason, Nathan “adopted” her when he could barely walk. Maybe it was her strange weight that felt comforting to him in his stroller? Or maybe it was her plastic body that kind of warms and molds when you sleep close? Or maybe it was the rubbery texture of her fingers that he could suck on while he fell asleep? I’m not sure. But Nathan took her over at about 1 year old and hasn’t let go since. He’s always called her “Baby.”

Now, nearly a decade later, Baby has seen better days. Both of her hands have been gnawed off, and one of her feet is missing. She has no clothes (and hasn’t for 8 of her 9 years), but instead has faded blue pen marks all over her torso where a 3-year-old Nathan drew on her with a ballpoint and triumphantly showed me her “tattoos.” She’s been colored in purple marker, dragged through the bath, rolled over by skateboards, and even landed in the dryer once, which gave her “tattoos” a strange fuzzy look to them. She’s lost some of her “air” so her body is flat and weirdly misshapen, and her eyes and plastic “hair” have faded, almost to the point of nonexistence, so she has a strange alien look about her.

As she was passed along the couch during the book club (mostly held at arm’s length), my friends had tears coming out their eyes from laughing so hard. And, as Baby continued to make her way from one hand to another, even I joined in. When looked at from the perspective of an outsider – which I rarely did anymore – Baby was, truly, horrifying in a very hilarious way.

But then I heard a sound at the base of the stairs.

And I turned around.

And on the bottom stair, staring at us in silence, was Nathan.

He was carefully assessing the situation. Clearly, he was unsure whether he should rush in and save Baby, or run upstairs. You could tell he was uncertain if he should be embarrassed, and didn’t really know why he should be. He looked at me sort of imploringly – why are you laughing, Mom?

One of my friends caught sight of him, and the laughter slowly died. She bit her lip and walked over to the base of the stairs and handed Baby back to him, then tried gallantly to save us all by saying she was so sorry, she didn’t mean to laugh, and she thought Baby was quite lovely.

Nathan gave a brief nod, but simply took Baby in his arms and rushed upstairs.

I felt terrible. I really did. I felt like I had betrayed Nathan – not defending the love of his life against my friends. I felt like I had opened a door that didn’t need to be opened. I knew he wouldn’t know whether I was laughing because it was silly that he had a lovey or if Baby was just silly looking. I knew he wouldn’t know if I was as horrified at Baby as my friends were, or if I loved Baby as unconditionally as he did. It was as if Baby was his child, and he truly couldn’t see any ugliness in her, and his own mother was making fun of his unconditional love.

Baby is still around. I see her lying on my bedroom floor sometimes, or sometimes she’s lying half-in/half-out of the boys’ closet. She came along to all of our vacations up to the year 2008 – sort of stuffed into the top of Nathan’s suitcases, along with his other “lovey,” Buddy. She came to Texas with us in 2007 and to Ohio in 2006. In recent years, she’s not so much super-needed as there just in case.

But she didn’t come along to the last vacation, I noted. Instead, her little tattooed body lay cast on the floor upstairs, staring at the ceiling with her fading eyes, maybe wondering what happened to that little boy she’s seen through many a night, through many a scary movie, through scary noises and long walks in strollers.

That little boy who learned that love truly is blind. … And taught the rest of the family so.

What a great day off! A free day with absolutely no obligations! (Except maybe hitting that mall sale. …)

I posted a little quiz over on Health Bistro today about the presidents. I asked only seven questions, but I bet you can’t answer them! Here are the questions:

Do you know any of the answers? Swing by Health Bistro: 7 Fun Presidential Facts for the answers!

What do you do on President’s Day? Is it snowing where you are? It’s really a glorious day here in So. Cal. …