Or so we thought.

Recently we were staying at a Red Roof Inn on the outskirts of San Antonio. Based on the horse trailers and Chevy trucks, most of the other guests were cowboys, or something like it. Susanne’s fallback position if the whole Tim Tebow thing doesn’t pan out is to marry a World Champion Rodeo Cowboy. Runner-up will do if he has the biggest truck.

Susanne preceded me into the lobby one morning for the free breakfast. Just as she sashayed in the door, a booted, scruffy young man of the presumed cowboy variety was making his exit. He had a good ten years on her, but that didn’t dim the gleam in his eyes that glinted off his ginormous belt buckle. I locked him in my mama-death glare as I stepped quickly in behind my little filly.

Meanwhile, Susanne’s eyes had lit up, too. Oh no, I thought, ready to move between the smitten cowboy and my seriously-underage daughter. The words, “Put your tongue back in your mouth and step away from the adolescent,” were forming on my lips, when Suz turned to me.

She whispered excitedly, “They’ve got those waffle makers shaped like Texas!!” And then, because she is my daughter after all, she bolted for the food bar.

Looks like Tim Tebow is safe for now. But I’d better warn him never to get between her and breakfast.

We just made it through another Valentine’s Day, where a young boy’s heart naturally turns to, what? Love, right? Well, sort of. Theoretically. For some young boys, love looks and feels differnetly, though. Take my ADHD Wonder-son who we call “Clark Kent,” for example. He’s in his junior year of high school. He thinks about love. He even has love, or something like it. He has dated the same sweet neurotypical girl for over a year.

But the form love takes when practiced by an ADHD teen doesn’t look like the love I, as a non-ADHD person, remember feeling, or that I do feel for my gorgeous husband Eric even now. To me, young love is urgent. It is all-consuming. It makes you do crazy things. Operative word? DO. As in “take action.”

That’s where my son differs so much from my experience. Clark is completely happy in his 4-second window of life; the past is gone, the future doesn’t exist. Anything that enters that window and stays with him is awesome. But if it’s not there, then he really doesn’t miss it all that much. Maybe a little. If his girlfriend texts him and asks him to miss it, for instance. As in, if she texts and says, “Look, here I am, and I’m not with you.” Then he misses it. He continues playing FIFA Soccer on the Xbox with a smile on his face, but he kinda sorta misses her. Things might be even better if she were here. She’s not though. And he’s still happy. He doesn’t need to DO anything. It’s all good.

Sometimes they ride to school together. Her sister drops her at our house before 7:00 a.m. Eric and I aren’t always dressed and out of the bathroom yet at this time. She rings the door bell in the dark. Surely Clark is up and will answer, I think. Surely he knows when she was due to arrive. The doorbell keeps ringing. She weighs 90 pounds sopping wet, and I can’t take it any longer. I sprint to the door in my half-tied robe and let her in.

“I’m sorry. He’s not awake. I’ll get him,” I apologize. She and I have had this exchange before. We have it most days.

She settles in happily, making strawberry icing doodle-art on the toaster streudels. I stomp up the stairs where two alarm clocks blare over Clark’s snore.

***

Catch the rest of It Is Love, Actually over on {a mom’s view of ADHD}, and please leave a comment while you’re there.

Ciao,

Pamelot

Another way I’m lucky? We are teenager/child-free this weekend. Or at least we think we are. We won’t know we’re not until the door crashes open and they barrel into our room, but we intend to give them an eyeful if they do. Hey, kids are resilient, mental scars heal.

Yet another way I’m lucky? That even though Eric and I have to work both days this weekend, we are doing it (right now) (no, not THAT it; get your mind out of the gutter) at his office. We used to work together before we became us, and I miss this. I loved this. This doesn’t suck.

But those are everyday sorts of luck. Some of my luck only comes along once in awhile, but when it comes, it is extra sweet. Thanks in part to the coincidence of locations I travel to for work, I occasionally meet my online friends IRL (duh, In Real Life, get with the pop culture, people). I’m bummed no clients have sent me to Midland yet to meet my critique partner Heidi Dorey or Arkansas to meet Nan Lloyd, but I am psyched that one jetted me to Los Angeles where I met…my editor, Meghan Pinson! I guess she doesn’t really count as a friend, per se, but I adore her, I pay her, and she puts up with me. A whole lot of me. 160,000 words and counting of me. Eric would like to point out that he puts up with approximately 200,000 daily, but, hello, we’re talking about written words, not my incoherent ramblings about my hormones.

Meghan completes me, y’all. She really does. When I am too tired to putz with perfection another second, when I prematurely send her something that may not be my best effort but is the best I can force out of myself at that moment, Meghan does not flog me. She has admitted that occasionally in a particularly difficult section of my work she might calculate and recalculate her billing and wring her hands, but I balance it with occasional brilliance. Or so she says, because she ain’t a turnip.

So Meghan dined with me when I was in the worst part of my yeast free diet hell, in Carson, California. Carson is not a destination of choice for the culinary elite. Carson is a working man’s town. In Carson, all the lettuce eating poofs from up north in Beverly Hills will eat fried food, and they will like it. We did find a Panera’s with a super-cheerful employee, and we won’t blame her for the Montezuma’s Revenge that struck the next day.

By this point, Meghan and I had worked together for three months and were on our 4th book. We had talked about my writing, my grammar, my style, my chapter structure, my capitalization, my naming conventions, my poetry, my sense of humor, and my my my my my so much that I cringed with self-loathing and guilt. Meghan is the foremost authority on all things Pamela, whether she wants to be or not. I call her first to see what I’m going to do next now, for real. So there was no way I would force her through significantly more Pamela, and definitely not through more talk about PAMELA’S BOOKS.

We just talked. About Meghan, who is interesting, loves grammar for the sake of grammar, and has (a lot) of eletric hair in a perfect red. She is smart and wise and sweet and spiritual. We talked about her family. About proper versus acceptable versus most reader-centric comma placement. About LA. About her college years. About her writing, her poetry, her editing, her clients, her style. And it was wonderful. Sure, we got sidetracked on Pamela a few times, and even PAMELA’S BOOKS, briefly. But mostly we chatted and became friends.

Working with Meghan has come at the point in my writing where I thirst for feedback on what is wrong, not what is right. I am sick of hearing how awesome PAMELA’S BOOKS and writing are. OK, I’ll admit that’s a lie. I still love to hear that. But I love even more when someone confirms my intuition about a section that doesn’t flow, or says “don’t you think this paragraph works better here?” Even when they say “you need to work harder at this, it isn’t up to your standard,” or worse yet, “delete these chapters and write new ones.” Instead of reaching for the Blue Bell, I do a cartwheel into the splits, from which I am unable to get up, because I am way too old for cartwheels and I can’t really do the splits anymore. It’s a nice dream, though.

Meghan worries that she’ll bruise my ego with her feedback. I can say without reservation that I have exulted over her every word. I am elated over the revised manuscripts. I am proud of the pieces that have come together and are standing in line waiting for their debutante ball in May.

Our short evening ended, me off to my hotel, her on an adventure. The verdict? I love her online. I love her on the phone. And I loved her even more IRL. It turns out, I love editors. Editors, the goddess creatures able to spin your words into gold, to cut the snakes from Medusa’s head without turning your manuscript to stone, to balance the worlds you create on their backs keeping your dreams bright in the sky. Editors. Wonderful, awesome editors.

Now we must leave our shiny meeting with Meghan and move back into the dreary world of work and rewrites. But not without a final preachy word of advice from moi:

Writers, wannabes, dreamers, and all of you who yearn to try the entrepreneurial non-traditional route for your books: don’t short cut the pain, don’t skip the years of effort, don’t publish just for the sake of publishing. First, work with critique groups. Choose the most vicious and merciless writing companions. No circle jerks, no ego strokes, just truth. Suffer. Doubt yourself. It’s not in vain, I promise. When the critiques dwindle into compliments, when you grow sick of the praise, when you know there is work left to do and are ready to by God do it, go find a good editor. Go find your Meghan. You’ll be ready for her. You’ll appreciate her. You’ll name your cat after her.

And maybe you’ll even end up with books you’ll be proud to publish.

Hugs,

Pamelot

p.s. No, I haven’t named a cat after Meghan. Theoretically, however, I would. I absolutely would.

p.p.s. I am aware I used a watermarked piece of clip art that screams “Pamela was too cheap to pay the low cost monthly subscription!” How could I resist, though, when this looked *exactly* like me? OK, it’s because as I draft this, I’m in a hurry. If someone sends me something better later, I’ll replace it.

I have absolutely zip to say to y’all today. That’s why I’m doing something random I’ve never done. That, and because my runner-writer-triathlete-wife-mommy friend Ann Brennan (of Ann’s Running Commentary and Beyond Limits Magazine ) asked me to in her piece, “Things You Didn’t Know.” That and because I didn’t have time to write an original post right now because work is kicking my butt.

Me, the queen of oversharing, will regale you today with eleven new and useless pieces of information about my favorite topic: ME.

Yes, you’re welcome.

Ann asked:

1. Who was your favorite teacher and why?

Gary Biggers, junior year English teacher. He didn’t take my crap and he pushed me. I became a writer in his class.

2. What were your sports of choice when you were younger?

Distance running and basketball. Does cheerleading count as a sport?

3. What did you want to be when you grew up?

Madonna. If not Madonna, I’d settle for training Shamu.

4. What profession did you ultimately end up in and why?

Attorney, which morphed into HR professional and consultant/business owner, and ultimately became coach/writer/public speaker. Because I didn’t want to wear a pointy bra and I get sea sick just looking at water.

5. What is the single most important thing you think parents should teach their children?

Responsibility.

6. When you run, what is the one thing your mind turns to the most often?

The guy running one step behind me and to the right. No, he’s not a stalker. His name is Eric, and I married him six years ago.

7. What is your favorite book and how many times have you read it?

I don’t re-read (at least not on purpose). As a child, my favorites were Black Beauty, Heidi, Call of the Wild, Old Yeller, Where the Red Fern Grows, and Cheaper by the Dozen. Also, all the Little House on the Prairie Books. As an adult, I go through authors like water. My all time faves: Larry McMurtry, Elizabeth George, Robert Penn Warren, Pat Conroy, Patricia Cornwell, (I guess I should stop now?) . . .

8. If you could only pick one movie to watch for the rest of your life what would it be?

Love, Actually.

9. Are you more comfortable in the city or the country?

Nowheresville, USA, baby!

10. If you had the option of spending three months of the year in another place, where would you choose?

I think the correct answer is Oquossic, Maine, because that’s where my husband would choose, and I wouldn’t want to be anywhere he wasn’t.

11. What is your all time favorite museum to visit?

National Art Gallery. It blisses me out.

There are apparently rules to this randomness, so I hereby tag 11 other blogger writers to join the fun, and I recommend you, dear readers, check them out, after you go read Ann:

My compatriot in vomit-inducing love, Nan and her Little Black Dress Diaries

Ethereal and practical by turns, but always spiritual, writer and poet Maryleigh and her Blue Cotton Memory

Crusader with a side of sass, Kim’s Inner Chick

Julie, a positive woman whose husband is a renal transplant survivor, writes as Just Jules

Heidi, a bookophile and home interior specialist, who has a Mind That Never Stops

My beloved Jenny Bean, who went to the “bank” to become a mommy, and suddenly lives in a testosterone-rich environment w/2 sons and her Papa

Sandy, who lost her husband and bravely shares her journey through widowhood and BEYOND

Everything from aging to zebras, that’s Terri’s Little Corner

A long lost soul sister? Ally of Two Normal Moms

 Writer and re-creator of old houses, Rebecca Nolen

I’ll be back with original irreverence and TMI soon.

TTFN

Pamelot

p.s. Madonna ROCKED the Super Bowl Half Time. I saw her concert in 1990 in Dallas at the now-dust Cowboy’s Stadium. It was an incredible show.

In my efforts to regain some hormonal balance, sanity, and mojo, I caved to my doctor’s recent instructions. Some of them were easy enough, like changes in my bioidentical hormone regimen. Others pushed me a bit, such as adding a dizzying array of additional supplements, each to test its effectiveness at reducing symptoms. I don’t know which is harder, figuring out what to take each morning or swallowing 40 pills a day without vomiting. Okay, I do know. Swallowing. Tip: spread over three meals, take pills between bites after you have “lined” your stomach, and don’t dream of trying it without a lot of protein.

But the big challenge was a diet cleanse. I’d gotten sloppy in the last eight months. Eric and I trained for a half ironman this past summer, one we ultimately punted on due to, at the time, his health issues. Then we resumed training for our makeup race only to have my health issues derail us. Poo poo. Anyway, when we train hard core, I indulge my inner Cinnabon and apple fritter-scarfing demon. Unfortunately I found it hard to get her under wraps when the exercise waned. I was chock-a-full of chemicals, gluten, and sugar from processed foods. Plus my ass had gotten a titch large, which it is wont to do. Call me curvy.

The diet my doctor swears by is a Yeast Free Health and Wellness Diet. It’s a lot like my “no white” diet, but with some key differences. The first and most important is that during the first month, I have to take a medicine called Nystantin with meals to kill off the live yeast in my stomach and digestive track. I bloated up like I was six months preggers during the first 10 days. Not comfortable or fun. It gets better as the little suckers die. The second difference from my “no white” diet is that they really want me off dairy as much as possible, too, for the long run. And it is over this requirement that I imploded last time I tried this diet. I was going strong for about three months when the lure of cheese became too much for me.

I’m wrapping up week three now. Eric is yeast free in solidarity with me. Yes, he’s awesome. No, he doesn’t have an available brother, and you sure can’t have Eric, so don’t even think about it. I don’t feel great, yet, and I won’t until I am off the Nystantin; I tend toward more migraines while it’s doing its thing. I have lost a lot of my butt fluff layer. I’m not yet exercising to any real extent, not only because of the migraines, but because I haven’t licked this all-over body pain yet. I’m doing more than I had since before Christmas, though.

I splurged in support of the diet change and bought a juicer. I’m doing one meal replacement per day with a veggie-fruit-protein powder concoction. I actually add the fruit pulp back when I blend the juice and protein into a smoothie, and we’ve used the veggie pulp as a fiber-additive to meat and vegetable dishes for other meals. No waste, and we get all the vitamins and fiber back. I can’t have most salad dressings yet (because I can’t have any type of vinegar except apple cidar, and no white sugar), so this helps me eat more raw food. I’m not a big fan of crunching raw broccoli, ya know? And salads without cheese or dressing, well, they gag me. The juicer is a life saver.

Other meal staples: scrambled eggs with rotel tomatoes and black beans, lettuce wraps with avocado, tomato, and deli meat, and hummus with chick pea chips along with fresh guacamole and a few spoonfuls of roasted almond butter or cashew butter. Thank God for Fadi’s Mediterranean and Boston Market, which are about the only restaurants I can go to without a hangover from some food or other that the nystantin conflicts with.

I love my juicer. I would love to feel good again even more, but, in the meantime, I am encouraged. Long term, this diet looks a lot like The Zone diet. Personally, I have to keep white sugar, gluten, processed foods, and simple carbs out of my life. Period. I have a plan. I’m following it, and so is my husband. We are really optimistic that over the next three to four weeks, Pamela will re-surface. Which will rock.

<3

Pamelot