The Crazy Life of a Writing Mom

Happy Birthday Cade and Zombie Elf!

2012-05-28T10:18:00.003-04:00

    The Zombie Elf is four today and Cade is thirty-two.
    Isn't it amazing how things work out. . . .
    We always wanted a boy, but when Zeke died all of my dreams crashed to the ground. Who thought that years later we'd have another boy on Cade's birthday? We'll never forget Zeke--and I'll do everything I can to get his story of loss, hope and healing out there--but I'm so thankful for the boy I do have.
The Zonbie's such a cutie. He opened a present and screamed, "HOLY MOLEY!" Of all the things he's learned from me, I'm so glad it's that. I've been so stressed lately, I'm sure I've said some naughty words one too many times.
    Anyway, since it's my boys' birthday and last year I wrote about Cade, today I thought I'd share a fun memory about my Zombie Elf.
    Here goes:

    That night I couldn't wait to get my kids to sleep. As I gave my two youngest children a bath, the Hippie kept chanting, "C-A-T spells cat. C-A-T spells cat." Then she'd turn to my two-year-old boy (The Zombie Elf) and say, "What does C-A-T spell?"
    "Bad guy," my boy said in a low monotone, like he was an Italian gangster. He'd say that every time because in his world everything revolves around good vs. evil--good guys and bad guys.
    So, I gave them all their drinks at six and then a couple hours after, I put them to bed. The Zombie Elf got mad at me when I wouldn't give him more milk. "No. No, honey." I patted him on the head and kissed him. "I don't want you waking up all night because you have to go potty."
    He folded his arms and stuck out his bottom lip. "Mama say 'no no'."
    I chuckled; even when he's mad, he's cute. "Goodnight, baby," I said as I shut the door and scurried off to bed. Sometimes when the kids go to sleep, it just makes me happy inside. It's like I could conquer the world--if I had my broom I'm so good at sweeping AND whacking with.
    I smiled, snuggling into my fuzzy blanket. I thought I had everything under control--I was terribly wrong.
    At two o'clock in the morning I heard screaming and a tremendous racket. SOMEONE WAS IN OUR HOUSE!
    The noise ate at my nerves, ready to pounce on my sanity. I sat and immediately thought of how our house had been broken into before! I wondered what I should do.
    So, as I heard the painful cries of help, I realized they were from my boy. It sounded like someone was beating him with my own cookware! The water ran, and I heard slapping of liquid hitting itself. My boy screamed again, obviously terrified and it made me so mad I could have strangled the intruder! No one hurts my babies; NO ONE!
    Without a second thought (and even though I didn't have my broom) I moved toward the kitchen. I didn't know what to expect, so before I turned the final corner, I gulped a huge piece of air and closed my eyes. "God, please help me be strong enough," I whispered. I imagined myself grabbing a broom and fighting better than Jackie Chan in fast forward. When that intruder broke into our house he obviously didn't know what happens when you make a Mama mad.
    But when I turned the corner, I realized I hadn't been expecting the sight before me. I gasped and covered my mouth, leaned against the wall and whimpered. Some things are too painful to understand. I'd only thought about hurting the intruder, I hadn't imagined how much pain my son might be in. That's when I screamed. My scream echoed up and around my house; I'm sure it traveled down the block. I wonder if it reminded anyone of Wesley's scream in the Princess Bride because it was the sound of true agony.
    On the floor rested all my pans, all my cooking utensils, a bunch of broken eggs, a pickle jar that was LUCKILY still intact. But what made me scream more than anything was the Zombie Elf! He wore nothing more than a diaper and sat in the middle of A POOL OF MILK! I hadn't heard running water! I'd heard the sound of him dumping an entire gallon of milk onto the mess in the kitchen. He smeared eggs and milk together. Mixed them up in pans.
    He saw me and his eyes went wide with true fear. He screamed with me then, wailing like a villain who's about to start a life-sentence. Then he held the empty gallon of milk up to his dirty lips and as one little drip entered his mouth, I saw the fury build again. "IIII WAAANT MIIIILK!"
    I grabbed him and we glared at each other. That kid had scared the crap out of me. I'd been ready to wield my broom and poke someone in the E-Y-E. I'd risked my sanity--for a little turkey-turd!
    So, he did get a bath AND a spankin'. I put him to bed without any milk; I figured he'd had enough for one night considering the jug still rested empty on the kitchen floor. I knew it would take forever to clean that mess. Milk had seeped into all the kitchen rugs, some liquid even ran under the fridge.
     As I put the Zombie Elf to sleep, he turned and asked, "Mama? Am I bad guy?"
    "No . . . " I tucked the blanket under his tiny feet and pushed it around his shoulders and tummy. "No, but that wasn't nice. Now I get to stay up and clean. We're going to have the cleanest floor in the neighborhood . . . because of you!" At the moment, I didn't think that was something to be proud of. I didn't want a clean floor. I wanted a good night sleep--for once! Then I looked at him and asked the one question which practically killed me. "Why? Why! did you do this to me?"
    He turned to his side, closed his eyes and whispered, "'Cause Mama say 'no no'."
    That turkey! When I cleaned up the mess, I did have to laugh at one point. "Mama say 'no no'," I chuckled. The picture of him sitting amidst that mess, the empty gallon resting on his dirty lips. That boy plays a symphony with my heart strings--even when he's naughty.
    After he fell asleep, I tip-toed into his room and hugged him extra hard because he always reminds me of how happy I am he's healthy. After Zeke died, no matter how much crap happens, I'm just glad my other kids are healthy. They might not always be the best kids, or the most well-behaved, but they're mine and I love them. Even when they throw worms in people's hair, show up tardy forty-one times and break into my kitchen, I'm just glad they're still here!
    So with that being said, my boy is really a Zombie Elf. It's because he's the best kind of Zombie, the merry kind Santa would approve of, the kind that makes me laugh even in the worst of times.

Happy birthday, Cade and Zombie Elf. I love you!

Ever Been to a Cajun Boil?

2012-05-26T14:42:00.001-04:00

Our signing last night was amazing. Deseret News came and everything!
I'll tell you more about that later. We're just getting ready for our gig tonight. If you'd like to come to a real Cajun Boil, here's that info:

Saturday May 26^th7- 10 pm Playing Music & Signing at

Moon Dog's Cafe

792 West Hill Field Road
Layton, UT 84041

Here are some fun pictures from Balance Rock Pub last night.

Please Visit

A-Mothers-Eye-Photography

For more great info about these pics.

I’M SORRY, MOM (PART 2—SORT OF); Fishducky Friday

2012-05-25T11:13:00.006-04:00

Cade and I have traveled a lot for our music, but this is the first time we're traveling for my writing. ;) We're just getting ready to visit Carbon County. We're playing at the Balance Rock Pub in Helper, UT tonight-- the second oldest building in town. It'll be fun to post pictures later!
Take it away, Fishducky.

Last week I left you in Garmisch-Partinkirchen, Gernany. Did you enjoy your visit? I think it was from there we went to Berlin. It may have been on a different trip, but I don’t think so. This was in the early 1980’s, which was several weeks ago, & my memory’s…who’s calling, please?

At this time, there was still an East & West Berlin & the Berlin Wall was still standing. The Wall was covered with political graffiti & every few yards there was a small memorial to someone who had unsuccessfully tried to escape.

West Berlin was essentially rebuilt, although some bombed out buildings were deliberately left standing as a reminder of the war.

We had two interesting experiences in West Berlin. They had just completed a new concert hall, built in the round, with the orchestra in the center. The concierge tried to get us tickets. All they had left was seating in the student’s section, behind the drums. We took them & I’m so glad we did. Since we were behind the orchestra, we could watch the face of the conductor. We never realized how hard he worked or how completely he was consumed by his job. It was fascinating! Our other marvelous surprise happened when we went to a small museum & found this bust of Nefertiti. I had seen pictures of it before, but seeing it in person was breathtaking! She was so graceful—just exquisite!

We took a bus tour of communist East Berlin. What sticks in my mind is that although the rest of Germany was lovely, in hundreds of shades of green, East Berlin (& its people) seemed to be only in shades of grey. Our military guarding the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier are always standing & marching with dignity. Not so at the Russian Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Below is a picture of some guards leaving the tomb.

We took the QE ll back to the US. The clocks were turned back 1 hour each night to adjust to the time change. The notice posted next to them always made me smile. It said, “Clocks will be retarded for 1 hour each night at 3:00am.” I imagined them acting very silly. The cruise was fine, except for the bland English food--& the hellacious storm on the last night. The waves broke 50’ above the bow. There were open fractures in the dining room from people being thrown off chairs. The picture below was shot by the ship’s photographer—no way was I going to be on the deck! By the way, there’s a shot you can take that gets rid of seasickness, which we both had. I believe it’s called PHENERGAN. The doctor injected lots of people, including us, the next day & it worked within a half hour. We were blown 250 miles off course. We got into New York about 12 hours behind schedule.

We had reservations for a suite (2 small rooms) at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel. By the time we arrived, they had given it to someone else. They managed to find another suite for us at the same price. It was normally used by foreign dignitaries, but, after all, we HAD reserved a suite! The 2 pictures below show part of the living room (yes, that IS a full size grand piano!) & the dining room, which seated 20 people & had a working fireplace. There was also a full kitchen with a breakfast room & service porch (with a washer & dryer) & 2 bedrooms. I took a bubble bath & would you believe the TV over the tub wasn’t working? I decided NOT to call maintenance. I believe you should just accept whatever little you are given & not be a complainer.

I’ll tell you about our drive up the East Coast next time.

Be patient----fishducky

Epic Fail or Ultimate Victory? VLOG-style

2012-05-24T11:07:00.000-04:00

The radio interview yesterday morning was for an area that's pretty far away from me, so the conversation took place over the phone. Want to know how it REALLY went?
Here's my side of the story--I try acting calm and collected--too bad THE TRUTH IS OUT!

Falling Prey to the Man Code

2012-05-23T08:48:00.000-04:00

I'll be on Carbon County's KARB (98.3 FM) in less than half an hour--I'm excited! It's to adveritise my signings this weekend. If you're in Carbon or Davis County and would like to meet me, check out my Signing Schedule Tab. I hope this radio interview will go well. Since things are still a zoo over here, I'm reposting a story from last year. Here goes . . . I grew up with a very sweet girl. She'd always smile and laugh. If our personalities were cast as roles in a movie, I would be like snarky Scarlett and she would be an unpretentious Melanie.

    This girl was wonderful. Maybe that's why I always cry when I read that section of Gone With the Wind; you know the part when Melanie dies and Scarlett realizes what a schmuck she's been--that's the part I can't smile through since it's too close to home.
Anyway, I was great friends with "Melanie." Now, I don't know how I never noticed this, but one day we had a sleepover. (We were probably fourteen or fifteen at the time.) We sang songs, danced, giggled. Then it came time to go to sleep and we washed our faces. That's when something horrendous happened.
    As Melanie washed her face, mascara and base flooded into the sink. She did look different, but I gasped--literally gasped--when I turned to her again because her eyebrows had come off with the rest of her makeup! That kid's face went on forever like a Klingon in Star Trek, and I wondered if she was an alien!

Side note: When she auditioned for Star Wars, maybe this is how she landed the part. I LOVE Portman, but you have to admit, she pulls off the "alien look" quite well!

So, back to Melanie. She came to visit me a few months ago. Excitement flooded my every action. I couldn't wait to see her, introduce her to The Scribe, The Hippie, The Zombie Elf, Doctor Jones. When she got here, she started by acting like the Melanie I always knew. She was very quiet and poised. Sweet and kind, like Melanie. The only thing I didn't like was how close she sat to Cade. She wore a very low-cut shirt, a short skirt AND her painted on eyebrows.

I know it's terrible, but the whole time she scooted closer to Cade, I kept remembering what her face looked like without those brows. It was a freaky memory, so I got up and made us all cookies. We sat and she didn't say much. "How have things been?"

I asked her, and it seemed for a moment like I was the third wheel--in her mind--because I rested on one couch while she'd claimed the one Cade sat on.

"Great, they've been great," she said.

"Do you have a boyfriend?"

"Nope," she responded. "I dated a couple of guys over the last few years, but then I found out they were married."

O-kay. Things traveled nowhere fast. "You like cooking?"

"No."

"You like kids?"

"Kinda."

What was the deal with the one-word answers? The rest of the night went like that until she finally left.

"She's pretty," The Hippie said.

"Yeah, but she doesn't have a personality," Cade said, still having no clue that Miss Eyebrow-less had practically thrown herself at him.

"Wait a minute," I said. "You think she's pretty?"

"I didn't say that."

"Oh, yes you did. The Hippie said, 'she's pretty,' and you said, 'yeah.' Tell the truth! You think she's gorgeous." He stayed quiet, which is man-code for "Oh crap; she's onto me!"

"You want me to be honest?" He paced as if coming closer to the pit of quicksand he didn't know was there.

"Yes. I'll even make this easy on you. Is she prettier than me?" I bit my lip--so the question that killed me was out there. The girl with the big boobs and the fake brows had hit on him. I needed to know what he thought of her. He could either give the "right" answer, or crash and burn from the trickery of my inteligencia! (I had to throw that in there; it's one of the only words I remember from Spanich class.)

Cade looked around. I know he smelled danger afoot, but part of his man-sense must have led him from the holy path of goodness. Instead of answering with a safe bet, he took the hard way, the one men should never take--he took the road of . . . HONESTY!!! Dun Dun DUN!

"Maybe she's . . . just a bit prettier. She could be a model, a real model, but she has no personality. You have A TON if that to go around. I mean, look at what you did the other day. You had me roll'n! You . . ."

He kept talking, but I no longer had ears to hear his honestly-tainted words. I wanted a magic mirror! I wanted to become the fairest in the house THAT DAY! I wanted to be the girl who could paint on angry brows because I had no real ones to be proud of.

I glared at Cade and his mouth hung open, then slowly swung shut. "OH . . . no," he said.

"Oh, yes." I fumed before turning quiet like that Melanie girl. No wonder Scarlett was so mean to Melanie!

"Did I say something wrong?" Cade asked--honestly!

"No," it was a one-word answer, and apparently opposite day as well!

"Is that woman code for 'yes'?"

"No," I said, but nodded, hoping he'd catch my clue.

"You're confusing me?"

"And you're too honest."
"But you asked me--"

"It was woman code! We've been married . . . for ten years! I thought that was long enough for you to get the code. Missionaries learn a language in two months and they know it good enough to convert other countries! And you . . You've been studying woman code FOR YEARS!"

He gaped. "Well, your personality is the best I've seen. You're even cute when you're mad."
As I peered at his happy-go-lucky smile, some of my anger flew out the window. "Thanks." I slumped next to him, deflated. "I guess that's worth something." Maybe the man code wasn't quite so bad. At least I knew he was being honest. I suddenly felt like an idiot. Sure he should know the woman code, but I should know the man one. If I asked him a question, of course he'd take me at face value.

"Yeah, looks aren't forever and when she's going through the change, she'll look terrible. I bet she looks weird without all the makeup."

"She has . . . no eyebrows. It was one of the worst experiences of my youth, but I found out at a sleepover . . . once." I confessed it, like it was the saddest damn thing in the world.

"No way! How did I miss that?" he asked.

"I don't know, but I missed it for years too. It's pretty creepy when she washes her face. We didn't talk for years after I saw her without makeup. It was like an alien invasion, in my very own home!"

He hugged me then. "See, she has nothing on you. You have a personality and eyebrows."

"Ummm . . . thanks," I said and decided I should learn the man code better than I learned Spanish--because that would show my true inteligencia.
If I don't want to hear the truth, I shouldn't ask for it. But on the bright side, at least Cade likes me and I still have my eyebrows.

For another awesome post on this topic, please visit:

Dreams And A Bit Of Ass Kickin' By Angelina Jolie

On a side note, have you ever fallen prey to the man or woman-code? Did your story end well?

Writing a Companion Cat Book

2012-05-22T09:53:00.002-04:00

My trip to Eastern Utah yesterday was awesome.  I'll be interviewed on a Carbon County radio station at 7 tomorrow morning--wish me luck.  This will be fun preparing for the signing on Friday.

    I'd like to thank Dee Ready for guest posting for me since things are so busy.  She's back again today--I wanted her to tell you about her new book.

    Take it away, Dee! 

Years ago, I lived with Dulcy—the sweetest of cats. For seventeen-and-a-half years, she and I cherished one another. On July 8, 1989, two days after she died, Dulcy began to channel through me the purr of our relationship. The words came from that deep center of myself where Oneness dwells and surely Dulcy and I were One.

In April 1991, I sent a query letter plus five chapters of the book to Jane Meara, an editor at Crown Publishing in New York. In her return letter she asked me to delete half of the 42,000 words of Dulcy’s manuscript by concentrating only on our relationship. Immediately I ruthlessly rid the manuscript of any story that didn’t concern the two of us.

Of course, being a hoarder of words, I pasted everything I cut into a separate document. (If you’d like to know more about Dulcy and our relationship, please click here for a guest posting I did on Elisa’s blog yesterday.)

How A Cat's Life: Dulcy's Story came to be

Crown published A Cat’s Life: Dulcy’s Story in September 1992. For the following six months I enjoyed the hoopla of signings, readings, interviews, and local talk-show appearances. By the following spring, all that ended. Two years later, the final count for the sales came to just under 14,000 books in the United States.

I do not know what the sales were for the editions published in Korea, Germany, Taiwan, and Japan. However, the advance against royalty from each publisher plus the royalties on the US edition enabled me to visit Greece for four weeks to research a novel, on which I’m still working.

During the next two years, I tried to create a salable manuscript from the stories I’d cut. To do so, I changed the point of view to third person and introduced Tromley, the cat who lived in the house behind ours. In this first attempt to create a companion book, Dulcy used the deleted stories from A Cat’s Life to teach Tromley how to win a human’s love.

Jane Meara’s response?

“It doesn’t work for me.”

No contract.

Next, I tried to use the deleted sections to create the life of Tromley. No go. Down deep I was glad. Using the material that way felt like a betrayal of Dulcy.

Finally, I came up with the idea of cobbling the material into twelve distinct stories. Once again, Jane Meara turned down the manuscript. “No thread holds it together,” she said. “Nothing compels me to read beyond the first story.”

In other words, no glue held the stories together.

So I set aside the material that had been cut in 1991. Someday, I thought, I’ll figure out how to get Dulcy’s other stories out to an audience.

That someday came several years later when I got the idea to divide the stories into twelve habits of successful cats. Dulcy would “purr” these habits. Then I’d follow each with a short reflection about how the habit had influenced my life as her human. I titled this new manuscript Twelve Habits of Highly Successful Cats and Their Humans by Dulcy and Dee Ready.

By this time, Jane Meara had left Crown. I tried the agent route but was unable to interest anyone in even reading the proposed book. Once again, no chance to get Dulcy’s words to readers.

Now we come to today. I’ve concluded that finding an agent or an editor in today’s publishing milieu is almost impossible. However, Wayman—a small, but growing, publishing house—expressed interest. Both the paper book and the e-book are now available on Amazon.

If you have any interest in reading Dulcy’s words of wisdom—or mine—please click here to get to its location on Amazon. The cover—designed by Elisa—is lovely, and Dulcy’s purr is sweet. As to the text I wrote, it represents experiences I’ve had in living a long and happy life. May you know peace today in your own lives.

Dee Ready's New Book Just Came Out!!!

2012-05-21T08:53:00.004-04:00

Today is the first day that I'm really traveling for my writing. I'm going to Price, Utah, to talk and prepare for a signing on Friday. Wish me luck.
But today is VERY special for another reason. Wayman Publishing just published . . .

Click on the picture to buy it.

    To celebrate, I've asked the author, Dee Ready, to guest post for me for a few days. She is amazing! I've read her latest release through Wayman and I absolutely love it.
    Before handing things over, let me tell you a story.
    Many years ago. I went to a dinner party. About a million people sat around. I started laughing and joking like I do, and before long everyone had turned and was listening either with amusement or horror, to the things I said.

At one point I turned to the women at the table and said, "I think every sane women, whether young or old has thought about being a nun, or at least dreamed about it. Wouldn't that be an amazing life, devoting yourself to God alone!"

Two of the prissy women shook their heads. "Absolutely not. I've never dreamed of being a nun."

I'd been daintily sipping my water, with my pinky out and one eyebrow raised. But when she said that, I nearly spit my water onto the freshly pressed tablecloth. After all, I'd just said, "Every SANE person has thought about being a nun." That woman should have stayed quiet; did she really want everyone knowing how peculiar she was?

    Needless to say, when I met Dee from Coming Home to Myself, and found out she had joined a convent and (like me) dreamed of being a nun, I knew I'd met a kindred spirit.
    Dee is truly amazing--an inspiration. She's been traditional published twice (once even by Crown, a division of Random House). I'm so thrilled to have her guest post today.
    Thanks for joining us, Dee, and for sharing more about Dulcy and your journey to becoming a published author.

How A Cat's Life: Dulcy's Story Came to Be

Seventeen and a half years after she selected me, Dulcy died of kidney failure. Without her, the house felt soul-less. I missed her in the marrow of my bones.

She’d been a constant in my life for almost eighteen years, moving with me many times—from Ohio to Missouri to Minnesota to New Hampshire and then back again to all these places. She’d pawed my face gently when I cried. She’d sprawled on my lap as I hallucinated. She'd loved me through seasons of darkness and moments of giddy gladness.

She’d never deserted me as had my dad and mom when I was five. She’d stayed with me through depression and fear and thoughts of ending my own life. She was dear to me in a way that no one else was.

She died on July 6, 1989. Two days later I woke alert, compelled to go to my computer. As I sat in front of it, my hands automatically began to type. The first words that came were these: “At the end all that matters is love. My love for my human and hers for me. I have planted the memories of our life together in her heart. She will find them there when I am gone and they will comfort her.” I stared at the words, realizing that this was Dulcy speaking.

Each morning for the next two months I spent an hour at the computer before beginning my freelance projects. During that hour, I sat before the computer, hands poised, waiting for Dulcy’s words.

She never failed me. Each day she shared memories of our life together. I’d forgotten these stories, but from some place deep within me—that place where Dulcy dwells in Oneness with all creation and with me—the remembrances of our life together spilled forth. Even in death, she gifted me. She channeled our story through me.

After completing a first draft, I began to edit. Dulcy tended to be wordy and as her editor I tried to find the essence of what she wanted to meow. Slowly the story glued itself together.

For a year and a half, I sent out query letters about Dulcy’s story to editors. In return, I received only form rejection letters. Then in April, nearly two years after Dulcy died, an editor at Crown responded with a typewritten note. In it, she said that if I’d cut half of the 42,000-word manuscript, she’d be happy to look at it again. She advised me to concentrate only on the relationship between Dulcy and me. She suggested that I cut out any mention of other cats.

Within three days, I did the cutting. (Truthfully, I couldn’t abandon Bartleby and so one other cat has a large role in Dulcy’s story.)

I sent the manuscript back to her.

Two months later I had a contract.

A year later, Crown published A Cat’s Life: Dulcy’s Story.

Another gift then came my way: The publishing house decided to hire Judy J. King to illustrate the book. A truly gifted artist, Judy captured Dulcy’s sweetness. Her cover was as lovely as the one that later enhanced the story of Dewey, the library cat. I think Dulcy and Dewey would have been great pals.

The royalties from Dulcy's hardcover enabled me to do three things

· Buy a new Mac.

· Take six months off work to write.

· Travel to Greece for four weeks to research a novel

    I’d been aching to write since I’d been in the sixth grade and studied World History.
    One of the joys of being published is the letters a writer receives. I’ve read many letters from readers who have somehow gotten hold of a hardcover or a trade paperback copy of Dulcy’s book. They write to tell me how the book has touched their lives and changed their relationship with their pets.I know this pleases Dulcy. It certainly pleases me.

    Both the hardcover and trade paperback editions are now out of print. Only 670 copies of the paperback are still available and I have them all right here in my office! Her story has now also become an e-book. Both the paperback and the e-book are available from my blog: Coming Home to Myself

            A Cat’s Life: Dulcy’s Story is a love letter she wrote to me after her death. I will always treasure it. I hope that if you get the chance to read it, you will treasure both the book and Dulcy.

In closing, if you'd like to advertise Dee's book on your blog (like I have), I've included the code below.
-Elisa

Coming Home to Myself

Find this book at Amazon; here's a coupon

I'm Sorry, Mom (Part 1)

2012-05-18T10:53:00.001-04:00

Today is the last day of the Bible Girl & the Bad Boy book launch. You can see that HERE. We've had over 65,000 entries so far! I'm amazed. Also, today is the last day Bible Girl will be on sale for $.99 HERE: Bible Girl.

All right, Fishducky, take it away!

We have a friend who was a successful practicing psychiatrist. He went back into the Army when he was in his 50’s so he could serve his country. Also, because there was no war & the Army took him in as a full colonel & promised him travel, interesting work & an excellent retirement. (Iran held 52 Americans hostage from November, 1979 to January, 1981. He debriefed them after their release.) He was stationed in Frankfurt, Germany when we went to visit him & his wife.

Germany is an absolutely beautiful country. I don’t think I have ever seen so many shades of green in one place. I don’t remember too much about Frankfurt except that there was beer everywhere & that it was much better than American beer. I also remember that you couldn’t get a meal without kartoffeln (potatoes).This just popped into my mind—there was a street fair & an artist was drawing portraits. She had a sign that translated into “One hour portrait in 5 minutes.”

I try to buy a little “duck something” as a souvenir when we travel. Usually I get a tiny figurine. This is what I bought in Frankfurt. It says, “liebe ist… zusammen die enten zu futtern”—“love is…feeding the ducks together”.

One day they drove us on the autobahn to Garmisch-Partinkirchen. I loved the speed! Bud, not so much. Garmisch is in the Bavarian Alps & is one of the most colorful places we’ve ever seen. Stores hung an item next to a sign explaining what type of business it was. A tailor might hang a replica of a sewing machine under a sign saying “Schneiden”. A hardware store might have a sign saying “Werkzeuge” and a saw. The ones that surprised us were the jewelers. Over the door there would be a watch or a huge ring & the sign would read “Schmuck”. (I’m surprised I couldn’t find a picture of that.)

The balconies on the houses were full of flowers. When we were there, they were mostly geraniums. Many of the houses & shops were painted with scenes from operas or fairy tales. This one that I took had scenes from “Little Red Riding Hood”. There is no other word to describe them except CHARMING!

We were crossing one of the streets in town when we had to stop to let these cows pass by. A few minutes later, an old woman came riding in on a bike. She went right up to the cow in front & starting bawling her out & shaking her finger in her face. We found out later that she owned the cows & that every day at the same time she would let them out to graze. When they were through they would return to the barn. This day, however, they apparently decided to do some shopping. Someone apparently told her they were in town & she came to get them. I don’t speak German, but it wasn’t necessary in order to understand their conversation. It was like she was talking to her child, saying, “Do you know how worried I was about you? You could have been in an accident. Don’t ever frighten me like that again!” The cow looked directly in her face & mooed—you could almost hear, “I’m sorry, Mom.” She got back on her bike & rode home, with her cows following her.

We came back on the QE ll & toured New England & the gorgeous fall foliage, but that’s another story—or two.

Auf wiedersehen----fishducky

A Mime War!

2012-05-17T10:00:00.001-04:00

After making my very own potato launcher/spud gun, I wrote about Mimes last year--how there are different stages we go through in life. Here are the stages if you didn't read them before:

Stage one: Innocence

This is a person who's never seen a mime. They're happy (SORT-OF) but don't know what they're missing.

Stage two: Seeing Stripes

This is a person who's seen a mime. Envy hasn't had time to brew in their heart. They smile at the mime and wave. The mime waves back--since that's still allowed in the miming industry.

Stage three: Hater

This is a person who's seen a mime, but HATE them. This is where envy has crept into their mime-loving soul. They hate mimes because they're really the mimes' biggest fans.

Stage four: Becoming Your Enemy

This is a person who decides to become a mime. Less than 1% of our population has the courage to reach this point. I know that's sad and hard to swallow--but it's true! It's hard to get to this stage, but you'll know if you make it there because you will completely lose your voice and your kids will LOVE being around you.

I'm sorry to inform you that I've regressed from a classic Stage four Aspiring Mime to a Stage three Hater. Why? Because my children practically cast me from my Mime-loving pedestal.

I loved mimes. I was ready to become one. I thought I could stop talking just like Miss Gilbert in "Eat, Pray, Love," but I wouldn't have to travel half-way across the world to do it. I'd just don a stripey mime-suit. But no, my children had to turn the idea on me.

I felt excited at first because my second oldest daughter, the Hippie, stopped looking for Boggarts in the walls. She was so obsessed with Spiderwick and Boggarts that everywhere I turned, all I saw was honey and traps set to catch brownies. Well, miming cured her. She stopped whispering to hob goblins and began eating imaginary apples. I thought that was gold, pure and sweet, until my girls wouldn't talk AT ALL. They still giggled--sure that was all right--but wouldn't talk to save their lives.

I said, "Wipe off the table."

My oldest daughter, the Scribe, shook her head. She touched the table and acted as if it was scalding hot. The Hippie followed suit. They turned to each other and winked.

"You can't wipe the table?"

They nodded vigorously.

"Because . . . "

They touched the surface and I swore it made a sizzling sound.

"It's too hot?" I asked.

They grinned, then the Scribe acted as if blowing up a huge balloon. That thing must have been bigger than a planet because it took her long enough. Then when she'd finished, she handed me the balloon's string. I knew it floated above me--in her imagination. That was great, but the table wasn't clean! I looked at the table. the Scribe motioned to my balloon, bowed, and both girls started skipping from the room.

"Oh no you don't!" They turned. Their fingers pointed to each other and did a bunch of alien hand signals. I hated that! It reminded me of going to a restaurant where fellow customers talk in a different language NO ONE else understand. You wonder if they're bashing you--right out in the open. It's the worst form of mockery. You feel too stupid to stand up for yourself, yet if you do, they can deny the whole conversation! Well, that's how this felt. I didn't know what my girls discussed until they started swinging invisible lassos over their heads.

So, they wanted to play it rough? "I can play this game," I said and rolled up my sleeves. I wasn't about to go down like Gulliver in his travels with the little people. "Bring it on!" I zipped my lips and threw the key way down the kitchen sink. Those girls, with the fiery eyes, still swung their lassos, but were about to meet their mime-loving match.

Just when they threw the ropes, I pulled out a huge pair or invisible scissors. It cut through those ropes faster than a hot knife through butter. I laughed--because that's how bad I suck as a mime--I know mimes aren't allowed to laugh. My girls paled. I'd ruined their ropes. Maybe they would have to wipe the table!

They made some swords. They looked like big ones too. They jumped next to me and fought before I could make anything new. I remembered those scissors, thankfully. Sometimes it's hard battling kids' imaginations. They don't forget a thing and they never miss a beat. The scissors seemed to do the trick though, since I could parry and cut.

Soon my girls backed against the table. I cackled, feeling the power of victory--thank God for scissors! That's when the Scribe stepped back. She let her little sister battle me alone. I knew the Scribe was up to something bad. She wouldn't leave the Hippie for just any dumb idea.

As I watched bits and pieces of what "The Scribe" did, fear filled my movements. She acting as if cutting the pipes, gluing the sections together. Then when she got to the flint igniter I knew I'd lose. She'd made a . . . A SPUD GUN!!! I don't know if you know this, but in the mime world nothing can best a spud gun.

My lip quivered. I edged back. My girls guided me until I was the one backed against the table. I felt like they had me walking a plank. I wanted to say a farewell--my last words on Earth--as the Hippie touched the table and winched. She purposely reminded me that I could either cooperate, lose by sitting on the table of fire or get shot with the invisible spud gun.

They had me, they really did. I'd lost my scissors somewhere along the way, and knew one move could be my last. Then a smile slithered across my face. I had a fantastic idea. I'd make a potato-proof wall. I'd do one "talk to the hand" motion and the wall would be up!

It was a great idea--in theory! I made the wall. My girls looked at each other. I continued reinforcing the wall. I glared through it. How did it feel trying that on for size!!! Not even a potato launcher could fire through a wall like the one in front of me. I crossed my arms and smirked. They could try getting through that, but I knew nothing could break down my wall. That's when the Scribe started messing with her side. That wasn't allowed. What was she thinking? She made something, slowly altering my wall and I didn't like it one bit!

Before I completely knew how to react she'd made a doorknob IN MY WALL! She motioned for the Hippie to do the honors. They opened, my wall and stepped through, still holding the potato launcher!!! Couldn't they just leave my wall alone? I'd been so proud.

So, I lost the battle of imagination, but at least my girls did end up wiping the table off. They still aren't talking much unless we're around other people. If this keeps up today we might go to a play land, just so they'll have to talk. I don't know If I'm ready for another mime battle, but I need to prepare just in case. What in the world is better than a potato launcher--nothing that's what. Nothing except a bigger one. All right, I'm glad I wrote this, those girls are going down!!!

What is True Beauty?

2012-05-16T12:08:00.000-04:00

    I stood amidst a huge crowd. So many people clustered there, shuffling around. "Where are we?" I asked one man who remained stretching.
    "We're getting ready to race," he yelled above the commotion, obviously shocked I didn't already know what went on. "It's time to pick your partner, or decide if you want to make it on your own. I'm making my own way." He pointed ahead. "That's the only way to win."
    The mountainous road in front of us looked tragic, with bumps and potholes. Almost everyone wore running shoes and shorts. I looked down; I wore them as well. What seemed strange, though, was the fact that we were spirits, not flesh.
    My heart suddenly beat fast. The trail ahead said something simple, something terrifying. "The Race of Life," I read the fading words. "If you so desire, pick your partner before you get a body."
    I closed my eyes and wondered, was I meant to race alone? If not, I needed to find someone to run with--and fast--the race was about to start. I mulled over the crowd, and grew frantic all the while.
    One man approached me, but I knew he didn't have what it would take. My arms pushed past him and moved along. Who could I race with? They needed to have similar goals, similar ways of thinking. They would have to be fun and inventive. A hard worker, a good father if we ended up having children.
"We'll race in ten minutes!" a voice boomed.
    About a million girls circled around a handsome spirit. He beamed from the attention and I wondered over the sight. I finally crouched on one knee. It was useless, the spirit I searched for probably didn't exist. I needed someone who would help me finish the race and not just run it.
    I tied one of my running shoes and prayed, "God, I'm scared to get a body. I'm scared to live. What if I stumble and fall? What if I forget your power and your love? What if I make terrible choices?"
Tears came to my eyes because it was scary. I was about to leave the comfort around me, the peace of seeing God's face in Heaven's eternity.
    Many of the people around pulsed with anxiety as well. I wondered how they would fair. Would even one of us succeed? I stood tall then, dusted the dirt from my running shorts, put my hair in a ponytail and got ready to run.
Hundreds of people had already paired with each other, but I remained alone, refusing to be nervous any more.
    Sure, I could lose almost everything, but I refused to lose my faith.
    I bent forward. The journey would be hard. I could make it on my own, though--I had to. At any minute the whistle would blow, and so much depended on the race.
My breath slowed in concentration as I studied the wide road ahead. Then a hand touched my shoulder and I turned.
    A spirit stood beside me--an amazing spirit. "I'm Cade," he whispered, and with those simple words, I knew I'd met my match.
"I've been looking for you," I said.
"And I've always been looking for you." He held my hand, making me feel truly beautiful and complete, truly worth something despite anything that might happen on Earth. "Are you ready for this?" he asked, smirking.
"You bet I am," I winked and that's when the whistle blew.

I'm feeling suicidal, what should I do?

2012-05-15T10:15:00.003-04:00

I was looking through search topics that brought people to my site, and this one broke my heart:

"I'm feeling suicidal what do I do?"

I can't describe how many emotions are running through me right now. "Why?" you ask. Maybe it's because I've been there.
    I'm not a professional . . . I don't have a simple answer, so today, I took time to write a story that shows how I feel. When I'm depressed, this line of thinking gets me through. I hope it will help someone else as well.

Once, a long time ago, a father lived in a cottage which sat in the middle of a bright, magical forest.   Part of him had crumpled and died from sadness after riding through the test of fate, but new-found joy came from his housekeeper and two children who stayed with him. His children were very young though, and if their father died, they wouldn't have remembered his name or even his face.
    The father and housekeeper looked out through the window, and thought about all of this as the children played outside, enjoying the shade and bounty the trees offered. It was then that the forest turned dark with pain. The very trees bent away from the cottage, cringing as if they grasped the mood of everything around.
    A knock resounded from the front door.
"Hello?" The father answered the door, then his eyes turned wary.
    A massive snake slithered into the house, grew and billowed, smoking into the shape of a man who was pale, dismal and graying.
"What do you want?" the father asked.
"The lives of your two children."
"Haven't you taken enough from me, Levi?" the father spat. "Do what you're best at--go prey on the weak. Leave what's left of my family alone!"
"Are you afraid?" the evil man asked, chuckling softly.
"Never! You're beneath me; your very presence has no power here." But the father did seem worried despite his truthful words.
"Then you won't mind taking a wager. I bet that if your children couldn't see you or even touch you, they would turn into greedy or self-loathing people."
"No they wouldn't," the father yelled. "Not my children."
"Ha! Well, then, give them the chance. Let's see what happens to these amazing children without guidance from you or their insignificant housekeeper. I'll spare their lives now, but if they do fall for my ploys, then when they die, I get to keep their souls."
   The housekeeper ran into the room and tugged on the father's arm. "No," she pleaded.
The father didn't listen though. "You'll both see the power of a human heart," the father said and shook hands with Levi, the darkly-clothed sorcerer.

Years passed and although the children no longer saw their father, the housekeeper or even the cottage they'd once lived in, they survived in ignorance.
    The father was a powerful magician as well, and when he'd bargained with Levi, he'd used magics of his own. Yes, his children couldn't see him or touch him, but if they wished, they could still sense his presence.
He watched them grow and every time they fell or got hurt, fought or cried, he wished he could protect them from the pain. But he couldn't, he'd made an unbreakable deal, and his protection could only do so much.
    "I hate him!" the boy said when he was a teenager.
    "Who?" his sister asked.
     "Our father, if we ever had a father. Our parents must have left us alone in the middle of a forest. I don't know about you, but I'm getting out of here."
So, they left together. And as they traveled, the father and housekeeper followed them closely.
Rain and snow came, but the housekeeper protected them. She'd always had a special relationship with the elements, and so she used it to help the children while they were growing up.
   The father nearly cringed when they passed beyond his property because although he couldn't do anything, they were entering the lands of Levi the sorcerer.
    The second they passed the boundary, a strange woman appeared before the two teenage children. "Are you lost?" she asked.
    "No," the boy answered, "but we would like to find our way out of here."
    "Well what are you seeking?" she crooned. "After all, the only thing worth seeking is power. I can bring you to a place where riches can be found and friends can be bought. Your wildest dreams can come true."
    The girl didn't seem convinced, but her brother jumped at the chance. "Take us there."
    So they traveled with the woman, and the whole time the father and housekeeper tried warning them with whispers and worries, "Don't follow her. She's really Levi!"
    But the teenagers couldn't hear the warnings. And when it came time that they saw a beautiful castle in the distance, the brother sneaked off before anyone could wake up. He figured if he earned a fortune, he wanted it all to himself.
The father and housekeeper grieved over the son's poor choice. But nothing could be done--he'd shown his worth.
    When the sister woke up, no one was there. In fact, where the old woman had slept, the only thing in her place was a glistening knife.
    The girl turned her face away. She held her knees close to herself, and cried. "I'm so alone. Doesn't anyone know what it's like living this way? My brother left me. I never wanted gold or jewels, I just wanted someone to really appreciate me. There's nothing to live for!"

    "Then do it," a voice whispered into the recesses of her mind.
    Although Levi, in his true form, stood behind her, he'd made himself invisible to her. "Your brother is greedy; now you're the most pitiful human known to man. Just end it now. KILL . . . YOURSELF. The world would be better without you."
    The young girl sobbed even harder. At first the notion seemed ridiculous, almost silly. But as she sat there for hours, the more she thought, she nodded. Maybe it wasn't so silly after all . . .
    "Don't!" the father screamed. He and the housekeeper had been watching the whole time.
Levi laughed as the girl picked up the knife which had rested where the woman had been. "One simple action could end it all."
"No," the father ran to her. "I'm here, I've been here. You can't see me, but I know you're strong enough to make the right choice. Don't kill yourself! Please just open your heart and you'll feel my presence."
But the girl, so absorbed in her own pain and self-pity, could not hear her own father.
"You're terrible. Filthy!"
    "Stop it!" she screamed aloud. "Won't anyone ever love me. But why would they? I am so pathetic."
    The knife came closer, closer to her wrists.
    It wasn't until the housekeeper sent a wind toward the girl, that she paused in her action.
The father tried taking away the knife, but he couldn't. The choice--the victory if she conquered this test and lived--that would belong solely to the girl. She sniffled into the wind, sat in the middle of a beautiful meadow, and no longer saw the beauty of life.
    The father cried then, big tears which seemed strange coming from such a strong man and as he cried, the wind carried his tears and they fell on his daughter's cheeks.
"If she only knew that someone out there loved her. If she didn't feel so worthless." The father bent and hugged her. "I love you. I'm so sorry. I wish I could take away the pain, but this is something you have to conquer on your own," he said. "Please be strong! I promise things will get better if you just hang in there."
    The knife came closer and then wavered.
    "I love you," he said one last time, and as the winds subsided, the beautiful girl looked up, confused. Pain filled her eyes. "Father?" she asked. The knife slowly fell from her hand. "Father!"
    "Yes," her father said expectantly, and his daughter actually heard him.
    She stood and looked around as a gentle understanding lit her face. "Things will get better?" she said.
    "They will." He stood so proud. She proved herself strong, resilient in adversity. She'd faced one of the biggest battles in life--and overcome depression.
    "Because this is my one life to live," she nodded. Her face turned to the fading wind and she smiled. "I'm so glad you're real." Then her eyes looked at the glowing city. "I need to tell my brother."
    Levi screamed more upset than he'd been in centuries. "Leave your brother alone!"
    "Leviathan," the father said using Levi's full name. "You may think you've gained my son. But remember . . . you've lost my daughter. She was never weak enough for you, and now she's going to share her strength with my son! My power multiplies growing with love and knowledge. Your strength only feeds off the weak!"
    Leviathan turned to angry vapor as the father and housekeeper followed the girl.
"Levi's on his way to influence my son."
    "But she hears you now," the house keeper said. "Don't lose hope."
    The girl walked ahead of them. The rising sun kissed her dancing hair and resolute face.
    "She is beautiful," Father God said to the housekeeper.
    "Of course," Mother Nature Replied. "She was made in your image."
    They held each others' hands as they followed the daughter, and walked toward the city where each human in tested and tried.

    In closing, I just wanted to write something to the person who googled this . . .
   YOU are special!
    There have been three times when I've depressed to the point of being suicidal.

    Once, in high school, certain kids were being VERY mean to me. I asked for help from a teacher and a youth pastor as well. Unfortunately neither of them helped me. It was at that point I decided I had some abusive, toxic relationships in my life.
    So, point one is: If you're feeling suicidal because of things people have or are telling you, break off those relationships and surround yourself with people who realize your worth.

   The next time I thought about suicide was months after my son died. I came through that because I knew, deep down, things would get better. Life is how you see it. Choose to see good and you'll see it. Choose to see bad, and you'll see that too.
    At that point in my life, I started looking beyond myself and my own problems, I began helping others. Doing this--helping others in need often takes the focus of yourself and will help you realize your own value as well as the value of others. How can you help? What is your place in this world? We're all special, find what makes you special by helping others in the way only you can. If you've been hurt by someone, find others who have gone through similar things. Help them!
   Point two: If you're suicidal, look for the good and also try to help someone else.

    The last time I struggled with this was several years ago when I had SEVERE postpartum.
    Point three: If you're having thoughts that don't seem logical at times--even to yourself--seek professional help.

    These resources are often free!
Call a suicide hotline: 1-800-273-8255
Or call for prayer: 1-800-759-0700

Find online resources:

yourlifeyourvoice.org

ContactWeCare.org

I know this post might seem silly, but I felt compelled to write it after reading what someone searched.

Dear reader,
    Please know how special you are. Whether you believe in God or not, you have to admit we're all different. You have something amazing and wonderful to offer the world. Don't give up now.
    There's a whole future waiting just for you. Grab ahold of life and don't let go. Just imagine the positive impact you can make on the lives of others. Think how many people could learn from your story.
Things will get better. Just hang in there. You are not alone. And like I wrote before YOU ARE SPECIAL!
                                                                                        -Elisa

My Mom Plays the Drums

2012-05-14T05:00:00.000-04:00

After coming back from the dead multiple times, my dear laptop finally, irrevocably died. I've scheduled the funeral AND my posts . . . for the next few days--thank God my friend let me use her computer. I hope you'll like what I have planned. I guess I'll be creating my W.I.P with good ol' pen and paper for the next while. That's how I wrote The Golden Sky, so maybe this won't be so bad after all.

On a side note, an AMAZING review just went up for Bible Girl. You can find that here: Book Review: Bible Girl

    Now, onto the post of the day.

    I know this is a day late--since Mother's Day slipped away far too quickly--but if you haven't read about her before, I just wanted to tell you about my mom.
    She is amazing. She's been a foundation in my life, someone who was there no matter what. If I'm overly confident, it's because of her. If I refuse to give up--it's because of her. If I like my hair pulled back so tightly people think I've had a facelift . . . it's because of her.
She's one of the most resilient, awe-inspiring people you could meet. Her spirit shines sweet and kind. She seems quiet and meek, but don't let that fool ya, inside she rages with hilarity and every day that woman makes me laugh. One time Cade teased her too much, when he turned, my mom threw a dishrag in his face. It was epic, better than when Neil walked on the moon!
    Well, when my mom was two years old, her father died. Then, when she was three, her mother left her along with three of her siblings. Their aunt and uncle raised them. Things were hard, but my mother never gave up. She refused to let things pull her down into the mud of life. She knew she was meant to be something great--a success.
During her sixth grade year, all of the students took a test to see who qualified for the percussion program. My mom passed with unrivaled talent. I've always imagined the test.
    In my imagination, the teacher stood by a full drum set and asked, "What's rhythm?"
Some sap raised his hand. "Isn't that when you tap your foot to the music?"
    Another kid with preteen pimples probably whispered. "Is it when you clap at church?"
    I bet that's when my modest, twelve-year-old mother rolled her eyes. She maybe walked to the front of the class room and hollered, "Listen here, children. You wanna know what rhythm is? Get a load of this!"
Then she sat at those drums, and she played the heck out of 'em! Saints watched from Heaven. Jesus smiled because some-a-day He knew that Italian sweetheart would live for Him. All those kids cheered at the end, because it's not everyday you realize, you're going to school with a legend. I bet that was her first standing ovation--I BET!
So, my mom emerged as a sixth grade icon. She became so fantastic, she used her skill to win Miss C. E. U., and later Miss Carbon County. Then shortly after that, she won my dad.
    Here's a picture so you know I'm not lying about her beauty. (If you doubted me--shame on you!)

Later my dad swept her off those rhythmic feet, when he asked her to marry him. They had three kids: a chemist, a mechanical engineer, and a blogger.

So, I'd like to show you a video of my mother playing the drums.
Sorry about the shaky camera, I started crying a bit during this because I kept thinking about how lucky I am to have such a great mother. Then, my mom smiled at me and I got a case of the giggles. Blame it on
P. M. S.. Blame it on lack of sleep. Heck, blame it on LOVE!

Oh, and every time I say "awesome" in this video, please imagine a different (more creative) word in place of it. Maybe epic, fantastic, joyous. I'm not good at public speaking.
Without further ado, here she is folks:

What's the moon made from?

2012-05-13T09:38:00.000-04:00

Happy Mother's Day!
I hope you're all having an amazing one.
Today, I thought it would be fun to post an interview. The Hippie and Scribe came up with most of these questions. They couldn't wait to interview the author of

A Basilisk's Feather

Click the title to visit Carrie's blog--which I love!

Enjoy. This is awesome.

1. If the moon can't be made of cheese, what do you think it should be made from?

Chocolate is an obvious suggestion. Dark chocolate, of course: milk chocolate is nice, but it doesn't taste so much of chocolate as just of sweet milky stuff. Eighty-five percent cocoa is the magic number: just enough sweetness to balance the bitterness. But then would it shine the right colour? White chocolate might be better for that, but it's not really chocolate. I think we might be on a non-starter here.
Honey, maybe? Honey's wonderful stuff. Crystallised honey so it stays in shape. And because I especially love crystallised honey, even more than ordinary clear honey. It has a wonderful texture; I've been known to just eat it from the jar, by itself. It would crystallise anyway in the cold of space. Also chocolate and cheese both go off eventually but honey keeps forever.

2. What do you enjoy most about writing?

It's hard to say. I make up stories and I write, and they're pretty much two separate activities for me. Making up stories is something I'd be hard pressed not to do; whenever I'm not concentrating on something else I'm in one of my worlds. What I like best about that is meeting and getting to know new characters. I say meeting, not inventing, because that's what it feels most like to me. I don't get to just snap my fingers and decide how they are, I have to let them appear to me and they often don't turn out to be who I thought they would.
Most of my stories are quite personal to me, but every so often I find that I want to write one of them: I have a list of about five or six Books I Plan To Write. What that's about for me is trying to convey the impressions and emotions that I get from seeing the events in my head. It's not always easy, and sometimes there are things that I know about that just don't make it onto the page, but finding just the right words to describe something is such a fantastic, rewarding feeling.

3. Do you think trees dance in the night at the same hour when fish walk on water?

Don't be silly. Dancing trees make the ground vibrate, and the vibrations spread to the water and disturb the surface, which destroys the surface tension so that any fish who are still out walking would immediately fall in.

4. Do you prefer completely evil villains, or those that have an element of good?

With an element of good. I like villains I can empathise with; I think it adds something to the story if you can see yourself, or the hero, doing the same in different circumstances - often they're really messed up in the head so it's hard to blame them for what they do and sometimes it can be heartbreaking to see them destroyed, even though that's what you were rooting for. I like stories that make you feel a lot. Some of my favourites are stories where it's hard to even work out who you is the good guy.
    I also much prefer a flawed hero to a perfect one; it's very hard to make a perfect hero without them ending up an insufferably annoying prat (like Luke Skywalker. I cannot stand that guy).
    Flawed heroes and villains with an element of good are also more believable, I think. Who in the real world is either perfect or has no redeeming or sympathetic qualities whatsoever?
    Although, a really nasty villain can be very effective sometimes and they are extremely fun to write. Cathartic, you know? I have a Viking named Stefan in my book who is a thoroughly unpleasant individual, a real sadist who just enjoys being horrible, and that was one of my favourite scenes to write, even though I had to put my poor old MC through some serious stuff.

5. If you could travel anywhere, where would you go?

I'd quite like to see some of the places where my book is set: Los Angeles is the main one, and there are also parts in Milwaukee, Chicago and St Louis. Google maps is all very well - and you can find some really funny stuff on streetview sometimes - but I'd love to actually be where my characters are.
The place I most want to go is Yakutia, in Russia. That's the place that the rest of Siberia considers remote, and it's full of the most wonderful, unspoiled forests and wildlife and pretty spectacular. It also has Lake Baikal, which all the American great lakes would fit inside with room to spare.
They say Antarctica is the last great wilderness, but I disagree: I think a wilderness should have something more than ice, penguins, and a few seals around the edges. Antarctica's certainly barren and forbidding and little visited, but there's not a lot of wild anything. I'd give my vote to the barely explored parts of Russia.

6. Ham and eggs or pancakes?

Pancakes. I had pancakes for lunch yesterday. If you'd said bacon instead of ham it might have been a tough choice, though. And it would have to be proper crepes, the thinner and crispier the better, not those little fat scotch pancakes.

7. What's your favorite book?

That's a tough question. There are loads of books I like, and all for different reasons.
Something from Terry Pratchett's Discworld series would have to be a contender: probably Pyramids is my favourite. No-one can do satire like Terry Pratchett: I've read some of the books ten times or more, and not only do I still enjoy rereading them, I'm still noticing new jokes and references every time.
Also Lord of the Rings and A Song of Ice and Fire, but I couldn't even try to say which book I like best out of either series, let alone which I prefer overall. Both of them have very rich and complex fantasy worlds, with loads of detail, and I feel sure that both of them must have been (and presumably still is in the case of ASoIaF) a labour of love for the authors.

8. Is it magical where you live?

I think so. We have a rosebush in the garden that eats you if you're not careful, although I'm trying to train it. The cat occasionally goes berserk after looking at a patch of empty space, so it's possible we have a ghost. And the fridge seems to have no upper limit to its capacity. However much is in there it can always be repacked and turn out to be half empty, which is either magic or time-lord technology.
That's at home, but I'm only there in the holidays. Where I live in term time it doesn't seem to be magical. We think one of our housemates is a vampire, but the truth is that vampires are perfectly scientifically plausible.

9. What's your favorite color and why?

Turquoise. No particular reason; I just like the way it looks. I've always liked blue colours, probably partly because when I was little I was very much the tomboy and insisted on loathing anything 'girly'. I wouldn't have been seen dead in pink. But I also just like them, and turquoise especially.
I wonder sometimes if everyone perceives colours differently - we couldn't know because the only way we can describe them is by their names - and whatever your favourite colour is you see the same way I see mine. Or not. Who knows?

10. What's your first memory?

I can't remember!
I have two very early memories, and I don't honestly know which came first. I must have been about two or three in both of them. One is of having a black eye after walking into the corner of a table. I still have a tiny scar next to my eye.
The other is of waking up screaming the night after my birthday - I couldn't even tell you which birthday. My best present had been a push-along/ride-on fire engine, and that night I had a dream, probably brought on by too much cake, that I was eating it, and I couldn't stop myself, until there was just the steering wheel left. Then I woke up.
It's amazing what sort of bizarre things seem perfectly plausible and unremarkable in dreams. Only the other night I dreamed my curtains talked to me. They said there was a spider on my neck, and I had been awake and frantically searching for it for several minutes before I realised it couldn't be real!

I VERY GOOD SPEAK THE ENGLISH: Fishducky Friday

2012-05-11T10:20:00.000-04:00

I love Fridays--here's the famous Fishducky!

Granted, English is a very difficult language for foreign speakers, especially Asians, to learn. I give them credit for trying. Not only must they learn an entirely new vocabulary, but the sentence structure is entirely different & the spelling is often weird. (George Bernard Shaw once contended that you could spell “fish” GHOTI. The “f” sound could come from the “gh” in “enough”, the “i” from the “o” in “women” & the “sh” from the “ti” in “nation”.) I understand that the Japanese need jobs as much as Americans do. That being said, I STILL think that a native born English speaker should be hired for writing their service manuals. Let me give you two examples of why I feel that way.

I bought two kitchen chairs from Overstock.com. They were the “retro” diner style, with bent aluminum legs & red vinyl seats. They came unassembled. The following is a review that I sent to Overstock: “The chairs arrived quickly and are very comfortable. Assembly was relatively easy IF you followed the pictures. The written instructions were as follows (& this is a direct quote): Assembly way to request attention: all screws don’t first lock to tighten, until back cushion to lock tight after that, this chair all screws lock to tighten, then success.” For some strange reason, my husband had difficulty following the instructions, although I read them to him very slowly & enunciated carefully.

The other example of fine (?) Asian manual writing: A newscaster on TV was trying to report a story, but he was laughing so hard that it was difficult for him to do so. He finally was able to say, “This is from an instruction manual for a certain unnamed Japanese product. There is a word in it that needs to be corrected. We can’t tell you what the word that they actually used is, but we’re pretty sure they meant ‘SCREW’ part A into part B!”

I studied Japanese for a while in night school. I didn’t expect to become fluent & I didn’t. I just like to learn. I used to do my homework at my son’s trumpet teacher’s house while he had his lesson. I guess he picked up some of it. In his Jr. High School band class, the teacher said he wanted all the kids to count to “four” aloud before starting to play. Matt asked him if the language mattered. The teacher said it didn’t. He WAS a little surprised when my white Jewish kid counted, “Ichi, ni, san, shi!” (Side note: One of the men in my class was a US customs inspector who worked in the Asian section at the Los Angeles airport. He figured it would give him an advantage if he could understand the passenger’s language, especially if they didn’t expect him to. He told us about one incoming passenger who kept scratching his legs. It made the inspectors curious enough to examine him. It turned out that he had 20 or so watches that he was trying to smuggle into the US. The metal expansion bands were pulling on the hair on his leg & driving him crazy.)

How about Spanish? We were in a small town in Mexico where no one, it seemed, spoke English. I was trying to buy a small statue of the Virgin Mary for a friend. By about the 10th shop, I had stopped even trying to be understood in English. I haltingly asked, “Senor, le hace tiene una pequena figura de la Virgen Maria?” He showed me some & we were speaking slowly in Spanish. My husband was in the back of the shop looking at marble chess sets. He called to me, “Ask him if he has any larger chess sets.” The man immediately answered, “No, senor. Those are the largest we have!” I asked him why he didn’t tell me he spoke English earlier. He told me I looked like I was having too much fun trying my Spanish—& I think he was right.

Italian, then? My son-in-law had recently arrived in the US from Italy. He was taking an ESL (English as a Second Language) course & had gotten a job as a stock boy. He came over one day & said, “Mom, this guy at work keeps asking me questions around lunchtime & I don’t know what he’s saying. I looked up the words & couldn’t find them in the dictionary.” I asked him what the words were. He told me, “jeet” & “wajeet”. If he hadn’t mentioned that it was around lunchtime, I’m not sure I could’ve helped him. I told him the guy was asking, “Did you eat?” & “What did you eat?”.

Piu Italiano (More Italian): My daughter was teaching English to air traffic controllers in Italy. I told her to be VERY sure they at least understood “UP” & “DOWN”! When her youngest daughter was about 2, we all went to a dance recital (in California) to watch her 4 year old sister perform. The theater went pitch black between the dance numbers. When the lights came back on, it delighted my little granddaughter. Every single time, a big smile came on her face & she loudly cried, “ECCO!” (There!, or Look!, in Italian.)

OK, French, but this is the last one: My husband is a VERY intelligent man, but somehow he can’t seem to learn foreign languages. (Maybe he should have written instruction manuals instead of going to law school.) I had to do all his translating for him in France, which I really didn’t mind doing. I have to admit I DID get some strange looks when asking where the men’s room was. We were in a restaurant BEFORE the days of women’s lib. I got us a table, ordered dinner for the two of us, asked for some bread, got Bud some extra water (with ice) & requested the check. I’m sure our waiter told his coworkers he was going to give it to the pushy broad with the fat guy!

Adieu, adios, ciao & sayonara----fishducky

A Magical Day We'll Never Forget

2012-05-10T06:00:00.000-04:00

I went to great lengths to make yesterday special. It was our last day on vacation.
So, here's the map "someone" delivered to our hotel room.

When we found the two trees that grow as one, three deer stepped from the woods! The Hippie seemed shocked as she whispered, "We went on a treasure hunt. Well, this is the real treasure." We watched those deer for a long time. Surprisingly, Doctor Jones and the Zombie Elf hushed--that alone was magical. Those kids are NEVER quiet.

Sorry my cell camera is such a dream. At least you can kind of see them?

After that, the kids found some prizes Cade and I hid the night before. I know the 'prizes' might sound dumb, but our kids were thrilled. We hid seven different items including a frisbee, silly teeth from the dollar store, water bottles for each of the kids, water and special flavors of Kool Aid packets. The treasures were each shown on the map with an X--how cliche, right?

We walked up the winding road to a Y intersection. A field rested ahead. It looked like nothing special from that angle . . .

But once on the other side, I knew we'd suddenly see this trail leading to a church at the base of a cemetery on a hill:

I timed everything just right. We wouldn't see the path, not until the church bells rang twelve times. At that point, the kids would look back at the church. Then they'd see the "magical" path.

When all of that happened, they were so excited, they ran.

Here's the Zombie Elf and the Scribe behind him.

Vibrant butterflies flew around us. Flowers grew everywhere and I couldn't help laughing since some people say those gorgeous flowers are weeds. That reminded me of life. Sometimes we take the most beautiful things for granted.

Then the path, which only appeared at the perfect time, wrapped around a quaint Catholic church.

The second half is what I'll never forget.

We crossed two tiny bridges. The kids were the bravest heroes ever known, about to visit a haunted cemetery AND LIVE.

The Zombie Elf and Doctor Jones with their silly teeth in. This moment . . . this one makes me smile. Here's the first bridge, where they laughed so hard.
And the second. The Scribe and the Hippie.

After a long time playing on the trail, we made it to the cemetery. The map instructed us to look for the most striking tree. The Hippie--that genius--found it right away. Cade and I had already hidden a box of Whoppers and a little excerpt from the Bible by the tree. It was about Adam and Eve--because they're awesome--they're our ancestors and a tree is in the story. When I finished reading about fruit, snakes and poor choices, the kids gazed at me and then the 'striking tree.'

It was so surreal. Playing with my kids. It might sound silly, but sitting among those graves of dead strangers, it reminded me of everything I've lost--of everything I've gained. Yeah, life isn't easy, but it's worth it, if you can push through the hard times, just to find the good ones around the corner.

"Why was something from the Bible here?" the Scribe asked, breaking my thoughts. "Aren't we on a hunt for treasure . . . like pirates? Aren't pirates kinda against readin' the Bible?"

To be honest, I hid the scripture because I felt like a sucky mother when my mom asked the kids who Mary was in the Bible. My kids had NO CLUE last week. The Hippie said Mary was a blind beggar Jesus healed. Really? REALLY? Yep, that's my fault.

Anyway, I was about to become an idiot and lie to the Scribe--right after reading the Bible. Then I noticed the Hippie's sparkling eyes.

"Isn't it obvious?" the Hippie said. "It was here, by the tree--in a hidden cemetery--because we just found the Tree of Life! We're the luckiest kids in the universe."

As the Zombie climbed onto a headstone, I was about to scream for him to get down, when a man on a mower drove into view and gave my zombie a mean look.

"Oh my gosh!" the Hippie squealed, oblivious. "I bet that man is the keeper of the cemetery. He promised to spend his whole life guarding this tree. Maybe he's even the one who gave us this map!" She grinned so big. "He might even be an angel."

That mowing man, he got so many compliments and all he did was give us a mean look. To think, we went looking for ghosts and instead we found a lawn-mowing angel . . with a mean face.

You can see the tree on the right. Yes, the Tree of Life is an aspen.

As we walked down the trail, the Scribe pulled me aside. "I love you, Mom. Thanks for all you do. That was so fun."
"What do you mean? I didn't do anything."

She winked at me. "I knew it was you the whole time, but that made it even better. We have parents who love us. We're lucky. Thank you."

I have to admit that as she ran ahead to help her siblings, I cried because it meant so much. My kids may not know everything about the Bible. They may have thought Mary was a blind beggar. They may think the Tree of Life is an aspen, but I'll tell you one thing, at least they know they're loved.

Moments like this make life worth it. I'll hold this memory dear. Forever and always. Because life is short.

P. S. If you'd like more information about Zeke, my son who passed away, please click here:

"The Golden Sky"

Going on a treasure hunt!

2012-05-09T09:50:00.002-04:00

Melynda's interview went so well! If you'd like to listen to that, here it is:

Listen to internet radio with Journal Jabber on Blog Talk Radio

We're still in Wyoming and today we're going on a treasure hunt. I've rigged everything pretty well. This morning, after Cade left for work, someone knocked on the hotel door so loud they woke up all of the kids. By the time the Hippie and Scribe finally opened the door, the person had fled and left an old book with this note in it:

And this map:

Something amazing happened yesterday. After Cade got back from work, he took me around to hide little treasures near the trail we made. Along the way, we went behind a catholic church and found a hiking path that leads to the cemetery! It's the most beautiful little trail. I can't wait to show you pictures of this. The kids are going to love it.

Well, I better get going. The kids are so excited to follow the map to a haunted graveyard. It says that a secret path will reveal itself every day at noon when the clock strikes twelve. All right--I'll admit it--I'm having way too much fun. I'll post pictures tomorrow.

Lander, Wyoming: A Haunted Town

2012-05-08T10:50:00.000-04:00

We're still on vacation in Wyoming. There are many beautiful places around here.

Photo credit Photo credit

But one place in particular caught my kids' interest. As they played in the park yesterday, they noticed a cemetery on a nearby hill. "We should go there," the Scribe said. "Butch Cassidy and his gang came here. Maybe someone famous is buried up there. I bet it's haunted!"

I laughed. "You crack me up. You really want to visit a cemetery?"

"Only because it's haunted."

So the kids continued playing. At eleven o'clock a church bell rang--loud and clear eleven times--my kids were so busy playing tag and having the time of their lives, they didn't even notice the bell and how close it was to lunch.

We finally left the playground about a half hour later and started walking uphill. "This is gonna be epic! A real, live haunted cemetery. Just imagine which outlaws are buried there!" the Scribe practically squealed.

It wasn't until we hit a dead end that I started having some fun with the idea.

   "Why is this sign here?" the Scribe asked.
     "I think it's private property," the Hippie said. "But who in their right mind would buy a cemetery?"
     "Well, let's think about that. If the cemetery is just up this hill, and someone else does own it, why would they buy a cemetery?" I asked.
    "Maybe the REAL Justin Bieber is buried there," the Hippie said.
    "Or Michael Jackson," I said.
    "Wait," the Scribe said, "Michael Jackson is dead?"
    Where in the heck has she been?
    "I bet the worst outlaws are there." A smirk lit the Scribe's face and she turned to her siblings. "Or a vampire bought this land. He buries all of his victims in those graves so when they come back to life, no one will be there to stake them!" As I looked at her I realized the whole thing was an elaborate scheme she'd concocted to scare her siblings. I had to get the one-up on her. Sometimes people need a taste of their own medicine--sometimes it sucks having a writer for a mother.
    "Scribe," I whispered. "It might sound crazy, but this town, this place . . . There's something weird going on here--it's all too familiar. Why would a cemetery be blocked off? What are they hiding?" She shook her head and continued listening. "Once, I heard a story about a ghost town. Evil ghosts would come from the graves and haunt the older buildings in town. But we can't be there. In that town, when the sun was at its peak in the sky, the church bells would ring exactly twelve times. That's how people knew the ghosts would be coming."
    "Really?" the kids asked.
    "Yeah." I looked upward--like a flippin' ninja--because I'd timed it just right. As we turned to walk back down the hill and the kids shuddered about ghost towns, that's when the church bells started ringing.
    Once . . .
    Twice . . .
I swear, even I got chills!
    The kids started counting after that and with each sound their fear and excitement grew. "Nine . . . Ten . . . Eleven . . . Twelve."
    The last bell rang out long and hard, then silence fell.
    "Oh. My. Gosh!" the Hippie squealed. "This place IS haunted."
    The kids talked about old Butch and everything they've learned about the west. They went on and on about when we went to Deadwood, SD and saw places Buffalo Bill and Annie Oakley visited. They turned the conversation back to Butch, said he was only in prison once, near the place we're staying right now.
    When we had finally walked back to the hotel, the Scribe looked at me. "I don't believe any of this, not really. That's why I'm going to google it--because you tease, but google ALWAYS tells the truth."
She gasped at each page she found. Stories upon stories like this, The Lander Bar Ghost, filled the pages. Apparently Lander, Wyoming has been listed in the top three most haunted places in the West!
    So, we're having fun with this. We might go visit some of the "haunted" buildings in town--including the Cowfish which has been written about multiple times.
    And for tomorrow, I found the real entrance to the cemetery; it's on the other side where it isn't blocked off by private property. Anyway, Cade and I bought some old-looking paper and other things. We're taking the kids on a treasure hunt that will lead to the cemetery. I hope the kids will have a ball reading a treasure map and going on a real adventure.

A Reminder . . .
Melynda Fleury will be on Journal Jabber tonight. I'm so excited to hear her interview!

Because it's magical like a *&%$!

2012-05-07T10:16:00.003-04:00

We're on vacation in Wyoming. I love it here, seriously. We drove all day yesterday and once when we stopped at a gas station, I got out and breathed the beautiful air. Almost everyone there wore boots--which was epic. Pure, rich dirt covered the mountains. Cattle ate the yellowed grass in a nearby field. People waved at me like we were friends!
Anyway, it felt so good being out of the city, as I paid for my coffee, I smiled at the cashier and said, "Wyoming . . . it's like a good orgasm because some things are just magical."
YOU should have seen her face. She was the only person who didn't fit the Wyoming I'm used to. She had piercings and short hair. She stared at me and then burst with laughter. "You know, you're right. I've never heard it put quite like that, by someone who looks . . . so proper. You're right though, even if you did just shock the hell outta me."
I nodded, then smirked skipping from the gas station. Okay, maybe I didn't really skip--on the outside. But I did on the inside because that's what I live for: Wyoming AND the shock factor. You know what, they're both like good orgasms!

Well, I'll still be blogging this week, since I'm addicted so bad I'm not even scared to admit it.

In closing, I have a question for you . . .

Dangers of Story Plotting in Restaurants

2012-05-06T10:35:00.002-04:00

Adrienne deWolfe has agreed to guest post here today! I'm so excited. Enjoy.

Brainstorming:

Dangers of Story Plotting in Restaurants

By Adrienne deWolfe

So there we sat, two innocent but extremely vocal writers, brainstorming the story plot of my Paranormal Romance in a restaurant. We’ll call this eatery “Benny’s.”
    On this particular day, Patty had graciously agreed to reschedule her afternoon's itinerary of laundry-folding and sock-matching to act as my brainstorming buddy.
    When I get stuck and can’t make sense of the convoluted story plot for my Paranormal Romance (Wolfspell, Autumn 2012), I bribe Patty with lunch. Patty is a Romance novelist who aspires to be published in Fantasy fiction and is well read in every genre. For this reason, Patty has served as a guest speaker in the story plotting lessons that I teach in my online course, How to Write a Romance Novel that Sells.
    As a published novelist (and brainstorming professional), Patty understands how the rusty wheels turn in the minds of New York editors. This is an important trait in a story plot consultant. But Patty’s most important credential is her sense of humor.   To put it mildly, Patty is a hoot!
    Picture the scene as my story plotting accomplice and I prepared for our brainstorming mission:
    Patty and I drove to the restaurant in separate cars. We arrived incognito (no pens, no notebooks). We were seated at a central table, in the busiest section of the eatery. We decided to pig out on hot fudge brownie sundaes to improve our facility for story plotting.
    It was approximately 1:00 p.m. on a weekday, during the latter half of Lunch Rush. Fellow diners were crammed into booths and tables that were roughly 12 inches from my elbow. Servers were squeezing by with humongous trays loaded with BLT's, chicken salad, and the daily soup special.
    During the following story plotting incident, I’d like to note (in my defense) that I was guzzling my third cola. The sugar-loaded, caffeinated kind.
My conversation with Patty went something like this:
A: I need to get rid of (G).
P: Who’s this guy again?
A:  You know. The one who slept with (L).
P: Oh yeah. Now I remember.
A: I hate him! I need him to die!
P: As long as there's plenty of motivation . . .
A: Oh, there's motivation, all right. I'm sick of him.
P: You thinking about bullets?
A: Naw. Something slow and torturous.
P: How ‘bout putting a box of scorpions under the sheets?
A: Eew!
P: Suffocation by pillow?
A: Risky. He'd be a flailer.
P: Worried about phlegm on the Egyptian cotton?
A: Get serious!
P: Uh . . . right. How 'bout death cap?
A: I don't have time to research fatal mushrooms. 'Sides. Poison's much too tidy.
P: No guts, no gory, right?
A: (Laughs)
P:  Well, if you want to kill him in a grisly way, make it big and splashy. Like a grenade down his pants.
A: That’s it! Exploding body parts. No traceable corpse . . . I like the way you think!   He’ll go out with a bang! Thanks, Patty! An explosion would be a great way to kill him. I can’t wait to get home!
    At this precise moment, the restaurant hushed.   At least forty pairs of eyes drilled into me. Mouths were gaping.   Forks were hovering. Chocolate syrup was dripping from the dirty dishes that our server was balancing above my shoulder.
    Patty never missed a beat. As cool as the proverbial cuke, Patty looked up at our distraught server and drawled, “Check please. My friend has a busy day ahead.”
    Now you can appreciate why I call Patty when I need to brainstorm the story plot of my Paranormal Romance novel. Patty's the perfect partner for making a scene – and writing one.

About Adrienne deWolfe

Originally published by Bantam and Avon Books, Adrienne deWolfe’s 5 Romance novels have earned 9 fiction-writing awards, including the Best Historical Romance of the Year. Currently, she is in the middle of a virtual book tour for her new ebook, How to Write Wildly Popular Romances, which has been released in conjunction with her online writing course, How to Write a Romance Novel That Sells (which starts May 21.) Adrienne invites you to enter her raffles for great prizes (including autographed collector's items) by visiting her website, WritingNovelsThatSell.com. Follow Adrienne on Twitter, Facebook, and Google Plus.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Wayman Publishing Signs a New Author: Pat Hatt

2012-05-05T09:40:00.000-04:00

Pat Hatt has joined the Wayman Publishing team! I am so thrilled. He has some amazing books already out. Plus, I love his blog.

Pat Hatt can be found in the East Coast of Canada. He hates writing these things but doesn't mind talking in the third person. He dabbles in a little of this and a little of that, not afraid to attempt something new.
He is owned by two cats, one of whom has his own blog, It's Rhyme Time. Yeah a rhyming cat, who knew? He would be considered a both person when it comes to cats and dogs.
He is also quite the movie and TV buff. As you can probably tell does not take himself seriously and has more stuff in his head than is needed. As you can tell he is quite childish too which is why he will have many children's books come due.

Blog: It's Rhyme Time

Twitter: Rhymetime24

Boo and the Backyard Zoo--Coming Soon from author Pat Hatt and Wayman Publishing!

Check out this amazing artwork.

Now, take it away, Pat.

So Pat got offered to guest post here. But that is not going to come due I fear. For Pat is too boring and would have you all snoring. He wanted to talk about taxes which would probably make you want to murder him with pitchforks and axes. So the cat will save the human once more and take over the guest post at Elisa’s shore.
But what does the cat have to say? Same thing he does every day. A whole lot of this and a whole lot of that pretending it is not nonsense galore like at my mat. Nonsense Galore hmmmm that would make for quite the encore. Let’s pick those two words and see if I can crap out a few turds. Oh that was a bad visual there. I will keep that talk down since I am at another’s lair. So on with the show as I pick two words and give them a go.
Nonsense Galore
In a rinky dink store.
Near Blippity shore.
Items were stacked from end to end,
Whether it was an old or new trend.

Things were getting grim,
As it was stuffed to the brim.
So the staff had a sale,
Bringing about this tale.

Frolo Frog,
Bought himself a bog.
It was a replica of course,
Unlike that rocking horse.

Which Preta Pig,
Snapped up along with a wig.
Cost a cool loonie,
That is not moony.

It’s simply a dollar,
For a non-Canadian caller.
Trilip Tramp
Got himself a stamp.

With a name like that,
He must be a rat.
While six toed crocodile,
Updated his shoe style.

I hope it wasn’t a friend,
He chose to wear in the end.
The rinky dink store,
Finally closed its door.
The staff found it bare,
Which was truly rare.
As nonsense galore
Had always cluttered the store.

They danced a mile,
Glad to have nothing to file.
One stepped on a stone,
Causing the rinky dink store to groan.

It came alive,
At ten after five.
On that faithful night,
Yapping to everyone in sight.

Saying its tummy was bare.
And were they not aware,
That it needs to be full,
To keep back Frumpy Bull?

Seems the rinky dink store,
Did so much more.
As it housed the bull of lore,
That years ago plagued Blippity shore.

Before they could answer back,
They heard Frumpy Bull sound the attack.
He burst through the wall,
Continuing his call.

He bounced them around like ball,
Not noticing Pete Too Tall.
He did look like a statue though,
So unless you are a peeping crow,

He might blend in,
With the walls of tin.
Pete Too Tall went through town,
Telling everyone what was going down.

His stride was so large,
In seconds he made it to Blippity barge,
The end of the shore,
Truly isn’t much there to explore.

Out they all came,
Feeling to blame,
For this whole mess,
Making their trinkets worthless.

Frumpy Bull bounced the staff,
Continuing to laugh.
Until he was whacked with a bog.
Then some fire log.

Before too long,
He was singing a new song.
Stuck in nonsense galore,
As it once more filled the store.

Frumpy Bull cried out,
Giving one final shout.
The same old “I’ll get you” encore.
When he was bounced through the store.

Once more in the wall,
No longer able to give a call.
For he was bricked up once more,
Thanks to the rinky dink store.

For now that it was full,
Of things from bogs to wool.
To a flower shower.
It once more had the power.

To keep Frumpy Bull in check,
Preventing another ship wreck.
And any other harm he’d cause.
The crowd finally gave applause.

Finding the trinkets were nonsense after all,
Never needed at their hall.
And they had helped protect their shore,
By filling the rinky dink store with nonsense galore.

There we go. How was that for a nonsense flow? Took a whole twenty minute to do and now the cat must use the loo. What that too much info for you? At least I didn’t use poo. Oh crap! We’ll blame that on that Pat chap and just say this guest post has come to pass before certain things start coming out my little rhyming umm, you know the word it’s something crass.

Experience spring, have a fling.

FOOD, GLORIOUS FOOD! Fishducky Friday

2012-05-04T09:32:00.000-04:00

Well, I have another signing in SLC today. I'm super excited. You can find info about that HERE.
Now, Fishducky, take it away.

FOOD, GLORIOUS FOOD!

Finally—a subject I can really sink my teeth into! With lots of pictures--I love putting in pictures!! (The first paragraph is sort of on the subject.)

Years ago, when we were in Paris we passed a dress shop that had a 3’ cloth strawberry pillow as a window decoration. Our friends who lived there were very fond of strawberries & we knew they’d love this pillow, which we wanted to give them as a gift. The shopkeeper said it was a window decoration & not for sale. We told her we knew that, but we were willing to pay her very well for it. She repeated that it was not for sale. Bud asked her what if Pompidou (France’s president at the time) wanted it—wouldn’t she sell it to him? He intended to continue telling her Pompidou wasn’t coming so she should sell it to us, instead. He never got that far. At the first mention of Pompidou, she exploded! We left the shop in fear for our lives. We should obviously choose our political references with more care.

Did you know the singular of spaghetti is spaghetto? No particular reason for this picture—I just like it!

On our first trip to Boston, a friend told us we HAD to have the clams at Legal Sea Foods. I’d never had clams before & I had some trepidation, but I thought I’d try them. I’d eaten about half my order when I was full. They were SO good--& I couldn’t bring the rest to our hotel—that I took about a half hour for a cigarette break & then I finished them. YUMMY!!

My husband & I were out driving & he asked me out to dinner. He said we could go anywhere I wanted. Being a smartass, I said, “The Sands!” He asked me if I was serious & I told him I was. We went to the airport & caught the next flight to Vegas. He’s lucky he wasn’t Hagar!!

We were at the Lahaina Broiler (in Hawaii) & I was looking at a menu while we were waiting to be seated. They offered turtle soup, which I had never had. I wondered aloud how it would be. A gentleman sitting right next to where we were standing said, “It’s delicious—I always have it when I’m here. Would you like to try mine? I haven’t touched it yet.” I did--& he was right! When we got to a table, I ordered my own bowl. It was every bit as good as his.

Some quick stories about our daughter, who wishes to be be NAMELESS: When Nameless was a little girl, one of her favorite foods was, as she pronounced it, hickey noo noo hoop. Following is a translation:

A few years later, she was helping me clear the dinner table. She had watched me sweep the crumbs off the table with one hand & catch them in my other hand, which was beneath the edge of the table. She did it exactly the same as her mommy, with one teeny tiny exception. She didn’t use her other hand. I just talked to her about it. She says she did it on purpose—the thought of brushing crumbs into her hand grossed her out. Oh, well, the carpet needed vacuuming, anyway.

Matt was our least picky--& sloppiest--eater. He would eat anything except lima beans. It’s a good thing our dog, who (for some reason) always sat next to him at meals, loved them!

Our kids are about 2 years apart, with Blake being the youngest. When he was about 2 we hired a Japanese woman as an au pair. (Thank you, Bud, for making enough money to spoil me!) Her first night, she cleared the dinner dishes & brought in small cereal bowls filled with water & a couple of slices of lemon—finger bowls. This was FAR from our usual lifestyle. Blake took one look at the finger bowls & became very upset. I asked him what the matter was & he cried loudly, “I DON’T WANT SOUP!!”

Ours was the house where all of our kid’s friends hung out & felt comfortable. I once found “Cocoa Puffs” written on my grocery list, which was on the refrigerator. This was one friend’s favorite cereal. That was fine, but what surprised me is that it was written in the friend’s handwriting!

The manager of our local supermarket saw us coming in about half an hour before closing time. He had a date that night & knew it always took some time to shop for our family of 5—plus Cub Scouts & friends--& he didn’t want to be late, so he offered to help. He took my list & tore it in half. Off he went & did his half of our shopping. We met at the checkstand, paid & everyone got out on time.

When people first come to the US, English—a difficult language-- is new to them. They must be a little confused when their wait person (how’s that for being politically correct?) asks them if they want soup or salad. It’s my native language, & when someone speaks quickly it sounds like “super salad” to me.

The not fat, but definitely too fluffy----fishducky

Who would you marry out of the Avengers characters?

2012-05-03T10:44:00.002-04:00

    At the last signing, someone asked Cade what we do right before a gig. "Aren't you nervous? What do you two talk about beforehand?"
Cade stayed quiet for a minute because he's generally a quiet guy. "I guess we talk about anything except the gig."
     I had to laugh at his response because it's so true. We've played together for over a decade--our first CD was made in 2001--anyway, not talking about the gig . . . yeah, that's how we do things.
   Our pre-gig conversation on Saturday had been extra hilarious though. I'd asked Cade a loaded question as we drove to THE REaD CAT BOOKSTORE. "If all of the Avengers were girls instead of guys, which one would you want to marry?"
    "What?" He gaped, not even knowing he would fall right into my trap!

"Well, just think about their personalities." I smiled and batted my lashes. "You have Iron Man--a genius in a suit. He's hilarious and fun." I took a breath. "Then there's Captain America, an overall nice guy. He's all about justice and valor. . . . Hulk, a scientist who can turn into a monster. Nothing like adding a little excitement to a marriage. Or Thor, the Alien--god with a hammer. Just imagine them as chicks."
He tapped the wheel and for a moment I thought he wouldn't answer. "Do you know who's playing Hulk in Avengers?"
The art of distraction. So he wanted to play it hard!

"The guy from '13 Going on 30.' Mark Ruffalo. I love that actor. He's such a great choice for Hulk," I said. "He has this presence about him that just makes him seem like a genuinely nice person." I paused. "Cade, you just got me monologuing! Didn't you?"
He smirked and we got to the signing.
"You didn't answer me," I whispered after playing one song.

"Answer what?"
"As if you don't know! If all of the Avengers were girls instead of guys, which one would you want to marry?"
"Let's see. Well, Hulk would be terrible as a girl. That's like facing mood swings every day."
"Oh really. Do you know someone who has mood swings?"
He started picking his guitar and looked away. "Not necessarily."
"Fine," he said after a group of people came and we had a blast talking with them. "Who would you marry?"
"Not Thor or Hulk."
"Why not Thor?" Cade asked. "Isn't he the one girls are swooning over?"
"He's a god . . . alien . . . thing. He's not even human!" I blurted. "What if a human marries him? Can you imagine giving birth to one of his kids?! It would be a twelve pounder for sure! Instant death for the mother."
"And that's why he wouldn't be your choice?"
"Absolutely! That really is a death-wish. I'd pick between Iron Man and Captain America."

"Really?" Cade asked.
"Yeah. Wouldn't you rather be with a human who's either bent on justice or extremely smart and hilarious?"
"No," he said. "I'd rather be with a girl from Thor's planet--if I had to pick."
"Oh my gosh! YOU . . . are an alien lover!"
"Am not."
"Are too. You just confessed!" Another group of people came in and we started talking about the books and our music instead of The Avengers.
I said goodbye to Melynda--who was amazing at our signing.

Isn't she AWESOME!

That was pretty neat signing together.

Anyway, as Cade and I drove to the next gig, I stared at him. He must have known what I thought because he said, "The girl version of Thor is Samus. That's who I'd pick . . . if you didn't exist."

I scoffed. Oh he's good! "But what about a girl like Captain America?"
"Naw." He shook his head. "Too straight-laced."
"Or a chick like Iron Man?"
"Are you kidding, that would be horrible. I'd hate being married to a narcissist. Why, who would you pick?"
I didn't answer him until after the last gig.

"Iron Man," I finally said.

"And not Thor?"

"I already told you. That would suck dying just to give birth . . . to AN ALIEN . . . god-thing!!!"

"But Iron Man? Really?"

"Yeah," I smiled, "because he's hilarious AND spontaneous. Oh and it's cool that he can fly."

So, in response to that sweet person who asked Cade what we talk about before each gig, there's the long answer to your question.
We have another gig in Salt Lake City tomorrow. I wonder what we'll talk about then?
Click HERE for details about my next signing.

In closing, who would you marry from The Avengers? I can't wait to read your answers.

Doctor Jones Goes Fishing

2012-05-02T10:26:00.001-04:00

I'd like to thank Debra Kristi for featuring me on her blog today. You can find that post HERE.

Now . . . onto today's post.

Once upon a time there was a princess named Doctor Jones. She seriously loved fish. If her mother didn't watch her ALL the time, that child would sneak away to the fish tank and go fishing!
Well, one day the darling mother--who I know personally--begged to take a five minute power nap. Was this too much to ask? Was it crazy to ask favors of two children who have everything? Doctor Jones slept in her bed! The Zombie (her brother) watched a movie. Yet, when the sweet, kind, generous, TIRED mother fell asleep, fate had something terrible in mind.

Fine . . . you guessed it. This story is about me and it's about to get worse!

The Zombie Elf clutched my arm. "She done it! Our baby hurt the fish!"
"What?!" I scrambled upstairs, still waking up. I glanced back at the clock and groaned. I'd been asleep for six minutes--one minute too many!
    It wasn't until I went into the Scribe's room that I screamed like Lucifer came for a visit. Doctor Jones had knocked over one of the fish tanks. I'd been so tired I hadn't heard it.
    "Oh my gosh!!!" I wailed.
    Doctor Jones waved in reply--simply waved. "Mama, fish! Mama, Fish!" She giggled. Her clothes stuck together--they dripped, sopping wet. The floor was completely saturated and so were the socks in the bottom drawer of a dresser and on the carpet.
"The Scribe will kill me!" The point is, the Scribe has two fish in two different tanks. One is a beta fish. His name is Chewy and the Scribe loves him so much she's drawn pictures of them walking together.
     In her dreams they have tea. He teaches her all sorts of crazy Mr. Limpet things! You get the point, she LOVES that fish, and now I couldn't even find his body.
"Get another beta," my mom said after I called her.
I picked up another gross pair of socks, unfolded them and put them in the dirty clothes basket on the ground next to me. "She'll know. All the Scribe does at night is stare at that fish! Plus, she's half genius, half beta expert."
"Well you can't tell her. Can you?"
"No." I was about to cry, when I picked up another yucky sock. I grabbed both ends and with total anger, pulled it taut. I had no idea a fish lived in that sock--no clue beta can live for HOURS as long as their bodies are kept moist. When I pulled the sock, a fish--WHICH HAD BEEN WRAPPED UP LIKE A BABY--flew toward my face! "What in the Hell. I'm gonna die. It's on the ground. It's flopping on the ground," I yelled toward the phone which had fell from my hand.
"Get it," my mom said calmly as I picked up the phone. Then that fish-lover laughed. "You wrote a book about humans living deep in the ocean. Don't tell me you're scared of fish."
"I'm fine when THEY'RE IN WATER! It's going to flip on me right now though." I felt like the biggest idiot. Here I am--the girl who tried out for "Fear Factor." I can touch bugs and reptiles. Hell, I'd ride a toothless crocodile if I had a chance. BUT . . . get me near a tiny fish out of water and it's all over.
Chewy finally flipped onto a piece of paper and I put him in the tank that wasn't ruined--the one with the Scribe's black fish.
Chewy shook himself, started swimming and then instantly decided to eat the other fish's fins! That murderer just got a second chance at life and it was already back to its evil ways.
As I finished cleaning the yucky carpet, Doctor Jones came in and smiled. She pointed to the socks and the beta. "Rock a baby. Rock a baby. Oh, my baby fish!" She motioned toward Chewy. "Good, baby. Good!"
So, she'd wrapped it up in a sock and tried rocking it TO DEATH! Little had she known, that moist sock had saved his life.
Note to self, don't EVER nap again. Taking naps is much more exhausting, than getting no sleep at all.

Signing off,
   Elisa

A Zombie and a Bully

2012-05-01T09:54:00.001-04:00

    My three-year-old Zombie Elf hurtled down the tallest slide at the park. Some kids are just made to be daring.
A terrible moment awaited him though. A bully--the size of Milwaukee--glared at my son. The Zombie stepped forward, timidly, but that bully didn't care. He pushed my son to the ground, then he grinned like an ogre.
The Zombie, that gem of a child, got back up and went to the top of the slide again. Ogre-boy waited at the bottom. I wondered what my son was thinking. Why in the world would he want to face the bully again?
The Zombie slid, going faster and faster until he landed on his feet at the bottom of the slide. A smile split the ogre's face like he'd met easy prey TWICE in one day. He neared my boy and pushed him down yet again. That's when the Zombie stood, moving closer and closer to the bully's face.
    I worried. Would he punch the kid? Would he hit him so hard he'd turn into ogre soup?
Time slowed for everyone--EXCEPT THE BULLY'S MOTHER who seemed too busy painting her nails blood-red!

The two boys still faced each other. Then, with a sound so fierce it would've scared the Kraken, the Zombie growled at the bully.

The kid stepped back, actually terrified. He didn't bother my boy again. He did try to pick on Doctor Jones (my two-year-old girl), but the Zombie Elf was there in a flash and ogre-boy left her alone.

I was so proud of my zombie. I talked to him later. "You didn't push him back. I'm so proud of you," I said.

"I didn't want to hurt him," he replied, and I smiled the rest of the way home. That was a great way to handle the situation; I'll never forget my boy's spunk.

The Scribe's Mama and a Baseball

2012-04-30T10:00:00.004-04:00

This is a continuation from last week's The Scribe and a Scheme.

"I'm not like anyone in this family," she said.
I smiled, remembering something I did in fifth grade. "Oh yes you are. I was always hatching crazy schemes."
"You were?"
    "Yep. Do you want to hear a story about how I tricked the boys into letting me play baseball with them?"
    She wiped her tears and nodded.
"All right, well one day . . ."
I never thought the story was anything special--not until the Scribe heard it.

I was a dorky twig, far better at playing sports than playing dolls. I knew I'd be a star on the boys' team if they just let me play, but those jerks were too good for me--a girl.
    "We don't let girls play with us. Girls are bad luck."
    That just proved it; they were idiots. The only time girls are unlucky is when you make them mad!

I started practicing baseball then, every day after school, until the sun went down. I got pretty good. My mom, dad and brother all taught me how to hit and pitch. I went through training--no kidding. If those boys would just say 'yes,' they wouldn't know what hit 'em.

But the idiots kept saying 'NO!'
    My dream almost ended. I could have stayed friendless and sad. Or I could've stooped to ultimate evilness and played dolls with Wendy Smith and her posse of girlie girls! That wasn't for me though. Too bad I hate giving up easily AND dressing dolls.
    I watched the boys' whole setup one day after they said 'no' . . . again. The leader (Jeff) always brought the ball and the bat. He'd put it out in the hall during class, then at recess, all the boys would go and play.
Stealing that ball was easier than taking candy from a baby-brat. I still remember it. I raised my hand and told the teacher I needed to use the bathroom. That was a lie--a terribly sweet lie. I ran into the hall, looked back and forth, then stole Jeff's ball, not even thinkin' it was sinful to steal from an idiot. The prize fit great with my stuff in the hallway and no one even saw me! I wanted to give thanks to God, for helping me steal, so I went and used the bathroom since that's what I'd told the teacher. Maybe I didn't really have to go, but I sure tried anyway. It wouldn't be good to lie AND steal on the same damn day.
    Well, when the recess bell rang, those boys scrambled and hooted. Everyone got out to the field. For once I stayed back, just watching. Jeff came out last. He explained something to the boys who looked awfully mad. They were just about to leave the field when I walked closer.
"Who would-a thunk he'd leave the ball home?" a kid whined.
I threw the ball up and down. Not to brag, but I caught the sucker every time. "Funny thing," I said to the boys. "I brought a ball today. What are the odds?" I tried spitting but I'd never done it before and the stuff turned to spittle. I wiped it away fast and cursed all those old movies for making spitting look easy.
"Give us the ball!" a boy screamed--good thing I didn't marry that dictator!
"Sure," I pulled it away, "on one condition."
"Name it," Jeff said. He walked closer.
"That you let me play."
All the idiots groaned, apparently idiots are great at whining and groaning. "But that's bad luck to play with a girl."
"Is it better to not play at all?" I asked and they FINALLY let me play.
I'd like to say I got a home run, even though I didn't. But I will say that I proved myself and they seemed really impressed. Jeff walked with me after last recess and smiled. "You know, this ball looks an awful lot like the one I bring."
I had to think fast. I looked up at him. My face couldn't charm him--too bad for the 'ugly phase.' But at least I could win him over with my wit. "You're pretty good at ball." I paused. "Well, so am I. Does it really surprise you that we both have such good taste?"
He laughed and hit me on the back. "You're all right, Stilson. You're all right." It was the first time someone called me by my last name and the first time a fellow classmate hit me on the back--it WAS epic.
The next day when Jeff's ball showed up by his stuff in the hall, he didn't even seem surprised. I went and stood by the field, a bit sad that I'd never get to play again. Maybe I should have just reconciled to playing dolls with Wendy Smith . . . forever.
I sat down on the grass and prepared to watch the boys forming their teams. It was time for the captains to pick their star players. John 'the cherry picker' went first--don't even ask how he got his nickname, let's just say no one wanted to shake HIS hand. When it was Jeff's turn, he smiled right at me and pointed. "Stilson, for first pick because that girl really knows how to hit a ball. And because she didn't give up."
I stood by him and beamed. "Isn't it funny how my ball just showed up today?" he whispered.
"Yeah," I nodded. "What are the odds?"

"So, that's how I started playing baseball with the boys," I told the Scribe.
"It sounds like something I would do! Mama," she said seriously, "you're all right."
"You too." I smiled, then patted her on the back and thought I just might start calling her by our last name. She's always doing crazy things like scaring children and holding fundraisers FOR HERSELF, but she's one hilarious child. She makes life fun. I'm thankful for her and her siblings every day.

Should I release my story "Homeless in Hawaii" on my blog?
	Yes, two chapters a week (which will include cliffhangers).
	Yes, one chapter a week.
	Yes, four chapters a week (no cliffhanger chapters).
	No, I want to read it all at once in December.

pollcode.com free polls

The Crazy Life of a Writing Mom

Happy Birthday Cade and Zombie Elf!

Ever Been to a Cajun Boil?

Moon Dog's Cafe

I’M SORRY, MOM (PART 2—SORT OF); Fishducky Friday

Epic Fail or Ultimate Victory? VLOG-style

Falling Prey to the Man Code

Writing a Companion Cat Book

Dee Ready's New Book Just Came Out!!!

Coming Home to Myself

I'm Sorry, Mom (Part 1)

A Mime War!

What is True Beauty?

I'm feeling suicidal, what should I do?

yourlifeyourvoice.org

ContactWeCare.org

My Mom Plays the Drums

What's the moon made from?

I VERY GOOD SPEAK THE ENGLISH: Fishducky Friday

A Magical Day We'll Never Forget

Going on a treasure hunt!

Lander, Wyoming: A Haunted Town

Because it's magical like a *&%$!

Dangers of Story Plotting in Restaurants

Wayman Publishing Signs a New Author: Pat Hatt

Boo and the Backyard Zoo--Coming Soon from author Pat Hatt and Wayman Publishing! Check out this amazing artwork.

FOOD, GLORIOUS FOOD! Fishducky Friday

Who would you marry out of the Avengers characters?

Doctor Jones Goes Fishing

A Zombie and a Bully

The Scribe's Mama and a Baseball

Boo and the Backyard Zoo--Coming Soon from author Pat Hatt and Wayman Publishing!

Check out this amazing artwork.