Jill Hannah Anderson ~ Women's Fiction Writer

TEST Newsletter information for A Life Unraveled

2022-01-24T15:46:00.001-08:00

Book cover reveal coming soon!

I'll be creating a list of ARC readers (advance review copy) eBook reader/reviewers in the coming weeks.

Book publishing date is... March 22, 2022!

Available in audiobook, eBook, and print.

I'M DANCING AS FAST AS I CAN!

2015-06-01T12:17:00.000-07:00

We all know that feeling in our chest. The clutching, painful stab if we dance too fast, too hard, pushing our body into overdrive. It's as if we've been strapped into the front seat of the highest roller coaster, our eyeballs popping out of their sockets as our heart beats like Thumper's big rabbit foot.

But maybe that's just me because I'm terrified of heights. Still, even with my feet planted firmly on the ground, nearly every day I feel as if I'm trying to stuff 34 hours of life into each 24 hour day.

And I'm not alone. We know we can't do it all, yet we keep trying. As though if we just dance a little faster through life, we can get every-stinking-desire-goal-dream crammed in along with our requirements of life (the day job that pays our bills, time spent with our family and friends, cramming some fun into the cracks of our lives).

If you are old enough, you might remember the movie "I'm Dancing As Fast As I Can", from 1982. It was a biographical film about a high-strung woman relying heavily on sedatives to reduce the tension and anxiety in her life. While I've refrained from reaching for sedatives, I've also realized that over-stuffing my life with a never-ending to-do list is just as unhealthy as sedatives.

I look at other writers, or better yet, published authors, who are now having to wear a hundred hats besides their writer one. I am almost positive they have given up sleeping in order to juggle everything else that goes hand-in-hand with getting their book(s) published. They've got to feel like they're doing a fast-paced jig at all times!

I love books. Authors are like rock stars to me, especially after I've realized just how time-consuming and crazy-hard it is to write a book and get it published. My world wouldn't be the same without books, and I'm guessing, if you "follow" me on any social media, you are an avid reader too.

The weekly book blog I started last year, Fridayfictionfriend, was for the sole purpose of hearing from a guest each week about a favorite book they've read (I simply can't read 24/7 although I'd like to!) But committing to every Friday was a crazy idea on my part. What was I thinking? Okay, I know, I know, I wasn't thinking.

I didn't think about how busy everyone is, especially as the weekend draws close. Yet I didn't want to give up on letting readers know of new authors or new books that they might not hear of otherwise. Every week I hear of another good book or author that I hadn't read yet. My to-be-read list could stretch across the U.S.!

We all need to choose a balance in our lives, so our brain isn't always doing the jitter-bug. For me, I need more time to work on my own writing so that someday I may join the list of authors being featured!

So to cut myself some slack, I'm retiring Fridayfictionfriend, and starting a new book blog: SharingYourBook.blogspot.com. It will feature more books by authors who are trying to get the word out about their own novels, and, I'm hoping, book lovers will still post about a favorite book they've read. I will also post random synopsis posts of wonderful books I've read, or books that others have told me about.

I may not be able to dance any faster, but I'm not giving up on spreading the word about books. And I hope you join in to share a favorite read of yours. Yes, I know, you're busy, but it will only take a minute... no longer than a spin around the dance floor. :)

The true Cost of Living

2014-12-30T07:08:00.000-08:00

We all are familiar with the term "cost of living". I even worked at a job years ago where we frequently received COLA (Cost Of Living Adjustment) bumps to our paycheck.

But I never really thought about the phrase until recently, never thought about what it really says: "living" costs money. I never thought about how much living we want to do needs to be worth the money we spend doing it. It occurred to me last month when I had the opportunity to get away for two fun weekends in a row... each costing money (of course.)

That opportunity might not seem like a big deal to many, but I am thrifty, conservative. My husband might call me cheap. Regardless of the term, spending money like that for two weekends in a row is a luxury I typically wouldn't allow myself. Then I thought—why not? I know many people with the work-hard-play-hard motto, and I've got to say, they look like they're having the time of their lives.

I've worked hard for my money, as we all do, and in the past have at times had to live hanging by a financial shoestring. Now that I have spending money, I'm having a hard time actually spending it, on me anyway. No problem spending it on others (something I used to wonder about when I'd see my parents and grandparents do the very same thing.)

I had to really think about what I was working for. Wasn't I supposed to be enjoying this prime of my life? Aren't we all? Yes, there are so many out there, barely getting by. The last thing they have is money to spend on having fun. And I think about many fun activities I enjoy, like playing cards, that don't cost a dime. Spending money doesn't equal happiness. I get that.

But I also know that going on these weekend getaways was well worth the cost for me. And that the "cost" of not living life to the fullest, isn't worth the money saved. I'm not big into New Year Resolutions, but for 2015 my goal will be to do more “living.” How about you? What do you hope for your future?

Looking for your input on a book cover choice (with a chance to win a $50 B & N gift card)

2014-12-09T17:54:00.000-08:00

Recently, author Suzanne Redfearns wonderful debut novel, HUSH LITTLE BABY was featured on my Fridayfictionfriend book blog. Suzanne is now looking for your help in choosing her next books name and cover. And, if you haven't read her first novel, you should!

Do you enjoy novels by Jodi Picoult, Liane Moriarty, JoJo Moyes or Anita Shreve? Then you are the perfect reader to help up-and-coming author Suzanne Redfearn choose the title and cover for her next women’s fiction novel. For participating, you will be entered into a drawing for a $50 gift card to Barnes and Noble. Click here to participate.

Voting ends December 21, 2014

A NUMBER OF OPTIONS

2014-10-26T06:00:00.000-07:00

So tomorrow is a big number for me on the birthday scale, at least it seemed big back when I was a teenager. Back then, to me a woman in their mid-fifties had permed, gray hair, wore stretch pants, and dangled with one foot in the grave.

Do I ever feel that way? Well, there are days, but luckily, very few so far. But enough about me, let's take a look at some people who've "thought outside their age-box."

How about endurance swimmer Diana Nyad? At sixty-four, she accomplished what very few could do, no matter their age. Her fifty-three hour swim from Cuba to Florida would've knocked out just about any twenty-year-old. What a woman!

Or Laura Ingalls Wilder, who published her first book at age sixty-four (see, I'm young by her standards!)

And Nelson Mandela was seventy-five when elected president of South Africa.

Now let's have a gander at the Rolling Stones. If you'd have asked them when they started performing if they thought they'd still be hopping around on stage fifty years later, they'd have laughed in your face and said they wouldn't even be alive fifty years later. Yet, here they are, rockin away!

Then there's the other end of the spectrum - children absorb so much at such a young age, learning more now because we no longer assume they're too young (to read, do math, learn a second language...) Our expectations have changed over the years now that we understand what sponges their young brains are.

Look at Louis Braille, who was a teenager when he invented the raised dots system, known as Braille, and became a teacher of Braille at nineteen.

Jaylen Bledsoe, fifteen, started his own tech company that specializes in web design and IT services, when he was thirteen. His company is now worth about $3.5 million.

When Ryan Hreljac was six and heard about children in Africa walking long distances to get water, he raised money to build a well for them. A year later, Ryan's first well was built. Over a dozen years later, Ryan's Well Foundation has completed nearly 700 projects.

If someone told these people they were too young to accomplish great things, they obviously didn't listen. Good for them! Do we let the numbers on our driver's license dictate our accomplishments, our dreams, our lives?

Is it all based on what we perceive our life should be at a certain age? For example, I don't think I had envisioned hosting both pimples and chin hairs at age fifty-five! (What? Was that TMI?)

So, I'm curious (yes, I've been told I ask too many questions!) If you had amnesia and someone asked how old you felt you were, what would you say? And why?

Controlling the Control Freak

2014-10-06T15:50:00.001-07:00

On any given day I might worry about ten things—nine of which I have absolutely no control over. Yet nothing stops me from trying to "fix" these concerns of mine. I blame my dad. We could both be professional worriers, if there were such a job. As it is, we just drive everyone around us, and ourselves, crazy.

I’ve always felt we control our future, to a certain extent, and to sit back and do nothing to help things along, fix things, make them better… will get you nowhere. So if I want something bad enough, I pretty much give it my all. I might not get what I want, but I give it my best shot.

Yet things don’t always turn out the way we want, no matter how much gusto we give them. Because we all know the rules: Life's not fair. And we better just accept it. Fine, I say, as I stamp my foot. And yes, I’m well aware of the Serenity Prayer, in fact I have the part “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change” printed out for myself at home and work.

It doesn’t make it any easier. I'm not big into serenity. Type A all the way. Give me some problem and my brain becomes like a dogs, focusing on "ball, ball, ball" concentrating on that one thing so hard I might lose sight of the big picture. Might.

Because really, I'm smart enough to count my blessings, know that 95% of the world has it wayyyyyy worse than me (and my family), and that life is really pretty damn good.

And I also know when chocolate chip cookies are handed out; they are not all created equal (see me getting revenge on my older brother, photo below). But if it were the other way around, that would be okay. I know how to bake more. It's the rest of the uncontrollable nine things on my list I need a little help letting go of. :)

Do you see yourself here? Are you a worry-wart? Control freak? Or are you one of those people who will never die of a heart attack, a go-with-the-flow-no-concerns person? My husband is one of them.

Which drives me nuts. Ooh, I need to add that to my Not-Fair-list-of-Things-I-Can't-Control!

The Worth of a Woman

2014-08-19T19:02:00.000-07:00

My "baby" girl is getting married next week. Never mind that my "baby" graduated from college a few years ago. And marrying a man she chose for herself, a man who doesn't need to be enticed with a dowry.

Because my daughter (and every other daughter out there) has a mind of her own, is capable of making her own decisions, and is valuable—no dowry needed. Thankfully, we live in a culture that finally recognizes this.

Years ago women were "given away" to a man in marriage, usually accompanied by a cow or goat as a little carrot waved in front of the man. As if the daughter herself wasn't enough for the father to give away. Of course that was back in the days when women had little value placed on them, little chance of speaking their mind, and little opportunity to make their own way in the world.

Remember the movie “Fiddler on the Roof”? I’d have been one of those strong-willed daughters, determined to choose a man for myself—no matchmaker, thank-you-very-much.

Thankfully, times have changed. At least in our small slice of the world. I know there are many countries requiring a dowry for a marriage, and yes, in the news there are still horrifying stories of "dowry death." Also in the news is the disturbing practice of some Muslim men who arrange marriages with girls under the age of ten. Girls who have no say in their future, their worth.

I could blog forever about the horrors of the treatment of girls and women in many areas of the world, but right now I’m focusing on the worth of a woman.

Anyone who calls women the “weaker” sex has never met the women I know. Or looked back in the history of their own family at the struggles both men AND women endured in the past.

Let’s look at my great-aunt Unity. A strong Irish woman who, at the age of fourteen, was promised to a man twice her age who was looking for someone to raise his five children. Unity’s parents arranged the marriage, shipped her off to the man’s house (with her kicking and screaming, I might add. She had a good Irish spirit!) She bore him another handful of children, working in the field in the morning, going inside to give birth, then back out in the field at night. Seriously.

Same with her sister, my great-grandma Hannah, (yes, I was named after this inspiring woman) who not only worked right alongside her husband, but lived another fifty-plus years after he died and continued working their farm alone.

I’m not belittling men in any way. They are worth their weight in gold—just like women.

And now I understand what I didn’t years ago as my dad came to walk me down the aisle, handkerchief in his hand and tears in his eyes.

I might not be "giving" my daughter away. But a little piece of my heart is going with her as she starts this new chapter in her life, following her heart. No goat required.

I'm getting a wife!

2014-07-07T17:32:00.000-07:00

So my husband thinks he is retiring soon. Well, I guess he KNOWS he is, since he gave his notice, set up his retirement, and is starting to clean out his office. He might not be calling my bluff after all.

I'm trying to look at the positive, glass-half-full side of this. He's a cleaner, former bakery owner, absolutely wonderful cook and all-around handy-man, which will make my life outside of work soooooooooo much easier. In a sense, I'm getting a wife!

I think back to my years growing-up. My dad came home from work and supper was in the oven, the house was clean, his clothes were pressed, the screen door previously ripped apart by my younger brothers, now repaired by mom as if nothing at all happened during the day. This, THIS was what I'd now be walking in to after work.

Which is what I'd always imagined my grown-up-let's-pretend life to be. Only I was the one at home, not the one walking in the house at dinnertime, pretending total exhaustion. Still... my fairytale (in a sense) was coming true at last!

Yes, sure, we don't have kids at home anymore, there won't be the day-to-day drudgery and exhaustion of endless cleaning up after little ones, stirring a pot of chili with one hand while burping a baby with another and having a toddler hanging from one leg while the other foot is mopping spilled milk from the floor with a paper towel...

And, he won't have the sleep-deprived nights of catapulting yourself out of bed sixteen times each night where you scurry down the hall to try and quiet the screaming baby before it wakes up every animal in the woods within a three mile radius, and then spend each day walking around like Sleepy from Snow White, eyes with bags the size of a shark's jaw, butt dragging like a turtle's tail, and functioning with the memory of a 1979 computer...

More than likely he won't be meeting me at the door with my slippers, newspaper folded up, cracking a beer open for me (if there are any left from his day supply) and hovering over my every-anticipated need from my "hard day at work"...

In fact, there's a good chance he won't even be home when I'm done with work for the day. After all, most of his friends are already retired, which means there are fish needing to be caught, wild game to be hunted, clay pigeons to shoot, cards to be played, vacation spots to "scope out", four-wheelers begging to be ridden...

Um, so yes, okay, maybe a few things could possibly be different than the vision I'm having. But other than that... I'm getting a "wife"!

My Pick-Me-Up (in honor of Father's Day)

2014-06-11T18:09:00.001-07:00

My dad is odd. Yes, I know I mentioned how goofy my mom is in my blog about her last month, but really, in comparison, my dad wins the prize.

But he’s also cool. He was a pilot in the Air Force, has some very interesting stories about those years, and he even briefly drove a limo for the building tenants where Dear Abby lived, as one of his side jobs. (We won't get into who got a ride to school in that limo, but it was the same sibling of mine mentioned in my blog about mom, who was nursed and not bottle-fed, like me.)

And he was a good-looking dad—something my high school girlfriends reminded me of, often.

There were times dad worked three jobs so mom could stay home with us kids, and we were told to go to mom for things. And she did all the disciplining.

Except the one and only time I got grounded, right before my 16th birthday. How convenient—I spent the night of my 16th birthday in my room! As the only daughter, I was supposed to be my dad's "princess." Unfortunately for dad, mom delegated the grounding job to him. I remember dad coming into my bedroom to tell me I was grounded. He looked so miserable, I know he felt worse than I did! And I felt like I'd let him down.

Years later, when I called my mom to break the news my husband and I were separating, something I braced myself for as my parents are strict Catholics, I sobbed uncontrollably, feeling like I'd not only failed my marriage, but failed my parents as well. When my mom and I were done talking, with reassurances from her that she was supportive of me, and things would be okay, I remember saying, “Please don't tell dad. He's going to be so disappointed in me."

Mom replied, "Jill, he knows. He's been on the phone in the basement the whole time listening." That was it, I cried so hard I couldn’t talk (a rarity for me,) feeling I'd disappointed him again, until he said, "It’s okay, Jill, we love you." And although my mom had said the same thing, hearing it from my dad—a man who rarely talked of his feelings at that time—helped mend my grieving heart.

When my daughters were growing up, they compared some of my dad’s behavior to “Rain Man.” No, he’d be no help to us in Vegas, but one of their reasons for comparison was his odd habit of walking laps around their ping-pong table as a source of exercise during the winter. He knew how many laps made a mile. A lot.

He's got a great sense of humor, and is a people-person, just like my mom. He'll ask you a million questions when he meets you, but it is only because he is genuinely interested in what you're saying. And he'll remember what you said! At almost 81 years old, his memory is like a steel trap.

Dad is smart, and loves technology—embracing it, when most run the other way at his age. And like my mom, he's a volunteer-aholic and has received awards for his work. His main focus is Hospice, something that might surprise people who know him from his younger years. As an only child, dad was raised riding the world-revolves around-me horse.

When dad retired, mom sat him down. “Listen. You aren't changing my daily routine so you might want to volunteer with me or find your own things to do because I won't be here to make your lunch every day." (Or something rather frank like that.) Dad got the message. The world was not revolving around him.

So dad also turned to volunteering. He is very giving and caring, and focuses on making other people's lives better. One of his volunteer jobs over the years has been to help senior citizens pay their bills and balance their checkbooks (and make sure they aren't getting scammed). What is funny about that is most of the people he helps are younger than he is!

He'd do anything for anybody, you don’t have to be his little princess (sorry, I’m not giving out his phone number!) And although he is a clean-freak, car-tire-and-motor-oil hoarder, my dad is exactly what I wanted in a dad—a man who is always there when I fall down, to help pick me back up. And love me, no matter what.

What If?

2014-06-03T18:47:00.000-07:00

A teenage girl showed up at our house unexpectedly a few days ago. And I mean unexpected. I hadn't heard from her in over eight years. That might not seem like a big deal, but this was no ordinary child. No ordinary situation.

I had connected with this girl we'll call "G", when she was seven. I volunteered on my lunch breaks at our local school, reading with children who needed help. Although she wasn’t one of my reading partners, G and I started a friendship, a Big Sister of sorts. G’s life was different, and G was different. And I wondered if I’d be of any help.

I told myself I could get through to this girl, who seemed to live in her own little make-believe world. She was living with her mom and dad at the time. And I soon realized why she retreated to her fairy-tale world.

Call me clueless at age 47. G's life was one I'd never witnessed, and I couldn't grasp why nobody was helping her.

This girl fell through the system's cracks. If I wouldn't have seen her lifestyle with my own eyes, I'd never have believed it. And although the time we spent together every week was important, I felt she was living in quicksand, and I didn’t have the strength to pull her out. Her family life was a mess, and slowly, this child who had so little already, lost everything.

That she hadn't lost her mind is a miracle. It all came to a head one night when I was at the police department, waiting to speak with a detective with G and another family member—at 10:30 on a school night. It was just another night for G.

When we were finished, the detective took me aside. "You are being sucked into a mess. I think you're over your head, and you might want to get out." Oh boy, did I want to get out! But I'd have just been another person in a long line, abandoning G.

The situation was eventually taken out of my hands. G was moved out of our area, getting bounced from one place to another. Our relationship was cut. And over the years I’ve wondered what happened to her. And what kind of life she had.

On Sunday, a strange truck pulled up to our house. And out stepped G.

She'll be a senior in high school next fall. My jaw would've dropped hearing how her life has gone these past eight years, but it didn’t, because unfortunately, her life continued to be as awful as I’d feared it would. But as I hugged G, I knew. She's a fighter, a survivor, and yes, she might have some emotional battle scars that make her unique, but if any of us had lived her life, we would too.

I have her phone number, I know where she lives now, and I'll be in touch. I want to know she'll be okay in (yet another) new school, having to deal with yet another new set of students.

When I was in school, my parents instilled in me to treat others as I'd want to be treated. I might not have ever bullied anyone, or picked on them, but you know what else I didn't do? I didn't reach out to those children that faded into the school walls, who walked silently down the hallways, hoping to blend in so nobody would notice they were "different."

I didn't take the time to know or understand them. And now I ask myself this: If I was going to be a senior at G's school this fall, how would I treat her? I’m afraid I know the answer.

And because of that, I want to stand with G on the gymnasium stage and tell her fellow students "This girl is a survivor. She may seem different from you, but please do not tease or ridicule her, and please don't ignore her. She is stronger than you'll likely ever be. And she deserves much more respect than she'll probably ever get.”

Because none of us want to look back on our life and ask ourselves "What if that was me?"

Life with Momma Buns

2014-05-08T16:09:00.001-07:00

My mom's slippers in the photo should give you a glimpse into what my mom, Bunny, is like. She has never fit into the cookie-cutter mold of moms, which has suited her fine and made our life interesting. Those slippers of hers would've come in handy when we moved to Minnesota and she'd walk outside barefoot in the snow.

Mom thought everything was funny when I was growing up (no doubt fueled by the endless Erma Bombeck clippings plastered on our fridge.) She'd chase me around the house with my younger brother's wet diapers, telling me they'd soften my skin. She'd purposely send Amy, our slobbery bulldog, into the living room if I was sitting on the couch with a boyfriend, knowing full well Amy's gassy fumes would fuel any boy to leave the room within a minute of Amy's entrance.

She filled our home with music and laughter... and I had no idea every child wasn’t as lucky. Of course I thought her rules were constricting, her concern for my safety, overbearing (as their only daughter, my parents now agree they went overboard.) After graduation, on the day I turned eighteen, I moved out. My parents had given me a suitcase for my birthday—I thought they were happy with my decision. Years later, mom said she was crushed by my decision.

Once I moved out, I thought their influence on my life was over, my need for them, history. Oh, how clueless I was! If anything, I needed my mom even more as an adult. There have been times in my life I’d call my mom, crying so hard I couldn't talk. In-between my sobs, she'd ask how she could help me. And she did. Every single time.

Mom could lead Do-gooders Anonymous; she’s been a constant volunteer for years, always doing for others and asking for very little in return from her family. Nothing materialistic—just our time and respect. And she’s about the most down-to-earth person you’ll meet. Trusting, honest, and funny when she doesn’t mean to be.

Recently, I mentioned to my mom that my older brother, who is a genius (a constant surprise to me!) defied the statistics that babies who are nursed are smarter than bottle-fed babies. “Oh, I nursed Chris,” mom said.

“I thought you said you didn’t nurse us kids.”

“I just didn’t nurse you, Jill.”

Well, that explains why I’m not a genius.

My parents recently put their home up for sale. While my dad was out of state, some strange man knocked on their door, asking mom about their house. Even though they had it listed with a realtor, a sign clearly posted in their yard, my mom welcomed in this potential murderer-thief and showed him all around their home. I didn’t waste my breath scolding her for being too-trusting. It’s mom—that’s how she rolls.

Years ago, I worked in the loan department for a bank that got taken over by the government. In all the stressful chaos, our secretary/receptionist quit. So my extrovert mom volunteered to fill in until they could hire someone, thinking she could just visit with customers. During that time, they brought in a new bank president. One day he asked my mom to do some typing for him.

My mom informed him, “Oh, I don’t do typing!”

Clueless, he came to me. “What’s up with our receptionist? That lady told me she doesn’t do typing.”

Embarrassed, I told him that “that lady” was my mom, and to just give me the typing.

It wasn’t the first time my mom embarrassed me. It won’t be the last. I’m good with that—that’s how Momma Buns rolls.

Remembering Erma

2014-04-21T18:06:00.000-07:00

The woman who could make us laugh until we wet our pants, died eighteen years ago on April 22^nd, and life for most of us has been a little less hilarious since then.

If you're under the age of oh, maybe forty, you might not recognize the name Erma Bombeck (and who could forget a name like that?) If you aren’t familiar with her writing, do yourself a favor, go pick up a copy of her book, Forever Erma. It will make you laugh, cry, think, relate, and look at the world in a whole new way. It is a perfect collection of her many newspaper columns spanning more than thirty years.

I grew up with our fridge plastered with cutout articles from Erma's weekly newspaper columns. She kept my mother somewhat sane, along with most of the other mothers in the world. And she died way too young, at sixty-nine.

Erma was an imperfect mother—something every mother is; only Erma was brave enough to admit it to the world in her witty, relatable way. Erma was your typical “housewife” in the late 1950’s, starting a family, relinquishing her career as a journalist, and focusing all her time and energy on her three young children and husband.

When she reentered the writing world, Erma’s weekly columns were eventually published by 900 newspapers in the U.S. and Canada. And her books were as touching (I Want to Grow Hair… a book about children with cancer), as they were humorous (The Grass is Always Greener Over the Septic Tank.)

She was an inspiration to so many, for so many different reasons. For me, reading that Erma failed most of her literary assignments and was rejected for her college newspaper, I realized if she’d have let that be the end of her writing career—the world would’ve enjoyed a lot less laughter.

I could list so many great Erma quotes, but I’ll end with one of her weekly columns that has graced my parent’s fridge for more than thirty years.

The column is titled “The Listener” from February 26, 1977, and is about an elderly woman trying to strike up a conversation with Erma while waiting to board a flight to Chicago. Erma writes how exhausted she was---all she wanted was to relax and just read her book. But the woman kept talking, Erma kept mindlessly nodding… until the elderly woman says “My husband’s body is on this plane. We were married fifty-three years…”

Erma writes: “I don’t think I have ever detested myself more than I did at that moment. Another human being was screaming to be heard and in desperation had turned to a cold stranger who was more interested in a novel than the real-life drama at her elbow. All she needed was a listener. No advice, wisdom… just a minute or two for someone to listen. It seems rather incongruous that in a society of super-sophisticated communication (this was in 1977!) we often suffer from a shortage of listeners.”

So, in honor of Erma, let’s all put our phones down, spend a little less time on social networking, and LISTEN to the person next to us – whether it is our spouse, our child, a neighbor, a stranger.

Erma would be so proud of us.

Do you have a favorite Erma quote or column? What is it?

Unforgettable... that's what I'm not!

2014-04-11T19:06:00.001-07:00

My husband has a poor memory, and is well-known for it. I used to think it was just things I told him that he’d forget. Then I learned he's been this way since he was young; probably from one-too-many hits to the head during his football playing years. As frustrated as I get when he doesn’t remember something I said, I'm glad of one thing: he doesn't remember the exact details of every single thing I’ve said and done. I'd never win an argument if he did!

I recently watched a program about the very few people who are "gifted" with Hyperthymesia—a condition where the person possesses an extremely detailed autobiographical memory of everything—whether they want to remember it or not.

I’m thankful I don't know anyone with that "gift". I don't want the cold hard facts of my words or actions played back to me. Those times when a throbbing headache might have made me a crazy woman over some random little thing, or a time when I thought I was saying something witty or clever and instead it sounded nasty. My glaring “bad days” would flash like a strobe light in my loved ones brains. Think about it… who of us is so perfect that we want every single thing in our life remembered?

My children are now in their early thirties, but I can still look back at their younger years and wish I’d have said and done a few things different. What if they could remember, in great detail, all those mom-flubs of mine? Would they readily forgive them even if they couldn’t ever forget?

In the TV program featuring people with Hyperthymesia, one was a boy about twelve years old. It showed a conversation with his father, talking about his son. “When he woke up the other day, he said ‘dad, this is a sad day.’ I asked him why, and my son said ‘we had a fight on this day last year and you yelled at me.’” How sad! I felt awful for both the father and the son. I definitely do not want anyone who knows me to have a steel-trap memory like that.

Imagine having an argument wreck a certain date for you each year, like a festering boil that never goes away. Yes, I realize the pendulum can also swing the other way, and wonderful events can bring rainbows and sunshine to that particular date too. But, because I’m a worry-wart, I choose to focus on the bad “what-if’s?”

So far, I have many wonderful memories from my life. Am I remembering the events the way they really happened? Probably not. I’m sure the words are skewed, the pictures in my head, a little off. But because they are my memories, I can remember as I want—without the “facts” getting in the way.

How are your memories? Sharp and splendid? Vague? However they are, I hope they've become sprinkled with glitter, a little distorted and softened around the edges... memories that bring warm fuzzies ~ and unforgettable happiness.

Moving On

2014-03-15T18:29:00.000-07:00

I watched their faces, looking for any chink in their armor as my parents led my husband and I through what will likely be their new home at a retirement center. I observed their quiet movements, listened to what they said. And what they didn’t say.

My brother’s and I have been “strongly suggesting” our parents move out of the home they’ve live in for nearly forty years, while they’re both still in decent health and of sound mind. I’m lucky—most people in their mid-50’s have already lost one or both parents. I’m also a worrier. Their current home with slippery steps leading to a cement floor basement has caused my overactive imagination to run wild every time I can’t get ahold of them, certain they’re lying in great pain on the basement floor while I’m hours away.

So they’ve agreed to take this step, and being the optimists they are, I knew they’d have a “Gee, this will be great!” attitude. And they did. Yes, the retirement home will mean no more mowing grass, no more shoveling snow, no more worrying if their pipes will freeze if they’re gone for a few weeks in winter.

Yet they, like the rest of us, love their home. We all have experienced that aaahhh feeling when we walk into our home after being gone awhile. Everything is familiar and comfortable, because we’ve built that nest over the years, layer by layer. It smells, feels, sounds, and is a reflection of us.

It won’t be easy for them as they carefully sort through their accumulation of nearly sixty years of marriage, determining what to keep, and what to give away.

Back at their house, my mom and I go through a few things. “If you see anything you want, take it.” She says. My husband and I don’t have room for “extras” as our family is growing every year with more (fantastic) grand-children. The last thing we need is some small family heirloom too tempting for them to not touch.

Every family treasure mom shows me has a short story, and I see a look of sadness in her eyes as she is well aware they can’t keep it all. I take a few small things, items I’ll cherish every day, even though I don’t need the family possessions. What I really need is to know my parents will be happy and safe, so I don’t worry about them so much. Somehow, our roles have been reversed.

We all have different chapters in our lives, times where we feel like we’re closing one door and opening another—with no guarantees for our future. As my parents weed through their possessions to start the last chapter of their lives, I’m happy to know they’ll be able to bring with them the one thing that’s most important: each other.

My trip to the Oscars

2014-03-01T08:30:00.000-08:00

Sunday night, many of you will sit in front of your TV, eager to watch movie stars walk the red carpet, dressed to the nines, while they celebrate like its prom night. And some will walk up on that stage and accept an Oscar for a performance that would likely dim in comparison to any outstanding performance you’ve given over the past year.

For years we’ve all lived vicariously through movie stars. That’s about to change. I’m not just watching—I’m joining in. They already get paid wild amounts of money for the roles they’ve played. Yes, they’ve done a great job. So have we.

Think about it. If I was asked to dance with Bradley Cooper (Silver Linings Playbook), I wouldn’t expect any money… much less an Oscar. Seriously, that’s a dream, not a job.

Same goes for canoodling with George Clooney in the space shuttle, (Gravity). Believe me, I’d do it for free... with no award required to live out a fantasy of mine.

Look at your life. All the times you’ve had to “grin and bear it.” You probably deserved an Oscar for hiding your true feelings. The time you kept your silence as your boss patted himself on the back for something you did.

Or when you gave birth. Suffering through all that pain and anguish and acting like you never thought once about strangling your husband.

The time you pretended you absolutely loved your best friend’s boyfriend, even though he made your skin crawl.

Or the time your feelings were hurt by someone important to you who forgot your birthday, and you managed to act like you barely remembered it yourself.

The time your child stood on stage during his first grade school play and did nothing but pick his nose, yet you sat in the crowd with a smile pasted on your face as if you’d never been more proud.

All the disappointments. Time’s you’ve been passed over for a promotion, not getting picked for a team, a committee… whatever your yearning might be.

Think of your children, or grandchildren. I can vouch that every single grandchild of ours is worthy of an Oscar. They can go from giggles and gut-busting laughter to full-body-drenching waterworks in the time it takes you to turn around. And they can evoke such strong emotions from us (love, frustration, happiness...) just by "playing" themselves. Clearly they’re doing a great job to bring that kind of emotional response from us to the surface.

Haven't we all given performances worthy of an Oscar? I’m going to the Academy Awards and strutting down the red carpet—one way or another. I’ve earned it—I bet you have too.

Remember to rehearse your acceptance speech, and keep it short. You don’t want the orchestra to play you off the stage. You want to be invited back next year. I know I’m counting on it.

Olympic-size Dreams

2014-02-06T07:44:00.000-08:00

As the Olympics draw near, I’m reminded of an old Glen Campbell song (stay with me, you'll see the comparison.)

In Glen's song, “Dreams of the Everyday Housewife”, the lyrics from the 1968 hit, “Such are the dreams of the everyday housewife, you see everywhere any time of the day, an everyday housewife who gave up the good life for me,” make me think of all the dreams and goals women have given up over the years.

We all grow up with dreams for our future. They might be as simple as having a certain number of children, a dream job, living in endless sunshine, becoming a professional athlete... something, somewhere along the line, becomes a dream of what your life will be like when you "grow up."

Then “life” gets in the way. Yes, some dreams are achieved, but many fall by the wayside. And even if we are able to pursue our dreams without a hundred obstacles getting in the way, one little thing can derail us in a second. A heartless comment. A bad day. The gnawing feeling of failure. It can all make us second-guess why we think we can succeed where others have failed.

Now, think of the athletes from every country competing at the Olympics. The elite. The best. And all but one in each event could easily perceive themselves as a “loser.” It’s hard to believe they’d think that way, yet many do.

In a study, Olympic silver medalists are generally less happy than Bronze medalists. Crazy, right? It's the way they look at the results – the silver medalist just missed first place, while the bronze medalist is happy because they received a medal at all.

How can someone who has worked so hard, given up years of their life to hone their athletic skill, feel that way? These are people who don’t give up. “Quit” is not in their vocabulary. And they’ve done everything possible to reach for their dream.

That in itself is success. We also have people who’ve fought for the future even though they themselves won’t benefit. Look at the upcoming Olympics. There wouldn’t (finally!) be a women’s ski jumping event if it wasn't for the women before this, fighting for equal rights in sports. Canada's Katie Willis is one of the many women who fought for the sport to become an Olympic event. And although she has retired from the sport (at the ripe old age of twenty-two) she’ll be cheering for the women who will make history this year in the event.

In life, we all feel down at times. We have a bad day, things look like they’ll never be “up” for us again, and it’s easy to throw your hands up and say “I give up.” Or, we do succeed at something, and then we keep setting the bar higher until our expectations are unrealistic. When do we look at ourselves as a "success"???

And at what point do we give up on our dreams? Have you given up on yours?

What is YOUR "ski jump"? Mine is writing. I can't stop—nor do I want to. What about you? Have you given up on something you wish you wouldn't have? What stopped you from achieving your dream? And is it too late?

Losing a best friend ~ in honor of mine

2014-01-05T06:05:00.001-08:00

My best friend, Donna, passed away two years ago tomorrow, and her struggle with life in her last few years is what inspired me to start writing my first novel, THE TO-HELL-AND-BACK CLUB.

If Donna was alive today, she’d have been well-qualified to join that fictitious club! Below is a condensed version of what I read at her funeral. I’d like to share the kind of person Donna was—the person I was lucky enough to call my best friend.

I met Donna thirty years ago when our husbands played on the local men’s softball team. We were both new to our small town, and instantly connected. We shared the joys of motherhood, the sadness of leaving our girlfriends behind from where we’d moved, and our feeling overwhelmed at times in our mid-twenties with businesses to run and young kids to raise. Donna became the sister I never had.

I remember when she first got Leukemia, twenty-five years ago. I got a call at work, telling me Donna would likely not survive the day. Hah, those Doctors didn’t know Donna! As bleak as her outcome looked for a long time after that, what pulled her through were their young sons. She didn’t want anyone else raising them and fought like crazy to get better.

Donna had many good years after that and we had a lot of good times. Not only did we take trips as couples, going fishing, snowmobiling and even to the Cayman Islands, but Donna and I went on well over two dozen trips with our friends Sandy and Sharon. Those trips cemented a bond between us four like nothing else could.

Donnas’ determination and strong will could be frustrating at times, especially these last years when she was suffering physically and emotionally. Many of us felt upset that we couldn’t help her—she wasn’t admitting she needed help and sure wasn't allowing us to help. That determination of hers showed through right to the end though when her husband was trying to feed her the night before she passed away. Even though Donna could no longer open her eyes, had trouble moving, and was fading in and out… big surprise, she insisted on feeding herself. I watched her husband put the spoon in her hand and hold the bowl up to her, allowing Donna the little bit of control she had left of her life.

That same night, when I walked in the bedroom to visit her, she said weakly, “Well, Jill, I have some good news and some bad news.”

I laughed through my tears and said, “Really, Donna, what possible good news could you have at this point?”

“I’m still alive.” She replied. Positive to the very end.

When I think of what drew me to Donna the list is short but important: She had a good sense of humor, was nice, thoughtful, a very loyal friend and a great listener. And she was a great cheerleader, always encouraging me to do things even if she couldn’t make herself do them. Friendships usually have their ebb and flow times, but in the end, I always think of a particular situation I had with Donna years ago when three of us couples went to the Cayman Islands.

There was a storm brewing one day, and the beach was clearing out quickly. The dark waves got bigger and bigger, and although just about everyone else had the common sense to leave the beach, the six of us were young and foolish. I’m pretty sure it was the men’s idea to try swimming into the gigantic waves. So we did. The men went out as far as they could, Donna, our friend Denise, and me stayed closer to shore.

It didn’t matter. Those rolling waves and undercurrent knocked us down time and time again as we tried holding hands and standing up. We had sand packed into every crevice of our body from the strong force of the storm but it didn’t bother us, we were having fun. I was a little nervous since both Denise and Donna confessed they weren’t exactly strong swimmers. I can’t tell you how many times our legs got knocked out from underneath us, and I had one of them on each side as I tried to drag their laughing, sorry, bodies closer to safety.

Just as I was thinking we’ve got to stop this before someone gets hurt, a fierce wave knocked me down, sucked under and away from Denise and Donna as the undercurrent pulled me out. I was sure that was it for me! Suddenly I felt arms fumbling around me, reaching for me and dragging me to safety. Donna and Denise, the not-so-strong swimmers, had managed to get to me and pull me in. Just like friends do, reaching for each other when they're down, when waves of life threaten to destroy us, girlfriends have a strength that rivals the ocean to reach out and keep us from drowning, lifting us back up when we need it most. I’ll always wish I could have done that more for Donna.

Resolutions - Horton's Way

2014-01-01T07:04:00.001-08:00

When I think of making New Year’s resolutions, I can’t help but think of Horton the elephant, from the children’s book “Horton Hatches the Egg.”

For those of you who’ve never read the book, Horton is tricked into sitting on a bird nest by the lazy mother (who ditches Horton and her egg and flies to Palm Beach.) Horton sticks it out, despite many obstacles, often chanting “I meant what I said, and I said what I meant” (an elephant’s faithful one-hundred percent.) And when the egg hatches, the creature emerges as an “elephant-bird” and goes to live happily with Horton in the jungle—Horton’s reward for sticking to his word—while the lazy bird ends up with nothing.

Which is what happens with our resolutions. If we put nothing into them, we'll end up like the bird with nothing to show from our lack of effort. Statistics show that only 40% of Americans even bother with a New Year’s resolution. And of those, only 8% succeed. For Pete's sake, people, an elephant has more determination than we do!

So are we better off saying “eh” to the whole idea of making resolutions? Psychologists warn that making—then breaking—a resolution will damage your sense of self-worth. And who in the world wants to have that happen? I’m already well aware I have no self-control when it comes to snacking. Why make myself feel worse?

Years ago I made a resolution to not eat chocolate before 10 a.m. So guess who was shoveling chocolate in with a pitchfork at 10:01? Likely eating more than if I’d allowed myself that first morsel at, say, 8:00 a.m.

Researchers tell us it's better to bite off a little less when it comes to making our resolutions. Why write a laundry list of ten things knowing full well it'll take a small miracle for you to achieve even one? We also need to be very specific in those goals (which, in my defense, I was—10:00 a.m. and not a second before.) But apparently it would’ve made more sense if I worded my resolution as "I'll keep my daily chocolate intake to under four candy bars."

What I find most shocking in these studies is they state the success rate higher for people under age fifty, than those of us over fifty. I was sure the older we got, the more resolute we were—especially when one of the other top resolutions is to spend less money—something I thought we’d have figured out by the time we hit fifty.

As a "good Catholic" high school girl, my list every year usually involved giving up swearing and eating junk food. Right. A teenager who doesn’t eat junk food (or ever swear.)

After losing weight, self-improvement is next on resolution lists. We all know what we should do… volunteer more, drink less, spend more time with our family, complain less, make someone happy every day… in my case I need to work on my patience. Or lack thereof. Really, it’s true. Just ask my husband. It needs a little tweeking... or hatching.

So if in the near future, you can't find me, I'm likely sitting on my nest, developing my patience-egg. Because I meant what I said and I said what I meant… my patience needs working on one-hundred percent!

Happy 2014 to all of you!
And if you make a resolution – keep Horton in mind!

Clueless at Christmas

2013-12-14T06:48:00.000-08:00

During the holidays, bookstore shelves groan under the weight of “Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus” type books telling us what we already know about relationships. Men and women have a slight communication malfunction. And when it comes to holiday gift giving, that miscommunication can be magnified. A lot.
Women, it just might be worth it to print this out and tape it to the front of the TV for your significant other to see. It could make this season run a little smoother for all involved.
Speaking from my experience, men who can easily understand a friend’s grunt while hunting to mean “there’s an 8-point buck 50 yards to your left.” Or get what another guy means when he says “dude,” misunderstand when their significant other says, “Don’t get me anything for Christmas.”
I’ll admit I was the martyr who uttered those crazy words years ago. Selflessly thinking of our growing family, I offered up that noble thought to my husband, trying to save us some money. Ultimately, I blame my mom. Fifty-seven years ago she told my dad that he didn’t need to get her flowers for their first anniversary. She hasn’t received an anniversary present ever since. Martyrs run in our family.
It took me a few years of singing the “I-don’t-need-anything” song to my husband (who is a very thoughtful gift-giver when given free reign) before I realized how unfair I was being to him. Here’s my theory: How can I expect him to get into the spirit of the holidays if I deny him the shopping experience?
Muzak pulsating the season’s songs into his blood, while frenzied bargain hunters strung out on sugar-cookie-overload clip the back of his heel with their heaping carts, as he’s surrounded by screaming children demanding their presents early… I would hate to begrudge him that experience.
Honestly, how will men ever understand why we build up the family savings every year by shopping bargains if they don’t experience it firsthand? According to my mathematical calculations, when I buy a coat that was originally $150 and it’s on sale 50% off along with my favorite little sign above the rack telling me to take an additional 75% off the sale price—well everyone knows that 50% and 75% equal more than 100%. I’m pretty sure that coat is mine now along with a 25% kickback! See, if they don’t do the shopping themselves, how will they ever appreciate how much money we "save" by shopping?
Sometimes men have a little problem understanding the word “gift.” That might be where our miscommunication comes in. Some smart women I know say they have to be very, very specific in what they consider a “gift.” We could all learn from them.
I know a woman who received a package of dusting wands, another woman was blessed with a vacuum. Yet another was given a toaster. A four-slicer… but still. Apparently we are sending out the wrong signals.
Don’t get me wrong. I totally understand the true meaning of the holidays and also that it’s better to give than to receive. Honestly, I get it. I’m just saying that if we want to receive something that makes us feel appreciated and loved, something men put more thought into than picking their fantasy football team; we might need to send out a little more detailed signals. Over the years I’ve discovered “I promise to read your mind” was not one of our wedding vows.
Guys—I guess what I meant to say is we’ll be thankful for whatever you take the time to shop for. Just remember—make sure it’s on sale!!!

Chaos and Cranberries

2013-11-23T06:21:00.001-08:00

Please bear with me to the end (before judging me!) :)

My husband and I are empty-nesters, and love it. We are also parents to six awesome adult children and a growing number of loveable grandchildren, and live on a lake in Minnesota… so we have a lot of “visitors”, especially in summer.

Our house can go from sixty decibels to double that in a moment’s notice on many weekends. Sometimes the house feels like it’s pulsating with a heartbeat of its own… the grandchildren, TV, grown-ups trying to be heard above it all, barking dogs… and a lot of laughter. And sometimes it can get a little crazy.

The cleaning, food prep, laundry, before/during/after is daunting (and yes, they are all great about helping out!) and I think it's the switch from easy to hectic that gets me every time. I know, it sounds like I'm complaining--and I'm not, because I know that every single piece of effort I just mentioned is worth it. I know that.

But sometimes, when I’m escaping out the door for a quick trip up town for more milk and bread, my feet crunching on dropped cereal on the floor, and scouring the cluttered-with-everything-under-the-sun counter for my car keys, while gingerly handing over a sleeping baby and maneuvering around a sword fight between grand-kids, I find myself breathing a calming sigh of relief in the peace of my car as I head to town.

On the short trip, I appreciate the quiet, already looking forward to crawling into bed that night, even though it might only be 10 a.m. And just as I start to question my sanity, I drive by homes in our small town where I know for a fact, people are sitting inside… all alone. And wishing they had a little chaos and company to fill their lonely days.

And I remember. I think back to years ago when I felt lonely—in a house too-quiet and too-clean. Never again do I want that daily solitude, I remind myself, never again.

I also think of the main character in the book I've written. I made the poor woman so lonely! I killed off all her friends while dragging her through an empty nest and divorce. (Mean of me, I know!) SHE would have loved to be a guest in our chaotic house, reveling in the noise and clutter.

So, give me cereal crunching under my toes, chocolate hand-prints on the windows, endless laundry and total exhaustion. It reminds me I've been blessed with people I care about and am lucky enough to have in my life. Nobody sang it better than Barbra Streisand ~ "People who need people are the luckiest people in the world."

For this upcoming holiday season, my wish for you is this: A little chaos with your cranberries, and maybe a fallen piece of pumpkin pie squished between your toes.
Then I’ll know you've been truly blessed!

Hunting season

2013-11-07T13:36:00.002-08:00

So I’ve been a little behind in the blog-department… life, and nice summer/fall days have deterred me. But all that freedom and enjoying the outdoors will change this weekend.

If you don’t live in an area where hunting is rampant, you’ll likely be unable to relate here. But feel free to sympathize as my life becomes engulfed by blaze orange (after a season covered in camouflage).

Simple walks or jogging become hazardous, unless you’re covered head-to-toe in lovely, blaze orange attire—which really accentuates your pallor this time of year.

Leftover Halloween candy is suddenly confiscated by deer hunters to stuff into their coat pockets and inhale while they waste, I mean hunt, their hours away in a tree stand.

The thing is; I used to be one of them. City-slicker-me, who had no idea growing up where beef and pork came from until I spent some time on a farm. After getting married and moving “up north”, I was enlightened as to what people do around here to deer. Shoot them.

Yes, poor Bambi—and his mom and dad, are ruthlessly hunted, and then (oh, I don’t want to think about this part) mysteriously appear on our dinner plates a few weeks later. Savages, yes. After going through the butchering process myself, I can assure you I wait a good long time before I can stomach any venison. I can still see those soulful brown eyes gazing at me when I close my eyes.

I have to tell you, I wasn’t your typical hunter. I was told “Deer can smell you a mile away, and can hear every little move. Don’t eat anything out there, not even gum, and don’t move a muscle.”

Hah! I’m not a good “sitter”, plus who wants to just waste time swaying way up high in a deer stand while sllllllllooowwwlllllly turning your head to look for deer? Not me. So I’d pack a lunch, and bring a book. Yes, a book. Read a page, gaze around me, read another page, repeat. I’m here to tell you, it’s a productive way to hunt. I had many years of success!

I actually feel sorry for the area men. For two weeks before hunting, they can’t sleep. Or, if they do, they’re hunting the elusive buck in their dreams. Then their neck swells to twice its normal size as they go into “rut”. And, if they actually shoot the elusive buck, then their head swells to twice its normal size!

So maybe instead of feeling sorry for me, I should ask you to empathize with our deer hunters. Or, at least, please keep them in your prayers. As annoying as this “season” can be, we’d like it if they all get through it safely.

What Is "Love"?

2013-07-23T19:03:00.000-07:00

What is love? (In my mind that question is quickly followed by 'baby don't hurt me, don't hurt me no more' thanks to the song by Haddaway!)

Following that song though, I have a hundred answers to a question with no one right answer.

We writers write about it, we sing of it, read about it, think about it, hope for it, and crave it.

Images flash through my mind, images of what I interpret true love, the deep down, with-you-no-matter-what kind of love, to be.

They’re not the “love” you usually read or hear of in a song… not the “oh, look at those six-pack-abs” lusty-love, or the “I’m taking a bat to his truck for doing me wrong” love.

I’m talking the real-deal love.

And this is what I think about: The elderly couple I watched recently while waiting in the clinic reception area. With canes resting against their chairs, they talked with each other as if they were best friends. When they were ready to leave, both reached out to the other and helped each other up. Now I don’t know how long they’ve been married, but from a distance, I’m going to say I witnessed a long-time-real-love couple.

Or the person who day in and day out, through rain, snow, or wish-I-was-outside-sunshine, goes to visit their beloved who is in a care center, nursing home, hospital, or an invalid in their own home. Those people who want to spend time with the person who means the world to them, cherishing those precious moments with someone who may not even have the ability to speak anymore.

And then there’s the love of the young. The child who has just given you a near-fatal heart attack after running out in front of a car… the child you would like to now shake for making your heart stop, but only because you love them soooooo much and the thought of living without them is something you never want to experience.

Or the child who kept you up night after night for the first six months of their life, the one who made you a zombie during the day, that child who you live and breathe for and would do anything for. The real deal.

The best feeling in the world is to be truly loved. It’s not what that person can buy you or do for you, it’s the security of their love, the knowledge that they will be there for you.

No matter what. The Beatles had it right… All we need is love.

When you think of "true love", what comes to your mind?

Losing George

2013-07-13T05:48:00.001-07:00

So, the news is out--George Clooney is a free man again. It comes as a bit of a shock to me. I was under the impression he and I were still together. Apparently not.

How embarassing to find out about our breakup through the media.

Maybe he found out about my husband? I'm not sure what set him off this time. Next thing you know he'll be walking the red carpet with some young floozy half his age, trying to make me look bad by replacing me with a slightly younger (and likely very high-maintenance) woman.

She will come up short. I mean how can she compete with a mid-western woman who has no problem going a week without makeup, clips coupons, loves to dig in the dirt, considers a meal at McDonalds a "night out", and wears clothes that are ten years old. I saved that man a boat-load of cash. And this is the thanks I get. Public humiliation.

I whined about our breakup the other night to my husband. And got very little sympathy from him. Probably because he and Ashley Judd are apparently still an item.

Just wait until she dumps him. Then he'll be a little more sympathetic.

Until then, I'm turning to you... I'm sure you can relate!

One thing leads to another…

2013-05-31T18:33:00.002-07:00

I was determined to get at some long-overdue writing projects tonight. I’m not sure where I went wrong…

After supper I turned on my laptop, took out my notes for my writing, and was just about to sit down when I thought I’d quick load the dishwasher.

Looking out the window while loading the dishes, I saw the clothes still hanging on the clothesline. Knowing rain was coming tonight I went outside and took the clothes off the line.

Brought them in, folded them and put them away.

Throwing out a t-shirt of my husband’s that could have walked itself to the trash, I realized the trash needed to be taken out to the garage.

Which I noticed was full of leaves from the wind blowing them in.

So I swept out the leaves, and couldn’t help but notice the dust on the car.

That all but begged me to wash it, so I did, and then dumped the bucket of extra water over some of my plants in my flowerbed.

Which needed weeding. And dividing. And transplanting.

After all that digging and hauling, I went inside, drank a gallon of water, and was hungry again. Specifically for a root beer float.

In a house with no root beer, or ice cream, I then had to make a trip to the grocery store. Where, as long as I was there, I picked up items for the weekend.

And for some reason, when I got in the house, unpacked the groceries, made my root beer float, and finally sat down to eat it—in front of my computer—I found I was too tired to concentrate on writing.

I’m a little unsure of where I went wrong.

But I know one thing—for some reason, I didn't get any writing done tonight.

A slice of Perspective served today

2013-05-19T17:51:00.000-07:00

It was a long weekend, beginning with a head cold and sore throat, and feeling like I’d rather crawl back in bed yesterday morning instead of driving to the Twin Cities for a wedding. But I wasn’t going to miss it ~ Jake is the youngest son of my best friend who died last year. She couldn’t be there, I would.

Yesterday was long, fun, emotional (I sobbed like a baby through most of the thankfully-short ceremony), and tiring. After hitting the water park this morning at the hotel with kids, I was ready to head home. Meaning about six stops in Brainerd at stores on my way through the town.

By late afternoon I couldn’t wait to get home and relax. I was sure I’d hit every red light today and every clerk at the stores seemed to move in slow motion. The final straw was my $10 off coupon of a $10 or more purchase. I was stopping at that store to get something “free” even if I had to crawl in on my hands and knees.

Of course, this store is known for their coupons being only good on nothing anyone really wants to buy. But I was determined I wasn’t leaving that store until I got $10 off of something-I-didn’t-need-anyway.

After way too much time spent in that store, I was done, my car pointed towards home. And not a moment too soon as I was very frustrated at how long everything had taken me today ~ I was going to arrive home about two hours later than I’d planned.

Practically peeling out of the mall parking lot, I passed a woman hunched over some makeshift walker on wheels, shuffling, stopping, shuffling some more. I drove right past, still ticked off at how long I’d wasted in the last store.

I drove about two blocks before I stopped. My barely-registered flash of that woman was suddenly haunting my brain. And my Catholic Guilt kicked in.

I turned my car around, not even knowing for sure what I could do for this woman. Give her a ride somewhere? Her makeshift cart had many things hanging from it, and with my full backseat, I had no clue where I’d put everything if I offered to give this elderly woman a ride.

Finding myself pulled up next to her, I’d kept my eye on her and how little progress she’d made since I carelessly drove past her minutes earlier.

When I stopped the car and rolled down my window, I was surprised to see the woman who turned to greet me. She was likely younger than me.

I asked where she was going. “Burger King.”

“How far away do you live?”

“Two blocks.”

My mind digested this a moment. I’d watched her cover maybe 25 yards in five minutes and this woman was walking two blocks each way to go eat at Burger King?

Eyeing up her walker, I knew it wouldn’t fit in my car. How could I help this woman who was answering my nosy questions so easily, as if her crippled, hunched- over body was somehow my business?

“Are you okay? I see you keep stopping.”

“I get tired so I stop every few feet.”

What could I say to that?

I ended up handing her money, telling her I’d like to buy her a few meals.

Then I left. And thought about that woman for my forty-five minute drive home.

Why did I give her money? She hadn’t asked for it… was it guilt? Pity? She didn’t want my pity and certainly I had nothing to feel guilty about. But I did. On my drive home I thought about how impatient I was at the fact I was “running over schedule”, especially after a long weekend where I was feeling run down.

What a joke! That woman would never know the ease of stepping on the gas after waiting at a red light, to take off and fly down the freeway. My aches and pains from a cold would likely be a walk in the park for her compared to the aches and pains her body must feel. Every single day.

And her meal at Burger King was probably the highlight of her day, compared to me wrinkling my nose up at another fast-food meal.

The money I'd saved with my stupid coupons on unnecessary purchases, meant nothing to me.

And I’ll forget what I bought far sooner than I’ll forget her.