Amen

The month started off less than pleasantly here in Authorial world, which, unsurprisingly, tends to make Mom world a little rough, too. I was in such a bad mood that it infected The Kid. Suddenly, he was hysterical because he could only eat one fish stick. It was that bad.

And then, unexpectedly . . .


Hello.

Unexpectedly, things began to look up. I swear, the clouds parted, the sun shone, and, well, it was a hawk, not an angel. But close enough. Something was singing.

Now, I’m not a religious person, but I ‘m deeply spiritual. The beauty of the simple things on this planet–the sun setting over a glass-smooth river, a cardinal singing from a snow-covered branch–never fail to leave me awe-struck by a Power much larger than anything I’ll ever understand. But nothing brings me closer to Earth than this:


Hi, there.

This is a spiritual experience for me. There’s not a lot here, just a few green shoots that have made it past the frozen deadness of winter. I counted seven total. Next week, there might be seventy. In another month, there’ll be hundreds. Thousands, even. I put a lot of daffodil bulbs in the ground because after a long, dark winter, I cling to the hope that Spring promises with big, sunny flowers. Spring. It’s so close I can see it, growing right before my eyes.

This is my prayer.

Amen.

*Programming note: Don’t forget to read the last blog from Tuesday to find out more about my first-ever radio interview, next Tuesday!

This entry was posted in Mom.

San Francisco, Part Two

So, the conference ended. I had a great time, but I was out of my cowboy boots (#1 lesson learned: Do not walk down 20% grade hills in cowboy boots) and into my sneakers in 2.3 seconds flat after the last handshake, and then we were pounding the pavement downhill to Chinatown.

Did I mention it was the first day of Chinese New Year? And we were in Chinatown? On a Sunday?


The Kid is getting noticeably better at getting everyone’s head in the shot.

Speaking of ‘shot,’ man, it sounded like downtown Baghdad, what with all the firecrackers going off. Seriously, someone could have whipped out a Tommygun and taken out half a block and not one single person would have noticed the noise.

First, we ate. I made the excutive decision that any restaurant on the second floor was better than any restaurant on the first floor, and any restaurant that had a line was better than any restaurant that didn’t. (This opinion has been confirmed by my Chinese ESL students.) So we ate at Kan’s.

Then, for dessert, we got some fortune cookies.

No, really, I mean we went and got some fortune cookies, made by this nice lady:

The cashier tried to give my Kid one of the ones she was making. I don’t know if you can see that little pile of yellow slips of paper by her left hand? Yellow means something in fortune cookie world, apparently, because she grabbed that cookie out of The Kid’s hand and began to apologize: “No! NO! Not for childrens! For adults!!!” I laughed so hard I almost wet my pants. The cashier almost gave my son a dirty fortune cookie! Try to find something like that in the Midwest!

Note the blooming trees? The clear blue sky? The 65 degree temperatures? Man, I was loving life right then. And that was just one afternoon.

The next day, we did Alcatraz.

Did you know the island had been taken over by American Indians in the 1970s? I sorta did, but I know a lot more now. That’s the sort of thing I like knowing, because you never know when it will pop up in a book.

The Kid, truth be told, did not enjoy most of Alcatraz, except for the models:

It was so foggy that day that we couldn’t see the island (even the parts we were standing on) until the next day, when it cleared off and we were on the Golden Gate Bridge:


That’s it on the left.

Oh, the Golden Gate Bridge. It was my Favorite Thing.

It was foggy enough on the north side that it still had that air of mystery to it, but clear enough we could see dolphins and seals in the water below and the city in the bay. It was beautiful. And very tall:


It made me dizzy.

We only walked about 1/3 of the way across, because The Kid was hungry and we had a date.

A date with the Pacific Ocean, that is. Man, that water was COLD. Then we walked up to Haight-Ashbury.

Haight-Ashbury, if you don’t know, was the hippie center of the world in 1969. My menfolk think they’re being ‘cool’ over there. Now, there’s a Ben and Jerry’s across the street. We had ice cream.

So, in conclusion, we stood beside our hearts in San Francisco:

Ate the chocolate in Ghiradelli Square:

And had Mai Tai’s at the Tonga Room:

It was an awesome vacation. We saw things you don’t see in the Midwest; ate things you can’t get in this part of Illinois, and generally had a heck of a good time.

What? What’s that you say? After at least four blogs on it, you wanna know what I wore?

Okay.


This was Friday. I’ve got on boots under that skirt!


This was the Gala Banquet dress Friday night. Only a few other people changed, but damn it, I bought the dress, packed the dress, and, if I may say so, looked good in the dress, so I wore it.

And that’s it. Those are the only two outfit pictures we remembered to take. But have no fear! The ‘professional’ cowgirl look will be seen again, very soon!

How soon? VERY soon. I’m doing a radio interview for a conference at which I’m presenting in two weeks, and then, of course, the actual presentation (more on that on Tuesday)!

Stay tuned!

This entry was posted in Mom.

San Francisco, Part One

Hello, and Welcome to the inaugural Tuesday Authorial posting on the Authorial Mom blog!

(Don’t panic. That was as formal as it gets around here. Tangential humor still rules.)

So, I packed up the Husband and the Kid and went to San Francisco last week. On Thursday, I’ll talk more about what we did as a family on our vacation. But I didn’t go just for the vacation. I went for the San Francisco Writers Conference.

Hosted by my agency, Larsen Pomada Literary Agents, the San Francisco Writers conference was at the top of Nob Hill in (surprise!) San Francisco. And when I say the top, I’m not kidding. That hill was freaking huge.

I didn’t walk around it too much for a few days, though. The Mark Hopkins hotel, where the conference was held, was a beautiful place, and it was full of all sorts of people! Writer people, agent people, and even editor people! In other words, my kind of people!

Well, sort of. Most of these writer people write ‘literary fiction,’ which is good stuff, but tends to have fewer steamy sex scenes and greatly reduced chances of a conventional happily-ever-after ending. I write romance. I’ll be honest, I was worried about getting funny looks. I don’t handle confrontation well.

Turns out, I didn’t need to worry. The only problem came at the session entitled “Putting Passion on the Page” with Rachelle Chase, Elizabeth Jennings, and Margaret Marbury. It was the only romance-focused session at the conference, and about half the people in the very crowded conference room were men. It was the last question of the session, and a woman asked “Yes, could you tell me what the difference between pornography and erotica is?”

That is, hands down, the worst question in the world. And about the most commonly asked one.

Rachelle, Elizabeth, and Margaret were great, though. They stuck the landing with a perfect 10. And, in case you were wondering, the answer is that pornography is a sex act. Tab A into Slot B. Nothing more, nothing less. Romance is about a relationship between two people, of which sex is a natural, emotional part. Emotion is the key word there, people. Emotional as in love. As in happily ever after.

I digress. I did get some funny looks, as in I personally found them funny. I sat between two gentlemen at the first lunch, Raymond Edge and David Shapiro. Raymond writes anthropological fiction, set in early American Indian periods, while David has an awesome natural history graphic novel aimed at middle-school boys. And the conversation went like this (in between bites of less-than-awesome salmon):

“So, what do you write?”

“New western romance.”

It’s not easy for one’s eyebrows to shoot up and backward at the same time as one blinks slowly, but it is doable. “Well . . .” and then something interesting happened. “What does ‘new western’ mean?”

So I did my elevator pitch, “Where the cowboys are the Indians, but they often have cell phones, pick-up trucks, and advanced degrees.”

And then something even more interesting happened. “Do you have a particular tribe in mind?” Now, it turned out that Raymond also writes about American Indians, but this was a common male-based question. I answered it six times in three days.

When I went to the Romance Writers of America conference last July, not a single person asked about the tribe. They wanted to know about hunks on horseback, which is totally fine with me. But the men want the non-romance specifics they can wrap their heads around. They want details. Real facts.

So I had a variety of interesting conversations with men (who would not be considered my typical reading audience) about the authenticity of being a white woman writing about Lakota Indians. It was weird, in a good way. I think the fact that I actually do my research (as opposed to just making stuff up, which I got the feeling people sort of expected me to do as a romance writer) earned me some writing respect.

So while I didn’t feel like I was being attacked for writing romance, I did feel like I was representing the entire genre, so I better make it good. I talked to a lot of women who weren’t sure if they wanted to call what they wrote ‘romance’ or not because of that aforementioned ‘pornography’ stigma.

Like Laurel Levy, who writes urban fantasy/paranormal. . . romance. I think. I haven’t read her book yet (but will some time next week), but it sounded like the romance between the two main characters played a pretty major role. Or Lisa Slabach, who writes women’s contemporary fiction and also has a romance sort of on the side. She’s originally from Chicago, so she’s cool, and by the time the conference had ended, she’d already made contact with her local chapter of RWA. Sarah Harian, who has an awesome sounding urban fantasy for young adults, was less concerned with labels, but I think that’s because she’s one of those ‘young people’ you hear about so much today who just do what they do and don’t care what anyone else thinks. (I kid, Sarah!)

Look, I know that ‘people’ like to dismiss the entire romance genre as trashy, light-weight drivel, and, honestly, there’s some stuff out there that is, in fact, trashy, light-weight drivel. But a lot of it isn’t. A lot of it is good. Really good. These same ‘people’ also blow off other genres, like science fiction, fantasy, paranormal, horror, detective . . . pick a genre, they get dumped on. But the fact of the matter is that readers like romance, sci/fi, horror . . . all of them. Readers buy these books. Lots of these books. Romance alone counts as almost half of all books sold alone.

I’m an author. I write romance. I want to sell books.

I’m so glad we went to San Francisco. I met so many great people, plotted the next step of my journey with my agent (more on that next week), and saw a hell of a lot a great city (more on that Thursday).

Changes!

So, you know, it occurred to me that, while the title of this blog is Authorial Mom, it’s really almost exclusively a Mom blog. Which, of course, if you’re my mother and enjoy reading about what The Kid or various dogs are up to any given week, is just fine. (Hi, Mom!)

The Kid and everything about him–how much salad I can make him eat, how many dragons I’ve stepped on today, or who his latest girlfriend at daycare is–takes up about 40% of my daily brain power. Toss in a Husband, the aforementioned dogs, and the never-ending battle between dishes and laundry, and that’s about 85% of my daily brain space.

But there’s more to this whole endeavor than the Mom part. There’s the whole Authorial part. In real life, the Authorial part is constantly running in the background, and on Tuesdays and Thursdays takes up the bulk of my time. It occurred to me that the Authorial part doesn’t get the air time that the Mom part does.

So I’m making some changes. Starting this week, Tuesdays will be the Authorial Day ’round these here parts. I’m not exactly sure what form Tuesdays will take. Fewer pictures of my dogs, maybe, replaced with more links to industry insiders on hot topics, like the recent Amazon/McMillian throw-down. I might post what I know (?) about the business side of publishing.

I’ll put up more details on the book(s) I’m working on, for sure. After all, I can do 8-9,000 words a week. (Note the can. I can. I don’t always, but I can.) That works out to a book every three to four months. That’s a lot of character development, story arc, and happily-ever-after in a relatively short time. Why, I’d be willing to bet there are at least four people out there right now who want to know what the heck all those people who have constant conversations in my head are talking about. I’m pretty sure I’ll also be talking more about the American West and American Indians, too. It’s what I write. It’s what I love.

If you already get an email reminder about the weekly Authorial Mom update, I’m still only going to send out one per week on Thursday. If you’d like to get that reminder, email me at message@sarahmanderson.com and I’ll add you to the list.

So join me on Tuesday, when I start putting the Authorial back in the Authorial Mom blog!

Leavin’ . . .

(sing it with me now) oooooonnnnn an airplane . . .

Boy, I miss Peter, Paul, and Mary. I know, I know, Peter and Paul are still technically with us, but it’s not the same.

ANYWAY.

Yes. Back to the topic: Leavin’ on an airplane. In fact, by the time most of you read this, I, along with my loving husband and The Kid, will be winging our way rapidly to Minneapolis.

Why? Beats the tar our of me. I wasn’t the one booking flights. I barely got the hotel reserved, and that in and of itself was a major accomplishment for me.

No, Minneapolis is merely a connecting flight. For reasons that escape me, we have to fly to the Great Frozen North to get to San Francisco.

Oh, San Francisco. Even the name sounds warm enough that no frozen precipitation falls from the sky. And, frankly, by mid-February, that’s all I ask for from a destination.

We’ve never been, individually or collectively. And we go now for 2 1/2 very simple reasons:

1. My agency, Larsen-Pomada Literary Agency, is hosting the San Francisco Writers Conference. I will learn things, meet people, and most importantly, suck up to my agent.
2. My loving husband has worked 6-7 days a week, 10-14 hours a day, for the last 8 months, and today is, in theory, when that insane period of changing a major corporation over to a new computer system, bringing international offices on line, and training multitudes of other office workers while also doing his normal accounting stuff ends. The man needs a vacation in the worst sort of way.
1/2. As I mentioned, we’ve never been to San Francisco. We wanna go. It’s cold and snowy and icky in Illinois. It may rain on us in San Fran, but damn it, it’ll be a lukewarm rain, and that’s all I’m asking.

Yes, when I bandied about the very notion of attending this conference way back in August, the first thing he said wasn’t, “How much?” but, “When?” which was followed closely by, “Let me check my schedule.” And then it was on like Donkey Kong (and no, I don’t know what that means.)

This is a major deal for us. First, I’m going to a conference, which, if you’ve been paying any attention at all (not required), sends my neuroses into overdrive. (Clothing update: My friend Leah came over and we forsook the Super Duper Bowl Halftime Old Geezers Show so that she could personally vet my outfits {and accessories!}. I will now stride forth in all fashion confidence!)

Second, I have to get on a plane to get there. See above mention of neuroses.

Third, this is the first real, serious family vacation we’ve taken that does not involve staying at an in-laws’ house since my sister Hannah got married. That was fast approaching four years ago, and the Kid wasn’t even a year and a half old yet. We flew to Denver a week early, got very (damn) little sleep, and did our best to have a good time before the nuptials began. (Side note: We had a good time at the nuptials, too.)

But that was it. In the past three and a half years, we haven’t taken a real vacation.

So, off we go, into the abyss. ‘Santa’ got The Kid a portable DVD player for Christmas (although The Kid stubbornly insists on calling that his ‘DS’) and we’ve been hording gum, but I have no idea how that boy will do on a plane.

Unlike me, being as I am a naturally paranoid person who does not personally enjoy, in a stomach kind of way, the ups and downs of altitude changes. I know exactly what I will do on a plane. I will guzzle ginger ale and focus on meditative breathing like nobody’s business. Which means my husband will be in charge while we’re on the plane. Unless The Kid has to go potty, because my husband has a strict no-airplane-bathroom rules.

Yes, as you can see, we are going to be a bundle of fun on the plane. WHEEE!

We’ll be in San Fran for a week–three days for the conference, and then three days for Family Time. I’m only loosely aware of what those crazy menfolk of mine are going to do for their three days of completely uninterrupted father/son time–trolleys, to be sure, and aquariums, and something called The Duck. I know I’m going to Alcatraz, Chinatown, and something about a bridge? Yes, that’s it.

I won’t be back in time next week to blog about it, and I’m not nearly insane enough to try and lug a computer AND a small child around an airport(s), so stay tuned in two weeks for pictures!

Oh, and wish me luck. Lord knows I’m going to need it!

This entry was posted in Mom.

January is . . .

. . . the PERFECT time to visit Chicago!

What? You don’t think so? Ha! Just goes to show you what you know! You’re probably sitting around somewhere warm, all proud of your stable core-body temperature, like that makes you ‘special,’ ‘right,’ or even ‘alive.’

Ha! I say again!

I thought January would be the perfect time to visit Chicago for several key reasons.

1. All the ‘new’ has worn off the Kid’s Christmas toys. He’s officially bored.
2. I feel like I only leave the house to chauffeur people and go to work.
3. My husband is working every weekend, all weekend.
4. Zen-Master Becca is noticeably pregnant. Being as this is the woman who was physically THERE for the birth of my son, I felt that going to up to pat her belly was the least I could do.

So, I did. I packed up the Kid in what turned out to be sort of a test run for our Big Trip to San Francisco in two weeks, (more on that later), we hitched the Carl Sandburg, and headed north.

Heck, it wasn’t even that cold. The high was 17! It’s not like Lake Michigan was frozen solid or anything . . .

Whoops. Spoke too soon.

So off we went. The train schedules are always a little bit tricky. They only leave from our hometown very early or late in the evening. We didn’t get into Chicago until 10 Friday night, and had to leave at 7:35 Sunday morning. So that gives us one whole day.

January is the perfect time to go see whales! So we did.

I think the Kid thinks he’s looking at me through binoculars or something. Note the tent-tunnel behind us. We got to the Aquarium within 20 minutes of it opening. There was a five minute indoor line. When we left at 1:30, that line was 200 yards BEYOND the tent-tunnel.

Which represented Fatal Flaw #1 of my plan: I figured the Aquarium wouldn’t be too busy. I failed to take into account that other people–most of Chicago, in fact–would have reached the same conclusions I had earlier. That place was PACKED shortly after we got there.

First things first: Sea Turtles!

Oops. You’re not supposed to use flash photography. The sea turtle doesn’t like it, dude.

The Kid wanted sharks, and he wanted them NOW. So we found the sharks:

I do think he was disappointed that they were *only* nine feet long. This is the downside of Finding Nemo. All sharks should have Australian accents. Note I’d turned the flash off by now. No one wants to piss off sharks, even smallish ones.

We saw the show, called Fantasea.

I don’t want to disparage or anything, but the show was weird. Sea nymphs (also known as trainers wearing incredibly silly outfits) ‘guided’ our passage into the World of the Sea or something supremely weird like that. Aquarium people, just remember. You are Aquarium People. You aren’t Disney, and you shouldn’t try.

I mean, seriously. Is this a Renee Magrit homage in the middle of an aquarium show???

Still, the Kid was mostly engaged, as long as there was an animal doing something. He didn’t give a whit about Sea Nymphs.

He did like the penguins, and we were close enough that when one of them pooped, he giggled uncontrollably.

Fatal Flaw #2: If the cafeteria worker asks if you want fries with that, she’s asking not because she’s helping you watch your figure, but because fries are not included. They were damn proud of those fries.

The Kid had been good all week so that I would buy him a ‘special’ toy at the Aquarium. I was thinking up to $15–two dollars a day of good behavior, rounded up. And you know what he wanted? A jellyfish. To heck with Baby Beluga or the sea otters, or even the sharks. He wanted a jellyfish.

So I got him one.

And the great thing was, this jellyfish came with a whole bunch of other sea creatures. And all of these sea creatures together totalled $3.99. They were just about the cheapest thing in the store. So that’s how I got talked into buying Pooh Bear a ‘camera.’

That’s the kind of Mom I am. I buy cameras for stuffed bears.

After that, we hung out with Zen-Master Becca and her hubby, then wound up driving by our old house on the north side of the city and eating at the Chinese restaurant where my husband and I had our first date. Between pregnant best friends and the trip down memory lane, my mind was boggled.

Which is why we watched Madagascar 2, apparently. That and the Plumpy song. Becca insisted, and you don’t say no to a pregnant woman, not when she’s got the Kid on her side.

Then we came home, where the Kid loaded all his sea creatures onto trains and puffed around the tracks while I came down with a raging sinus infection.

One day, I’ll take the Kid to Chicago when it’s above freezing. Heck, given baby showers and the like, it might even be this year!

As long as I don’t get the Plumpy song stuck in my head again. Man, that thing is contagious!

This entry was posted in Mom.

The Past Blasts Back

Or, alternatively, Ego Goeth Before A Blog.

This . . .

requires some back story.

So, this summer, I finally broke down and joined facebook. (Or is it Facebook? The tab in Google Chrome is upper case, but the facebook logo is lower case. What’s an English major to do?) I’m friends with my family, with several authors I’ve met, just about everyone in my hometown, and, just for good measure, a few complete strangers. I like catching up with old friends. I’m a real out-of-mind, out-of-sight kind of girl, but facebook brings people back into line-of-sight for me.

So when my best friend from high school, Amy Short, showed up on facebook a few months after I did, I was ecstatic. For a long, occasionally tumultuous time in my life (as high school often is), Amy was one of the few people who ever ‘got’ me. I was glad we found each other again.

Right until she did this to me.

Oh, Amy, why? Why?

Just kidding. Let’s review, shall we?

It’s hard to get past the glasses, I know. They are whomping HUGE. But dig in a little deeper, okay? If you look carefully, you’ll note that I’m wearing an Army-green-but-not-actual-Army-issue jacket over a men’s striped, button-up shirt. This was normal for me back in the day, when I would only wear a skirt on special occasions and carried a wallet in my back pocket. That, my friends, is the textbook definition of ‘tomboy.’

Yes. I know. You and the rest of the high school all had the same thought. (Which, for the record, is not correct. Wasn’t then, isn’t now. I just have no fashion sense, as you might have gathered from the recent blogs obsessing on what to wear to conferences.) So, as you can see, I’ve tried my clueless best to ‘girl’ up this outfit. Note the stunning long strand of fake pearls just peeking out from the collar, and no, your eyes do not deceive you. That’s an ear cuff dangling off the right ear.

Yes. Ear Cuff. What are you looking at?

Oh. That.

This is just . . . not an improvement. That’s Amy standing next to me, making me look all bad. She’s totally smoking hot (even by today’s standards) and I look like I’m late for tea at the old folk’s home. And yes. I did wear this to homecoming. It was a dress, so it counted. My husband–the love of my life–literally burst out laughing when he saw this picture and then wondered why people didn’t schedule some sort of intervention. Stacy and Clinton were busy that year. I think this was 1994.

I must have been overtly fond of those pearls, because there they are again. At least they belong with this dress, unlike the waterproof men’s watch I’m wearing. I don’t even want to think about the shoes. Oh, the horror. The horror. And I think we can all come to agreement that, based on this photo, I was aware I needed concealer, but I had no idea how to use it. Like nearly all make-up.

Nothing like a blast from the past to make you feel old. This is, hands down, the best picture Amy’s seen fit to post of me yet. (Another good friend of ours, Kelly, is in the middle.) I was quite tall for our high school, and yet, when I look at this, two thoughts come to mind. 1) Red is not my color, and 2) Wow. Only one chin!

Ah, the memories.

She’s posted more, some not half bad, some the basis for future lawsuits. If you’re my friend on facebook, you can come gawk whenever you want. (Please, be nice. This is all in good fun.)

All of this leads me to several inescapable conclusions:

1. High school sucked, but best friends made it tolerable.
2. Joining facebook (Facebook?) was worth it.
3. I was much, much thinner in high school.
4. My hair was super long, too.
and, perhaps most importantly,
5. I dress a hell of a lot better now.

I hope.

This entry was posted in Mom.

Number Three

So, as I mentioned last week, tis’ party time!

The English as a Second Language party came and went with lots of leftover food. I ate Thai food for a week and am currently hording the last of the peanut sauce.

Then, last Friday, I went to the first of three different community college parties, this one held by my Nighttime Boss. True, when I informed other guests that I teach ESL–all who worked for said community college, the one where I teach said ESL class–most of them looked at me like I had personally landed that morning from another planet and was oozing irradiated slime out of multiple orifices. I’m not sure if they even knew we had an ESL program.

And then, then I made it worse. I mentioned that I have four different editors looking at No Man’s Land. That I write romance. New Western romance. In a room full of community college educators. I went from ‘oozing alien’ to ‘oozing alien selling timeshares.’ Remind me not to do that again. Not without some artificial ego support, anyway.

Not everyone recoiled in horror. Renee, my Nighttime Boss–who does NOT look at me like I’m oozing–was a wonderful hostess, and the Dean of the College was also quite friendly. He is apparently aware of the ESL thing. But not the romance thing.

What a difference a night makes. The very next night, I went to Melissa’s house.


(I’d like to publicly apologize to Melissa for my crummy camera skills. This is not my best work.)

Melissa is one of those wonderful people who is a friend of a friend, who then became my friend as well. True, she’s got four adorable children under six, and I work 2 1/2 jobs. We don’t see each other much, but one of the reasons I treasure her friendship is that that’s okay. We enjoy the time we get. Melissa happens to teach at the aforementioned community college, but she reads regularly reads my blog. In other words, she’s cool.

Melissa had a jewelry party–Lia Sophia. It was the sort of crowd that, when I mentioned the whole romance thing, did NOT recoil, gape in shock, or poorly contain a look of disgust. This was the kind of crowd that said, “Really? Where can I get your books? I LOVE romance novels!”

That’s pretty much word-for-word what Jody said, God love the woman. Jody Beckman was the ‘advisor.’

(I’d like to publicly apologize to Jody for my crummy camera work.)

I liked Jody not just because she loves romance, but because she had a nice laugh and her eyes sparkled when she talked about her husband and kids. My kind of woman.

However, I felt bad for her–and Melissa–because I do not buy things at home parties. I just don’t. You can’t undo 33+ years of frugal German training with some nice earrings. Although that one pair was very nice . . . I go to home parties for the chance to talk to other adult women and eat snacks. But to make it up to Jody, feel free to use her name as your ‘advisor‘ if you decide to buy some jewelry. Christmas is right around the corner, after all.

Mission: Accomplished. I ate snacks, and I talked with other adult women. Success!

Melissa’s sister Cindy was there, with her daughter Hayley.


(I’d like to publicly apologize to Cindy and Hayley for my crummy camera work.)

I think they did most of their Christmas shopping for each other.

April arrived seconds after I did.


(I’d like to publicly apologize to April for my crummy camera work.)

I’m afraid I actually shut the door in her face, but she was lovely.

Susan goes to church with Melissa.
(I would apologize for the camera work here, but, as you can see by my presence, I didn’t take this. Melissa was exacting a little revenge, I’m afraid. Still, Susan got the better end of this picture, I think.)

I got the feeling Susan goes to a lot of Lia Sophia parties. She knew all the answers. Even the one about the ‘Husband Unawareness Program.’

Did you know about the Husband Unawareness Program? I got the distinct feeling that I was the only one in the room who hadn’t heard about it, and I’m not sure if I’m breaking some Wife Code rule by even acknowledging its existence.

We all took turns trying on necklaces and passing around Melissa’s adorable twins.


(I would even apologize to the jewelry, if I thought it cared.) (Next time, I’m bringing Lucy Lucia with me to take all the photos for me.)


(Cindy, this one is better!)

Yes, much jewelry was purchased. I had a wonderful time. And no one looked at me like I oozed.

That’s what friends are for! Thanks, Melissa!

This entry was posted in Mom.

Commence Partying!

How was your Thanksgiving? Crazy? Join the club!

Thanksgiving morning, I got up, helped foil a turkey, and joined these crazy people:

That’s my sisters Leah and Hannah, Hannah’s husband Steve, and Steve’s cousin Adam. These ‘humorous’ people decided that–new family tradition!–they were going to do the Gobble Wobble Thanksgiving morn. 5K walk/run.

And sit. I sat in the church, drank tea, and then stood outside for ten minutes to start snapping pictures of beloved relatives crossing the finish line. (For the full story, see Fighting Brimley.)

The dogs had a great time, especially Gater, who can fit through the fence and enjoyed escape several times. Not so much post-turkey, however. But still.

Then we went to my in-laws. Who had recently bought themselves a ping pong table for Christmas.

Really.

The kid insisted the Pooh Bear play ping pong with me. Pooh Bear is no Forrest Gump. Heck, neither am I. We spent more time searching for the ball under boxes and behind tables than we did actually playing. Still, when the kid actually managed to connect paddle to ball, he hit a few hum-dingers.

Am I old enough to say Hum-Dingers? Don’t I have to be about 78?

The kid loves Grandma and Grandpa’s house. Maybe it’s because of the family farmland, the wide-open woods, the unconditional Grandparent love. But really, it’s because my mother-in-law has every Little People toy and accessory known to humankind.

It’s hard core. She even has the ill-fated ‘square’ Little People McDonald’s set. The kid and I moved all the furniture into Sesame Street this time. I even found the Bert and Ernie beds. Sure, the foam ‘mattresses’ have long since returned to dust, and Bert doesn’t have his pointy little head of hair anymore, but we did unearth Big Bird’s nest this time. God is good.

Thanksgiving is over. Now is the time to sit back, unbutton the pants, and just relax.

NOT.

Do you remember ‘Not’? Do you remember Wayne and Garth? How old are you, anyway?

No, there is no relaxing around here. It’s time to PAR-TAY!

Do you remember Par-tay? Said with a ‘hey, girl, hey’ kind of accent?

Sad that these are my pop-culture references.

Anyway, so we came home Sunday night from a whirlwind four-day, four-grandparent Thanksgiving smorgasbord. We got in after seven. And we immediately began to clean.

Monday, I was throwing a party. The Holiday/Farewell/Drink Wine During Class party. Tiya, you see, winters in Thailand, and Monday was her last day, so it was a Farewell Party. Which was, technically after Thanksgiving, so it’s a Christmas party, but not everyone in my class is Christian, so it’s a Holiday Party. And I had it at my house, which meant I didn’t have to drive, which meant I could drink wine during what was technically class.

This is Sami and Julie.

Julie brought cheesecake, for which I am eternally grateful. Sami brought root beer, for which the kid is eternally grateful.

This is Ting Ron (standing) and Goi. This is the only picture of Goi I can put up here, because it’s the nice one. That’s what she said.

That’s Ting Ron and Sylvia, his wife.

They brought their son, who’s seven. My kid tried mightily to entertain their son, but seven year olds don’t really want to hang out with four year olds. Really.

This is G. She has a name that only sounds pretty when you say it in Portuguese, which I can’t, so we just call her G.

She brought me a necklace made from seeds. It’s lovely. Very ‘cowgirl,’ if I do say so myself.

That’s my class. I spend two nights a week with them, teaching them all sorts of great English words. No, I won’t tell you which ones. You aren’t in my class!

That was only the beginning. This Friday, my nighttime boss is having an intimate gathering at her house. Then Saturday is a home party at a dear friend’s house (Yes, Melissa, I’m coming!) Next Friday is the college-wide party; the week after that is the Community Education party. There will be neighborhood parties, work parties, family parties, and, just when I will be totally partied out, New Year’s will be here.

Let’s Par-tay!

The Quiet Week

Boy, oh boy, last week was quiet. Nothing funny happened to me at all. In fact, ever since The Tailgate, things around this house were dull to the point of deadly. It was so quiet that I was driven to drink.

True. In some twisted hope of livening things up around here, I broke into the wine at 2:23 on a Thursday. And then I sat down and watched Batman Begins. In the middle of a work day, no less. And then, slightly more than half-drunk, I took my dogs for a walk.

And that was it. That was the excitement for the whole of the week. I don’t even have a funny picture to put up. It was just that lifeless around here.

What’s that? Why was it lifeless around here?

Excellent question. It was lifeless because of this.

What’s that?

That’s China. As in, Shanghai. As in, the city where my husband spent a week on a business trip. See?

Okay, so you can’t see. Trust me on this. The man was in China, where exciting things like Shanghai traffic and, most especially, a dish they told him was called “The Drunken Fish” happened to him. “The Drunken Fish” may have been a mistranslation, because according to my husband(the vegetarian), it was a big glass bowl, filled with an alcoholic salt brine–and live shrimp. As in, still living. As in, one actually jumped out of the bowl and made a break for it across the table. Don’t worry, he didn’t get far. He was drunk.

No doubt about it, he was in China. How do I know? Normally, I’d trot out the wonderful gift he brought me as proof he was there. However, that man–the love of my life, the father of my child–decided his gift to me was so nice that he’s going to ‘save’ it for Christmas.

To which I responded, Nice? Better be fantastic!

Still, he did bring these:

The travel kits supplied by China Air for business travelers. Thereby proving that he went to China.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, Awesome travel kits! And it’s true. But perhaps you’re wondering if my son missed his father? Got a little lonely in all that quiet?

Not a chance in hell.

Here’s the perfect example of what kind of mother I am. When I put two and two together–in this case, husband leaving on business trip the week after we hang out with my mother at a tailgate, I acted fast. I called my mother up and said, “How would you feel about just taking the kid home with you for the week?”

To which she replied–well, I didn’t really understand what she said, but there was a lot of jumping up and down and shouting to my father excitedly in the background.

My boy didn’t have the chance to miss his father, more or less me. They went fishing at the Lake. They went to a Blues hockey game with his Aunt Leah. They played toys all day. They went to the Magic House. They even went grocery shopping. Everything’s better when you’re being spoiled by grandparents, really.

So, husband in China. Son at grandparents. It was so quiet around here, I could almost hear myself think.

Almost.

This week has been completely different. First off, everyone came home. Suddenly, the house was filled with trains whistling, people shouting from other rooms about missing socks, cars vrooming across the floor.

Yesterday, well, yesterday was the most exciting day of the week. The month, in fact, because after a crap-tacular Authorial October, November has been good to me. My Agent, Laurie, e-mailed me to say that three–THREE!–editors want to look at No Man’s Land, aka the bull riding book.

So, I’m excited. The husband is excited. The kid is excited, but that’s mostly because he got a brownie for dessert last night. The dogs, well, they were excited (see above picture) but now they are asleep.

The quiet was nice while it lasted. But I’ll take this kind of excitement every day of the week.

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