Media, Motherhood & Mayhem

On taking a chance: my interview by Michael Lee West

2011-05-31T07:51:00.000-07:00

Most people like to read about things they know about as well as what they don't, and everybody likes to read about people they know... or think they know. That's how it felt when I started reading the novels of Michael Lee West many years ago: not only do the characters and dialogue ring true to this Southern lady, but the setting was eerily familiar as well, and talk around town was that the town she set some of her novels in, especially American Pie and Crazy Ladies, was a shadow of the town Mrs. West and I both reside in: Lebanon, Tennessee.

I devoured every novel she'd written up until the point I started reading them, and then awaiting each new one. My copy of Mad Girls in Love literally split in half from me wagging it around and reading it for weeks.

Mrs. West and I have kept in touch over the years, starting with us meeting at the Tennessee Writers Alliance writing conference at Cumberland University in 2004, I think. Then I joined the board of the TWA and had Mrs. West involved in its quarterly newsletter and then, last year, asked her to be involved in Milk & Ink: a Mosaic of Motherhood, the literary anthology I helped edit and contributed to.

So, as a fan of her work and a fellow writer I was thrilled when she asked to interview me for her stylish and popular blog, http://designsbygollum.blogspot.com/

In my interview I talk about my trip to France last year, my writing habits and even give the recipe for the favorite French dish I make at home, chicken ratatouille.

Here's the link - I hope you enjoy and come back for more!

~ http://designsbygollum.blogspot.com/2011/05/interview-with-two-authors.html

On Mayhem: Living with kittens

2011-05-30T00:50:00.000-07:00

The thought "I wonder where my Coke is - I sure would like a sip" had no sooner entered my mind then I heard the thunk and splash. The sticky, delicious liquid was already dripping off the edge of the white bureau in my den and soaking into the beige carpet before I could moan a curse and shove my laptop aside, tripping over The Best Comforter in the World to get to the mess.

I have one mama cat, Gatsby, and three kittens. We had five kittens but have managed to unload two of them so far. I fear we are keeping the rest, as they have found their way, quite relentlessly, into our hearts.

Monster and The Dude

I've never had cats before: we are dog people in my family. My dad and stepmother have a lovely Siamese, Jasmine, but she pretty much lives under their bed and is rarely seen in my presence. In fact, I was severely allergic to them until either A. I had my son or B. he decided he needed kitten about a year and half ago. I don't know what happened, but my severe allergy was downgraded to mild when Gatsby found her way into our life as a kitten just a little younger than hers are now.

Gatsby on the ride home

My son and I hadn't been living at The Cottage for very long before I returned home one day to find our front door slightly ajar - it had been that way for hours, apparently. Obviously distressed, I burst into the house with little thought to a knife-wielding stranger camped out inside but more along the lines of "They took our stuff! Our STUFF!" Nevermind we have very few things of any value to anyone but us: it is our stuff.

Our stuff was all still there, from the ancient, Jurassic analog TV to my pretty but relatively inexpensive jewelry. Everything, that is, except our beloved cat.

I talked to neighbors, I made calls: no one had seen her. Not knowing anything about cats or their... habits... I threw up my hands and prepared to tell my son that his cat was gone. The recent move and my even more recent bout with kidney stones resulting in an extended stay in ICU with sepsis had been unsettling enough - now the cat was gone.

She wasn't gone for long. Two days later we spotted her on the front porch as we returned home. She wasn't alone.

"Gatsby's back," The Dude cried out, pointing from the backseat. "And she has a new husband!"

"Oh hell," I muttered, eying the orange, quite pedestrian friend who had escorted our little slut cat home.

Of course you know how the story goes. I, again, knew nothing about pregnant cats. I thought (and prayed) that she was just getting fat. I convinced myself that she was just getting fat even if I convinced no one else. As the truth began to literally show itself I relented to the fact that we were about to have several new additions to our small family.

"How many kittens do cats have?" I wondered aloud to friends. "Two? Three, maybe?" This resulted in amused snorts from my best friend Sarah, a cat lover from way back.

In late February I returned home from a trip to a local walk-in clinic to treat a hellacious sinus infection to my jubilant son meeting me at the door, jabbering, "Gatsby had her kittens! There are FIVE of them!"

Horrified, I stumbled to our laundry room to find Gatsby, even more irritable than usual, curled around a nest of mewling, slick and gorgeous kittens.

Since then our little home has gone from manageable and pleasant to unpredictable, often messy and delightful. Things are suddenly knocked from shelves and tables, there are unexplained messes in unexpected places, and forget about sitting for any extended period of time without having a small knot of fuzzy kitten for company.

Here are some things I have learned from having kittens:

1. Your stuff is no longer your stuff. It's their stuff. Feel privileged for even being allowed to remain in the house.

2. Don't leave your purse on any sort of elevated surface. Don't leave anything on any sort of elevated surface, for that matter, because it will get knocked off and things will be scattered. Lipsticks and earrings will disappear forever.

3. Your days of laying down and reading peacefully are over. Your reading view will either be blocked by a sleeping cat on your chest or you will become part of the track they are using to run laps through the house.

4. Forget about privacy, period. Whether it's just sleeping (they will find a way to enter your bedroom unless you just plain ole shut the door, and then they will mew pitifully and mercilessly outside the door, and small paws will appear beneath the door, patting inside desperately) or what was once considered private bathroom time (bathing alone is unacceptable, you can't be trusted to be alone in their bathtub, don't you know that's where they get the best sips of water?), you are now at their mercy at all times.

5. Your vocabulary will now include phrases like "sifting litter pan liner" and "odor control for small spaces" which, actually, can be applied to other parts of your life.

6. There are few things softer or more precious in this world than the belly of a sated, sleeping long-haired kitten purring, curled around your neck. This will become a soothing and necessary part of your writing routine, like ambient music.

7. Get used to waking up and having at least a small part of every room scattered, including piles of books knocked over every single day, several times a day, and DVDs knocked off the top of the DVD player because one of the kittens just loves napping on top of the warm machine.

So, there are sacrifices that must be made, time that will be carved out of your day to do anything from change the litter box (constantly, at least twice a day, at least in my house) to pausing to let a passing kitten nuzzle your nose or weave between your ankles as you try to complete a hurried meal. These are the little things that change your life and make you adore these little darling creatures that, at one time, made your eyes swell and your back prickle in annoyance.

Because, looking at them, how could you not love them?

On Telling Tales: A Forward

2011-05-24T17:36:00.000-07:00

Time for a laugh

Trust me – you’re not the only one who’s felt this way.

You’re not the only mom who has opened your sliding minivan door (Minivan? When did you agree to drive a minivan?) and had all sorts of clothes, food packaging, plastic cups, lost homework and various sports-related articles spill out onto a parking lot.

You’re not the only mom who has had to make two dozen last-minute cupcakes for class, or walk, without makeup and with flyaway hair, your child to class as he clutches a tardy slip, irate because it’s actually your fault he’s late. Not the only mom to worry about whether your child makes the football team, makes the grade, makes the right choice.

You’re not the only woman who’s worried about what sort of mom she is, whether her decisions are correct, whether or not to console the child you just disciplined. You’re not the only woman who has had to turn to another mother instead of her husband or mate for consultation and condolence.

And, most likely, you don’t have time to sit down and read a whole lot of a book, no matter how much you’d love to and how great it is.

Only part of the funny, touching, validating and entertaining book you’re holding in your hands is that is can – and maybe should – be read in sips. Telling Tales is a compilation of weekly columns by Angel Kane and Becky Andrews, two intelligent, professional, compassionate women who happen to have a lot of children and a lot to say about what it takes to keep their family, their careers, and their sanity in tact.

Telling Tales is about the bonds between mothers and their children, their mates, and their families, but also about the imperative relationship between mothers and their friends. No woman, despite how urgently we wish to be sometimes, is an island – and our life preservers can be the phone calls, the understanding nods, and the time our friends take to share our burdens, our stories and our lives.

Telling Tales is a life jacket to grasp when you need just a little something to make you smile and hold up your head, turn your face to the world and think, “I’m not alone, and I can do this.”

I have read the columns written alternately by these two women in The Wilson Post newspapers for years, but it wasn’t until I read them all together in a complete manuscript that I felt the strength of their friendship and the honest, wry wisdom of their words. I’m honored to be a part of this collection of columns, and I know you will enjoy each little sip of the cocktail and come back for more.

And, like any good diversion in life, this one’s better shared with a friend.

Tomi L. Wiley
October, 2010

A Short Short Story or A Beginning....

2011-05-18T09:09:00.000-07:00

The first cake I tried apparently had way too much explosive agent inside because when I tossed the damn thing out the front door of my bakery and into the street the tow truck it splattered against exploded.

I was walking back into the shop, wiping buttercream icing off my hands with the hem of my apron, when the bakery floor buckled and the glass shelves in my display cases fell, sprinkling a dozen cooling cupcakes with slivers of glass. Smelling smoke, I turned, my lower lip caught between my teeth, and saw the truck on fire in the middle of the street; dollops of buttercream icing and a few pink roses dotted the sidewalk between the front door of my bakery and the smoldering tow truck.

"Aw sugar," I said.

Joseph Devon's new book launches today!

2011-04-28T10:24:00.001-07:00

My talented writer friend Joseph Devon has worked for years on the sequel to his novel Probability Angels. The result, after many readings, rewrites, edits, texts, emails and arguments, is Book Two: Persistent Illusions, on sale today for Kindle and paperback. Below is a review I wrote of Probability Angels after first reading it, originally published in The Tennessee Writer, a quarterly newsletter for the Tennessee Writers Alliance.

The concept of the novel is intriguing and original – mortals who give up their own lives to save that of a loved one and in turn spend eternity “pushing” other mortals to go as far as possible and create new ideas, art, and technological innovations: such examples in the novel are Isaac Newton, Bram Stoker, and Shakespeare.

These “angels” are trained by masters, such as Epp (Epictetus), a one-time slave from Ancient Greece who has pushed mortals and trained angels for centuries. Epp is powerful and smart, tough and brave – and other elder angels think his time as a deified master has come to an end, sparking a battle between the angels and the “other things,” described as zombies, for the soul of Epp and the position of power he holds in their eternal universe.

I won’t go into the details of this novel because I think everyone should read it for themselves, but the themes of this fascinating, thought-provoking read have been tackled and tossed about through the ages: the choices we make affect more than just our lives and create a ripple affect, touching the lives of others for years to come, and making difficult choices – or choosing not to make them and allow life to just “happen” – are how people grow, change, and adapt.

The choices the angels make to forfeit their lives as mortals and spend eternity “testing” other mortals is one of immense, eternal pain and sorrow, but, as Epp tells protagonist Matthew, the reward for the excruciating decision long outweighs the temporary pain.

“The upside is that you can be greatness itself. You could be Shakespeare’s broken heart, Beethoven’s deaf ears, Van Gogh’s madness. You could be Kellar’s scarlet fever, Roebling’s crushed left foot, the color of Dr. King’s skin. You could be the entry for light to pass into the soul. You could be the reason everything worth doing on this rock ever gets done.”

While the notion that our most difficult decisions, and their life-changing results, are “pushed” by angels who are constantly surrounding us and interacting in our lives in ways that we never realize, is not a purely novel concept, Devon’s characters and methods are original and wholly captivating. His ear for dialogue and knack for character development is to be admired, and I closed the book feeling not only as if I knew the characters but felt invested in their lives. Succinctly, I wanted more but was satisfied in the moment with a fully realized experience. And like any good meal savored slowly and carefully, relishing each moment and morsel, I can’t wait to return for a second course.

Book Two: Persistent Illusions launched today, Thursday, April 28. Find Book One: Probability Angles and how to order Book Two: Persistent Illunsions at http://josephdevon.com/novels/probability-angels.

On Motherhood: Working title (a poem)

2011-04-12T10:39:00.000-07:00

Swathed in my sheets

my son, sweaty and five,

sighs, reaches out a plump palm.

Even in his dreams

he has been waiting for me.

On Mayhem: For Whom the Heart Bleeds

2011-04-08T10:13:00.000-07:00

I'm part of a fun, interesting project called Dorothy: Locked and Loaded, which is - in creator Scott Meek's words - the serialized, collaborative novel effort of five writers, each of whom will play a very specific role within the story of the return to Oz of "Dorothy". Only this time, it is not "Dorothy Gale" of the original; it is "Dot", her granddaughter, who grew up listening to the wild and hardly believable tales of her grandmother's adventures in the land of Oz.

What fate awaits our heroine in an Oz that has evolved, or dare we say "devolved", over the course of fifty years? What new or old dangers lurk? What has been the fate of Dorothy's old companions? Will they still be there to help the newest stranger in the land? Will they be who she's always heard they were, or have they changed? And was it for the better?

Stay tuned and find out right here as Dot, the Scarecrow, the Tin Man and the Lion, as well as your faithful narrator, tell the story of "Dorothy: Locked & Loaded". Toto is a little more lethal than he ever was, but this isn't Kansas or your grandmother's Oz!

Here's the beginning of my latest installment, posted today:

I thought that they could never die. That’s what I was told. That no one in Oz ever dies.

It was a lie.

Scarecrow sat by my side while I was on the throne. While I was Emperor of the Winkies, he traveled with me, chattering ceaselessly, reciting poetry he learned from his professor friend. What I wouldn’t give to have him here with me, now, on this lonely road to the Emerald City. For these are hills familiar to him, forests deep and known, and I should know them, too, but my head is filled with nothing, with dust rising in a wind of thought, of need, my mind dusty and rusting and turning on itself.

This was the road we took to find her. To find my Nimma, my rose, my love.

But then, she was called Nimmie Amee.

I pause on the edge of a forest, eyeing the trees shivering in the fading pink light of dusk. Leaves turning over, silvered, offering themselves to a coming rain. I have to get out of the open, under cover, before it comes. Ignoring a groaning that rises either from the wind through the trees or my own aching throat, I start toward the dim, the depth, the held breath of the forest.

My steps echo on the flaking brick road, bounce off the trees and back to me, bounce off the tin that is me and back to the trees. We are playing, the trees and me. Calling out, step step step. Knock knock knock. Tik tock. Tick tock.

The trees are reaching arms and gnarled grey bark faces. Maybe it’s my tired eyes, my rising mind, but they seem to yawn and snarl, to eye and scorn me. Last time they punished us for Dorothy’s collecting their fallen fruit. They were hateful and scorned. But that was then, when our world was different, before my empire of shining tin crumbled into dust and ruin.

What's the Tin Man's deep, dark secret? How many beating hearts did he carry in his metal chest?

Find out ~ http://dorothylockedandloaded.blogspot.com/

On Media: On the General Jackson

2011-04-06T06:36:00.001-07:00

General Jackson’s new season has something for everyone

Whether you like current country, your grandfather’s classics, or get down with gospel, this season’s General Jackson show cruise has something for you.

Country Music USA is a nostalgic take on country’s past and present, showcasing the talents of country, western and gospel stars from Hank Williams, Sr. and Patsy Cline to Reba Williams and Rascal Flatts. The show gives a nod to its country roots in the Grand Ole Opry, reverence to the religious roots with a gospel medley, and a shout out to today’s stars with current hits straight from country’s Top 40.

But the music’s not the only thing to enjoy on the General Jackson, which was named after President Andrew Jackson and has been a Nashville staple since 1985. Tourists and locals alike enjoy views of the Cumberland River and Downtown Nashville singular to the cruise, as well as gourmet meals prepared with care by Gaylord Opryland Resort’s award-winning chefs and served both “family style” and as three course meals, depending on the cruise.

“The General Jackson Showboat has a proud heritage here in Nashville. From the moment our guests board the boat, they are treated to a one-of-a-kind experience, which starts with our well-known Southern hospitality,” said Dennis Schnurbusch, general manager of the General Jackson Showboat. “Guests get to see the sights and sounds of the city as the boat travels the Cumberland River, all while enjoying Tennessee’s temperate climate. With excellent music and wonderful food, the General Jackson is where memories are made.”

Country Music USA features the talents of Brian Glenn, Chad Hudson, Paul Vann, Lori Beth Hogan, Jamie Godfrey, and Natasha Noack. The high-energy show begins with an Old Time Gospel Medley, then moves into Country Roots and Grand Ole Opry staples, such as “Foggy Mountain Breakdown,” “Blue Moon of Kentucky,” and “Salty Dog Blues.”

Fans of classic country will be tapping their toes to the two Classic Country Medleys, in which songs and artists range from “I Walk the Line” by Johnny Cash to “Why Haven’t I Heard from You” by Reba McEntire.

Prefer current country? The cast jams their way through a set list with hits from Garth Brooks, George Straight, Carrie Underwood and many more – including, of course, the omnipresent Taylor Swift. Filled with great food and thrilled by an excellent show, General Jackson cruisers enjoy a patriotic finale with “In God We Still Trust” and “God Bless the U.S.A.”
But don’t think you have to sit still the entire time – a mid-show intermission gives cruisers an opportunity to explore the General Jackson and enjoy the great views of the Cumberland River, green banks and finally, the sparkling skyline of Downtown Nashville over the splashing paddlewheel. Bring your camera.

The General Jackson Showboat, built by Jeffersonville, Ind.-based Jeffboat, was launched April 20, 1985 and was christened July 2, 1985. The boat can hold 1,200 passengers and 157 crew members. The paddlewheel riverboat stands 77 feet tall, making it one of the country’s largest showboats. The paddlewheel itself is 36 feet long, 24 feet wide and weighs 36 tons. Two Caterpillar 3512 engines, each with 1050 horse power and 880 kilowatt generators, are responsible for powering the boat, which has a maximum speed of 13 miles per hour. Most recently, the General Jackson, with its beautiful surroundings and one-of-a-kind experiences, was named “Best Place to Kiss” a distinction from the Tennessean newspaper.

Special event cruises for Valentine’s Day, Mardi Gras, Tennessee Titans football games, Halloween and even New Year’s Eve make the General Jackson a popular choice for people looking for a safe, memorable time.

Country Music USA is a three-hour evening cruise and runs through November 13. Ticket prices range from $55.52 per person to $87.95 per person, plus tax.

Boarding takes place at 6:15 p.m., with the boat returning at 10 p.m. (Monday through Saturday). Sunday evening cruise times are one hour earlier.

The General Jackson Showboat offers both midday and evening cruises with a variety of entertainment options throughout the year. Holiday cruises begin mid-November.

For tickets or more information, please call 615-458-3900 or visit www.generaljackson.com.

Have a program, show, book or event you'd like me to attend and review? Email twileypr@gmail.com

On Motherhood: How much info is too much?

2011-03-23T13:10:00.000-07:00

My mother tells this story of a time when I was “sick” – from what I can ascertain, I probably just had a bad cold. Of course, to hear Mom tell it, I was languishing, knocking on Death’s door pale-faced and clammy.

Our memories of a particular doctor whose care I was in only briefly when I was very young is subjective and suspect at best: my only memory of this doctor’s office is of sitting on an examination table, trembling, as a nurse with the long red nails and gravelly voice of a storybook stepmother gripped my wrist in one fist and used the other to walk her fingers, spider-like, up my forearm and bicep.

This is where my writer’s imagination kicks in, my mother always says at this point of the story, although she’s never flat-out denied this happened.

“Here comes the kitty cat,” the nurse growled, and slammed the needle – easily the length of a ruler, shining and dripping before it pierced my skin – into the pliant peach flesh of my toddler arm.

That’s my one story from this particular doctor. My mother’s is quite different.

She had brought me to the doctor with, as I said, what I assume was a cold. She was frantic about my fever, nearly comatose concerning my chills. After examining me and (I can only assume) dispensing the witch-nurse to give me a shot of sudden cure (penicillin, which I was later diagnosed as allergic to, which could explain the severe reaction memory), the doctor walked my mother down the hall, and they peeked into the open doors, glimpsing pieces of the lives of sick children.

According to my mother, there was one child that had been recently diagnosed with cancer but was in that day to treat a cold; one child lay shivering beneath a blanket on an exam table, staring at the wall with clouded hot eyes, who was about to be admitted into the hospital to be treated for pneumonia; another child was inconsolable, racked with a cough you could hear in the waiting room, pink phlegm spraying his lap and hands, his mother a sunken heap in a corner chair, haggard and helpless.

“These,” the doctor told my mother, “are sick children. Your child has a cold.”

I hear these words any time my son gets sick – even if, as in the past few days, he has been vomiting without warning, sobbing on the toilet with diarrhea, listless and silent with fever. I took him to the doctor after a night of this, after running through every piece of linen in my house – from towel paths on the floor from each room to the bathroom, because he couldn’t control his vomiting, to sheets and pillowcases, washcloths and dishtowels, anything to wipe up the sick and replace what had just been replaced and he had soiled. Pajamas, underwear, my sleep shirts and hands, hair, and feet – all bile-slicked and stinking. It didn’t help that the last meal he had before the virus set in was fried shrimp, coleslaw, chips and salsa.

The doctor, who seemed more removed and distracted than usual, which I didn’t especially appreciate, diagnosed my son with a stomach virus. I continued to list everything my son had eaten the day before, in case it was food poisoning or too much candy at the funeral home (my aunt passed last week, and the funeral home is lousy with mints and candy vending machines) the fact that he’d been congested and maybe it was sinus drainage into his stomach and making him sick, it could be anything.

It wasn’t anything. It was a stomach virus, and he’d be over it in a few days. The main concern was keeping him hydrated, which would be a slow and persistent process. If he didn’t “tolerate” fluids consistently by yesterday afternoon, my son would need to be hospitalized.

Once he was home and in bed, he slept nearly the rest of the day. Almost as soon as he was settled and sleeping, my body decided to let go and succumb to the virus as well – I hadn’t felt so hot myself all night but had concentrated so fully on him (and cleaning up after him) that I had barely noticed.

In these days of constant status updates, Twitter feeds and texting, there was many time that I wanted to update my Facebook status about my son’s health: that he was so lethargic and quiet, the consistent giggling, muttering and thumping as he leaps off his bed or swings into action as Spiderman was non-existent noise from his bedroom, and it worried me. He had to tire of me popping my head in and squinting at his lifeless lump beneath the red comforter on the bottom bunk, my palm against his forehead, my knuckles on his cheek as he tried to sleep.

But I found myself hesitating and often not updating my status because I immediately thought of a friend who’s son has cancer and who’s daughter has donated her own bone marrow to help save him. The thought of her reading my update about being worried that my son was still sleeping, or wasn’t laughing with me at The Simpsons, or vomited again after several calm hours, shamed me, made my fears seem gratuitous and silly.

I thought of when I worked in Mt. Juliet at the newspaper and there were (still are) at least a half dozen children under the age of 12 who are either currently battling cancer or have succumbed to it in recent years – a rather high number, in my opinion, in such a small square area, but that’s another story for another journalist. I never had the courage or tough heart enough to take it on. I simply told their stories – both encouraging and of dwindling health – and went about my way, telling myself I was grateful for a healthy son, and any little cold or sickness he came down with I’d keep to myself as much as possible.

But is that any way to live a life? If I can’t share my concerns and worries, no matter on what scale they compare to someone else’s, with my friends and family, who could possibly have tips or advice for me during my own trying time, what good is social media and networking, anyway?

Should I feel bad about worrying over my son, who is sick, although not as sick as other children – those with cancer, or genetic diseases, or any other debilitating situation spiraling their lives out of their control? I’m profoundly grateful that my son is in overall wonderful health, but when that does falter should I constantly keep the problems of other children in mind and my fingertips silent?

Basically, how much information shared on social networks is too much?

On Mayhem: Life, in general

2011-03-01T09:00:00.001-08:00

Admittedly yes, it's been a while since I've blogged, but inevitably life gets in the way, we wander off sidetracked, become caught in brambles, lose our way.

I've lost a lot in the past couple of weeks, but I've gained even more: time. Time for my son, time for myself, time for my writing. I have some amazing opportunities and chances and changes on the horizon, and I'm pretty excited about that.

But in the meantime, I'm volunteering at my son's school.

The Dude is in Kindergarten, and apparently it is common for mothers who either don't work or have the free time to volunteer in the classroom for several hours in the morning. My son was ready for me to join the Mommy ranks immediately after I left my job, but I needed some time to prepare. It's a good thing I did.

His teacher, whom I consider a princess because she's beautiful, patient, put-together and delightful, told me to wear "old clothes" because I'd be painting with the children. The thought of painting at all makes me bite my lip, much less throwing 27 excitable five year olds into the mix. At least most of my clothes can be considered "old" by most anyone's standards, so I didn't have to worry about what to wear.

Decked out in all black, The Dude and I arrived on time at school. I parked and looked at him as he clamored over the console and into my lap, the usual way he climbs out of the car to go to school.

"So look, Mom," he said, settling into my lap and tapping the steering wheel. "Just because she sits beside me and sometimes I have to talk to her doesn't mean that Sarah and I aren't still broken up. Because we are."

Now this was unexpected.

"Well, okay," I frowned, trying to gather his backpack and my purse as he struggled in the opposite direction to open the car door. "But, just because you're not boyfriend and girlfriend any more (might I add, they are five) doesn't mean you can't still be friends. I mean, I'm friends with almost all of my ex-boyfriends. It's natural if you had a healthy relationship you want to continue."

"That," The Dude said, hopping out of the car and straight into a mud puddle with both feet, "is not the situation here. And that's all I have to say about it."

Now, I have always liked Sarah. Always since, oh, August, when the kids started school together and I watched this little girl greet my son in the hallway with a bright smile and a kiss on the cheek. (Yeah, I was a bit taken aback by that, but all right.) She obviously was crazy about my son, and she's a quick, friendly little thing with strong opinons and a confidence that belies her age. She gets this from her mother, I think.

That said, I immediately greeted the sunny little blonde, who happens to still sit beside The Dude in class. He glared at me for this blatant act of traitorism, to which I shrugged, and smiled, and went about my volunteering business.

I passed out stickers for homework and worked in the students' reading folders, in which each child is sent home with a book about a letter, such as A - Andy the Ant, or something to that effect. This was how I learned that my son, and one other child in his class, does not use those letter books - he and his friend are sent to the library, where he chooses a book each day from those reserved for students in the second grade.

The second grade. I blinked at him when he told me this, non-chalantly, as if he'd just said he gets to pick out his own tater tots at lunch, or his preferred milk of choice is strawberry. As if I should know that he's in Kindergarten but reading books for second graders.

One interesting project I worked on was in the students' Memory Books. These are plastic binders in which each month is filled with writing projects, photos, art attempts. I was working in February, and I had to call each child over to me and ask what three things they love, and then what (or who) they love the most.

The answers were funny and unpredictable. It was interesting to see which students listed things instead of people, like their toys and pets and stuffed animals. My own son gave macaroni and cheese as an answer, which surprised me, since he's only lately started eating it - and that's just because he tried some of my Easy Mac with red chili sauce in it. Now that's the only way he'll eat it. He said he loves me "most of all."

"Of course you do," I sniffed, and kissed his nose.

Two other children listed either my son or something he had given them as things they loved, and one little boy said he loved The Dude most of all.

"Huh," I said, jotting down the answer. "Okaaaaaay."

It was near time for lunch when my son, distracted and watching me, clearly bereft at the fact that I'd be leaving soon, backed toward his tiny chair and tried to sit down - without looking. He tumbled backward into the floor, all flailing hands and kicking knees. I covered my mouth with my hand and called, "Are you okay?"

He scrambed to his feet, red-faced and already wet-eyed. He glared at me. "I NEVER should have asked you to come here!" he cried, sitting carefully and covering his face. I called out his name.

Sarah, an arm's length away from him, peered into his face, touched his fingers. She turned to me. "Miss Tomi? He's crying."

"I AM NOT!" He shrieked, and we all jumped. His teacher glanced over, but I waved a hand. "I just never should have asked you here!"

This is a typical reaction of my son: he can't just be upset that this isolated incident happened and embarrassed him for a moment - he is responsible for the entire rotten day and everything that happens to everyone. He flings himself to the extremes, while I tend to languish more close to ambivalence.

I never cease to be amazed at the traits and characteristics of my family that surface in my son, or the aspects of his personality that are completely his own.

It's fun, this Mommy gig.

On Motherhood: Aging

2010-11-10T11:22:00.000-08:00

What a pretty girl
the adults told me
what a smart girl
they said
their tongues honey’d
their eyes far-flung.

What I wish they’d done
was held me up to a mirror
and touched my face
and told me to get used to this sight
these curves and planes
the only thing I trust

and even it will eventually betray me.

On Motherhood: Milk & Ink is here!

2010-11-05T09:22:00.000-07:00

After months of diligent writing, reading, editing and listing, our book has been published and is available for purchase.

Approaching the authors and compiling work, reading through and deciding, then editing – the whole process was thrilling and overwhelming and exciting and wonderful, but we wound up with some of the best writing from women across the world, in all different ages and experiences. The work is edgy and honest and important – it covers topics from Asperger’s Syndrome to the death of a child to the first days as a new mother.

Check out the official announcement at www.milkandink.com here

Once you've checked out the website, you can order the book via Amazon here

Proceeds from book sales go to the charity Mama Hope

Thank you in advance for your support - whether you buy the book for yourself, gifts for friends and/or family, or just tell others about Milk & Ink, we appreciate you.

On the music of motherhood

2010-10-18T08:17:00.000-07:00

The drive home from a weekend in the Smokey Mountains yesterday was ideal: an empty blue bowl of sky, windows full of wind, an unspooling ribbon of road ahead of us. D was in the backseat, playing Kung Fu Panda on his V-Tech handheld, singing along to "Use Somebody" by Kings of Leon when the thought struck me that he will recall moments like this - cool air, car packed with Lightning McQueen and black leather overnight bags, a tattered turquoise tote brimming with books, folders, and my little laptop - and remember music by Kings of Leon, Dave Matthews Band, Pearl Jam and Eminem and associate that music with me the way I hear the Mamas and the Papas, Otis Redding, Ray Charles and Charlie Pride and think of my childhood, my father; I hear Elvis and immediately remember my mother's brown curls (only later did they brighten to blonde) and hear her singing "Blue Christmas" in a high warble as the days slid toward Christmas.

Music draws memory, tapping the surface of our mind and pulling up thoughts like sunken debris from the sandy floor of the sea, sometimes glittering and bright, sometimes crusted and closed with age and denial.

I hope the memories, the round full thoughts of me, my son has when he hears a certain "oldie" when he's a young man are bright, whole, and fill him with love and longing the way a string of excellent lyrics can, the swell of a hearty guitar riff.

I hope when he hears "Use Somebody," some 20 years from now, he sees sunshine in my red hair as it lifts and dances across my shoulders, flicking into my mouth, wide and open in song, palms thumping on the steering wheel, and turning to grin to him, to tap his knee in time to the song, to clasp his small pudgy hand in my own and say to him "I love you. So, so much."

Short fiction: "Stella Tells the Truth"

2010-08-26T08:43:00.000-07:00

Art courtesy of www.universalworkshop.com/redliongallery

When my sister graduated from college she moved right away all the way to California cause her boyfriend lived there. When she lived in California none of us talked about it. Daddy missed her an awful lot. He said it felt like someone had dimmed the lights. I may have been only nine but I sure know what he meant. He meant everythin wasn’t as fun as before, cause she lit everything up like a candle or a nightlight.

She left right after she graduated, and people always asked how is Phae and what's she studyin and we heard she Moved Away. Daddy’d just say she’s gone on out to California to live, she’s doin real well now, and how are you?

It was just awful sometimes with her gone. She’d go for days and days and not call, when Mama and Daddy were so used to talkin to her just about every day when she was in college. She was real good in college, she brought home great grades that made Daddy real proud, and Sissy still says to herself sometimes she doesn’t now how Phaedra did it, kept up such great grades and partyin all the time like she knew Phaedra did. Phaedra didn’t visit as much durin college as Sissy does, but when she did come home she was fussed over like you just don’t know. She was always real busy when she come home, always runnin here and there, visitin folks, her family and such. She was real popular.

She lived in California for years and years, and she could only visit on big Holidays but never Christmas. She wasn’t home for three Christmases, I counted. Everybody counted. She’d come home for Thanksgiving, but Christmas she had to spend with Jaacob out in California cause she didn’t want him to be alone on Christmas. His folks didn’t go out to see him. She said she couldn’t leave him alone like that.

Then one day Daddy called Mama at work and said Phaedra’s comin home. Mama came home and tole me and I just about burst with happiness. I was so happy I picked up Jasper and kissed her right on the mouth, even though she’s just a ole dog. Jasper was real happy too, and we danced around while Mama called and made some rangements. Her and Daddy would fly on out to California and just move Phaedra right on back home where she belonged.

I didn’t ask but I knew it was cause she and Jaacob had broken up again. They broke up lots of times, but I was accidentally on the phone this last time when Phaedra called Mama and was cryin, which just about broke my heart. I cried too, and hugged Jasper tight cause Phaedra’s voice didn’t sound right. She was cryin, but her voice was real calm and real still like when Miss Eileen reads somethin out loud she done read five times, but someone still don’t understand.

He’s already seeing someone else Kay, the flat Phaedra voice said. I knew I wasn’t sposed to be on the phone, so I snuggled down deeper neath my blankets. Freddy Teddy was lookin at me, and I put one finger over my mouth to show him be quiet.

Mama tole Phaedra there’s no sense in dwellin on it, to not worry bout him no more and try to keep goin. She said she knows it’s hard, specially after lovin for so long and movin so far for him. This was bout six weeks before Mama tole me Phaedra was movin on back home. I know cause we’d just gotten our report cards, and I got it again when she was back. I’d wanted her to look at it cause I got all A’s, like her, but she had been in bed for a coupla days and wouldn’t talk to no one but her skinny ole dog.

She wouldn’t even talk to Daddy hardly after she took to her bed, when she first come home. Sometimes I’d gather up some supper before I made my own plate, and I’d carry it on tiptoe to her room and knock real quiet on the door. Phae? I’d call real quiet. Phae you there? You hear me?

There wouldn’t be no sound atall, and I’d just leave the tray there and tiptoe off. Sometimes the next mornin the food’d be gone, and Mama’d go in there before she went to work and get the tray. Most times it’d just sit there though, and Phaedra was real skinny when she’d let me sneak in and lay with her under the covers. She only let me do that twice, I counted. I’m real quiet, but those times I’d be sittin outside her door, doin my homework, and she’d open the door just a crack and hiss at me like ole Miss Haber’s cat.

I jumped and stared at her with my mouth hung open. She looked somethin awful, with these big rings round her eyes and stringy hair. Which is a shame cause she got real pretty hair. But there she was, starin at me, and hissin for me to come in her room.

She slid neath those covers real easy like she might break somethin. She moved around like ole Miss Haber too, real stiff and lookin like she hurt all over. I had the flu once and I hurt all over and I moved like that. She held the edge of the blanket up so I could slip in beside her.

Her body was so hot. I curled up against her and started sweatin right off. And I could feel her bones through her pajamas, her body was long and hot. She started cryin, and she pushed her face against my neck and just cried and cried. I wondered was this what she did all the time here in her bed, just cry? Won’t she feel better iffen she talks about it?

There’s nothing to talk about, she said, and her words were thick with hurt. I started cryin too, just knowin how bad she hurt. I had always liked Jaacob, ‘cept when he made her cry like this. He’d always been real nice to me, brought me candy and stuff. I never did listen to the things Daddy’d say bout him, cause I knew if Phaedra loved him so much there had to be some good in him.

I asked her, under the covers, what had happened. Had he found another girlfriend he liked better or somethin? I was sweatin a lot now, but I was just so happy to actually see her. Even though she was livin neath the same roof, sometimes I felt like she was just a ghost passin through the house at night, cause that’s the only time she’d ever come out, iffen everyone was asleep and the house was quiet. But I asked her how he could ever find anyone prettier than her.

It wasn’t that simple, she tole me, and I remembered that word from my vocabulary list. Simple. Easy. And it wasn’t just him that was botherin her, there was other stuff. She owed a lot of money, she said, and she didn’t know how to pay it back. They took her car. They took her car.

Who took your car? I asked her but she was cryin again, and so I just hugged and hugged her, and let her cry all over me till Mama called me on to supper.

Mama who took Phae’s car? I asked Mama in the kitchen.

Mama looked over at me. Who told you that? Where you been? Her eyes looked up toward where Phae’s room is upstairs.

Some people took her car in California cause she couldn’t pay for it anymore, Stella. That’s what happens sometimes when you can’t pay for something anymore, the people you’re paying for it come and take it away.

It’s called Repossession, Daddy told me. I thought that word sounded like somethin out the Bible. He handed me a plate. But that doesn’t make Phaedra a bad person, Daddy said. These things happen.

I heard Daddy tell lots of people that. People came round to see Phae when she first moved home, and for a little while she’d come out to visit. Then one day she just took to her bed and wouldn’t come out.

It was after she’d been at her momma’s for a few days and she came home walkin like she was underwater and just sat right down in Daddy’s lap and started cryin like a baby. And her nearly 23 years old. Daddy got it out of her that Jaacob was getting married.

Mama was mad as fire. She thought about just getting on the phone right then and callin him and –

But Phaedra cried no no no no no. I started shakin then and cryin too, cause she just looked so pitiful all piled up in Daddy’s lap and I wasn’t one bit jealous. She said she was glad for him, real glad that Jaacob’s happy, but it just hurt her so that she’d dated him for all those years and he didn’t want to marry her, but he takes up with this (she said the B word here) and all the sudden he’s getting married. It just made her feel so useless, so wretched. (I looked this word up in the Webster’s Dictionary at school and it means miserable and heartbroken. I’ve added it to my personal vocabulary list and have used it five times already.)

I crawled over to her dangling feet and hugged her round the knees. I tole her she wasn’t wretched at all, that she was lovely.

This was when she took to her bed, and that lasted about a week. She drank a lot of vodka during that time too. There were empty sticky glasses all over her room and some under her bed. I’d sneak in when she was asleep and get the glasses and put them in the dishwasher so Mama and Daddy wouldn’t see them. I know to rinse them out first. One time when I was gatherin all those sticky glasses up Phaedra woke up and saw me. I think she thought she was dreamin cause she started talkin real quiet, in a whisper that sounded to me like when babies can’t talk right yet, and they babble all the time.

Jus once I wish you knew how I felt, she said real quiet, and I knew she wasn’t talkin to me but to someone, probly Jaacob, that only she could see. Jus once I wish you knew how hard it was to be the person you thought I should be. But I couldn't. In the end I couldn't and you didn't want the real me, love the real me. And now I don't know who that is or was.

And then she got out of bed one day and she started writin. It got to where she wouldn't eat and would hardly sleep, and she was always scribblin like mad on her big notebook or typin away at Daddy’s computer. She’d type for hours, squintin at the screen, cryin sometimes and sometimes laughin out loud while tears ran down her face in black streaks into the corners of her mouth. This all scared me a little, cause I’d watch TV with her in the library and see her laughin out loud when nothin funny had happened on the TV. But she wasn’t watchin TV, she was writing.

She wrote and wrote, hours and hours, but sometimes she’d stop to help me with my homework. I asked her one day what she was doin, and she said Fulfilling Prophecy. I said What? That’s when she looked at me right in the eye and I swear, I didn’t know who she was almost.

I’m writing, she said. I’m a writer, that’s what I do. I have a degree in Creative Writing.

You’re a writer? I asked cause my math had been distractin me.

She looked real mad at that. She pushed some stuff around the desk and found a little card that had her name on it, her phone number and the word Writer. I looked from it to her. See? She asked me real hot, her face red now. See that? I’m a writer. And you never knew, she said to me in a voice like Jasper when she doesn’t want to play dress-up any more. You never knew you never knew.

After that I was kinda scared of her and wouldn’t watch TV with her while she was at the computer. She wrote for what seemed like years, then she started lookin all around for an Agent. She had this real thick stack of papers she kept mailin off to people, and most times they sent her a real thin letter and she’d either cry or get real mad and scream at everybody. She said she was smothering and she hated us all. She kicked Jasper one time then started cryin. I was getting real tired of her cryin and everyone else was too when she got a letter one day with a check and then she started screamin for real.

Things got lots better after that day. Phaedra said the check was an advance toward the rest of her book and she sent it right away off to pay for the car they took away from her. I don’t know why she had to pay for that car when it ain’t even hers any more, but I don’t ask questions bout stuff I don’t care to understand anyway. Anybody who’d take a car away from Phae, who’d take anything away from her, doesn’t know her anyway or they’d feel just awful to hurt her like that.

She flew off to New York City one day even though Mama begged and begged her not to after September eleventh. Phaedra said no terrorist was gonna keep her from realizin her dream. She had bigger fish to fry than some sorry ole Bin Laden. I was so afraid for her that I cried real hard when we watched her plane take off, headin up north to New York where it all happened. Daddy kept watchin the news and called her twice a day.

She stayed almost two weeks, but her hotel room was paid for by the people buyin her book. She had a real good time, and she brought me some neat toys and some matches from places she went to eat at. I like to roll the names of the restaurants around in my mouth and imagine how fancy they are compared to their names: The Russian Tea Room, The Plaza, The Moroccan Suite, Denial.

2010-08-10T07:20:00.000-07:00

Head down, I had just turned the corner from Rue Marchetonto onto Route de Castelsarrasin with MIKA’s “Lollipop” blaring in my ears when I saw the blood.

I stopped, nearly stumbling, and glanced ahead. Against the morning glaring sun the rest of our group continued up the hill, toward the clock tower. I looked back down where, a few steps later, the dark red spots splattered against the ancient rock wall, curving up the hill toward the heart of Auvillar. The trail continued, weaving from the wall on my left onto the curb on my right until, almost at the next corner, it exploded in a violent bloom on the wall of a corner house.

I plucked the earbud out and squinted up at the receding backs of the other poets, frowned at the wall. Three white tissues heavy with drying blood led me to the corner of the street, where another firework explosion of blood, brighter red here, stained the street and trailed in droplets to the door of the corner house.

Sunlight hot and insistent in my hair, I nudged another tissue, this one soaked nearly brown and heavy in the gutter, with the toe of my flip flop. Glancing up, I saw John had paused, his profile sharp against the sky a blue only to be found in Southern France, waiting for me. He lifted his hand, and I tripped on up the hill.

In our poetry workshop that day I didn't write about blood, but about my thoughts sifting on the breeze along the banks of the Garonne, Drifting white puffs that catch in window screens across the French countryside:

"Walking to the water"

At first I feared my thoughts had fled –

white puffs on air

wafting over water.

Glancing about, I saw my dreams,

these white floating sifting things,

and fought the urge to catch them

pluck them off the breeze,

this need to gather

my ideas of air.

But no, Darren says,

it’s cottonwood seed.

French farmers cut it down,

it gets caught in screens,

angers their wives.

I worried my thoughts would weave

into window screens

splayed for a French wife

to frown at and complain

My dreams and ideas

spun out cotton

spread thin

for the world to run through their fingers.

We never found out where the blood came from - or who it came from. The next day it had been scrubbed away, so we made up our own stories about it, discussed, dissected, wondered, our conversations wafting out from the patio of our gite, bubbling into the night air and mingling with the songs of French frogs, dissolving into summer: mid May in Auvillar.

Pen and Palette: (Authors') Dutch Lunch in Nashville

2010-07-30T10:46:00.000-07:00

A great blog about a very special lunch I was lucky enough to attend yesterday - what a fabulous time with some talented people!

Pen and Palette: (Authors') Dutch Lunch in Nashville

On Mayhem: Roses of Auvillar, a poem

2010-07-22T10:08:00.000-07:00

Auvillar, France is smothered in roses. They are everywhere, which for someone who adores flowers as much as I do is heavenly. The scent, the sudden bursts of multi-faceted color, and the silk of their petals against my skin like a kiss.

While sifting through some writing materials last night I found a notepad used to jot down images, thoughts, and sensory input as prescribed by our poetry workshop leader, Marilyn Kallet.

The following poem were scribbled hastily, and I suspect while walking uphill back into Auvillar Old Town.

Crushed rose petals
On cobblestones worn
by parading pilgrim feet
sun no shade
Sunday afternoon, late, in Auvillar

On Media: A book review of Dying Light by D. Scott Meek

2010-07-15T12:37:00.000-07:00

Let’s face it: you can’t swing a bat without hitting a book about vampires these days.

They’re everywhere – vampires glittering and sulking, staking and loving and enduring their forever lives. But in Dying Light by D. Scott Meek, vampires are doing something quite original and captivating: they are living among us humans side by side, working, healing, moving day by day in a future that is bleak and uncertain.

Meek’s vampires – a lot cursed by a viral epidemic that swept the Earth centuries before – walk among mortals blue-eyed and stealthy, working side by side in hospitals and offices in what was once the nation’s Capital and is now a den of corruption and rubble from wars of the distant past.

Meek’s writing style is immediately accessible, his characters sympathetic and interesting – especially the vampires, who are more fleshed out here than the mortals. These are vampires to take notice of, full of rage and loneliness and sadness and sexual deviancy. Their blues aren’t the only way they stand out in a crowd.

And such as in other vampire tales in Dying Light there is a battle, but it, again, is not your typical blood-thirsty war – it doesn’t suck. This psychological thriller - this puzzle of who is really on who’s side, who wants to change and who wants to die - is more of a puzzle to unravel slowly (and flip back pages to search, hungrily, for clues) and follow to its climax… which may or may not involve a certain, very interesting, chair.

For an intelligent take on a vamp tale take on Meek’s Dying Light. And keep at least one light burning through the night.

On Motherhood: To moo or not to moo

2010-07-09T14:10:00.000-07:00

The sign on the door read: Pick up 3 items to dress like a cow and get FREE food at Chik-Fil-A! Wear a hat: get a free sandwich - Entire outfit: free COMBO!

"Cool," I said, and opened the door.

I signed The Dude out of day camp and picked up a cardboard cow hat, half of what looked like a sandwich board scrawled with "Eat Mor Chikin" and a slick of stickers. One of the camp counselors explained that the stickers could go on a T-shirt, and all together The Dude would get a free meal the next day, the same day the whole camp would spend at Pump It Up, a facility in Mt. Juliet filled with those huge inflatables for bouncing, jarring teeth, stepping on body extremities and eventual vomiting, in my experience.

"So," I said, herding him into the car, "tomorrow you dress like a cow and bounce around in overpriced rubber apparatus, that about right?"

"Sounds right," he agreed.

Unsure of anything related to the clothing or costuming of small children, I called my stepmother to see where to buy plain white T shirts. Turns out they are sold by the pack at Wal-Mart, Target, etc.

$50 later, we get the shirts and head home. This morning I lay out a plain white Hanes T and D gets to work with the stickers. We decorate a hat, we paste black stickers on his shorts. He is all cow'd up, mooing all the way to camp.

When we pull up to the building, we see a girl in the obligatory bright yellow T shirt of Field Trip day. I frown. Glancing in the mirror, I see D is frowning. I get out of the car, round the trunk, eyeing the window. More yellow-clad kids. I curse beneath my breath.

D hops out of the car, takes one look at the building and snatches the cow hat off his head, pushes it at me.

"They're wearing yellow," he says.

I swallow. "Yeah. Maybe... maybe we should have packed your field trip shirt as your extra shirt in your backpack."

He tosses a scowl over his shoulder as he climbs the stairs to the front door. "Yeah. Maybe, mom."

Inside is a sea of yellow. My heart thuds, and D walks into the room, awash in the sunshine of field trip shirts, a white beacon in spotted shorts sifting through the kids. Dejectedly, I hang his backpack on the coatrack on one wall.

"Yeah," one counselor says, moving toward me, "they're not actually going to eat at Chik-Fil-A today."

Because this is a church-based camp and school, I reign myself in. "Then why did the note say for him to dress like a cow?"

D, his back glaring white among his yellow friends, casts another look over his shoulder which, if they could kill, would have nailed him for matricide.

"Some of the parents thought that," the dewy-faced counselor said.

I bare my teeth at her. "And yet none of the other kids are dressed like a cow."

"I know," she showed me her braces. "It was a misunderstanding."

I squeezed the bridge of my nose between two fingers, glad to have job where it's okay to have these things happen: I can drive the 20 minutes back home, grab the yellow field trip shirt and pack a lunch, and drive the 20 minutes back and hopefully be back in time to catch them before they leave for the field trip.

When I return, with literally minutes to spare, D is on the playground, his white T shirt filthy and missing its bovine black spots. I offer the Marvel Comics 3D lunch bag and yellow shirt, which he refuses to take.

I lean toward him, ignoring the camp counselor who has accompanied him to the playground gate. "You want to change now, sweetie? You can just change and I'll -"

"No," he says firmly without meeting my eye. "Later."

I shrug and back away. "Okay... well then, have a good day, sorry about the cow thing."

He raises his face and moos at me. "From the only cow in the yard," he says, smiles, and runs away.

2010-06-17T14:18:00.000-07:00

I know a girl who spends all day Sunday praying. All day, I repeat. Yes, all day, she says. In meetin all day, we pray. I can’t think of what to say to that. I wonder what she prays about. I blink at her. All day, you meet and you pray. She nods, and I wonder what she has lost to make her pray that way. And in the black without reaching or breathing or knowing I let you go.

On Auvillar: Introduction

2010-05-28T07:58:00.000-07:00

Monday night I returned to Tennessee from a 10-day stay in France, and while I had an amazing time (physical traveling including planes and trains – yikes!) I was very, very glad to be home. I was especially glad to return to Mt. Juliet: I missed my friends and co-workers, the people who surround and lift me daily, to whom I turn and confide.

I was startled and surprised to find that the people in France, especially in Paris, were very friendly and helpful: from the Delta employees at the Charles de Gaulle airport to waiters in Paris and people in Metro (subway) tunnels, almost everyone was willing to assist a fumbling American struggling with rushing crowds and a very tentative grasp on the French language. There is a stereotype, I think, that Americans have about the French: there were many “frog” and smelly Frenchmen jokes posted on Facebook and in emails to me, but the truth is (and thanks to the Eyewitness Travel France guidebook for the tip) if you smile, say “Bonjour!” and are friendly immediately when you approach someone, 90 percent of the time that person will smile and help. Or at least try. Because French doesn’t sound nearly so lovely (or coherent) when it’s tainted by a Tennessee twang.

One major thing I learned while in France is tolerance: not being able to communicate with everyone around you because you can’t speak their language (in their home country) is frustrating and at times quite scary. While I agree that if a person is going to move to a different country they should at least try to learn the native tongue, those visiting should be treated with patience and kindness. As a tired but persistent to see the sights, non-French speaking American who was treated almost consistently with patience and kindness, I now know that sort of karma can come back to you both ways.

Something else I learned while away is that it is self-indulgent and easy to take your friends and family for granted, especially those you see on a regular basis. I missed my family terribly, but I also missed my friends and coworkers. I was flung out into the world, away from my support system and comfort zone, and while it became less difficult every day I still struggled. I couldn’t think about my 4-year old son for more than a moment without my throat closing up, and I found myself constantly wanting to call or text my friends to describe the slant of light on the roses of Auvillar or the cute Parisian couple with no regards to the restraints of public displays of affection.

But most importantly, I learned that I am stronger than I thought. I traveled internationally (flying stand-by at that) by myself, and while it was definitely scary (the TGV European train system takes some study and swift feet) traipsing through airports and gasping at the Eiffel Tower sparkling like lit jewels in the black Parisian sky on my own was liberating and fulfilling. I am resilient and adaptable and calm in stressful situations. I learned a lot about travel and French culture (and wine and cheese and bread, oh my!), but I also learned a lot about myself. I learned to slow down, and listen, and breathe. I learned to linger with the sun in my hair instead of cursing that there aren’t enough hours in the day.

I learned to live, not just make it through each day.

On Motherhood: SpongeBob & Burger King - full circle

2010-04-16T07:52:00.000-07:00

Editor's Note: This is an old blog from my Myspace days. (Don't snicker, there was social media obsessive distraction before Facebook.) I was cruising through my old blogs, and I thought it'd be interesting to see what I was blogging about this at time two or three years ago.

In April of 2007 Draper was 18 months old and I was still working for the State of TN. I was miserable there by the end, and I started at The Chronicle just two months after I wrote this blog. This one doesn't talk much about how much I hated that job by the end - that subject is reserved for the blog before this one, and it is cratered with the blasts of F bombs. This one's better, I think, and funny and relevant because, lo and behold, SpongeBob is back at Burger King now, and Draper already has three of the watches. And his language and vocabulary skills are much, much better now (god help us all).

While at the beach just a few months after the blog below was written, in between the State job and starting at The Chronicle.

April 17, 2007
Burger King is corruptive
Current mood: amused
Category: Life

There's this new TV commerical that promotes a new line of Sponge Bob Square Pants toys at Burger King. My son, 18 months, is obsessed with Sponge Bob right now, even though, to my knowledge, he has never seen the show. Thinking it was bright and colorful (and cheap - I mean, why buy clothes for a toddler who doesn't know how badly pizza and mustard stain clothes?), my mother bought him a SB T-shirt which, given the chance, Draper will wear every day. Thus followed a SB doll and pillow case, which must be in his crib before he will enter it.

The commercial begins with two kids exclaiming the fact that SB is now at Burger King. A mother and father are in the bathroom when this announcement is made, and the dad is in the bathtub, fondling a large yellow (somewhat realistic) sea sponge. The dad stands up and asks, "Honey, who am I?"

Of course she stares at him, incredulous, wondering why the hell she married this goof who takes baths in the first place.

He puts the sponge on his head and stands up, covered, conveniently, in bubbles. "Sponge Bob no pants," he cries.

Draper turned from the TV and looked at me. "Mama."

I raised my eyebrows.

"Mama."

I shook my head. "No."

He walked toward me, palms up. "Mama. Bob-bob."

I sighed. "No, Drape."

He touched my knee. "Mama. Bob-bob no paz."

I put down my magazine. "Draper. It's an ad."

Draper cocked his head and gave me a look that mirrors my own when I'm dealing with someone who simply doesn't see things my way. "Mama. Bob-bob no paz."

Note to self: boycott Burger King.

On Mayhem: Getting Dumped

2010-03-04T07:39:00.000-08:00

I was minding my own business: I was asleep, actually. Sound asleep. The kind of asleep that covers you more completely than your own blanket, that coaxes you deep down into a dark you weren't even aware you had in you.

But still, I dream. I almost always dream. And last night I was dreaming about glaciers cracking, huge great white/blue chunks of glowing ice floating, breaking apart with a resonating crack I could feel in my bones, crunch between my teeth.

Then I was sliding, having lost my footing atop the glacier, slipping, struggling to find a hold, anything, scrambling. I began to slip, to dangle, white rushing water filling the cracks of the splitting iceberg, rising as I slid, shaved ice shoved beneath my fingernails as I scrabbled for hold.

Just as sometimes we dream of falling and jerk awake just before we hit the ground (for me those dreams often involve someone's front porch, peeling white floorboards, and falling down the steps, I don't know the origin of that recurring image and am afraid to ask), I awoke to a startled cry, jerking myself awake just as I actually hit the floor. Blinking, I looked up to see Whitman, my chubby little Maltese puppy, blinking sleepily down at me from the narrow antique bed in our playroom.

I sat up, only to knock my head against the underside of the tanning bed we use to fold/store clean clothes and blankets. I realized that the startled cry had come from me, and that I had slipped out of the bed - but had I jerked so hard from a falling dream (what had I been dreaming about again? and why was I so cold?)that I had jerked myself right out of bed? Even for me, that's one hell of a dream.

Rubbing my forehead I struggled to my knees and turned to look at the bed. Through the dim I saw that a corner of the head of the bed had... fallen. The bed sank at one corner, inexplicably. I crawled forward and touched the underside of the bed frame - so old that even my mother doesn't know its true age, and I have no memories of my childhood home where this bed was not prominently displayed in what my mother called "the antique room."

Puzzled, I gingerly ran my hands along the frame, fearing splinters but feeling nothing. I patted around on the floor for my glasses (I don't know why, I always place them on the bedside table and they wouldn't be on the floor, but I was still half asleep and dazed and didn't think I would be on the floor, either). I am legally blind, meaning that without my glasses or contacts the world is a fuzzy mess of dull colors and shifting blobs. I have become familiar enough in the house to make very simple trips without ocular aid (from my bed to my attached bathroom in my bedroom, from my bed to the kitchen for the big white blob that is the constant gallon of milk in the fridge, an almost nightly pilgrimage for me) but with the scattered throw pillows, the tangle of blanket and Whitman whining, still aloft on the bed above me, I wasn't comfortable enough to access the situation without my glasses. They were nowhere to be found. (I found them in the morning light right on the table, where I had placed them, on top of one of my grandmother's Bibles.)

I gave up on the investigation of the broken bed (what had I been doing in my sleep?) and decided to try sleeping on the couch, near the bed. (Why doesn't she just go to her bedroom, you may be asking yourself, and that is a fair question. I didn't go to my bedroom, and my own bed, because there were no sheets on my bed. I had stripped them that morning to be washed and hadn't put any more on yet. I was distracted by supper and then American Idol. I'm easily distracted.)

The couch, while comfortable enough for sitting, is hell to sleep on. It is old, worn, sinks in the middle and has a sucking quality which, if you're not careful, will cause you to wake up with one arm tangled among the coiled springs of the ancient monster. After padding the couch with every available pillow and getting Whitman settled back into his sleeping spot behind my curled knees, I tossed and turned for approximately 1,400 hours. Agony. I chased sleep, scrambling on its heels, for what felt like forever. (It was most likely about 20 minutes.)

Finally I gave up on the couch and decided to try the bed - only this time I'd outsmart it. (Keep in mind, this is at around 3 a.m. No one is at their logical best at 3 a.m.) I would sleep with my head at the foot of the bed. HA! Take that, collapsing bed!

This, of course, was something like trying to sleep while sliding down an incline: I found myself holding on to the footboard in my dozy haze, trying to keep from sliding down to the foot of the bed, where half the mattress was now nearly on the floor. I woke up from a light doze once with my arms flung over the footboard, my elbows hooked, basically holding on in my sleep, with Whitman curled around the top of my head to keep from sliding onto the floor.

I raised up and looked at him, nose to nose.

"This isn't working," I told him. I could swear he rolled his eyes.

So I picked up my puppy, my pillow, my blanket and my phone and we trooped to the other end of the house (me feeling the way along walls and bumping into chairs and other random obstacles along the way) to my bedroom, where I flopped onto my bed, never more grateful for it, sheets or no sheets.

This morning I tried to explain what happened in the night to The Dude, who stood at the doorway to the playroom, looking down at the broken bed, which I had already made back up.

"It looks fine to me," he said skeptically, scratching at his thigh clad in Spiderman pajama pants. He glanced at me. "Are you all right?"

"No I'm not all right! I had to hang on for dear life, and it was cold!"

He shut the door, shaking his head.

"It's time for my breakfast, Mom."

I dropped the gallon of milk on the kitchen counter and looked at him. "I don't think you appreciate the gravity of the situation."

He frowned and sat on the edge of the little blue rocking recliner we keep in the kitchen. "The what?"

"The gravity of the situation."

He nodded. "Isn't that... what holds stuff down? Gravity?"

I blinked.

"That's funny," he smiled up at me. "That's what holds stuff down and made you fall out of bed. Gravity." He chuckled.

"You're hilarious," I told him, turning so he coudln't see me smile. "Now what do you want for breakfast?"

On Mayhem: WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE

2010-01-27T12:44:00.000-08:00

Don't get me wrong: I love Middle Tennessee. I love the gorgeous hills,

I love the people,

And, normally, I love the weather. Very temperate, and we have actual seasons, unlike when I lived in South Florida and it was just hot all the damn time.

But here's the thing about Middle Tennessee people and weather: we can't handle snow. Especially when you combine snow and ice. Snow and ice and schools. We close school if someone is overheard in a grocery store aisle saying that it was icy and there was light snow when they visited Aunt Marsha in Minnesota last week. BECAUSE IT MIGHT COME HERE! THE WEATHER MIGHT DRIFT HERE AND IT MIGHT SNOW AND WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!

But we don't die. No, we cancel school three days before the "winter event" gets here, we go to the grocery and buy ALL of the milk and ALL of the bread. And maybe some shrimp cocktail and batteries, just in case.

And this happens every time. Every single time. And trust me, I like snow. A lot. I like how everything looks so clean and stark on a snowy morning. And we don't get enough snow here to take it for granted. But the weather people on TV start predicting it days in advance, and so we have to wait and see. And it's all anybody can talk about: the SNOW, when is the SNOW coming, how much will it SNOW, will they cancel school (yes), how many days will we be SNOWED IN? Stranded! Trapped in our homes! Thank God for the shrimp and batteries!

So here's what I propose: calm down, people of Middle Tennessee. Even if it does snow (and we all know that when you discuss it to death, and when the weathermen actually predict it, it rarely happens, we know this) then just don't get out and drive in it unless you have to, because if there's anything worse than Middle Tennesseans freaking out about snow it's them attempting to drive in it. Stay home, curl up with your kids or loved ones or pets, and relax. Spend some time together. Talk to each other. Play games, cook a meal together, watch a movie.

Snow days, I think, are the perfect excuse to do nothing but chill. Seems appropriate, don't you think?

On Motherhood: Sometimes getting fired is the best thing that could happen

2010-01-13T13:43:00.001-08:00

So, there goes a New Year Goal (I refuse to call them resolutions, that sounds so... FINAL - "You MUST do this, you made a resolution!") to blog at least a few times a week. Oh well, there's always another chance - that's what I like about days: they just keep coming, and with each morning you have a new chance to start over. Who needs a new year for that? (Hint: I do.)

I have made good on a few of my New Year goals, namely this one: to start writing down some of the stuff The Dude says, because 1. people keep telling me to do it, and 2. he's really, really funny and says surprisingly smart things. He also tells these long, drawn out stories with the greatest facial expressions and hand gestures.

A week or so ago I was talking about someone I know who is about to get fired from her job. I can't remember if I was telling Mom or The Dude about it, but it must have stuck in his head, because this weekend, in one of our marathon movie-watching-and-Connect-4-and-or-Operation-SpongeBob-game sessions, he launched into the following story (and if you know The Dude you can hear his pipey little high-pitched voice, which, consequentially, sounds a lot like mine, with my cadence and lilt):

"So last week when I got fired from my office job I set up an office in my closet. And that's where I write the SpongeBob episodes. Did you know that I write SpongeBob episodes now?"

"I didn't know that. What is an episode?"

"It's one TV show."

I shrugged, dropped a red disk into the Connect 4 grid. "Okay."

"So I set up my office, and that's where I'm writing them. I'm pretty good at it. I've found my talent, and it's writing SpongeBob episodes."

"I'm sure it is." (The talent question came up also during last night's American Idol premiere. Apparently his talent is telling stories, but only until he "really" learns how to write, and then he'll write stories, just like me.) "You've certainly seen enough SpongeBob episodes to be able to have the tone down pat."

On a SpongeBob blanket, wearing SpongeBob shoes, most likely watching SpongeBob with his friend Kendall.

"I do. And sometimes Goose
would come into my office in my closet. He would come down from the ceiling, on ropes, and he would swing down into my closet office and he would write the SpongeBob episodes with me."

"Wow. I had no idea Goose was so athletic and talented."

"He's not. I had to fire him."

From the floor of my bedroom, where Goose himself has slept since Middle Tennessee weather decided to take on the characteristics of Minnesota, Goose grumbled and shifted, stretched.

"I had to fire him because, well, he wasn't that good of a writer."

I leaned over and looked at the dog, who has been known to run, full-speed, into the side of the house. "I can't imagine he has much of an imagination."

"He doesn't. And all he wanted to do was eat all the time. He was always sneaking off into Dah's bathroom to eat Blair's food." The Dude shook his head. "I couldn't trust him."

"Yes, I can see how that would be difficult to deal with and grounds for termination."

"But I think me firing Goose was probably the best thing that could have happened to him," The Dude continued, almost wistfully.

I dropped my final red disk into the Connect 4 grid. He hadn't been paying attention, and four red disks marched proudly in a diagonal line. The Dude glared at me before turning his back on me.

"Well, look at him."

Both of us leaned over the side of the bed and looked at the large copper-colored dog, stretched out over two of the six rugs I'd laid out to try and protect my new carpet from his outside-dog invisible dirt and germs. He snored softly.

"He's just so happy."

We both leaned back, and I released the Connect 4 grid so that the disks fell out of the bottom. The Dude swept them together, began separating out the colors for the next game.

"Of course he is," I said. "He's a dog. What's he got to be worried about?"

"Squirrels."

"Well yeah, besides that."

"Getting fired."

"Well. Doesn't look like he's losing much sleep over that one."

"Mommy?"

"Yeah babe."

"Do you worry about getting fired?"

"Not really, no."

"If you did, I'd let you work in my office and write SpongeBob with me. I bet you're better than at than I am."

"I'm sure I would be."

"Mom."

"What?"

"I might be better. Just let me win every once in a while."

I frowned. "Win at what? At writing or Connect 4?"

"Connect 4."

"We've had this conversation. I will not let you win. You will learn how to play and then you'll win on your own and it'll feel so much better when you do."

He dropped a yellow disk into the grid, a bit dejectedly.

"It was a lot easier working with Goose."

On Mayhem: Surviving Christmas alone

2009-12-10T10:40:00.000-08:00

(Disclaimer: I will use Christmas here as an overall reference to the late December holidays. If you celebrate Hanukkah or Kwanza or anything else, that's fantastic, please do apply the thoughts and points in this blog to yourself. It's just that I celebrate - in a very loose sense of the word - Christmas, so that's the holiday I'm going with. No discrimination meant here whatsoever.)

Okay, quick: when you think of Christmas, what comes to mind?

Admit it - immediately, just for a split second, you thought of gifts, didn't you? It's okay, most all of us do, it's natural, I think, in such a materialistic society (especially if you're an American, we can't help it).

But for most people, Christmas means time with family and friends - and for lots of people (myself included, during my stint living in Florida) friends are considered family.

But there are those traditional people, millions of them, who want to be surrounded by family at Christmas: whether that is blood-related family, those belonging to your spouse, or step-families, which is prevalent in the case of myself and The Dude: my step-mother's family is vast, far-flung, and yet near and dear and has treated us (and me, in particular) just as they do the rest of the family, despite the lack of actual blood relation. That's not always the case, and I am thankful for that.

So, what do you do if you no longer have any close family - blood, non-blood or otherwise? Is Christmas a time when, if you have no one else with whom you can celebrate, you can go to the home of a friend to visit on Christmas Day, and if so, should you be there during "Santa" time, or wait until later, after lunch maybe, and if so, what do you do with yourself until the point that you think it might be comfortable enough to visit with your friends?

These questions had never even been an issue for me until last year, when my mother's father died. It was heartbreaking after her mother died, but then her death was followed by my grandfather's and then my young cousin, just months after, in 2008. Now, as far as close family is concerned, my mother is left with her sister, whom... well, I won't get into that, but suffice it to say that my aunt has her own "family" that is a priority. I'm trying hard to be a good Southern girl, and you know what they say to do if you can't say something nice... Bless Her Heart.

I've told my mother, over and over, and my stepmother has told her, over and over, that she's more than welcome to spend Christmas morning with us, at my dad's, but understandably she's not quite comfortable with that. She and and my father had a less than amicable divorce, and although they now get along okay - they speak to each other, which was a feat thought insurmountable until we saw an ultrasound with The Dude's sharp profile - they are not exactly to that point of blending families. This, as I said, is understandable.

(Okay, so it's not really like that, but I've been waiting forever for an excuse to post that picture, and this was ideal.)

In an ideal world, Mom would whisk The Dude and myself away with her to Florida for Christmas and just skip the whole she-bang, but neither she nor I would do that to my son or my family. Which leaves me in the sticky spot of what to do, how to feel, and how tall of a wall to build around myself in order to not go completely insane worrying about her.

Which leads me to another point of worry, something that weighs on me like a stone in my pocket, something I return to nearly every day and rub, anxious, achy: the man I will call John, who lives in his van in the parking lot of the Burger King next door.

We've all come in contact with homeless people, and if you haven't you should consider yourself very, very lucky. I've encountered them all over the world - from London to San Francisco - and it never gets any easier. They're all different, of course, just as all people are different: some are quiet and almost dignified, some are so aggressive and persistent you could swear they were agents or ad salesmen in their previous lives. But they all have one thing in common: at night they are cold and almost always hungry - for one thing or another - and have no stable, loving environment in which to call home.

John has lived in the parking lot next door as long as I've worked here - well over two years now, and I know he's been here longer that that. He hangs out in Burger King, and the crew over there is nice enough to let him, give him coffee and, I suspect, food in exchange for odd jobs and "security" in the parking lot.

A long time ago the company I work for owned another newspaper that covered the Madison area, and it ran a weekly coupon for McDonalds, for a free something or other - a breakfast sandwich in the morning and a Big Mac in the afternoon. John would come over every day and get seven papers - one for each day, so he was at least guaranteed two meals a day, and take them to the McDonalds just down the street. We sold that paper four months after I started here, and he was devastated. I rummaged through our old papers and clipped out a folder full of the coupons for him, and the local McDonalds honored them. It fed him for almost a year.

Christmas is about family, and friends, and honoring what we are blessed with, not weighing what we have against what we don't, or what we need, or what we want.

I want a netbook, the surprised and delighted smile on my son's face, and happiness for my family.

My mother wants her parents back, serenity, and to be surrounded with love at all times.

John wants warmth, and food, and security.

What do you want for Christmas?

On Motherhood: Remembering Unk

2009-12-03T13:53:00.001-08:00

My father and his older brother were raised by their mother, uncle, and aunt on a farm in Hartsville, Tennessee. The farm was off of Walnut Grove Road, which meanders along rising hills of green, dotted with yellow and purple flowers, sunsplashed, in the summertime. The small house sat at the end of a gravel drive, and there was a low rock fence, with a gap in the middle beside the mailbox, down by the road made of white slabs of stone most likely pulled from one of the many quarries our part of Tennessee. My father's mother, uncle, and aunt were all teachers, all unmarried: the ladies widowed and my uncle a lifelong bachelor.

My father's father died of a brain aneurysm when my father was six years old. The family, at that time, lived in Oak Ridge, where my grandfather worked at the nuclear plant. I don't know what he did there exactly, but I've always dreamed he was a top engineer or scientist with the Manhattan project, or designed bombs or made fusion more efficient. I do know that he, like my father, was exceptionally smart. My father's brother, Joe Pat, a few years older, died the same way before he was 50 years old.

My grandmother did not drive. This was in the mid 1940s, and she was a lovely lady of the flapper generation: gorgeous and sassy and spoiled.

I'm not sure who did it, but I think it was my uncle and his nephew, my great aunt's son, Doodle, (Yes, Doodle. I don't even recall his real name.)who packed up my grandmother and her little boys and moved them back home to the farm, where she lived until she passed away on February 2, 1997.

The Dude was named after my great uncle, who was legally Benjamin Brown Draper, but who I always called Unk. All my cousins - all eight of them, Joe Pat's children - called him Unk as well, and I have rarely known of a man more adored by family, friends and colleagues alike than Unk, also known as Mr. Draper.

(I wish I had a photo of him with me now to include, but they are all at home, or burned with my father's home in 2005.)

All three of them, as I mentioned, were teachers: my grandmother, or Gran (Robbie James Draper Wiley), and my great aunt (Vyda Mae Draper Thompson, and the most saintly woman who has ever graced this earth) at a tiny one-room schoolhouse just down Walnut Grove Road from the house, and Unk at the Trousdale County High School, where he was regionally renowned for his farming education and FFA leadership. Hell, even in high school I knew people involved in FFA who knew him, or at least of him, and he passed away when I was in the 6th grade.

But for me, what was special about Unk wasn't who knew him or what a superb teacher he was, but how he made me feel, which was as if I were the most special little girl in the world. Beautiful, smart, and important: and he was a man of few words.

I was lucky: my Alaska cousins as I call them - Joe Pat's children, who all grew up in Anchorage - only got to visit him sporadically, although the older ones, especially Kathy, were good about coming in the summers to visit. But I got to see "the trio," as I call my Gran, Unk, and Aunt Vyda Mae now, much more often, especially since they were much older: my father was 40 when I was born, so they were already in their late 60s and 70s when I was young - Unk especially.

I remember him leaning over, bending his tall frame almost in half, to pick buttercups along the crumbling rock sidewalk in front of the house with me, because buttercups were always my favorite when I was little. We had them at my house, at their house, and it seems now my little girl life was filled with buttercups, our first sign of spring and warmer, better things to come. I remember him making a swing for me and hanging it in the branches of a tree with no top, no matter how I stood and turned, I could never see the topmost branches of that tree, or the sky beyond it. I remember his laughter as he pushed me, skinny legs and white patent-leather shoed feet kicking, as high as he could before leaning against the tree, smiling, telling me I looked just like my daddy, whom he loved so much.

My father, mother and me at the farm

But as I get older the one aspect of that farm that keeps resurfacing for me is the tiny cabin out behind the house which, when I was little, was always locked. They told me it was a cabin for farmhands, for helpers, for storage. It wasn't until I was in high school and either broke in (most likely) or someone finally let me in (not probable) that I saw the narrow cot against one wall, the doll-sized kitchen, the homey touches like curtains, a hand-knotted rug, and cushions on the seat of the rocking chair in one corner, flattened with time and use. I wandered around the tiny cabin, the raw wood ceiling just inches over my head, touching books, notebooks, old newspapers and magazines, sneezing every now and then, wiping my eyes, awed.

Unk never married: he promised his mother on her deathbed that he would take care of his two sisters until he died, and that's exactly what he did.

For years, until I was a grown woman out of college, I held fast to his sacrifice, his unwavering selflessness, his principles and his morals. That is, until someone - and God help me, I can't remember who - let me in on the little secret: that little cabin was no farmhand retreat, no storeroom.

It was his bachelor pad.

"His what?" I recall breathing. There could be no such thing - Unk was asexual. Unk was practically a saint. He didn't have physical urges or need women like that. Selfless! Moral! Principles!

"Cathouse," I believe the term was.

And then it struck me like a slap on the ass: that book. That book on the shelf in his simple bedroom of pine and warm wood. The book with the naked people in it. I never saw it until I was tall enough to be on eye level with the bookshelf over his desk, but there it was: a book about nudists in America. "Naturalists," I believe they were called.

Turns out Unk was human. In a little girl's eyes he was a looming, smiling figure who said "Gimmie a bus" when he wanted a kiss on the cheek, who had an impressive collection of bolo ties he gave to my maternal grandfather and which I rarely saw him without. Who's sharp chin, impressive eyebrows and warm eyes I see more and more in my own father's face each time I see him.

For whom I named my son: Draper.

The saints in our lives are still people. They make mistakes and they have urges and needs and are human. It's how we choose to remember them, how they made - or if we're lucky, still make - us feel about ourselves and the world that matters.

I don't remember Unk for that cabin now, although it amuses me to think about it. I remember him as a shadow against the sun, leaning over me, tucking a snipped buttercup behind my ear, his warm, papery hand lingering on my jawline. I remember him as strong hands against my back, pushing me in a swing, my laughter and squeals rising into the leafy tops of a tree I could not see past. He is low raspy laughter and a cheek turned for a kiss. And he is leaning against a tree, arms crossed, bolo tie cords askew, smiling, saying: "Aren't you just the loveliest little girl."

On Mayhem: Reconnecting

2009-11-25T14:13:00.001-08:00

Today I went to a funeral for the mother of a very good friend of mine. Granted, I've only hung out with my friend a few times since The Dude was born, because once he happened my lifestyle changed. (Okay, admittedly I had a rocky few months that first year, but I've cleaned up my act.) The last time Mark and I got together was a few months ago, when he and I went to Sole Mio and then the Nashville Symphony together, a fantastic night I promised him I would blog about and then never did.

Mark has always, always been very good to me. He's a prosperous attorney who divorced shortly after I met him. I was bartending at Ole Neighborhood, and he was ending a 20-something year marriage. He was single, I was single, and we had the same tastes. We were quite the "couple" about town for many years: we hit all the good parties, the benefits, the black-tie fundraisers. Eventually I started writing for The Wilson Post newspaper, still bartending on the weekends, so between the two of us we were invited to basically every event worth going to in the immediate area. It was fun, and one of the reasons why I don't think I "missed out" on anything when I had my son. I had that single lifestyle, the partying, the late nights, for years. Hell, I was nearly 27 years old when I had The Dude: I'd had my fun.

But Mark was there the day The Dude was born, beaming, proud and beatific and terrified right along with me. I don't have to see the photograph taken of him holding The Dude, so tiny and hidden in the blankets and born over a month early, to remember how Mark simply glowed with the knowledge of another little me in the world.

Then, as it does, life intervenes. I became more and more absorbed with work and writing, with guiding The Dude and everything that goes along with that, and Mark retreated from the community spotlight, redecorated his house, and sent two of his boys to college. There were the random text messages, pics exchanged via cell phones, but no real contact except when both of my grandparents died, and I barely remember that, steeped in a fog of grief and fear.

So, it takes a day like today, the funeral of his mother, to bring us back together. Mark held up well: his mother had been in hospice care for months, losing her third battle with cancer, so her passing was not a surprise, but I'm sure a bit of a relief that her long struggle and pain was over, and she could join her beloved husband, who left us a few years ago as well.

But it shouldn't take an event like this to reconnect friends. I sat in the hushed funeral parlor this morning, yellow sunlight streaming through purple and cream stained-glass windows, thinking of how awful it is that Mark's mother died three days before Thanksgiving, on the cusp of the holiday season. How Thanksgiving will never be the same for anyone in his family again.

Then I watched Mark and his family file into the sanctuary, light catching in a flash in his rimless glasses, glinting off the silver hoop in his oldest son's ear. And he sat with his ex-wife, who bent her head toward him and nodded, sniffling. Just two rows back, I looked at the lines of their bodies, how the boys' faces are shaped, the curve of their jawline, just like their mother's, how they all have Mark's gorgeous dark, slightly curly, hair. They sat together, tight, holding themselves and each other together.

That's when I realized that too often we concentrate on what we don't have, what we have lost, instead of what, and especially who, is nearest to us. We watch and wait and covet and need, instead of taking stock of those so close we can literally reach out and touch them.

I'm as guilty, if not more, than anyone of this. That's why this Thanksgiving will be so difficult for me: I know I need to finish the newsletter, and write the Wilson Living article, and at least attempt to work on the novel and Jordan's workshop, and I'm so obsessive and have a tendency to be single-minded when I'm set on something, it's going to take an effort of will to actually stop, calm down, and enjoy myself tomorrow. I will be scooping dressing and ladeling gravy while working on the InDesign spread in my head or worrying about magazine-worthy pictures that I need to make sure get to who needs them, by deadline.

I will not, without consciously trying, be in touch with those around me.

So, this is why I am giving myself permission to reconnect with myself - my non-working self - and with my family. There's no reason not to and too many reason to do it.

And, on Friday, when I'm shopping and stressing and wondering how in the world I'm going to make all this work, that's when I'll worry about deadlines.

On Mayhem: Playing catch up

2009-11-19T10:53:00.001-08:00

So, if you read my last blog you'll know that I have quite a few things on my plate for this month... which is already past halfway over. I cannot believe this. This in inconceivable. (Vizzini: HE DIDN'T FALL? INCONCEIVABLE. - Inigo Montoya: You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.)

I refused to prioritize the tasks set up for myself this month because they are all very important to me for different reasons, but it looks like the Tennessee Writers Alliance newsletter is pulling ahead in the lead: is it taking more time and concentration, a more intense effort. It's a lot of work but a lot of fun, and I know that the end product is going to make my fellow TWA board members, as well as our members, proud, and hopefully show some writers who are not members of the TWA what an invaluable, warm, and important organization the TWA is, and they'll join. (www.tn-writers.org)

And then there's NaNo - National Novel Writing Month. Ah, NaNo, how you've plagued me. I started off strong - over 7,000 words in the first two days of November. Since then... well, as I've said, other things have crowded their way in. I recently when to a marathon write-in, which helped, but I am still woefully behind. But here's the deal: I know me. I know how I write. I will be hit with a wave, an undertow urge, if you will, to write that will hold me down, suck me under, and the words will flow from me (they may not be good words, but they will be words, and they will COUNT). But the old adage about writing being a muscle you must use or it will atrophy is true: my characters are hissing now behind my back instead of talking openly to me. They're keeping something from me. Hell, one character hasn't showed up at all: I haven't written one word about her. I'll get 2,000 words AT LEAST today. (checks clock. dammit.)

Before I knew the madness that would be November, I signed up for an online workshop with the lovely and talented (and infinitely patient with me) Jordan Rosenfeld. I have not been able to dedicate myself and my time to that workshop as much as I wanted, and for that I am deeply regretful and disappointed. The fact that several of my writerly friends are also involved in the workshop and that I'm missing it, and them, and the forum discussions, irritates and irks me to no end. But I'm working on it. I'm working on it.

One bright spot is my article for Wilson Living Magazine. I'm really enjoying working on this one, since the subject matter is near and dear to my heart. I won't divulge too much information since I want our readers to be surprised and eager to pick up the next issue, but I will say it has to do with the West Wilson Arts Alliance, of which I'm a huge fan.

And speaking of the West Wilson Arts Alliance, while interviewing the head honcho for that article I brought up the idea of having a Writers Guild to go along with the Fine Arts Guild, the jazz ensemble, Cedar Creek Community Band, Encore Theatre, and Chorale Dynamics. A group that could meet to write together, critique our work, and eventually read our work at other WWAA events.

He said he'd actually been thinking about that and had me in mind to organize it. I struggled to keep my mouth from dropping open. I agreed, perhaps more enthusiastically than appropriate (which is my MO), and may have missed a bit of what he said next during my frenzied note-taking about how to organize a group of writers - or, perhaps, MORE than one group! So, now I get the fantastic opportunity of organizing writers groups... except I don't know anything about organizing writers groups. Fortunately, I learn quickly, adapt easily, and have the utmost passion for this project.

That said, if you are a writer interested in joining a new writers group - or know someone who fits that criteria - email me at TnWriterEditor@gmail.com.

So, there I am. And all this, plus my actual day job (which I just love), and life with The Dude, the family, the... other. And the other? That's a whoooole different story.

On Motherhood: Understanding and Acceptance

2009-11-03T18:15:00.000-08:00

If you follow my blog and/or me on Facebook or Twitter (or, God forbid, you know me in person) you know that I have a lot on my plate for November: NaNoWriMo (in which my goal is to finish a 50,000 word draft of a novel in 30 days), writing for, editing, and publishing The Tennessee Writer, the quarterly newsletter for the Tennessee Writers Alliance, due online December 1, and my article submission for Wilson Living Magazine, the gorgeous glossy published right here in Lebanon, TN, deadline by the end of November. Oh, and there's also The Chronicle of Mt. Juliet, of which I am the managing editor.

So, needless to say, even though it is only (checks date) November 3, I've been rather busy lately. Between notes and prepping and emails (I'm also in charge of gathering advertisers and publicizing the newsletter and newspaper) I've been doing the only basest of chores before shutting myself into the office, staring at the computer for around six hours between 8 p.m. and whenever, trying to get work done.

My mother has helped, my family has helped (and will help - I also have a wedding next weekend in Cincinnati), but my son, tonight, made me feel not only guilty but that all the hard work I'm doing is well worth it, because I don't do it - well, not the bulk of it - for myself: I do it for him, for my family, so that they will not only be proud of me for my accomplishments but for what my work will reap (hopefully) for myself and them in the future. So that, someday, I'll be able to repay them, in some way, for supporting, loving, and helping me during these hectic, busy days.

Tonight, after I made a hurried supper of spaghetti and oil with tomatoes and herbs, The Dude curled up in my lap and, with a full tummy and a long day at school, promptly fell asleep in my lap before 8 p.m. I waited until a commercial during "So You Think You Can Dance," which we like to watch together, and ushered him to the bathroom to pee before going to bed. He's had a bit of a bed-wetting problem lately, which I refuse to blame myself and our busy schedule and instead chalk up to a "phase" of being a four year old little boy. I tried to tuck him into bed, but instead he insisted, rather vehemently, that he sleep on the couch, just outside the door to the study.

"Honey," I coaxed, "you'll be much more comfortable in the bed. Please."

"No," he pushed my hands away, toddling, weaving, up the hall to the den. "I want to sleep on the couch. Just please let me lay on the couch."

"Baby," I whispered, covering him with the softest red blanket we have, a gift from PaTom and Nana last Christmas. "Why? Just go to bed."

"No," he muttered, settling in. "You have to work tonight, and I wanna be right here on the couch close to you in case you need something. You hafta write the novel and newsletter so if you need something, like a popsicle or something, I'm here to get it. I'll be here."

I kissed him, lingering on the warm pulse of his temple. "Thank you."

He smiled, already nearly asleep. "Yeah, Mom. Go do your fing now." He tucked his hand beneath his chin, cupping his palm against itself, exactly the way that I sleep. "I love you. You're the best mommy in the whole world."

He says this to me at least ten times a day. And every single time is better than the one before.

On Mayhem: November

2009-10-26T15:30:00.000-07:00

If I make it to December I will be one accomplished, and exhausted, young woman.

Here's a list of items I have to do next month (or, if you want to be picky about it, in less than a week):

1. National Novel Writing Month which, to quote the site: "is a fun, seat-of-your-pants approach to novel writing. Participants begin writing November 1. The goal is to write a 175-page (50,000-word) novel by midnight, November 30.

Valuing enthusiasm and perseverance over painstaking craft, NaNoWriMo is a novel-writing program for everyone who has thought fleetingly about writing a novel but has been scared away by the time and effort involved.

Because of the limited writing window, the ONLY thing that matters in NaNoWriMo is output. It's all about quantity, not quality. The kamikaze approach forces you to lower your expectations, take risks, and write on the fly.

Make no mistake: You will be writing a lot of crap. And that's a good thing. By forcing yourself to write so intensely, you are giving yourself permission to make mistakes. To forgo the endless tweaking and editing and just create. To build without tearing down.

As you spend November writing, you can draw comfort from the fact that, all around the world, other National Novel Writing Month participants are going through the same joys and sorrows of producing the Great Frantic Novel. Wrimos meet throughout the month to offer encouragement, commiseration, and—when the thing is done—the kind of raucous celebrations that tend to frighten animals and small children.

In 2008, we had over 119,000 participants. More than 21,000 of them crossed the 50k finish line by the midnight deadline, entering into the annals of NaNoWriMo superstardom forever. They started the month as auto mechanics, out-of-work actors, and middle school English teachers. They walked away novelists."

Yeah. A novel. In a month. Got it. Moving on...

2. An online writing workshop for the entire month with Jordan Rosenfeld entitled Fiction's Magic Ingredient. Hopefully I can incorporate this work with the NaNoWriMo work and get double the pleasure, double the fun. Or double the insomnia and stress. As I tell The Dude: You choose!

3. Compile articles and information, edit, produce and publish The Tennessee Writer, the quarterly online newsletter for the Tennessee Writers Alliance. I am so stoked about this one. It's my first one published entirely by myself, and I cannot wait to get down to business with it. It's due to go online on December 1.

4. An Arts and Entertainment article for Wilson Living Magazine, due at the end of November. Digging the focus of this one, which you'll just have to wait and read when the December/January edition comes out!

5. Work. (Remember that, Tomi?) The Chronicle gets my number one focus, of course, and I'm working to make it ever better, week by week.

So, although I'll be slammed from every direction - I also have a wedding the weekend of November 7 in Ohio and there's always the Thanksgiving holiday tucked in there - I haven't felt this alive in a while.

It feels like life is taking off and looking up - and like 31 is going to be hell of a ride for me.

On Motherhood: Censorship

2009-10-14T19:42:00.001-07:00

I know it's one of the more oft-repeated adages about parenthood, but I feel it must... well, be repeated - at least for me. A lot of the time I need to be smacked upside the face with a log (sometimes repeatedly) before advice sticks to me. And then another couple of times for good measure so I'll actually take the advice. But this is an important one, and luckily, this time, it didn't completely backfire.

I worked/enjoyed the Southern Festival of Books last weekend, and as a board member of the Tennessee Writers Alliance I had the great privilege of co-moderating a panel with two masters of Southern Gothic: Ron Rash and William Gay. They both read and answered questions, and I was impressed with the number of people in the audience: standing room only downstairs, and people in the overflow balcony of the Tennessee House of Representatives chambers, where the panel was held.

William, however, didn't look so good: he seemed to have diminished since I saw him in June. He literally looked smaller, his color was off, and he just didn't seem... stable. He worked his way through his reading and was thrilled when we bestowed upon him the TWA Writer of the Year award.

"I feel like I've won an Oscar," he said, holding the gorgeous crystal award aloft.

The next day there was a screening of the movie adapted from his short story "I Hate to See That Evening Sun Go Down." (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1114680/) After the movie a panel was scheduled, with William and the director/screenplay writer Scott Teems. Scott announced at the beginning that William had fallen ill and returned home.

On Sunday I had the great pleasure of having some one-on-one time with another TWA board member, Dr. Randy Mackin, a professor at MTSU and newspaper editor, like myself. Among other topics of discussion, Randy said that William had collapsed and was taken home. Apparently William had a heart attack recently (last year?), and to my dismay Randy said that if it happened again William wouldn't go to a hospital because he didn't want any doctors poking around in there.

I explained all this to my mother in the car later, with Draper in the backseat. My son asked what was wrong with William Gay (he was familiar with the name: I talked about the writer a lot before and after our writers conference, WordFest, in June, when William held a reading of an excerpt from his upcoming novel, and I was lucky enough to talk with him, Randy, my friend and TWA board member Wes Hutcheson and J. Wes Yoder for hours during the reception at Sherlock's Books in Lebanon). I told Draper that William recently had a heart attack and was sick now, and that I'm worried about him.

Draper's on fall break from preschool this week, and tonight as we waited for my father to come pick him up to spend the night there, Draper asked me why he had to stay with my little sister tomorrow, and where would I be?

"I have to go to work," I answered, "and then go talk to some classes tomorrow."

"My class?"

"No. These are college classes."

"But I want you to talk to my class sometime," he pouted.

I smiled. "I can do that, maybe, sometime. But what would I talk about?"

He shrugged. "Maybe William Gay's heart attack?"

"I hardly think that's appropriate, but I'm impressed that you remembered it."

He nodded, his eyes far off. "How's he doing?"

"William? I don't know, honey."

He walked over and laid his head in my lap, running his hands down my legs. "I hope he's okay. I hope he's okay for you, I wouldn't want you to lose him."

I'm not sure I'll ever get used to my son's insight. I have no frame of reference - I don't know much about kids, much less little boys, so all I have to gauge them by is my own son, but this floored me. Not only did he remember that my friend is sick, but he cares about how it will affect me.

He's a little person. I keep forgetting that. And I'm not sure if I want to censor what I say in front of him so much as to shield him, or if I want him to really know what's going on in my life enough to partake in it, no matter what it is.

Where, and how, does a parent draw that line?

On Motherhood: The funny things The Dude says

2009-09-27T05:40:00.000-07:00

Just now The Dude and I were sitting at the table, each finishing up our cheese quesadillas (yes, I made cheese quesadillas at 7 a.m., I don't enjoy breakfast food) - he with his cheek in one palm, his eyes on "Fairly Oddparents," chewing slowly, me reading an article about the awesomeness that is Neil Patrick Harris in last week's Entertainment Weekly in an attempt to catch up (this week's cover features Jim and Pam from "The Office," and I have way too much to do to have to yearn to get to it any time soon). This is an early morning routine for us - while he is okay with launching straight from the bed and into a stream of conversation, I am not. I need time. He indulges me.

After chewing and lightly tossing the remainder of a crispy triangle to his plate, much like a teenage boy would discard the crust of pizza, he sighed and ran his small, pudgy hands over his eyes. I glanced up.

"You okay?"

"Yeah."

"You sure? Feel okay?"

He nodded, his eyes still on the TV. "Yeah. I'm just complicated."

On Media: The Fortunate Writer and Her Uncooperative Brain

2009-09-23T12:27:00.001-07:00

It is normal for me to wait until very close to or the day of a writing deadline to actually write, and normally this produces my best work. I like the pressure: I thrive on it. My gears turn, my brain clicks over from the analytical (I have discovered that I am quite an analytical person, I think and overthink and rethink and consider and weigh all sides before just going ahead and doing whatever was my first choice was anyway) to the creative, and I'm able then to sit down and pound out whatever needs to be written.

Today, not so much.

I can't figure it out. I procrastinated all morning. I've had at least a dozen false starts, deleted two dozen first sentences, cursed under my breath three dozen times. I've gotten up, walked around, eaten two pounds of hard candy and lollipops (much to the cringing dismay of my co-workers), I've texted and emailed and thumbed through old "jump start" books and Tweeted. It's taken me until about a half hour ago to write the first sentence, and I hate it. I have to have this piece in today, and I don't even have the last section of information for it. I'm driving myself crazy over it. But I can't write it, and I don't know why.

But here's the rub: I love what I do. I love my job. I love that I get to do my favorite things in the world - writing and reading - and people pay me for it. And I take that for granted until instances such as one a few weekends ago when my good fortune and aligned stars are held up before me to face and humble me.

A few weekends ago I went to a writing workshop hosted by the Council for the Written Word in Franklin, TN. (I heart Franklin, by the way, and would like to just move into one of those shops just off the square. Preferably the stationary shop, because they have lots of paper and pens, and Landmark Booksellers is close by - paper, pens, and books = all I really need to survive.) While there several people approached me (people are always approaching me. I don't know why. I guess I have that sort of open face, one that invites people. And it's usually talking.) and asked me if I'm "writing anything" right now.

The first couple of times I had what I'm sure was my general blank look - glazed eyes cleared by slow blinks, drooping lower lip, and my head dropping toward my left shoulder. I've been told this is what I do when thinking of what to say. I can't imagine how anyone actually knows this, because rarely do I give myself the chance to think about what I'm going to say when asked a question like that. Apparently the look doesn't last for long.

"Sure I'm writing right now," I answered the first couple of times, with a little sniff. "I have to, if I want to eat."

This, after the first few people drifted away looking a little put out, I realized sounded a little snotty. I didn't mean for it to sound snotty, and I realized that, as opposed to the people I deal with on a daily basis, the dedicated men and women in this workshop do not automatically know that I write for a living. Nor do they have the good fortune to write for a living - to write daily, and see their work printed and published in two newspapers, online, and in a magazine. These people, here to glean and learn and soak it in, may have never seen their names in print. They may have never known that first thrill, that little shock of seeing your name in a byline, or the fluttery anticipation of reading your work in a publication as if for the first time, hearing your own voice as you read, clutching the newsprint or magazine glossy between sweaty hands, devouring your own thoughts as greedily as a starving animal.

I was aghast at their lack of fortune. And I felt ashamed at myself for taking the opportunities presented to me, the talent and sheer persistence I have squandered over the years for granted. The next couple of times I answered that question, "Are you writing anything right now?" I smiled, genuinely, and said, "Yes, I am. I get to write every day, and I am lucky to do so."

And writing this blog has served its purpose: I now feel calmer, less "frenetic," as I have been described when I get to this point. I feel able enough, competent and clear enough, to go back to that blank white page with its one long run-on and in desperate need of paring down sentence, and write. And write and write and write, knowing that it will be published in a month in the gorgeous, classy glossy Wilson Living magazine, and that I am a very lucky woman, in many respects, but primarily in that because I love what I do I haven't actually worked in a very long time.

On Mayhem: The Women

2009-09-17T07:21:00.001-07:00

The Women are clamoring.

The Women are what I'm calling the three main characters of this... (sigh)... novel idea that slammed into me while on vacation in Myrtle Beach three weeks ago. And I say slammed because that's exactly - in a metaphorical way - what happened to me: The Dude and I were walking along the beach, as we did every morning, and as if a wave had blindsided me these voices crashed over me, these three women, talking and talking and talking. Instantly I knew their stories, large chunks of their backstories, their immediate issues and how they all fit together. And they haven't shut up since.

Draper became a bit annoyed, not at our frequent pauses while walking but because I was scribbling madly in my little blue book instead of looking at the sandy shells in his palm, of his kicked-up spray, of his own pause to study the edge of the world and how I should be in awe of him.

But I couldn't write fast enough, or often enough, and meanwhile entire conversations between the characters, including a tough but kind mother and an unwelcome four year-old little boy, were playing out in my head as we swam, as I showered and rested. While Mom and Draper played in the surf and the sky gathered clouds above us I huddled on my towel and wrote long, detailed notes and shorter, spasmodic ones in the stolen moments when I tried to read.

Since we returned home and the smell of saltwater and the grit of sand along my legs are not immediate The Women have quietened some but they are still here. I can't even get dressed in the morning without entire conversations and situations playing out inside my head. I feel possessed, and I haven't felt like this (as a writer) in a very long time, and I'm terrified it's going to dissipate.

So, I'm jumping in feet first. Never in my adult life have I had any inkling of interest to write a novel, but these broads won't leave me alone. I'm moving from the (somewhat cowardly but interesting and helpful) taking-notes stage and wade into actual writing scenes, craft some dialogue. I'm both excited and nervous about where it - and they - are going to take me.

As a matter of fact, it may be better if I don't wade in... for me, it'd be best if I just squinch closed my eyes, hold my nose, and jump.

On Motherhood: Mastering chopsticks and manners

2009-09-10T07:25:00.000-07:00

Editor's Note: this blog was originally posted on December 4, 2008, but it says a lot about the little Dude, who will turn 4 on Sept. 19. He's come a long way, baby.

The plan was to go grocery shopping.

As with most things in my life, that plan was discarded when I drove past the Wasabi Hibachi Grill on the way to pick up Draper from the sitter's house last night after work. Keeping one eye on the road and feeling around for a discarded purse in the floorboard of the passenger seat for my wallet (long ago abandoned for the less efficient but cuter and less bulky pouch I'm using now - don't ask, I don't know why, had something to do with the book festival, I think), I tugged out a gift card for Wasabi given to me the last time I took Draper there and he vomited all over me and we made a hasty exit.

I loaded Draper into the car and asked in a super excited tone, "Are you hungry? Do you want to go eat JAPANESE?"

"YES!" He yelled, as predicted. Use the right tone and that kid'll do damn near anything I want, like anything I want. Sooo gullible.

He was more than a little apprehensive about "that fire."

"Mommy, look, I'm scared of that fire," he said uncertainly, watching the leaping flames of a hibachi show a few tables away.

"It'll be fine," I muttered, studying the menu. "Won't touch you."

He squirmed in his seat and announced that he had to go to the bathroom. Once there he again voiced his concern about the fire, and this time there were tears standing in his eyes. In the hallway outside the bathroom I squatted to his level and explained, step by step, about the fire and why it's necessary and how it would not touch him, get near him, or hurt him in any way or Mommy would not have even come here.

What distracted him were the chopsticks.

"I want some chopsticks, too," he said loudly as the waiter handed mine over and I began rubbing them together. I made a motion with my hand and Draper had chopsticks, the kind that are held together at one end with a rubber band.

And to my surprise, my child was an agile whiz with them, and even wanted to take the rubber band off so they'd be more like my traditional ones. I plucked up his spoon and nudged it onto the side of his plate.

"Here, honey, you can use the spoon for your rice."

He looked from the spoon to me and back, then used his free hand to remove the spoon from his plate before plucking up a clump of fried rice and dropping it into his mouth. He barely gave me time to cut the rather large shrimp in halves before plucking them up, too, and devouring them.

He ate nearly all the shrimp that came with the dinner he and I shared, as well as most of his filet (medium rare) and all his veggies. I was so proud.

He also garnered compliments from the other adults at our table, all of whom were in town on business - a fact-finding trip for something, I probably should have paid more attention but hell, I was off duty as a reporter. Draper kept his voice down, was polite and concentrated on his food. There were two kids his age at the next table, and while he kept a wary eye on them as he ate, I watched them openly for signs of rising rebellion. They were loud, clamoring and climbing over the adults who appeared to only vaguely notice their existence.

All in all, Draper was so good, and I was so proud, that I went ahead and bought him the Spiderman pajamas at Target he's been asking for for Christmas. He was ecstatic, which was reason enough, but I told him it was because he acted so well and ate so much at the restaurant.

"Well Momma I'll just tell you," he said on the way home, streetlight skimming over his face as he watched the sliver of moon following us home, "if I'mma gone to get Spiderman pajamas every time I'll always be good. Cause that Spiderman? He's one cool guy."

I laughed and said, "So are you, honey. So are you."

********************************************

I'm happy to say that his manners have only gotten better over time (with a lot of help from the new private preschool, I must admit). We were at a very nice, very intimate steakhouse in Myrtle Beach while on vacation two weeks ago and Dude was complimented on his manners, politeness and conduct.

"I just have to say something," remarked the lady at the next table, just an arm's reach from me in the dark little bistro. "I was just telling my husband what a polite young man you have there. Everything I've been able to hear has been yes ma'am and no ma'am and please and thank you."

Draper had excused himself from his seat, and only because he had been so good and was tired from a day at the beach I allowed him to curl up in my lap as I finished the last of my glass of cabernet. I kissed the top of his head.

"Thank you," I said.

"Thank you, ma'am," Draper echoed, shifting a little in my lap, squirming in smarm, I suppose.

I smiled. "Sometimes I think he must think I'm the meanest mom in the world, cause I stay on him so much about those things, but I think it's important. I'm a little hard on him, but I just want him to be a little gentleman and a decent man when he grows up."

The woman cocked her head, considered the sleepy, sun-tanned, literally sandy-haired little lump of a boy warm in my lap. "Well, whatever you're doing, it's working."

As a reward, he got to pick out a toy at Walgreens on the way back to the hotel.

Yes, even on vacation, in Myrtle Beach, I had to hit up a Walgreens. You never know, they may have something different.

On Mayhem: Do Over

2009-09-02T12:20:00.000-07:00

Upon reading a friend's blog just now, I started thinking about the decisions we make and how they affect the rest of our lives. In my case, most specifically, my decision to move to South Florida after I graduated college.

I made this decision with the hopes that my relationship with my then boyfriend would flourish and grow once we were in the same state. What I couldn't see at the time, having been in a long-distance relationship with him for several years by that point and therefore blind to the actual truth, was that he had built a life for himself down there, one that didn't include me. He flat-out told me not to move down there because of him.

"Don't do this for me, do it for yourself," he said, more than one time.

Why else would I move there, I always wanted to shout at him, but my single-minded infatuation had its hand around my throat, had its fingers pressed against my lips.

And so, to the expense and heartbreak of my father, I packed up everything I owned and moved 1,000 miles from my home, family and friends, none of which, might I add, had anything less than animosity for the boyfriend. Because they could see his nature, they heard the words, the insults and slurs, that he flung at me when I could not, when all I heard was the silence that stretched between us during infrequent phone conversations, the silence I would do absolutely anything to fill.

That move spiraled into a darkness that, now, I have a hard time remembering. I've even put off writing my Florida Chronicles like I said I would because, well, I don't want to face that time. I don't want to remember it. And trust me, when I don't want to remember something the only way it breaks through is in my dreams, or a sudden jolt of memory triggered by a smell, a flash of the tender underside of a leaf, the smell of salt, the grit of sand.

But as awful as those 18 months in Florida were, there were some bright spots, some good times, some new friends. And most importantly, I learned from the many, many mistakes I made down there, the uninformed and strictly heartfelt decisions I made. Bad decision number one being: Do not live above your means.

I have finally come to a place where I accept my bad decisions, I refuse to regret, because regretting anything is simply a waste of time and energy. I understand that everything happens for a reason, and while it hurt, and my entire world crumbled beneath me I am beyond fortunate to have family and friends who care about me, who support and love me despite my sometimes blind judgment and irrational, impulsive decisions. Without them, without my father and stepmother, primarily, who scooped me up from my puddle of regret and self-loathing to move me and my devil dog back to Tennessee, without them I would have surely wasted away and become someone none of them would recognize. I was well on my way to becoming that someone when they rescued me.

I'm sure I'm going to make more bad decisions in the future - hell, I'm lucky I can even spell the word "perfect," much less be it. But I'm taking the time, now, to scrutinize angles and turn over choices in my hands, examine, project and wonder. And I continue to learn. I'm learning now from a mistake I made last year which just slapped me in the face last week. It's humbling, bowing to these mistakes, but there's worse things to be than humble.

On Motherhood: Let's talk about zombies

2009-08-20T13:26:00.000-07:00

I'd like to think I'm not one of those women who, once she has a child, can only talk about her kid(s). Because I'm not. If anything I bring him up only in passing. But I do tend to tell what have been labeled as "Dude Tales," and they are almost always guaranteed a laugh or a "wow, he used that word?" And people are constantly telling me that I need to "write that down." So, here I am, writing it down. I hope it amuses you, at the very least.

The Dude and I have some of our best talks while he's in the bathtub. Granted, the bath invariably starts out with me sitting on the closed toilet seat, reading either Entertainment Weekly or whatever novel I'm plodding through at the moment. Last night was no different, with The Dude splashing and jabbering to himself as the tub filled up. Then, inevitably, came the questions:

"Mommy, what do zombies eat?"

"Hmm?" Turns page in On Beauty.

"Mom! What do zombies eat?"

"They eat human brains, honey."

"Oh. Why?"

"Because they don't have brains of their own, so they need human ones. See, they're not completely dead, but they're not all the way alive either. They're pretty empty inside, and they need to feast on the energy of other people to survive. Some people call them zombies, some call them politicians." I shrug. "Same thing."

A bit of splashing, some muttering about a shark "plunging to the deepest depths of the deep dark sea." I put my fingertip in my book and say, "Honey, you know zombies aren't real, right?"

"What?"

"Ma'am."

"Yes ma'am?"

"Zombies. They're not real. They're like the people in your shows, the superheroes or whatever."

"And supervillians?"

"Yes. The same type of thing. There really aren't zombies. Just, you know, so you know."

"But they don't eat human brains?"

"Oh no, they do."

He nods slowly, cocking his head to the side and squinting, a gesture I find disturbingly familiar. "Oh. Okay."

I return to my book and am completely enthralled with Kiki and Jerome's mother/son relationship when I hear: "Mom, did I ever tell you about the time I shot the zombie?"

"Mmm-mmm," I answer, reluctant.

"Mom!"

"Shot a zombie, right, I'm with you." I tuck my bookmark against the spine, sighing, and say, "What did you shoot him with?"

To see that round little almost four-year old face say, "With a gun," is almost as disturbing as the story that is about to spill from his imagination.

"Oh, I see. What kind of gun?"

"A laser gun, of course. It's the only kind that will stop a brain-eating zombie."

"Of course. How could I be so stupid."

"I don't know."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome. This happened a long time ago, before you." Many things happened to The Dude before me, apparently.

"Oh? And how did you get the gun?"

"At the gun store."

"Who did you buy it from?"

"The gun man."

"He sold it to you? How'd you pay for it?"

"With money, Mom."

"Of course. And he didn't think you were a bit young for a laser gun?"

"Well," I can always tell he's about to get the story ball rolling when the hands raise, palms up, "he didn't ask me how old I was, and I didn't tell him. He just sold it to me, so I was like, whatever."

"Mm hmm. And where was I?"

"Mom, I don't know where you are all the time."

"Right. Fair enough. And where were you living again, at this point?"

"At the old house."

"With who?"

"With Baby J, of course."

"Yes, of course. So, you bought the laser gun, and then what?"

"Then I went to Burger King. But they were all out of the Transformer toys."

"That's unfortunate."

"Yes, it was. So," hands up, dripping, palms and fingertips wrinkling, "I went back to our house? And Baby J was fixing supper? And I went back downstairs and was getting ready to do the laundry and that's when I heard it."

"Oh my. Heard what?"

"Heard the scuffling sound."

"Good word."

"Thanks."

"Then what'd you do?"

"I turned around," swirls in the bath, water sloshing up, "and there it was...."

I gasp, hands to my mouth.

He nods sagely. "The zombie." His back straightens, eyes widen. "So I jumped up!" Jumps up in the bathtub and I instinctively lean forward, one palm out, to steady him. "And that zombie turned and looked at me, and I said HEY ZOMBIE!" He stomps one little foot, water splashy soapy, spraying my hands.

"Oh! And then what happened?"

"And then? Then I shot him in the head! And he didn't have any brains, he just had dust or something. And I said HEY YOU ZOMBIE!" One tiny index finger pointing at the tiled shower ceiling. "You need to get on outta here!" He plops back down into the bathwater, picks up a plastic octopus, studies it. "And you know what that zombie did?" He trains his eyes on me, beneath lowered lashes.

I feel myself leaning forward. "What?" I whisper.

"That zombie," he drops the octopus, never breaking eye contact with me, and lowers his voice. "That zombie walked on out into the field out there and disappeared."

He smirks, sits back, smug.

I sit back as well. "Wait. Into the field?"

He nods, points toward the window on the far wall which overlooks our backyard and the 24-acre field beyond it. "Yep, right out there into that field and he's never been seen again."

"Never again?"

"Never. Again."

I nod, too, gazing out the window. "Hmm. Just one problem."

"What?"

"You said this all happened before me."

"It did! It was before you, you weren't there."

"Right. At the old house."

"Yeah! And I..." I glance over at him, see his face drop. "I...Oh."

I smile. I can't help myself. "The field is here, at the new house."

He smacks the surface of the now cold, almost scummy water. "Yeah."

"You have to stay consistent with your story-telling." I toss my book down, stand, grab his impossibly soft horsey towel and move toward the bathtub. "But it was a nice try."

He stands, head down. "Thanks, Mom."

Was it wrong of me to shoot down my child's zombie story with laser-like precision? Perhaps. But if he's going to craft such stories before he is four years old, with the compelling magnetism that he has to draw in and keep the listener's interest, by God I'm going to ride his ass to make sure he tells the best stories he can right from the beginning.

On Mayhem: The "What If" Factor

2009-08-19T12:30:00.000-07:00

Ah, the "What If" Factor:

"What if I hadn't bloodied that girl's nose in the third grade? Would she still have gone on to be governor of Alaska and a Vice President candidate?"

"What if I hadn't had that burrito for lunch? Would I have still been turned down for that job?"

"What if I hadn't moved to Florida immediately after college? Where would I be now?"

Only one of those three actually pertains to me, by the way.

A "What If" hit me on the drive to work this morning - I've thought of it before but never to the extent that I did today. I have a major "What If" choice that I consciously don't think about, that I have buried, but like most major "What Ifs" it refuses to go quietly into that good night of my memory. Instead it waits until I am weak to pounce, until I am distracted or lonely or driving and at its mercy. I have seriously considered running my car off the road to get away from it, but that's just prolonging the inevitable - it would pop up over my face as I lay on the emergency room gurney, I'm sure, with a toothy grin, big innocent eyes, and pipe up, "Hi! Remember me?"

I had the opportunity to travel to India for a month back in February. I was invited to be a goodwill ambassador with the local Rotary Club (I'm not even a member) and spend the month of February in India, all expenses paid. A month of this:

And this:

When I was in college at UT, I took a core class in world religion. I became very interested in the mythologies and creation stories of different cultures, so much so that the following summer I took on the study of ancient Greek mythology (I gave myself projects to study and research during the summer months because I am a complete and utter nerd who couldn't stand the thought of not studying something during the span between my college summer classes and the beginning of fall term). Later I declared my minor as the Classics and learned more about the Etruscan social structure (and developed a glorious crush on Dr. David Tandy) than anyone should ever know.

It was during that world religion class that I fell in love with the Hindu mythology and the seemingly lush and glamorous lifestyle of the Indian people: the Saris! The red dots! The sensual methods of eating with their hands - the sheer amount of curry used! I even wrote a (rather long) short story centering on a Greek assassin and her Indian fiance as a final project for a creative writing class, which no less than half the class thought I should develop into a screenplay. (I still have the tattered envelope full of critiques of that story - as a matter of fact, just blew the dust off it on Friday, when I did my office "spring cleaning" in August.)

So, the prospect of spending a month in India was more appealing to me, perhaps, than it would be to your average person. And to travel with all expenses paid? That seemed to be the clincher.

Everyone around me gave the same emphatic "YES!" when I asked for advice. The same rounds of "It's the chance of a lifetime," and "Think of all the inspiration you'd have to write," and "My god, you know how much you love curry, you'd be a fool not to go," and "You could email dispatches back every week for the paper, expound it into material for a book" played out as I continued to poll and pester and pepper my friends and family with suggestions and advice.

All except one. My father. And he made the one point that I had overlooked - and I can't say unconsciously.

"But I don't know how you could leave Draper for a month."

I argued and made points (sometimes loudly and violently): He was so young (at the time I had to make the decision, well before the February journey, Draper had just turned three) he probably wouldn't even remember my absence. It was such an amazing opportunity for me, he'd be proud, once he was older, to tell people his mom spent a month in India. I'd bring him presents, lots of them, elephants - he loves elephants and tigers, and India's lousy with 'em!

But my father simply shook his head: he had said all there was to say on the subject and would, in his infuriatingly diplomatic way, allow me to fume and fester and consider and come to my own decision. But he would not approve of my trip nor fund me in any way - I knew that much without asking.

I knew he was right. Deep down, I knew it. I knew I could easily go on the trip, make arrangements for my son in my absence, gather up my selfishness into a ball and swallow it like a sedative. Because that is what I had always done: put myself first. And when I stopped to consider, even in the brief flash of imagination it took to illuminate my choices and solidify my decision, my son's small face wet with tears and crying for me, missing me, a month an interminable amount of time for a small child, I completely broke down. I could not do it. Something inside me snapped, broke, and scattered. That last tenuous hold of selfishness, of "me for me," let go, and I felt it ebb away like a bottle on the Indian Ocean surf.

The trip coordinator expressed his disappointment that I wouldn't join them but said he would keep me in mind for another venture, when my son was older and occupied in school, perhaps. February came, and I wish I could say I stared balefully out windows frosted with ice and snow, wishing for warm weather and a mouth stinging with too much curry. But I can't say that because I was completely happy in February. Happy and in love.

If I had gone to India I wouldn't have reconnected with a man from my past, the brother of my ex-fiance no less, and we wouldn't have fallen so quickly and devastatingly in love with each other. He wouldn't have searched for a job in Nashville, visiting me weekly, driving from Knoxville to Mt. Juliet and Nashville on job interviews, wooing me and my family and friends and colleagues. He wouldn't have accepted a job, left his family and rented a weekly hotel room. I wouldn't have built my life, and that of my son, on his smile and his honey'd words and promises.

He wouldn't have changed his mind, packed his things, quit his job and moved back home. He wouldn't have broken my heart with an email and never spoken to me again. I wouldn't have gone silent for a week, I wouldn't have had to struggle for breath, I wouldn't have let myself give in.

I wouldn't have fallen in love. With him.

I wouldn't have come out of it stronger without him.

I wonder a lot, about so many things. I'm naturally curious - I think that's part of what makes me a good writer and reporter. I always want to know why, and I always want more. So naturally I wonder what would have happened to me in India. There were natural disasters and a Valentine's Day protest that turned "nightmarish" for lovers across the country. Later someone would follow through with a suicide bombing at a hotel, killing nearly 20 people. If I had been there, would I have been involved? Would I have been caught in a field during a monsoon, trapped at the business end of a terrorist's rifle, reprimanded for mistreating a cow?

If I had gone to India, would I have a completely different life now? Published a book of essays on my experience, written blogs and articles for magazines, become a travel writer, a photographer, a local celebrity touting my trip and insight on local news channels and feature spots?

Would I have returned here at all?

Of course I'll never know, because that's the high and low of the "What If" factor: you're left forever wondering, wandering in your own mind, kicking over thoughts and possibilities, peeking beneath to see what may scurry out. I turn the choices over in my head, examine my reasoning for cracks and faults, the fatal flaw I may have missed, but I always, always come back to this:

and this:

and this:

And the "What If" Factor of not having him never even factors into the equation. Not a possibility. Instead I allow myself to wonder, and I wander onward.

On Media: Old writing made new

2009-08-17T11:35:00.000-07:00

The following is a blog I posted on Myspace (which I have quit almost entirely except for harvesting and revisiting old blogs such as this one) almost exactly one year ago. It's fun to see what I was up to this time last year and how some interests and projects pan out and others don't - it's also a startling view of my priorities and personal advancement.

In short: I need to get back to reading that book and doing the exercises. It's on the desk in my bedroom - apparently it was important enough to me to remain out of a box and within arm's reach during and after the move to our new house. That should tell me something: it's worth enough to me, even on a subconscious level, to keep nearby, so I should get back to it. Soon.

Right after I write these three feature pieces and one hard news piece for the paper this week.

Originally posted on August 10, 2008:

I've started this new book called "Fiction Writer's Workshop," and I'm really digging it. It includes exercises to get the creative juices flowing, and they're different, more thought-provoking than the other "starters" I've read and worked on. The first one I did today: "One page: According to Henry James, one writer wrote from a glimpse of a seminary students' dinner party. Write a scene of a story from a glimpse you have had of a group of people - in a cafe, in a zoo, on a train, or anywhere. Sketch the characters in their setting and let them interact. Do you find that you find that you know too little: Can you make up enough - or import from other experiences - to fill the empty canvas?"

This is what I came up with - more than a page, but I do tend to run a little long. It's not exactly what was suggested, and I'm not sure what's going on here, exactly, but I like it, for some reason. It feels edgy and comfortable to me, sort of like spending time with someone you loved long ago, and thoroughly enjoying yourself even though you know there is no future in it.

**********************************************************

Alice nearly tripped over the kid in the stroller as she rounded the end of the long table, crowded with people. For an instant she saw herself sprawling headfirst over the stroller, tipping from it the sleeping child, and managing to catch herself with one hand on the edge of the table only to upset a basket half full of tortilla chips, the greasy white wax paper lining it fluttering to cover someone's half eaten enchilada dinner like a raincoat tossed over a puddle.

But she didn't trip, the child remained sleeping, the stroller tipped back on its back wheels like a recliner. The child's cheeks were flushed and somewhat sunken, his face a chalky muddle, and she wondered if he had a fever.

She rounded the table and when she turned to open the bathroom door with her ass she caught a glimpse of the young man at the end of the table, his shoulder pressed up against the faux-adobe wall, who was looking at her. Glaring at her, really, with the intense focus of someone attempting to call to her through ESP.

She paused, her fingers trailing along the door, groping for the knob. They slid along the long handle and twisted. It was locked. She was trapped.

The man blinked rapidly, now possibly attempting to relay his message through Morse code. She shook her head and closed her eyes, knowing his face without looking, hearing his message in her head without him speaking, knowing the heft and cadence, the long drawled vowels of his muddy bayou speech.

Alice was feverishly jerking the handle on the bathroom door. The woman inside yelled "Just a second, gawd."

"Baylor," called the woman at the end of the table, beside the feverish sleeping child in the stroller. "Baylor, isn't that Alice?"

Alice knocked her head against the door, her eyes closed, seeing the twist of Marla's mouth, her short neck straining as she squinted all the way down the table to Baylor, his shoulder against the wall and his black hair swinging down to cover his eyes.

Someone turned in his seat, Alice felt it without seeing, without moving.

"Alice?" Uncle Bob. "Alice, is that you?"

She had always hated how Uncle Bob stressed the first syllable of her name. She opened her eyes. Baylor's temple was pressed against the prickly pink wall. Mexican chic.

"Alice, why honey it is you," Aunt Geraldine. Or Gerry, as she preferred to be called. "Why honey, aren't you a sight for sore eyes. Baylor, look honey, it's Alice."

"I saw her, Momma," his voice so low Alice couldn't hear it through the din of the Thursday night Mariachi band as they swung into the low-celinged room where Baylor's family's table fairly dominated the space, sprawling in a tangle of hardened white cheese dip and scattered orange rice.

"Alice, honey, why'ont you come join us," called Momma. Or Big Momma. "We's just finishing up, but there's half a pitcher of margarita here, come on now."

"Momma," Baylor barked. "Momma, Alice don't drink any more."

Alice blushed to her hairline, the heat making the room sparkle. Her hand went slack on the bathroom door handle. Her eyes hurt around the edges.

"Lord, she looks like a scared animal," commented Uncle Bob. "Alice, come on over sit down, honey. It's been so long, come on now."

"Well, I hate to see all this here margarita go to waste," Gerry said, reaching for the pitcher across Maude and Lindsey, the unfortunate twins joined at the hip. "Might as well drink up."

"Might as well," Uncle Bob agreed, holding out his glass.

"Alice," Baylor said suddenly, as if he had only now glimpsed her. He struggled to scoot his chair away from the table, his bare chestnut arm scraping against the raised ragged stucco of the wall, his eyes on her, all over her.

The door behind Alice opened, and she tumbled backwards, into the emerging woman. The two of them fell in a tangle of arms and legs, the woman's wet hands snagging in Alice's hair. The woman broke Alice's fall with a whoosh of breath, and the bathroom door swung shut just as Baylor appeared on the other side.

Alice scrambled to her knees, crawled to the door and twisted the lock.

"What are you doing," the woman asked from beneath the white porcelain sink hanging from the wall.

Baylor's fist pounded on the door, rattling it on its hinges. "Alice, open up."

Alice glanced around. It was an open bathroom, no stalls, one toilet and a chair squatting in one corner, an afterthought. Above the chair, a small window. Alice crawled over to the chair, climbed up. The window opened without protest, and Alice hoisted herself up, hung her head out. The ground was a mere five feet down.

"What in the world," the woman breathed from the floor.

The windowsill scraped against Alice's bare stomach as she wriggled through. She allowed herself to fall, curling up against herself, to the ground. She was up and gone before the stunned woman inside could unlock the bathroom door.

On Media: Book review of "Probability Angels" by Joseph Devon

2009-08-10T09:30:00.000-07:00

Every once in a while I start a book that, a few pages in, I feel the need to turn back to the first sentence, slow down, take my time and truly enjoy. Because I read so much for work, and there are never enough hours in the workday to see the bottom of my Inbox, I tend to scan, to skim, to let my eyes slide over words, digesting them enough to get the gist of what I’m reading without actually tasting it – more like chewing gum than enjoying a snack. Rarely do I find reading material, particularly that I’m reading for pleasure, that forces me to slow down, to cock my head and consider each sentence, each description, turn of phrase and idiosyncrasies of dialogue – Joseph Devon’s “Probability Angels” is one such book.

The concept of the novel is intriguing and original - mortals who give up their own lives to save that of a loved one and in turn spend eternity “pushing” other mortals to go as far as possible and create new ideas, art, and technological innovations: such examples in the novel are Isaac Newton, Bram Stoker, and Shakespeare. These “angels” are trained by masters, such as Epp (Epictetus), a one-time slave from Ancient Greece who has pushed mortals and trained angels for centuries. Epp is powerful and smart, tough and brave – and other elder angels think his time as a deified master has come to an end, sparking a battle between the angels and the “other things,” described as zombies, for the soul of Epp and the position of power he holds in their eternal universe.

I won’t go into the details of this novel because I think everyone should read it for themselves, but the themes of this fascinating, thought-provoking read have been tackled and tossed about through the ages: the choices we make affect more than just our lives and create a ripple affect, touching the lives of others for years to come, and making difficult choices – or choosing not to make them and allow life to just “happen” – are how people grow, change, and adapt.

The choices the angels make to forfeit their lives as mortals and spend eternity “testing” other mortals is one of immense, eternal pain and sorrow, but, as Epp tells Matthew, the reward for the excruciating decision long outweighs the temporary pain.

"The upside is that you can be greatness itself. You could be Shakespeare's broken heart, Beethoven's deaf ears, Van Gogh's madness. You could be Kellar's scarlet fever, Roebling's crushed left foot, the color of Dr. King's skin. You could be the entry for light to pass into the soul. You could be the reason everything worth doing on this rock ever gets done."

While the notion that our most difficult decisions, and their life-changing results, are “pushed” by angels who are constantly surrounding us and interacting in our lives in ways that we never realize, is not a purely novel concept, Devon’s characters and methods are original and wholly captivating. His ear for dialogue and knack for character development is to be admired, and I closed the book feeling not only as if I knew the characters but felt invested in their lives. Succinctly, I wanted more but was satisfied in the moment with a fully realized experience. And like any good meal savored slowly and carefully, relishing each moment and morsel, I can’t wait to return for a second course.

You can order "Probability Angels" by Joseph Devon at http://bit.ly/aHbr4

On Motherhood: Another penis conversation

2009-07-26T06:21:00.000-07:00

Dude: Mommy, I see your penis!

Me: I'm afraid not. I don't have a penis.

D: Everybody has a penis, Mom, it's okay. It's natural.

Me: No, everyone does not have a penis, darling. Boys have a penis, and girls have... well, only boys have a penis.

Must I have this conversation again? And before 8 a.m.? He's not even four yet - I thought all this came later?

D: Mom, you're going to grow a penis!

Me: I certainly hope not.

D: Yes you are!

Me: That would be unfortunate. I drop a handful of silverware in the slotted compartment in the dishwasher. And just weird.

D: You'll like growing a penis, Mom.

Me: Hmmm. Is it painful?

D cocks his head, lifts a spoonful of key lime yogurt to his mouth.

D: Not really. I don't remember it being... what did you say?

Me: Painful. Hurt at the time.

D: Oh, painful, that's right. Well, no, it wasn't painful. It's pretty great.

Me: I'll pass, thanks. I bump the dishwasher door closed with one hip, sit down at the table with him. Honey, I'm not going to grow a penis.

D: But James has a penis.

Me: He certainly does.

D: And Devin.

Me: I would assume as much, yes.

D: Well, I think you should grow a penis, Mom.

Me: Honey. It doesn't work like that. People don't just grow penises later in life. Sometimes people want to have one put on or taken off, but that's a whole different story and not one that I really want to get into while you're eating your yogurt.

D sets the yogurt cup down and studies my face. He considers me, then the yogurt, then picks up the cup, drops it into the trash can, walks over and tosses his spoon into the sink. He returns to the table, climbs up into his chair, settles in.

D: Okay. No yogurt.

Me: Absolutely not.

D: Bologna sandwich?

Me: It's not really a food-related sort of conversation. Plus, I'd rather you be a bit older for that one.

D: MOM!

Me: Really, honey. I get up, pluck the spoon from the sink and put it in the dishwasher. Later.

D: You wouldn't say that if you had a penis. If you had a penis, you'd talk about it.

Me: You're probably right.

D: I am right. I have the penis. That makes me right.

Me: That's pretty much the only time you're ever going to be able to say that, you know.

D: You should grow a penis.

Me: I'll just settle for penis envy, thanks.

D: I'm going to go watch SpongeBob now. Thanks for the yogurt.

Me: You're welcome. Forehead against the fridge door. Dear God.

D: Mom! Does God have a penis?

Me: Against the fridge door. It just keeps getting worse and more complicated.

D: Mom! From the den. What's penis envy?

On Mayhem: Love

2009-07-19T20:06:00.000-07:00

Just months before it was over

he told her

she was like that one piece of hewn crystal

spilt from the jewelry box,

smothered among the pearls,

jumbled with the jade,

riddled with the rubies,

that clear piece of nothing

that suddenly the sun struck

and sent rainbows

scattering around the room.

On Mayhem: About snacks

2009-07-19T19:59:00.000-07:00

I'm convinced
there is no
situation, problem or restlessness
that for five minutes
Wavy Lay's potato chips
can't distract you.
Try it.

On Mayhem: My mother on the net

2009-07-19T19:58:00.000-07:00

Last night
a stranger in a chat room
called my mother "cynical and jaded."
If she wasn't before
she certainly is now.

On Motherhood: The house to myself

2009-07-17T18:31:00.000-07:00

My mother has gone to her 40th high school reunion (and would KILL me if she knew I blogged that fact) and The Dude has been with my family all day and tonight, so after Mom (AKA: Dah) left tonight I have the whole house to myself. I've tried to distract myself with a movie my father recommended and that I've wanted to watch for a while now, "Knowing," with Nicholas Cage, and while it is very interesting during a bathroom break I was, inevitably, drawn to the computer for my hourly internet fix. And so here I am.

While I feel as if I should feel lucky - nay, blessed - to have this time to myself to do whatever I want to do, I am still not naked and dancing around the house, or causing any sort of ruckus, or calling friends or basically having "me" time. All I want is for my family to bring The Dude home so I can talk to him and hear about his day and how we're going to go to my friend Sarah's house (her son, Jacob, is The Dude's bff) tomorrow to go swimming and/or hang out, depending on the unpredictable Tennessee summer weather.

I just want him home. At any other time I would beg for alone time, for time to think and read and breathe without him underneath me, without his constant chatter and questions and climbing into my lap, but without him I feel... aimless. And I can't stand that. I'm not that Mommy - I am constantly busy and writing and networking and professional, yet when I have these moments, these stolen, golden hours, my hand twitch and my whole body leans toward him, needing him, his small hands and piping voice and constant need.

What did I need before I needed him?

On Motherhood: the TV ads are right...

2009-07-17T14:00:00.000-07:00

Writer's Note: this is an older blog, but enjoyable. I'm posting it to jump start my blog. Look for more current updates soon!

The TV ads are right - having a baby changes everything. But I think you'd have to be an idiot or Britney Spears to not realize that having a child changes everything. And I have some examples.

This morning my cell phone wouldn't work. None of the buttons responded, except the end call button. I pushed and punched and cussed, but there was still no response. I thought perhaps it was being stubborn because it needed to be charged - my phone gets really tired there at the end of its battery cycle and simply refuses to respond sometime. By lunchtime, however, and after my Chamber of Commerce luncheon it had charged for most of the morning and still wouldn't respond. Concerned, I whipped into my friendly neighborhood cell phone/computer/pre-pay your Cricket phone store for emergency help.

"Oh Ray," I wailed upon entering. He was behind the counter and grinned. I bought my phone in his little strip-mall store, where he takes old phones and fixes them good as new, then sells them for a fraction of the price. I bought my phone, which has a iTunes and sounds phenomenal, for about a third of what it costs at the actual AT&T store. Ray has quite the following.

I looked around and blinked. "You rearranged the store."

He shrugged, "I'm always changing it up." He leaned across the glass display case, where only a few phones lay beneath hot lights, waiting for new owners. "What's up?"

"Oh Ray," I moaned again, "my phone! My phone won't respond! It needs CPR! It needs mouth to mouth." I winked. "It needs your touch!"

He shook his head. I explained my dilemma. He took my phone and opened it, poking around inside it like a grown man playing that Operation game from my youth. I watched anxiously, of course biting my nails, and fully expected to hear a great honk and my phone to light up red.

Ray returned. "It's got something in it," he said. He laid out the flat metal guts on my phone on the display case, and I cringed. I had suspected as much. "See this? This brown stuff? It's dried liquid - I'd say Coke or something."

He said he could "liquid clean" it, but he couldn't guarantee it would work, and it would cost $25. I made a face and he lowered the price, and said he wouldn't charge me if his method didn't work.

After about 20 minutes of Ray spraying and brushing and drying and doing god knows what else, and of me sitting in a quite comfy yellow chair, staring absently off into space, I heard the unmistakable jingle of that plays when my phone turns on. I snapped up. Ray grinned.

"It works?" I asked.

He shrugged. "So far."

I snatched the phone from him and checked for text messages. He said, "What, did you spill something on it, or drop it in something?"

"Nope, I would have told you," I said, sliding the phone into my coat pocket. "I have a two-year old."

Ray's assistant shook her head and sighed. "Enough said. I have one, too. God only knows what that stuff was."

Thrilled and ready to call everyone I know now that my phone worked again, I wheeled out of the parking lot - introducing another toddler-induced malaise of my life: The Toy That Plays Music But I Can't Find In The Vicinity of The Back Seat of My Car.

(Coming soon to a theater near you. Check your local listings.)

"DAMMIT!" I yelled, whipping into my office parking lot while "Do, A Deer, A Female Deer" played jauntily from some undisclosed location in my car.

I have been listening to this freaking thing for nearly a week because I'm too lazy/distracted most of the time to really search for it, instead risking my life and the life of others as I make a half-assed swipe of the back seat with one hand while driving. I've yet to find it using this method.

I jerked open the driver's side back door and glared inside. "Show yourself," I hissed.

"You okay, ma'am?" Called a male voice behind me. We technically park in the Burger King parking lot, next door to our office, to save space for customers. The little old man hobbled closer, peering at me, then past me into my back seat, which is actually clean at the moment. (I made a hasty swipe of my car last weekend in preparation for a date, when I wasn't sure I would drive or not.)

"It's the toy," I explained, leaning in and not really caring that I was pretty much literally showing my ass at the moment to him. Being old, he didn't much care, either. "This toy that starts playing music every time I turn a curve."

Not finding it and not caring to have my ass in his face any longer, I straightened. "But really, I'm fine, thank you, sir."

His face was grave. "Are you sure. I used to be a detective with the sheriff's department. I could help you find it."

I managed to keep my face straight. "Yessir, I'm sure. It'll be okay."

He nodded. "Well, you take care, now."

I smiled, "Thank you, Detective." And the glow of pride on his face made me forget all about my toy trials and tribulations.

Until I get home. Because, you see, another way a child - and in my case specifically, a 2-year old - changes your life is that your stuff is no longer your stuff. You have no stuff. It's all their stuff. And their actual stuff is mainly, in my case, books, puzzles, and toy cars. Lots of toy cars. Toy cars everywhere. Big cars, little cars, cars that talk and cars that shudder to life in the middle of the night when you get up to pee that scare you half to death. Cars between the couch cushions, cars in your panty drawer, cars in the bathroom sink, cars in the lowest bins of the refrigerator (how does he do that? he's so sneaky - it's not like he can open the fridge door himself, someone has to be looming above him as he nestles them among the bottled Diet Coke and pickles).

And, in my case specifically, there is no more sleeping late. I didn't have to be at work until 10 this morning, and I had a bit of a late night last night and wanted, desperately, to sleep in. I might as well had wanted to castrate an elephant in my backyard - I had as much of a chance and would probably have better luck.

It begins with the thud of two little feet hitting the floor at, and this is an approximate time, 5:15 a.m. Little feet padding into my bedroom, shuffling to the custom-made stairs at the foot of my bed. Despite my super-Mom hearing even in my sleep and knowing what will happen, I sigh and roll over, my back to the heavy little body crawling up the length of my body.

Now, some people have sweet children who caress them and murmur to them to wake a parent. And sometimes my son is sweet. But usually its:

"Mommy."

I generally try to ignore this.

"Mommy. Heeey, Mommy."

"Mmmm, wha."

"Mommy, wha-wha you doing?" He does not stutter, normally, but he does when he says this one phrase.

"Sleeping. Go away."

Generally followed by either a gentle slap on my cheek or, if he's still behind me, he'll crawl over my head or place his cheek on mine, a chubby little hand slipping beneath my ear, cradling my face. "Mommy, waaake up!"

"How 'bout no?"

"How 'bout yes! Hey Mommy, I need chocolate milk in my sippy."

"So go fix it."

"Mommy, I can't do that. You know better than that." This is his newest phrase. Apparently everything I do is wrong, and I know better.

"God, so learn. Mommy is asleep. It's too early for Mommies, Draper."

"Mommy, put you glasses on." I wear contacts, glasses at night. He knows that the first sign of my getting up and out of bed is putting on my glasses, cause I'm blind as a bat. Glasses shoved at my nose. "Mommy, glasses. Put them on, please. Get up. I need chocolate milk in my sippy."

"You don't."

"Mommy. I need Jelly Bellies."

Thank you, Dad and Vanda, for the coin-operated Jelly Belly gumball-type novelty machine for Christmas. Thank you.

"No, you don't."

"Mommy. I need cracker fish." Goldfish Crackers.

"So go get them."

"Okay. I be right back." He slides off the bed backward, like a penguin slipping off an iceburg into the sea. Shuffling steps to the door, then, "Mommy?"

"God, what, Draper?" I know, I sound impatient, and I am. It is 5:20 in the morning, and I have this conversation pretty much every morning at 5:20, give or take a new phrase or obsession he has.

"Mommy, you want something? I bring something for you."

And that, ladies and gentlemen, makes it all worth it.

"No, baby, but thank you. Be careful with the stool, and don't get into the silverware drawer. You know better."

"I know, Mommy." The bedroom door will close, then open again almost immediately. "Mommy?"

"Yes, angel."

"Mommy, you turn on Noggin, kay, I be right back and watch with you."

I smile.

"It is Franklin?"

I crack open an eye and squint at the oversized numbers of the alarm clock. "It is."

"I be right back."

Without opening my eyes, I will reach out and grab the remote, turn on the TV. It is almost always already tuned to his favorite station. I replace the remote, roll over, and wait until his soft warm body settles beneath the sheet beside me to drift back to sleep.

For me, having a child unexpectedly absolutely changed everything about my life. And, looking back, I wonder what in the world I did with all that spare time. I wonder how I spent my money, if not on toy cars and Jelly Bellies and tiny shoes and Golden Books. I wonder if I'd miss it if I didn't have him. And I wonder how I could ever live without him.