dirty cleaning

That’s what my memèré calls a half-assed cleaning. Although I don’t think she’s ever said “half-assed” and I would bet the farm that her version of half-assed is most likely cleaner even than Downton Abbey. And they have a trillion maids and what-not, while she's just one small, highly dedicated woman. At any rate, a dirty cleaning is when you rush through the cleaning process, sort of ignore the corners, let some of the dust linger, shove a few things in a closet instead of putting them where they’re supposed to go. You get the idea. Let it be known that you CANNOT perform a dirty cleaning on all cleaning occasions. It is a once-in-a-while kind of cleaning. I mean, don’t get crazy, people. Clean your houses with integrity. Let’s not be uncivilized. Let’s not be cavepeople. Although, if you were a very clean caveperson, Mem might be okay with that. But don’t push it. Dirty cleaning is not to become your modus operandi. It’s for those more desperate occasions when you don’t have time to pull out all the special cleaning brushes, cloths, cleansers, parts of the vacuum most people never utilize (but should).

(I don’t, either. Don’t tell Mem.)

But there are very compelling reasons to dirty clean sometimes. More often than not, actually. Such as would rather go to the beach or would rather read a book or why bother? they're just going to mess it up as soon as I am done. (Again, don’t tell Mem ... Although through the grace and wisdom of her 89 years, I think she would understand now, even if she didn’t when she was my age.) Honestly, I typically do a dirty cleaning the week after I do a deep cleaning. And sometimes also the week after I do a  dirty cleaning. I don’t follow a schedule—I flow, people.

Well, I have done neither a dirty cleaning nor a deep cleaning in a couple of weeks, just a frantic sweeping here and there, a manic clutter-busting once or twice, a frenetic toilet swishing when it became glaringly apparent that I had no other choice. But today I am doing a deep cleaning because I have a big party coming up this weekend! That’s right—The Mosquito Hours book launch party! Many months in the planning and it has finally arrived. A celebration of my achievement but more so a big THANK YOU to everyone who has encouraged my work. Without that support, there would be no novel.

I confess that cleaning is not as near-and-dear to me as it is to Mem, but even I know that an event like this requires something a lot more significant than a dirty cleaning. So, 8 hours later, this house is about as clean as it gets. Probably better than if there were no imminent party. Not that I allow my family to reside in squalor. It’s just that I find that a side-benefit of throwing a party is that it forces you to clean your house. Once again, everyone, thank you.

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Find my novel, The Mosquito Hours, on Amazon! Wanna stay up-to-date on news about my books as well as have my latest blog posts conveniently delivered to your inbox? Then subscribe to my newsletter! Click on that little box right over there on the right. See how easy I made that for you? (You’re welcome.)

i am going to read more often

If there is one thing that always concerns me—be it the moment I awaken, several hours prior to that when I ought to be asleep, or most of the time in general—it’s my preoccupation with being “productive.” As if most of what I do produces nothing. Such as clean clothes, an orderly home, educated children, supper. That’s NOT the point. I mean writing something, planning something, marketing my book, researching new homeschooling and parenting philosophies. (Yes, I DO philosophize.) I tell you these things NOT in an effort to make you think I’m crazy. Exactly.

When I was a kid I read constantly. The highlight of my life was the biweekly visit of the Bookmobile. When the Scholastic order came in every month, I was beside myself. My favorite store was Walden Books.

But now that I'm a grown-up, I am "too busy" to read the way I used to.

Then I thought about it. There is the work we must do and then there is the grinding drive to to be "productive" every wakeful hour. This weekend in a blindingly beautiful moment of grace that I never saw coming—as blindingly beautiful moments of grace happen upon you—I realized that I just wanted to read a book for the sake of pure pleasure and nothing else. And guess what? I did! It was AFTER I cleaned out the basement, but still.

The top of my bureau is lined with to-be-read books, so I have plenty from which to choose. And I mean it—I am going to read more. I am going to read these books! I mean, what’s the point of life? To have a clean house? To maintain high levels of production? To know where your kids are all the time? No! It’s for reading! Being alive is for the sake of reading. I am so glad I remembered this in time.

By the way, isn’t my bureau so tidy? It always looks like this. No it doesn’t. This is what it really looks like:

And that is my all-natural deodorant. It almost works. Comes so, so close. Who needs to smell perfect? Exactly.

So here’s what I’ve read/been reading lately.

When I had my blindingly beautiful moment of grace, Maine by J. Courtney Sullivan is the one I grabbed off the to-be-read bureau top (doesn’t that just roll off the tongue?). At halfway through, it’s a good, smooth read so far. The plot is not a roller-coaster ride but that never bothers me as long as the characters are well-drawn and the writer makes me care about them. That’s definitely the case here.

Wendell Berry’s Hannah Coulter is a gorgeous novel and talk about well-drawn characters. This is a very quiet book, but lovely and sweet, the setting as much a character as the people who call it home. Berry is also a poet and his perfectly-chosen prose is informed by his deft poetry skill. I love his work.

The Blue Bistro by Elin Hilderbrand is something I actually read last summer when I was in the depths of hell that is better-known as selling your house. It’s a nice little bite of mind-candy. I am the first to admit I am an utter book snob even though I know it’s wrong. Yes, I wear Birkenstocks with socks. No, I never “style” my hair. Yes, I am a book snob. Now it’s all out there. Anyhow, The Blue Bistro is one of those books you can simply fall into and flow effortlessly through and forget about everything while you're reading it. And I guess if someone says that about my book, I will be pretty happy.

Sister of the Bride by Beverly Cleary is a book I first read when I was a kid and I have read it nearly every year since. I still have the old, worn $2.99 Dell paperback I bought when I was in 5th grade and I also have a digital copy. There is not one mis-chosen word in this book and the characters and setting are simultaneously of a by-gone era and timeless.

I just started The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt. So far it is very compelling and I love the characters. I mean, my iPhone tells me that I am only 2% done and have 32 more hours of reading ahead of me, but, like I said, so far I am loving it. The prose is spot-on and the characters feel very real even at only 2%.

I really enjoyed Her Fearful Symmetry by Audrey Niffenegger. It had a twist to it that I did not see coming. I mean DID NOT. I loved all the characters. Even though it was a bit out-there, I mean for me—my choices of literature are strictly realist—but it was so beautifully written that I stuck with it and really dug the story.

Okay, there's a nice little sampler for you. I am going to read more often. I think everyone should. And if you do, please share what you’ve been reading lately—I for one am always willing to go out and get a new book. (Just don’t tell Steve (not his real name) I said that.)

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Find my novel, The Mosquito Hours, on Amazon! Wanna stay up-to-date on news about my books as well as have my latest blog posts conveniently delivered to your inbox? Then subscribe to my newsletter! Click on that little box right over there on the right. See how easy I made that for you? (You’re welcome.)

when boxes of your own books arrive on your front porch

It’s weird when that happens. It’s weird when you say I have a book. An actual physical book. To say I have 3 boxes of books is even a little bit weirder.

We went on a hike through a daffodil field the other day. This guy called Parson (no idea what his first name is since I was sort of only half-listening to the lady) planted some daffodil bulbs in the 1930s or so. (It's very likely that those facts are shaky. Sorry.) At any rate, daffodils self-propagate so they have not planted a bulb since the 1940s and these things just keep on keepin’ on! And daffodils smell so sweet, which I never knew. I learned that some varieties have more fragrance than others. At his nature class yesterday, my son learned that daffodils are poisonous. Who knew? My daughters can’t really pronounce the sounds “oi” and “or” make. It sounds more like “oh” when they say it. Thus daffodils in our world are “pohson” and we pee in the “tohlet.” Anyhow, 3 acres of daffodils! When we got home, these boxes were piled up on the front porch. I mean pohch:

The books are ready and waiting for my May 17th book launch celebration! Want a signed copy? Come on down!

There are other weird things, too. For instance, when you go to the bathroom to pee and there is this:

Also, when you turn around in your favorite comfy chair that used to be your Pepèré’s, do you see this? Yes, that IS a stick in the corner. Did I remove it? Nah. I’m sure it’s there for a really good reason. Like the horse in the bathroom.

May your Friday be filled with weird and wonderful surprises!

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Find my novel, The Mosquito Hours, on Amazon and other online retailers! Wanna stay up-to-date on news about my books as well as have my latest blog posts conveniently delivered to your inbox? Then subscribe to my newsletter! Click on that little box right over there on the right. See how easy I made that for you? (You’re welcome.)

worry about yourself!

Please watch this video. (I know I’m being bossy but trust me.)

I first saw this while on vacation last summer and at that time there had been only a few thousand views. There are over 4 million now. I have been itching to share this since I saw it, but all the other shiny things in my head kept distracting me. So, finally, here it is! I wanted to share because “worry about yourself” is just so brilliant.

Seriously. Worry about yourself is probably the smartest philosophy to come down the pike since Plato. Or Kierkegaard. Or ... there are others. It’s been a long time since Philosophy 101, but I know there were a couple more of those guys who thought up smart stuff.

Let’s discuss worrying about yourself.

Worrying about yourself does not mean you don’t think about others. It means you concern yourself with your own behavior. With your own perceptions, thoughts and responses to events and people in your own life. Worrying about yourself is not a selfish act—it is actually entirely the opposite. It’s about looking inward and challenging the little voices that tend to do nothing but make trouble. It’s about challenging that which we think about ourselves and others as well as what we think others think about us and our responses to all that jibber-jabber in the ol' noggin. When you worry about yourself, you are mindful of how you move through this world, the manner by which you treat others and how you treat YOU.

It has become a daily part of life in our family. “Mom, so-and-so just blah-blah-blah!” My response, “Worry about yourself.” Or, “Mom, so-and-so said blah-blah-blah!” My response, “Worry about yourself.” I mean, worry about yourself doesn't apply to every occurrence in life and yet it usually does. (Note: I do assist my children in navigating the more difficult human interactions, but I like to give them a shot at figuring things out before I overly involve myself. And even though they are pretty young, we do talk about looking at our own behavior and our interpretation of a situation before we respond. Of course using words and examples that make sense to them.)

I am no statistician—or whatever those professionals who figure this stuff out are called—but I think that about 87.3% of what we worry about when it comes to ourselves and others is stuff we make up. Seriously. 87.3%. Whether it be at 3:00AM worrying about being a good enough homeschooling mom and productive enough writer while “Let It Go” ravages your tender brain folds (this is a intended as a general example meant to encompass all experience of made-up stuff about which to worry) or concerns about what someone “did” to you. 87.3% of it is made-up stuff. I’m not saying our worries are always unfounded or that people never “do” stuff to us, but it’s only true 12.7% of the time. (If a statistician or whatever you people are called knows of a more accurate number, please contact me and I will correct my math-ing error. There’s an 84.6% chance that I made one.)

I wonder if the world would be a kinder, gentler and happier place if everyone worried about themselves. I remember once hearing the BEST advice about marriage: DO YOUR PART. Which is another way of saying WORRY ABOUT YOURSELF. I think you can apply either of these wise adages to almost anything in life. Worrying about yourself means being mindful, thoughtful, conscious. Am I good at this? Not all the time. Not even most of the time. But I think if I simply bring attentiveness to the idea, I just might get better at it. I’m not being flippant, friends—I really believe a worrying about ourselves revolution could foster real peace. Inner and outer. Who couldn’t use a little more peace?

I like this so very much that I even hung it up a "Worry About Yourself" sign in our house.

 

You can go get your own printable here.

When you don’t think worry about yourself applies to you then I suspect just maybe it does—I know that is often the case with me. Perhaps we’d all be more peaceful and grace the world with more serenity if we worried about ourselves a little more. Let’s do this together! Print out your sign and watch the little girl a bunch of times! Come, let's worry about yourself together!

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Find my novel, The Mosquito Hours, on Amazon! Wanna stay up-to-date on news about my books as well as have my latest blog posts conveniently delivered to your inbox? Then subscribe to my newsletter! Click on that little box right over there on the right. See how easy I made that for you? (You’re welcome.)

it’s here!

It has arrived on the webs! The trade paperback of The Mosquito Hours is available on Amazon. The eBook version will be available May 15th, if you prefer your books in digital form.

Can I tell you how weird it is to see MY BOOK on the webs? In EXISTENCE?! I am entirely ecstatic and totally freaked out in equal measure.

I spent the other day walking around downtown, hanging up flyers and talking to people about my book. It was rainy, windy and nasty and not at all the kind of day you want to be walking around downtown. But I had a sitter and you gotta take your opportunities when you get 'em. But can I tell you—I had so much fun and met a slew of nice, supportive people. And I realize that a wonderful benefit of publishing a novel is all the amazing people you meet when you do! It’s very encouraging on many levels. And I am really excited to see where this adventure takes me. I need to remember to enjoy it because very soon I need to get back to work writing the next book. The work of being a writer is very solitary and the work of publication is going to be a lot more social—I might even leave the voices in my head for a while and commune with actual humans. Seems like it might actually be fun!

Hey, have you heard of Goodreads? You should head over there and enter my book giveaway. We’re giving away several copies, so you have a pretty good chance! (You’re welcome.)

Happy Friday and hope your weekend is a lovely one!

3 things

The other day I played hooky. It was awesome.

I was a very good girl in high school (mostly) and never played hooky. (Mostly.) Back before I had these kids when I worked outside the home, playing hooky was called “taking a mental health day.” Did you ever wake up and simply feel as though there was no way whatsoever, no matter how you turned it around in your mind, you could possibly go to work. The very thought of that same old routine, those same problems and aggravations made you recoil physically? Well, I didn’t exactly feel that way the other day, but I did desperately need an entire day to catch up on work, read all my unread emails, not be asked for juice or snacks or an episode of Octonauts or some Frozen coloring pages printed out or anything else. And I needed to organize everything. EVERYTHING. So on a day last week when Steve (not his real name) was home, I escaped. I mean, I let him know ahead of time. I didn’t just disappear. I have never considered doing that.

(I have.)

So, I went to the University library and could not figure out how to get the wifi to work. I could have asked the young people working at the desk but that made me feel too middle-aged. And I am not yet middle-aged but they would mostly likely think I was by the mere fact that I couldn’t figure out the wifi. Wait ... At any rate, I would rather ask my 8 year old how to use technology. He doesn’t make me feel old—he knows I’m just a little dumb. So I went to a café nearby and did get on the wifi but it kept kicking out on me. Also, I sat down next to this talkative older man who chatted off and on about the state of Capitalism and what he predicted was going to happen in the next year to 2 years and that I must recall this conversation when it did indeed come to pass in the next year to 2 years and there must be something to our paths merging and me moving this information forward because he doesn’t usually talk to people about his Capitalism theories. I must admit I like the concept a lot. Not the politics part or the chattiness when I really needed to be left alone to work but the idea of things moving from person to person with purpose. It wasn’t even his fault that he pegged me for a sounding-board. I give off that sort of vibe—a talk-to-me-even-though-it’s-not-at-all-desired-by-me sort of vibe. One time this old guy, very drunk, chatted me up at the bus stop in Haymarket Square. Every other person waiting for a bus managed to dodge his attention. But not me. He spent a good amount of time telling me a-many things I did not need to know about him. At one point he said, “Pretty girls like you never talk to me.” I said, “Oh, that’s too bad. Why?” (See how I invite this sort of thing?) to which he replied, “Mostly because I’m a drunken asshole.” I’m not ashamed to admit that I was relieved when his bus arrived. As it pulled away, he called out the window to me, “I’ll never forget you! What did you say your name was again?” I wish my creative mind were clever enough to have conjured this, but it’s all true. I’m sure I’ll steal it for a novel sometime. Anyhow, I finally ended up at the local public library and the wifi connection was mint and I wished I could have been there all day but they didn’t open until noon, so there you go with that. And since it was school vacation week, they were showing Frozen in the community room, so I got to hear “Let It Go” for real rather than only on a loud continuous loop through my tender brain folds.

Admittedly, my big plan for the day was ambitious, multi-faceted, layered and tiered. Grandiosely nuanced. Essentially, I intended to jam 50 potential hours of work into 8 actual hours. Less than 8 since I wasted like 2 driving around looking for a stable wifi connection. I can’t say I was disappointed at the end of the day with what I had accomplished, but it wasn’t nearly enough to really have cracked the to-do list.

So rather than become discouraged and in an attempt to curb my delusions of the amount of work I can possibly accomplish daily, I came up with a new philosophy. I call it 3 things. Yes, 3 things. What the heck does that mean, you ask? Well, allow me to share! On any given day, I do not try to do more than 3 things outside of the stuff I have to do. E.g., feed the family, homeschool the kids, do whatever pressing homemaking that is pushing its way to the top of the list. So, for example, on a regular day, in addition to my primary responsibilities, I will not try to do more than 3 things. Today the 3 things were:

  1. some detail work on my website;
  2. a few important tasks for the upcoming novel release;
  3. and some reading in this book.

Simple! 3 things! Instead of holding 27 things in my mind, I need to hold only 3. And I can usually get 3 things done, which makes me feel like a champion at the end of the day. And even if I don’t get those 3 things done, at least I only didn’t get 3 things done instead of not getting 27 things done. I win!

So, I ask you, how do you manage all the tasks gremlin-ing around in your poor, addled brain?

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My novel, The Mosquito Hours, will be released in just a couple of days! Wanna stay up-to-date on news about it as well as have my latest blog posts conveniently delivered to your inbox? Then subscribe to my newsletter! Click on that little box right over there on the right. See how easy I made that for you? (You’re welcome.)

the new website! you're here—RIGHT NOW!

Well, this is it! What do you think?

I know I said the big reveal was going to be yesterday, but who even remembered I said that? Exactly. There are benefits to not being famous (... yet). Such as you can get too busy to launch your new website when you said you were going to and the world still keeps on spinning. If I were Justin Bieber I would absolutely have HAD to launch my website yesterday which is one of the many reasons I am so relieved NOT to be Justin Bieber. As I said, there are benefits to being me and going to the playground instead of getting the website done is one of them.

(I should probably take all this more seriously.)

Please stay a while and browse around. And let me know what you think!

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My novel, The Mosquito Hours, will be released in early May! Wanna stay up-to-date on news about it as well as have my latest blog posts conveniently delivered to your inbox? Then subscribe to my newsletter! Click on it right over there on the right. See how easy I made that for you? (You’re welcome.)

friday stew—a random collection of unrelated miscellany

 

Apple, I am too old for your trickery.
I love my iPhone. She is my good buddy. She knows my needs—very nearly anticipates them—and fulfills them effortlessly. She emits these nifty little amusing sounds whenever I type clickety-click and also makes a nice crisp snap sound when I put her in lock-mode. Such satisfying little noises. Like clicking a pen. Even though everyone knows only the person who is clicking the pen is enjoying the sounds. Nevertheless, enjoyable. And of course she has a lovely array of melodious chimes from which to choose for your text alerts, your phone ring, your incoming and outgoing emails. Etc. Out of nowhere yesterday, she went silent. Oh, she could still stream a quality episode of 19 Kids and Counting, or an entertaining NPR podcast, or even a nice album from my iTunes collection. But a text alert? No. A tippy-tappy click when composing an email? No. A sweet ring of the phone? Nary a once. I was alarmed. What could be amiss? Was the new operating system I just downloaded glitchy? Was she broken? I called my 12 year-old niece. If she couldn’t figure it out, no one could. She told me to check my settings—but all was well. She told me to check the Do Not Disturb feature. Nope, not on. She told me to change my alert sounds then shut down and restart. Nothing. I hung up in dismay. What was I going to do??? Then my 10 year-old nephew called back (the phone was on vibrate which was the only way I knew someone was even calling) and told me about a super-secret do not disturb switch on the side of the phone. Hardware! I checked and it was indeed activated! How that happened I cannot fathom since I was not formerly aware of its existence. Dear Apple, please do not put a super-secret do not disturb switch on the side of the phone without informing me ever again! I guess my niece is getting too old to solve the problems with modern technology. Next time I will consult one of my 6 year-olds.

 

Let It Go.
If you have a kid, I don’t even need to expand on these three words. If you don’t have a kid, this is the title of one of the big songs from Frozen and I urge you not to seek this song out if you are lucky enough not to possess familiarity. Not because it is a bad song but because it will work its way into the tender folds of your brain and like an alien life-form burrow into your gray matter to release its full force without your will or consent. Usually at 3:00AM. Also 100 others times during the day. And it is loud there up in your brain as if you are hearing it in your minivan at full volume, which you will be any time you are in your minivan with your kids. If you have any. And a minivan. You won’t get away from this song no matter what you do. There is no running. There is no escape. It has special powers. Even though it’s called “Let It Go,” you can’t. But, overall, it’s a pretty good tune.

Breezeway reorganization.
The other day I reorganized my breezeway and here's how it came to pass. Okay this is a long circuitous one. Worse than usual—if you read on, it’s your own fault. The other day I helped a friend clean her house which was being placed on the market. She told me she wanted to sell her bedroom set and I really like it so I said I wanted to buy it. So, the other day when we rented a U-Haul to go get the new swing set we also went and got the bedroom furniture. Well, one of the pieces was too large to make the ridiculous angle of the stairway that leads upstairs. Poor, wonderful Steve (not his real name) had to dismantle one of the smaller dressers just to get it upstairs and I know he could not care less what our bedroom furniture looks like so he did this for me. He earned many good husband points that day. So, we decided to utilize that really large piece downstairs (as if we had a choice). Looking around, I could not figure out where it was going to go and what I would stash in it. Then my friend came up with the brilliant idea to use it in place of the old TV stand we were using. It is kind of the only place it will fit, so it seemed like the best (only) idea. But a very good one, nonetheless. So, we swapped out the TV stand for the nice piece of bedroom furniture. Here is a pic:

Now (no, this isn’t over yet), one of the things I decided to store in this big new piece of furniture is all the winter hats, scarves, mittens, etc. and in doing so, I could remove the small dresser that was already out in the breezeway containing the winter hats, scarves, mittens, etc. By the way, it isn't even a breezeway. We just call it that because the kids understand the phrase “put your shoes and coat in the breezeway” and “get your shoes and coat off the kitchen floor and put them in the breezeway” and “why can’t you just put your shoes and coat in the breezeway without being asked to put your shoes and coat in the breezeway.” I am not going to change “breezeway” to “entryway” for the sake of semantic accuracy because it will take them years to learn the right word and then for the next 15 years before they grow up and move out I will be saying “put your shoes and coat in the entryway” and “get your shoes and coat off the kitchen floor and put them in the entryway” and “why can’t you just put your shoes and coat in the entryway without being asked to put your shoes and coat in the entryway” to which they will respond, “where?” and I will end up saying, “the breezeway.” I am no fool, people. Anyhow, that small dresser took up too much space in the breezeway and wasn’t working as well as I had originally hoped. But now with the winter hats, scarves, mittens, etc. in the living room, I could reorganize the breezeway! How I love an opportunity to reorganize. I put up a bunch of hooks and made more shoe space and places to hang all the bags and now I can’t stop going out there to admire it. And this is how the breezeway came to be reorganized!

 

NEW WEBSITE!
Next week the new website launches! Next Tuesday to be exact! Mark your calendars! Set your alarm! Make sure the super-secret do not disturb switch on your phone is not set! And have a wonderful weekend!

PS—I am running out the door to go on a hike with the kids and a big group of homeschoolers and did not have a chance to proofread this as well as usual, so if there are any errors, I will fix them later! Probably. Happy Friday!


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My novel, The Mosquito Hours, will be released in early May! Wanna stay up-to-date on news about it as well as have my latest blog posts conveniently delivered to your inbox? Then subscribe to my newsletter! Click on it right over there on the right. See how easy I made that for you? (You’re welcome.)

help—part 1

Here’s the thing: when you need help, just ask. I know! Crazy simple.

Lately I have been doing that and let me tell you, I endorse it 100%. Why did it take me this long? Who knows, but don’t make my mistake. When someone says, “What can I do to help?” think of something.

Lately, my most consuming worry, the one that pushes its crummy little self to the front of the line, is HOW AM I GOING TO MARKET MY BOOK? I HAVE NO IDEA HOW TO MARKET A BOOK! This one really loves 3:00AM. A lot. Also yelling.

When I know how to do something, I possess endless energy and almost too much exuberance and enthusiasm. (I do know other words that don’t begin with E but these just really seem to work well together.) Conversely, when I do not know how to do something, I freeze. Then worry. Then freeze. Worry. Freeze. Worry. A nice tidy loop of crazy.

But sometimes, my subconscious (who is really very thoughtful most of the time) steps in and solves the problem. I woke up the other morning with the thought, “Just ask for help.” So I did! I sent a simple email to some of my writer friends asking for their most effective marketing practices and they were happy to share. I now have some great ideas and—dare I say it?!—a marketing plan! “Plan” might be an optimistic word, but I have something close to it. I slept well last night. As did my subconscious (I’m assuming).

The great thing about asking for help is that is makes you more inclined to offer help, which seems counterintuitive if you are busy enough to need to ask for help in the first place, but somehow it all balances out. And you get the warm-and-fuzzies, which are very lovely. Also, it’s good karma. Who can’t use a little good karma?

This weekend Steve (not his real name) asked for help in getting the large parts to our new swing set from a truck into the backyard. Parts far too large for my feeble upper-body strength. My brother-in-law and a good friend helped. Also my sister. She’s a lot stronger than I am. But I watched as I ate my breakfast and told them where it should go.

swing_set

Here is the swing set. It's not done yet. Or it's the worst swing set ever. But, really, it's not done yet.

Oh, speaking of karma, I have a nice story for you. When we decided to get a swing set, we checked out some of the swing set offerings on Criagslist to see if there was anything good before we just went out and bought new. You know, frugality and reusing, reducing, recycling. Anyhow, I found this great one in a town—that shall remain unnamed—an hour away from us. I spoke to the owner who was moving and needed it removed ASAP. I told her we would be by on Saturday and she said to call her then for the address where to mail the check. Deal! We drove there and she was gone (which we expected) and so was the swing set (which we did not). I texted her to inquire (with utmost hopefulness and faith in humanity) had the swing set been moved to a place where I could retrieve it? No. She sold it to someone else and forgot to call me. That is bad karma. I wanted to send her a nasty text but that would have been bad karma. I wanted to wish bad karma upon her. But that also would have been bad karma. Bad karma begets bad karma. Just like helping begets helping.

(See how I bring these things full circle?)

In the end, as you have most likely deduced, we did find another swing set and the guy managed not to sell it to someone else before we got there. He was even extremely nice AND helped Steve (not his real name) to dismantle and load the parts. I like to think we met this great fortune because we sow good karma. And see? More helping!

Are you wondering why is this “part 1”? Because you never know when you’re going to need to ask for help ... again.

FRIENDLY REMINDER! The Mosquito Hours will be released for your reading pleasure in 2 weeks! Mark your calendars now! (You’re welcome.)

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My novel, The Mosquito Hours, will be released in early May! Wanna stay up-to-date on news about it as well as have my latest blog posts conveniently delivered to your inbox? Then subscribe to my newsletter! Click on it right up top there on the right. See how easy I made that for you? (You’re welcome.)

i wanna be a duggar

I think I want to be a Duggar. I have been watching 19 Kids and Counting and the Duggars are so nice. I mean they are just ridiculously nice. (I'm a sucker for nice.) It is really easy to look at people who have 19 kids (or more—I’m not even sure how many they’re up to at this point) and get all judge-y and worry about overpopulation and limited resources (I’m all green myself so I get it), or wondering if it is possible to care for that many children well, or fill in your objection here. But these people really have it together—their life is so mindfully constructed. They’re ultra-conservative and I’m ultra-liberal, but politics aside, I admire their mindfulness. And they are just so nice. Their life is simple and sweet. And, yes, perhaps they do need 11 shopping carriages at the supermarket and wash and dry 180 loads of laundry a week (WHAT?! I do 6 and I am whiny all over the place), but I just might trade in my social media and my fears of tweeting and my DVR and iPhone for their kind of simplicity. It’s like a convenient version of Little House on the Prairie without the failed crops and deadly childhood diseases and bear attacks.

Let me be clear: if I become a Duggar, I want to be one of the kids—I do not want to be the mom. 19 kids (or however many they’re up to at this point) is way too many kids to take care of. I have 3 and I only meant to have 2 and I am maxed-out. What I want to be is a Duggar child. If I were a Duggar child, I could just get in the supper-making assembly line and sleep in a nice bunk amidst all the other Duggar children. It’s just so cozy to imagine. And nice. Really really nice. They might not even notice I’m there if I am quiet and keep myself busy with laundry and cooking. I would, however, retain my belief in dinosaurs; I’d keep it on the DL so as not to upset the family dynamic.

I am genuinely surprised by how much I like the Duggars. I was prepared to think they’re totally weird. They are, but only in a different way from anyone else. It’s a mostly good weird. (Like most of us.)

I have a totally valid reason why I started watching this show and it is research, which I encourage you to do. You can pretty much do anything under the umbrella reason of “research.” But this is bona fide research. I have an idea for a new novel that includes a large family. Maybe not Duggar-large, but larger than average. Maybe 12 kids. So, you see, I must watch the Duggars. It’s professional, people. And if I try to infiltrate their brood, then it’s called “deep research.”

As I watch 19 Kids and Counting, progress on my new website continues. I am very excited about it! I'm still working away and am getting close to finishing it. Or Steve (not his real name) is. Whatever you think.

Here is a picture of me bossing him in my striped bossing pants:

working_on_website

Yes, I have bossing pants. All good wives have bossing pants. Hel-lo. See how he’s just typing away. Well, not typing—clicking and saving and moving things around in ways I could never understand. But I tell him where it all goes which is the really important part. I cannot understand what-all is taking him so long. I am telling him what to do in a timely, rapid manner. I am being as efficient as I can possibly be, people.

If I were a Duggar, I’ll bet at least a few of those kids could put their heads together and figure out Squarespace. Not that I don’t have faith in Steve (not his real name), but he’s only one person. Maybe we should have had more kids ...

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My novel, The Mosquito Hours, will be released in early May! Wanna stay up-to-date on news about it as well as have my latest blog posts conveniently delivered to your inbox? Then subscribe to my newsletter! Click on it right up top there on the right. See how easy I made that for you? (You’re welcome.)

diy extravaganza!

i am building a new website (or my husband is—you decide)

My memèré steals Lorna Doone cookies for me from the nursing home. Package upon package that she hides in little white plastic bags (also supplied by the nursing home) which she then hands off to my mother to deliver to me. I receive them in the dark of night. This is my stash:

lorna_doone

Technically she is not stealing them—she is entitled to anything from the mobile snack cart any time it rolls by. I’m not sure this is what they intend, however, when they stock the Lorna Doones every morning. This pilfering began when I saw a package of them in her room and innocently mentioned how much I like them. (They are very satisfying with a cup of tea at the end of the day.) Even as much as I enjoy them, I do not encourage Mem in this little cookie mission. Although, neither do I encourage her to stop. Even if I tried, she cannot be stopped. A couple of years ago I asked her to save egg cartons for me so I could do a craft project with the kids. She got all her friends on it. Every old lady she knew in the city. It was a grassroots movement. A lot of eggs were consumed. Actually, no one really knows what happened to those eggs.

(I am still making crafts with egg cartons.)

Anyhow, I stay up and eat the Lorna Doones while trying to get everything done. They are very satisfying with trying to get everything done.

One of the things I have been trying to get done while I eat my Lorna Doones is build a new website. What I mean by build a new website is Steve (not his real name) is building me a new website and I am bossing him around. Also, it was my idea, which is really 99% of a thing anyhow. I would have done it myself, but even though the good people at Squarespace say it is ever-so easy to build a website with their product, for me it was not. It was ever-so baffling and brain-hurting. Which is not to say the good people at Squarespace are inaccurate in the assessment of their product, because Steve (not his real name) is doing just fine with it.

Here are some screenshots of the homepage so far:

Screen_shot.jpg

Screen_shot2.jpg

Pretty, right?

(Totally.)

I wanted to be able to do a little more than a blog is capable of which is why I built this, with help from Steve (not his real name) who contributed about 1% toward the project. (Please see my math-ing above for clarification of this equation. It’s 100% accurate and most likely equals 100. Which is what makes it accurate, I am pretty certain. I am neither good at website building nor most math-ing. But I am honest to a fault which is how you know these things about me.) On my new website, I will have my blog feed, a page for book groups (yes, I DO participate in Skype or FaceTime talks with book groups!) and a page for my freelance editing services (yes, I DO edit manuscripts—and at a very reasonable rate). Also, a page dedicated to The Mosquito Hours. And there is plenty of room to grow.

Stay tuned for the big move over to my new URL—www.melissacorlissdelorenzo.com! It will be happening very soon!

I am hopeful that my Wordpress followers will subscribe to my blog feed over at my new website. I’ll continue to remind you wonderful followers of my impending move so that you will be sure not to miss any posts or crucial news that you might should you neglect to follow me at my new website. (You’re welcome.)

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My novel, The Mosquito Hours, will be released in early May! Wanna stay up-to-date on news about it as well as have my latest blog posts conveniently delivered to your inbox? Then subscribe to my newsletter! Click on it right up top there on the right. See how easy I made that for you? (You’re welcome.)

diy extravaganza!

it might be behind the door but that’s better than the counter

2014-03-17 14.08.37Wow, now that is a provocative blog post title. Far superior to the last one. First, let me tell you that I put the snow boots down in the cellar. I hope this is not like when the stupid groundhog sees his shadow and now we’ll get that once last March blizzard. If that happens, I apologize to all my fellow New Englanders. I just cannot stand to even look at those boots for one more moment. (My mother just told me that the extended forecast is suggesting snow next Wednesday or something. To be fair, that forecast came out before I put the boots in the cellar. Clearly I am not responsible.)

This has nothing to do with the stellar topic of this blog. I was just excited about the boots.

So, I tried to create a workspace for myself outside of the kitchen. I have tried this many times. In more than one house. But ever since I had kids, the kitchen is just sort of my place. I am okay with it. It doesn't even make me feel less of a feminist. I've even been barefoot and pregnant in my kitchen and still remained one strong broad. (I don't think I'm supposed to say that ... ) In fact, I reclaim the kitchen as a feminist stronghold! Anyway, I can’t ever get out of this room. I try. I can sometimes get about 2 or 3 feet into the living room. I almost make it to the easy chair every day. My forays into other rooms have generally been colossal failures, so I decided to just move back into the kitchen. I mean, I am allowed to sleep upstairs—in a bed, even. I'm talking about my workspace. I created a nice little spot in the “coloring room"—as my kids refer to it—right in amongst my kids' workspace. It was a lovely concept. Didn’t work. I couldn’t get out of the kitchen. I brought all my stuff back in here. (Yes, I am in here now.)

I started out at the kitchen table, but it was such a drag to have to clear all my stuff away every time we had to eat. So I ventured onto the counter, but trying to toast anything, or use the blender, or food processor, pour juice, cut up pancakes—do you get what I’m getting at?—became a hassle with my laptop in the way.

The solution? 2014-03-19 22.41.51

A shelf behind the door! AND I used materials we already had so all I spent was one dollar on this new pad of paper. Pretty, right? And only ONE DOLLAR!

2014-03-19 15.22.41

You would think that the door might bang right into the shelf, right? No! It totally doesn’t! The 2014-03-19 15.24.07red step stool stops it! How awesome is that? (Totally, right?) Now I have everything I need all laid out and pretty and organized. This will change my entire life and I will never be disorganized or stressed or overwhelmed again! (Not true. But toasting things will be a lot easier.)

Also, Steve (not his real name) says this is a very ergonomic set-up. It does make me feel very ergonomic and I'm not sure what to make of that. But I think it's good. I may never sit again. Which is pretty much my life, so it works out perfectly.

Happy Friday, everyone!

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My novel, The Mosquito Hours, will be released in early May! Wanna stay up-to-date on news about it as well as have my latest blog posts conveniently delivered to your inbox? Then subscribe to my newsletter! Click on it right up top there on the right. See how easy I made that for you? (You’re welcome.)

spaces & edits; also battleships

Oh, terrible blog post title. Maybe I will come up with something better. If I do, you’ll never know this happened. If you’re reading this, then that’s as good as it got. (Sorry if that’s how it turns out.) battleshipsI have to keep it short today—I am chin-deep in preparations for the homeschool history fair and things are wacko here. Our topic: the attack on Pearl Harbor. At first it was all of World War II—I said no. Then it was Martial Arts. Then my son said he never said that. (He totally did.) Then it was Tae Kwon Do, since he takes lessons. Perfect, right? No. Then it was back to all of World War II—I said no. Then it was 2 weeks before and I said we have to narrow this down! Hence, the attack on Pearl Harbor.

In addition to the normal homeschool agenda, the homeschool history fair, the substantial (and disheartening) demands of family life right now, laundry (that’s always its own crappy little category), feeding these people (Ohmygod they eat constantly ... well, not my son ... I have to constantly beg him to eat. Ergo, I am constantly involved in feeding these people one way or another. Or not feeding them. That is also exhausting.), blogging and fussing about everything, I am also on deadline for the final edits on The Mosquito Hours. Glad to be on the final round of edits, also terrified because this is the last chance to make sure it is just right. Also on my to-do list: find a place for my book launch party. Of course that wasn't freaking me out AT ALL.

(It was.)

Well, I am happy to say I found a really great place so that little job is out of the way! At first, when I started trying to determine the right locale, I was totally freaked out (I know! Can you believe it?) because it had to be PERFECT or EVERYTHING WOULD BE RUINED! (Yes, I was yelling about it. You would yell, too, if choosing the wrong locale for you book launch party would result in EVERYTHING BEING RUINED!) But then I stepped back and in a moment of clarity realized ... well, I really shouldn’t pretend like I have moments of clarity. I don’t want to lie to you good people. My moments of clarity are more like nanoseconds of clarity, but a nanosecond is indeed a measure of time in which great things are possible. Anyhow, in my nanosecond of clarity (which really does go by very quickly, but not without impact), I realized I should simply have fun with this. It’s all gonna be okay, people.

A good friend led me to a lovely little coffee shop down near the beaches and I must say it is fantastic. The ambiance, the warm-and-fuzzy of the people who work there, the espresso drinks (delish), the big windows and sunniness. They even stream my favorite radio station. It was serendipity! It has the same vibe as my favorite café in Boston, which is exactly what my sister said when she checked the place out! I got the best hot cocoa of my life there this past Saturday. My LIFE, people. The locale was a toss-up between this place and a coffee shop downtown. The places are about the same size but the downtown place has that cool urban feel. The bustling streets outside, the old buildings, the cobblestone. But it’s got a too-cool-for-school vibe. A lot of hipsters. I prefer warm and fuzzy. I am a lot of things but “cool” ain’t one of them.

I would love to share pics with you and there were some on my phone, but I seem to have deleted them in some moment of purging madness so I had to use stock photos to decorate this post. coffee_drinker (That's not even me.)

Oh. Well, look at that. This didn’t end up being all that short. You're welcome. ******************************************************************************

My novel, The Mosquito Hours, will be released in early May! Wanna stay up-to-date on news about it as well as have my latest blog posts conveniently delivered to your inbox? Then subscribe to my newsletter! Click on it right up top there on the right. See how easy I made that for you? (You’re welcome.)

right now

Do you ever feel like you’re the only one looking for the lost socks? The only one who is even trying to find the lost socks even though you keep asking people where the socks might be? Are you beginning to suspect that you are the only one who cares about the lost socks? Lost socks make me nuts. Because who will find them if I do not? No one. Exactly. See what I mean? I’m the only one. Exactly.

I don’t like right now. In fact I really hate right now. I have pretty much hated right now since November. Too many people I love are sick. I cannot seem to balance out everything. I have a kid who has developed a fear of choking and for the last month has eaten nothing more solid than foods the consistency of yogurt. Nothing with texture. Or fiber. Or much nutrition ... Although he did eat a slice of cake the other day. Little known medical fact: it is impossible for a human child to choke on cake. (That is not actually a medical fact.)

It’s been a long, difficult, sad right now. Since November.

I woke up the other morning to more snow, frigid temperatures, van doors frozen shut. I was furious. And discouraged. And enraged. Oh, I was really mad. Because pretty much everything sucks right now. But I carried on. We hoofed it to homeschool co-op even though I was so cranky. (I mean, really freakin’ cranky.) But I sucked it up and put on a happy face. You know, because behaving in a socially acceptable manner is good modeling.

And then we had a really great time. I genuinely felt better.

Afterwards, we went to my friend’s house for our weekly kid-swap and she watched the kids while I got some work done (much-needed). I got a bunch of stuff figured out. Maybe it wasn’t perfect life balance, but it was some of it. As I worked I suddenly felt warmth on the back of my neck. I turned and looked out the window.

sun_is_out The sun had come out! The sun! And then when I got home, Steve (not his real name) pulled together supper and did the dishes so I could do yoga.

Turns out not everything sucks.yoga_candle

(Not even close.)

One joy scatters a hundred griefs. Chinese proverb

Found that quote in my inbox later that same day. I subscribe to Real Simple daily thoughts or quotes or whatever the what-not they call them. Some days I swear they know what I need to hear. If it weren’t so helpful it would be creepy. So I guess that even though the joys don’t negate the troubles, they help. They provide a little balance. And for that, I will remember to be grateful.

more_socksIn the spirit of seeking joy, I think I’m going to join the rest of my family in their disregard for lost socks. There will always be more socks at Target. And if I go to Target, I will have to get a mocha at Starbucks, right? Joy. See? (You’re welcome.)

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My novel, The Mosquito Hours, will be released in early May! Wanna stay up-to-date on news about it as well as have my latest blog posts conveniently delivered to your inbox? Then subscribe to my newsletter! Click on it right up top there on the right. See how easy I made that for you? (You’re welcome.)

friday stew—a random collection of unrelated miscellany

2014-03-06 19.03.52 I happen to think granny glasses chains (actual name? seems somewhat insensitive ... ) are cool and useful. My mom refuses to get one even though she often does not know where she left her glasses—she’s farsighted—and then she can’t read her menu or coupons or calendar. I almost always know where mine are since I am nearsighted and they are usually on my face. If I do happen to put them down somewhere besides their designated place, I can’t see to find them. Then I have to employ the assistance of the sighted people around me—usually my kids. They are not very good at finding things. Typically I just feel around until I locate them. Not the kids, the glasses. Sometimes the kids. But they don't feel anything like glasses, so there's no real confusion. Lately I have been taking my glasses off more often because I’ve discovered that I enjoy the world all soft and furry sometimes. It’s so much more relaxing that way. But where to put my glasses? The granny chain! And it’s pretty. And it was a dollar. Yes, I said “dollar.” You read that right. My mom doesn’t like it. But Mem thinks it’s lovely. Yes, she is 89. What’s your point? Steve (not his real name) guffawed when I showed him. He totally likes it.

2014-03-06 19.05.52

I checked this book book out of the library. Because if there’s one more thing I need, it’s another book to read. I LOVE this writer. She is inspiring in the way Alice Munro and Louise Erdrich are inspiring. When I read their work, I am left thinking how did they just do that? Ever read The Interpreter of Maladies? Run out and do it. Speaking of too many books to read and not enough time to read them, I recently subscribed to BookBub. They send you daily deals on eBooks. Most are $2.99 or less. Some are FREE! Because if there is one more thing I need, it’s another book to read. (I totally do not have time for any more books. My book-acquiring habit is a sickness, people. And there is no cure.)

2014-03-06 19.04.32

In our old house, we used to have a lovely breezeway. It was large and spacious and roomy and ample and a bunch of other words you can find in the thesaurus. Now we have this, which the kids call the breezeway but it’s more of a tiny, insufficient entryway. And while it is lovely in its own special way it is also small, cramped, confining, circumscribed, crowded (oh alliteration!) and a bunch of other words you can find in the thesaurus. (Which I did. I love a thesaurus.) This space is always a disaster. I have attempted to employ numerous and extremely clever organizing techniques, but to no avail. This space insists on chaos. Yes, that is a cardboard box. And, yes, that is a big bowl of compost. (It is too damn cold to walk to the mulch pile.) I sort of hate this breezeway. It’s not even a breezeway, for crying out loud.

In the top 5 annoying things in my life, one of them is getting people out the door. I don’t mean Steve (not his real name). He can do it very efficiently. (He is such a good boy.) I mean the kids. (Had you figured that out on your own?) I don’t know if it is a symptom of being homeschooled and therefore not being trained to get out the door at a designated time regularly or what, but it is PAINFUL, people. I have nothing of worth to say regarding this topic. I can offer no advice to those similarly suffering. Only that it is incredibly annoying. Oh my god, is it annoying. Every day, for the love of all that’s holy—more than once some days. It’s terrible. (Can someone just help me?)

2014-03-06 19.05.21

This is the shower that lives in what was once a half bath. The shower was once a pantry which this small kitchen in Mem’s house really requires. But we changed it into a shower when Mem could no longer navigate the stairs up to the full bathroom. I know I will utilize this shower in the summer when we come home from the beach and I do not want salty, sandy, seaweedy children tramping through the house, but right now, we store extra food and beer in here. When we need to grab a new bag of snacks, we say, “Go check the shower.” Or, “Go get the cookies from the shower.” Which sounds nonsensical. But it totally is. Sensical, I mean.

What crazy stuff happens in your house? I’d love to know. Wait—is it only us?

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My novel, The Mosquito Hours, will be released in early May! Wanna stay up-to-date on news about it as well as have my latest blog posts conveniently delivered to your inbox? Then subscribe to my newsletter! Click on it right up top there on the right. See how easy I made that for you? (You’re welcome.)

60 days

We got more snow the other night. Not much. Just an inch or 2. We’re not even bothering to shovel at this point. Just kicking it out of the way. And to get it off the car, don’t bother standing around in the cold with that stupid brush you are so very tired of at this point—just blast the heat and let the snow and ice melt a bit then use the windshield wipers and copious amounts of washer fluid. Screw anything on the roof of the car. Seriously, just screw it. Pretend it’s not there. Yesterday when I went outside to drive to homeschool open gym, I actually felt hostile about just how cold it was. How DARE it be this cold? I keep thinking that in 60 days the weather will be spring-y! In 60 days I won’t be freezing and I might even be wearing flips-flops around the house rather than my super warm (totally dorky) slippers! In 60 days I will stow the winter crap in the basement and reinstall the beach gear in the trunk of the van!

TMH_cover And in 60 days, my novel will be released! That’s right—60 more days! See how much there is to look forward to?

You can’t wait, can you?

(You can’t.)

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My novel, The Mosquito Hours, will be released in early May! Wanna stay up-to-date on news about it as well as have my latest blog posts conveniently delivered to your inbox? Then subscribe to my newsletter! Click on it right up top there on the right. See how easy I made that for you? (You’re welcome.)

days like these

The other day was one of those days in a week that was one of those weeks. Steve (not his real name) came home and we ate supper and then I simply had to get out. Ever notice that sometimes in order to want to come home you have to leave for a while? Like peel-out-of-the-driveway leave? And kickin’ up gravel in a mini van is so totally cool, in case you’ve never had the pleasure. Once I had proceeded into the wild blue yonder and found nothing satisfying on the radio, I popped The Fresh Beat Band CD out of the player and shoved in the first thing I laid my hands on that was recorded with adults in mind. It happened to be Ten by Pearl Jam. I kept turning up—louder and louder. And louder. And—need I say?—louder. I could just feel the tension draining from me. The experience prompted this Facebook status update:

After a day like today (and a week like this one ... ) sometimes you need yoga. And other times it's Pearl Jam blasting in the mini van on the way to Market Basket. Today was the latter. God gave rock and roll to you ...

Life has grown a little too real as of late. I almost didn’t write a post this week because there seems to be gravity every direction I turn and I thought that anything I could possibly say would fall short or somehow trivialize reality. Surgeries and serious illnesses and a child who seems to have inherited his mama’s troubles with anxiety, manifesting in it’s own complex, convoluted pattern. People who are suddenly facing their mortality which cannot help but turn the head towards the fragility of life.

It’s a fragile thing, this life we lead ...
Pearl Jam

I love that line. I love that song. It is fragile. Not only our mortality, but the ways we perceive ourselves and others, our dreams, our hopes, the illusions we hold. Our hearts. The ways in which we hold each other mean everything. The way you hold the ones you love best (who are often those you take most for granted), the friendships that uphold you, the ways we hold our children. That might be most fragile one of all. The ways we hold the strangers with whom we share our communities, our countries, our planet. All delicate. Brittle glass, tender petals, thin skin. How do you hold these?

I’ve been thinking a lot about that.

By the way, don’t be fooled by the narrow glimpse into my life I provide here because I get it wrong all the time—shards of broken glass around my toes. But I try to hold tight to the moments I recognize the light.

candle-at-night

The other night when I had to leave home for a while in order to want to ever be there again, I figured I’d better go ahead and pick up a mocha at Starbucks. I really needed that mocha, let me tell you. The Starbucks kid informed me that they were out of mocha mix. My face must have reflected my dismay.

I said, “Oh, I really wanted one. I have had the hardest day.”

“How bad was it?” he said.

So bad.” That was the most I could muster.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll open up tomorrow’s supply. Shhh ... “

“Really?” I said.

Then he made me a venti and only charged me for a tall. Never, ever underestimate small kindnesses. Ever.

So on a night I had to leave home for a while in order to want to ever be there again, I did go home and I looked at my sleeping children. I fell asleep holding my husband’s hand. I will remember to hold them carefully, I will remember to hold them carefully ... I recited to myself as I fell asleep.

I went home. And I was so happy to be there.

Visit the elders in the hospital, answer your friends’ calls even when you are busy, cook a supper for someone who needs a night off, let the guy take a left even when you have right of way, assume the best in people, look at your children when they are speaking to you, take out tomorrow’s mocha mix for a woman who’s had a hard day. Help each other remember to do these things because if one thing is for sure we are going to forget. It’s a fragile thing, this life we lead ...

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My novel, The Mosquito Hours, will be released in early May! Wanna stay up-to-date on news about it as well as have my latest blog posts conveniently delivered to your inbox? Then subscribe to my newsletter! Click on it right up top there on the right. See how easy I made that for you? (You’re welcome.)

squash pie—part 3

Read part 1 here and part 2 here.

marsh_sunset

Easter morning and the sun moves through orange and pink ribbons into the blue, blue sky. Cloudless.

“What a perfect morning,” says Jean’s mother.

Jean agrees and ties an apron over her pink dress. She smooths the glaze over the ham and pushes the heavy roasting pan into oven.

“Smells good already, dear,” says her mother.

Everyone comes for Easter dinner and the house is as full as it can be. All the siblings and nieces and nephews. The babies. So many children. Jean adores all of the little ones. They strip her of her thorns; render her smooth and sweet.

Evelyn shows up with her boyfriend at whom she makes eyes. She purrs around him, rubs up close.

“You’d think you were a cat,” Jean whispers to her once they are alone in the kitchen.

“What?” Evelyn snaps.

“You are like a cat in heat.”

“Shut up, Saint Jean.” Evelyn leaves the kitchen, her wedge heels wobble beneath her hips.

Jean hates it when her siblings call her Saint Jean, that old slur. Jean fans her flushed skin with a pot holder.

Helen arrives with two large casserole dishes. She sends one of her sons back out to the car for the pie.

“Don’t forget to grab the Cool Whip,” she calls after him.

Evelyn catches Jean’s eye, raises her eyebrows, smirks.

Jean thinks only, Pie.

“Get these in the oven, Jean, before they get cold,” Helen orders.

“There’s no room in the oven for two nine by thirteen dishes, Helen,” Jean says. “The ham is in there.”

Helen turns to Jean and widens her eyes, “I don’t want them to get cold and ruined, Jean.”

“Well, had you brought the one side dish I requested, we wouldn’t have this problem.”

“Sorry I wanted to make sure there would be enough to eat. Sorry I wanted to make sure it would be a good Easter dinner for our family.”

“When have I ever not cooked a good meal for this family, Helen?”

Helen squeezes her face starting with her lips, a gesture imprinted in the wrinkles, the shape Helen’s face has come to be. She exhales a lungful, turns from Jean and opens the oven. She struggles to get everything to fit, stands, closes the oven door and stands, red-faced, crosses her arms, cocks her head and says, “Hmm.”

“Congratulations, Helen.”

daffodils_windowsill

This morning Jean found three crocuses pushing up through the dirt near the oak tree. She brought them inside and arranged them in a jelly glass which she placed on the windowsill behind the kitchen sink. It seems the purple of the crocuses sits on top of the yellow of the forsythia through the window. Jean stands in the kitchen alone, the drone of voices muted by the swinging door that closes the kitchen away from the dining room, her gaze on the place where the tall grasses sway to meet the fading blue sky setting sun.

“Marion says that Rosemary is pregnant,” Helen says as she passes the basket of rolls.

“How old is she now?”

“Seventeen,” Evelyn says.

“I remember when she was a baby,” Helen says.

“I used to babysit her,” Marion says.

“Who is the boy?” Evelyn says.

“I heard the youngest of the Tucker kids.”

“No-o-o.”

“Mmm-hm.”

Heat rises in Jean. “Is this appropriate Easter dinner conversation?” Jean pointedly eyes her parents, who eat steadily, their eyes on their plates. “The children,” she says, nodding her head over to the smaller table where the kids eat, their voices and surges of laughter loud.

“They’re not paying any attention to us,” says Marion.

Jean stands with an abruptness that causes her chair to scrape loudly against the wood floor. She tosses her napkin on the chair. “I don’t know why we can’t just talk about something nice!” She shoves open the kitchen door. Exhales when she is enclosed by herself.

She hears Evelyn say, “What’s her problem?”

There is more talk but Jean moves to the window, as far from the door as possible, so she won’t be able to hear them. Their talk makes her feel lighter than is comfortable. It is more than she can bear, which makes it seem as though what they propel upon her is something that carries weight. But the effect is an over-awareness of her insubstantiality. She might float away. She pins her eyes to the marsh grasses, rooted deeply and essentially in the sandy soil.

The door swings open.

“Everyone is done eating. We should start the coffee and get the dessert ready,” says Helen.

Jean does not move to help. She watches Helen at the coffeemaker and then as she removes the pie she brought from the refrigerator. Helen places the pie on the counter right next to Jean’s chocolate cake.

“Pie, Helen? I made the Easter cake.”

“We can have both.”

“Squash pie? It’s not even seasonal!”

“They make it all year 'round, it’s so good,” says Helen.

“Everyone hates that pie, Helen,” Jean says. “Everyone.”

Jean feels the breath moving through her. The bodice of her pink dress rises and falls. Helen fixes her eyes angrily on Jean, then turns and places the Cool Whip near the pie, removes the cover and sticks a spoon into the white fluff. She leaves, the door swings back forcibly.

pie

The kitchen dark, empty.

The flowers from her cutting garden soak up the water in the little jelly glass, in the bigger vases. By morning, the bottoms of the stems will begin to soften; green tendrils leaching into cloudy water. She looks into the flowers, around them, through them. The textures of the petals and stems, one against the other, create entire landscapes. The whites are not white, they are tones of pale lime, there are hints of blue, hues of pink.

Jean rouses herself; there is the kitchen to clean.

She clicks on the light and surveys the counters. Her sisters did a lot of the work, she will grant them that. A few leftovers to spoon into storage containers. A few serving bowls and utensils to wash. She works steadily and comes upon the remnants of dessert. The cake has been reduced to a pile of rubble—nothing left to save. The pie sits, round and, except for one narrow slice, nearly whole in its aluminum foil pan. Jean is sure the one piece was eaten by Helen. She sighs. Just because she knew this would happen doesn’t make it any less irritating. She picks up the pie and begins towards the drawer where she keeps the plastic wrap. The pie will sit in the refrigerator, no one will eat it and she will be forced, uncomfortably, to throw it away in a week. Damn Helen. Damn her.

She picks up the pie and carries it over to the trash. Jean stuffs the pie in. She presses it down with the palm of her hand, smooshes it between her fingers. She shoves the pie down deep into the trash.

It will not be the last. She sees herself at Thanksgivings and Easters to come, pushing the pie that no one will eat down into the trash.

Jean washes her hands.

She looks out the window over the sink. The moon is full. It sheds blued light on the marsh grass, the forsythia. She leaves the house through the kitchen door, steps out into the moonlit yard. The amount of light from the full moon never ceases to surprise her. So much light. Even in the depth of night.

There is always much more to see than at first meets the eye.

squash pie—part 2

Read part 1 here.

forsythia“You know that girl is pregnant?” says Marion.

Evelyn inhales, then breathes out, “No-o-o.” She joins Marion at the kitchen door. They peer out the window together, one head tilted one way, the other the opposite.

Jean is making a three layer chocolate cake. It is the Easter cake. The frosting is chocolate buttercream and contains a pound of butter. She will spread raspberry preserves between one of the layers.

The evening is setting in. It is after supper and her parents doze in front of the television. The kitchen smells of the fish she broiled for supper. The scent of chocolate will replace the fish smell as soon as she can get the cake in the oven.

“I wish you two would let me get this cake in the oven,” says Jean.

“We’re just standing here,” says Marion.

“You didn’t even go to Good Friday service,” says Jean.

“What does that have to do with anything?” she looks back at Jean. “Anyway, I did go. I took my kids.”

“I didn’t go,” says Evelyn. She’s still looking out the window.

“I’m aware of that, Evelyn.” Jean turns to Marion. “I didn’t see you at Sacred Heart. I brought Mom and Dad.”

“We went to Saint Joe’s.”

Jean makes a face. “Saint Joe’s?”

“Yeah, Saint Joe’s. You know Frank’s family’s always gone there.”

“That girl is pregnant?” Evelyn asks, eyes still in the yard next door where the girl pegs sheets on the clothesline.

“Yeah. That’s what I heard,” says Marion. “Why would you hang sheets on the line at this hour? They’ll just get damp and heavy.”

“How do you know she’s pregnant?” says Jean. She cracks an egg too hard and then has to pick shell out of the batter. She sucks her teeth, irritated.

“I just said I heard.”

Jean walks over to the window and looks out. “She doesn’t look pregnant.”

“Well, they don’t start out eight pounds big, Jean.”

Jean goes back to her big sliver bowl. “I don’t believe it.”

“Why not?” says Evelyn.

Jean shakes her head. “She’s just seventeen.”

“What does that have to do with it?” says Marion.

“Everyone does it, Jean,” says Evelyn.

“Do you have to be so crude, Evelyn? Everyone does not do it. I don’t see everyone running around pregnant,” says Jean.

Marion rolls her eyes.

Evelyn laughs. “Some girls just get caught, but everyone is doing it.”

“I don’t believe that,” says Jean. “I’m not.”

“Obviously.”

Jean glares at her but says nothing. She turns the mixer on high. Its loud whirring covers the sound of her sisters’ voices.

Once they finally leave and the cakes sit on wire racks in the darkened kitchen, Jean settles into bed and turns on the small television on her dresser. She can’t seem to listen to any of it, her mind on the girl next door whose name is Rosemary. She tries to relax; she has a lot to do tomorrow. But she keeps thinking about Rosemary, who traipses around in her faded flared jeans, her tight tops. Jean remembers when Rosemary was a baby, a little girl, a gawky preteen. Could Marion be right?

She thinks back on herself at seventeen, cloaked in her parochial plaid. Her white cotton shirt buttoned up to the peter pan collar at her throat. The frowsy and bulky gray cardigan.

She did not do anything like Rosemary might have done.

Her last date—a set-up—had been disastrous. She had not known the right places to laugh. Men were not gentlemen anymore. His expectations came as a surprise to Jean. She was startled; she behaved abruptly at his advances. She was awkward. He did not call a second time.

“What’s the point of a wedding night these days?” Jean had said to her sisters earlier as they peered at the pregnant neighbor.

Evelyn laughed at her. “Oh, come on, Jean! Is that what you’re waiting for?”

Jean refused to meet her eyes, as if this simple gesture invalidated Evelyn’s sentiment.

No one knows the longings in Jean’s heart. That for which her body craves. Any knowledge of that she tucks deep.

Alone in her bed, the blue light from the TV outlining the shadows of her body beneath the blanket, she imagines the tiny seed growing in Rosemary’s belly. And she aches.

On Holy Saturday, Jean wakes early, puts the kettle on for tea for her mother, snaps on the coffee for herself and her father. Then she walks outside to her cutting garden. She surveys, deciding which she will cut and arrange for the Easter dinner table.

Easter is late this year and it has been a very warm April. Her vegetable garden is not yet planted (there may still be frost, all the way through May) but some of the early spring flowers have begun to bloom from the fat papery bulbs she planted in autumn. Tulips, daffodils, crocuses, hyacinth, paper-whites and snowdrops grow at the bases of the trees in the yard, in rows out front, in surprising places she almost forgot she planted while the warm autumn sun shone on her back, the sky that impossible depth of late September blue. Here, there is order. Here, she can nurture, coax, sing softly and there is loving reciprocation. Her eyes move over the delicate petals with their saturated colors, the green of the stems and leaves, and time waits and she hovers in some suspended sphere, happy. Is it happiness? It is a thing that a simple word cannot button down.

Her hands move over the flowers without hurry as she decides which flowers will grace the table, the sideboard. A little jelly glass of which she is fond will sit squarely over the kitchen sink on the windowsill that overlooks the backyard where the row of forsythia is just beginning to bloom.

Then there are the meal preparations to begin before the Easter Vigil Mass.

The potatoes peeled and cut, placed in the big pot and covered with cold water. Carrots, green beans readied for the boil tomorrow. You can’t save all this for the morning; you will never be done in time to place it all, hot, on the table, an offering to the family.

candle-at-night

The Easter Vigil candles glow brightly as the flame moves from person to person through the church. As the flame draws near, she closes her eyes for a moment. Wordlessly prays. She touches her unlit candle to the lit one being offered by the person nearest her in the crowded pew. She passes the flame along.

The world is lit and she, for that moment, believes in the light. Lives in the light, is enveloped. Consumed. She exhales, ecstatic. She lives.

Before bed, she kneads a yeasty dough for rolls and leaves them to rise in the warmest place in the kitchen. Now shut the light, remove the Easter dress worn to the Easter Vigil and hang it up for tomorrow. Sleep.

indecision and also i forgot to write a post for tomorrow

Tomorrow is now actually today. You’re reading this today. Unless it’s tomorrow or some other time in the future. Or as long as the internet exists. Whatever. The point is I realized at 9:30 last night that I had forgotten to write a post for tomorrow (today) so in lieu of something well-thought out, I’ll just ramble. I’m tired, people. That’s what you have to do at 9:30 at night. Ramble. (I’m sorry.)

So, let’s begin with the indecision, then I’ll commence with the rambling. I think I want to build a new website and can’t decide if I should stick with Wordpress or build one with Squarespace or simply do nothing different or maybe wait a while then change or maybe I should just do it now before The Mosquito Hours is published in May. I do not know. This is the rotating soundtrack in my head. Interspersed with songs by The Fresh Beat Band. We found the long-lost CD in the bowels of the van (Yay?) and it has been pretty much on repeat ever since. Also I need to choose a space for my book launch and I have it narrowed down to 47 places. None of which I have called. Because I can’t decide. (It’s probably closer to 4, but it feels like 47 because I can’t decide.) And I need to get sunglasses this week and that frames wall is going to be brimming with choices. I’ll just let the kids decide. I do not want my brain to explode. Or implode. Neither of those is what I want.

(Someone should just tell me what to do and I promise I will do it. Thank you.)

And now the rambles.

2014-02-11 10.01.43

I hyperventilate a little every time I think about Twitter. I’m not convinced that is a normal response to Twitter. I just don’t get Twitter and that will most likely be my downfall. Wouldn’t that make you hyperventilate? See. It is totally normal.

2014-02-11 10.02.30

Girl executing a camel. Not literally. Or maybe literally? Depends on the context.

We have been watching the Olympics. Which for me means figure skating. Steve (not his real name) shows the kids other events lest they think that every 4 years the world comes together to watch a bunch of people jump around on ice. But now the kids want to take skating lessons. Which I fully support. However I have a bad feeling they have been misled about the ease of this endeavor they shall be undertaking. I think they imagine themselves doing camels and spins and lutzes and sow cows by the second lesson. I am no gypsy, but I do not think it’s gonna go down like that.

2014-02-11 10.02.13

No idea what's going on here.

I just read this back to myself and that is some quality rambling.

Also, I am so much more normal and put-together than this post would indicate.

(Not really.)

Please come back Thursday as I will be posting part 2 of “Squash Pie.” You do not want to miss that. I do not want to miss that. (Jedi mind tricks. They work every time.)