Uni-tasking. Because multi-tasking leads to bourbon.

Time for a Mid-Year's Resolution: No more multi-tasking.

I read on the Internet (when I was supposed to be downloading registration forms for high school soccer) that when people are multi-tasking, they usually aren't doing two things at once. Most of the time they are task-switching -- stopping one activity to take up another. And it's not as efficient or effective as doing things one at time, to completion.

So from now on, I'm gonna be all about uni-tasking. If I go down to the basement to get a jar of Ragu from the pantry, I'm not going to throw in a load of laundry while I'm down there. 'Cuz if I stop to throw in a load of laundry, then I'm gonna have to unload Sweaty Soccer Boy's backpack. And that backpack is going to stink, so I'm gonna start hunting down the Febreze. And while I'm doing that, the hamburger browning on the stove is going to burn. And then I'm just gonna be pissed. And I'll want to skip dinner altogether and drink Bourbon Slushies all night.

So... Here's to Uni-tasking!!

And the first task on the list is... Make more Bourbon Slushies.

Hey, I know what my track record with resolutions is like. And if yours is the same, here's the recipe for Suz's Bourbon Slushies. (Try to say that after you've had a few and let me know how that turns out.)

2 liters ginger ale

1 liter bourbon

12 oz frozen limeade concentrate, thawed

12 oz frozen lemonade concentrate, thawed

Mix all ingredients in a plastic 1 gallon+ pail. Freeze for 24 hours, stirring occasionally. Serve with maraschino cherries (and a little cherry juice) and an extra splash of ginger ale (if it's too icy to sip).

 

Enjoy!

Bourbon makes almost everything better.
Bacon fixes the rest.

What gives?

I'm falling behind. In everything.

I want a full life, really I do. But some days an empty one looks almost appealing.

Of course I couldn't give up the kids. Or my husband, parents, siblings, relatives, friends.... The house? No, we have to live somewhere. And I've really gotta keep the job. And if we want to eat, I have to go to the grocery store. Clothing is kind of important -- and a lot nicer if it's clean -- so I suppose I can't stop doing laundry. The dog is never going to stop shedding, or barfing on the kitchen floor, but she is pretty darn cute, so I guess she stays. I could give up exercising -- no, wait, I already did that and now my pants don't fit and I said I wasn't going to buy new ones, so I have to drag my ass out for a walk in the morning. Reading and writing keep me sane and I'm already going a little crazy from lack of time with those loved ones.

So what gives?

Everything, apparently. The house is getting dustier, the lawn weedier. I consider it a triumph if I can get half of the things knocked off my to-do list every day, but what kind of victory is that if it just means 50% more stuff on tomorrow's list? And who the hell keeps adding all this stuff to the list anyway?

Me?

Okay, fine. If you're going to be that way. Yes, me. I'm the one who decided to do landscaping, to throw a backyard barbecue for 75 of my closest friends, to write a book, start a blog, drive to Michigan to visit my grandma. And, yes, I did have a hand in the decision to get married, have children and buy a house, so you can implicate me in the soccer carpool, college visits and fence-repair appointments on the calendar, too.

So, all right, I asked for it. In other words (the ones my siblings and I have discussed having printed on t-shirts): "I'm living the dream and I can't handle it!"

But I'll keep trying.

And I just wanted to apologize for falling behind on the blog. And to reassure you that it's still on the to-do list. Along with the rest of my life.

The Road to Flowers

I haven't been writing. Or reading. Or cleaning my house. (Guess which two out of the three I miss.) No, with all my free time, I've been gardening. Setting brick edging, planting perennials, shoveling mulch.

We've owned our late-1960s house for six years, and let's just say that our backyard has been "unfinished" for all of them. We did take down a few old pines and shrubs, and put up a fence after the adoption of our rescue dog. And two summers ago I planted lilac bushes across the back because I couldn't take another spring of stealing my favorite blooms from my neighbors. But we still had (and still have, albeit less now) places that were waiting and wanting. Places where we had torn things out but ran out of time, money and energy to put things in.

Every spring, though, I would brighten the entryway and patio with annuals. Pots and planters of impatients, begonias, geraniums, coleus. Annuals are easy. Pull down the pots from the garage, fill them with potting soil, and stuff with plants. Done. In the fall, dump everything in the yard-waste barrel. No tilling, no weeding, no long-term commitment.

But this year was different. I wanted permanence. I wanted to dig deep and plant things that would sprout again next spring. (Which, if you think about it, is labor-intensive on the front-end, but having things come up by themselves next year means I don't even have to get the pots down from the shelves in order to have flowers! Kind of like teaching kids to make their own mac-and-cheese.)

So I've got no words on the page, but I've got dirt under my nails. (And mosquito bites in places I didn't think mosquitos could reach!) And when you're outside with no radio, you have time to think. For me that means mulling over my writing. Old writing, new writing, things that need editing, things that need publishing. And lately, the publishing thing has been on my mind a lot.

The agent search has been going considerably slower than I thought it would, probably because I treat each prospective agent as "The One" and spend way too much time agonizing over each query letter. Unfortunately, none of the 11 agents I've queried so far have thought I'm "The One," so it often seems like I'm back to Square One.

Then, last week, my sister sent me a note directing me to the Amazon home page, where there was an article by a successful author extolling the virtues of self-publishing. I was fascinated by her insight as both a traditionally-published and self-published author. From that article, I linked to several indie-writer websites and blogs. I won't bore you with the details, but basically, there is good stuff being self-published and money to be made doing it. Self-publishers have control over their work. But they are on their own, too. There are pros and cons to both methods of getting your stories to the masses. Just different ways of getting flowers, I guess.

I don't know what route to take, yet. And deciding won't be easy. I'll have to give it some more thought. But I've got lots of time to think -- as I sit making wire cages for all my new plants.

Damn rabbits.

FHQ

The house is silent. For the moment.

No refrigerator hum. No squeaking floor. No slamming door. I am the only one up at 9:00 on a Wednesday morning. Well, okay, Hubby is up, too, but he's at work. The Teens -- and the dog -- are all still asleep. And the house is quiet. Summer-morning quiet. Full-House Quiet.

Full-House Quiet is different from Empty-House Quiet. FHQ has potential. It has the stored energy of a firework just sitting there in its little paper box, waiting for a light.

EHQ is peaceful, no doubt. And sometimes it's all a mother could wish for: a few hours alone in her own home. A month or so ago, Hubby and I were alone on a Saturday morning. (The kids had all slept over somewhere else.) He and I got up, sat in the sunny family room, read the paper, sipped our coffee and tea. The house wasn't exactly empty, but it was still EHQ. And it was nice. For a while.

It didn't take me long to realize that while I appreciate EHQ, I actually prefer FHQ. I like knowing they're up there; that soon someone's feet will hit the floor, the stairs will creak, and a lanky, sleepy-headed body will stagger into the kitchen. I like knowing that today holds the potential for many kids (not just my own) to waft through the house like summer heat.

Yes, they will eat all the food and dirty all the dishes. If they've been playing soccer or wiffle-ball, they will be hot and sweaty and will smell bad. They will track in dirt and let in flies. They may lie for hours in front of the TV playing video games. Voices will shout, doors will smack, the dog will bark. I may wish, once again, for peace and quiet.

But it will be for Full-House Quiet.

High school -- the second time around

My 9th and 11th graders are studying for finals this week, and I'm sitting on the couch beside them, doing my best to help out keep up. When I was in high school, I don't think I learned half of what they have to know, but I'm trying my damnedest to look like I did. We can't let 'em think school is harder now than it was then! Back in the old days, life was tougher. Up-hill, both ways, in a snowstorm! You remember!

Of course kids have it easier these days. They've got computers -- an entire world of knowledge at their fingertips, not to mention in their living rooms, at 11:00 at night. We had Encyclopedia Britannica. In the LIBRARY!

Need to translate something into Spanish? There's an app for that. Gotta locate Brazzaville? Type it into Google. Didn't read the book? No need to wait for the stores to open to buy Cliffs Notes.

And have you seen their calculators? NASA launched astronauts into space with less sophisticated instruments.

So, yes, my kids have tools. Lots of them. But it also seems like they are covering subjects more thoroughly and delving deeper into topics than I ever recall doing. Or maybe it's just me. Maybe I'm looking at that Chem text or that classic novel and trying to understand it instead of just learn it. I suppose it's because when you have to help someone, you do have to "get it" more than just "know it." So, yeah, this second shot at high school hasn't been easy. But I can't say that learning -- or relearning -- this stuff hasn't been kind of fun.

I'm just glad I don't have to take the final.

Left to Right

I am a writer. I like words. I'm not a big fan of emoticons, though I do occasionally employ a traditional smiley face. The noseless one. So it looks more like the old-fashioned, yellow-circle, "Have a Nice Day" emblem.  :)

Whenever I come across an emoticon, I always tilt my head to the left so I can see it in a more upright presentation. Because most of the time I can't figure out what those odd combinations of punctuation marks are supposed to look like. Because they're perpendicular to everything else on the page, for Pete's sake!

Anyway. Recently I started coming across one -- mostly in comments on blog posts -- that I could not decipher. I even went to the Wikipedia List of Emoticons for help, but no luck, it wasn't there.

The first character in the mystery emoticon was < and the only face on the list that had a hat like that was supposed to mean "dumb or dunce-like" -- which I though was kind of a rude reply to an entertaining blog post, especially considering the second character was a 3, which I thought looked like boobs, and when you put the two together the face would be a what? A dumb bimbo? Nice. Except there were no eyes. Whatever. I shrugged and let it go.

But it kept popping up, and I kept thinking, What the hell? And then tonight I was reading replies to a Bloggess post, and these people kept putting the Dumb Bimbo emoticon in their comments on a touching post about depression, and I was feeling frustrated, left out and stupid because I couldn't understand their language, and then all of a sudden, something across the room caught my attention and I tilted my head to the right and -- voila! There it was! I finally got it!

And all I could think was: What user of the English language would create something that had to be read Right to Left when the rest of the sentence went Left to Right??

Some emoticon junkie, apparently.

<3

(Yes, I now know it's a heart, and I realize that probably the majority of Web users know it's a heart, but I still think it looks more like an ice cream cone. Or a halter top. Depending on how you tilt your head.)

Me and my shadow

My depression and I haven't been getting along very well lately. I thought we'd kind of had things worked out, but she's unpredictable that way.

You haven't met her, you say? Well, that's because I try to leave her at home. Because not only is she unpredictable, she's a pain in the ass.

She's a worst-case-scenario thinker. And she dwells. Plus, she's critical. Not of everyone. Just me. She has a knack for finding that one fault -- the mistake I made, the dumb thing I said, the task that didn't get done -- in an otherwise perfectly pleasant day, and then holding on tight to it and waving it around. Like a toddler with a big sucker. Hey, look it! Look it!

The spin she puts on everything is counterclockwise.

HER: You know, even if you do find an agent and a publisher, very few people actually make a living as novelists these days. In fact, I read that unless your last name is Rowling, King or Patterson -- or the book you're writing has the working title "Twelve Shades of Teal" -- you're statistically more likely to have "state lottery" listed as your source of income on your tax return.

ME: Well, shoot, if I can't be a writer, I'd be happy to make my living as a lottery winner.

HER: Yeah, except studies show lottery winners aren't all that happy. And chances are still better you'll be hit by a bus.

At least once a week she'll keep me up all night, only to hound me twenty times the next day with how tired she is. Sometimes she eats too much. Sometimes she drinks too much. Most of the time she doesn't want to do anything at all. Occasionally she stands in the shower -- completely inert -- until the hot water runs out. She can't make decisions.

I haven't known her long, only a few years. And her strength waxes and wanes. She has the ability to cloak me. But I've learned some tricks for fighting her off. With any luck, I'll soon be able to get her behind me again. And I'll try to keep my face to the sun.

Middle Mom

Yesterday was Mother's Day, and I spent the day thinking that this year I have moved into a different phase as a mother. This year, all three of my kids are teenagers.

Obviously, it's been a long time since I was a New Mom, toting baby-carriers and diaper bags. And even though I'm only in my mid-forties, I don't consider myself a Young Mom. Those are the moms with juice boxes, strollers, and sticky-fingered urchins all clutched in their nimble grasp. (And, yes, I know some of them are probably in their early- or mid-forties, but I still think of them as Young Moms. I suppose the designation has more to do with the age of the children than the age of the mom.)

I remember when my oldest started elementary school and I looked, wide-eyed, at the moms who had been around a while -- the seasoned veterans with 5th or 6th graders -- and thought, Wow, they've really got their shit together. They're organized, calm. They look like they know what they're doing. And they did know. They knew what they were doing because they'd been doing it. For years.

But that's still the tail end of the Young Mom phase.

With three kids fully entrenched in junior high and high school, I don't think I can call myself a Young Mom anymore. Mostly because I don't feel like one.

My kids are all as tall as me. We include them in adult conversations. My oldest can get into R-rated movies without sneaking through the back door, and is the same age I was when I met his father. All three kids can arrange their own rides when I'm not available to chauffeur, can prepare something to eat when I'm not around to cook, and can (theoretically, because I know they know how but I never see them) do their laundry.

Are my kids independent? Yes. And no. Are they dependent? No. And yes. 

One day, they will have full-time jobs, other places to live, maybe spouses, maybe even children of their own. And then I will be a Mature Mom. One whose kids are fully launched.

But we're not there, yet. We are neither Young nor Old, New nor Mature. For now, we are in the middle. So I am a Middle Mom.

And I think this phase is going to last a while.

"That's not the head."

These are words you do not want to hear in the delivery room. But, thirteen years ago today, that's exactly what a bright young nurse said to me, my husband and the on-call family-practice doctor from my regular clinic, five hours after my water broke and roughly twenty minutes after I'd started pushing.

For a very long second, everything in the room, including my heart, came to a standstill. Then the sweet, little blond nurse turned into a drill sergeant. She moved up toward my head, looked me straight in the eyes, and ordered, "Stop pushing." Then she smacked the red panic button on the wall and barked something into the intercom that I don't remember because my brain had turned inside-out.

What in the world is going on?

What was going on was that the small crown the three of them had been discussing a few minutes earlier as being the top of a very bald baby wasn't the top at all. It was the bottom.

My baby was folded in half and presenting itself to its unsuspecting attendants left-rump-first.

Whirlwind is probably the most apt word to describe what came next. The room was almost instantly filled with nurses. An obstetrician was summoned from the specialty clinic next to the hospital. I was told at least a dozen times by my militant new best friend not to push, and the family doc was told by that same woman what to do in case the baby came anyway. (Even though she was younger than he was, I'm guessing she had delivered a lot more babies and figured he might not remember the tricks for a breech.)

When the OB finally walked in, he went right to the foot of the bed, took a quick peek, then looked up at me and asked two questions.

"Not your first baby?"

"No. My third," I said.

"How big were the first two?"

"Both about six and a half pounds."

He considered this information for a moment, then nodded and said, "Keep going," and settled in to finish the delivery.

Damn right I'm gonna keep going, I thought. I'm almost done. There's no way I'd let you push it back in and take it out the top.

My husband later told me that after hearing my responses to the doctor's queries, one of the older nurses in the room leaned over to another nurse and said, "I'd go for it." Now, I happen to think maternity ward nurses are amazing, but I'm also aware that breech delivery in this day and age is a rarity, so I really am glad the doctor gave me the chance to keep going and didn't immediately whisk me off to the OR.

And because breech delivery is rare and inherently more risky, my room remained full of people through the next few pushes and eventual arrival of a slippery, quiet, little newborn. In the ensuing hubbub, my baby was taken across the room, to a raised, heat-lighted table for examination, before I even got a chance to see it.

Frightened, I asked, "Is everything all right?"

A couple of beats later came the reply: "Everything looks fine." 

And I finally exhaled. Then I realized there was something else I needed to know.

"What is it?" I asked.

"It's a girl."

With a full head of hair.

Happy Thirteenth Birthday, sweet baby girl!

One or the other

I've said it before because it's true: Either my bras fit or my pants do.

If I can fill my A-cup, then I can't button my jeans, and this has been the case for most of the past winter. I pretty much ignored the pants-problem by leaving the skinny jeans at the bottom of the stack and opting for a "softer profile." Otherwise known as "fleece." But the issue reared its oversized head yesterday when I was swapping out my winter clothes for summer ones. Sure, my tops looked good (read: when tried on, they had slightly more shape than when they were folded in the plastic tub), but I couldn't squeeze into half of my shorts or capris. So, of the five (okay, maybe seven, well, let's say less than ten) pounds I've gained since last year, about twenty percent have gone to my boobs and the other eighty percent have settled somewhere in the ten-inch span between my waist and my thighs.

Now we all know the last thing a woman wants to do is buy bigger pants. But I also know that if I lose a couple of pounds, my chest is going to go from being convex to concave. So what I really want is Redistributive Liposuction -- where fat is sucked out of places where you don't want it and deposited it in places where you do. (I have no idea if this procedure actually exists, but it should. It's your own tissue! Nothing artificial!) My sister says this is what Spanx are for; buy a tight enough pair and your stomach will end up under your chin.

Actually, I think my stomach is more culpable than my ass in the Great Pants Dilemma of 2012. Everything always seems to settle in the front. Probably because after having accommodated a growing fetus, a woman's belly is permanently wired to expand on a moment's notice. Hell, after a big meal, I can easily look six-months pregnant. (Among friends, that's what's known as a Dinner Baby.)

So, what's a girl to do? Well, I could go for a little longer walk tonight. Maybe even try to pick up the pace. I suppose I could do a few crunches when I get home. Work the core, as they say. Maybe I can get things to firm up enough so that I won't have to buy all new shorts and capris -- or spend the summer in my sweats. But if I burn enough calories that my breasts flatten out completely? Well, then it might be time to stop exercising and start shopping.

Advice Overload. Or: Too Much "How do you do..."

I haven't posted in over a week. So much for that post-at-least-every-other-day tip/recommendation/guideline that I read in several places on the Web and set as my goal a month ago when this whole thing began. Four weeks in and failing already. Or not. I'm still here. Still thinking every day about what to write, even if I'm not drumming away at the keys.

So, what have I been doing (besides trying to keep all the usual plates of my life spinning and atop their poles)? Well, my daughter and I planted some sugar snap peas. I've been checking out lots of other blogs -- including blogs about blogging -- to help me figure out what the heck I'm supposed to (or want to) be doing here. And I've been chipping away at a book I started reading two months ago and don't really like, which sounds like a waste of time except that I'm trying to figure out where this best-selling novelist went wrong. And since I can't help but consider all the reading I do right now to be part of my education as a writer, if I drop this book, it'll be like bailing on an assignment. (See, this is what happens when a teacher tries to teach herself something.)

I can't help it; I'm a learner. I seek information. I want to know how it's done. Almost more than that, I want to know how it's NOT done. I want to benefit from someone else's hindsight. So I read. I glean. I absorb. And sometimes I get so wrapped up in trying to figure out How To that I don't Do. I could spend the next, well, forever reading about how to be a better writer. There are books, classes, blogs, magazines, articles and newsletters all so chock-full of good advice that I can get lost for hours reading, bookmarking, copying, filing and thinking, Oooh, that's good. I need to remember that. I need to make sure that I did/do that in my manuscript.

But it can get to be overwhelming, too. It can make me think, I'll never be able to get all that in! And what if I don't? Will the manuscript bomb? Bring me nothing but rejection? Oh, God, it's all too much! Get me a white flag! A towel! A shot of bourbon! I give up!

Then, somewhere in the depths of an interview or a bio or a post, I'll come across a small tidbit that reminds me of the immortal words of Nike, Goddess of Victory:

Just do it.

And I'll stop picking at that pretty-damn-good novel and send out a few more query letters.

Erasers

My dad has a short fuse. Fortunately, he has a big, broad heart and is a forgive-and-forget kind of guy. I was thinking of him yesterday as I was writing to a friend of mine. This friend is going through some tough stuff right now, is under a lot of stress, and is a little worried about inadvertently taking it out on her husband and kids. I told her she probably would. But I also told her what my dad told me in my early years of parenting: "Kids have big erasers."

We all make marks (good and bad) in other people's Book of Life. Some we intend, some we don't, and some we heartily regret. Luckily, everyone comes with an eraser. Call it what you will -- forgiveness, grace, mercy, charity, absolution -- my dad understood that kids seem to have it in spades. But he also knew you had to ask for it.

He knew this from experience.

No, the blowing of his top wasn't a regular occurrence, but when it happened, everyone in the house heard it. And just so we're all on the same page here, be assured, he was never physically or verbally abusive. But all four of us kids have had the opportunity to watch his face turn tomato-red, have witnessed the steam whistling from his ears. We all remember the moment my older sister was "grounded for life," and, though many details of my youth are blurry, I do recall the last time I got a firm swat on the hind-end. I was eight. I had been in a water-balloon fight with the neighbor kids. On Easter Sunday. In my good clothes.

Whatever the reason for the explosion, after the offender had retreated to their room in tears and my dad had a chance to cool his jets (which may have taken minutes or hours), he would always come knocking on the door to apologize. The nice thing was he usually didn't rehash the reason why he got mad in the first place. It was kind of understood that he was still mad about that and you were still in trouble, but he was there to say sorry for going overboard.

Basically, he was asking you to use that eraser.

We all have our moments. Parenting can be tough. Life can be tough. Everyone flies off the handle at some point or another. But when the steam clears, breathing slows, and your face returns to a slightly more human color, saying you're sorry -- to anyone, child or adult -- is strong evidence that you don't take a good relationship for granted.

And hopefully that big eraser will work its magic and remove the mark you wish you hadn't made. (Or at least lighten it to the point at which the incident ceases to be rift-making and becomes fodder for family reunions. Or blogs.)

Pharmaceuticals

I felt it coming on yesterday afternoon, knew it as soon as I sneezed. It wasn't one of those too-much-dust-in-the-house sneezes, nor a spring-allergy achoo. It was the kind of sneeze that comes from someplace deep within and leaves a funky aftertaste in the back of your throat. I even looked at my daughter and said, "I think I'm getting sick." Sure enough, by ten o'clock, my nose was running and taunting me like the Gingerbread Man: "You can't catch me!" And it was true. Sometimes before I could lift the tissue, the drip would land on my shirt.

I tossed and turned all night as the leaking continued and the pressure built. By the time the alarm went off at 6:30, my head was in so much pain I wanted to stick needles in my ears and pull out all my teeth. I got out of bed and went to the kitchen, pressing my fingers to my cheekbones and moaning, "Ow, ow, ow, ow..." As I reached for the white bottle in the basket on the counter, I heard a majestic voice say, "And on the seven-hundred-thousandth day, God created Advil." And I washed down 600 milligrams with a cup of hot tea. Within forty-five minutes, the urge for self-mutilation had passed. Yes, I'm still sick, and it probably won't be a very productive day for me, but at least I won't end up toothless.

Spring Cleaning Epiphany

I need to clean my closet. A professional-organizer and fashion-forward friend of mine is appalled that hanging in there are pieces of clothing which are over ten years old and haven't been worn in five. (I think she's also silently horrified by the stuff that's ten years old that I still wear, but that's for another blog post.)

She's right, of course. I need to let some of this stuff go. But I might fit back into it someday! But I paid good money for it and only wore it twice! But I might have a wedding or a fancy dinner to go to! But... that work-out resolution isn't going very well. And the last time I went to a wedding, I bought something new. And when was the last time I actually went out to a fancy dinner?

Any-hoo. This past weekend, I'm at Savers doing a little thrift-store shopping with my sister and Hair Nite friends. In case you're not familiar, Savers is kind of like Goodwill. Some things are brand new, tags still on them. Some things are practically perfect, only worn once or twice. There are designer-name pieces that are certainly used, but made of good materials and still in good shape. There are items that I lift from the rod, consider thoughtfully, then go, "Eh," and put back. And, yes, there are things I am surprised anyone would want.

And as I'm sifting through all these things in the store, it hits me. It's just like my closet! And what I need to do to finally clean that stale compartment is take everything out and look at each piece as if I were going to buy it at Savers! If I'd spend $6 or $8 or $15 on something, it's going back in. If I wouldn't even buy it at a bargain price, it's headed out. (Probably to Savers.)

I know my friend, who is a thrifty shopper herself, will be proud of me. And with the extra space I get, I'll have room for the black velvet GAP dress, Ann Taylor capris, Lucky jeans and Born mary-janes I bought last weekend -- plus whatever I get with the coupon I'll receive for my big donation. Gotta love recycling.

My Backyard

Sometimes I think my (metaphorical) backyard isn't all that different from a lot of other people's. My home is in a first-ring suburb of a large city. Some of the schools are within walking-distance, others require a bus ride. There's a Target nearby. And a library. We're not too far from a shopping mall. I've got neighbors; some I know, some I don't. I read the local papers, occasionally watch the news. I live close to my immediate family, not close enough to my extended one.

Yet every day, I am made keenly aware that I do not share the same backyard as people who live only a few miles from me. I've never known extreme poverty or extreme wealth. I don't drive a luxury car, don't have a swimming pool. But I also don't wonder how I'm going to feed and clothe my children.

Basically, my backyard is in the middle. And honestly, I'm very comfortable in the middle. It's my favorite place. I'm a middle child. I have a moderate temperament. I don't need to be first but dread being last. So even if I've had a rotten day -- if the bills are piled up or the dishwasher overflowed, if I'm ticked at my husband or mad at one of my kids -- when I walk the dog around my neighborhood, it almost always lifts my spirits. Kids are usually out, laughing and playing. I wave at friends and often stop to chat. I pass sturdy, warm houses with pretty flowerbeds and imperfect lawns. I hear the birds and see the trees, and by the time I get home, I'm thinking that life is pretty damn good -- right here in my own backyard.

Associations

I have this weird thing. Certain items or images are, in my mind, indelibly linked to certain song lyrics. I blame my father for this.

When I was a kid, hanging around the kitchen at dinnertime, I would occasionally hear my mom say, "Jim, could you get me a platter?" And my father would chime, "Own-lee yooouuu!"

Get it? By The Platters? Maybe you're not old enough. Anyway. To this day, I can't reach for a platter in the cupboard without hearing that refrain.

So one day recently, I'm in the car, on my way to work and stopped at a stoplight, when I glance in the rearview mirror. Suddenly, the lyrics for Cold as Ice by Foreigner are rocking in my head -- because the woman in the car behind me is picking her nose. And I'm not talking just thumbing the nostril. She's got the first digit second-knuckle-deep.

Now for as long as I can remember, the rare instances of witnessing someone cleansing their nasal cavity in this manner have caused that particular late-seventies hit to reverberate through my brain.

Why, you ask? Well, sing along with me...

You're digging for gold

Yet throwing away

A fortune in feelings

But someday you'll paaayy!

I look away as quickly as I can, but unfortunately not only does the song stick with me for the next several days but so does the image of this uncouth stranger digging for gold. And now that I have relived the incident here, I'm sure it will be several more days before I can forget it again. Hopefully it won't be that long for you.



A Link

My firstborn turns seventeen today.

There are many cliched things to say when your child has a birthday. Things about how you'll never forget the day, how time has flown, how you remember being that age, how it was just yesterday...

But on this day, when I look at my son, I see more than just him and me on the day of his birth. I see more than just him at one or five or twelve. I see more than just me at twenty-seven or seventeen.

No, when I look at my son, I see my mother.

He is the only one of her seven grandchildren that she got to hold.

Tea Lights

So I'm at Costco last week with my nearly-seventeen-year-old, and he asks me if they sell candles.

“Maybe. Why?”

“I need a bunch.”

“How many?”

“345.”

The cart crashes into the end-cap stacked with peanut-butter pretzels as I gasp, “For what?!”

“I wanna ask someone to prom.”

My heart swells just a little, and I smile and steer back down the aisle, asking for an explanation as to what he has planned and promising that if they don't sell sacks of them here, we can check at Target – but I'm not driving all the way down to Ikea.

Target comes through for us. Four-hundred tea lights, two long-handled candle-lighters and $30 later, we go home and my son duct-tapes 345 tea lights onto cardboard, spelling out in big letters: PROM?

He drives to the girl's house, lights the candles (most of which won't stay lit in the wind), she says yes, and now I have 345 barely-used and 55 never-lit tea lights.

Any suggestions?

The 'Stache

I get it. I'm in my forties. I have dark brown hair. It was bound to happen. But when it started looking like my fourteen-year-old son's, it was time to do something about it. It being – da da da dum – The Momstache.

I've been checking out the options. There are a lot of them – some expensive, some not so much. At first I just plucked out the little dark rebels as they appeared. But I knew that wasn't going to be the answer forever.

So I'm at Hair Nite – no, it's not some weird waxing party, it's where me and my sisters and friends get together to have our (head) hair cut and colored, and we eat a lot and drink a lot and eventually say things like, “You should totally go lighter!” – and I decide to ask around. My younger sister tells me not to bother with waxing a 'stache; that it'll just grow back darker and thicker. She says bleaching is cheap and quick.

I'm all over cheap and quick, so I buy the box. But it sits on the shelf in the bathroom for a while. I mean, there's all these warnings about burning sensations and rashes and stuff. And it's not like I've got a hedge growing. In fact, I'm not sure anyone even notices the shadow except me – and that's only when I'm peering at it in the mirror.

But after a while, I get tired of tweezing (and kidding myself that no one who's ever stood close to me hasn't glanced at my upper lip – because I know I've done it to other women) and decide to give it a shot.

It's not that bad. There's only a little burning tingle in the few minutes that I have the cream on my face. And when I wash it off, there's no rash and no shadow! Yay!

So, of course, then I have to take off my glasses and lean over the sink to get a good look. And as I'm inches from the mirror, with my lip stretched down over my teeth, all I can see is a bunch of bright yellow hairs, and I think, Great. Now I look like The Lorax.

As soon as I get some cash, I'm ordering a no!no!

That One Person

That guy over there, across the room? He's not my boyfriend. He's not my Significant Other. He's not my Life Partner, my Domestic Partner, my Business Partner or my Dance Partner. He's not my Bed Buddy or my Friend With Benefits.

No, wait. He's all those things. He's my husband.

Ah.

Makes you look at him a little differently, doesn't it? Makes you look at us, as a couple, differently.

Having a spouse means something. Being a spouse means something. It means something more than all those other things combined. Everyone deserves the right to have and to be a spouse. Every couple deserves the right to be – if they choose – married.

There's no better way to identify yourself with that One Person.


No, not that guy. The other guy.

How We Got Here

A few years back, I wrote a book.

Some -- the four of you know who you are -- said, “I loved it! It made me cry! It made me laugh!” Others offered me a kind, “It was good.” I paid a publishing consultant $200 just to hear it was decent but WAY too long. And a published author (who didn't read it) told me to consider it an education and see if I could write another.

So I did.

The second book is certainly better-written and definitely a more publishable size (in other words, not a doorstop). With two books under my belt and several thousand hours devoted to the cause, I started thinking about making this writing-thing more than a hobby. I did research. Research told me to take a class.

So I did.

Research (and my instructor at the Loft Literary Center) told me to revise, revise, revise.

So I did.

Research told me to join a critique group.

So I did.

Research told me my first attempt at a query letter was crap and to start over.

So I did.

And now Research is telling me that potential agents and editors want to see if I can sell this book before they even decide to print it. Research is telling me that I must have an internet presence. Research is telling me that I need a blog and a Facebook page and a Twitter account. That I need to post and tweet.

Are you freakin' kidding me?

I have kids! I have a husband! I have a job, a house, laundry, dirty dishes, groceries to buy, meals to cook, carpools to drive, homework to help with. I spend all my free time trolling the internet for information about agents so I can write query letters that satisfy their specific submissionary needs!

And Research is telling me that I have to be worried about my social status and how many friends I have?! Good Lord, will we all never graduate from high school??

So here we are. I have a blog. I have a Facebook page. And I have to ask that you be my fan, my follower, my friend. Because someday someone might actually read my manuscript and say, “Hey, this is pretty good. But can she upload?”