Cover Art, Yay!

I came home from the Tax Job tonight, to find my family had been busy creating covers for my novel in progress. I'm so glad I live with these awesome people. I love them! Look what they did!

 by Robbie age 5

 From my husband, Matt

 by Sarah age 7

by Sarah age 7

Vote for your favorite! I'll use it to grace the cover of my 1st draft!





These are a Few of My Favorite Things

Irish Moss. The only thing that looks good in the garden right now. Reminds me of fields of winter wheat. I love seeing the bright green surprise in the dreary winter landscape.


Christmas Music. Barenaked for the Holidays, by the Barenaked Ladies (of course) my all time favorite.

Commercialism. I’m probably the only person who doesn’t bemoan the commercialization of Christmas. But the idea that there’s one time of year to focus on generosity and acquisition is just so. . .efficient. I love it that the stores are jam-packed with people and products and decorations and music. Even the 12 years I worked in retail, I loved it.

Cookies. And other holiday baking traditions. But especially creatively decorated cut-out sugar cookies.

Cinnamon. Scented candles, sprinkled on oatmeal, and Big Red gum, which I chew while baking so I don’t eat too much cookie dough.

More Detonation

1 am Sunday April 17th. Back home from the My Chemical Romance concert and happy to say, I have no regrets. Not the tickets I overpaid for on Stubhub, not ditching work early on the last Saturday before tax day, not the 2 hour drive or the $4/gallon gas, not my crazy 6 ponytailed hairdo, not the fact that the majority of the audience was half my age, and not the fact that I had to drag my reluctant husband along to a show he probably hated.

To be fair, he didn’t actually say he hated it; it was something more like “I don’t think that’s my scene.”

Well, I can say, without any hesitation, that it was definitely my scene. Since I’ve been anticipating this concert for two months now, I was prepared for, well, anything, and trying not to let my expectations get too high. Outside the Orbit Room, shivering in the rain/sleet/damnyoumichigan/wind, I was pleased to see the crowd a good mixture of ages and genders, much to my relief, as I was fearing a onslaught of fangirlyness that thankfully never materialized.

Once inside the Orbit Room, I was thrilled at the smaller size of the venue and eager to get in with the crowd in front of the stage, ok, not first row, because I wasn’t willing to wait in the rain/sleet/damnyoumichigan/snow, for several hours, but still, close enough to ensure I could clearly see the faces of the performers. One small regret, I’ll have to confess is that I did let my husband convince (trick) me into believing I’d get a better view in the balcony, so for about 1 ½ songs, I was just a little too far from the action, and sound, but I soon realized my mistake and went back to the main floor.

I won’t go on about the opening act the Architects, I wasn’t there to see them, and didn’t find them too compelling, but before too long at all, the boys of MCR were there, Na Na Na Na Na-ing it for the crowd. And from then on, it was just one non-stop rocking party of great people singing and dancing along with their favorite band. Most of the time, my eyes were fixed on the stage, at Gerard singing, Mikey headbanging and Frank and Ray thrashing on the guitars, but occasionally I’d look around at all these people singing along, boys and girls just rocking out.

I did have a little wariness before, because you know music never sounds the same live as it does recorded, and I was just hoping that I wouldn’t be disappointed, especially as I’d pretty much been listening to their CDs non-stop for the past month. Whatever little concerns I might have had about how they’d sound were quickly blasted out of my head, because this band sounds best loud, and live and rough. I didn’t even need to think about what my ears were hearing, because it was as if they just injected that music directly into my body like an adrenaline shot to the heart. And it was pitch perfect.

If you haven’t guessed it by now, I’m a recent, but instantly obsessed fan of this band. I wish I could explain it; I love practically every song on every one of their albums, I’m fascinated with the story of how they started; mesmerized by the lead singer Gerard Way; impressed with the friendship between the band members and their genuine niceness. And okay, if you’re wondering do I have a bit of a crush on Gerard, I’d have to say. . .oh, nooooo. It’s way beyond that. And darling husband, don’t worry, it’s not that I want the guy, or even want to do things TO him or with him. Oh, no, no, no. I actually want to BE him. Yes indeed. I’m that crazy. If I could have just a fraction of the geeky cool talent of Gerard Way, I’d be a happy happy girl.




I was hoping for some weirdness from the guys, or at least from Gerard, but there wasn’t much more than a few of his faces, and that moment when he carefully tied the Michigan flag someone gave him onto the mike stand and it just slipped right down the moment he let go! Haha.

I have to give a shout out to thank the slam-dancing, mohawked, overgrown teenage boys who cleared out a pretty good area in front of me with their wildness. I think they did scare the living shit out of some of the younger girls, but I held my ground and took full advantage of my five-feet ten inches to push my way up into their zone where I was able to get an even better closer view, as the show closed with Cancer, and Bulletproof Heart. What better ending than there in the mosh pit, bodies with feet flailing going right over my head, and MCR, loud and clear right to the last note.

No regrets, except that it’s over, and they didn’t play EVERY SINGLE SONG from every album. Haha, love you guys, you did great, and I’ll be back if you will!

Do I hafta?

This blog is supposed to be about wasting time, not about motivational stuff, but all my responsibilities are seriously cutting into my time-wasting, so I need to review an inspiration I had way back in high-school but have kind of forgotten about for a while.

Here it is, my big breakthrough:

You don’t have to do anything.

I’m trying to shift my thinking, and remember this. I don’t have to do anything. There are things I want to do. There I things I need to do, in order to make the things I want to do possible. But there is nothing I have to do.

It’s just a trick of thinking, but it really helps me to focus my efforts in a positive way. So this morning, I need to do the laundry, because I want to eliminate that stinky smell from the mudroom. Also I want to wear jeans again tomorrow. And I want my children to have clean underwear.

I don’t have to do laundry, I WANT to do laundry! Yippee!

Ok, so not always such a dramatic effect--“results are not typical.” But amazingly this morning I discovered a new dimension to my “need to/want to” philosophy. I was on Facebook, mindlessly playing Bejeweled Blitz, as I often do, and I thought, “I sure don’t need to do this. And actually, I don’t really want to do this.” And then I did the unthinkable. I stopped playing! And I decided I wanted to write instead.

Thinking about this a little more as I did my laundry. I know it sounds too simplistic. Can everything you do really be traced back to doing what you want to? Today, I really want to take that crummy Nikon digital camera that’s only a few months old, and cram it down Ashton Kutcher’s throat. But then, I also want to continue to live in my home, not in prison, so I guess I don’t want to do that after all.

It does work!

Free Time

It’s the second week of back to school and I’m sure you all are dying to know what I’m doing with all my free time*

*free time=2.25 hours X 3 days = 6.75 non-consecutive hours.

So here goes. I head home from preschool drop-off where I exercise, then I shower, dress and makeup, do my hair. As soon as I look fabulous, I head to the mall to meet a girlfriend for some Starbucks and shopping (unless I have a mani/pedi scheduled). I arrive back at preschool in a timely manner so I can bond with other parents and listen attentively to what the preschool teacher has to say about the day’s class.

Oh, wait no, that’s just my fantasy.

Here goes, for real. I head home from preschool drop off and crack open a Diet Coke, to hopefully perk my eyelids up from their current position dragging on the floor. I wouldn’t be so tired, except I was awakened multiple times during the night to deal with “scary fings.” As soon as the bubbly begins to arouse my brain, I have to decide whether to toss the uneaten toast I only made because the boy was “REALLY, REALLY, REALLY, Super-ally-duper hungry”. Or should I meanly save it for his lunch and say “You DEMANDED I make this, now you WILL eat it.”

I realize that I may or may not have eaten breakfast, standing up, and I am in fact, Super-ally-duper hungry. I eat the cold toast. Very unsatisfying. I make some fresh toast, dripping with melty peanut-butter. Cannot exercise while eating toast. Can only log onto computer and check e-mail/facebook. Fortunately, there is a clock near the computer, slowly counting down my precious 2.25 hours before I have to leave, so reluctantly I break the grip of the internet, and force myself to look at my to-do list.

Oooh, I have to make a call to the insurance company. This I can do and still play Bejeweled Blitz. Sadly, regardless of who I call or how long I’m on hold, I will only get to talk to an actual person when I’ve just begun the best game of my life. So after my conversation, (which may or may not have solved the problem, I’ll have to wait and see), I have to play a few more games to try and relive the moment that was cruelly snatched from me.

Now that I have less than 1.25 hours, exercise is clearly out of the picture. So is the mall. No reason now to bother looking fabulous. I am, however, appropriately attired for cleaning the house. Maybe a good day to mop. That’s almost exercise. First I’ll have to sweep, especially the crunchy areas around the children’s chairs. And then there’s the confetti of “art projects” (and supplies) bursting forth from the art table. Should I try to match the caps to the markers? Or do I just sweep it all up? Too many large papers to sweep. Probably should put some in the recycling. Can an art project composed of cotton balls, glitter glue, toothpicks and staples go in the recycling? Are any of these precious creations worthy of a spot on the refrigerator? Is there a spot on the refrigerator?

I realize that the refrigerator is a time capsule dating back to spring. I discard the obsolete dentist appointment reminders, memo about the end-of-school picnic, old party invitations and thank you cards. Take down a drawing so old, I can no longer recognize the “bird” that it claims to be. I must have been impressed by it at one time. Also get rid of last year’s mini-calendar from the real-estate agent, and 2 expired coupons for free kids burgers.

Finally heading to get the mop bucket, I notice that I should have left 5 minutes ago. Rush out the door, hit the preschool parking lot running, to arrive breathless at the classroom door just in time to hear my little boy shout, “Mommy!” as he runs to give me a big hug and kiss.

And that’s what I’ve been doing with all my “free time.”

Cooler than a Mountain

On the way to the library my 3-year-old boy spoke wistfully from the back seat, “I wish I could climb a mountain.”

His *ahem*-year-old mommy in the front seat thought, “I used to wish the same thing.” Then I thought, wait a minute, I still wish I could climb a mountain.

Got me thinking about the limitless future that children see stretched out before them. As a child, you believe that anything is possible, if only you are old enough, and your darned parents quit interfering. Money is no object, practicality is irrelevant and there will always be enough time. You will eat Lucky Charms for breakfast every day, then go climb a mountain, and have a picnic with ice cream for dessert before you sail your boat home to your tree house.

At what age or milestone do people stop believing that anything is possible? We get so wise, we start dismissing dreams because they are unrealistic. But isn’t that what dreaming is about? Just because you have a firmer grip on reality as an adult doesn’t mean you have to stop believing in possibility. I believed that I would have all the skills and freedom necessary to climb a mountain, once I turned 13—my magic age. If I could believe that, why can’t I believe I could climb a mountain at, oh, 83? Maybe that can be my new magic age.

I’ve seen mountains, I’ve driven in them. Haven’t climbed a mountain. But if my little boy is going to climb a mountain, I’m going to be climbing too.

A mountain is his ultimate standard of comparison. If something is tall he wants to know if it’s taller than a mountain. If our destination is far, he asks, “is it as far as a mountain?” His oatmeal is hotter than a mountain. He even said the book he found at the library was “cooler than a mountain.”

I don’t know about that. Mountains are pretty cool.

Write Now

Why am I writing a blog? Well, because I am a “writer”. Right. I guess that all depends on how you define the word “am”. It’s been 20ish years since I decided that was my career goal. A few less since I pursued my goal on a daily basis with college journalism classes, writing for the college paper and writing radio commercials. Things which convinced me that “doing what you love” for a job, was a sure-fire way to make you hate what you love. (By the way, that’s also my biggest fear about being a stay-at-home mom.)

About a year ago I met a lovely lady who was starting a writing group (check out her blog cursinginheels.blogspot.com). I thought, “Now is a great time to get back into writing.” Not really, actually I thought, “hey, she lives in my neighborhood and she’s a mom. Maybe our kids can have playdates.” I realized I was way out of my depth, when she talked excitedly about the book she wrote for “NaNoWriMo” as if everyone knew what this “rhino” creature was.

“NaNoWriMo” turned out to be “National Novel Writing Month”, an annual challenge to write a 50,000 word novel in the month of November. A couple of the other women who attended that initial group meeting came back the next month enthusiastically stating their intention to “do it.” Me? I thought, that’s nuts. But I did our writing exercises, and that crazy NaNoWriMo thing kept charging around my head. Because the thing was, I actually had a story in my head again.

I’ve always had a story in my head, since I was five years old. Back then, the story was that I got the red ruby slippers. With a matching headband and barrettes. And a purple room, with a purple telephone and a fluffy purple rug. And the kid with the cowboy hat was my friend. Don’t worry, the plots have improved since then, although color coordination did play a major role for way too long. Mostly it was an escape mechanism, but I figured I could turn it into a real success, if only I’d develop the skill for getting the stories out of my head, onto paper for others to enjoy.

But the years went on and although I always had time to think of these stories, I never seemed to have the dedication to writing them. As I grew older, busier, less in need of escape, the stories came more slowly. Then something happened to turn them off altogether (long pause for dramatic effect).

I had a baby.

This sweet, fussy, crying, demanding little girl suddenly became the thing that occupied every spare brain cell I had. And even some of the non-spare essential brain cells, like the ones that allow you to place dirty dishes in the dishwasher rather than in the refrigerator. After a while, Crying Little Girl and I worked out a compromise. I would devote 50% of my brain to her, and that would leave 50% for normal human function. This plan was working great for 2 years, and then along came sweet, cuddly, hungry little boy. Now I wanted to give him 50% of my brain. And how could I give Little Girl anything less? Which left nothing. One month of zombie life later, enter plan B. 25% brain to Little Girl, 25% to Little Boy. 25% for functioning. 25% to guilt over not being able to give 150%. Zero, Zip, Zilch to creative daydreaming.

Eventually, the Little’s demands eased up a bit. I chucked the guilt on the compost pile. In place of guilt, a story was creeping in. Nothing too deep—just a combination of a dream and an actor I had a minor crush on. Said actor’s career seemed to be going nowhere, and in frustration at the lack of good film material, I decided to give him a leading role in my NEW STORY.

Long story short, I decided to make this short story long, and turn it into a NaNoWriMo attempt with no greater goal than to say I did it. And since I’m very goal-directed when I actually have a goal, I did do it. I wrote the required number of words, of my novel, in the month of November.

Best of all, I loved it.

Introduction to Wasting Time (written at 2 am while wasting time)

I’ve wanted to write a blog ever since the good old days when I was single, having dating disasters and romantic wreckage on regular basis. Now I’m the mom of preschoolers, so naturally my blog should dwell on the pitfalls and pratfalls of motherhood, and the wit, charm and mess of kids. Right?

But sadly, I find that by the time I have a chance to write down their precious stories, I’m not in the mood. In the free moments I snatch for myself, I find, as always, I just want to waste time, and I really don’t care. I can’t even bring myself to feel guilty about it. In fact the only emotion I’ve ever felt regarding wasting time is regret when I don’t get a chance to do it.

I probably should clarify what I define as wasting time. First there are the obvious suspects: watching TV (although planned TV does not qualify--my DVR recordings of Glee and Gray’s are actual important activities, not to be confused with wasting time). Wasting time TV-style consists of channel surfing, reruns, movies already seen, and VH1’s “Top 40 Heavy Metal One Hit Wonders of 1988.” Then there’s the computer timewasters--games, surfing the Internet, reading random blogs, and most (but not all) of the time spent on Facebook. And finally, napping. Napping is the perfection of wasting time.

Then there are the less obvious activities—those that on the surface seem like perfectly acceptable choices, but are subtly transformed into wasting time. Reading the newspaper, for example is a pretty normal thing to do, but can easily be improved into wasting time simply by reading EVERY SINGLE ARTICLE, even the ones that are advertisements masquerading as articles (Did you know that the Amish make this amazing space heater?) And then there’s bathing. Of course a person needs to attend to hygiene. But when the urge to waste time strikes, then it’s time to linger in a bubble bath. Or to put the finishing touch on freshly shaved legs by meticulously inspecting and tweezing all hairs of micro-millimeter length that managed to escape the razor because they are virtually invisible.

Making a to do list is a good organizational tool, but if you’d rather waste time, follow a tip I learned from my dad. DON’T WRITE IT DOWN! Instead, just THINK about what you need to do. You can do this for hours, as I witnessed first hand when I’d head down into the junk heap of a basement, to see my dad leaning back in a chair. I’d ask what he was doing and he’d say, “I’m thinking about how I’m going to put those cabinets up.” I love to waste time thinking about how I’m going to redecorate this house once it’s no longer infested with sticky people.

Lest you think that because I’m a stay-at-home mom, I’m living a life of leisure for all this wasting time, I’d like to clarify, that before I became a mom, back when I had a full-time job working 48+ hours a week, I had WAY more time for wasting time. Now I have to give up sleep to do it. But that’s okay. I can always waste time with a nap tomorrow.