It appears I'm dead, but I'm not.

September? Seriously?

I think I broke my own record for blog silence.

Can't count high enough to tell you how many times I've been asked, "Are you dead?"

No, I'm not dead. Felt like it at times, maybe wished I was, but I'm alive, kicking and coughing - thanks to the flu-y type things floating around.

Over the past few months I've been taking a break. Kinda reevaluating my life. What's important. What's not. Chasing ways to Make More Money and getting overwhelmed and discouraged.

Learning the definition of the words "simplify" and "focus".

I've come to the conclusion that I've been trying to do too much for all the wrong reasons. I've been struggling and fighting in my own strength the solve the How-will-we-feed-our-family-this-week problem. Taking on so much, I get NOTHING done.

Did you know it's possible to do so much you accomplish NOTHING?

Here's what I've learned.

• I'm not the Avon queen - being as disorganized as I am, I can barely handle my own customers on top of being in leadership. I think I need to pass my downline to someone more organized and less scattered and keep my current customers happy
• My novel may take a loooooooooooooong time to sell. Kinda knew that, but reality is hitting. It's time to let the process work and start something fresh and new
• 9 years of teaching guard doesn't mean I got it all down. I'm in a new school, with new kids and feel like I've never done this before. My students are stretching me, challenging me to grow and evolve
• I'm a mom. 3.5 year old boys need their mommies and love it when said mommies disengage from the computer
• Laundry doesn't do itself
• Spreading myself thin makes me holey. When I try to manage a dozen unrelated projects by spreading myself like a small pie crust in a huge pan, parts of me break and gaping holes open up and nothing turns out well
• Litterboxes don't clean themselves
• I've been waiting on Big Things to Happen rather than waiting on the Lord.
• Small boys can flood bathrooms when left to themselves for more than 45 seconds
• Friends are worth more than money
• People do care about me
• God won't let me or my family starve - he'll send people along with groceries or I'll get a call from a friend who found a great deal on potatoes and she bought more than she could use and wants to know if I need some
• Less is more
• I'm not stupid
• I have a destiny (don't know what it is yet)
• This too shall pass

I'm going through some really hard stuff and eventually my energy will return. Getting stronger hurts, but it happens. So, keep on checking back. I'll keep you updated and hopefully will blog more when I feel better.

Mommy has a headache so...

I feel like someone's played "Whack a Mole" with my head, leaving my brain quivering in agony, and my neck feeling like a collapsed accordion.

Thunder and lightening commandeer the sky chasing me and The Booger inside.

I gotta lie down.

Next thing I know, tiny fingers grab my eyelids, pinching and pulling. "Mommy. Wake up. Mommy, why are you sleeping? You heads hurts? Are you sleeping?"

Someone's hands, probably mine, flail knocking the pincers away. Fearing a repeat attack, I cover my eyes with my hands.

My nose is twisted in an unnatural position. "Mommy, do you gots boogers? How 'bout snots? Hey Mommy, look. Look! I pulling your hair. Mommy, I'm pulling your hair."

Fanning my fingers ever so slightly, I brace myself for the next "incident." A brown eyeball hovers over my hand hole. "Mommy, are you in there?"

Air explodes from my lungs as a thirty pound toddler belly-flops on my tummy. "I'm not gonna bite your face, Mommy. I'm not."

"That's nice," I say covering my face as The Booger proceeds to lick me. Ew. I push him off. "Mommy's head hurts. She needs to rest a bit, okay?"

"Ohhh-kay. I gotta find my pick-up truck." Booger trots up the stairs. His voices bounces off the hall walls, "I foun' it!"

THUD! THUD! THUD! "Brrrrrrrrr, mmmmnnnnnrrrrrrrr. Mommy, your airms are roads. Mmmmneeeer. Motorcyles race up Mommy's arms, over her nose, down other side."

"Leave me alone!" Plastic motorcycles fly through the air. I cross my arms over my face.

"Ohhh-kay. I listen to thunder noise. God's playing the drums."

Peace.

"Mommy! I make you feel better. Take your medicine." My right eyelid is torn back and a plastic object is shoved into my eyeball. Screaming I swat. "No, Mommy, you need to take your medicine!"

"Eyeballs don't take medicine," I sit up and grab his arms. "Booger, that hurts!"

"Your nose. What about your nose. Your nose takes medicine."

My hand shoots out like a striking rattle snake deflecting the doctor toy (the thingie they use to look in your ears) headed for my nose.

"Ohhhkayy." A plastic thermometer is shoved in my ear. "I take your temperature, Mommy. You have a fever."

By this time not only my head hurts, but my eyeball is throbbing and my ear stinging. The phone rings. It's John asking me to find a phone number. I sum up the past few minutes of torture and feel something rush up my leg.

A motorcycle.

"Mommy, the motorcycle is gonna get stuck on your butt."

Lovely.

Mommy has a headache so let's go ahead and take her mind off her head by making other body parts hurt.

Anyone want to buy a kid?

Disclaimer: For anyone considering calling child protective services over my last sentence... Don't. It's a JOKE. Like, I'm gonna sell the Booger on Ebay. Seriously?

Tired, tired oh so tired

You know you're tired when your nose gets stuck between the "g" and "h" keys on the keyboard.

You know you're tired when your son stands in front of you with yellow socks and yells, "Come on Mommy, to the dishwasher! I peed!" and you don't care.

You know you're tired when it's a gorgeous 78 degrees outside - you have two free hours - and you wish you could just crawl into bed.

You know you're tired when you don't feel like getting into the car and driving to a nearby geocache that everyone's raving about (Duck Tape).

You know you're tired when you stare at Twitter and wonder... why?

You know you're tired when picking up your tooth brush causes your arm to tremble under strain.

You know you're tired when you see/hear something funny and can't remember how to laugh.

Know know you're tired when you have homicidal thoughts toward anyone who talks excitedly about an upcoming vacation.

You know you're tired when you have to abandon a room of your house to floor-collapsing piles of laundry.

You know you're too tired when you don't know the difference between Desitin and toothpaste.

You know you're tired when you're writing a blog entry and forget what you're writing about... like now...

Oh, give me a break

Oprah has a keychain that counts down the days, hours, minutes and seconds 'till Obama becomes president.

What do people expect? Instant wealth? Some kind of magical transformation?

QVC is selling anything and everything Obama. Plates, coins, mugs, T-shirts... I bet if I dig far enough there are sheets, pillows, boxer shorts and sunglasses! Wait, what about doggie dishes, leashes, diapers?

Or how 'bout some jewelry?

Rand McNally, the map maker is cashing in on the big O (is Oprah ready to share her letter?) with commemerative maps.

Better yet, get a load of this! The Democrats have a superstore with... you name it. So that's how they raise all their money. With the profit they bring in w/ the inaguration, they are sure to buy the world. Forget taking it over! Found the doggie wear on this site.

Personally, I think Mr. Obama is in for a shock. Terrorists don't do tea and crumpets, or share their toys. Nor does money grow on trees.

I hope Obama has a reality check and dives in to do what's best for the country, not what will make him popular. I want him to succeed so the US succeeds.

Until then, I guess I need to put my hope on a rope. (Take a look - a caricature of the to-be prez in soap !)

Elmo underwear...

I can lead colorguard units to state championships, teach kids how to do some pretty crazy things with flags, rifles and sabers but do you think I can teach a toddler how to use the potty?

Oy.

If I had a bathtub that my body could fit in and could afford Calgon, I'd be screaming, "Calgon, take me away!"

One thing about motherhood that I've never come to appreciate or tolerate is poop. The more I have to look at it and smell it, the more I despise it.

Different pull-up diaper brands boast guaranteed success towards potty training if you use them. Cool Alert is supposed to tingle the tinkler so the toddler can trot to the pot. Not my kid. Doesn't seem to feel it or care.

We've watched videos on how "big boy" it is to do you business in the toilet. Videos that hold real underwear in high regard.

When I opened Booger's door this morning, the smell hit me like a tsunami. Gagging, I chased him around his room, over trains, through a tee pee and into a pile of stuffed animals. My fingers latched in his arm pitts and I hoised him on the changing table (which is duct-taped together b/c he's pulled it apart and destroyed it).

"No! No diapers! I don't want diapers!"

"I'm gonna put on your almost-underwear to help you get ready for real underwear."

"Real underwear, I want real underwear." Kyle wiggled and kicked at me as I tried to shove his feet through the leg holes. I'd put him in underpants if he had some. Money is tight and The Budget won't allow for much beyond bills.

Booger vaulted over the edge of the table, I caught him and put him on his back - again. Then I remembered my mom sent a little money in a Halloween card. I knew just the thing to buy.

At Babies-R-Us, Kyle marched proudly down the aisle behind the sales lady toward the rack of big boy underwear. Diego, Cars or Elmo? I was hoping for Thomas, but the Boog lunged for his fave red monster.

"I want Elmo!" The sales lady handed him a 3 pack of 2Ts and he hugged it to his chest twisting from side to side with a huge grin.

After lunch, I dared to ask if he wanted to have an underwear party and put on his new underpants. He chose which pair he wanted to wear.

"Now, if you feel like you need to go poop or pee, tell me and I'll put you on the potty, okay?"

"I play Thomas," Booger said.

Every few minutes I checked for a tell-tale dark spot on his sweat pants. Wanted to catch him before any pee got in my rug.

An hour passed. Bogger bounced up and down on his bed. "Mommy! I jumping!"

And I smelled it.

Let me ask you parents; have any of you ever tried to check you kid's pants while they were bouncing up and down? If not, it's not easy. Trust me.

Matching his rhythm, I pulled at the waistband. The top of a brown pancake peeked at me. Great. Now what? How do you get a kid out of underwear full of poo? I couldn't peel it off like a diaper. Nor could I lay him down. I didn't want the stuff spread like peanut butter down his legs.

Into the bathroom we went. Booger kicked and screamed, "My butt! My butt! Mine poop!"

"I know it's your poop, but it needs to go bye-bye. Elmo is sad because he's dirty." I flipped up the lid of the toilet with my toe.

"Noooooo!"

Suspending his backside over the edge, I peeled down the pants. Or tried. Booger writhed, sending brown quarter-sized poocakes flying.

"Is that poop, Mommy? Is that poop?" He lifted his arms straight above his head and slid from my grasp, planting a socked foot firm in a pile.

I wish I could tell you I reamined calm and collected and said in my most business-like voice, "Now Kyle, I need you to hold still so I can get your sock off. Then I'd like it if you could move over by the tub."

"Nonono! Ew! Getyourfootoutofthere, yuck, your're stepping- oh gross! No! Don't jump! Stopjumpinginyourpoorightnow! I'm loosing it. How do I do this?"

I tucked my kid football style under my left arm and yanked off a yard or so of toilet paper.

"Mommy? Is that Kyle poop? I want to pick up Kyle's poop. Mommy?"

"Don't talk to me, I'm trying to clean-" I remembered the socked foot rubbing against my arm wasn't clean. "Ahhhhh!" I flipped poor Kyle upside down and peeled the offending sock from his foot, flinging it out of reach. "Oh, crap!" It landed poo-side down on the carpet.

"Mommy, are you okay?"

"I'd be okay if you pooped in the potty instead of your pants."

"Where's Esau? I want to scare him. Like a ghost."

Good thing I can bend my body like a pretzel. With one hand I grabbed the sock along with the nasty pants, tossing them in the sink. Now what? Do I just wipe him off with TP or take him to the changing table.

"Stand still so Mommy can clean you..."

"I scare Esau!" My little bun-rocket shot out the door.

"Get back here! You have a dirty bottom!" I gave chase and caught him under the arm-pitts. "I need to clean you up and put on a diaper so you can take a nap (and I can get some work done)."

"No! Mommy, I want underwear!"

Booger is wearing a diaper right now. He's jumping on his bed, scribbling in Daddy's checkbook, and chasing the cats.

No wonder some kids wear diapers until they're eight!

Obstacles of the most absurd kind

Have I been sucked through some interdimensional rift where the weirdest things in the world are popping up, diverting my attention and time from getting my novel to an agent by Monday?

It all started Monday when I heard Kim Woodhouse speak about "writing through adversity".

The following morning, my entire mss was requested by an agent. I'm in the middle of line edits and have set a goal to have the darn thing sent off no later than Monday.

So.

Monday I had the distinct pleasure of gulping down a half gallon of radio-active isotopes in preparation for an abdominal CAT scan. I'm gonna skip over the details, but please know, drinking that stuff created gastro-intestinal distress beyond my wildest nightmare!

Tuesday my knee decided to have a REALLY BAD knee day. I had writer's group in the morning, then after lunch, physical therapy which lasted longer than usual b/c my knee refuses to stop swelling.

By the time I arrived home, I had to feed the Booger and traipse off to band practice.

Weds - I did some writing, but had more medical crap to deal with (including the continual saga of the never-ending intestinal distress)

Thursday, John woke me up as he was leaving for work to tell me the power was out. A transformer blew up and we'd be w/o power until late morning. We've been in this house 8 years and have NEVER had a power outage. Genius that I am, I failed to charge both my cell and laptop Weds night. Planned on doing it Thursday morning! Oh, then had to talk to doc about the volcanic activity down below and then there was band practice.

Today seemed to be off to a good start. Nothing on the schedule until late afternoon. Got through a few more chapters of line editing. Then John called. I had to try to get Booger's health insurance switched from group to individual to save some $$.

Several hours later - I'm where I started. IT, Member services, Web master specialists - none of them could get me through the application process w/o something cyber going wrong. One lady did the app w/ me over the phone which took 1.5 hours. Answering tedious questions about Boog's illegal drug use and pregnancy histories. She e-mailed the form, all I needed to do was add an electronic signature. One page from that magic space, the radio buttons on the web page asking if the 2 year old Booger was a business group of one, refused to mark. I saved (IT person was on phone w/ me). I tried to log in... lost EVERYTHING!!!

Now, I need to find a fax number to which they can fax and app so I can fill the whole thing out AGAIN (I'm making John do it this time.) and try to fax it back.

In a few minutes I have another knee appt. My afternoon writing time is gone. I have 80 pages left to edit. 8 hour band practice tomorrow. I leave for ACFW in MN on Tuesday of next week and haven't started to get ready for that yet (packing wise).

I'm trying to write through pain and adversity. But, power outages and IT nightmares have pushed me over the edge.

The urge to do something stupid is consuming me. I want to put socks on the blades of my ceiling fan, smell a tomato plant and dunk my head underwater and hold my breath for 40 minutes.

But alas, I have to get it done. I can't not.

Egad!

Feeling a little lost

Picking up where I left off one month ago is proving to be harder than I imagined.

Do you think I can remember where I put the picky-clippers (for cat toenails) before I left for PA?


When I got home and crawled into bed, Esau and Chloe decided to perform a cat scan confirming I was me. The cat scan lasted all night long in spite of my skill at sending cats into orbit with my eyes closed.

I looked like I was attacked by a phlebotomist on speed - poke holes on all exposed skin.

Why don't I close the door, you wonder?

Imagine howling bowling balls battering your hollow-core door. Yeah.

Aside from furry felines, figuring out where I'm supposed to be when, and with who is testing what little sanity I have. Oh, and remembering who's going out with whom in the marching band? Forgedaboutit.

Pennsylvania and Colorado may as well be on different planets. My mind?

In a whole other galaxy.

Eat! Eat! Eat! Eat!

Oh somebody help me! I'm seeing Blob burgers instead of a very fat cat. Had to do the drop-food-on-the-table-and-get-away, far, far away thing when I fed Kyle.

This is why I don't fast.

I can't handle the growlies, the cravings!

Keyboards aren't edible. As long as I'm writing and reading something I can't eat. I'm so desperate for diversion I popped off an entry to a writing contest!

Agent Rachelle Gardner has a picture prompt and is asking for 100 word "stories". Mine is way bizarre. Would you expect anything less from moi?

Ramble alert:
Last night at ACFW, HIS Writers, I found out I need to have a huge list of captured e-mails in order for an agent to notice me. We're talking 10 - 15K! Ummmmmm. . . .

How?

The why is to prove I have an established reader base.

I hate it when my e-mail addy is captured. Don't really want to go that route, but what if my blog gets lots of subscribers and lots of hits? Help me out here, show some litter!

Spread the love!

I make you laugh.

I'm funny.

Funnier than that VW comercial for their new crossover vehicle featuring a talking slug-bug.

Oh, I need to get out of this house where inanimate edible objects are calling my name.

Three hours. Three more hours until I'm put out of my vacuous misery. Then I'll be too sick to eat.

Not. Fair.

Writing is hard

It is. Really.

Okay, so maybe it's not so hard to peck a few words onto the screen. Subject/predicate - paragraph...

Approach writing as art and the challenge increases exponentially. Am I using a strong enough verb? Do the sentences in this particular paragraph read in a pleasing rhythm? Did I inject enough action beats and attributions to create the perfect pacing? Are my characters believable? Did I remain consistent with point-of-view within scenes? Trust me, when you start diving deep into the mechanics of excellent writing, the information is overwhelming. Daunting, even. But still, it's doable. Hundreds of writing books line the shelves at Barnes & Noble and the public library. Grammar for Dummies, anyone?

Getting published is a whole 'nother planet. I feel like I'm taking my well-honed pieces, rolling them into arrow shafts, loading them into a bow, seeking the darkest cave, firing at a target I can't see. Actually, I don't even know if the target is in the cave! Cave by cave I trudge, firing my arrows. Sometimes I hear the CLACK of arrow on rock, sometimes... nothing. The arrow is gone, never to be heard from again. Other times, up to half a year later, someone finds my arrow lying on the cave floor. They pick it up. Unroll it. Read it, then send me a form letter written by the publication's first editor from 1920. "We're sorry, but your article doesn't fit our publication needs at this time."

It's discouraging.

I guess that's why authors whose arrows finally hit the target tell the rest of us that stick-to-it-ivness is the true talent required for hunting down and hitting the elusive publishing target.

Way Back When, I used to have a romantic view of writing. Writing has been my secret desire since I was able to create stories. I imagined someone bundled up in a cozy sweater along some secluded glassy-surfaced pond in Maine that reflected the vibrant purple hues of spring lupines. Oh, with a GIANT mug of coffee by his or her side. Only the sounds of song birds and the wind in the trees wafted through the cozy cabin. Inspired words zip and zap from keyboard to screen. During lunch, while eating a pb and honey sandwich, the author is visited by a droopy-nosed moose: a muse in disguise. The Next Brilliant Idea has arrived!

Several long weeks pass, and contented author leans back against his Herman Miller chair, presses the "send" button on his e-mail and The Perfect Manuscript is off to the waiting editor wielding a million dollar advance.

Instead, I have to bushwack through a swath of Legoes (which hurt really bad if you step on the barefooted), type with a 1 and a half year old drooling on my arm, while clicking the mouse all over the screen making the sentence I spent six hours on disappear!

After hours of pacing the parquet, I figure out where to take the plot. I sit down and start to type when... HACK! GACK! HHHWWWUUUUHHHHH! A cat barfs on the floor. The baby unlatches his teeth from my arm and is toddling off to play with this gooey new toy. His giggles bounce off the bare walls of my living room turned office. Just as he reaches down to grab the stingy hairball, I leap from my cheap-o (not Herman Miller) chair, trip over Elmo then fall face first in the hairball. At least the little hands have no chance of grabbing the nasty thing.

By the time I clean the carpet with one off the rejection letters from a national magazine; clean myself; give the boy a snack; settle back into my cheap-o chair... I forgot The Next Plot Point.

Great.

Sigh.

I tried to quit.

I wanted to quit.

But I can't.

Something in my compels me to put words to screen - to tell the stories hiding in the creases of my gray matter.

Gotta pick up my bow and arrow and keep hunting. You thing wearing camo and night-vision goggles might help?

Joy From the Litterbox

iMacs come with a handy-dandy built in camera and a photobooth feature that's fun to play with.
I captured some crazy shots of the cats (the dog wouldn't cooroperate, plus, he's easily embarassed). Every time I look at these, I laugh so hard tears run down my face!

With out much adieu straight from the Litterbox...

We just gotta have some fun every now and then don't we?