Heptadecagon

Many years ago now, Tim fell in love. Well, I'm not sure it was love , but it certainly was like . And I'm not talking about me. Although I can't remember exactly when this incident happened, I'm pretty sure we were already married. Or maybe not. Either way, love wasn't an issue of ours at that time. (Hold on there, that sentence makes it sound like love is an issue now. It's not! I mean, we still love one another and we have no plans for ditching each other. Okay, back to the real story.) No, Tim fell for a dog named Jake. He was a rather enormous Great Dane we met at a booth outside a St. Louis pet store -- the sort of booth the local shelter sets up with the hope that people will come and adopt a dog. Tim would have adopted that dog in a heart beat, but we lived in an apartment, we were gone all day, and oh yeah, we did not live in St. Louis. We were in Ann Arbor at the time. Getting that dog back home would have been uncomfortable, to say the least. F

The weather was nice enough today that I didn't need to wear layer after layer when I ran. And of course, with fewer layers, I felt lighter, stronger, and faster. At my water stop, my stopwatch confirmed that I had, indeed, run faster. So I thought, I run faster now that I've shed winter layers. Does the same principle hold for writing?    My new hashtag? #writingnaked

Sometimes the most obvious of answers are right in front of you. Right. In. Front. Of. You. Well, me, not you. Thanks. I love the background.

In recognition of Tell A Story Day , a few of my favorite quotes: If the story is in you, it has got to come out. ~ William Faulkner There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you. ~ Maya Angelou Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing. ~ Benjamin Franklin A bird doesn't sing because it has an answer, it sings because it has a song. ~ Unknown And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt. ~ Sylvia Plath

"Take me down, please," I said. "I'm really not a fan of heights. And I shouldn't be up here anyway. What were you thinking?" "No," she replied. "You belong up there." "I don't." "You do." "I don't. But I can see that arguing with you will get me nowhere. Can I please come down?" I looked down at my feet, which stood square on the small patch of ceramic. My knees knocked together, most likely due to nervousness, and my hands shook. Even my teeth began to chatter. Then, my eyes met hers. "It's like this." She adjusted the hem of her shirt and the strap of her purse against her shoulder, and then crossed her arms over her chest. I could see the furrow between her brows grow bigger. Was she trying to figure out what to say? "You are who you are. You're a great person. You have a life I'd love to have: a partner, great kids, a job, and a passion. You have a supportive

I'm the sort of person who likes change. I prefer to move my furniture around, just to have a different perspective on things. I move knick-knacks, and books, and toys, and whole rooms (only every once in a while). So sticking with one blog background doesn't happen. It CAN'T happen. And this is where you come in. I need advice. Send me your ideas, a link to a suggestion, whatever. I need a new blog template and so far, I can't find one with which I'm happy. (I just tried a Rockstar template and my eyes burned for at least five minutes after I loaded it up. Hence, I reverted to a boring one.) I'll be  sure to consider everything and anything, and I'll be indebted to you, forever. And Happy Friday!

My driver's license states that I am five feet one inch tall. I told the BMV that number back when I moved here, because to be truthful, I didn't know how tall I was. Despite having gone to the doctor regularly for check-ups my entire life, it had been years since someone measured me, and sometimes, the nurse just asked. I always replied what I thought: five foot one. But I always felt taller. Seriously. (And I realize that tall here is really relative.) Last week, my friend told me that her doctor had informed her that she was just taller than five feet -- three-quarters of an inch over that, to be exact. "If you're that tall, and I'm taller than you, then I must be taller than what I think I am." I turned to my other friend. "You're taller than me. How tall are you?" "I think I'm five foot three, or I used to be," she said. I looked back and forth from one face to another and realized that maybe I had felt taller than fi

What Zoe asked me yesterday: Mom, why do you have fake grass? What I thought she asked me yesterday: Mom, why do you have fake breasts? Now anyone that has met me knows that I don't have fake breasts. In fact, that is one area of my body I would never enhance if  I had the chance because I am so fine with being small-chested. I have the ability to go bra-less the entire winter and really only put on a bra when I go for a run. Shirts fit easy, although dresses are difficult to fill out. However, on the whole, I'm good with small girls. So why would I even think that Zoe would ask me if I have fake breasts? I have no idea. Maybe it's all the chicken I've been preparing for the kids lately. If you can think of something, let me know. I'm beginning to think I'm going just a bit crazy here.

This passage comes from John Green's, The Fault in Our Stars . “I'm in love with you," he said quietly. "Augustus," I said. "I am," he said. He was staring at me, and I could see the corners of his eyes crinkling. "I'm in love with you, and I'm not in the business of denying myself the simple pleasure of saying true things. I'm in love with you, and I know that love is just a shout into the void, and that oblivion is inevitable, and that we're all doomed and that there will come a day when all our labor has been returned to dust, and I know the sun will swallow the only earth we'll ever have, and I am in love with you.” I remember the first time I read that passage. I loved the entire thing, along with all the other almost 66,000 words in that book. I loved how quirky Augustus sounded as he spoke to Hazel. I loved that he blurted the words out, all in one breath practically. I loved that Augustus had the courage t

I've got this thing about cinnamon rolls. We all like them here in this house, but I don't like the sort that are overly sweet. And many times, the pre-made, store-bought rolls can be just that: sweet to the point of sickening. Plus, the number of preservatives that can go into an item that doesn't come from my kitchen can sometimes scare me. (I've even given up the thought of ever drinking Mountain Dew again. The brominated vegetable oil on the label and the green color of the drink really make me think about the purity of such a beverage. And yet, I still eat gummy worms. Hmmm...) Anyway, a while back, I wanted to make cinnamon rolls -- from scratch. And I didn't want a long and involved recipe. Thankfully, I found this one , over at Sally's Baking Addiction . They're good, easy, and can be made the night before you want to eat them. Furthermore, they're just the right amount of sweet. To make it easy on you, I printed the recipe below: Rolls 2

I have a lamp. Of course, we have several lamps. But this one, it's special, and holds a tight place in my heart. It sits now, in the basement, on top of the filing cabinet that Tim acquired from an old job. The lamp isn't plugged in. It simply rests, bulb in hand, waiting for us to turn it on, to use it once again, to see its light burn bright. This lamp used to be on often, every night in fact. Because it was the lamp that we passed on from child to child. It saw the twins when they were two days old: itty-bitty identical cherubs who barely weighed as much as a sack of flour each. It welcomed the fiery redhead and eased him through some rough patches in the wee hours of stormy nights. It said Hello , and, Aren't you a surprise? to the little princess that took up the guest room, but who, clearly, is no longer a guest (and never was). It is a lamp with Noah and his animals, in an ark, on top of a swirl of blue water. It has no place in my home now

I have plans today to get: Grass seed Grass killer  Which means I'll be giving life and taking it away this weekend. If I think metaphorically, and not literally, about that statement, it is disturbing to realize how often we, as humans, give and take away life. Happy Weekend.

Do you ever wonder what keeps me from posting on certain days? Why am I able to consistently post day after day, and then, out of the blue, I skip a day? Did I take a breather? Did something incredibly life-building and exciting happen? Did I take off with the dehumidifier man? If you actually do wonder about any of those scenarios, please go find something better to do with your life (which you should have no trouble doing, considering how full all of your lives are...no joke). Actually, no, don't do that. If you wonder about my posting habits, it means you read this sack of artfully crafted (yeah, right) melodrama. And knowing you are out there keeps me going. In case you're chomping at the bit for why I was silent yesterday, I'll let you know. I was busy. Sorry, that's it. I had volunteer responsibilities, parental responsibilities, and a book club to get to. Plus, I had to get my body off to writing group in the evening. I had a post started (not this one),

When I think of the word marriage , I always go back to the Mawwiage scene from The Princess Bride. It's tough not to do that; it's one of the best scenes of the movie. But all humor aside, marriage is hard work. Anyone who's married can tell you that, and I'm certain (although I haven't looked) that there would be a bazillion quotes on the internet saying as much. But as someone who has been married 14.5 years (mere minutes to some long-lasting marriages and eons to brief marriages), I can attest that marriage requires work. A lot of work. On the part of both spouses. But this morning (when I was running, of course), I thought about why some marriages work and others don't. I'm no therapist, so I can't really tell you why some marriages fail while others succeed, but when I think about my own marriage, part of the reason it thrives is because of the support system I have. It's not just Tim, it's everyone that surrounds us. My parents. His pa

I cannot tell you how important communication is. Then why write this, right? Because with an introductory sentence like that, aren't I really going to launch into trying to talk about the importance of communication? Why yes, yes, I am. And I know that most of you know that communication is important. But even though we all know how important it is, does that mean that we communicate effectively? Do people know what I am trying to say? (I'd like to think that my readership does know what I'm trying to say and that even if it takes me 1500 words to say something, I eventually comunicate effectively. Feel free to tell me otherwise.) But here's why communication is important: Exhibit 1: You tell your daughters to come home after school. They say they will. Then, after school, they run into a friend of theirs who says that the plan for them isn't to go home after school, it is to go to the library. If you've communicated effectively in the morning to your da

My friend posted this fact yesterday, but because I'm somewhat behind the times these days, I do things a day later than I should. And while I have plenty of snarky comments and other things to say, those will have to wait. I'd rather start off the week with a small, but interesting, fact. Every day this week (starting with yesterday), can be read the same forward or backward: 4/13/14 4/14/14 4/15/14 4/16/14 4/17/14 4/18/14 4/19/14 Of course, this isn't one of those things that never happens. But in the past, I didn't remember to mention it to the kids. I'm sure Aaron, especially, will love the idea.

Yesterday, out in the yard, Tim said, "When you get your book advance, we can hire a full-time landscaper." Now, a book advance certainly won't cover a full-time landscaper, but I wasn't worried about that. Despite the fact that my husband doesn't read what I write (except for my synopses, which he has been helpful in shaping), I get the feeling he just might believe that I can do it. That's quite a feeling.

Science has never drummed up quite as effective a tranquilizing agent as a sunny spring day. ~W. Earl Hall (I thought, after the last post, that we needed to find a topic not quite so negative.)

Dear Moms of Cute Kids : I didn't see you yesterday, but I thought of you. You, with your pearl earrings and sparkling wedding rings. You could be like me, with striped hair and Goodwill jeans, or like some of my friends, who scrape the bottom of the barrel at the end of the month. Or you could be like some of my other friends, refined and well-off. Whatever your situation, I'll still say hello to you because I know you. You're a nice person, a giving community member, and a good role model, as far as I can tell. You have a Smartphone and mostly-straight teeth and fine skin. In fact, I've often wondered how your face can be so youthful still, after kids, and marriage, and years of sun and winter wind. Not a fine line or wrinkle to be found. And I realized it's because you have nothing to worry about--at all. You are the mother of a Cute Kid . The sort that gets away with anything and everything because, after all, the kid is cute. The kid has a cute button no

I had the pleasure recently of attending a writer's conference at which Annie Bomke spoke. Crap. That sentence sounds very familiar, doesn't it? Gosh, I need some coffee. Or a drink. Or a swift kick in the bum. Anyway, as with the subject of my last close encounters post , you might not know who Annie Bomke is, and again, I won't fault you. But I will give you a few guesses. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Are you done yet? If you guessed that Annie Bomke is part of the writing world, I would say you get to take home a small prize. What might it be? Who knows. If you guessed that Annie is a literary agent, I would say that you get to take home an even bigger prize, if I had a bigger prize to give you. Unless you clicked on the link above, in which case I'd say that you cheated. Anyway, Annie Bomke is the owner of Annie Bomke Literary Agency , and one of the agents who revealed all to a large group of wanna-be writers at that recent conference. I learned about

I'm taking a brand new writing class this month. One of the topics we covered on Monday night was the difference between a protagonist and an antagonist. Come on, you say. Don't you already know the difference? Shouldn't you know the difference, if you claim to be a writer? Well, yes and no. Most of us know what those terms mean. Protagonist = the main character of the story, the one involved in the conflict. Antagonist = the character who opposes the protagonist. But here's the thing. Knowing the definitions of the terms is different from being able to identify who the protagonist and antagonist are, which is also different from being able to clearly write an unforgettable protagonist and antagonist. "A good antagonist," the teacher said, "will try to block the actions of the protagonist. So in The Wizard of Oz , the Wicked Witch tried to block Dorothy from getting home with many actions, including the flying monkeys." I nodded my head as I

As you navigate through the rest of your life, be open to collaboration. Other people and other people's ideas are often better than your own. Find a group of people who challenge and inspire you, spend a lot of time with them, and it will change your life. Amy Poehler As you navigate through the rest of your life, be open to collaboration. Other people and other people's ideas are often better than your own. Find a group of people who challenge and inspire you, spend a lot of time with them, and it will change your life. Amy Poehler Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/keywords/inspire.html#vzxmkV4wSB8EtpVm.99

I had the pleasure recently of attending a writer's conference at which Brian Klems spoke. If you don't know who Brian Klems is, I won't fault you, but go get your Writer's Digest on, or check out his blog . He's funny. He's approachable. He's a writer. And his daughter and I have the same bathrobe . (I kid you not. Tara, don't look at it. Your eyes will burn. And I want to keep my bathrobe, thank you.) Anyway, as I sat through his session (I make that sound like it was painful to listen to him, which, by the way, it was not. Quite the opposite, in fact.), I realized that if nothing else that day went well, I would come away from a writing conference with something valuable: ENTHUSIASM. You see, we just dug out of a very cold winter and have, so far, been experiencing the lovely (not so much) spring rain that naturally comes with the month of April. I was tired of the cold, and I'm already tired of the rain. Especially the cold rain. (Hmm. I

Sometimes, I imagine how conversations will go in our house. This is one of them. Me: Girls, come here. I want to talk to you. Them: Okay. Me: You're bright kids, you know that, right? Them: Well, yes. Me: And not that being bright is everything. It's really about working hard, and learning, and doing the right thing. Them: Yeah, we know. Me: And some things, you're going to need to really work hard on them in order to do well in them. Them: Yeah, we know. Me: And we also do some things better than others, and other people do some things better than us, right? Them: Yeah, we know. Like Daddy can do math better than you can. Me: Yes, that's right. But I worked very hard at learning my math, and now, I'm still pretty good at helping you. Them: So Daddy can do math better than you can. Me: Yes. Them: But you can write better than Daddy. Me: Um, no. Actually, Daddy is a very good writer. Our writing is very different, but I probably don

I signed up for Twitter a while back. I wanted to stay more informed about the elementary school, plus, I thought I better try to immerse myself in other forms of social media if I want to be a writer. A real writer, one who has authored novels and such. But I remembered recently why I don't check Twitter that often. Here's why: Some people tweet often, meaning too often. I don't need to have my list clogged by mundane items of their lives. Don't you have writing or something else to do? Some people actually tout that they are the "most followed X" and therefore, I should listen to them. Um, no. The whole setup makes me realize that Twitter really is another "look at me, I'm so special, this is my life, and it's all about me." It's not all about you! It's about FRN. Get with the program. I'll be there on Twitter, but not that often.

Yesterday, Melina asked if we still had her Hello Kitty rain boots. I was pretty sure we'd given them away because, if I remembered correctly, they were a size 10 and her foot is a size 12. But I said we'd check. Sure enough, the boots were nowhere to be found. Melina sniffled a little, and asked if we might get a new pair someday, to which I replied, "Maybe." "Okay, mommy," Melina said. "Will you help me print something, then?" "Sure. What do you need?" "I need a picture of some Hello Kitty rain boots." So we sat down at the computer and Melina quickly found exactly the picture she wanted. "Can you print this, please?" she said. I printed two copies and went into the kitchen to check on my pizza dough. In the dining room, I could hear the scissors at work. Melina cut out the boots and proudly came to ask me for help in making tape loops (when you cut off a piece of tape and fold it over on itself so

I have this one, tiny, white-blond hair sticking out of my upper lip. It's on the right side of my face, just above the corner of my mouth. It's been bothering me for days, no weeks, but because it's so light in color, it's very difficult to find. Unless you're in the right light. Or smack up against the mirror with a flashlight at just the right angle and you have your tongue pushing out your upper lip from within your mouth. (You can tell I've tried, quite earnestly, to get this sucker, can't you?) So today, even though good light is hard to find, I said to myself, I'm going in and it's going down. I cannot stand to pick at this hair anymore . And with a good pair of tweezers in hand, I lined myself up in front of the mirror, ready to wrestle. However, it was a vain attempt to get that son-of-a-gun. I stood there, for minutes I tell you, grasping the hair and then letting go of it. And repeating those same actions, again and again. It got to be

This post has been a long time coming. I'm not sure why, except that I think I don't know how to articulate exactly what I'd like to say on this subject, and so even though I want to talk about it, the post sits in the draft folder. Plus, I've been hesitant to write about it because really, who wants to write about something that they can't find words for? (I'm going to leave the preposition where it is.) However, just yesterday, the term I'm going to write about came up, again, and I had to let the words flow. What term? The word poor . As in, Please give to the poor . Or, I'm so poor I had to live off of food stamps for a while . Or (and this is where I get annoyed), When I was in graduate school, we were so poor we had to have a DIY wedding. I'm not disputing the fact that many people in their lives, me included, have had to watch their pennies. With four kids, a mortgage, a home equity loan, and the fact that we aren't independently weal

Dear Man in the White Escalade: In case you don't remember, I'm the lady you saw this morning at the corner of R Road and C Drive, sometime just after nine o'clock this morning. At that point, you came barreling down our quiet residential road, at a speed I'm willing to bet was higher than the posted 25 mph. I saw you out of the corner of my eye, as I approached that particular corner. I wondered if you would give me the right of way, considering you had a yield sign and I did not. I glanced again to my left and realized that you were traveling far too quickly to yield, and yet, I had no intention of letting you go forth. Hence, we both had to apply our brakes and thankfully, we both stopped. You looked at me and I looked at you. My window was up, but I pointed to the yield sign you so easily dismissed and mouthed, "You have a yield." Twice, I pointed. Twice you looked at me. And instead of a shrug of apology or a gesture with your hands admitting you wer