Knock, Knock...

Who's there?

Bad blogger.

Bad blogger, who?

Bad blogger...me! Goodness! It's been awhile since I blogged on here! Forgive me?

No? Ok, I'll accept that. But maybe if I tell you what I've been up to you might understand.

I've been writing. A lot. Unfortunately at this point in my career no one cares. I can prattle on about the novel that I finished and am now submitting to try and get an agent. If you have done this, you know what I'm going through and my talking about it won't enhance your life at all. You know that it has nothing to do with the writing (although it feels like it) and you know that I simply need to be patient and persistent until I find someone who has enough of a connection with my work to want to champion it. Maybe not this project, but maybe they will connect with the next one.

 If you haven't  been through this I can explain it, but I lack credibility. I don't actually have an agent yet, haven't sold a book yet- you will point out to yourself- the novel  must suck because if it didn't, it would have been scooped up by now.

It doesn't suck, ok?

It doesn't.

And the one I am halfway through rewriting doesn't suck either.

And the one that is written but waiting to be rewritten doesn't suck.

And the one I have outlined and character sketches for won't suck when I write it. Well, it will then I'll fix it up to non-sucky. I will. I've trunk filed novels for being sucky. Sometimes I start a column from scratch hours before it is due because what I wrote the first time did suck. I didn't take a freelance assignment because the samples I wrote to see if I could do it sucked. I think I know when I suck.

For the last couple of months I have taken the advice of others and have reformatted my life so that I am sitting and writing for at least six hours a day. Writing and reading and researching and rewriting and learning as much as I can from that seat. (And standing up and stretching every hour or so because I know how painful a wacked-out pelvis or back can be.)

I love it.

I hate it.

It's easy except when it's excruciatingly difficult.

It's what I want to do, what I have wanted to do and I am sitting my ass in a chair and doing it (with limited external reward, I might add).

Which totally sucks.

But hey, that's the ride I got on, pulled down the safety bar and it's pulled away from the launch pad. I have to try, I'll always regret it if I don't and I might be rewarded if I do.

Meanwhile, upstairs...

A couple months ago my husband got reorganized out of a job. For the same six hours that I am yabba-dabba-dooing at my desk, he is working his business at his. Networking, visiting company websites creating profiles and applying for as many positions as possible. He has a nice career as a Customer Service and HR Manager to fuel him, a very impressive work history, an inimitable work ethic and more common sense smarts than any other person I have ever met.

What he doesn't have is a degree. And that is where he often gets spit out in the application process. See, when he ran out of money while going to college, he took a break to earn it...and landed with a company that offered him one job after another that he loved. He never went back to college. When the graduating class that he should have been with were pomp and circumstancing, he was managing a staff of college grads across a couple time zones and several states for a multinational company.

While his classmates were working through entry level management jobs, he was being promoted to a hard-earned Director level position.

It's not our first time doing the Restructure Lay-off Boogie. That great company had to do it back in the mid '90's. The company he landed at here in Kansas City had to do it again six years later. He restructured himself out a  position 10 years after that, and this one? He was there for less than two years before we heard the same line.

He doesn't suck, ok?

He doesn't. Although he is sitting at his desk with limited external rewards feeling like he does- he knows it's a matter of time. He knows that he has to be patient and persistent and work at it to find that job that he wants and can do better than anyone.

Maybe it won't be the job he hears about today.

And maybe not the job he hears about tomorrow.

But he'll get there.

And so will I.

Somehow.

The Orange Story

Last week in my Kansas City Star column I wrote about a short story that was intended to cheer up a friend, but also helped me ignore that I had the flu and helped me to stop whining about it (if only for a little bit). In the column I had posted a small portion of the story, but here it is in its entirety. It really was a facebook conversation, and yes, I did plump it up a bit and made it more of a short story than it had originally been. Several people- including some Star readers which really tickled me to bits!- have asked to read it, so here it is. All the names have been changed, the characters really aren't even close to what my friend is like and she never did tell me the details about her strange date.

Enjoy!

I opened the door and there was Clark. I had expected odd- I did know the man and had been discouraging such an evening for months. But I hadn’t expected this level of extraordinarily odd.

He was dressed from head-to-toe in orange. Hat to shoes. I’m not sure where he found an orange belt, I never got the nerve to ask. He looked like an OOmpah Loompah in a fun house mirror – the natural odd shape becoming a normal man shape. But that was Clark- even what appeared normal was not.

“Didn’t I tell you to wear orange?” he asked looking convincingly shocked. “I thought I made it clear,” his expression changing to sad.

“I’m sorry, Clark. I thought you were kidding with all the ‘orange you going to wear yellow and red together’ comments.”

His faced changed again to a look of hopefulness as handing me a bouquet of orange carnations. I really hate carnations. Ok, I’m snobby but they are a cheap flower and only get their color from dye so they are fake and cheap.

“Thank you, I’ll just get these in water and we can get going.” I reluctantly let him into the foyer as I hurried to the kitchen feverishly texting my friend Tammi:

 TEXT ME AN EMERGENCY IN AN HOUR DO NOT ASK QUESTIONS JUST DO IT

When I came back into the living room Clark was sniffing my bookcase. Not the books – the wood, well, the composite wood. As I put the fake flowers on the fake wood I accepted not only that I was a hypocrite, but that I had to go through this date- if only for an hour. He was nice enough, right?

Clark was looking rather squiffy as he took one more hit off the top shelf and turned to face me. “Do you have an orange sweater or something Maybe a shrug?”

“Clark, no one…I mean I look horrible in orange. I don’t have anything. Why is this so important?”

“Orange is the color of joy and friendship in Lithuania,” he sure sounded convincing. “We would match and have a great inside joke forever if we were both wearing orange. Then, on our honeymoon, we could go to Lithuania. Only then we would wear green because that is the color of love.” He paused and made a face that probably was supposed to make him look sexy, only it really made him look pained. “Or puce which is the color of fertility.”

I should have made up something right then and there, or told him the truth: I wasn’t interested in him and only agreed to this date to show him how incompatible we really are- but I didn’t. Instead I grabbed my blue coat- hoping that it wasn’t the color for Ravish Me and lead him out the door.

Little did I know that this was the least strange thing that would happen that evening.

                                                                        #

“I haven’t seen one of these in years,” I told him as he opened the door to the old white car with wood-esque paneling on the exterior, “I thought they all died out.”

He began to sing, “Chevy Chevette it will drive you happy…” and silenced himself as he closed me into his car, seeming to whistle as he rounded the hood. Strapping myself in, I glanced in the back seat and took a big sniff.

“What is that smell, it’s so familiar.” I asked as he whistled himself behind the wheel.

“Lavender and vanilla. I mix the potpourri myself, grew the lavender, too. Is it too much? I just put a new sachet in the backseat yesterday.”

“No, it’s nice. And this car is so clean, did you have it detailed, too?” I wondered how out of his way he had gone for this date that was only going to last one hour. One hour, Nikki, ONE HOUR, I told myself.

“Oh, no. I keep Chelly in mint condition. I love her and she loves me back. Lovin’ each other since 1981.” He caressed the dash.

Dear God, he named his car. I have a theory about guys who name their cars and it isn’t a good one. Tammi could not text me fast enough.

“Where are we headed, or did I miss that in our conversation, too?” I asked as he checked his rearview from all angles times and finally pulled out into the deserted street.

“No, I didn’t say. It’s a surprise, you’ll love it.” He pushed an 8-track into the player, “I hope you like ELO,” he said as he started to sing along with the music, looking over at me and karaoke-ing from the driver seat.

“The visions dancing in my mind, the early dawn the shades of time…”

“I have never heard this song in my life,” I told him.

“Really? ELO? Twilight?”

“Nope. “ I answered as he turned down one side street after another. I had lived in this town for ten years and he had me lost in less than two minutes.

“Where were you in 1981?” He asked it like it was a very important question, like what religion I am or if I ate meat.

“Middle school.”

“Ahh,” he nodded and sang along with the chorus. I stared at him waiting for him to finish.

“Ahh?” I finally asked.

“Ahh, Chelly. She wasn’t there with us,” he leaned in and spoke into the steering wheel. Names his car and talks to her…er, it. I glanced at the clock on the dash. 45 minutes until Tammi got me out of this.

He continued to sing along with ELO for two more, stopping only to ask me random questions:

What my first concert? (Corey Hart, but I lied and told him Cyndi Lauper which was a close second, sorta)

What would have been the major I would have least chosen in college? (Engineering. I suck at math.)

What color is my bathroom? (Purple, but I told him it was none of his business. Which it isn’t.)

Finally he pulled behind a strip mall that I thought I recognized and parked the car in a lot that was surprisingly full.

“Where are we? This isn’t a strip club or something is it?” I grabbed my purse tightly.

“No, of course not. I don’t just talk the talk at church, you know.” He looked hurt.

“I’m sorry. Where are we?”

He hopped out of the car, indicating with his finger to wait a moment, “All will be revealed. You’ll love it.”

“It’s not some weirdo hookah lounge is it?”

“Hush. I won’t spoil the surprise,” he answered as he closed his door and ran, no, he skipped- as he skipped around to open my door and help me out. With a flourish he bowed and offered his arm, which I reluctantly took because I figured if this was some sort of trap I could use him as a shield.

We walked to a door that was blackened from the inside and he pulled it open. The wave of warm air that washed over me smelled like exotic spices, soft jazz played in the background.

“After you,” he bowed again. I wished he would stop with the stupid bowing.

I took a few hesitant steps in, letting my eyes adjust to the low light.

A voice from beside me asked, “Hello, do you have a reservation?” I turned and saw a middle aged woman wearing a white peasant blouse and black slacks.

“Several,” I said.

“Kenneth, Clark Kenneth.” Came the answer from behind me.

“CLARK!” And then something that sounded like, “Labas vakaras!” I spun to see a round and tall man barreling our way. I stepped out of his line of fire and behind Clark.

“Mike!” And then something that sounded like “Labas! Malonu tave matyti!” The two hugged. But not Bro-hugs of the guys I know, and not romantic hugs, either- but hugs of two people who have been through a lot and love each other because of it.

I’m sort of an expert on hugs. Don’t judge.

“Who is this lovely woman?” The man asked. His voice had some sort of accent that I couldn’t place, maybe Eastern European, maybe Greek?

Clark put his hand on the small of my back and pushed me forward, “This is Nikki. Nikki I would like you to meet my good friend, Mykolas, he is the owner of this place- Little Lithuania!”

The very large man with a grey handlebar moustache stuck out his beefy hand, “Call me Mike, everyone does. Welcome.”

He turned to talk to the women who had greeted us only it was more rapid fire words in a language that I didn’t understand. Clark leaned in, “He’s getting us the best table.”

“How do you know him, this place?”

Clark winked, “Oh, I get around.”

Mike smiled big at us, “Follow Rasa, she will take good care of you. I must go put a fire out in the kitchen.” he smiled and continued with his heavy accent, “Not real fire.” And then he laughed a laugh as big as he was as he walked away.

The restaurant was nicer than I would have imagined based on the location. Yes, ok, I’m a snob. There I said it, are you happy? Tastefully decorated in what I could best describe as Scandanavian modern- polished woods with complex grains, sleek lines and a lot of white- lighting, tablecloths, candles, walls, artwork- it was very pretty. Rasa seated us on a dais that held three small, square tables. The table was set with three square vases that held tight bunches of orange carnations. I made a mental note to do this with the ones that Clark had brought.

Clark held my chair for me, then settled into his own across the table.

“Rasa, might we have two Svyturys?” Rasa nodded and headed off towards the large bar on the far side of the restaurant. “I hope you like beer, this one is my favorite.”

“I do. Hey, Clark, orange carnations. They must want us to be joyful and friendly,” I said as I put my linen napkin in my lap and settled my cellphone next to the water glass.

Clark’s smile faded.

“What? Isn’t that what you told me?”

“Yes,” he lowered his head, “but I made it up. I knew they put orange on the tables on Saturdays and I wanted you to match. I thought it would be a nice surprise for Mike.”

I figured that wasn't as odd as anything else he had done tonight so I let it pass. Besides, I was waiting for a fake emergency text. I may be a snob, but I had already learned that night not to be a hypocrite.

Rasa brought our beers, while Clark told me about the heritage of beer brewing in Lithuania, and some other things about the country.

“Are you Lithuanian?” I finally asked him.

“Oh, no, I’m a mutt. But I have been there, it is a beautiful country. I met Mike there, helped him come here and open this place. He loves America and Rasa is his wife that he met once he came here- they have three kids- natural US citizens. He loves it here- but he loves his homeland, too.”

As he prattled on about the places he had been on his several trips, my phone buzzed with a text from Tammi:

Where R U? Emergency.

 I picked it up and made a decision as Clark stopped talking and gave me a saddened and worried look.

I held up a pointer finger, “It’s nothing, just let me tell her I’m busy.”

Little Lithuania. No help.

I quickly typed and put my phone back into my purse. At that point I figured that one meal, one evening with Clark wasn’t going to kill me. I might get a decent dinner out of it, learn something and then at the end I could tell him we had no sparks. Clark was a nice guy, a little odd but he had a big heart. Maybe going out with me would give him the confidence to ask other women out.

Over the course of the next hour, I would drink another beer, discover that pink borscht isn’t as Pepto tasting as it looks. I learned about Gira -a surprisingly refreshing drink that hides a little wallop of alcohol-is made from rye bread, and that my new favorite food is Bulviniai blynai- basically a potato pancake with a name that despite all the liquor, I couldn’t pronounce. It was a dinner full of dark bread, potatoes, mushrooms and cheeses…and it was amazing. I tried not to think about how many miles I would have to run to work it off.

Near the end of our dinner, a band set up at the rear of the small dance floor. The tables closest were moved back, and the wait staff reconfigured that part of the dining area to create more dance space. Two women took out and tuned violins, or maybe they were fiddles. One man strapped on a small accordion, one set a table of percussion instruments and the final member uncased his bass fiddle. The jazz that had been playing through dinner was turned off as the band began with what Clark told me are traditional folk songs.

“But they can play anything, I’m sure as soon as things get hopping in here, we’ll hear Free Bird.” He told me sipping his coffee.

“Are you making that up, too?” I asked.

He blushed, “No, they will.” He turned toward the kitchen and the smile returned to his face. “Here comes part of the show!”

Three waiters came out of the kitchen carrying trays that held cakes that looked like pine trees covered in snow. Everyone in the restaurant turned to watch the spectacle and applauded when they were placed on a long table near the band. Following them out of the kitchen were several more wait staff and Mike carrying trays of pastries.

“What is that?” I asked.

“Lithuanian tree cake. It’s a tradition, usually at weddings, but the cake is hollow and made on a spit in the oven. Layer by layer the batter is dripped over and cooked. It takes hours and Mike serves them every Saturday night on the dessert bar. He says it’s a good way to get people out of their seats and onto the dance floor.”

As I was admiring the dessert spread, a burst of activity by the hostess stand caught my eye.

Tammi.

She spotted me, pushed Rasa aside and ran over.

“Are you okay?” She asked as she got to our table, eyeing Clark suspiciously.

“What are you doing here?” I asked. Tammi looked really scared, but ready for a fight. Which is one of the things I love most about her- she’s scrappy and tough, and really a loyal friend.

Clark stood up, “Hi?”

Tammi cocked an eye at me, “Who is this? Didn't you get my texts?”

“I did. I answered you,” I didn't want to have to say anymore out loud and hurt Clark’s feelings, “I’m fine. There isn’t anything I needed.”

Tammi was having none of it.

“You said. Help.”

“I said ‘no help.’” I corrected her. I wanted to whisper but the music was too loud, she never would have heard me.

Tammi dug her phone out, “No, you said to make an emergency and then I did and you told me where you were- which, hello? I have never been here or even heard of it before and it was hard to find although it’s kinda cool- then you said…” she scrolled through her texts and read aloud, “Little Lithuania. No help. Shit.”

“Shit.” I agreed.

“I’m so sorry!” She dropped her fighting face, “I guess I didn't read it right.” Then she stuck her hand out towards Clark, “Hi. I’m Tammi. I thought I was saving Nikki from a bad date, but instead I am totally embarrassed.”

The other thing about Tammi? No filter.

Clark shook her hand then dragged an empty chair to the table and smooshed it on a corner, “Well, you are here now. Sit down, the fun is about to start.”

I just looked at him, “That’s it? I’m so sorry Clark…” I began but he put his hand up.

“It’s okay. You are not the first woman to fake an emergency to get out of a date with me. I know you didn’t want to come and I realized about three minutes in at your house that this wasn't going to be romance for us, but I thought it would be fun. And it has been. If I spend the rest of my evening with two beautiful women eating pastries and dancing then I will consider my evening a success.”

“Hey!” Said Tammi pointing back and forth between her and Clark. “We match! And we match the flowers on the table. I put this dress on- even though I know that Nikki says no one looks good in orange because it makes me happy. Joyful. It makes me feel like dancing! What is this music? I love it!”

In that moment I realized three things.

One: Some people do look good in orange.

Two: I judge people based on the most ridiculous, superficial reasons. That night I learned not to.

Three: That someday I would be standing here, giving quite possible the longest wedding toast in the history of Maid of Honors and toasting the two most wonderful and amazing people that I have had the pleasure to love and who love me back.

To Clark and Tammi- God bless your marriage, all of us here today wish you many long years!  Buk sveika!

A Very Peculiar Birthday Party

There are two kinds of people in this world: the ones who think all birthdays should be celebrated, and those who ignore  birthdays.

The former get a flash of childhood glee as they approach the anniversary of their own birth. They countdown to the day, awake excited to greet a new year.

The other might enjoy some birthday attention but if no one remembered that would be okay, too. They think that birthday celebrations are for children or perhaps an occasional, milestone party would be ok but keep it low-key.

The former are walking around in a cloud of party glitter on their birthdays; the latter are walking around pretty much the way they always do.

I am a former.

My husband is a latter.

Several years ago I decided that I had reached a point in life when waiting for people (my husband) to throw me a birthday party simply wasn't the right strategy. The family members who were picking up the celebratory slack needed to be given a reprieve. It was time for me to take charge.

So I threw my own party. Well, sort of. I planned a meetup of members of a local message board on the weekend of my birthday.

And it was awesome.

To be fair, "threw" is a bit of an exaggeration. Everyone picked up their own tab at a restaurant that was kind enough to let us hang out there for several hours.

It was so much fun, we did it again the next year and it sort of became a thing- Susan's Birthday Party Lunch.

But we missed a year, last year I was visiting my family in Connecticut. I got to spend it with the guy who followed me out the door- so to speak- my twin brother, and my parents. I did things that I had never imagined doing. It was a very, special birthday.

I got to give myself a double chin on the ferry to Martha's Vineyard in late  January

I got to shovel the snow off the decks of my parent's boat

And I got to blow out my candle on a shared cake. We hadn't done that since we were kids.

This year, for this milestone birthday, I want to have a day that exemplifies how I feel about turning 50. I want to share the feeling that my collective body of life experiences and attitude earned is something to be celebrated.

 I want a day that shows how I feel: perfectly seasoned, not aged; wise not weak; fresh and sassy not stale.

I have been thinking about what this year means and how best to celebrate it for a long time. I want to stage dive into 50.  I want to slap on a  Hello, I'm Having a Mid-Life Crisis name tag  as an excuse to get away with some particularly hair-brained schemes. But mostly I want my friends to get rid of the over-the-hill, washed-up, too-old-for-that-mentality and join me if only for an hour.

Because if you want to stage dive, you should. And when you do stage dive, someone has to be there to catch you. That's what makes the leap worthwhile.

So my inner control-freak is taking charge.  I'm planning a day where I can go to the places in my city that I have always wanted to, but lacked time. I want to look into the eyes of people that I don't see nearly enough and those whose face I have never set eyes on but have longed to. I want memories with the people I care about- that's the best birthday gift I can imagine.

On that day, I will travel North, South, East and West in our city. I'm a little fuzzy on the details, but if you are in Kansas City on my birthday, I will be near you. And if you are reading this, I want to meet you.

It's a little weird, divaish and peculiar to plan your own birthday party- but I like to think that I am a little weird, divaish and peculiar so I suppose it's very fitting.

You who has made it this far in this highly self-indulgent post, are most cordially invited to share the day with me- Susan's Peculiar Mid-life Diva Stage Dive Tour

RSVP in the comments, or send me a private message via facebook, twitter or G+.


 If you don't know my birthday, I'll give you a hint: my mother got a 2 'fer1 when she gave birth to twins. Yes, it's a school day, but the schedule goes early and late. And, because my husband may be out of work by then, I'm afraid we have to go dutch. I know, peculiar. 

PS: Not posting any RSVP comments for this post to keep your participation choice private- so feel free to not use your public voice. 

Joseph on the Shelf

When we hauled the Christmas decor upstairs, Joseph lost his head.

Again.

For several years, part of our holiday traditions include re-gluing Joseph's head back on. My brother gave us this manger scene the first year that we were married, and it has had a place of honor every year since. The scene depicted is, after all, what our family holiday centers around.

But, like Mary and Joseph, we had some kids. And like all but one of theirs, our kids are not perfect. One of ours knocked Joseph to the ground and he lost his head. My first line of repair is always the hot glue gun. It seemed to work for this project,too.

Every time. Enter that tradition.

But this year, now almost two weeks since the arrival of Joseph to the living room, I was a little slow on the repair. The fact that it didn't horrify the kids was my chief excuse.

"I see Joseph still has no head," they would say. It was as if they thought, "Don't all manger scenes depict a headless patriarch?"

But I should fix it.

Yesterday I hauled the glue gun upstairs (yes, it's soooo heavy). Then I located ammo sticks.

And that's as far as I got in the process that day.

Today I passed by Joseph and grabbed his head with the full intention of reuniting it with his body. But then I thought about the Elf on the Shelf (EOTS).

I can't say anything that hasn't already been said about this Elf creature. If he's your thing, I'm sure it's a very charming family tradition. Much sweeter than my headless Nazarene.

I'm not a fan. It seems like more work than I want to add to my plate at this time of year. If I have to make excuses for the Tooth Fairy not arriving, then I'm pretty sure I won't be able to keep up with EOTS.  And  I have  used so many excuses for why the Tooth Fairy didn't come through, that I created a TOS for her several years ago.


Tooth Fairy Terms Of Service:

You must notify a parent when a tooth falls out. A parent MUST call the Tooth Fairy Hotline (TFH) and set an appointment. The secret number of the TFH is only given when an adult becomes a parent, a ndif the number is given to a child, all services to that household will cease. If a scheduling call is made past normal office hours, the Tooth Fairy MAY choose to postpone the visit by a night; if the child attempts to trick the Tooth Fairy in any way, she will also postpone for an additional day. If the child complains, the parent may call to postpone another day. The Tooth Fairy is a very busy woman, works by appointment only, and sometimes misses appointments due to unforeseen emergencies, or inclement weather in other parts of the world.  If this occurs, a representative of the TFH may call a parent after the child is asleep and reschedule.

ACCEPT
DECLINE
THERE IS NO BUT




Inspired by several PinterUberBloggingBSMoms overly saccharine EOTS posts- I decided to let Joseph play Elf on the Shelf. I figured that if the elf could narc on kids to Santa, Joseph certainly had a direct line to Jesus.

Am I right?

At first I thought it might be offensive- this is, afterall, a statuette of the human father of Jesus. But then I figured it was just a statuette. If someone worships a statuette I think that falls under worshipping false idols and God would have more issue with them, leaving me free to scoot around that person, and badda bing- heaven.

Besides, if you think that this Anglo inspired fella looks anything like the real Joseph, you might need some geography and history lessons.

File Joseph's Head on a Shelf under: That's Not Creepy At All.

Right next to Elf on the Shelf.

He seas you.

Actually ON a shelf

This probably smells a lot better than the stable

Cheese Head or Head Cheese- you pick

Suh-WEEET!

 

I seriously might keep this here

This would totally freak out my husband

Sweet dreams, Joseph

Picking A Side: Black Friday Shopping

This is not a shocking revelation. It's not a thought unique to me, I'm simply picking a side to stand on.

I've been debating Black Friday shopping in my head the last couple of days. I've read cute posts on facebook and twitter about waiting in line and the comradery of being with loved ones and friends. I've seen the sales ads with the great deals, and yes, if you can score one of those limited quantities, and it's something that is on your list and in your budget- that would be something. The thrill of the hunt and all.

I've seen the pictures, the video of the worst of the mayhem. I can only assume that most scenarios aren't quite that greedily horrific, most shopping experiences don't have the level of ugly consumerism that are in those images. They can't can they?

But the potential is there.

While I won't piss on anyone's fun- everyone has their things and if Black Friday shopping is one of yours- you go for it! Have fun! Enjoy! Share the cost of all your hard won deals and get all your Christmas shopping done before I even finish off the pumpkin pie from Thanksgiving.

Score those discounted items and have that special time with your people! That really would be the only appeal for me because, honestly, I don't think I have the stomach for it.  The worry and wonder alone of possibly having to witness one of those worst case scenarios would suck any joy out of  the outing.

Like I said, it's not shocking or earth shattering or even all that important...but Black Friday shopping is not my thing. I spent the day helping my kids clean out closets and toy chests full of their own former materialistic dreams.

I also ate pumpkin pie.

Part of my planting...

As part of my planting season, as in the past couple of years, during November I am participating in NaNoWriMo.

Oh great, another wanna be novelist talking about how awesome NaNoWriMo is...

Sorta.

But not really.

I firmly believe that the best way to grow is to push yourself. See what you are made of. Challenge yourself as you have never challenged yourself before. Do this in WHATEVER your thing is and you will learn a lot about YOUR THING, but also heaps about YOURSELF.

(I'll stop yelling now.)

Last year I finished NaNo in 19 days. I loved my story. I loved it so much that I went back and started to rewrite it...then I found another story that I loved, so I wrote that. And I loved that so much that I started NaNo.

Yeah, so logical. I know.

Today, Day 7 of the NaNo challenge to write a 50K novel in 30 days, I hit word number 25K.

Week one, half done.

But being ahead of my pace isn't all that I am challenging myself  with this NaNo. I also am collaborating on  the story with my 16 year-old daughter. Her 16K and my 50K is a nice sized story, and we thought that it would be fun to take the solitary activity of writing and make a parent/kids activity out of it.

Our novel is a mother-daughter tale about life, loss, love, and learning to accept, embrace and polish what you are given into a unique and wonderfully gleaming gem of a life.

It's also a love story about mothers and daughters...and there is a mermaid, because both my daughter and I kinda love mermaids.

It might suck in the end, but I don't think it does. My gut tells me otherwise.

See, one of the lessons that I have learned since doing my first NaNo was HOW to listen to my gut. And, I don't know if this is universal, but when my gut talks, it's actually IN MY GUT. It's this weird glowy feeling warming up my belly and radiating to my heart.

Once this challenge is complete, then I will leap with joy into the next challenge unlike last year.

I am going to stop writing novels.

Well, I'm going to stop STARTING them and stopping before they are rewritten. I'm going to accept, embrace and polish them. I'm going to listen to my gut and not start another until the two that I have done this year- and the one that I did last year -are polished bright and shiny into unique and wonderfully gleaming gems.

A lot of bloggers post chapters or excerpts from their NaNo's- but I'm not one of them. I'm not comfortable doing that right now.

But I will share the goofy cover that my daughter and I made for this project.

I suck

I don't really think I suck. Not now, anyway. I have a fairly healthy level of self-worth that outweighs my level of self-loathing by a pretty high margin. But I suck at following through on my promise to this blog. Last post I promised that I would be,"back in a sec" and I'm only just doing that now. Gonna claim Mom Time (that abstract and highly subjective measurement system) on this.

So, where have I been? What's up with this epiphany I had? Here it is:

I made these stones years ago for my garden. Then my whole self-worth was tied to being a good mom- which is not a bad thing, but being a good mom isn't the only thing.

At the beginning of this year I was poised for change. The year previously had been full of exciting changes as I morphed from full-time SAHM to some pretty exciting roles. It was fun and I wanted more!

That year I began to write a weekly newspaper column and- most importantly- began to be paid for my writing which did a hell of a lot in justifying the time and energy I put into it. It also gave me a sense of validity and purpose.

And mail.

Have you ever gotten, oh this sounds pretentious- fan mail? I never did, why would I? OK, the " Worlds Greatest Mom" notes my kids have given me through the years are pretty much the most fabulous fan mail ever and very, very valuable.

But from strangers?To know that someone who has no reason to read what you write, hear what you say... to listen, is listening? It's heady. And flattering. And humbling.  And I hope that I never get used to it and take it for granted, but I also hope that I never let it be the only voice that tells me I'm doing a good job. I need to know that internally. But not excessively. That's a pretty fancy dance and I hope that I learn it with the grace an important dance like this requires.

But that wasn't the only change that year- I also began to co-host the podcast at the same time. Also life altering for the amount of work that it requires, and the people that I have met because of it- but the most amazing part for me was being asked to participate. I was a SAHM, a blogger- not a historian. But the prospect of the challenges and personal growth was overwhelming. I had to do it. Had to. Just like I had to have kids, and I had to marry the man that I did- I can't really explain it more than that.

2011 was a crazy busy and changing year and I was ready for it to continue into 2012. I was excited to see where life would take me and what windows of opportunity would allow me to leap through them. I was open for change and convinced that change would happen.

So, what happened?

Nothing. Changed

Nothing.

Standing at the open door and screaming, "Come on change! Show me my destiny!" did nothing.

(That was figurative, by the way.)

I worked editing one of the novels I had written the year before; I started a new one. I studied and wrote and wrote some more- but nothing changed. A couple things did cross my desk- one I tried and failed, one I decided wasn't worth the time that I would have had to devote to it and never leaped at it.

I felt like I was working hard and had nothing new to show for it. It was wheel-spinning at it's worst. I was frustrated. And disappointed. And really did feel like I sucked. My marriage suffered, some other personal relationships suffered- I didn't even want to be around me.

But then I had an epiphany when I stepped outside and saw those stones in my garden:

Not all years are meant for big, visable change. Some years you plant, and some years you harvest and both are of equal importance. Both create change.The harvesting years are more exciting, more visably rewarding for sure. You have something to show for the work.

But the planting years? No appreciative mail for planting, no visable ( or financial) reward for it either. But without it, you have nothing to harvest.

Nothing.

So I am still happily planting. Change will come. It may not be loud and flashy- it may just sneak up on me like it had always been there. I don't know. But until it does, I'm focusing on planting.