electric mist

a ghost story

Not long after we were first married, we bought a house from the elderly daughter of the woman who died there. The old (now dead) woman had been a friend of my husband's grandmother. The house was across the street from Granny and run-down and in desperate need of everything, but it was cheap and we could (sort of) afford it.

The previous owner had died in the master bedroom (and if you had seen the really large, really ugly, and I mean horribly ugly flowered wallpaper in that room, and learned she'd been bedridden there... well, I'm sure staring at those flowers would kill anyone.) When the daughter sold it to us, she was delighted that we were going to be having a baby soon because her mother had wanted to have many children and had not been able to and her one daughter hadn't been able to have any, either. It tickled the daughter that there would be children laughing there -- she thought her mother would have loved knowing that.

Immediately, odd things happened in the house, but I chalked it up to it being an old house. Things fell in the other room, things moved from room to room when I had been the only one home during the day, etc., but to tell you the truth, I didn't pay any attention to it. I assumed I'd forgotten where I put things or the things that had fallen had been set precariously and, you know, gravity works. There was no such thing as "ghosts" and I never even contemplated the concept.

After Luke was born, the frequency of odd things happening in the house increased, though I still didn't think too much of it. I did notice that when I'd walk into the living room, the rocking chair the owner had left for me... was rocking on its own. It did that fairly often. I moved it from spot to spot to spot, convinced there was something about the uneven old floors which was causing it to rock as I walked across the room. Nothing helped. It kept rocking.

Several times when Luke would wake up crying in the middle of the night (which he did often -- he suffered badly from colic) and I would stumble from exhaustion towards his room, he would stop crying suddenly and sort of sound happy. Every one of those times when I got to his door, I could have sworn Carl's grandmother was leaning over his crib, soothing him. Only Granny wasn't at our house, since it was usually two a.m. or somesuch, and I would blink and step toward the bed and no one was there and Luke would start crying again, and I was certain I was in an exhaustion-stupor and hallucinating or dreaming. And I probably was. That child didn't sleep for nine months, and I was completely worn out.

One day Luke was more fussy than usual and the only thing that hushed him was me holding him and walking with him, and I was so tired and he was so cranky, I was in tears. The rocking chair just kept rocking faster and faster and finally I turned to it and said, "Would you PLEASE STOP? You're making me a nervous wreck."

And the damned thing stopped. No kidding, just stopped rocking.

I felt my scalp go all tingly and my heart raced and I sort of froze there a moment. Luke hushed and looked toward the rocker and we stood a long time. Finally, he started fussing again and I went back to pacing in the same spot, keeping an eye on the rocker, sure that since I was pacing the rhythm of my movement would make the rocker start back up again, but it didn't.

I thought about all the times I'd seen the old woman and knew without being able to explain it that if there was someone there, she was trying to help but just didn't really know how. Without making a bit of rational sense, I turned back toward the rocker and apologized for shouting at her. I said, "You can rock now. I'm okay."

It started rocking. Slowly, easily, not abrupt and rough, but it rocked.

I saw her on several more occasions and things kept moving and more than one person thought they'd seen Granny in the other room when they visited even though she wasn't there at that specific time, but I never tried to explain. I was pretty certain if I said anything, people would assume I was not fit to take care of Luke, so I kept it to myself all those years. Carl occasionally saw something, too, but he never really thought about it, I think. Like me in the beginning, he assumed he was tired or that his walking across the floor had caused that thing to fall two rooms over or the chair to rock or whatever.

Years later, when Luke was six, we moved and I took the rocker with me. I have to admit, I really sort of hoped she would come with the rocker to our new house because I had gotten used to her silent presence, and honestly, I always felt like she was looking after the kids. Several times when Luke had been sick in the middle of the night with a fever and not making any noise, something fell in my room waking me up. (We didn't have pets inside at that time.) On more than one occasion, Luke was certain Granny had gone to see him in the middle of the night and of course when I asked her, she hadn't done that. (Granny could barely walk across the street and she was blind in one eye -- she wouldn't have tried to negotiate it in the middle of the night.)

I have to say I was kinda bummed when the rocker no longer rocked by itself at the next house (built very much like the first and from the same era, same kind of floors). But time moved on and I forgot all about it. Granny died and my sister-in-law moved into her old house and one day she commented about the family that had bought our old house.

They were abruptly moving out. The woman was convinced the house was haunted and not in a pleasant way. She was hysterical and upset and would not set foot back in that house. The next door neighbor said that she had heard the mother and father arguing visciously on more than one occasion and screaming at the kids, and apparently that's when the freakish ghost-type of things would happen. Things fell, something went flying at the dad one time with no one there to throw it when he was yelling at the kids and the mom just wanted out. They sold the house at a great loss just to get the hell out of there.

I laughed. My sister-in-law wondered out loud if I had ever had experience with a ghost there and I told her yeah, but she'd liked us.

When the next family moved in, (and I was told the family leaving said nothing about the ghost to them), they commented to my sister-in-law that the house was haunted, but they liked her. They had deduced it was an old woman (apparently several people have seen her like we had.) They had small children and seemed to be generally happy, and I felt relieved that our ghost had some new children to love. I hope that trend continues.

brilliant ideas

Every once-in-a-while, I surpass even myself with my brilliance, at which point the world really does stop on its axis and pay tribute. (What? You didn't get the memo?) Ahem.

One of the more clear and shining moments of this brilliance occurred right after I had given birth to my youngest son and the oldest, Luke, was almost four. The event in question was Halloween Trick-or-Treat, something I dreaded every year. I didn't so much mind the Treating (there was never any tricking from our household), nor did I so much mind the sugar high for the next couple of days, partially because I was busy filching the best of the chocolates anyway and barely noticed if I had to pull the child off the ceiling.

I dreaded the costume decision.

I had no idea a four-year-old could be as grumpy and bossy as an 80-year-old CEO, but he managed it, and became particularly difficult when having to decide upon a costume.

He was creative. His ideas changed daily. And given that we really had zero extra money for purchasing anything he might have wanted, it really boiled down to my non-sewing imagination to pull off something resembling whatever it was he wanted to be.

The year before, I had managed to con him into being a Karate guy (my brother teaches Karate, so it was easy), and he was quite pleased. I sensed from the daily ponderings that I was not going to have a nice repeat.

The entire time I was giving birth and then recuperating at home, Luke was plotting what he would be that year, and none of it sounded easy. I tried to convince him of several more "do-able" things (why don't kids want to be ghosts anymore? why? Cut two holes in a ratty white sheet and voila, done. But noooooooo.)

The day loomed, my post partem recuperation was inching along, thankfully Jake slept enough so that I wasn't entirely homicidal, and Luke still hadn't made up his mind. Then he decided the day before that he didn't want to go trick-or-treating. He wanted to stay home and give out the candy.

I knew there was no way in hell that kid was going to let me off that easily.

I kept suggesting other costume ideas that he might like... cowboy... a puppy (we had ears from a school costume)... a fisherman (hey, I was desperate and we had rods and tackle). Nada.

The day of trick-or-treat loomed, and we went to my mother-in-law's house to help her give out the candy. And about ten minutes before the actual trick-or-treating started, Luke was completely broken-hearted. He wanted to go. Of course, we had no costume and we weren't even at our house where I knew what resources we had to make something.

It was then that I had my most brilliant idea.

He could go as the Tin Man from the Wizard of Oz. I found a funnel and wrapped it in aluminum foil and then turned to Luke and started wrapping him.

Yes, I wrapped my child in aluminum foil.

I plead post partem hormones.

Once I had him wrapped, thoroughly (with Carl in the background trying to say ever-so-diplomatically that maybe that wasn't such a great idea, only to freeze immediately when I gave him the death glare because that kid was going to have a costume, by god, if I had to kill people to do it)(I may have not been feeling well)... and then we realized, as tightly as I had wrapped him... he couldn't walk.

Do you know how much fun it is to take a four-year-old trick-or-treating when he can't walk and can't move because every time he moved, the aluminum foil... tore. Yes, I was brilliant. I forgot how easily the damned foil ripped from the tube. So every time Luke bent, lifted a leg, anything, he ripped. And what did I do? Did I say to myself, "Self, maybe this isn't such a wonderful idea. Maybe if we'd have had silver spray paint and old clothes, that might have worked, but this? Not so much. Think of something else."

No. No I did not. I discovered that my mother-in-law had a couple of brand-spanking-new tubes of aluminum foil in her kitchen and I grabbed them and shoved Luke out of the front door, Carl followed carrying the baby, and I made him go up to every door and trick-or-treat. When he looked like he was going to start crying, I reminded him that the Tin Man rusted and he dried right up. Every time he came back with the candy, I wrapped and patched that damned aluminum foil (without taking the previous layer off) until Luke was this five-foot-square block of silver walking to the doors. Half of the people couldn't hear the "trick-or-treat" from the rustle of the aluminum foil.

At some point, Carl realized I was eyeing the last of the first tube and about to open the second one when he simply picked Luke up and started carrying him to the door. We maybe did a few more houses at that point and went home.

I thought it was quite successful. (Post partem delusions.)(That's my story and I'm sticking to it.)

To this day, Luke will not use aluminum foil for anything. He was here rummaging around in the cabinets looking for something to cover some left-over birthday cake and I suggested the aluminum foil and he started shaking, kinda scary, and said, "NO!" rather loudly and I think he may have even started twitching.

Other than that, he's quite normal.

(Well, except that if you tiptoe up behind him and crinkle aluminum foil and say "Boo!" he will hit the ceiling and stay there.)

(Not that I've ever done that.)

Every year afterward? He picked out a costume waaaaaaaaaaay ahead of time and it was always something we could easily pull together. Imagine that.

perhaps not

Just a suggestion, for an employee of a firm I know...

If your employer/company has to have current drug tests on file in order to get into a high security chemical plant to do a big job and you know this and it's a condition of your employment that you can pass random tests, it's probably not such a hot idea to tell your boss that you probably can't pass it. Especially when you've been driving a company truck that day.

But let me add that to then suggest you can get a copy of the drug tests taken during your recent probation from when you were arrested and convicted on (unknown-to-him) drug, alcohol and theft charges? Probably not a terrific solution. (Especiallyy since the lesson didn't seem to take.)

new stress test

Carl, (husband, who has always been a half-bubble off center) talking to a young waiter at one of our local hangouts... They had been chatting a minute or so (yes, it's our fault your food's getting cold):

Carl looks at him a moment. (I think wanting to tell him the truth about what it's like owning your own business and essentially being in guerilla warfare every single day.) Looks at me. Looks back at the waiter.

The waiter double-takes, looks at me to see if he's serious. I have no clue.

(And people wonder where I get fodder for the stuff I write.)

WOOO!

And the Red Sox win!

ouch... it hurts to even think of doing this

So, one of our employees (college aged kid who works part-time) was talking very excitedly about the Halloween costume party he's going to this weekend. He's going as Fred, from Scooby Doo. He has a friend, a young woman, who's going to go as...

a roll of duct tape.

She's planning on shaving all the neceesary parts of her body and she's going to wrap duct tape around her entire nude body. Yep, even the soft parts.

(For everyone who just flinched? I'm right there with you.)

I'm not sure if she's waaaaaaaaaaay out of his league or equally immature, but can you imagine how not lucky he's going to get later that night? (Talk about your safe sex.)

I am never going to hear that sshiiicck sound of duct tape coming off the roll without a little mental flinch.

the funniest sentence...

I know everyone in the whole world already reads dooce and she routinely cracks me up. But an entry that can include a rant about plastic mini skirts along with this sentence:

And I'm sorry, but I'd have a hard time washing my crotch with a soap that was molded to look like a polygamous religious prophet.

Totally brilliant. Go forth and doocify yourself.

good grief

I had to go to my insurance agent's yesterday evening to sign the renewal for our workman's comp insurance, which always makes me want to rip my hair out. We've had 22 years of no losses, yet we have to pay thousands of dollars in every year just in case we have a loss; we do get to have a nifty low "EMR" rating, which tells all of our clients that we are really really safe. Really really missing a lot of money, too, damn them.

So I'm sitting there in their board room, signing papers, when my agent, John, digs around in some boxes and puts two coffee mugs in front of me. At first I thought he was offering me coffee, but he was proudly giving me two mugs with their new logo. After giving me said mugs, I had to write out a check for $1626.92. The next time I go, God help me if he pulls out a whole place setting; I'd have to hock the house.

sweet talk overheard

him: You know, when we're really close like this?
her: Yes?
him: You kinda look like an alien. Your eyes are all fuzzy-mushed together.
her: Wow. What every woman wants to hear.
him: But a really sexy alien!
her: You're lucky we're already married.
him: Hot alien sex!
her: Of course, you may not live through the night.

commercials

Since I don't have TiVo yet (am I the last one on the planet?), I still catch commercials. Some of them make me hate the advertiser with a loathing beyond that I have for slime-covered cockroaches (I'm looking at you, deBeers for that stupid "I love this man" commercial, said only after she gets the diamond.) But the Miller Lite commercials with the "good call" angle crack me up. (If you follow that link, click on TV ads at the top navigation bar and you can view them in Quicktime.)

Yes, sometimes it takes very little to entertain me.

interactive metronome

If you have ADD / ADHD or you know someone who does -- ADULT OR CHILD, here's a new therapy that has worked wonders for our youngest son. (If your child has neurological or motor rehabilitation needs, go to this link instead.) (I am in no way affiliated with this; we simply benefited tremendously.)

Know who else is doing this? Some major sports players because it increases their focus, their sequencing skills, their timing, their coordination and thus, their game. Our interactive metronome therapist said several universities are starting to sign up their sports teams.

Four weeks ago, when I first insisted our son try the therapy, he went very begrudgingly. Very. When the therapist asked him why he was there, his answer? "Because my mom pays for my gas and I have to do this."

Four weeks later? I asked him how he felt about it, and he said this. (He's 18.)

"If anyone has the chance to do this therapy, they should do it. No doubt about it, it's made a big difference to me--a huge difference already."

I was floored.

They tested him prior to starting the therapy to see if he was even a candidate for it. The tests were math and reading tests on a computer where they can measure not only correct responses, but response time, sequencing, comprehension. Four weeks later, after doing the therapy, they re-tested him.

He had a dramatic 60% improvement.

He ended up doing much better at the exercises than his therapist had been able to do when she took the tests (multiple times) during her training. (Which tickled him.) And even though he noticed a big difference in the classroom, I've noticed a significant difference in loads of little things, like him not flying off the handle so easily, being able to reason with him, even when he's angry or frustrated, him being angry and frustrated far less often and even when he isn't pleased with something, being able to keep it in perspective. We've also noticed that we can give him much more complex sequencing tasks and feel more confident that he has them all without resorting to either writing everything down or reminding him a hundred times.

It was frustrating for me to watch him be so aggravated with the world because he really did forget things or get distracted in the middle of it and forget to go back to it or go do the next thing in the order he'd planned. And this was even for stuff he really wanted to do, so it wasn't him being rebellious. It harmed him more than us, and it was painful to watch because I understood it was something he had no control over. Meds helped temporarily, but he hated the way they made him feel, and while they may have helped him focus, they didn't help resolve the underlying problem

Even he is impressed with how much less he forgets to do things or is able to stay focused. I'm just thrilled that something worked.

My understanding it that once you've done this therapy (either 12 sessions or 15 sessions, depending, I think, on what your insurance will pay), you shoudn't ever have to do it again. If your insurances pays for speech therapy, it should pay for this. (I have no idea why it's listed under speech therapy because it really has absolutely nothing to do with speech and they in no way work with anything related to speech, but there ya go, the wonderful world of insurance.) Our insurance paid for 100% of everything after our deductible, which was way better than I had expected.

A major thank you to Tamar who found this therapy and sent me the link and encouraged me to learn more about it. The renowned Dr. Greenspan has endorsed it, so Google him and you'll see why that's impressive.

You can read on the link above exactly what it is and how it works, but be aware of this -- while the exercises may look simple or hokey in their demo? In reality, they are complex and difficult and we were surprised by that. However, they start very slowly and simply and work their way up in difficulty / complexity, so it's not something to scare anyone off... just don't blow it off based on their demo.

painting

I spent yesterday at my parents' house faux finishing one wall in their dining area and smaller sections in the kitchen to pull the effect through the kitchen and they seemed really thrilled. When I first started, I think my dad thought I was nuts, because it always looks pretty ugly until it starts coming together. I don't have photos of that, but I'll get some the next time I go out and post for contrast.

I used the same technique as in my living room, except their colors were light -- a murshroom color, a lighter shade of that and white. My colors were quite darker and in the red family, but I still love them. (Oh, and my dad thought I had completely lost my mind when I did the wall the base coat, which was an extremely bright pure red... but he loves it now.)

and later with the furniture

web-site re-do

Thanks everyone for the suggestions on website re-do. (Note to Corey: don't make me come over there and smack you.) (see comments below to see why, for the rest of you.)(I've known Corey for twelve years. I think I would be disappointed if he didn't leave comments like that.)

I got extremely lucky and found a couple of web designers who're trying to get their name out; they've offered to re-do this site for free! They've had a bunch of people write to them to ask for that opportunity and I'm not sure what their criteria is for choosing, but they choose me. They're reworking their own site and have a temp page up here. If you want to qualify for your own free site re-do, write to them: bella@twelveone.org You only have 8 days left to qualify.

suggestions for new design?

I need your opinions...

I'm seriously tired of the way this site looks; it's too plain, I think. I'd like to make it more sophisticated. I've finally got a photoshop program back, (having lost the old program in a computer crash + lost original disk), so I'd like to start including photos. Not that this will ever be a photo blog, but I think some photos could be fun.

I need suggestions, though. Obviously, a really cool site (but way overkill for a blog) is something that looks like this. I don't want too much stuff that makes the download take forever. But I would like something hip.

(I have minimal skills as a designer; I intend to hire someone or find a template I can modify.)

What do YOU like to see when you visit a blog, separate from interesting entries? Photos? Stylish design? I'd love to have your suggestions on things you think would improve the way this site looks.

shout out

Good grief, I get sick and tired of hearing all the low carb hoopla, and I'm even doing the whole low-carb thing. (Which started off very begrudgingly, but I've lost ten pounds and only really have five(ish) more to go, so hey, it's working even when Weight Watchers didn't.) Still, can there be anything more boring than fixating on what has carbs and what doesn't?

Sure.

Unless you wanna talk CHOCOLATE.

I have to have it. You know how moms are typically all self-sacrificing, giving their children the last bite of whatever was delicious to eat because they're moms and moms are such good people? NOT AT MY HOUSE when it comes to chocolate. The kids know to BACK THE HELL AWAY if it's the last bit of chocolate because if they don't, there could be maimage. I'm still holding a grudge against my oldest son from when he was nine and there were warm brownies that his grandmother had made which filled the car on the way home with the most insanely delicious scent in the world, and both boys ate all but the last one, and the last one was MINE MINE ALL MINE until the oldest picked it up fast and licked the whole damned thing. I may forgive him when he's forty. (probably not) It's a good thing I don't know state secrets, because all anyone would have to do is wave chocolate in front of my face and I'd be all, "WHAT DO YOU WANT TO KNOW?"

So when I found this chocolate ice cream I was skeptical. I've tasted diet chocolate before and can there be anything more wrong with the world than a product that says DIET and CHOCOLATE on the same package?

But this stuff?

Amazingly good. Really REALLY good. So those of you who've been beating yourself up on the low-carb thing or the Weight-watchers thing and not having really great chocolate ice cream? Go forth and indulge.

Hey, I do what I can for world peace.

on editing / screenwriting

[Correcting the title to actually say 'screeNwriting' instead of 'screEwriting' because I apparently need to marry a spellcheck. Thanks to saltation for commenting.]

I'm nearly finished with the small edits the pub'd friend suggested (couple of entries back). The majority of these were so simple, I did them in just a few hours, and I probably would have been finished if I hadn't been battling headaches most of the week last week. (That resounding silence here for a weel? Cluster headaches.)

The few changes that have been taking more thought / time are turning out to be a lot of fun, too. Which is why I typically love the editing / rewriting aspect of writing (and I often wonder why so many other writers really loathe that part of it.) Sure, the first draft is the passionate draft, but the subsequent drafts refine and bring the story to life. Possibly my background in oil painting helped me with this; in oil painting, it's all about layering. You start with the darkest undercoat, the base colors of the general shapes and you continue layering in colors until you've defined the image, with highlights typically going last. (And obviously, you can go back and forth during this process and add back in darks if you've highlighted too much.)

Another cool thing -- I scored getting a three chapter critique from another published writer / best-seller. She even offered to critique a synopsis, too, but I actually have to write the damned thing before that part can happen. I'm hoping to finish these small changes and get the chapters out to both writers for feedback, maybe by the weekend.

The weirdness continues with the script. A bunch of management companies in L.A. apparently got the names of all the Nicholl people and started requesting scripts last week. I've gotten way more than I'd ever gotten before, and I think it has something to do with the script's title (which is funny) and the genre (action / comedy). I've had one request already from the reads for a meeting, which I don't know if I'm going to take. Maybe if there are more requests for meetings, it would be worth the travel.

My attitude about that has certainly changed dramatically from the last time I had a script that interested people in L.A. I used to be willing to hop on a plane any time and go take meetings. Now, when it's actually easier for me to do so, I find myself weighing what the value of the meeting will be. Which, I am sure, is why most management companies don't really want to have a client who lives outside of L.A., because we're always weighing the cost of travel vs. rewards, and L.A. and the film biz isn't a business where there are necessarily quid pro quo rewards. I'd say that more than 80% of the business is who you know, which means, you've got to get meetings and more meetings and get to know the execs on their way up, and get your stuff read by as many of them as possible and continue meeting with them until you stand out in their minds from the crowd... so that the next time they have a potential assignment, your name comes up as someone they want to hear from -- get your "take" on how you'd do that idea. And after a whole bunch of pitches like that, you eventually land an assignment.

All of which could happen in a few weeks or a few years; there's really no way to know. The one thing you do need? To be there, so that when someone says, "Hey, can you go to lunch Tuesday?" you can say, "Sure." And when they call and have to change it to Thursday or coctails or possibly the following Saturday and then move that meeting to the next Monday? You're not worried about catching a flight out and getting back to your real world.

I've been there, done that with the meetings. I know my attitude is bad, with regards to the screenwriting thing right now. If one of the big management firms who requested the script were to read it and get all hot and bothered and think they could sell it, I'd be enthused, I suppose. But since I know how so much of this works, it's not likely to happen that way.

The other real change is that I am just so loving writing the novel. Even if the pub'd writer friend can't set me up with her agent like she thinks she can? I'm loving the process. I could no more not write than not breathe, and this novel is so much fun; it cracks me up daily.

Speaking of, I need to get back to work on it.

welcome

To everyone coming over from blog explosion, welcome. It's a pretty cool concept -- I've surfed and found several blogs I've already marked for return visits.

For those not sure what this blog's focus is -- it's writing (novels, scripts), family zaniness and the world of weird that I observe.

overheard (this one's for Jette)

Out at dinner the other night, a conversation overheard at the next table:

WOMAN: It's fine. One day, he's going to get his comeuppance.
MAN: (startled, spitting his drink)... His... what?
WOMAN: Comeuppance.
MAN: (relieved) Oh. Okay. Good.
WOMAN: What did you think I said?
MAN: That he was going to get Cum Muppets. And I was thinking, damn, Sesame Street sure has changed a lot since I was a kid.

At which point, we spewed our drinks.

birthdays

Eighteen years ago, I was two and a half weeks past my due date and had given up ever actually having the kid. I was pretty sure he had decided to take up residency and not pop out until college, I was so huge. My mom had decided that she wanted me to have the baby on the weekend because she had the weekend off, and if it waited all the way until the next Monday, she'd be stuck at work and unable to help. In order to facilitate that, she took me shopping at the local mall. It was rather amazing how every time we needed something, wouldn't you know it, it was on the other side of the mall. I must have walked three billion miles that day, to the absolute horror of every clerk in there. They'd see me walking in looking like I was about to give birth to a house, and they'd freak out. I've never had such good service; everyone just wanted to make sure I got whatever I wanted and got out of there in record time lest I go into labor right there.

Hour and miles later, we went back to my mom's. Carl was working on the house and had it slightly torn up and wanted to get it cleaned up before I got back. When I was lying down, I kept feeling odd. Uncomfortable but not in any pain. I stood... and my water broke. The excessive amount of walking had done its trick.

I waddled out to where my mom and dad were sitting on the back porch and informed my dad that my water had broken, which meant he was going to have to drive me to the hospital.

What I hadn't realized was that long ago, when my dad was a rookie cop, he'd gotten a call from a woman whose water had broken while she was driving on the interstate. She'd pulled over (bad contractions) and by the time he'd gotten there, she was having the baby, and he'd had to deliver it. I barely had uttered "water" and "broke"... they were hovering in the air right above my head, I swear, when my dad paled to ghostly white, shot straight up in the air and made it to the phone in light speed.

My parents live in a rural area outside of the city, and the hospital where I was pre-admitted was not only in town, but towards the south side. It was easily a good hour drive there on a medium traffic day. My dad thought he could arrange an emergency escort by the local cops, but they asked him how far apart were my contractions, and when I said I wasn't having any, they told him then I was obviously having false labor and to wait until I was actually in labor to call them.

My dad came out and explained to me why I wasn't having the baby yet. I countered (again) about water, breaking, forcing the whole birth thing whether there were any actual contractions or not. He stood there and looked at me with this expression that I was just doing this to annoy him and if he waited it out a moment, I'd change my mind and let him off the hook. My mom said, "Unless you want to deliver it, we'd better go."

I swear to god, we made the hour trip in 9 minutes flat. I wish I was exaggerating. My brother happened to pull into the driveway just as we were leaving. My dad shouted to him that I was having the baby and to follow us to the hospital. My brother, who apparently inherited my dad's inability to think during birth crises spun his truck around and followed us -- his bumper practically locking onto ours with the suction of a nuclear powered vacuum. Which wouldn't have normally been so bad, except that most of the way there was a curvy, two-lane road which was notoriously busy during that time of day and my dad was going to get me to the hospital because he was NOT going to have to deliver his daughter's baby if he had to make the car fly, and he would pass people IN CURVES and my brother, who knew exactly where the hospital was, stayed on my dad's bumper because if I was going to give birth in the car, he wanted to be there to be traumatized with the rest of us.

I was in the front seat with my dad and I had a white-knuckled grip on the dash and I kept squealing for my dad to slow down and trying to wave my brother off (this was before cell phones), but he'd just wave back, my dad would hear me squeal and accellerate. We got to the major highway the hospital was on, and both lanes were completely filled with bumper to bumper traffic. My dad had completely lost all sense of time and space and instead of hitting the shoulder and zipping up to the hospital, he got on the center line and started blowing the horn, trying to make people move out of the way. Some people did (of course, because he was a lunatic) and others tried flipping him off, but I think they looked into their rearview mirrors, saw the complete and total insanity and decided that he just might drive over them, so they grudgingly gave way.

We wheeled into the emergency entrance and the orderlies took me inside, straight back to one of the prep rooms. And when the nurse came to take my blood pressure, she freaked. It was so high (from the ride), I was about to stroke out. It took me an hour to calm down enough before they could even think about giving me an epidural.

Five hours later, with virtually no painful contractions, out popped Jake. Nine pounds, two ounces, the easiest delivery in the entire planet. (In fact, he popped out so quickly, the doctor had drop down to catch him. I am not making that up. I thought he'd dropped the baby on the floor, but Carl, who'd gotten there by that point and was standing back there with the doctor, said it was like a football player snagging the ball just before it smacked the ground.)

Jake nursed about thirty minutes later, slept like a dream and was generally the easiest, happiest baby in the whole world. I had no ideas babies could actually sleep. (Luke hadn't slept the first nine months.)

I can't believe that same little football just walked through here, all 5'8", 165 lbs. of him, gorgeous, funny, sweet, smart, and did I mention sweet? I cannot imagine my life without either of my two boys.

Happy birthday, Jake. We love you bunches and bunches. (infinity)

what happens when you're away from your computer

Icon Story

not dead, really

So, I waited for the detailed notes from the friend-with-the-agent. I want you to know I waited patiently and maturely and never even ONCE thought about putting my head in the oven. In fact, I was so entirely mature, that when we were e-mailing (several times) about a completely unrelated item, I did not succumb to the temptation to get her to clarify her thoughts on my chapters, nosirreebob. Because that would be WRONG and WHINY and UNPROFESSIONAL and did I mention WRONG? I would never ever ever be pushy to anyone who was about to give me notes.

Hey. Where are y'all going? Whaddya mean, you want to avoid the lightning strikes? I'm tellin' the truth! I swear!

:::::zap:::::

Well who needed hair anyway?

Okay, so, I maybe sorta asked her at the end of one of the e-mails to clarify, but I swear that was because I was trying to start on the next chapter and I wanted to see what kind of notes she was going to give me.

Now, here's where a weird thing happens, and I recognize that this comes (for me) from my screenwriting background... but I like getting notes from friends. I learn a tremendous amount in a compressed time-frame about stuff that's specific to how I do what I do, and the next jag of writing will be greatly improved as a result. I forget that most novelists do not expect to get big notes or do huge rewrites in the same sort of way a screenwriter expects. (Screenwriters don't even really expect to get to stay on their own projects; when you come from the mindset that you probably won't last and will be fired at any moment, getting notes seems like a lifeline, a way to stay on the project, so you take them, pull them out of the chest or back or wherever they impaled you and you see what you can do to make them work. Novelists? Not so much.) So a novelists GIVING notes is going to be really careful and worried and nice about it.

How cool is that? woo!

Anyway, the original teeny three notes she'd sent were so minor, I felt like it couldn't keep going like that. So she responded with an even lovelier note, and then mentioned the one thing she had questioned, a thing I had already decided needed tweaking anyway, so we were pretty close on that one. And she had to go out-of-town, so I wasn't going to get "detailed" notes until today.

Which I just got.

Detailed.

All 1 page of them. She had such minor notes, I thought maybe I was missing a couple of pages (or ten), but nope, at the bottom of the note, she apologized for being so "nitpicky" but reassured me that she "really, really loved it" and wouldn't have been "so hard" on it if she didn't think it "had a shot."

I'm going to marry that e-mail. I swear, I am so jazzed.

Now, it just so happens, I agree with her notes. They were itsy bitsy things (like forgetting to explain how someone got somewhere specific or mentioning "daylight" when it was too early in the morning for that. Easy to fix. I had my own ephiphanies for some other minor changes, so I'll be working on those this week and sending it back to her for a final polish-through set of notes. At that point, we'll talk about what else I'll need to prep to send to her agent. (I suspect I will need a synopsis. I may have to kill myself, because that's how much I hate writing a sysnopsis.)

The thing is, it's not that I think this is a shoo-in for a sale, or even a big sale. Most books by new authors have very small print-runs, and the advances are low accordingly, and you really have to push hard to get the word out and get at least 60% of those sold or you might not even have a chance at a second book. And most authors don't really break out until they've had four or five books published and have grown their audience, so when I'm talking about all of this, I'm not talking about big money or even medium-sized money, but just getting it published and maybe, possibly, seeing it in a bookstore in the eye-blink of time it will get to be on a shelf. But I gotta start somewhere, right?

So, I'm off to work on the revision. Tomorrow I'm going to work on posting a rant about why teenaged children are guaranteed to drive you COMPLETELY FUCKING BATTY so that you end up at three in the morning babbling like a deranged person and thinking about cancelling Christmas because it's just not going to be the same here ever again (even though you love them and they love you)(supposedly)(but right now, grrrrrrrrrrr). So, all you moms who are battling your kids over putting the PB & J sandwiches into the VCR or bathing the cat in purple KoolAid or feeding their baby brother earthworms and calling it spaghetti? Just wait. They will grow up one day and not be quite 18 and not have a single dime to their name, but they will look you in the eye with all complete seriousness and tell you that they are selling all of their stereo equipment so that they can BUY A MOTORCYCLE, and not just some little dirt bike.... nooooooooooooooooo... that would be too SANE. They are going to buy a bike that is so fast, they have to be strapped on in case it zooms out from under them. So fast, it could break the sound barrier (which you just did when they told you about it in the first place). And they will look at you and explain that this way, they won't have as much to pay in insurance and gas, so aren't they being all MATURE? And you might just say to them, "Of COURSE you're not going to have to spend as much money on insurance or gas because if the first ride doesn't kill you, I WILL." And it will go downhill from there.

Now. Doesn't that peanut-butter filled VCR look great? You're welcome.

Laura over at 11D has invited us to participate in a week long discussion about various mothers / workforce / childcare issues because she has the ear of a set of academics and writers who are very interested in this topic.

Today, she's talking about Mothers vs. Mothers. Go read her question and then here's my response (which I posted as a comment on her site.)

I feel like the animosity has decreased over the last three or four years, particularly with the boom of the internet and the various blogs from so many women and their varying choices on motherhood vs. work. There's so much more ability for us all to interact and get to know the cultures / lifestyles / choices behind the labels.

Like Lizbeth, I too freelance from home and sort of fit in easily with each group. A lot of SAHMs would seem defensive about their choices (they felt looked down on for not trying to "have it all" the way they were supposed to, in order to uphold the hard-won place in the workforce gained by feminism), and a lot of the work-force moms were defensive because they felt looked down upon as if they didn't value their child enough (if they had the choice to stay at home. Those who had to work for economic reasons figured it didn't much matter what people thought, they didn't have a choice anyway.)

The disparity increased as SAHMs were presumed not to be "doing" anything, and there was also the assumption that the SAHMs weren't going to be very interesting to talk to because they didn't "do" anything all day except play with their kids. It was as if as soon as a child had shown up, the SAHM had sacrificed her brain to the OB-GYN for the next fifteen years, and moms in the workplace wouldn't know what to talk about with a SAHM. I know a lot of SAHMs who felt invisible... there were no grown ups to talk to or interact with during the day and keeping up on news / events or topics of interest were much more difficult because there just wasn't the access to the info or people to talk to, and so the assumed divide widened. (Maybe it was a self-fulfiling prophecy. Maybe it was an inherent problem both sides felt defensive about.)

As a mom of two older boys (17 and 21), I started off raising my children while I freelanced from home and helped run our small construction company. The perception that because I was "at home" meant I was lazy and doing nothing was extremely common when my kids were small. People in the work force tended to assume I was uneducated (I have two masters) or lazy (or both) because I could have chosen to work outside the home. In the 80s, people tended to equate what you did with your value, your social identity and my not choosing to have a high-powered corporate career was often viewed as betrayal to those who were struggling against the glass ceilings. I could understand how they felt because they worried that my choosing to stay at home in spite of my degrees reinforced the stereotype of "don't hire moms, they have other priorities except for work and can't be relied upon for a career."

It has felt much different with the advent of journaling and then blogging online. The perceptions are still prevalent between the two groups, but the cross-overs or acceptance is a little more common now.

windshield

Some days you are the bug. And some days you are the windshield.

Yesterday was a windshield day. A good day.

I've been absent here because I was taking the very good notes my readers had given me on the chapters and edited them, and usually when I'm in that mode, I'm a hermit. I have a hard time communicating with anyone who isn't in the novel.

After making the changes, I wrote to the woman writer who'd encouraged me in the first place to do this story as a novel and had offered to show it to her agent, if she liked it. She read it yesterday and gave a very positive response. There were three teeny notes, (like I had a car red somewhere and green somewhere else), but nothing large. She said she'd think on it a while before giving me detailed notes (at which point my heart froze and I went straight into panic mode, freaking out, she must hate it and doesn't know how to tell me), but I slapped myself around a while, got over it, and then had a good day.

I'm not sure when she's going to send the detailed notes. Hopefully soon, because it's hard to move forward on the next chapters because my curositiy sits on one shoulder (hmmm, do you think that's the stuff that worked? or maybe that's something you're gonna get a note on?) and the bitch meanie self-editor in me sits on the other shoulder (that sucks, start over, who're you kidding). The nice thing about notes -- particularly this last round -- was that I got to see a lot of things that worked because everyone highlighted some of the same thing.

I could live on that for months. In the darkest moments of being a writer, I will live on notes like that which remind me that it is never as bad as my insecurity assumes.

I feel like I have a billion "important" things to post about here, and I haven't been able to sit down long enough in this forum and post. I want to talk about some of the political things that they're discussing over at 11D (see link on sidebar) (yes, I am that lazy). I also want to talk about loneliness and feeling lost and what I am watching happen around me with friends, which seems to be hitting so many people I love with such a terrible force, it's like a loneliness tornado. I want it to stop; it kills me to see the people I care about hurting so much.