The Secret Blog of Cece Meng

The Art of Learning

2010-03-29T08:38:00.000-07:00

My daughter, newly twelve, jumped up from her homework one night and said, "Hold on a moment, I need to check something." She proceeded to twirl. And twirl and twirl. With her arms flung out and her back slightly arched, standing on her toes, she twirled in my living room for almost a minute. Then she paused and began twirling in the opposite direction.

When she finally stopped, she stood, swaying gently, looking pretty darn dizzy. Then she said, "Nope, doesn't work."

"What doesn't work?" I had to ask.

"If you spin in one direction and then spin in the other direction, you still get dizzy."

I love how kids think. My other child, nine-year-old Alex, is trying to teach our dog to read. He taught Princess to sit, shake, stay, come. So, of course, the next step is obviously reading. Ask any well-educated dog.

He started with teaching her the word "princess" but then came to the conclusion that even if Princess could read her own name, she wouldn't be able to let him know because she can't talk. Now Alex is creating signs with commands on them, so she can respond with an action. Clever, huh? I found his pile of written commands on the counter this morning. "sit" "stay" and of, course, the much desirable and lesser-know command, "poo."

I love how kids think.

Not crazy

2010-03-04T08:47:00.000-08:00

I walked into the kitchen last night at 10:30pm because I heard some sort of commotion. The noise was louder than the scurrying of rodents, thankfully. Yet it wasn't at that mayhem noise level I am most familiar with - that sort of noise usually involves earth-shaking crashes and snarls as my dog and three cats throw a post-steak dinner garbage party on the kitchen floor.

The somewhere-in-between noise ended up being my husband getting himself a snack. Actually, what I interrupted was the lovely sight of my spouse hunched over the kitchen counter with his fingers 2-knuckles deep in pasta leftovers. We had that Kodak frozen-in-time moment where we both paused and scoped each other out.

It was an old-fashioned western gunfight. You could hear a pin drop. I shot first, thinking he didn't have much ammunition for this round.

"That's disgusting. Couldn't you use a plate?"

My husband brought the three-finger scoop of al dente penne noodles with tomato sauce to his mouth and chewed innocently.

"What?" he said. He actually looked offended as he waved his saucy fingers through the air. His wide-eyed, confused expression implied I had just made up a new household rule and no one had informed him. We've been together 24 years. Not a new rule.

"Other people might want to eat that. Don't you have a cold?"

He didn't answer, but instead gave me the wounded "why are you picking on me?" look.

I went to back to bed, making a mental note to not eat the pasta.

I'm mentioning this story so you don't think I'm completely crazy. My husband has been out of work for 6 weeks now and our house is a little small for the two of us 24/7.

He is now home all day and is peeing frequently and IS REFUSING TO PUT THE TOILET SEAT DOWN. I get this is an age-old couples issue for almost every household. But I have a bad back and really don't want to fall in the toilet and cripple myself during one of my sleep-deprived bathroom breaks, is all. I'm actually a very easy person to live with. I remind my husband of that well-know fact all the time. All the time.

So I did what any reasonable person would do after reminding someone into the three-digits to kindly put the seat down. I duct-taped the seat down in the main bathroom, leaving the second bathroom open for boy business. It was effective for a solid 48-hours (he eventually pealed off the tape and resumed his leaving-the-seat-up behavior). The duct tape approach may have backfired, because now ANY request I make falls under the "just ignore her, she is crazy" category.

So. Not. Crazy.

Yet.

Vicis Rabbits

2010-01-13T13:15:00.000-08:00

The letter started like this:

I have never had a bunny in my life because my mom's bunny peed on her lap and so then on she hated bunnies. I like them but they look vicis because they are all shaky.

This letter came home with my son, one of his classmates wrote it in response to the show-and-tell bunny we'd brought in earlier that day. That bunny was scared out of her mind and was definitely shaky. Fortunately, not vicious. But I see the kid's point.

Somehow, I have developed a reputation for being the bunny lady. Okay, fine, yes, I do like rabbits. I own a lot of rabbits. But it isn't a crazy love-affair sort of deal. I find them cute, amusing, and at times vicious. I am not immune to their flaws. Also, I have way too many of them. A common side-effect of owning rabbits I hear.

When I set the bunnies loose in my backyard four years ago, I was warned terrible thing could happen. Raccoons could eat them. They could escape into the wild unknown world of moving vehicles. Dogs could carry them away. No such luck.

We still have the same seven rabbits. I was silently hoping a few would be picked off and we'd have a more manageable number over time. But the bunnies are fatter, happier, more content than ever. They do occasionally get loose, but are easily herded back into my yard with very little effort.

I got a call at six in the morning recently from one of my neighbors. The same neighbors that own a Rottweiler and don't like kids. They do, I found out, like rabbits. So does their dog.

Snowflake, a sweet faced neutered male rabbit of mine, had dug under the fence and was hanging out in their yard early that morning. I woke to the sound of a snarling dog and screaming lady. I had a feeling it had something to do with the rabbits and I pulled the covers over my head and tried to go back to sleep. I guess my neighbor had other ideas. By the time I picked up my phone, she was still pretty upset.

"Your rabbit is loose and my dog almost ate it!" she said into the phone.

"The rabbit escaped?" I tried to sound surprised.

"It ran back into your yard. I filled the hole already. He could have been killed." Neighbor lady was not happy.

"Oh. Yeah. Well, don't worry if your dog does eat a rabbit or two. We have seven. I don't even think the kids will notice. Don't feel bad if it happens. It's okay."

"IT'S NOT OKAY WITH ME! I don't need to see that sort of thing," she replied before hanging up.

Well, when she puts it THAT way, it does make me seem a bit heartless and strange. What does she expect when she calls before I've had my morning coffee? Without my coffee I tend to be vicious and shaky. Not a good combination. Ask any nine-year-old.

Mailing it in

2009-12-19T05:46:00.001-08:00

I'm shocked my husband and I have any friends left. The problem is, we are tired all the time. And we're forgetful and perpetually overwhelmed. Translation: We're terrible about returning calls, we're too tired to entertain, and our long distance correspondence is nonexistent. The whole gift-giving thing around the holidays pushes us well beyond our capabilities. We once showed up to a holiday dinner at a friend's house, after mentioning we would not be exchanging gifts that year due to a job layoff, to find beautiful gifts waiting for us. It was too late to make a mad dash to a store, so we sucked it up, ate their food, accepted their generosity and left. Awkward.

Our dysfunction originates from the core of our existence. Our home. It's an unfixed fixer-upper with never-ending projects. Environmental chaos. Our happy home is enhanced by a large, big-toothed "crazy-eyed" dog that barks psychotically at every person who has the unfortunate experience of driving down our street. In reality, our dog is afraid of kittens and truly can't jump the picket fence because of an artificial hip and leg injury from an accident that happened before we adopted her. You'll have no trouble at all outrunning her. Plus, once you are safely inside my front door, you will be fed well and offered an assortment of live animals to warm your feet. Not all of them bite.

As I empty our mailbox of holiday cards and letters, I find myself more than a little surprised by the loyalty of my friends. I appreciate their ability to look past the fact that my husband and I seldom remember to send thank you notes or birthday cards. We've never sent out a holiday card with a family update. I don't have a mailing list. Alas, when my cell phone dies, so will the numbers of just about everyone I know. I keep no records, and I'm not much of a numerical memorizer.

I do feel guilty. Perhaps instead of sending out a New Year's card (something I fantasize about doing but I have never actually done), my husband and I should send out a blanket apology letter addressing our negligent behavior over the past two decades. Something like this:

Dear Family and Friend(s):

If you are receiving this, it is because we consider you a friend and we recognize that compared to you, our family sucks in the manners department. Perhaps one day we will be able to make it up to you, but please don't hold your breath. In addition to lacking basic organizational skills, we tend to buckle under pressure.

We know that if you have stuck around through our flaky behavior, you must really care about us. Even though we don't always show it, we care about you, too. If you haven't stuck around but are still receiving this letter, it is because we deserve your wrath and disdain, we acknowledge your hurt feelings, and we want to offer you a sincere apology and let you know that we didn't pick on you personally. We treat all our friends like this. And we're sorry.

So here you go, this is an official letter off apology to all we have offended. I'd suggesting keeping it, perhaps even framing it, because it may be another two decades before we get around to doing another one. And, trust me, in two decades we'll owe all of you another one.

Remember the thank you note you got from us for that wonderful gift you sent? No? We want you to know that your gift and gesture was fully appreciated. We loved it, and probably still do love it. Unless it was wine or candy or homemade cookies, then I'm sure we loved it at some point in time, but now it is long gone and if I remember correctly, it was super delicious.

The clothes, scarves, bath robe, hair accessories and jewelry have all been worn and admired. The lotions and scrubs used and appreciated. The gift cards spent and enjoyed. The toys played with by the kids and probably the adults, too.

Mostly, though, we want to offer our support if life is treating you like crap. Those are the calls and cards we most regret not doing. To those of you whom this applies, know we keep you in our thoughts and are always hoping for the best.

For those of you who are wondering about us, here's an update:

Grandma Lonna is still kickin and not taking crap from anyone. The doctors keep telling us she is going to die. It could be any day. Obviously, someone forget to tell Grandma because she is back to chugging around town in her Volvo, moving boulders single-handedly from one end of her garden to the other, and attending her twice a week Yoga class. If you're in her neighborhood, remember to look both ways before you cross the street and run like hell if you see her coming.

Our kids are thriving, and sucking every last penny and bit of energy out of us. Alex is a passionate musician and math whiz. He is taking clarinet lessons. We often start our mornings at 6:00AM to the tune of "I've Been Working on the Railroad" in the highest octave possible. We wish you were here to enjoy it with us.

Erika is still doing gymnastics, training over twenty hours per week. That doesn't include the physical therapy for her knee or the massage and ice treatments before bed. Somehow, she fits in homework and continues to excel at everything she does. Except for ball sports. If throwing her a ball, please don't aim for the face, because that's usually where the ball hits first before she considers catching it with her hands.

Our family's contribution to society - we are doing our best to help with the water shortage. Our landscaping requires zero water and provides tons of free fertilizer. You guessed it, we still have seven rabbits. They won't die. They have eaten everything, and I mean EVERYTHING in my backyard, to include a peach tree and a lemon tree. My idea for making Tur-rabbit on Thanksgiving was vetoed by the rest of the family. Bummer, because I'm pretty sure I could have fit three rabbit carcasses inside the twenty-five pound turkey I cooked. I would have found a way.

We hope this nonexistent letter, that will never be mailed, and perhaps would be seen as the biggest offense from our well-meaning little family, finds you well and happy. Dear friends, know you are loved and appreciated, and we'd like to wish all of you a wonderful 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015...

Ants In My Pants

2009-12-15T20:53:00.000-08:00

Killing ants is a mesmerizing activity. I find, for instant ant killing, Fantastic spray works fantastically. Except that it gives my husband a headache. The smell of the spray, not the ant killing itself. We're both all-for ant killing. This month alone, I've killed thousands. I hate ants. They are coming in through the cracks in our kitchen tile grout. It's like watching a miniature horror film.

It has been a challenging month, ant-wise. We've made gingerbread creations dripped with sugared frosting and dotted with candy. Ant heaven. Cat food, meat balls and bacon grease. All making quite the holiday feast for my little ant friends. My daughter built an igloo-shaped ice house out of sugar cubes for a class project. I know the ants watched from their hiding places as my daughter layered sugar cube after sugar cube on her house. They must have been thinking she was making a custom paradise home just for them. Or perhaps they were recognizing they had just wandered into the home of one of the dumbest human families ever. Yeah, they hit the mother load. Little ant high-fives going on in my house.

After completing the sugar house, we hid it in the microwave for the night, but not before a few ants got stuck in the powdered sugar mortar. We left them there for added effect. I'm not sure if my daughter earned any extra credit points from them.

With so much stacked against us in the ant war, thinking ahead is key. Instant dish washing a must. Keeping food out of the bedrooms seems like an obvious rule to live by. I probably should have posted a sign or something, because the other day I had a nasty surprise. My husband hid his candy stash in MY underwear drawer. My dresser is closer to his side of the bed, if you are wondering why he picked MY drawer. I'm sure it wasn't personal.

First it was poop in my washing machine - hence, a load of shit, now it's ants in my pants. I'm getting a feeling I'm in some sort of writer's hell, forced to live out every bad cliche ever written and destined to a life of vigorous and immediate dishwashing and emergency loads of laundry.

The Dark Side of Funny

2009-12-09T05:49:00.000-08:00

Someone asked me the other day if the humor in my writing is something I have to work at or if it is always there. "Always there," I replied without hesitation. Not to assume everyone thinks my writing is funny. My best friend told me she would find my stories much funnier if she didn't know for a fact that I actually meant everything I wrote. It's how I think and process everything that goes on around me - by grabbing the funny parts and hanging on for dear life. I'm not sure how happily optimistic people can be funny. They're too busy being happy. The funny people I know are often tortured people who are trying to survive Bad decisions and Unexpected embarrassment and Uncomfortable social events and Unpleasant people. Usually the choices are: See the funny or become heavily medicated. I vote for funny.

Some people think of themselves as pessimistic Eeyore types and others as optimistic Pooh Bear types. I admit, I have my happy, delusional Pooh Bear moments, but those who know me will vouch I'm mostly Eeyore.

Some call it pessimism, I call it being prepared. Being an Eeyore is not a bad thing. When you start off with a rocky track record and low expectations of what life is going to bring you, you are often pleasantly surprised when things turn out better than expected. Pooh Bear may have a sunny disposition, but let's face it, the only way he's able to pull it off is by being muddled when the honey pot falls on his head.

I don't like being muddled. It's cute when a confused little yellow bear walks in circles exclaiming that it's awfully dark until a friend pulls a pot off his head. I'm finding when a happy-go-lucky grown-up human tries the modern-day Pooh Bear approach to life, it's significantly less charming.

After I sold my first picture book, I refused to celebrate. The bottle of champagne sat unopened on my counter all year. I worried the publisher would have a change of heart. Then I worried the book wouldn't sell. Then I worried I wouldn't sell another story. It was my way of protecting something that was deeply important to me. My daily feelings of anxiety and paranoia are the fuel that keeps me pushing forward and always trying to do better.

What Pooh doesn't realize is Eeyore understands humor and has a healthy ego to boot. Seriously. Every time something goes wrong there's the satisfaction of the *I told you so* moment. Ha. My husband will attest to the fact that I LOVE the *I told you so* moment. Watching bad decisions spiral into bad situations is often funny. I'm not referring to *ha ha he broke his leg* funny. That's not funny at all.

I should probably mention that I've had to rethink the Eeyore approach to parenting. Before my daughter's first dance recital. I knelt down, took her little hands in mine and gently told her her, "Don't worry if you mess up, sweetie. If things go horribly wrong, we'll still love you." My husband grimaced and quipped, "Nice pep talk, mom."

For myself, I'm going to plod along doing my best and expecting the worse. Then I can find unexpected happiness in unexpected places. I do relish those moments - knowing they'll never last and something horrible is probably lurking around the corner. If I ever start actually expecting good things, please someone pull the honey pot off my head and tell me to get back to work. I prefer being able to see where I'm going.

My Word Cleanse

2009-12-04T04:54:00.000-08:00

My silence is related not to the busy holidays, but to my accomplishment of writing over 50,000 words in the month of November. I did it. I had never met NaNoWriMo until November 1st, but I am grateful. So grateful, that I made my donation, ordered a travel mug, AND grabbed up a winner t-shirt before they sold out. The guy said to hurry, that they were going to sell out. Then I noticed they still had t-shirts left over from the previous years. Hmmm. Nothing worse than a marketing professional (me) falling for a marketing ploy. It was for a good cause, so no hard feelings. Of course now I'm thinking I probably didn't need to rush for that credit card, pry it out of my pleading husband's tightly clenched fingers, and announce to the kids there would be a few less presents this year because Mama was going online NaNoWriMo shopping. No, not necessary at all.

So, the big looming question is whether or not I'm now going to focus on novels instead of picture books. I'm thinking not. At least not in a big way.

So why did I do it? Because my picture book voice was feeling flat. My ideas were running dry. My children won't be away at college for another nine years. My Mother in Law is dying, but not dead. Let's just say I am still needed around here and no one is cutting me any breaks. And so I fell into some unhealthy habits. I'd been forgetting to take my daily recommended allowance of writing. My word counts had slowed. Some days they stopped altogether.

The NaNoWriMo approach worked. It was like taking a big word enema. The pipes are clear, and the ideas are flowing. Life is good once more. All because I forced 50,000 unwilling hi-fiber words from my body during one of the most difficult times in my life. I came through it lighter, happier, more productive from the effort.

I now see that going back to a healthy daily dose of words will prevent me from having to take such drastic measures in the future.

I am committed to sticking to my recommended daily allowance of writing. Just know I'll be doing it while sipping coffee from my new NaNoWriMo travel mug - and I'll be wearing my Winner T-shirt with loads of pride and absolutely no guilt.

I Should be Writing

2009-11-10T06:15:00.000-08:00

I'm 3,000 words behind in the NanoWriMo - National Novel Writing Month - thingy. I've been reduced to using words like thingy. I shouldn't even be writing this, I should be working on that novel. My life revolves around baking chocolate brownies, eating chocolate brownies, and noveling. Novel writing is fattening.

I have no outline, I'm totally winging it. I'm a picture book writer, people. My books have less than 800 words! There are special punishments for writers in my profession that have the stupidity to clear 1,000 even in a rough draft. I'm breaking new personal ground clearing that word threshold.

I also started two days late. As time ticks on and I continue my frantic writing, two analogies keep popping into my head. They both describe how totally stupid it is to not have any type of plan. It's amazing how far I've gotten in life, I know.

So, I've been describing my experience in one of two ways:

* It's like running full speed into total darkness.

* It's like a cliff climbing race, and you're always searching for the next hole to grasp. And your kids WON'T STOP TALKING.

As I eat my 6:00am breakfast of espresso strength coffee and chocolate brownie, the irony is not lost on me. I won't be running or climbing anytime soon.

I'm too busy clogging my arteries with brownies and exercising my finger tips on my crumb-infested keyboard.

May I remind you once again: If I'm found dead, slumped over my laptop, you will know it was a result of reckless writing abandonment paired with unrealistic goal setting while under the influence of bad, bad, bad friends.

Though you may want to check to make sure there isn't a chunk of brownie lodged in my throat.

Wish me luck.

An Adventure in Writing

2009-11-05T21:23:00.000-08:00

Somehow I got sucked into the National Novel Writing Month project, known as NaNoWriMo, by my evil writing friends. I am behind in my daily word count requirement, but I have hopes of catching up this weekend. Basically, the goal is to write a 50,000 word novel during the month of November. As a result, I won't be blogging much, if at all. Except perhaps to complain. My friends, this is insanity.

I did take time out of my writing to see my doctor for a physical. Around here, getting a physical is code for someone in my house may be getting laid off and we may not have medical benefits in a few months. Layoff scares also drive me to irrationally stock the garage with large, pillow-sized bags of rice and beans. I'm ready for floods, fires, quakes, you name it. Emergency supplies are on hand.

It had been almost three years since I last saw my doctor. She noticed. I explained to her that unless I have a disgusting substance coming out of one (or more) bodily openings, I don't usually make the time to see a doctor. Fortunately, my visit today was not a result of a disgusting bodily substance occurrence. In fact, I'm proud to report, all body openings were checked (quite throughly) and deemed healthy and sound.

So if I'm found dead, slumped over my laptop, you will know it was a result of reckless writing abandonment paired with unrealistic goal setting while under the influence of overachieving bad, bad, bad friends.

Wish me luck.

The Cookie Ban

2009-10-20T11:33:00.000-07:00

I have forbidden a certain grandparent (Grandma Lonna) from feeding my children cookies. The whole cookie thing just got out of hand. First it was holiday-theme cookies. I was fine with that. Then it was the cookies shoved relentlessly down my kids' throats when we'd stop by for a visit. A little irritating, but I was able to manage.

But that just wasn't enough for Grandma. Her cookie compulsion soon evolved into the shameless stuffing of cookies into my kids' pockets and hands and mouths as we'd head out the door. Then she'd run into the street to pass them through the car window.

"No more!" I'd plead, "They've had enough. May I remind you, Alex came home and barfed last time. NO MORE COOKIES please."

Grandma Lonna would nod in agreement, "Okay, okay." Then she'd race back to her kitchen to begin filling cookie to-go containers. She was completely out of control.

Having Grandma shove cookies at a kid who LOVES sugar AND can't say no AND has gastric reflux AND a propensity for oral food eruptions (puking) is not a good combination. Plus, I'm always nervous about eating baked goods from Grandma Lonna after the Cornbread Incident. She has terrible eyesight. She once baked us cornbread with ANTS in it. Hundreds of black speckles, that, yep, turned out to be hundreds of dead baked ants.

What it bakes down to is this: Grandparents like to play good-cop to our hard-ass parenting bad-cop role. I can embrace that, and even enjoy massive spoiling as a spectator sport. But cookies do not equal love. Unless they are heart shaped and we are speaking figuratively.

The final straw was when Grandma broke into our house one day and left a plate of cookies on the kitchen counter. Creepy. Like our own personal cookie stalker. I'm not saying she scaled up the side of the house and pried open a window. I think I forgot to lock the back door that day. Though, I haven't ruled out the possibility that grandma may have inched up the drain pipe with her cookies in one hand and a homemade burglary kit in another.

Grandma Lonna isn't the only cookie-obsessed grandparent we have in our family. My mom, known as Granny Frannie, is another hardcore cookie pusher. Unfortunately, I just don't see my mom enough for her cookies to be a problem (health or otherwise). And her cookies are unreasonably good. And whenever she makes a to-go plate to bring home it is NEVER a problem. Because it takes an hour and a half to get home and by then the kids have forgotten about the cookies. So my husband and I wait until they are in bed and then stuff our faces, lick the plate clean, and remove all evidence from the house. It's our silent revenge for both having mothers who never gave US cookies when we were kids. So keep making those cookies, mom.

I'm mentioning the cookie thing because I am reconsidering the Grandma Lonna cookie ban. My change of heart came about when we were sitting in the doctor's office - Grandma Lonna's appointment - and I ran down my long list of questions, carefully writing down the doctor's responses to share with the rest of the family. I often have to speak for Grandma during these appointments due to a language barrier as well as some lasting effects of a stroke many years ago. After answering everything the doctor stood to leave and kindly asked, "Do you have any other questions?"

"YES!" announced Grandma Lonna. We waited in silence for Grandma to gather her thoughts, find the right words.

Grandma gave the doctor - a mother of three young girls - a long serious look and said, "Do you let your kids eat cookies?"

The doctor looked taken aback. Slightly confused. And then she answered, "Yes, I do. It's not always the healthiest snack but my kids do eat cookies." And then she left.

If Only

2009-10-12T16:11:00.000-07:00

Nice to know someone can sleep in around here.

A Cup, an Egg, and a Spoon

2009-10-10T18:44:00.000-07:00

Not such a great morning yesterday. I was up at 4:40am to get my mother-in-law to the cardiologist's for her 8:30am appointment. She was incredibly ungrateful, which I found incredibly irritating. I get that being grateful to the person pounding on your front door at 5:00 in the morning is pretty darn impossible.

But she answered the door in her baggy THERMAL LONG JOHNS clutching a teapot in one hand and an egg in the other. Not my definition of "ready" - which was what I had requested from her the night before. My mother-in-law is a rebel. She waved the egg at me with tight, angry fingers, "It's early!" she stated accusingly. Like I was responsible for rotating the earth too fast that day. I wasn't quite sure if she was going to throw the egg at me or cook it. Fortunately, she shuffled into the kitchen and dropped it into a pot of boiling water. She looked pissed, but last I checked, I was the one who skipped coffee that morning.

I may have sounded a little crabby when I told her she had ten minutes to get ready or she'd have to find herself a new ride to the hospital. I mentioned I skipped my coffee that morning, right? The cause of my stress was stemming from knowing I had to get back into town in time to take my kids to school. Her appointment was an hour away. Her daughter was meeting us there at 6:00am, traveling from the opposite direction. The plan was for me to drop her at the door of the medical center and head back home.

My pleading finally paid off and Lonna was ready in 15 minutes. I turned off her kettle and scooped her boiled egg into a cup. I grabbed a spoon from the kitchen drawer and told her, "You can eat this in the car, let's go."

It was too dark to eat the egg. It was a stupid idea. The egg clunked around in the little brown cup between the two front seats growing cold. I made small talk on the way over, we discussed her diabetes testing, her fluid retention, her muscle cramps, her yoga class she wants to go back to but can't, how much we love her doctors and how happy we are that she has them. We never talk about the fact that she is most certainly dying and doesn't have much longer. Sometimes I pick topics that get her all fired up, just to make sure there's still some fight left in her.

But as I dropped her off in front of the medical center, I couldn't ignore the obvious. I offered her the egg in a cup with a spoon and she actually reached out to take it. It was a stupid idea. And I finally saw her, how she must look to others. A tiny little asian woman with wispy thin hair and sunken cheeks and the most stubborn dark eyes. Reaching out to take the egg in a cup with a spoon from me as she clutched her overcoat around her always-cold failing body. I pulled the cup back.

"You can't take this," I told her, "it was a stupid idea." She stared at the cup for a moment before nodding her head in agreement. We shared a small laugh, and she pulled back to leave. She struggled with the car door for a moment and then crept her way through the sliding hospital doors. I watched her through the glass walls and she paused to wave good-bye and for a moment I pictured how crazy she would look if she was actually carrying a cup and an egg and a spoon down the hall of the medical center while waiting for her daughter.

It was a stupid idea.

Another Fine Parenting Moment

2009-10-08T10:27:00.000-07:00

So, how did YOU send your little one off to school this year? With hugs and kisses and promises of after-school cookies and milk? Did you pick out the perfect back-to-school outfit and gush over what a great teacher your child got?

Yeah. Well, I took a different approach. Let's just say fourth grade did not start off how I had hoped.

It all began when my son's best friend was put in a different classroom. It's their first year separated since Kindergarten! Alex was devastated when he found out. I tried to console him. I told him how great his teacher was and how I was confident that the teacher HE got was the right one for HIM.

And then I took it a little further. "You know," I said, "the teacher your friend got is a little strict. I'm not sure you would have liked her."

"She's MEAN?" Alex asked.

"I did NOT say mean, honey. I just think this OTHER teacher is a good choice for you. Your friend will do just fine." Oh crap, just what I need, Alex telling his friend he has a mean teacher.

The icing on this shit cake I'd cooked up for myself is that I happen to know his friend's teacher. I'll call her Ms. H. Now Ms. H is, in fact, an absolute sweetheart and an amazing teacher!!! I was more than a little disappointed that Alex didn't get placed in her classroom.

Fortunately, Alex immediately fell in love with the teacher he DID get and it looked like we had a smooth year ahead of us. He even met a new friend - and for a super shy kid like my son, that's a big deal.

Sadly, the story does not end there.

One week into the school year, we were notified that there was an unexpected increase in enrollment and they had to hire an additional teacher. Some children would be moved to a different classroom. You guessed it - Alex was moved into Ms. H's room. His best friend was moved out and placed with the new hire. His new friend went into the new hire's room as well. In fact, all his close friends went into the new hire's room.

I spent the weekend explaining to my son that Ms. H was REALLY REALLY nice and that I was very happy with the change.

"I GOT THE MEAN TEACHER!" he wailed.

"She's NOT mean, stop saying that," I told him.

"Then why did you say she was mean?" he asked. And asked. And asked.

"I – NEVER – SAID – SHE – WAS - MEAN. I just said a little strict, and I was exaggerating. I know her. She is super NICE. She is a great teacher. She is the one I was hoping you would get."

Ah, but the seed of doom had been planted. Alex was sick with worry and afraid to get out of the car when I dropped him off for his first day with Ms. H. When I picked him up, he was not happy.

"How'd it go today?" I asked.

"Okay. Ms. H has a book for the kids who break the rules," he told me.

"What do you mean?"

"She has a book that you have to sign if you break a rule. And your name stays in the book for ALL OF ETERNITY," he explained in a slightly hysterical voice.

"Honey, I'm sure it's not for all of eternity. She probably throws it away at the end of the year."

"No, I looked in it. There are names from last year."

"Alex, this is not a big deal. You are a great kid, Ms. H will see that in time and she will love you. You have nothing to worry about. Even if you had to sign the book, it would not be a big deal."

"I DON'T EVER want to sign the book," he sobbed through clenched teeth. Conversation over.

At back to school night Ms. H mentioned she was a little concerned that Alex wasn’t speaking to her. I tried to look innocent. I gave her a comforting pat on the shoulder. I gently explained, "Alex doesn't like change and he's a bit terrified right now. You may not want to have him sign THE BOOK for awhile, he may end up traumatized for life."

Ha - mischief managed. Or so I hoped.

Update: Despite my efforts to ruin fourth grade for my child, I have failed. Ms. H has officially won my son over. Yes, he likes her. Yes, he no longer leaves my car white-knuckled and clutching his backpack like it’s the last life preserver on board the Titanic. The book of doom or whatever the heck she calls that thing has not even made it into a recent conversation. And rumor has it that other kids think the book is cool and they TRY to get their names in it. Go figure.

So, here's to great teachers, sensitive kids, and another fine parenting moment!

Gaga

2009-10-06T22:34:00.000-07:00

It's hard to say no to free music. Especially when it comes from an unlikely source. A mystery traveler left a Lady Gaga CD in the rental car we took on our vacation last August. I'm pretty sure the person who rented the vehicle before us was significantly more hip than our quiet little family of four. More hip, more interesting, and I'm guessing MUCH younger. Younger than me, that is.

Another artifact from this other person's road trip was tucked in the pocket behind the passenger front seat. It was a pair of brand-new still-in-the-package rainbow peace symbol earrings. Who WAS this person? Lady Gaga herself? My eleven-year-old daughter was ecstatic with the earring find, until I vetoed her plan for taking ownership of the three-inch dangling ear ornaments of unknown origin. Nice try.

The music, though, the music was - at first - enjoyed by all. It happens to be the only car CD my family owns. We have our individual ipods and our computer music libraries. But nothing has actually made it into our personal vehicles. Until now.

The kids tolerated the new music scene for about a week. Then they pleaded for silence while they buried their noses in books. All it took was one week of Lady Gaga and my master plan to create mini-geekoids of my offspring has firmly taken hold. So proud.

The music is having the opposite effect on me. I am deteriorating into mindlessness. Dorky goofiness at its best. I confess, after school drop-off I find myself tuning away from my talk radio shows and cranking up the Gaga tunes.

BOYS! BOYS! BOYS! I LIKE BOYS IN CARS! BOYS! BOYS! BOYS! BUY US DRINKS IN BARS!

I swear, so NOT me. But it's catchy and reminds me of my bubbly, adorable friend Sandy in college twenty-some years ago. Yes, as a matter of fact she was cute and blond. Still is.

DON'T WANT NO PAPER GANGSTER. Okay, I admit, I have no idea what Miss Gaga is talking about. I'm not even sure these are the actual words in the song. But it's so darn catchy and yes, I'm singin it, baby, singing away while cruising to the supermarket and to the school and then to sick grandma's house.

Been cranking these same tunes for two months. I feel like they should do a study of my brain activity. Two months. There is seriously something wrong with me.

And poor Gaga lady - this can't be good for her career. I should probably send her those earrings when I get a chance. Peace.

SO JUST DANCE! GUNNA BE OKAY - DA DA DI DO DI - JUST DANCE...

A load of you-know-what

2009-10-05T18:07:00.000-07:00

Writers like words, especially perfect words that describe less-than-perfect situations. I have found such a word. My word perfectly describes the shit I recently had to deal with. Literally, shit. I'm telling you this because if the s-word bothers you, you'd better stop reading now. If you have a better word that describes the brown stuff that comes out of the back end of a dog - then be my guest and mentally place that word as a substitute for the s-word when you read it in this post. For me, I am playing the literary card here and standing by my perfect word.

While I'm appreciating the qualities of one lovely word, I'm also faced with the unfortunate situation of lacking the right word for something else. You see, I've discovered a new emotion and I don't know what to call it. This emotion occurs when you don't know whether to cry or throw up. Your throat closes up, tears well up in your eyes, and your stomach convulses into retching spasms. Yet you can't puck, because waves of hopelessness and despair are pressing down on you. A name for this new emotion escapes me. I'm open to suggestions.

My son was playing at the park, and as nine-year-olds tend to do, he was rolling around on the field in major combat with invisible enemies. Before leaving the park, he asked what was on his shirt. There was a big mashed pile of dog shit sticking to the back of his shirt. We took the shirt off and if IT WAS UP TO ME, the shirt would have been tossed into the trash. But no. My husband carried the shirt home and left it on the front porch. LEFT IT THERE. Even after I told him that if he wanted to save the shirt, HE needed to hose it off completely on the lawn before bringing it in the house.

SIDE NOTE: I'm sure some of you can identify with the concept of "marital standoff." I can't be the only one who leaves a single crusty frying pan on the stove, unwashed, for weeks, desperately hoping that the person who actually used the pan, would actually clean the pan and complete the full cycle of helpfulness. These things never end well, do they? Eventually you end up scrubbing the stupid pan or throwing it away - depending on how much you like or need that particular frying pan.

I, personally, wasn't overly fond of this particular shirt. The shirt stayed on my porch for a week and then disappeared. Good, right? NO. Bad. Bad. Bad. Unbeknownst to me, my husband had (I'm going to assume this was an absentminded moment for him and not intentional) tossed the shirt into the laundry hamper where it was then accidentally washed with the rest of our clothes. I had a pile of dog shit in MY WASHING MACHINE WITH THE REST OF MY CLOTHES.

I tried to have a rational conversation about this incident with my husband. But, seriously, can anyone REALLY have a productive conversation about having a load of dog shit in their washing machine? -And I know for a fact that there is no good ending to such a conversation. I've just had to let it go.

And now - while I don't have an actual word for it - I do have a new emotion to add to my repertoire. I don't think I'll ever find a use for this emotion in one of the books I'm writing. Nope, no character comes to mind. No situation I can think of at the moment. Though, the phrase "that's a load of shit" does carry a depth of new meaning.

Brownies, Candles, Books, and Tea

2009-09-18T22:00:00.000-07:00

I have a 6th grader who recently started middle school and she is feeling WAY too much stress. When stress makes MY life and health fall to shit, I somehow seem to accept it without a fight. But when my eleven-year-old has worked herself into a daily panic and can't get to sleep at night it is SO NOT OKAY. NOT NOT NOT NOT OKAY.

Let me clarify - my daughter's stress is not related to schoolwork being overly challenging (it isn't) or a problematic social situation (she hangs out with a sweet group of kids). Her stress is mostly caused by having to learn the ropes at a new school and by having a busy after-school schedule. Her life was also complicated by having her mom (me) leave town the second week of school due to a death in the family. My little girl has been slowly unraveling and I haven't been able to stop it. Until now.

Earlier this week, my daughter and I spent some time analyzing and organizing her life. We discussed strategies for dealing with stressful situations. We discussed how her body was reacting to stress and how we could improve her situation.

This weekend we are catching up on sleep. Sleep (or lack of, I should say) lowers anyone's ability to cope, and my daughter has been no exception. She missed some bedtimes while I was out of town which started a cycle of sleep deprivation... which led to feelings of being perpetually overwhelmed... which led to small problems feeling like huge problems... and ultimately triggering anxiety.

That's my official analysis - or at least my justification for waking up and then going back to sleep for most of my Saturday and forcing my daughter to do the same. Eleven-year-olds are still quite cuddly, by the way... you just have to work around the big elbows and knees.

I also gathered information from fellow parents of like-minded kids. It helped. I loved watching my friend Peggy teach my daughter yoga breathing one night and explain to her how to relax her muscles bit by bit. I got a teacher involved. Helped a lot. This teacher offered kind words of support and encouragement. My daughter walked out to the car that day actually smiling.

Eventually, though, my search led, not surprisingly, to books. Don't all good, worthwhile searches lead to books? LOVE BOOKS.

The book my daughter immediately connected with was a little gem called DEALING WITH THE STUFF THAT MAKES LIFE TOUGH, The 10 Things That Stress Girls Out and How to Cope with Them by Jill Zimmerman Rutledge, M.S.W., LCSW.

Any book that recommends making brownies, lighting scented candles, and giving yourself a homemade facial is okay by me. Don't worry, there's more practical advice and good information in the book as well. "Ingenious Tip#1: The Shoe-Box Solution" on page 43 is highly recommended. But who can argue with brownies?

We settled for a little chamomile tea with honey and a scented candle on my daughter's dresser one evening, and it certainly helped the mood.

Things are improving. My daughter, I believe, has rounded the corner. Life is feeling much more balanced for everyone in the household. And I am left with a couple thoughts from this journey.

1. I did this originally for my daughter, but I have learned so much for myself. These tools can carry over to anyone. It just took my daughter's situation to make me realize what a major role stress plays in all our lives.

2. I am blown away by all people who care about preteen and teenaged kids. I was warmed to see friends and teachers eagerly step forward to help. One mom overheard me talking to another mom about my daughter's anxiety and immediately asked, "What can I do to help?"

And the books. The books are so thoughtfully written. There's a wealth of talented people out there concerned about the kids in our society. Amazing. Comforting.

Which reminds me, another book, 33 THINGS EVERY GIRL SHOULD KNOW, Stories, Songs, Poems, and Smart Talk by 33 Extraordinary Women edited by Tonya Bolden has been a good book to read aloud with my daughter.

Add a few scented candles, tea, and homemade brownies, and I think we've got ourselves a nice evening ahead of us...

The Road Best Not Taken

2009-09-14T20:35:00.000-07:00

I need a scalpel. I've never actually used one before, but there are quite a few bumps and irregularities on my skin that I'd love to lop off and send in for further investigation. I also think they should make some sort of at-home biopsy collection kit that you can put your samples into, and a lab that will test the stuff you send in. How cool would THAT be? Strange, Obama has not returned my calls about including this as part of the national health care package.

There is probably some sort of medical word for my kind of crazy. It's not like I've actually DONE anything. I'm just a tired mom with a history of skin cancer and skin irregularities who really needs to find the time to see a doctor. I know at-home scalpel and biopsy kits would not be a smart mainstream product. I get that some idiot consumer would send in a finger or kidney or ex-husband's something-or-other and ruin it for the rest of us. No need to call in the authorities... see... I'm picking up the phone right now to call my dermatologist...

Just so you know, I've been warned that it would be best NOT to discuss certain topics here. A good friend of mine tried to explain to me that people would be afraid to buy my books and allow small children to read them if I disclose every strange thought and poorly-made parenting decision (planned for my next blog topic) in a public forum such as this. The same friend explained that while SHE thinks I'm funny - albeit highly unusual in some of my thought processes - she's not sure book-buying parents of toddlers would always agree. She hinted that blog topics of this nature would have the exact OPPOSITE effect of helping book sales.

I probably should have disclosed to my poor friend that telling a writer what not to write will almost always have the exact OPPOSITE desired effect. Dire warnings of horrible consequences make untouchable topics irresistible to writers. It's like a magnetic, self-destructive pull... can't... stop... myself...

Okay, time to hide the sharp objects and move on.

I'm Screening My Calls

2009-09-03T12:01:00.000-07:00

Dear Caller:

Please don't take it personally, but I am screening my calls. It's not that I don't like you. Well, there's a small chance that that is the case, but most likely I just need to know where your call fits on my priority list in that moment in time.

If you're my Agent/Editor/Publisher, I promise I'll trample kittens and babies to get to the phone.

I'll drop an overflowing laundry basket in a second to take a call from an old friend. If I talked to you an hour ago, I may put the laundry first. Not always. Just sometimes.

Even old friends (those IN CRISES not included in this statement) need to wait if I don't want to interrupt good writing Mojo. Writing Mojo is delicate and hard to hold on to. There's nothing like the anguish of breaking good writing Mojo to answer a call from the teen clothing store at the mall. Instant Mojo neutralizer can be found in the insanely cheerful prerecorded message - "HI! IT'S JESSICA FROM JUSTICE AND I WANT TO TELL YOU ABOUT OUR 40% OFF SALE..." Argggggggg! Someone please snuff out Jessica and her happy, happy, voice. Please.

Usually, there is some sort of event that triggers a full-blown screening. The latest? My mother-in-law has failed her driver's test. She is 74 and is not functioning very well, mentally or physically. Everyone is thrilled she failed. Everyone except my mother-in-law. She is not thrilled at all. Her stubbornness has overruled any common sense she may still have left. She wants to drive, dammit.

Some of the driver's test questions she answered incorrectly were:

When do you need to look behind you while driving your vehicle? Unfortunately, she did not select the answer that included, "backing up and changing lanes."

When entering the freeway and traffic is moving 35 mph, you should drive at what speed? 35 mph is the correct answer, by the way. She checked off 25 mph. I'm shocked a road rage incident hasn't finished her off before any one of her many illnesses.

She thought it was okay to drive a little bit drunk. She also checked the box indicating it was okay to drive OFF THE ROAD to pass another vehicle. Holy crap.

She has recruited me as her personal assistant and driving tutor. I don't want to do it, really. But she is persistent. And she is calling, and calling, and calling.

So if you are trying to get ahold of me, please, just leave a message and I really will get back to you. Unless you're my mother-in-law, then I'd suggest taking a nice walk followed by bed rest.

Photo Rejects

2009-08-30T15:24:00.000-07:00

I've been going through my iphoto library looking for family photos to frame for my "new" house. While sorting through vacation smiles and school concerts, I occasionally find an odd photo in the mix. Many are blog rejects - photos I took but then later had second thoughts about posting them. Rejected blog photos fall into one of two categories:

1. Completely uninteresting, even though I obviously found it amusing at one point in time.

2. Too mean. (If you're only here to see the mean ones, read no further, I value my life.)

Welcome to my first photo exhibition titled REJECTS:

"Cabbage Soup"

The story being that I went on the nasty Cabbage Soup Diet for a week. I was over the diet fast. Over the possible blog topic even faster.

"Barbecued Turkey"

Somehow, doing this made me proud. I changed my mind around the time I actually sampled the end result. Blech. The sausages were for my kids, who had the good sense to pass on the turkey and the double good sense to pass on the resulting foot-high pile of smoked turkey burritos. Still in my freezer. There's also something mildly x-rated about this photo.

"Little Dog Smelling Big Dog Butt"

Dog sitting blog. That's pretty much the whole story. I couldn't even get a good photo out of it.

Now that I think about it, Little Dog did take a big dump on my daughter's bed on the second-to-last day. But the only person who seemed to care was my daughter. And that crabby lady that does our laundry.

"Rabbit Eating Lettuce"

For a brief moment I was amused by the fact that my seven bunnies had to run around a dirt yard (the lack of vegetation being their own fault) and be tortured by my thriving inaccessible caged garden. Full-blown fwuffy bunny wabbit torture. This may be a subject matter of interest only to me. Plus, the little stinkers dug a hole and annihilated my entire garden two weeks later.

"Fly Tape"

So, someone left the back door open on a hot summer day and a swarm of flies took up residence in my kitchen. I hung half a dozen fly strips. It was disgusting. My kids and I all took guesses on how many flies we would catch in the first 24 hours. Erika won - she guessed 70 and we caught 77. Somehow I thought I could work it into a blog topic. Nope.

I should mention that if you click on the photos they will enlarge. Especially spectacular for the turkey and fly photos. Do it. I insist.

MEAN PHOTOS: Most of my mean photos involve family. The very same family that I still want talking to me at the end of the day. These photos are not shown, but are reserved for possible blackmail purposes if I lose control of the fort.

"The Rash"

My mother-in-law was hospitalized with a severe allergic reaction last December. The full-body rash (and eventual full-body peel) was AWESOME. Indescribable. Her daughter and I took pictures of her bumpy, lumpy, multicolored, rashy legs with our cell phones and then sent the images to my computer as well as to a few close friends. I've shared the rash photos with complete strangers on the bleachers at my kid's gymnastics center. I told you, they are IMPRESSIVE. I draw the line at posting them online and they are most certainly NOT a candidate for my family photo wall. But if you see me hanging out at a coffee shop with my laptop, please do ask to see them.

"Mom, How Could You???"

Also in the MEAN category are funny photos of my kids at any age. I embarrass them enough without even trying. I pride myself on recognizing that this could potentially fall into an unforgivable category. Some of these photos WILL be hung on my family photo wall, though. They own me that much, at least.

Our New House

2009-08-19T05:47:00.000-07:00

I'm pretend moving. I'm undergoing some Significant Life Stress and I can't focus. So I've decided it would be in my best interest to move from my tiny 1,300 square foot cluttered, lived-in home to an adorable sparse little cottage filled with nothing but charm... and happy kids... and warm comfy beds. You get the picture.

And I'm tired of stuff. Stuff, meaning, papers on my dining table, shoes scattered across my living room, cabinets filled with Useful Items we don't use, and hidden piles of things that go crunch underfoot at night. Stuff. And at the end of a crappy day, dramatically flinging myself on top of an unmade bed covered in laundry lacks the emotional release I am looking for. So-over-stuff.

I'm taking this pretend move thing quite seriously. "Honey, do we want to bring these chipped coffee mugs to the new house? What about the waffle maker?" My husband Lee is playing along. He has either resigned himself to living with a delusional writer, or he's a little afraid of me. Or both. I'm truly doing a massive throw-away of our belongings. Of course, I have to secretly throw away my kids' stuff while they are not looking. They haven't noticed. Or they've resigned themselves. Or they're a little afraid.

I bought paint. Three cans of interior semi-gloss "barefoot in the sand" color paint. My new house is going to be a bright beige and a little shiny on the inside, like me.

I'm framing family photos. I will hang these photos on my newly painted walls one day soon. I'm liking this new house already. My new house is going to have freshly painted white baseboards and no footprints on the walls. I don't know about the people who lived in this house before it became new. I mean, I can see how hand prints on walls would come about. But footprints? Rumor has it that a gymnast once lived here. Rumor has it that the same gymnast will be living in the new house, too. Sheesh, I'm not giving away everything. Kids and husband can stay.

We don't have an official moving date, but the new house should be ready for occupation within the next few weeks. Already, I've marked our territory with a single freshly painted wall. Bright beige and a little bit shiny. Barefoot in the sand.

Tween the pages of books...

2009-08-01T20:14:00.000-07:00

I've been diligent with my summer reading and I've prioritized acquiring new books over acquiring new anything else. I'm wearing last year's T-shirt collection but I'm still having a pretty darn good summer. My bookshelves are overflowing. My brain is evolving. My children are left to fight things out without my bothersome interference. I'm busy reading.

It's not until I lend a book out, that I realize I have not been entirely kind to my books. To lend it, one must first find it. And as I dig it out from under my bed or retrieve it from the floor of my car, it invariably dawns on me that I am a horrible book owner. How was I to know banana slugs eat books left out in the garden overnight? No harm done, really, the book was still readable and thoroughly enjoyed. And I'm sure David Sedaris would forgive me.

Between the pages of my books lies an untold story. MIDDLESEX attended two weeks of soccer camp and has the grass stains and popsicle smears to prove it. Good book, but I was having trouble focusing. Could have been all the artificial flavors and sugar from the popsicles. Or all the Greek heredity stuff. My own family on my grandfather's side descends from the island of Lesbos. I checked my daughter for an Adam's apple about three quarters of the way through the book. Silly me.

THE HUNGER GAMES traveled to some of my favorite local coffee shops, and the pages are rippled and browned from latte spills and jammed with crumbs from a spontaneous pumpkin muffin splurge. I was going through a manic phase and actually cleaned house while reading. Great book, with enough action to double the effects of an ordinary caffeinated beverage. Great book, a little freaky, but good. Did I mention, great book?

Nothing like a dose of reality to bring you down to earth. Especially the kind of reality only good fiction can serve up. THIRTEEN REASON WHY never left my bed, and the only stains you'll find are from tears, splattered over the last thirty pages or so. I felt like a different person for days after reading that one. Outstanding book.

I'm in the middle of THE GUERNSEY LITERARY AND POTATO PEEL PIE SOCIETY and I'm finding that the enjoyment factor goes up significantly if read while nibbling a Hershey's Almond bar while curled up in a certain favorite comfy chair. Already, there's an embarrassing amount of chocolate crumbles between the pages. Hopefully the next reader won't mind.

So, friends, I am apologizing for all the strange and tasty things you'll find between the pages of my books. Next time I sit in a waiting room and watch a toddler scribble and tear the pages of a picture book I spent years writing, I'll try and remember that books are to be enjoyed as well as cherished. And that tackling two-year-olds is strictly forbidden.

Magic Potions and Keyboard Trolls

2009-07-25T08:05:00.000-07:00

I have one hundred wandering hogs that want to go to school, two devious young kids staging a worldwide bedtime revolt, and an autistic kid named Joshua - all with the same problem. They can't make the leap from my manuscript pages to a book. I love to write. I love creating new stories. I love being an author. But so many of my little darlings, my daring story attempts, are unfinished, in need of repair, less than perfect. Rejected.

It's like Harry Potter in potions class. If you don't have the right mix of ingredients, in the exact amounts, you won't get the desired result, the magical POOF! Instead you are stuck with a messy potion gone wrong, resulting in purple hair, or a twelve-legged toad, or worse, some nasty snot-filled troll-like thing stomping on your keyboard. I hate keyboard trolls.

The problem is, there is no formula for a perfect manuscript. Even the half-blood prince had to write notes in the margins of the flawed potion book. How many of you were taken aback by the fact that the textbook instructions were not 100% accurate? That the wizard still needed to improvise, add a little of this, a little of that, to get the formula to work? You can follow every piece of instruction, every bit of advice and still no POOF! It seems a bit unfair. It's almost like an actual writer came up with that story element. Oh, wait.

Of course, some stories will magically POOF! and reveal themselves as something special, but just not to all people. When it comes to the craft of writing, POOFS! are subjective. Some written works have a wide range of appeal - like the heavily desired universal mass market bestseller POOF! The magic formula for that is hidden away in the same underground vault that holds the ingredients list for Coke and the original recipe for KFC.

I'm often asked, "How do I get published?" Published writers still struggle to get published. While many new writers suck, and I can say this because I hugely sucked when I first started, there are plenty of good, unpublished writers out there, too. The phrase I hear over and over at conferences is, "If you have a great, well-written story, you'll get published." I'm not convinced. A more accurate statement may be, "Don't expect to get published unless you start with a great story, write incredibly well, understand voice, pace your story properly, and appeal to your reader. Be unique. Know your market well enough so that you are not writing long when short is in, or quiet when, um, I guess loud is selling. Poetry potions are known to have explosive and sometimes fatal consequences to the inexperienced. Or so I am told."

Oh, but there's more, "Next, make sure the editor reading your work 'gets' your humor and sense of rhythm and thought process. Oh, and your book must have a point. And those reading your story must find your point a worthy point, and not a point that was recently made by someone else, or a point that has been made too many times. Or worse, a point already made by someone who won An Important Award or has the secret recipe for the universal you-know-what kind of POOF! Don't make your point too obvious. Avoid waving a four-foot neon foam pointy finger resembling those used by over-zealous baseball fans to make your point. And, of course, none if this matters if your work doesn't scream I WILL SELL!!! SELL!!! SELL!!! to those considering it for publication." You get my point.

Day-to-day writing is about growth and hard work and dealing with pesky keyboard trolls that result from poorly concocted potions. As annoying as they may be, do not kill them all off. There are trolls that shred manuscripts to bits with their nasty sharp teeth, forcing you to start over. Then there are the trolls that throw wild midnight parties on your unattended pages, leaving them scattered, unorganized, in need of massive repair. Some trolls just nibble the edges of your work, forcing you to constantly search for what may be missing . Trickster trolls are the most challenging. They dance on your keyboard, adding unnecessary words and phrases, forcing you to read your work over and over until your eyes are permanently crossed. Sometimes, overly-enthusiastic trolls with no common sense at all send your work to industry professionals before it is ready, when it is filled with horrible errors and flaws. You have my permission to stomp those trolls to death.

I mustn't forget to mention the nasty, dreaded, keyboard trolls that actually pee in your keyboard and make it look like a cup of spilled coffee. Those trolls, you can also do away with. In fact, I've got one jammed in my garbage disposal at this very moment.

Smart Kids, Dumb Crimes

2009-07-18T19:09:00.000-07:00

Both my kids were early writers and readers. I'd like to be proud of the fact, but sadly their quick minds and eager hands soon led them to the less-than-desirable criminal activities of graffiti and vandalism. Crimes they committed within the walls of their own home. So far, I have not pressed charges. Yet.

One of the first acts of graffiti both my kids involved themselves with was marking their territory with their names. They'd execute neatly printed and properly spelled first names, and sometimes even last names, in marker, on my walls. In ballpoint pen, my son carved his full name along the side of a brand new bunk bed - as seen in the photo. In green and purple crayon, my daughter illustrated over the illustrations of a favorite book. The first time I came across hallway graffiti, I yelled at the top of my lungs, "Who wrote ERIKA on the wall?!?" Of course, there was no mystery as to who wrote ERIKA on the wall. Erika. Now, if my kids were really smart, they would have thought to write something like DADDY or PRINCESS THE DOG WAS HERE. But, no, they always chose their own name. Not just once, but multiple times. And then they would act surprised when I'd know who the culprit was. What a disappointment. My kids just don't have the clever young criminal minds required for a successful life of crime.

And they are terrible liars. I want to give them some practical lying tips, but I just can't cross that parenting line. "Alex, honey, if you want to effectively lie to me about hitting your sister, try wiping that smirk off your face and take your tone down a few octaves." Either they will figure it out themselves, or I am going to have some pretty easy teenagers to bust.

They don't cover their tracks well, either. I found a spatula and eight forks half-heartedly buried in the backyard. They left broken bits of bunny rabbit lawn ornaments on the patio. Hard not to notice when you don't wear shoes. And who could miss the patio furniture, devoid of cushions, stacked haphazardly up the side of the house to an open window. There's always little muddy footprints left in the flooded bathroom, and hand print smears amongst the spilt milk and cookie crumbs. They are fooling no one. Obviously, they lack the knowledge most of us have acquired from watching crime-scene mysteries on late night TV.

Instead, my kids think I am freakishly smart when it comes to domestic crime solving. I give them the age-old knowing LOOK and try not to smile when they pile on the lame excuses. Ah, to feel like the all-knowing powerful parent. But I am left to wonder if my young are just toying with me and that perhaps I need to dig deeper. Past the spatulas and the ruined forks, to whatever else they may have buried in the backyard.

Lulu Needs a Boyfriend

2009-07-10T06:18:00.000-07:00

Lulu is my loyal and opinionated writing companion. It says so on the jacket of my books, so it must be true. Though lately, her enthusiastic - and not very melodic - early morning singing has banished her to my front porch. The deciding factor was her appalling table manners that recently evolved to the unrestrained flinging of food. I think she learned it from my kids. Lulu will be the first to remind you, though, she is a full grown mature cockatiel girl.

Hanging out with the wildlife on my porch seems to have sparked Lulu's interest in more mature activities. Like egg-laying. She is laying like crazy. Up to five eggs a week and about a dozen per month. I told my husband the other day, "Hey, Lee, I think Lulu needs a boyfriend." Lee peered into the cage and rolled his eyes, "Don't even go there."

My dear spouse was not falling for even a half-joking comment that could loosely be interpreted as an excuse for bringing a new pet into the house. New pets are not permitted around here. It's the law according to Marital Code #11.WEALREADYHAVE13PETS which states that if I bring one more damn pet into the house said spouse will leave the premises immediately and may or may not return depending on the degree of the violation. A small pony is definitely off limits. I've asked.

So Lulu is stuck laying eggs that will never turn into baby Lulus. Which, honestly, is for best best. Lulu would make a terrible mother. Upon laying an egg, she sits on it for about an hour, and then rolls it out of her bed and onto the floor of her cage. Some crack open, most just sit there looking like, well, like abandoned eggs. It's not a pretty sight.

My friend Peggy came over one day and we fried one just for fun. It was cute. A Teeny-tiny itty-bitty fried egg. Not to eat, of course. We were just bored and curious and we wanted to freak Lee out a little bit. It was Peggy's idea.

Lulu has taken to egg-laying as a form of communication. If I buy her a new toy or fill her little bird bath, she'll get to work laying me an egg. If I have a busy week and don't spend time with her, she goes on egg hiatus. I'll admit, when Peggy and I cracked open that egg I was hoping to find a little message written in tiny scratched-out letters on a rolled up piece of newspaper on the inside. It might say, "Thanks for the delicious honey seed ring you bought me, it was fabulous!" There was no note. Just in case you were wondering. I was a little disappointed, too.

At first I was shocked by Lulu's lack of mothering instinct, at her appalling disregard for the safety of her eggs. But I think by laying these eggs and shoving them out of her nest, Lulu is sending me a message. Or she's just gloating. It's dawning on me that perhaps she is just as annoyed as I am now that summer is here and the human kids in the house are behaving in a less than ideal manner. Lulu likes the porch. And, I'm just guessing here, but I'm thinking she does not appreciate the musical qualities of "Mom, he's copying me!" followed by the faint, "Mom, she's copying me." Followed by preteen hysterical screams.

Perhaps if I stopped clearing out the eggs on the bottom of her cage, she'd eventually be able to spell out the words "Thank you for getting me the hell out of your house" in little neat rows of eggs, punctuated by bird droppings. Or something like that.

Confessions of an anti-shopper

2009-07-02T06:20:00.000-07:00

Not only do I hate to shop, but I'm cheap. I'm not mother-in-law cheap. Lonna reuses her plastic bags by rinsing them in water and hanging them in her garage on a clothes line next to her ancient undergarments. Now that's impressively cheap. Plastic bags, when purchased on sale, are just not expensive enough to warrant that level of effort and organization. Plus, my garage is busy doing other things right now. Like housing a family of skunks.

Now that times are a bit tough, I'm hearing of how people are looking for ways to cut costs. My husband and I are a bit smug, in that we live pretty simply. Simple living allows us to dig deep and come up with the funds when it's time to throw a birthday party for one of the kids or travel for my daughter's gymnastics.

My two big money savers have more to do with what I won't do as opposed to what I will. I refuse to shop unless absolutely necessary. And I refuse to fix broken stuff in my house. Why? because it just breaks again. I remember calling Sears about my new refrigerator that had died without any warning. When I called, I asked the Sears repair operator why my new refrigerator would live such a short life. "Your refrigerator isn't new, it's eight years old. That's about how long they are supposed to last." I was appalled. It was new to me. Aside from my toaster oven, that was the last appliance I ever bought.

Cheap confessions:

* We have basic cable on a dated TV. We don't TIVO, in fact the whole process of TIVOing is a little unnerving. You won't find us at the video store every week, either.

* I own two pairs of shoes. Sandals and sneakers. I've owned both for close to two years. I usually replace them at about the three-year mark.

* Manicures, no. Supercuts, yes. I'm the only member of my family that splurges every year or two for a salon haircut.

* My oven has been broken for almost a year - which explains the toaster oven splurge. My dishwasher requires that I wash my dishes prior to loading them since it doesn't really wash anything, it just hot-bakes leftover food items onto my dinnerware. My clothes dryer won't stop until I open the door. With no buzzer to warn me of a certain time commitment, my dryer is happy to chug along all day. I won't let it though, because I realize that sparse homes go up in flames just as quickly as the fancy ones.

* My microwave gets its own bullet point. The handle has broken off and the front plastic panel is loose. Don't worry, my kids are not allowed to use it.

* I'm a cheap date. We almost never eat out - fast food included. Rarely do we get take-out, perhaps once a month. And when I say take-out, I'm not talking about fancy chinese food. Five dollar pizzas and sandwiches, baby, that's what I'm talking about.

* My car. My husband's car. I'm the one with the ten-year-old Saturn practically GIVEN to me by my sister. That's the same Saturn that has a trunk door that slams on my face. The upholstery is unraveling. It also has a broken skylight and one window that will open but not close. The bum window is where my daughter sits. I'm able to forcefully pull it up as needed. The alarm is broken, but I'm not worried.

Compared to my husband, I drive the fancy car. He has a beloved '94 4-runner. I can hear it squeaking and groaning a good quarter mile before I see it. Love that vehicle. With its hand crank windows, manual door locks and ten-year-old Cheerios shoved in the cracks of the seats. Both our babies were brought home from the hospital in that car.

Enough of my cheapness. Yes, I can go on and on of my sticker-shock horror when I have to go and buy $50 in new underpants - Hanes packs on sale, of course. I learned the drawbacks to cheap unknown-brand underpants in college. Won't go there.

The new cars, new appliances. They can wait. I got a call yesterday from a friend who is throwing a 50th wedding anniversary party for her parents. She got the supplies, to include table clothes and decorations, new and unused, off Craigslist for $15. She had a moment of pause when she found out the previous owners hadn't used the supplies because the husband of the celebrated union had died on the day of the party.

What I find most impressive about that story, is that the family of the deceased actually posted and sold that stuff for a mere $15 bucks on Craigslist. Now that's keeping your head about things.

And I guess now is as good as time as any to let my mom know that the new packages of unopened underpants (good quality Hanes Brand, even) that she bought for my grandpa right before he died were not worn by my husband. Ever. They were donated. But thanks for thinking of us.

Tomato Wars

2009-06-13T06:41:00.000-07:00

My grown-up version of the War of Tomatoes is a long cry from the version that played out when I was a kid. My sisters and I used to collect boxes of rotten fruit from the compost pile and meet our neighborhood rivals in a nearby field. While hiding behind shields of stolen garbage can lids, we'd chuck moldy tomatoes and every other kind of nastiness we could get our hands on over to the pack of mean neighborhood boys. It wasn't long before word spread and the Meng girls were both feared and respected. My mom thought the neighbors were crazy when they'd call her and complain that her daughters had stolen their garbage can lids. "Not my daughters," she'd fiercely defend us on the phone. My mom, my impetus for the loyal and dedicated Mama Hen in my book. She'd roll her eyes when the neighbors complained that their big beaf-eatin' hearty boys were afraid of her girls. My mom nearly plucked us when we finally 'fessed up to the garbage can lids over some family dinner many, many years later. Smart chicks, us, we waited till we were big enough to outrun her and her wooden spoon.

My grown-up Tomato War involves growing tomatoes, not throwing them. It started fifteen years ago when my mother-in-law came over and saw my tomato patch. She was startled and disturbed that my tomatoes were bigger than her tomatoes. She'd been growing tomatoes for years, and here I was in my twenties kicking her prideful butt in the tomato department.

Side note: My mother-in-law, Lonna, is a wee bit competitive. She'll call to ask me what I am bringing to a family dinner and then MAKE THE SAME THING on purpose, just so people can compare our cooking. In my poor youth, when she'd make HER pasta salad, she'd put in food I could never afford, like real crab meat. Imagine cooking all day for your in-laws only to open the front door and find your mother-in-law standing on your porch holding a hot lasagna - her rendition of the main course you have in the oven. Call her on it, and she'd become flustered, bewildered, hurt. The confused act. Now that she really IS confused, with all her illnesses and stroke stuff, I can never tell if she is just messing with me or is really out there.

Back to the tomatoes. After that first tomato moment, Lonna began flattering me and my lovely tomatoes. She wanted to know what date I put them in the ground, what soil I was using. I naively told her everything. The following year was a busy one for me and I got my tomatoes in late. Lonna's tomatoes flourished that year. Boy, did she rub my nose in it. "I planted in April, you know," she'd say. "You plant yours too late! You need better soil!" Later, during harvest, she'd leave bags of her bountiful crop on my doorstep. I'd tell her I had my own tomatoes, but she'd just shake her head say, "It's okay, you have some mine. Mine taste good."

Meaning mine don't? My mother-in-law has perfected her ability to look innocent while insulting those she loves. She once explained to me that in the world there were "smart" girls and "pretty" girls. Either you got to be smart OR pretty. She gave me a serious nod, "You smart girl!" Then she went on to explain that her daughter Laura was a pretty girl. I later gave Laura a sour look in the back bedroom - the back bedroom is where we hide when her mom comes to visit. "Your mom just called me ugly!" I complained. Laura just shrugged, "Well, she called ME stupid!"

Back to the tomatoes. By year three it was all-out Tomato War. I come from Kansas farm stock on my dad's side and I take this stuff pretty seriously. Most years, I win the the Tomato War. It's the best subversive mother-in-law torture I have. Take that, Lonna, not only am I smart but I also have better tomatoes. Some years, Lonna beats me. I accept those years graciously. And plot for the next year.

This year, I AM WINNING! I know Lonna is dying, but still. I am having the best tomato year EVER! I caged my tomatoes in one long raised bed, using a perimeter wire enclosure only. Got them in early. Perfected the soil and watering method.

I know, I know, I know, she's dying. But that hasn't stopped her from making a tremendous tomato effort herself this year. She can't drive anymore, what else is she going to do? It may actually be close. Usually I dread her visits, but last week I looked forward to her visit. How do ya like THEM TOMATOES, lady. HA! I know my tomatoes are looking good, because she pretended not to notice, until I repeatedly pointed them out.

I know, she's dying and all. But this is the kind of shit that keeps her alive.

Ya Baby, She's Got The Sick Grandma Blues

2009-06-10T13:54:00.000-07:00

The challenges of family life are often reflected in the writing of children. My own kids do this quite often, and I always learn something new about them when I read through their school writing assignments. I argued with my daughter at the beginning of the school year, when as part of a class assignment she wanted to pick as her family slogan, "My family is like a roller coaster. We have our ups and downs." We hadn't met the teacher yet and I didn't want my daughter to give her the wrong (or right) impression of us. At least not yet. My no-censorship ideals eventually kicked in and I let it go. I guess that is now our official family slogan.

A couple of years ago, I found myself unexpectedly immersed inside my daughter's head while reading her writing. I was standing in the middle of a shopping mall during a local school-wide book fair, thumbing through a book of poetry that my daughter, at age nine, had written. She wrote about the death of our beloved family dog, something that had occurred only two months earlier. She wrote about how much she missed her. The poem was beautiful. And sad. I just stood there in the middle of the pre-holiday hustle and bustle of our local mall, with focused shoppers passing me by, holding her book and bawling my eyes out. Tika really was a great dog. But the tears were not for the dog so much as for my daughter. How could I not have noticed the depth of her grief?

This past winter, my kids were swept up in the whirlwind and chaos of having a disabled grandparent take over our lives. There was no way to prepare them ,or protect them, from the stress of the situation. During open house at her school last month, my husband and I stood mesmerized by a poem she had tacked to the wall. We were stunned at first, then our irrepressible lack of maturity took over and we start laughing. Only those who have lived it can fully appreciate her take on the Sick Grandma Blues.

At Least Her Hair Looked Great

2009-06-03T21:11:00.000-07:00

Unlike other big moments in life, the good thing about hair mistakes is that you will always have a do-over. You may have to wait a while for a Very Bad Hair Mistake to grow out. But it should eventually grow out. Many of us learn quite quickly that cutting ones own hair usually results in a Very Bad Hair Mistake. And then there are those of us who are prone to forgetting the Don't Cut rule and must never keep scissors in the bathroom lest the temptation overrides good judgement. I'm a little forgetful.

Today is my friend Christian's wedding anniversary. We've know each other since we were twelve, and I've seen her through many memorable life moments - to include the revealing of one exceptionally bad perm she got in the 1980s. That moment was soon overshadowed by the home perm SHE gave ME (at my insistence) that left me looking like a deranged modern-day Mozart. Seriously, though, I've been a part of lots of good stuff in her life, too, like her college and law school graduations.

I know she has been married nine years because I gave birth to my son a few days after her wedding. Christian, the kind friend that she is, and knowing how pregnant I was going to be on her special day, arranged a beautiful wedding twenty minutes from where I live. She also, at my request, did not have me in her wedding party. It was pretty much a no-brainer. Who would want a clumsy full-term pregnant lady who is prone to embarrassing situations anywhere near the sweet, delicate bride? - who, by this time, I'm happy to report, had a great hair stylist and nothing to worry about in the hair department.

I arrived at her wedding in all my nine-month pregnant glory only to find out, in the parking lot by another friend, that I had the time wrong and I had actually MISSED the entire ceremony. I felt horrible. I didn't have the guts to tell Christian. When the wedding photos arrived, I sat with her as she went through them. She kept asking, "Where are you? I can't find you." I told her I was hiding behind the photographer because I was so hugely pregnant. Guilt. When she asked how I liked the poem her friend had read, I gushed over it. Guilt.

I did finally tell her the truth - years later. I was still pretty upset. I didn't want to ruin any part of her wedding memories. Fortunately, she was understanding and had a good laugh. She left a message on my answering machine today, still laughing about it. That makes one of us.

You So Stingy?

2009-06-02T22:27:00.000-07:00

My mother-in-law, Lonna, is not doing so well. She is dying. Though, as my husband likes to remind me, we're all dying. Her heart is just not functioning very well and it can stop at any moment. Lonna still has a bit of fight left in her and this situation can go on indefinitely.

We're all trying to help her, but we can't always figure out what she wants. She is a hard person to understand for a number of reasons. She has aphasia from a stroke nine years ago, and so she can't remember the correct words for many things. Also, english is not her first language and she has a heavy accent. Because she is from Taiwan, there are also some cultural differences in communication.

I am always asking her if she needs anything at the store. The answer is almost always no. But if I check her refrigerator, it is either empty or filled with rotting food. If her daughter asks her if she needs anything, Lonna will demand to be taken to three different grocery stores in one afternoon. It is nice not being the daughter.

Being the daughter-in-law has its moments, too. I remember once, after a huge family dinner, I was serving slices of cake and I asked Lonna if she wanted some and she, at first, said no. Then, when I asked her if she was sure, she said maybe. Perhaps a little piece, I suggested. She told me yes, but just a very, very small, tiny piece, tiny piece. She showed me with her fingers held just a sliver apart.

I cut her a very small piece and put it on a plate and brought it to her. She took it and clucked her tongue, held it up for everyone to see and proclaimed in a loud voice, "OH! You so STINGY?"

I'm a Handy Girl

2009-05-29T06:44:00.000-07:00

If you're familiar with my book TOUGH CHICKS, then it shouldn't come as a surprise to you that I like to build things. I'm better at destroying things, but building comes in at a close second. My latest project - a retaining wall! The hard part was not the wall itself, laying and leveling bricks is easy cakes. Re-grading this section of my yard and putting in drainage was the hard part. It was a lot of digging. Of the three chick characters in my book, we have Penny, Polly and Molly. I'm Molly - the one who likes mud. Over the past couple of months, I've been waking up early, sucking down coffee, and DIGGING! Let me make this clear - no one helped me. I've learned to not let my husband, Lee, breeze by at the final stages of my projects and place a few bricks or nails, therefor allowing him to take partial credit for the end result after I've done all the backbreaking work.

I'm the one who has painted every wall in my house, planted every plant in the yard. Lee does help at times. As you may recall, I'm accident prone. I've scalded half the skin off my hand just making a cup of tea. Out in the yard, I've crushed my fingers with an erratic ax butt and dropped numerous things on my poor, abused toes. For obvious reasons, Lee is in charge of ALL cutting power tools and anything that requires going up high on a ladder.

I'll admit, when we first got married I had delusional fantasies of the two of us fixing up our little fixer-upper house. Little did I know, I did not marry a handy dude. He hates working in the yard and doing any kind of domestic repairs or maintenance. He loves going to to the gym and working out, so he certainly does not object to activity in general. We still live in our little unfixed fixer-upper. It has provided me with an abundance of projects and injuries and marital spats over the years. Who can ask for more?

Boring, boring, broken toe

2009-05-25T16:09:00.000-07:00

I broke my toe AGAIN. I know I promised to document some of my injuries here, but a broken toe just isn't very spectacular.

To make this up to you, here's a few more interesting injuries from my past:

* I once stepped on a pencil and had about an inch of it break off into the bottom of my foot. This required surgery five months later to remove a big piece of lead that was left deep in my arch.

* I walked into a door in the middle of the night, giving myself a black eye and my poor husband a bad reputation at the emergency room - they didn't believe my story and the doctors and nurses kept handing me business cards and telling me to call them if I ever needed to talk.

* I slipped on ice on our deck and landed full-force on the back of my head. I saw a flash of white light on impact and thought I was going to go "down the tunnel" into my afterlife. Didn't happen, though my eyes dilate different sizes now.

* I broke my baby toe not long ago and my toe was turned completely sideways, forming a right angle to my foot. I have a mom-friend who can verify this.

* I stabbed the inside of my ear too hard with a Q-tip and had blood pouring out of my ear for two hours. I refused to go to the emergency room for such an idiot move. Instead I ate a cheeseburger at my favorite restaurant while holding a napkin to my ear. I like cheeseburgers much more than adequate hearing.

Another Dead Cat

2009-05-25T07:32:00.000-07:00

My close friend Christian is always suggesting that I write about some of my unusual life experiences. My life is not unusual. My life is quite boring. Weird things just "happen" around me. Disturbing things that I find inappropriately funny. Christian finds them funny, too. Our spouses never find them funny. Usually it's just the two of us, two funny girls, laughing at not funny weird happenings.

The year was 1998. I had a three month old newborn baby. The cat was named Theo, a stray that "found us" many years prior to his sad passing. By the time Theo reached old age, we were done bringing senior citizen pets to the vet for extreme life-prolonging care. If you plan on growing old in my house, be prepared. No more kitty chemotherapy (Hobie Cat), forget the bagged fluids injected daily for failing kidneys (Maynard). Old animals are left to slowly fade in the comfort of their little beds. Cheaper, and everyone seems happier. I'm not cruel. The suffering ancients are put to sleep at the vet. Except for the rabbits. Thanks to years of 4-H as a child, I can kill a rabbit with my bare hands.

Theo was very old and we knew he was going to die soon. He was a purebred cream-colored Persian with a flat face. He liked to drool and hump pillows. Theo was getting skinny and slowing down, but still was happy to wander my yard and sleep in the sun. He died smack in the middle of my front lawn. I peeked out the window early one morning and informed my husband of our deceased pet. I asked him to "take care" of it. My husband, Lee, grabbed a shovel, scooped up the cat, and deposited him inside a giant plastic yard waste bag. He tied it securely at the top. And left it on our front lawn.

Knowing my husband, and knowing how he "takes care" of things, I'm pretty sure Theo would have wasted away in that bag indefinitely. It was a warm day, and as things heated up outside, I noticed the bag holding dead Theo was starting to inflate like a giant black balloon. The gas from decomposition. On our front lawn.

So, I called the SPCA to see if I could pay to have them dispose of Theo if I brought him in. What a bargain - only $20 bucks. I packed up the newborn first, put her in the car. I put Theo in the trunk and hit the road. The SPCA was unusually crowded, so I parked about two blocks away. Swinging my baby in her car seat in one hand and my bag-o-dead-cat in the other I marched down the street and through the doors of the little SPCA building. It was filled to capacity. With excited young school-aged children. Lady on the phone didn't say anything about a field trip.

I held bagged Theo up high and patiently waited my turn in line. When I finally got to the counter, I realized that announcing I had a dead cat in the bag might be disturbing to the children. So I leaned forward and whispered to the lady, "I have a dead cat in the bag." She looked confused, so I whispered louder, "In the bag, A DEAD CAT." I lifted it higher and swung it a bit for her to see. She now looked alarmed in addition to confused. I was getting worried. Seriously - she couldn't possibly think I was trying to rob the joint with a baby and a dead cat?

Uncomfortable social situations are my area of expertise. I find myself in a lot of them. I quickly reevaluated and reminded myself to- 1. Make my face look as pleasant and normal as possible. 2. Use a calm, happy, in control voice. 3. Smile, but don't offer too much of a smile. 4. Explain things clearly and quickly. Okay. Normal voice, "I called earlier and I've brought in my dead cat to be disposed of."

Counter lady jumped up and quickly took my cat, then my money. I waded through the curious kids and the glaring chaperones and left the building. Drove home. Called Lee. He saw nothing funny in the situation. Called Christian. Yep, funny. Knew it.

Whuh?

2009-05-17T07:25:00.000-07:00

I found this note on the floor of my eight-year-old son's room. At first I thought my poor child was suffering from extreme self-esteem issues. It turns out, my darling was just writing a little something to tape on the back of some unsuspecting person (his dad was the target, according to his sister) as a joke.

After my initial panic, my instinct was to correct the misspellings. Idiot has an i in it, geek is spelled with a K, not a C. All day is not one word. I curbed that impulse. My husband and I read the note together later and both agreed that the "In conclusion..." part at the end was our favorite. No, my child did not get in trouble. In fact, I haven't told him I found and read this little treat.

I'm the one always telling my kids they can write whatever they want, in any format, for fun. That in writing they can be bad, talk back, do things they can't do in real life. I find bizarre notes and stories around the house quite frequently, and they are not always mine. Every time one of my kids puts pen to paper, I do feel a sense of satisfaction. Even when I teach upper-grade writing groups, I tell the kids to not worry about spelling for my exercises, to just focus on the writing.

So, back to the note. No harm done. I'll just have to remember to start checking my own backside before I leave the house.

Don't Mess With Granny

2009-05-14T07:55:00.000-07:00

Granny is not happy with me. My mom is a fiercely loyal and supportive grandparent to her seven grandkids. I'm not sure what I was thinking when I went and publicly complained about her perfect little firstborn granddaughter. I think I called her a nightmare baby in my last post. Granny was not amused. Granny is worried that I may damage my poor child by telling her what a difficult baby she was.

I do tell my daughter - now 11 - the truth, because I don't want her to be as shocked as I was if and when she is one day a mother. I tell her that as a baby she cried and cried and cried and loved to have me hold her every minute of the day and that it was very hard work. And I tell her it was worth every second because I love her. And that thank goodness she turned out to be such a great kid or we may not have kept her. Kidding. We would have sent her to live with her grandparents. Kidding.

My mom was convinced that I had somehow TRAINED my newborns to not like to be held by anyone but me. Darn, how did she ever find out? Yes, I showed my kids photos of granny as soon as they were born and taught them to scream and fuss whenever they saw her coming (don't ask about my methods). Of course, the plan failed after they got a taste of my mom's unbelievably good homemade cookies and cakes. Now they love granny more than they love me. I should have known. Don't mess with granny, she'll eventually get her revenge.

Depressed Moms and Babies

2009-05-05T09:00:00.000-07:00

Some researcher out there has a bone to pick with mom. It's the week before Mother's Day and have you read the headlines? The article sent out over Reuters? It reads: Babies sleep poorly when mothers are depressed.

I think they have it backwards. If I remember correctly from my own experiences, babies that don't sleep are the cause of depression. At least with this mother. I had horrible babies and horrible depression. My daughter in particular - nightmare baby. She came out screaming and didn't stop for the first year. Hated the car seat, swing, crib, bouncy seat, kind old ladies who smiled at her in the grocery store... pretty much she hated everyone and everything outside of my arms. I was stuck not only having to hold her every minute of the day, but having to walk with her, keeping her in constant motion. If I sat down, the screaming would start. It's not the preferred method for recovering from childbirth.

Within two years, we found out that we were dealing with not just a high-strung, fussy kid, but a child with sensory integration problems. That explained some of the behaviors.

I do remember feeling guilty for having a child that was clearly unhappy. I kept asking myself what I could have possibly done to create such an unhappy baby. Obviously, the other moms knew some secret trick to mothering that I didn't have. I think I successfully overcame my obvious maternal deficiencies by venturing into the realm of homemade organic baby food and buying the latest in educational toys. Or so I like to think.

So, for all the depressed moms out there, I don't think this study is going to be particularly helpful or uplifting. Once again, you are to blame - well, at least your depression is to blame. Keep heart, though. Those fussy babies can turn out to be great, brilliant, wonderful people. I can vouch for that. And I'm pretty sure they'll vouch for me as a good mom.

The research is based on the study of 18 infants. Not a big study. Depressed moms had babies that took, on average, an hour longer to fall asleep. With a group that small, I'm sure it took only one or two screamers to throw that curve way off. My little angel could have kicked butt in that study, not that it was a contest or anything. I wonder if they scored extra points for babies that woke up within an hour after falling asleep.

My advice: Burn the article and have a great Mother's Day. Maybe you'll get a nap.

The Dead Cat - How I Found My Voice

2009-04-24T06:53:00.000-07:00

Voice in writing is a big deal, yet when you read descriptions of voice in instructional books or hear an editor speak at length about it at a conference, its actual meaning and purpose is slightly vague and elusive.

I found my voice at age eighteen while writing about a dead cat and I didn't even know it at the time. It was a class assignment. Actually, the assignment had nothing to do with a dead cat. We were asked to write a descriptive essay. I had already done that exact assignment at least three times in high school, and the thought of having to listen to students read essays about their desktop or bedroom in great detail was enough to make me want to voluntarily put a pencil through my eardrums. No thanks.

I am usually a very quiet, compliant person. But this was my breaking point, this was where I woke up as a writer. I went home and started bitterly typing a descriptive essay about a dead cat squashed in the road in the heat of summer. It was a joke, a farce. I was certain my teacher Anita Wilkins at Cabrillo College would be appalled and not too happy with me.

Instead of banishing me from her classroom, Wilkins used my essay as an example to the class of good writing. I was shocked. She went through and analyzed it for the class, drew out deeper meaning from my rotting, smelling cat carcass. My cat? Now representative of the delicate balance between life and death? Oh my.

Looking back, I now realize that because I let my guard down for the assignment and stopped worrying about what the teacher or reader would think or expect from me, I was able to be myself and find a unique, genuine voice in my writing. I was writing beyond the words on the page. I was writing from my heart, drawing from personal experience, and feeling genuine emotion. Regardless of my strange motivation to do so, I wanted to give the reader a heavy dose of my experience and have her walk in my stinky shoes for just a bit. This was my official birth as a writer. I guess the story was about life and death after all.

I've been stabbed!

2009-04-17T07:06:00.000-07:00

News alert: After suffering a possible career-complicating injury to her right hand, writer Cece Meng is on the mend and can move her fingers and type again. This news was received with mixed emotions from friends, family, and readers of all ages...

As I mention in my blog description, I am prone to unusual injuries and I plan on documenting some of them here. My latest: While doing yard work a few days ago, a very thick, rusty, dirty piece of wire poked into my hand right between my fingers. It sunk in - about 3/4 of an inch deep - straight down between my middle finger and the next biggest one. The wire was about as think as a wire clothes hanger at the dry cleaners. The first thing that popped into my head was that it had been a long time since my last tetanus shot. I had to calculate the exact years in urgent care the next day - it turns out it had been 16 years.

So 24 hours after the poke, I reluctantly drove myself to urgent care because my hand was swelling, red, obviously infected. And I needed that tetanus shot. I guess I also needed two different kinds of antibiotics and a stern lecture on the dangers of puncture wounds - especially in that region of the hand. I can think of worse spots myself, eyeball comes to mind. Doc also described my wound as a stab. Cool. I've been stabbed! Blah, blah, blah, stab wound, blah, blah... pretty much all I remember from the visit was him saying stabbed a lot. It was very distracting and a little bit funny.

Later that night, my husband informed me of his own analysis of the situation - that it wouldn't be all bad if I lost my hand and got a hook, because then the kids would really listen to me. Not even a little bit funny. This should give you some idea of the sympathy I get at home.

I've Been Out-Named

2009-04-12T06:49:00.000-07:00

I'm a big fan of children's book writers Mem Fox and Mo Willams. Cool names, way cool names. Great books, too, by the way. Really great books. Sigh. I want a cool name, too.

Cece seems a little bit cool at first until you find out that it stands for Cecelia June and that I'm named after my sweet Hungarian grandmother. Significantly less cool.

Here are some ideas -

Cece BoBeecie

C.J. Magoo

Cece Rabbithouser

I think I'll stick to writing books and worry about the name later.

A review that made me cry

2009-04-10T21:49:00.000-07:00

Oh gosh. Some of you may have seen it. A nice lady posted a review of Tough Chicks on Amazon that actually made me cry. Well, sniffle a bit. She called Tough Chicks a blessing in disguise and commented on how it reminded her that she does have good kids.

I just about fall over when I see a parent, turning deep red in the face, try and force an apology out of their two-year-old for grabbing a toy. Ha ha. Good luck. I'm reminded of a saying a preschool teacher used to tell us parents - to honor the impulse. Honor the impulse. I gradually found myself not being offended by a grabby three-year-old, but instead found myself asking why the child was behaving a certain way. Curiosity? Need to get noticed? Desire to interact with others but without the social skills? Wanting a turn but not using words to express themselves? Were they frustrated? Tired? Hungry?

I began keying into the impulse behind the behavior and then coaching a child to use appropriate words and actions when possible. When not possible, redirection, substitution, support, encouragement, rest, nourishment, comfort and unconditional love. Yeah, a lot to expect from a parent running on three hours of sleep who is about twelve loads behind on laundry. Been there. It gets better.

If you haven't figured it out yet, I'm all for the loud kid, the shy kid, the muddy kid, the kid that wants to twirl in the middle of the music circle instead of stand at the edges singing with the others. I'm partial to the kid who insists on doing her own six lopsided ponytail hairdo and the one who must wear a different shoe on each foot for an entire month.

Conformity, reality, responsibility. That all will come in good time. Honor their spirit and gently guide them. You are teaching them respect, patience, kindness through your own words and actions. This is their childhood. Or as that insightful preschool teacher used to ask us - who are you doing this for, you or them?

Childhood Impressions, Book 1

2009-03-26T18:10:00.000-07:00

Kids always love to hear that I've written over one hundred stories but I've sold only three. Struggling writers absorb that piece of information with significantly less enthusiasm. I've been out visiting schools talking about my books this month and answering loads of questions from kids about where I get my ideas for my stories. Here's my personal connection to the my first book, The Wonderful Thing About Hiccups:

Some of my favorite childhood memories were of going to the library on hot summer days (yeah, air conditioning!) and getting to check out books. My frugal family did not have a ton of money, and I can't recollect a single visit to a toy store or being allowed an impulse buy at the grocery store. Ever. Most of what I played with had already been through my two big sisters. There wasn't a Barbie left in the house that didn't have her face scribbled on with permanent marker "make-up" and her lovely, silky Barbie hair, if it wasn't completely pulled out, was ruthlessly trimmed short and lopsided. I mostly played outside with my little brother.

The realization that anything can happen in a book was a big one for me. I was a daydreamer. The middle of five kids. I found the confines of rules and restrictions inconvenient on some days, unbearable on others. Books opened up new dimensions to my fantasy world of play. The Wonderful Thing About Hiccups blends three lasting impressions from childhood:

1. Libraries are wonderful places.

2. Books offer a world of escape where anything is possible.

3. Being a little sister can really suck.

The Novelist and the Poet

2009-03-17T11:28:00.000-07:00

I adore my two nieces, Katie and Sarah. Katie is twelve and Sarah is nine. Katie is the super-focused high achiever. She started reading big, fat chapter books in kindergarden, and her amazing writing skills soon followed. She writes stories for fun, page after page after page after page. She is the kid in school who completes an eight page essay when the assignment was to write five pages. Katie thinks big. Her abilities and intelligence are unquestionably impressive. Her creativity boundless.

Sarah is sensitive. Sweet. Less confident. Amazingly observant to every detail. Empathetic. As a toddler, if another child started crying, she would cry because she felt their sadness. She is a true friend to her peers and well-liked. And with every passing year, I see a quirky sense of humor start to emerge. If assigned a five page essay, she becomes frustrated after a few pages. Stuck. She questions herself. She criticizes herself. She compares herself to her big sister who never gets stuck.

"They are so different," their mother wonders.

"They are," I agree. "You're lucky, though, to have one of each."

"Things don't come as easily to Sarah," their mother worries. "Katie is going to grow up and write a novel some day."

"Don't worry," I tell the mother. "Sarah will write the poem. Don't you see it? you have one of each. A novelist and a poet."

That's what I try to explain to kids who get stuck or feel overwhelmed with writing. Kids who label themselves "bad writers" because writing doesn't come easily to them. Writing comes in so many forms - comic books, blogs, letters and e-mails, journals, poems, novels. It's a matter of finding the style that fits how they think. We all store information, organize our thoughts, and communicate to the world in our own way.

Some will be the novelist, some the poet. Both equally amazing in my book.

Little Writers

2009-03-07T20:40:00.000-08:00

I'm doing a mini-writing clinic at my kids' school. I take a group of four kids and meet with them once a week for three weeks, then I rotate to a new group. Heads up, folks, there are some great writers coming down the pipeline! I'm having fun, and I think most of the kids are getting something out of the experience. My one problem is that I am incapable of controlling unruly kids. That's why my limit is four. If they all decided to stage a major revolt I would be in serious trouble. Hopefully, none of them read blogs. They are, after all, only 3rd graders.

So, my last group had two quiet, compliant kids and two hooligans. Hooligans are AWESOME kids, by the way. The term hooligan, for me, is used to describe a high-energy (and many times highly creative) child that I am incapable of keeping focused on the task at hand for more than a few minutes. About 25% of all kids fall in this category. So I am just pointing out that my last group hooligan ratio was at 50%. Our discussions ran off topic at times towards subjects such as, "What is that sticky stuff stuck under the table?" My answer: Gum? Boogers? Please just don't touch it. Soon everyone was looking under the table. You get the picture.

I read from Because of Winn Dixie every week gushing over examples of great writing. I pass around old, edited manuscripts of my two books and let the kids compare them to the finished, published book. On the last day the kids edit an intentionally poorly written very short story of my creation. Before they start in on the last project, they read the story and tell the group what they do not like about it. Now, that's a real Writer's experience, hmmmm? You can never start early enough teaching kids the art of dissatisfaction, criticism, and rejection, right?

The hooligans surprised me at one point in a writing exercise where we were discussing multi-sensory description. We were coming up with different ways to describe flowers that included not just sight - but smell, taste, sound, touch. The two hooligans took a break from flinging their pencils at each other and tipping their chairs back at terrifying angles to start a high-speed brainstorm back and forth on flower description. The ideas were flying. Finally, the discussion came to rest with the angelic voice of The Master of All Hooligans offering to the group that, "the sound of flowers in a meadow is that of heaven touching the earth."

Sigh.

What's in your backyard?

2009-03-05T07:14:00.000-08:00

I have rabbits. And now to change the subject completely. I was waiting in line at Bath and Bodyworks with my daughter (age 11) and the lady in front of us peed on the floor while being helped at the register. No one noticed until she left the store. I almost stepped in it, but I didn't. It was a big, yellow, smelly, splattered-looking puddle and we were all quite sure she did not have a dog with her. The sales clerk grabbed a mop and pail and cleaned it up. She understood why we refused to stand anywhere near the spot while paying for our purchases. There are so many unanswered questions here:

1. Why? Did she have to go really bad and and then lost control? Does she have a medical condition? Was she just another strange Santa Cruz citizen making some obscure statement about Bath & Bodyworks?

2. What was she wearing, or not wearing, to be able to pee so effectively?

3. Why was that mop and pail so readily available?

4. What did she look like exactly? I'm annoyed with myself for not taking a closer look. All we were able to remember was that she had really big hair. Not helpful.

Okay, I just had to get this off my chest. Enjoy your day!

Back from the dead

2009-03-04T06:26:00.000-08:00

My mother-in-law dropped dead in the grocery store last month. No worries, she didn't stay dead. Her pacemaker-defibrillator thingy she has imbedded in her chest gave her a zap and she woke up without even realizing she had been gone. The ambulance came and took her vitals. Sent her home in a taxi. We didn't even realize her heart had stopped until I took her to the cardiologist three weeks later. We were amazed.

On the ride home we were talking about it. "Weren't you dizzy? Tired?" She felt same as always. Mind you, my mother-in-law is one sick woman. Stroke survivor, congestive heart failure, diabetic. She was supposed to die many, many times over in the past eight years. She refuses. It is almost funny how resilient she is. It was a twenty minute car ride back to her house. We fell silent. I have no idea what she must have been thinking. As she got out of my car, I tried to say something encouraging. "Well, you know Lonna. When it is your time to go at least you know it will be fast." Not the right thing to say.

Seriously, you can't take me anywhere

2009-03-03T18:35:00.000-08:00

Last Friday, one hour before I was to leave for a children's writers conference, the trunk of my car closed on my face. I know, it's hard to picture. I should mention that the trunk door is unreliable and slightly evil. It closes, unsuspectingly, and with surprising force, on a regular basis - most often while I am unloading grocery bags. I can usually dodge the door, but many times I have had the back of my head pounded with dizzying speed. It's more than a little painful and occasionally draws blood. Like most broken or free items in and around my house, I've learned to live with it.

I was looking forward to this conference. Writing is lonely! I have no coworkers, and very few people to talk to. I usually like it that way. But once a year, I look forward to Asilomar and the SCBWI Golden Gate Conference. I get to meet editors, writers, and really cool people in the industry. I was stuck doing all that and more with a big scab between my eyes. Nice, huh?

Back to the trunk injury. As I put my suitcase into the trunk, I briefly looked up from my task only to be whacked across the bridge of my nose by the trunk door closing. The end result, after much bleeding and swearing, is a scabby zigzag that would do Harry Potter proud. It is right where my third eye should be, if I ever decide to buy myself one. Tempting.

Rabbits and more

2009-03-03T17:58:00.000-08:00

If you read the jacket flap of my books, it says I have three spotted rabbits. I don't. I now have two spotted rabbits, two white rabbits, and three grey rabbits. Or as my husband likes to remind me, too many rabbits. We are also home to two kids, a bearded dragon lizard, a bird, three cats, and a poorly behaved dog. I don't think the dog behaves any worse than anyone else in the house. People just seem to have higher expectations of dogs. At least our mace-carrying mailman does.