Writing Through Rose Colored Glasses

Taking This Advice Might Help Allergies But May Harm The Family Unit

2010-04-13T08:36:00.003-06:00

So I'm reading through my regular morning news sources and find this report on allergies. Living in a household filled with hacking, sneezing, and coughing, I decide to click on the link and see what this allergy doctor has to say since we are eating allergy pills like Chiclets around here, and I'm pretty sure that can't be good for you long term.

The allergist talks about all the things I already know, offering a little primer about springtime and flowers and pollen and the whole cycle of life filled with little tidbits of useful information. See that cloud around the juniper bush? That's pollen. Don't walk through it. Believe me, mud puddles hold far more allure than yellow clouds hanging over a juniper bush.

I read on.

1. Keep the windows closed, especially when windy. I can do that.

2. Change air filters regularly. Hmmm. Do they mean the one above the stove or the one in the garage vacuum system? Oh, maybe they mean the ones I bought for the kids to wear on their walk to school. Yeah, that didn't work out so well.

3. Wash your hair after coming indoors. Who's sponsoring this story, I wonder. Procter and Gamble? I picture my day following this little tidbit of advice.

6 AM: I walk out to get the paper. I come inside and wash my hair instead of sitting down to read the paper with my first cup of coffee. I make the kids late for school because I'm busy blow drying my hair instead of getting them out the door.

8 AM: I let the dog out to go to the bathroom and follow her to make sure she isn't helping to fertilize my fledgling garden plans. I come back in and wash my hair. I am late to a business appointment, but at least I don't have pollen in my hair.

11 AM: I get back from my business meeting. I wash my hair. I don't have time to put on a load of laundry but at least I still have time to get groceries. Then I realize this means washing my hair, so I decide Cheerios and leftover meatloaf will make a fine dinner for the family.

2 PM: I pick up the kiddo at the bus stop. I think about letting him walk home alone, but figure that if this is the day that some freak is out there at the bus stop, I'd better be out there to get my kid home safely. He asks to play with a friend, but this means another trip to pick him up. I tell him no, that he can just play violent video games instead. While he plays Halo, I go wash my hair. Again.

4 PM: I realize I haven't put an important business letter in the mail. I hurry out to catch the mailman. My hair is still wet. Do I really have to wash it again? I picture all that pollen landing on my wet hair and rush for the shower and my half-empty bottle of shampoo.

7 PM: My kid remembers that he needs to make a poster for school. I try to talk him into using half of an empty computer box, but he thinks the teacher will give him a bad grade. I weigh which is worse - waging war with a teacher to get a better grade or washing my hair yet again. We head to the store and come home with a fancy poster board. My kid works on his project while I go wash my hair, squeezing out the last drops of the shampoo bottle.

And then it hits me. I cannot leave my house again. I am out of shampoo.

4. Do not bring clothing that has been outside into the bedroom. I picture how this would work with our bedroom right off the kitchen.

"Excuse me, kids. Don't look now but Mom is going to strip down naked right here in the hallway so I don't have itchy eyes tonight."

Oh, yeah. I'm thinking CYFD would be out here in no time to deal with that little situation.

I sigh and decide that as well-meaning as this allergist's advice might be, I think I'll pass. It's better this way. Really.

One Proud Mom

2010-04-03T05:43:00.007-06:00

It's been a long, long while since I've posted to this blog. Between starting a new company and all that life throws at us ... well, time just gets away. But today I just had share these amazing videos of my daughter's drawings. I can't draw a stick-figure, and yet my child can create the most amazing artwork. I am one proud mom.

The drawings are created using the Facebook application Graffiti. One arrived on my Facebook profile this morning. What a lovely way to start the day.

And so enjoy the transformation from blank slate to completed project. And may your day be viewed through your own set of rose colored glasses. Mine are firmly in place today.

Fresh Towels, Anyone?

2009-12-20T13:37:00.001-07:00

Photo credit: dmscs from morguefile.com

I belong to a Health Club. Translated that means I get towels at the front desk. Little hand towels to wipe my sweaty brow. Or big towels to make a soft bed in the locker room instead of getting sweaty at all.

I pay a LOT for the towels at the front desk. Let me repeat that: a LOT.

Oh, the Club says I get a lot more than just fresh towels. They say I get the best experience in the city. I get to somehow be elite because I go there.

They tell me I get state-of-the-art fitness equipment - but fail to mention that on any given day a good number of the machines are either broken or have sound equipment that fails to function. I have access to group classes, but for a good portion I also get to pay an extra fee. Did I mention they also have trainers ... who also charge a very pretty penny because they happen to work at such an elite establishment? And, of course, they have a pool. I don't even have to pay to use it. That is, I can use it when it's not shut down for repairs, cleaning, private classes, swimming lessons, ...

I can dump my kids in the daycare and go out to lunch, for an additional fee, of course. Too bad I can't still do that with my own kids, with them being teenagers and all. That might actually be worth the extra fee.

Because I belong to a Health Club instead of a Gym, I have extended hours to work on my health. Except on the weekends when they close early. And holidays. And the day before holidays. Oh, and sometimes the day after holidays. Or the two weeks out of the year when they completely close for maintenance. And, of course, besides the times when they close early for parties, private events or company functions which they fail to notify members of except for the tiny hand-written piece of paper in a plastic holder by the check-in desk.

I have a large locker-room at my Health Club. I can step around the toilet paper and towels on the floor, skip past the three bathroom stalls that are clogged or out of order, and not leave my valuables in the lockers since the sign says there have been a spate of thefts recently and the "Health Club" is not responsible for making sure the lockers actually work.

But at least I have my pride. I can be elite. I go to a Health Club, not a sweaty gym.

And a corporate letter in my mailbox just informed me that from "time to time"- as in "your next bill" - this elite experience will cost more every single month. No promise to actually fix the broken equipment, offer more classes at no additional fee, or extend the hours or slow down on the unexpected closures. Oh, no. That would be unreasonable. This increase in dues will simply ensure that I can still get fresh towels at the front desk.

Personally, I'm thinking of driving 11 miles to the closest Gym.

But those fresh towels... can I really do without them?

Time with Family or More Money? Family. Hands Down.

2009-11-14T06:55:00.002-07:00

No, I'm not going to spout studies or reports or link to a news story. This is just pure old anectdotal evidence here. Happiness really is the key to being healthy.

About ten months ago when my husband's start-up tech company was in the middle of pulling together investment capital, I decided that it was time to put the freelance writing away and get a "real" job with steady pay to help out. I'd been a stay-at-home mom for 18 years, my youngest was 9 with two teenagers to help out with watching him, and it seemed quite self-centered to continue to watch my husband's stress level increase as the funding took longer and longer to put together.

I found a job as an events coordinator at a local museum. It was a perfect fit - most of the hours were on the weekends and at night when my husband would be home with the kids. It dealt with people and sales, two things I've always enjoyed. I'd once won a weekend trip to Las Vegas as a newlywed just for talking people into opening up department store credit accounts. How hard could it be to talk people into hosting their events at one of the most gorgeous facilities I'd seen in quite some time?

I took to the job. I liked the people I worked with, and I liked the work. I dove into it with great enthusiasm and went about proving to the staff that they couldn't live without me. In 10 months, event rentals increased 400% over the previous year. When I signed the museum up on Facebook and Twitter, the museum had bragging rights as the first city entity to get into social media. Within a month we had over 500 fans and within six months it was just a few shy of 1000. It felt good to know I could still sell, that I could make a difference in the work place.

The money was nice. In fact, after a few months, they more than doubled my pay. We paid for college books and tuition and trips and new clothes all from my income. But I was unhappy. Miserable, in fact. Not because I couldn't do the job.

I was missing out on so much at home. I missed a trip to watch my son and my oldest daughter compete in one of her last climbing competitions before graduating from high school. I missed out on potlucks and cookouts. And worst of all, I became "that mom" who sent her kid to school half sick because he couldn't stay home if I wasn't going to be there. You see, that 400% increase in rentals meant that the job required 400% more time than it had a year ago as well.

I grew to hate my job. Not because the job had changed, but because I understood the price I was paying for that extra money. Hearing my son tell me he'd tried to stay awake long enough for me to get home so I could tuck him in was the final straw. How long does a mom have to tuck in her kid when he's already 9 and won't kiss her goodbye in front of his friends? Not long, my friends. Not long enough.

And so I quit my job. Money is tighter. The new clothes budget is nonexistent. I don't care. I am home when my kiddo gets off the bus. I am home with him all day when he has a fever. I am there when my daughter gets home from her first semester of college classes. My days of interacting with her on a daily basis are truly numbered, but because I'm home she tells me about the things some of the professors are teaching, bouncing those ideas off me as a litmus test to see whether I buy what they're saying. My opinion still matters to her. I'm there with my teenage son when he gets home from high school. I can once again invite him to go with me to the grocery store where we end up talking about girls he kind of likes and classes and dreams for his future. I am there to greet my husband when he walks through the door, whether it's at 5 PM or 9 PM after a particularly long day at his company.

I am a part of their lives again.

I am happy.

Being happy really is the key to good health. Not more money. Not an easy time making the budget work. Being there, being a part of a family. It's so much better than recognition and kudos from a community, a boss, or even myself.

Someone else will do my job now that I'm gone.

I'd rather that than someone else become that important person in my kids' lives. No one, but no one should be able to do that job but me.

Oh, and things work out. I'm starting my own company I can run from home. No money yet. But that's ok. I had my husband's back when he started his, and he'll have my back now.

Google, Garage Door Mishaps, and Delivering Bad News Via iPhone

2009-09-08T19:45:00.006-06:00

Ok, this is sad, but I have to confess it's also a little funny.

Did you know that more people visited my blog last year looking for information about garage door deaths, broken garage doors, and deaths by garage door springs than for any other search using Google, AOL, Search or Yahoo combined.

Seriously. More people than those looking for information about rose colored glasses ... the name of my blog.

And so it makes me wonder if there are that many people getting killed by garage doors or if there are that many people wondering if it would be a viable way to, you know, off that annoying mother-in-law. Who looks up information about death by garage door spring?

And so I've come to the conclusion that as a writer, I really need to give the masses more of what they want. With that in mind, I give you my latest adventure with a garage door, a Honda Pilot, and a very zealous (and worried) wife.

When my daughter - now in her first year in college - was still in a car seat, I distinctly remember the conversation one night around the table.

"Daddy, did you know Mommy drives into the garage before the garage door is up?"

Nevermind that this is an impossibility, the horror of it led to a very lengthy lecture from my beloved spouse about the dangers of driving into a garage without the garage door being up. (I'm thinking garage door springs, broken garage doors, death or maimed for life and a few other dramatizations came up in the memorable conversation.)

And so it was that I learned that I must wait for the garage door to actually go up before I could drive into the garage. Gee. Like that wasn't something I already knew.

Fast-forward to the present. I get in our trusty Honda Pilot, push the garage door opener, start the engine and wait for the garage door to go all the way up. As you can see, I'm a quick study.

I back up slowly only to hear a loud BANG on the top of the Pilot. I look up through the sun roof to see the garage door is now sitting on top of the rails on top of the Pilot. I push the garage door opener and hear a loud hum, but the door doesn't budge.

I consider my options. I can get out of the vehicle, leave it stranded halfway in the garage, and go back to bed. This seems like the best option, but I don't take it. Instead I decide to gun the engine and pull out faster than the garage door can go down.

Looking back on this, it was definitely a stupid option. But sometimes stupid and luck go hand-in-hand. I back out, put the vehicle in park, and get out to inspect the damage.

Honda knows how to make some tough rails. That's all I can say. Not a scratch in sight - which led the insane part of me to consider the option of a cover-up. I know. I missed my calling to go into politics, but such is life. And then I look at the garage door, suspended in air like a swinging halloween decoration with a large dent in the bottom panel. All I can think of is John Candy in Planes, Trains & Automobiles looking at the burnt-out, beat-up rental car and saying, "That'll buff right out of there."

I tried to buff. And bang. And hammer. To no avail. And so I did the next best thing.

I sent an email to my better half, complete with a snapshot of the damage via my iPhone. You see, I also learned back when my daughter was still in a car seat that bad news is best served hot. That way it has time to cool off before it's time to pay the piper. I wouldn't blame him if my poor husband spent the rest of the day looking up ways that someone could die by garage door spring mishaps, but he didn't share any of the research with me.

Why it

2009-06-23T17:23:00.001-06:00

Why it’s a Good Time to Dive into Writing

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Our Defrocked Bird Dog

2009-06-06T06:54:00.003-06:00

Our dog, Mia, is officially the worst bird dog ever. Oh, she likes to pretend she'd hunt down a bird and have it for lunch, and she even whines at me to let her out of the house to take care of the pigeons taunting her in our little patch of xeric lawn. But when the rubber meets the road, well, she's just wants the chance to say hi.

We recently had a very bedraggled bird land just outside our kitchen door. When I spied two pigeons pecking it, I opened the door the shoo them away. Mia just about knocked me over rushing out to join in the melee. The pigeons scattered like the playground bullies they were, but the poor little bird couldn't move. Wet and terrified, it crouched in anticipation of the large labrador which was about to have it for supper.

I rushed to block the view of my youngest, not wanting him to see the impending carnage when Mia began tearing the feathers from this poor helpless bird as her bird dog instinct kicked in.

Yeah, right.

Instead, our fearless protector stopped just short of the quaking bird. She then very gently nuzzled and nosed her new friend.

Fearing that the bird might be diseased, I called our now defrocked hunting dog back into the house. She tried to ignore the command, wanting to play with her new friend, but she finally complied when she heard the rattling of the dog treat can. Mia came half way to the door and then looked back - wet bird or dog treat? Dog treat won, and in she came.

The bird hopped right up to our door and spent the night in the relative safety of our covered kitchen patio. Mia begged us to let her join her new friend, but, alas, she was simply put to bed early.

The bird is gone, and Mia is back to pretending that she wants to eat the pigeons in the grass.

What to do for a severe case of Yellow Bus Fever

2009-05-01T13:52:00.004-06:00

Ok, tell the truth - we've all done it: hyped of a case of the sickies to get out of some unpleasant task. I got so proficient at it as a kid that my mom finally created an entire name for the illness which befell me most mornings only to miraculously disappear as soon as the school bus had passed our house. "Don't tell me," she'd say, "another case of Yellow Bus Fever?"

Well it seems my youngest is testing the waters to see just how far and often he can fall victim to Yellow Bus Fever without losing any of his after-school perks. After several days of, "Mom, my throat hurts and I think I have a fever and should stay home because I don't want to get the kids in class sick and my asthma doesn't feel very good and, and and..." I got wise to the scheme.

With his first croak of the morning, I'd whip out the thermometer. "If it's a fever, fine. If not, then you're going to school."

"Even if my asthma's bad?" he'd ask, totally offended at the callousness of this woman who'd sat by his bedside and stroked his hair as she fretted over his wheezing and poor health only a few weeks ago.

"Even if your asthma's bad," I'd say. "We'll pump you full of albuterol and send you on your way to fill that brain up with important learning."

And then I'd deliver the secret weapon, "And then when you get home, I'll make sure you get plenty of rest by sending you straight to bed. You'll have to be careful not to get over-tired in this delicate state, so, of course, the computer and the Wii and even your Gameboy will be off limits."

It is a modern-day miracle how fast that boy recovered. Within minutes, the croak was completely gone from his voice, and he wasn't feeling a bit of wheezing.

I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop, though - because when you're a mom, every strategy eventually backfires. I'm waiting from that ominous phone call from the school nurse, "Your son is in the office, and he can barely breathe thanks to a horrible asthma attack. And did you even look at his throat? It's obviously on fire. What kind of mother sends their poor child to school like this?"

I'll have an answer though, "Oh, I was sick in bed this morning. My husband made that bad decision. I'll be right there."

Why isn't there a special program at APS for those who have deficient room-cleaning skills?

2009-04-03T10:11:00.004-06:00

You know that massive packet of paperwork for school registration that you get about this time every year - the ones where you have to provide your name, address, relationship to your child, who their doctor is, and who can pick them up on endless sheets of paper? Well every year the nurse at my son's school slips in a form that, if I sign it, will allow my son to become enrolled in the Albuquerque Public School's asthma education program and long-term study.

Figure this - they actually want to pull my kid out of class to teach him such things as how to tell if he's having an asthma attack (like he doesn't know when he's wheezing that it's hard to breathe) and what to do. This same set of instructions is disseminated to all kids across APS, regardless of their own unique diagnosis and recommendations from their own private pediatrician or pulmonologist. After taking the paper to my own son's pediatrician, we agreed that it was irresponsible to allow some institution to insert itself into the medical care of my son and that it was best for him to always go to a medical doctor for help and advice about how to manage his asthma.

So, being the closet anarchist that I can sometimes be, I never sign that little sheet. In fact, I find one of my kid's bright Sharpies and write across the page: MY SON MAY NOT BE ENROLLED IN ANY PROGRAM WITHOUT MY CONSENT. HIS DOCTOR WILL PROVIDE EDUCATION FOR HIS MEDICAL CONDITIONS, NOT THE SCHOOL.

Of course, this has not in any way endeared me to the nursing staff at the school, but they grit their teeth... and send the paper again the following year in hopes that I'll slip up and sign the thing.

Imagine my consternation when I unloaded a stack of papers from his backpack this morning only to find an "asthma newsletter" with my son's name and address on a mailing label at the top of the paper. A quick phone call to the nurse ended up with a few stammered explanations and an offer to remove his name from the mailing list. And in an almost admirable show of courage, she asks me, "Can I ask why you're so certain you don't want him to have this valuable information that could help save his life?" (translated: you're a bad mom who doesn't care if your kid keels over from your lack of care.)

"Nothing personal," I tell her. "I have consulted with my son's doctors, and we all agree that any education or treatment plans regarding his medical conditions need to come from qualified professionals that know his personal medical history."

"Qualified professionals?" she asks. "You do realize we are nurses who have been certified to teach these courses?"

"Being certified to teach a course isn't the same as being his doctor." There is a long pause, and I am certain she is trying to keep her temper in check.

"Fine. But he's missing out. The other kids really like getting to go to the special programs."

I bet they do, I think. I sure would have chosen to go to some special program with no tests or grades than to have to sit in class and actually learn the academics required.

She promises to remove his name from the list, but I have my doubts. Seems they get credit for each kid they enroll, and that's a lot more interesting than dealing with some cranky mom a few times a year.

Now if they had a special program from kids with a room-cleaning disability, I would so be on board. They could even skip math if they could teach him how to clean his room on his own. But so far, no one's tried to sneak a permission form in his packet for that kind of class.

Oh, well, I can dream, can't I?

A shiny quarter, a stack of Grit magazines, and a cranky old lady

2009-02-08T16:51:00.005-07:00

When I told my mom that I wanted a job, she never laughed at me and told me what a silly idea it was for an eight-year-old girl. Instead, she opened the world of newspapers to me by suggesting that I sell Grit Magazine door to door in our small neighborhood which was then on the outskirts of Albuquerque.

The newspaper was an important part of our family - almost as important as the Bible, but not quite. Actually, not by a long shot, but it did often occupy the same real estate on my father's ottoman of a morning as he sipped his first cup of coffee. After finding a bit of encouragement in the Good Book, he read the newspaper cover to cover. And when he hurried off to work, it was my mother's turn to sit with the paper at the kitchen table. So selling a small, monthly newspaper that had already been in production for almost a century seemed like the perfect first job to me.

I remember my first time out on my route. I knocked on the door of an elderly lady up the street and asked her if she'd like to buy the Grit Magazine in my wagon for only a quarter (already counting up the number of Tootsie Rolls I could buy with the ten cents profit I would make from her purchase). But she stopped me cold.

"What's in the newspaper, young girl?"

What was in it? I didn't read it. It was for old people. I stammered and stuttered an answer. "I don't really know."

She gave me a hard look and barked, "Then you'd better learn your first lesson about selling anything. If you want to get somebody else to buy what you're selling, then you'd best know what you're talking about. You need to read that thing from cover to cover so you can get excited and tell me all about it so I want my own copy."

And as she started to close the door, she left a parting shot of hope. "Now you go home and read that magazine, young lady, and then come back. When you can tell me why I should buy it, you come back and ring my door bell."

I didn't try to sell any more newspapers that day. Instead, I fought back the tears and swallowed hard all the way back down the street. And then I grabbed one of the Grit newspapers off the top of the stack, found a nice shady spot under our tree, and started reading. There were stories about a dog herding a flock of sheep past a bear and on to safety, growing the biggest heirloom tomatoes in your garden, and tidbits of history. Personal essays found space alongside how-to articles. And I was captivated by it all, devouring it that afternoon from cover to cover.

The next day after school, I loaded up my wagon, and with renewed purpose marched up the driveway and rang the doorbell of the woman who had sent me home in tears. She seemed a bit surprised I'd returned, and after I told her why she needed to buy one of my Grit Magazines, she tottered away from the door. I watched her long, gnarled fingers struggle with her change purse and graciously accepted the proffered quarter held out to me. I thanked her and hurried off to the next house.

I sold my entire stack of magazines and ordered more for the next issue. And when it came, I read it cover to cover before I left the house. And sold out again.

It was a valuable lesson I learned that day, one that has served me well many times since then. She seemed like such a crank at the time, but I know now that the grouchy lady down the street was doing me a favor. And I wish I could thank her, but I think the skip in my step as I walked down her driveway was probably all the thanks she needed to know she'd done the right thing.

Ten Things I Learned This Week

2009-01-19T20:05:00.002-07:00

Some weeks, I seem to learn more life lessons than others. I'd love to hear the ones you learned during your past week as well.

1. The wedding of two deaf people is a quiet but happy affair.

2. Good energy and optimism are infectious. So is a bad attitude.

3. Sometimes cheaters win, but when a group of teenagers maintains dignity and good sportsmanship, they are the bigger winners.

4. Sharing a cup of tea with an almost adult daughter is a wonderful moment not to be missed.

5. A teacher's litany of complaints only wears down a child if he believes them to be true.

6. Trader Joe's has little tins of dark chocolate with only 6 grams of carbs per serving. And oh, is it good.

7. Father-son vacations are a good thing, even for those left behind.

8. Sometimes when a door closes, it just hits you on the behind. Sometimes you have to figure out how to hack a new opening in the brick wall in front of you.

9. Free sometimes leads to better things; other times it just wastes a lot of energy and effort.

10. Hearing "I love you" never gets old, and saying it gets easier with practice.

Fool-proof Way to Motivate Your Teens to Clean Their Rooms

2008-12-30T08:22:00.007-07:00

There is nothing quite like knowing that someone else will be inside of your room all night - hanging their clothes in your closet, sleeping in your sheets, and wandering around to look at all the things you've collected - well, there's nothing quite like that impending event to motivate a very thorough cleaning.

My teenagers are no exception.

For weeks I asked them nicely to clean their rooms. I knew we'd be having company over the holidays and wanted one less thing on the chore list. And being the thoughtful kids they are, they made several half-attempts at getting the job done. To stop the nagging, they'd empty the overflowing trash can from time to time, shove a few layers of clothes into a bigger pile not visible from the doorway - nice little things like that.

But this week the rubber hit the road. Our overnight guests were scheduled to arrive on Sunday night, and so it was that I discovered an added benefit to sharing an evening with dear friends from far away - I also gained two very clean and tidy upstairs bedrooms. Five trashbags full of accumulated who-knows-what were hauled down the stairs, a mountain of clothes ready for a Goodwill donation appeared in the laundry room, and several slightly used and long-forgotten toys became instant treasures for my youngest as his two older siblings parted with old treasures.

Oh, and the best part? It no longer smells like a locker room upstairs.

I'm thinking of inviting overnight guests once a month - it's cheaper than a cleaning lady and far more effective.

On the Clock

2008-12-26T06:13:00.004-07:00

It is a strange feeling after eighteen years of being at home to think of having my own desk in an office. It is odd to think of filling out time sheets to hand in to a boss, of being accountable not only for assignments but for the minutes I sit at that desk. And as excited as I am about becoming the special events coordinator for the Anderson Abruzzo Albuquerque International Balloon Museum, there is a part of me that doesn't like for someone else to suddenly tell me what to do with my time.

I think it is the bane of the self-employed, this notion that as long as the job is done, it is nobody else's business how we spend our time. For years I have turned in articles and profiles and a litany of other projects without punching a time clock or writing down how I spent my time. I met deadlines, started new projects, and generated work without being told to do so. I wanted the work, so I knew what it took to get the job, do the work, and turn it in on time. And thus a part of me feels like this is going backwards.

But in reality, it's probably not a bad thing at all. I wonder if my jobs could have been accomplished in shorter time with better results had I been telling someone else how I'd spent my time. If there had been a little sheet I filled out, perhaps I wouldn't have spent some much time dawdling and getting ready to do something profound.

As a stay-at-home mom, it's been the perfect combination to not have someone else breathing down my back, to be able to drop a project for a bit when I needed to run the kids to practice or spend an hour talking over a particularly rough day with one of them. It's why I've worked from home - so that I could be there when they needed me. And I don't regret a minute of the time I put off going back to an office, and I know I have a different relationship with my kids because of it. They bought a frame for my new desk - with just enough sections for each of their photos.

And so I will go fill out the time cards, look at my kids' photos, and do my best to fill my time wisely at my new position. And who knows - maybe I'll learn a few things about myself along the way.

Which of these lovely rags should I wear?

2008-12-20T06:59:00.003-07:00

My mom said that a lot when I was a kid. She would stand in her closet in her full slip and pantyhose, rifling through her dresses and ask me, "Which of these lovely rags should I wear?"

I never understood why it was that big of a deal. She always looked the same to me. But now I understand all too well.

I got a call Friday evening asking me to go to an interview on Monday morning for a job as a museum special events coordinator. I saw the ad on a local website a few weeks ago and was intrigued. Part time, included PR work, within a few minutes from my house - it looked perfect, so I applied online.

A lady called a few hours later asking me to come in to do some initial testing at the temp agency in charge of hiring for the position. I bumbled my way through the test on excel, did ok on the one for Word, and found out I could type 77 words a minute and that I have pretty good logic skills. I had to agree to a background check and a drug test, and then she ushered me out of the door.

I didn't hear anything and decided that I wasn't qualified.

And now I have a single weekend to get prepared for the first interview I have had in over 20 years. I go through my closet and ask myself, "Which of these lovely rags should I wear?" They're good enough for church, sure. And plenty have gotten me through an hour interview at the local Flying Star with someone I am writing about. But none of them say, "Wow. This woman has it together!" Besides, I have a lot more of it to get together than when I interviewed 20 years ago.

Pine Cones, Punches, and Becoming a Man

2008-12-06T09:30:00.002-07:00

So last night I am walking into the health club to get in an hour on the elliptical trainer before they close when I hear the young girl behind the counter ask, "Mrs. Abeyta? How is Jonathon? Is he okay?"

It is a refrain I've heard often over the past twenty-four hours.

It is amazing how much can change in the span of a day, and how in a few brief moments a boy can turn into a man.

Let me go back to the beginning.

It was a Thursday afternoon, which meant I was at the high school answering phones for the receptionist while she went to lunch. She had just returned and we were talking of her impending move to California where her husband had found a job. A large group of kids burst through the front doors of the school, half of them decked out in ther ROTC uniforms.

And in the middle I spied my son, a young girl clinging to his arm. On closer inspection, I realized that blood was running down the side of his face.

I shifted into Mom mode instantly. "What happened?"

"He was punched in the face," his friend said. "Really hard." More friends chimed in, spilling out the story of boyish fun turned angry, following me as I rushed my son to the nurse's office. Within seconds, the school's two police officers took charge. With the name of my son's assailant on their lips, they rushed out to apprehend the offender.

It was a rough afternoon - a mad rush to urgent care for stitches above his eye, tests to determine if he'd sustained permanent vision damage, and instructions for dealing with his concussion from the blow.

And when things finally calmed down, I got the story from my son: a large group of friends decided that, with the blight of snow in our state, it made sense to toss pine cones at each other. A few were tossed to a lower field, a few were returned, and soon it was an active pine cone fight. In the midst of the fray, a pine cone tossed by my son hit a boy down field who was not part of the fun.

The boy threw his jacket off, stormed up the steps and confronted my son. He apologized profusely and thought the incident was over when, without warning, the boy, almost a foot taller and a lot heavier, slammed his fist into my son's eye. Surprisingly, he didn't buckle under the force of the blow, despite almost losing consciousness.

As we sat in the urgent care, my son told me, "It was stupid. I should have never been involved. I knew better." I was proud of him for taking responsibility for his actions - something most parents always want to see in their children.

The police called the next day, letting me know the boy was charged with battery and that the charges might increase due to the differences in size in the boys and the unprovoked nature of the attack. And then he told me that the mother was blaming my son, excusing her own child's behavior as justified.

As the day progressed, I discovered just how well-liked my son had become at his school. Kids he hardly knew expressed outrage and offers to help. Teachers told me how sorry they were for what had happened to my son. Moms expressed comfort. And through it all, my son kept perspective that, while his attacker's actions were horribly wrong, he'd let his own fun create a bad situation.

I look up at the young girl across the counter at the gym and tell her my son is fine. "He's a hero," she says. "He didn't fight back. And he didn't try to get even. Your son is cool."

I smile as I begin my workout. It was a tough experience, but it' set my son on the road to becoming a man. And an honorable one at that. What more could a mother want?

Great Resources for Writers

2008-12-02T15:44:00.002-07:00

This is a wonderful compilation of resources for writers. It is compiled by Maria Schneider of EditorUnleashed.com.

resources

Posted using ShareThis

A Memory Worth Making

2008-11-28T07:28:00.005-07:00

It was almost bedtime last night before I found a few minutes to unwind and relax. It's like that around the holidays, but the fellowship with family and friends is always a welcome thing. But after all the activity, I needed a few minutes to myself to unwind.

So it was with a sinking feeling that I called out, "Come in," when there was a tentative knock at the door.

My teenage, almost adult, daughter opened the door and sat down on the bed.

"Need something?" I asked.

"No. Just bored," she said.

And so we talked for a while about nothing. I showed her a fun feature on my Mac - Photo Booth - where you can not only take a photo of yourself, but you can morph it into all kinds of different effects just for the fun of it. We tried a few and soon were laughing out loud.

One photo led to another, and we discovered a few things - what I would have looked like as a man, how we would look as comic book characters, and how we'd appear as x-rays. Pure silly stuff.

Another knock on the door, and my youngest wanted to see what all the commotion was about. We took a few more - screaming down a rollercoaster, morphed into carnival fun-mirror images. And the more we snapped, the more we laughed.

When we finally said good night, we were all still smiling. I had the rest of the night to unwind, and this unexpected interruption into my quiet had turned out to be the highlight of my day.

Holy Posole, Batman! The Mayor Saved the Day!

2008-11-20T22:09:00.008-07:00

Read the headlines on CNN, The Drudge Report, MSNBC ... and it will send you running for the hills with your shotgun and a suitcase of money. But with all the financial panic, high seas piracy, and new cabinet appointments, I was pleased to see that we in Albuquerque still know REAL news when we read it. This morning's Albuquerque Journal' headline put a smile on my face:

Thursday, November 20, 2008

Mayor Reverses Ban on Posole

By Olivier Uyttebrouck
Journal Staff Writer
       Praise the Lord and pass the posole.
    Parishioners at St. Francis Xavier Church won't have to eat the canned stuff after all when they honor Our Lady of Guadalupe on Dec. 14, city officials assured them Wednesday.
    Mayor Martin Chávez told church leaders that parishioners can take their homemade posole, menudo, tamales and bizcochitos to church as they have for 84 years.
    Chávez also ordered up a steaming bowl of revisions to city law — changes that will allow churches and other groups to serve homemade dishes without violating city food-handling laws...

The story goes on to tell of local restaurants had also volunteered to come to the aid of rescuing this 84-year-old tradition. The best part? This is proof of the power of the press. Just one day before, an article ran in the paper telling citizens of the plight of this church. Canned posole? Seriously?

It didn't take long for the mayor to spring into action and provide relief. Thanks to the quick actions of our mayor, parishioners will have real chunks of pork in their posole and some real crumble to their bizcochitos.

My son wonders where the mayor goes to church. Could it be he, too, was reading his paper yesterday morning when he spied the terrible news, looked up from his cup of coffee and moaned, "Canned posole? Seriously? I am NOT eating canned posole!" Who knows, but whatever the real story, we like our version. And we're with him all the way - canned posole is not fit for a celebration.

This is proof that local coverage can lead to policy changes overnight in city hall... now about those red light cameras...

Art in the Park Takes On A New Meaning

2008-11-13T10:27:00.003-07:00

It seemed like an innocent question coming from my eight-year-old son. "Mom, will you take me to the park?"

I gave him my standard answer when I can't make a firm commitment. "Sure. Sometime."

I should have known it wouldn't be enough. "When?"

"I don't know. Not today. It's cold and windy."

"Okay. But when?"

"Not now. Do your homework." That usually stops all pestering dead in its tracks.

"I need to go to the park," he insisted, and so I stopped what I was doing to see what this was all about.

It seems that my son had come up with yet another scheme to make money. First it was making Lego figurines and setting up shop in the foyer on our antique desk. A hand-scrawled sign announced: STOR OPN. He sat at the miniature chair and waited for family members to pull out change and buy his creations.

But then he discovered that if he rented his Lego masterpieces, he not only got the toys back but that he got return customers. All summer he badgered us into coughing up our spare change to fund his quest to fill his piggy bank.

Next it was drawings. The same desk was cleaned out of Lego pieces and plastered with his latest artwork. His sister snagged the best of the lot - a very cool book mark which she won after a short bidding war with her dad. The rest of us ponied up more money and took our new pictures to our rooms.

And yet my little guy's coffers were not as full as he needed in order to buy a new Wii game, and so he stood in the living room begging me to take him to the park.

"I can set up a table and sell artwork to people in the park," he said. "They can buy them as gifts."

"People are not going to buy stuff in the park," I told him. "They're out there to exercise or walk their dogs. They won't have money."

"They'll come back with money after they see my art," he said.

"I am not sitting out in a cold park," I told him, almost ready to just offer him the additional $30 he needed.

"Okay. I'll walk around the neighborhood, then."

"No. You're too young."

Deflated, he trudged back to his room. A little voice inside me - actually a very loud voice - told me that I could not kill this one for him. "I'll call a lady I know," I told him.

He stopped and turned, a wide smile on his face. "Who?"

"She owns a gallery downtown. You put some of your best things together, and I'll go talk to her. I can't promise anything, but I'll try."

And so now he's busy creating his first show, and I'm wondering what I got myself into. What was I thinking? I'll let you know - I may need you to come buy some of his artwork just so I can get some peace and quiet.

Of Werewolves, Balding Men and Making Lemonade

2008-11-05T08:35:00.006-07:00

Would balding, middle-aged men like to be werewolves at night if it meant they could have hair for a few more hours?

My youngest thinks so. One evening this past week, my husband was in the back yard with our son when they heard some howling in the distance. To tease my son, my husband starting making up a wild scenario about the howling - perhaps it was a werewolf, and wasn't it coming from the direction of his school? Maybe it was his principal who was really a werewolf!

Without missing a beat, my son replied, "I bet he'd like that. At least he'd have hair at night."

It's a great thing my son does - he always seems to find the upside in everything. When my husband chided him this summer for not carrying his jacket with him during an outing, my son told him, "I have resources." After I reviewed the results of this summer's testing which finally explained his challenges with writing and spelling, he sat back on his first day of school as his classmates wrote in their journals and told his teacher, "I don't have to write. I have a disability." And while he was deflated to find out that the results did not excuse him for work, I absolutely love his positive perspective. He is truly the lemonade from lemons kid.

It's easy to get down on ourselves when things don't go our way. A slew of rejections recently set me back and made me question my own view of my future. But then I thought of my son's perspective and knew I was being short-sighted. Perhaps these doors didn't open so that something better could come along. Or maybe it was an opportunity to create something better, something different that I hadn't considered. And eventually, I got back in the saddle and decided to keep on riding down the trail.

What Would Your Dog Vote For?

2008-10-30T12:16:00.007-06:00

(Image of Tuckup, The Voting Dog)

Tuckup has more facial hair than Kenny Rogers, and sometimes his breath is worse than the champion of the national garlic-eating contest. But he's loving, loyal, and wants to voice his opinion when anyone will listen. And now he has the chance to voice that opinion on election day if only he can jump the fence, find the right precinct, and figure out how to read and write in the next few days.

You see, Tuckup is a dog.

That's right - a furry, barking, dog owned by Don Pizzolato, an Albuquerque resident who decided to test the integrity of the voter registration process and now finds that his own integrity is being called into question. Since a fraudulant voter registration can carry a fourth-degree felony, Pizzolato is taking quite a risk to make a point - one that he decided to make public when he started a discussion on Duke City Fix, a social networking website for locals.

It made me wonder what Tuckup or other dogs would care about if they could vote in the election. Let's start off with some well-known canines.

My bet is that Lassie would vote for better access to cell phones, since Tommie was always having to run about the hills crying, "Lassie, come home!". Imagine how much easier Lassie's life would be if Tommie could have just texted in the message.

I'm thinking the little Taco Bell Chihuahua would want to lobby for better food for dog actors. He must get tired of Taco Bell all the time. I bet he fantasizes about some filet mignon or a tasty morsel of garlic mashed potatoes. Bean and cheese burritos can get pretty old, even for a Chihuahua.

My own dog? I think she'd vote for whichever candidate would let her on the living room rug or in our bedroom. She pokes her head in just far enough to feel the soft carpet under her chin, and when her chew toy accidentally rolls onto the living room rug, she wimpers and whines until someone is nice enough to retrieve it for her. If some candidate offered to let her sleep on the rug, well, there wouldn't be any question who she would vote for.

I am NEVER shopping here again!

2008-10-27T08:34:00.004-06:00

...overheard yesterday...

I was on a tight deadline, having decided to squeeze both a workout and a mad dash to the grocery store into an hour and a half before our company arrived for supper. I grabbed my two bags of tater tots, paid for them and hurried out the door only to find the exit blocked by serveral employees and a tall man in his thirties dressed in jeans and an untucked button-down shirt.

"Just lift your shirt, and you can go," the manager says the man.

"I'm not baring my body for you!"

"Lift your shirt and show us you don't have anything under there, and you can go."

"You're violating my rights," the man yells, flailing his arms in anger.

"Do you want to file a complaint? We can call the police now."

"I just want to go. Get out of my way!"

"Then lift your shirt. Show us there's nothing there."

"Fine!"

The man proceeds to pull something from under his shirt and throw it in the direction of the wall of employees who then part like the Red Sea to allow the man passage through the doors.

As he hurries into the parking lot, he turns and yells back at the employees, "I am NEVER shopping here again!"

Playground Politics

2008-10-24T09:59:00.004-06:00

We talk politics a lot in our home. With one highschooler in U.S. Government this year and another in U.S. History, our dinner table conversation often revolves around what they kids have covered in class. And while we discuss the finer nuances of health care policies, taxes, and checks and balances, our youngest is often off in his own world.

Or so I thought.

This week he came home from school pronouncing the news that he and his third-grade buddies were discussing politics on the playground. He talked of one of his friends who asked who my own son, all of eight years old, was planning to vote for in the upcoming election.

"Who am I gonna vote for?" my son asked.

"Yeah."

"I have news for you. You can't vote in the next election."

This brought a chuckle from Dad, but my son wasn't finished with his tale. Despite my son's dire warnings that eight-year-olds could not vote, his friend began to enumerate the candidates who were going to earn his vote.

My son's response?

"Then it's a good thing you can't vote."

It seems he has, indeed, been absorbing our dinner-time conversations. Now we have to work on that little thing called tact.

The Downside of Wanderlust

2008-10-21T07:48:00.005-06:00

One of my favorite assignments is the author profiles that I sometimes write for Albuquerque the Magazine. It is always nice to have the chance to pick the brain of a successful writer and visit about the life of writing. Writing is often a lonely business, and having the chance to swap tales with someone makes the assignment that much more enjoyable.

Yesterday's author interview was no exception. I arrive at a local Flying Star Restaurant, order a drink, and find a quiet table. I've already done my research - checked out the published titles, listened to the online interviews, read through many of the links on the internet.

He arrives with briefcase in hand, a quiet man with a soft, slow smile and gentle eyes. We talk for a few minutes about his newest book and upcoming projects, and then I move on to what I am really interested in: his globe-trotting past which has taken him to foreign lands and submerged him into other cultures. For just a few minutes, I want to vicariously ride along on his journey and see the world through his eyes.

He talks of what it is like being born the youngest son of a missionary father and how he wishes he had automatically retained his first language - Chinese. He breezes past the fact that he and his wife returned to Asia years later to teach English as if it was as mundane as taking a trip to the local watering hole. He tells of his experience smuggling medical supplies into war-torn countries and laughs as he shares a tale which may seem funny now but had to be heart-stopping at the time.

And after a few moments, I feel like a deflated balloon - all the air, the excitement of my own boring life completely exhausted in the shadow of such an colorful life. I tell him as much - about some of my own family who have been completely content to never travel more than a few hundred miles from their place of birth. I express admiration for the kind of courage it takes to lead his kind of life.

His response surprises me. He says it hasn't taken courage, just a large dose of wanderlust and that he is often very envious of those with deep ties and connections to their roots. He says that he misses that kind of family, that kind of life. He talks of where he grew up and that no one is there anymore to go home to. And there is a melancholy in his voice that is kindred to my own.

And so, at the end of my vicarious journey around the world, I find something to be grateful for in my own very boring, vanilla roots. I'm glad for my time with this author who has given me a new perspective of the downside of a wandering soul.

But a part of me is still envious. I guess we always want what didn't show up at our own door.

Catwalk National Recreation Area

2008-10-09T05:35:00.010-06:00

About an hour north of Silver City, New Mexico, near the border of Arizona, and just a few minutes outside of Glendwood, New Mexico, you will find The Catwalk, a national recreational trail in the Gila Wilderness.

Once the reputed hide-out of such historical figures as Geronimo and Butch Cassidy, the Whitewater Canyon area was used in the early 1900's by miners who built a long, winding pipeline through the canyon to carry water to the small mining town below. Workers had to enter the area by crawling along the pipeline suspended in the air, earning the name Catwalk.

By the 1930's, the area was developed by the Civilian Conservation Corp in a recreation area complete with several picnic areas and pit toilets, both along the parking lot and near the picnic area. The creek nearby gives no hint of the rushing waterfalls and whitewater areas just a few minutes' hike away.

The head of the Catwalk trail is dirt but very well maintained and offers and short handicap-accessible circular hike that takes visitors over the beginning of the suspended walkway.

While handrails along the securely bolted bridge provide safety for hikers, it is easy to

look through the metal walkway to the rushing water below and imagine miners crawling along the now decaying pipeline. Suspended from metal girders which span the small canyon in some places, visitors are literally suspended in the air midway between the tight canyon floor filled with rushing water and massive granite walls above.

In several places, the canyon opens up, allowing for the water below to spread out and slow down. With flash floods common during the monsoon season, locals point out places where it is safe to swim in the water out of the path of any impending water rushing in from upstream and where hikers need to take care or risk becoming not trapped or even swept downstream in a flash flood caused by a rainstorm often miles upstream.

Our party finds an ideal spot place along the path and hikes down a steep stairway to the waterhole below. Within minutes, the kids have shed their clothes down to their bathing suits and are frolicking under a small waterfall. A few climb around to the top of the waterfall, and soon a challenging game of catch ensues. Their laughter echoes through the canyon, and passersby smile as they hike high above on the metal Catwalk.

A couple passes by loaded with heavy overnight backpacks and sleeping bags, headed for the strenuous 8-mile trek above the developed Catwalk area for a night along the 10,000 foot ridge of the Mogollon Mountains.

The kids eventually tire of their game of catch and dry off, sitting on the large rocks in the river for a few minutes to warm up.

We continue to the end of the developed Catwalk, where a tight rock overhang opens up near a rushing waterfall. We have to yell to hear each other and after a few minutes of enjoying the pounding surge of the water, we turn back around, crossing the swinging suspended bridge one last time. The kids, knowing I am a bit fearful of heights, seem to take pleasure in my nervousness as they jump up and down to get the bridge swinging.

As clouds build in the distance, we can see the impending rain coming for several miles before it hits. We hurry to pack up our gear in the picnic area and head back down the gravel access road where several low spots show recent signs of washouts. When rain pounds through the canyon, much of the access road can become impassible due to high running water, and we don't want to be stranded in the area once the rains come. It may have made a nice hideout for desperadoes on the run in a bygone era, but I am looking forward to a nice soft bed only an hour away.

My Fairy Godmother Invested My Happily Ever After In The Stock Market

2008-09-30T11:37:00.002-06:00

Every girl dreams of her happily ever after - that moment when life gets easy, birds sing, and there's nothing to do but decide which dress to wear to the ball.

We all knew that the Fairy Godmother was a force to be reckoned with, and she seemed to be there at just the right moment when all hope was lost - turning pumpkins into chariots, mice into white stallions and ugly ducklings into beauty queens.

Maybe that's why I never bought into the whole beauty scene as a kid. Yeah, I loved clothes and loved shoes even more, but if it took more than five minutes to do my hair, it was not going to happen. There was too much to do, and I wasn't wasting time on silly hair-dos or new makeup techniques or even painting my nails. I think all along I was waiting for the Fairy Godmother to come and pwang all my faults away and leave me a drop-dead beauty with all of my wishes to come true.

Well, I discovered this week that my personal Fairy Godmother invested my happily ever after into the stock market, and I think she sold all of it on Monday evening. As I watched the stock market drop faster than The Beast, one of the fastest rollercoasters around - a ride I loved to take as a teen, I didn't see a bunch of scared, panicked stock brokers bailing out. No, I saw a posse of Fairy Godmothers unloading their worthless happily ever afters before the market completely bottomed out.

And last I saw her, she was beating a large pumpkin with her wand and yelling, "I am NOT taking public transportation. Abracadabra, turn, you stupid pumpkin!"

I think I should have read different books as a kid - maybe more space stuff like Star Wars. In today's economy, I'm thinking a fantasy about a spaceship coming to rescue us all is sounding a whole lot better than some Fairy Godmother who doesn't even know how to keep her spell from turning back at midnight.

If I had any happily ever after left, I'd be buying into the market this morning, but I think I'm beyond that. Right now, I'd settle for safe and secure. But I promise you, if that Fairy Godmother shows up at my door, she's sleeping on the couch. And she can wash her own sheets. I'm too busy just getting by.

City of Rocks State Park Well Worth The Drive

2008-09-20T09:22:00.003-06:00

City of Rocks State Park

New Mexico

For years I've seen photos of City of Rocks in southern

New Mexico, and it was on my list of places to visit - eventually.

"Eventually" found itself knocking on my door during a recent trip to Silver City, and so it was that I travelled with a group of friends to finally see this state park in the southern part of our state.

The landscape surrounding City of Rocks is flat, grassy, and wide-open. Ranch land is dotted with a house or outbuilding here and there, but mainly it is just horizon for as far as the eye can see.

But top the hill, and there it is - a collection of massive boulders and rocks dotting the landscape, as if a burst of wind in some long-ago era picked them up and dropped them out in the middle of nowhere.

With surprisingly modern facilities in the campgound, City of Rocks offers pit toilets near several picnic sites as well. We pull our vehicles into the pull-off near one picnic area and carry snacks to the nearby table while the kids take off to explore. Thunder clouds loom in the distance, so we tell them to not go far.

Their laughter and calls to each other echo between the rocks like mini-canyons, and soon the kids are competing to see who can climb the tallest rock. The little ones are helped up by their older siblings, and I am happy for a few minutes of relaxation under a shade tree.

As the clouds grow closer, sheets are rain sweep through the sky like broad strokes of a paint brush. We decide it's time to reign the kids back in before everyone is soaked. We scramble through the rocks, squeezing between mini-slot canyons which open up to even more boulders. I finally spy a couple of our party perched high atop one of the tallest rocks in this small park.

We find the little ones before the rain hits, but some of the older kids cavort in the downpour, with their small hoodies lifted above their heads in a lame attempt to escape the rain. Soaked to the bone, they huddle together in our vehicles, and within a few short minutes the rain has passed, moving on to drop some precious moisture on pastureland beyond the park. We stay long enough to dry out and then head back before night falls.

As we drive away, a double rainbow envelopes City of Rocks.

I hate it when I'm wrong

2008-09-18T12:42:00.007-06:00

I hate it when I'm wrong, but I especially hate when that means my husband is right.

If you've been married longer than ten minutes, I'm sure you can appreciate that sentiment. After twenty years of marriage, we've stopped keeping a tally mark, but that's because we needed to clean out the garage, and all our old tally sheets were just taking up room. (Actually, it's because I don't want to even look at the real possibility that I might not be winning.)

This is how it usually goes in our house: I think I'm right. I know I'm right. I try to win a debate with my husband. I get mad. We quit debating. I pretend I'm still right.

This played out like an old dance during the first week the kids were back in school.

My third grader came home with massive amounts of work to do each night. Whatever he didn't finish in class was sent home right alongside his regularly scheduled homework. And each night the poor little guy would start work right after snack and sit in the same spot in the kitchen until suppertime. After supper he would continue to work until it was time for bed.

The mommy in me was at a breaking point. He needed rescued, and who better to rescue than the same person to kissed his scraped knees and tucked him into bed every night?

I informed my husband of my plan. I was careful to use words like, "I'm going to" and "I plan to". Not once did I slip in a phrase that sounded anywhere near, "what do you think" or "do you agree". So, I'm not sure where things fell off course, but somewhere between the sentence, "I'm going to have a talk with his teacher" and "This has to stop; it's ridiculous" my husband stopped me dead in my tracks with one comment.

"Leave it alone," he said.

I had a lot of not-so-nice thoughts but managed to keep most of them from escaping my wagging tongue. He was mean. Cruel. How could he not care about his own kid? How could he be so dense as to think this was fair, reasonable for a poor 8-year-old kid to suffer through no playing, no fun every night - how could he be that unfeeling?

"Leave it alone?" I asked.

"Let him figure it out," he said. "Remember all that research you did about dyslexia and about all those people with it? Do you really think that Charles Schwab, Patrick Dempsey or Steven Spielberg are so successful because of dyslexia? Or do you think it's because there weren't such things as accommodations and special plans when they went to school?"

"Well," I said. It wasn't much of an argument.

"Leave it alone and see if he can figure out that if he doesn't work harder at school he doesn't have fun at home. Let him solve this on his own. Don't take that away from him."

I still didn't agree with him, but I knew this was going in his side of the tally sheet. Fine, we'll do it his way and prove he's wrong.

Over the next few weeks, the unfinished work that came home dwindled to almost nothing. And yesterday, there was a check next to everything on his schedule. Not one solitary piece of unfinished work in the back pack.

My husband won this argument. And this one I am more than happy to leave on his side of the tally sheet. Sometimes the best thing of all is to lose an argument.

How to lose friends and make enemies in five short minutes

2008-09-18T08:09:00.006-06:00

(photo by Ronnie Bergeron)

I am reading the news this morning when I come across this advice:

"I need you to go out and talk to your friends and talk to your neighbors. I want you to talk to them whether they are independent or whether they are Republican. I want you to argue with them and get in their face," he said."

I cut my political teeth as a wet-behind-the-ears high school senior during the Reagan / Mondale election campaign. I only had one class in high school that year - Government. I worked a 40-hour job as an assistant manager of a fashion boutique store in the mall but spent 55 minutes each morning listening to my teacher wax eloquent about the beauty of our political system.

My teacher was a product of the 60's, a true flower-child. I once overheard the principal telling her that she couldn't dress like a hippie at school and that she needed more formal attire. I waited for her angry retort, but it didn't come. She simply said, "Yes, sir," and walked off.

I was so disappointed in her. What kind of a radical just bows to authority when the rules handed down are unfair and target only a single person?

And then I watched her. For a week she came to class dressed in evening gowns and faux jewels, her hair piled in curls on top of her head. She wore enough make up that I considered buying stock in Max Factor. And, after a week, the principal relented. My government teacher was happy to be back to her Birkies and peasant skirts.

She was my hero. She knew how to make a point, argue her position, and never alienate the other side. We were free to discuss politics in her class, and she showed respect when I argued why I thought Ronald Reagan was the best choice for our country. I can only imagine the restraint and self-control that took on her part. She forced us to stay on the facts, argue the issues, and the only way we faced a failing grade in her class is if we persisted in attacking our political opponents personally.

"You are friends outside of this class, and you should respect each other as friends who can like each other despite your differences," she would lecture us when things got too heated. It was the only time I heard her raise her voice.

I wish more students had a teacher like her today. I wish candidates had moms like her who would ream them out for taking the low road in their quest for office.

I could go on and on about my own opinions about this election, and we do as a family within the walls of our home. We talk every day about the issues and what we think of the candidates. We talk with our teenagers about our opinions and ask them about theirs. And we enjoy the lively discussions.

But I like my friends too much to lose them over an event which will be over in just a few short weeks.

So I won't get in your face, and I won't start an argument that will only get uglier.

That's not what my politics will ever be about.

Student Drivers - Staying Calm a Challenge

2008-09-13T19:22:00.004-06:00

Now I get the whole logic behind the "don't drink and drive" motto, and I'm with them on that one all the way. Sheesh - I'm so worried about my reflexes I'm scared to drive home when I've had rum pudding for dessert at a restaurant.

But as a parent of a teenager who is learning to drive, I'm beginning to wonder about this requirement that I can't drink and ride.

It's a common joke in our house that when our teen asks for a some driving time behind the wheel that the response is, "No, sorry, can't take you right now. I need a glass of wine first." And, no, I don't really do it, but I can't imagine how much nicer it would be for me - and her - if I could just relax a bit more. It's just so hard to relax when every other moment I see an impending crash in all its gory detail. Instead I look a lot actor Leslie Nielsen (pictured above in the movie Student Driver).

This is how our session went tonight:

"Okay, now I want you to pull into this parking space."

(car lurches forward)

"Slow!"

(car lurches again)

"Slow and smooth!"

(audible sigh)

"Good. Good. Now back up into that parking space there."

(yep - car lurches backwards)

"Woah! Slow down!"

"Stop!"

"Forward. Get it in forward!"

(audible sigh)

"Ok. Great job. Now, let's do that again."

About now is when both my daughter and I wish that I had a sedative - or maybe half of our local pharmacy's supply of something to calm me down.

She's a pretty good driver, so I'm thinking it's my imagination that's the problem. She backs a little over the curb at the local elementary school, and I'm picturing the principal's office window being taken out as the car surges backwards. I see cute little student drawings flying off the office walls and the poor janitor running for his life. I see rabbits peeking out of their hiding places in the nearby bushes and residents nearby running with their video cameras to post the carnage on Youtube.

Now I'm an author, so I'd be happy with my fifteen minutes of fame. I just don't want it to come in a real-life comedy video posted by some other guy who gets 4 million hits overnight.

I haven't resorted to drinking yet. But I'm thinking that maybe next time I'll try going blindfolded. Wonder if that will help at all.

Tracing Words Helps A Young Story Teller

2008-09-06T06:57:00.006-06:00

My son loves to tell stories. Long, detailed stories. He follows me from room to room through the house, talking all the while and happy to have an audience. He talks in the back seat while we're running errands. He talks while I'm cooking supper. And even when his teeth are brushed and he's all tucked in for the night, he still talks in the dark, giving life to the characters which live inside his imagination.

His first grade teacher once told me, "That little guy? His sub-plots have sub-plots."

But ask him to write down his story, and you'll be lucky to get two sentences. He loves to tell stories, but not on paper. Writing is a chore for him, and the words stop flowing when the pencil hits the paper.

I can relate to him. My mom swears I backed her into a light pole one time because I wouldn't stop talking in the back seat. My father lost his peace and quiet of getting ready in the early morning hours when I discovered that I could have him all to myself if I got up early enough. And, while I think they're exaggerating, my parents tell me my first words were, "You know what?"

But writing was easy for me. I labored for weeks over my first mystery novel in the third grade - page after page of filled notebook paper bound with yarn and encased in burlap-wrapped cardboard. What was supposed to be a two-day assignment turned into a massive project for a child who had a lot more to tell than could be told on the front and back of a piece of paper.

So it has become a mission of mine to give my son the best tools I can to help his own stories be told. And I've discovered a powerful, easy tool which has already made a difference in only a week.

As he complained about writing out his spelling words (a continual litany which runs from Monday to Friday morning in our house), I racked my brain for a way to make it a less-painful, more productive process. A quick search of the internet turned up exactly what I was needing: a dotted font which allows me to type in rows of his spelling words which he then traces while he says them out loud.

Yes, he still complained, but not as loud or long. It was far easier to trace those words than write them on his own. And - an added benefit is that the words were easier to read by the end of the week. Not only did it imprint the words in his memory, but it helped his writing as well.

I knew it was a success when he walked through the door yesterday.

"How was your day?" I asked.

"Not good," he said, trying to hide the smile. "Nope, not good. It was great!"

He pulled out the spelling test and showed me his almost perfect score.

It's only a week, but already he has fifteen new words in his toolbox. Give him a year, and he'll be well on his way to telling his own stories on paper. No, I don't think it will slow down the talking. But that's ok, too. I like hearing him talk.

Special Needs Gain A Great Advocate

2008-09-04T09:52:00.008-06:00

When is the last time you saw a Down's Syndrome baby highlighted on national television? When have you heard a politician promise to be an advocate for special needs children? I couldn't remember the last time until a journalist on a writing forum reminded me of President Kennedy's sister, Rosemary, who inspired her sister, Eunice, to create the Special Olympics.

Last night, high profile candidate Sarah Palin gave her acceptance speech at the Republican National Convention and proudly displayed all of her family, including her precious Down's Syndrome baby boy named Trig, for all the world to see. And what a wonderful moment it was when national television caught a loving moment between Trig and his bigger sister who carefully licked her fingers before smoothing down the hair of the sleeping baby in her arms.

Parents with special needs children can celebrate, because even in a day when these children are no longer institutionalized, services and accommodations are still difficult to secure.

And whether this woman wins or loses in November, the issue of special needs children will have its day in the spotlight.

Anyone with a child with a special need knows the trials and pain involved in gaining the appropriate services, the support, and understanding needed just to make the playing field somewhat fair. I recently interviewed a woman with a son who has severe dyslexia. For years she fought the system to gain the appropriate accommodations he needed to complete the work in class. She argued with teachers who wanted to make him "normal". She pressed administrators to test when they didn't want to. She pushed for equipment and therapy and services which were already allowed by law but almost impossible to acquire without a fight.

And on the day that I interviewed her, this woman's son with severe dyslexia was moving into his dorm room in college where he'd earned a Presidential Scholarship thanks to her tireless advocacy and intervention in a system which is still often hostile to those who fall outside of the norm. She asked me an important question, "What about those moms who don't know how to fight the system? What happens to their kids? Who is fighting for them?"

Whether a mother is liberal, conservative, or somewhere in between, all of us can appreciate and celebrate when another mother takes up a cause dear to our hearts - advocating for the needs of our children and paving the way for those who may not have someone else who can or will fight for them. One can only hope that the spotlight creates change, not just conversation.

And I, for one, am celebrating that a woman like Sarah Palin - with the media clout to bring some attention to this issue - has promised to advocate for those who cannot advocate for themselves.

Checking My Ego at the Door

2008-08-21T07:38:00.003-06:00

(© Photo courtesy of Kenn W. Kiser)

Some days I feel pretty good about what I do - I have a thriving writing business, three kids who aren't giving me grief at the moment, and well, sometimes it's easy to think I've finally "arrived" - whatever that means. I get a little full of myself and start thinking I actually know what's going on, that I'm more important than I am, and that somebody out there just might be impressed with my accomplishments.

The rest of the time I wander around wondering what I've done with my life, but that's for another blog.

Not too long ago, I was having one of those "isn't-Lisa-special" days. The kids made it out the door to school on time with their homework done, I was busy interviewing several "Very Important People", and the writing was flowing better than traffic on Sunday. Little thoughts of just how great I was started creeping in, and it felt good to momentarily entertain those delicious tidbits of ego. I could picture my friends and neighbors saying things like, "Wow, that Lisa - she's just a great mom. Her kids get to school on time with their homework done. And did you notice those packed lunches? However does she do it?" I envisioned my fellow writers watching me in envy as I sat in a local coffee shop picking the brain of yet another CEO. It didn't matter that if I saw this same CEO in the parking lot, he'd most likely not recognize me. At the moment, I was quite important.

Oh, yeah.

I breezed into my son's elementary school ready to share an hour or two of my wonderful self with my son's teacher. Yes, indeed - I was going to make her day better just by gracing her with my presence.

"Good morning, Mrs. Abeyta," she says. "Have a seat until I finish this activity."

I look around the room and spy a chair by the window.

A very little chair.

Made for eight-year-olds, not forty-something moms.

A little deflated but still feeling perky, I carefully settle myself into my tiny perch, tucking my skirt around my knees and balancing my purse on my knees, no small feat since my knees are now just about equal with my chin.

After a few minutes, she gives the kids time to work quietly and comes back to greet me. I try to stand up and discover that forty-something knees creak and pop. The kids nearby giggle.

She hands me a stack of papers, writes a code on a sticky note, smacks it on the top, and with authority that only comes naturally to a teacher, instructs me on my list of chores. It sounds easy enough - make copies, 112 on one side, then batches of 28 on the second side so that they are pre-counted for the other teachers. Math on blue, reading on another color, letters on white. The rest? I can pick the color, just not white.

I carry my head high as I pass through the halls on my way to the work room.

The inner Lisa is still quite full of herself. "You're such a wonderful person," she says. "Just look at you making your son's teacher's life better. She's going to think you're the best mom in the class."

I'm so busy patting myself on the back that I trip on a step, miss the turn to the workroom and just about drop my load of papers.

I shush that inner voice and get started on my tasks.

I push the buttons on the Xerox machine to make a master copy, but nothing happens. I hit clear and try again. Nothing. I open the lid. Close the lid. Open the side door. Close the side door. Nothing.

A little-less puffed up Lisa creeps into the teacher's lounge looking for a friendly face.

Ever asked a teacher to give up some precious lunch time to tutor you on a Xerox? Not easy, I can assure you. Finally one staffer has mercy on me. With a few swift clicks, the machine is whirring to life. I'm back in business.

I take my fresh master copy to the Gestetner machine, an archaic technology which basically mass-produces copies using the old blue copy pages we used to shove between our papers. Once again the machine decides that my sequence of button-pushing doesn't contain the right magic to grant me my wish. Just as I admit defeat and head back to the teacher's lounge, my son's teacher breezes into the room.

"Thought I'd get you started," she smiles, all business. "Here, use this master on this machine. Use this one over here." She continues talking as she presses buttons, shoves stacks of colored paper in the correct slots and creates stacks for the completed projects. In a matter of moments, she has accomplished what would take me a good half hour to figure out.

By now, the puffed-up-Lisa has packed her bags and temporarily moved out. She's left behind a severely office-machine challenged nitwit who can't find her way around the workroom with a GPS-enabled map. I watch and listen to the teacher carefully, hoping that just enough of the instructions sink in so that I don't completely botch the project and make more work for the woman who spends her day with my son.

I finish up the copying and sorting with a few more glitches like paper jams, empy ink cartridges and the like. I return the stacks of colored paper to the correct slots and meekly deliver the goods to the classroom. I receive a quick smile of thanks as I retrieve my things and head for the parking lot.

Volunteering in an elementary school is truly good for the soul. It may not help the teachers very much, but it does wonders to keep a destructive ego at bay.

The words still flowed that afternoon, but the ego was definitely in check. I reminded myself that those conversations with big-wigs didn't make me one. My kids are great because I am blessed and lucky - not because I'm so special.

Everything in life is a blessing.

The next time I forget that valuable lesson, I'll know just where to go to get everything back into perspective.

Yellowstone part six

2008-08-13T06:00:00.000-06:00

Our visit is winding down, and we are at loose ends about how to spend our last day in the park. We've seen the geysers and hot springs, toured Old Faithful Lodge, driven over almost every major paved portion of the park, taken several hikes, and viewed a bounty of wildlife.

We decide to take one last drive up to Antelope Valley in Dunraven Pass and spend a couple of hours glassing the area of wildlife. A deer comes over the hill but scurries back out of sight and a coyote lopes by, but the valley is quiet. When rain begins to fall, we fold up our chairs and head back towards Lake Lodge. We stop to photograph the beautiful meadows of wildflowers near Mount Washburn.

We spot what we suspect is the same grizzly in Hayden Valley and watch in anticipation as he passes through a herd of elk, but he ignores them as they watch him on high alert. As dusk falls, he passes over a hill, so we move down into a lower pull-out along the valley hoping for one final look before calling it a night.

We get more than we bargain for when he not only comes into view but heads straight for us. He meanders along the hill and eventually crosses the road only a few yards away, eventually moving out of sight in the falling light. It is the perfect way to end our Yellowstone Vacation.

Too excited to sleep, we stop of at the Lake Lodge and find an empty table where we play cards and share a few laughs. The place is surprisingly full of people and many different languages can be heard through the large room. When we are finally tired, we pack up our cards and call it a night. In the morning, we will leave through the south entrance and pass through the Grand Tetons before finally returning to the hustle and bustle of city life.

Yellowstone, part five

2008-08-12T06:00:00.002-06:00

At 2 AM we discover that it is not a wise plan to install a fire alarm directly above a wood stove when it pierces the quiet campground after a small stream of smoke escapes the wood burning stove. We lose our heat as we frantically pull open the cabin door and try to blow the smoke out into the open air. When the fire alarm stops, we crawl back in bed afraid to add any more wood pellets. By morning, our noses are cold but we are warm beneath the heavy blankets. My husband braves the morning air to bring hot coffee from the lodge, and we eventually stir around enough to warm up and cook breakfast outside the cabin.

After packing up, we head back out for our last morning in Lamar Valley. We hear from other park visitors that a seven wolves from the Druid Peak pack took down an elk in the river just below our view. We watch all morning as a black wolf tries in vain to defend the kill against a grizzly bear who feasts on the kill before lumbering past the wolf and finally coming to rest in the chamiza just beyond the clearing. More wolves appear on the scene, and we wonder what will happen.
It is then than one of the crowd notices a lone fisherman wandering up the river in the direction of the kill. A ranger, geared up with a rifle and full protection, is already on the riverbed hammering in a sign warning hikers to not enter the area. When it is determined that the fisherman will encounter the wildlife before anyone else can reach him, the ranger risks his own life to pass by the grizzly and the wolves to warn the fisherman. The crowd watches with growing tension as the ranger pulls his rifle from his scabbard as he walks gingerly past the wolf guarding its kill. The fisherman, still unaware of the impending danger, continues to fly fish and walk towards the wolf and grizzly. When the ranger gets too close to the wolf, the black alpha male runs through the meadow into the forest beyond. The grizzly doesn't budge. We all breathe a sigh of relief when the fisherman is finally reached and they are able to safely leave the area. When we finally leave in late afternoon to make our check-in for a cabin in Lake Lodge, the wolves and bear are still avoiding each other but staying close to the downed elk.

After checking in - yes, another night in Hayden Valley where we once again see a grizzly grubbing through the roots in the plains just beyond the Yellowstone River.

Yellowstone, part four

2008-08-11T06:00:00.008-06:00

DAY FOUR

August 5, 2008

Today we leave our cabin at Lake Hotel and travel to the north end of Yellowstone to stay for a night in Roosevelt, named for our former President. We first travel to Mammoth Springs, one of only two locations which remains open year-round. We stop for a picnic lunch before touring Mammoth Springs and notice the significant changes in color since our visit eight years ago.

We browse through the gift shop in Mammoth Springs before trekking across

to check into our Rough Rider cabin - no bathroom or running water, but two comfortable beds with a wood burning stove. We are happy to have a night in Roosevelt at all; it's by far our favorite part of the park. Sans the crowds which frequent Old Faithful, it is peaceful, pleasant and an easy jaunt out to my favorite place of all - Lamar Valley.

We sit in the big wooden rockers on the expansive front porch of Roosevelt until dinner. I wait in line for a half hour so that our family can be seated right away in the quaint dining room of the lodge. Afterwards, we hurry out for the evening. It doesn't take long to spot a small group of avid wildlife watchers with scopes parked along a pull-out in the valley. One woman tells us that a black wolf has been spotted just a bit further up the road and advises us to look for Rick, one of the biologists who tracks the wolf.

When we catch up to Rick, we find out that "Ranger Rick" is actually Rick McIntyre, one of the original founders of the wolf program in Yellowstone. A kindly, quiet man, he holds up his antennae every few minutes to track the collared wolves and spends the rest of his time patiently answering visitor's questions and asking us what we have seen, marking down details of number of wolves, coloring, and even gait and mannerisms of the wolves.

Just before dusk, a grizzly is spotted in the area, but it is only a dark dot on my weak binoculars. When the light finally fails us, we return to our rustic cabin happy and tired.

Yellowstone, part three

2008-08-10T06:00:00.002-06:00

DAY THREE

August 4, 2008

No morning walk today - another camp breakfast before setting out for a tour of the falls and the Grand Canyon of Yellowstone.

We start up one path only to encounter a cinnamon black bear just a few yards away. Aware that we are far closer than we should be to a bear, we stay quiet and move slowly. Others are not so respectful of the bear's space and move closer for a better snapshot. Parents let their young children rush forward, but I hold my own son's hand and keep him by my side. If the bear feels intimidated, I do not want my son too close. The crowd finally disperses when a Ranger arrives and tells everyone to head back

down the trail.

We set out on Uncle Tom’s Trail, a steep, winding path which culminates into 385 stairs to the base of the Upper Falls. I stop about halfway an

d bid the rest of my clan adieu. While I have hiked the entire way down before, my fear of heights makes the steep stairs a mis

erable experience. The youngest gets tuckered on the hike back up, but we take our time and make it back in one piece. No sense in hurrying so fast that we miss the beautiful scenery we came to see!

Before supper, we drive up north for a couple of hours to see if we can sight a bear. We pass Mount Washburn and set up our camp chairs alongside the road in a pull-out overlooking the long, hilly Antelope Valley along the Dunraven Pass where we’ve seen bear before. After scanning the hills for a few minutes, I see something move but then lose it. My husband discove

rs that it is a moose resting in a small grassy area. We attract a crowd which eventually boxes us in.

We spend another sunset in Hayden Valley and are not disappointed. A silver-backed grizzly meanders along the hillside across the river - too far away to be photographed but close enough for an hour of wildlife watching. We stop several times on our way back to the cabin to avoid bison walking in the road. The great lumbering beasts truly have the right-of-way wherever they go.

Yellowstone, part two

2008-08-09T10:44:00.007-06:00

DAY TWO

August 3, 2008

Why is it camp food tastes so wonderful and grounds in the coffee are just an accepted fact when you’re “out in the wild”? While we certainly aren’t out in the wild with our one-bedroom cabin costing upwards of $150 a night, pull out the camp stove and it’s camping no matter where you sleep.

My husband, oldest son, and I sneak out of the cabin to give the rest of the family a few more minutes of sleep. We enjoy a quiet morning walk along Lake Yellowstone’s shore. Of course, the two guys had to prove who was the best rock skipper. I’m not sure who won, but we enjoyed our walk just the same. After scrambled eggs with sausage and camp toast with raspberry fruit spread - and Starbucks coffee in our French Press, we do up the dishes and get ready for the day.

We decide to do the tourist thing and get it over with. Our eight-year-old has never seen Old Faithful, so we put up with the crowds to share this experience with him. He decides to sign the Junior Ranger program, so we all listen to a ranger talk about the geysers before taking a short hike while waiting for Old Faithful to blow. It is fun to watch our young son ready his disposable camera and get off a few shots before the water’s eruption finally subsides.

I never know whether to be annoyed or thankful that all the people who flock to this part of the park never wander to the more remote areas where wildlife abound.

We hike the lower basin, viewing the geysers and hot springs. When my feet start to hurt, I realize we’ve been hiking for several hours. An hour on a treadmill seems so long; how can a few hours in the wilderness seem so short? For our last hike of the day, we decide to view the

Artist Paintpots. The closer features are closed, so we hike up to the top of the hill to see the bubbling mud pots. My daughter takes my photo to prove I dragged myself this far uphill and can still smile. I take my own photo of the parking lot far below just to prove to myself how far I can hike uphill without whining. Ok - a little whining. I am embarrassed to admit that while I was puffing up the hill, my daughter managed to lug her younger brothers up on her shoulders. She’s like a regular packhorse! I love seeing her so healthy and strong - something I never was at her age.

Dad lets our teenaged son try out the

professional camera; he likes the process more than he thought he would. The disposable camera is finished off with a family photo. I ask the nice stranger to take one on my camera as well. It’s not great, but it’s all of us.

After a campstove supper, we spend another night viewing a grizzly and her cubs in Hayden

Valley.

Yellowstone, part one

2008-08-08T22:25:00.009-06:00

DAY ONE
August 2, 2008

After spending our first night in Salt Lake City, Utah, we arrive at Yellowstone by early afternoon. It has been eight years since we have visited the park, and I am anxious to see the changes. Only a few minutes into the park, and I am already amazed at the growth of the new lodge pole pines which have been growing since the devastating fires of 1988 which decimated much of the populated areas of the park. I am pleased to see that the tiny trees which had been below my knees are now towering above our heads. Mother Nature is a great physician.

We head towards our cabin at Lake Hotel on the edge of Lake Yellowstone, but we don't make it far before we stop to photograph a few elk grazing in a meadow. Our youngest has his own camera and wants to break it in. As we approach the west side of the park, we become aware of large plumes of smoke and begin to wonder if we will have a place to stay for the night. We are glad to discover the fires are burning between Canyon and Lake Hotel, allowing visitors to still stay in the park.

We are thrilled to see our first bison and not surprised when it leads to a "bison jam". This visitor does not seem to be aware of the little factoid that bisons raise their tail when feeling threatened or aggressive.

We maneuver through the vehicles, check in to our quaint cabin and hurry to make our reservations at the Lake Hotel restaurant, one of the "finer dining" establishments in the park.

We hurry out to spend the evening wildlife watching in Hayden Valley, just north of the lake area. We are not disappointed. A large grizzly stands up on rear haunches and sniffs the wind before wandering off into the nearby forest. All in all, a wonderful first day.

I didn't learn it all in Kindergarten: I learned a lot this week

2008-07-31T05:49:00.006-06:00

(Photos from our 1998 trip to Yellowstone)

One of the things I like best about being a freelance writer is the chance to interview people, learn what makes them tick, and then weave those words in such a way that others think they know that person a bit better having read the article. But every so often I have one of those weeks where I wonder what I was thinking to not just go down to Taco Bell and put on a hairnet and learn to make churros.

This was one of those weeks.

Despite the hassles, I did learn a few things worth sharing:

* Most travel agents in this podunk - (I say that with affection; I love that our town can still be called podunk) - town do not understand the concept of good press. When I called one in particular to ask some survey questions for a travel piece, she said - and I quote - "I am not going to do your homework for you. How lazy can you be?" This was followed by a dial tone. Guess who I WON'T be calling for my travel arrangements?

*Some travel agents recognize free advertising when they see it. "Will you mention my agency in the article?" one guy asked. Have to in the quote, so, yes, I will. A boatload of emails filled with fully-planned vacation iteneraries and tentative booking information arrived within minutes. Needless to say, this motivated agent will have his moment in the sunshine.

* The "best" travel spots cost an arm and a leg, and maybe some birthrights of your firstborn. Most writers write about these places, they do not have the money to actually go there. Someday I want to be that reclusive writer who lives on a tropical island living off the proceeds of my work. Yeah, and I might as well discover the elixir of youth while I'm at it.

* Editors are grateful when you don't throw a hissy-fit when a project is completely revamped after hours of research. They offer nice things like more assignments next month. About now, I'd rather have a chocolate cupcake.

* When you receive a phone call right in the middle of working on an assignment, it can make you cranky. When you find out the call is to tell you a very dear, loved lady has made it through surgery for breast cancer and is doing fine, well, it puts it all back in perspective. You have a smile that won't wipe away even when the work gets frustrating.

* Even teenage kids do not like it when you close the door and tell them you are working. This is a clear sign for "emergencies" to crop up which need your attention. Hint - not being able to find the butter is not an emergency. It is another item added to your chore list: clean out the fridge.

* A supper of cottage cheese, lunchmeat, canned fruit, and a bag of carrots makes your family think you don't really love them any more. But they eat it anyway, because actually making the effort to fix something else sounds like a worse option.

* There is really a Podunk Bluegrass Festival in Connecticut. I don't want to go.

* There are "vacation" cruises on container ships. I don't want to go on them, either. Can you imagine the food in their all-you-can-eat buffet? It would make my cottage cheese look gourmet. And what happens if you're out sunning on the deck when one of those containers shifts a wee bit? Sounds too much like a Law & Order episode waiting to happen. I'll be nervous if my husband suggests this trip for our next anniversary.

* If you write about Yellowstone and then book a vacation after the story is completed, the press contact still offers you a pile of freebies. Too bad most of them are just brochures.

* If you propose writing a story about wolf research in Yellowstone, the Institute will offer to take you off-path to see the real work they do. I so want to go.

* When you are up against a deadline, don't have enough surveys filled out from your travel "experts", and haven't been to ten other great-t0-visit islands, you can still write 3000 words on great fall getaways and finish on time. But only if you use the Podunk Bluegrass Festival to round out the great countryside getaways. I still don't want to go.

* The dog gets worried and whimpers by the door when I start talking back in a loud voice at the computer.

* When the kids discover I have scrounged together a last-minute vacation to Yellowstone, they seem excited. At least the eight-year-old does. He is really excited. Do teenagers ever get that excited unless it's a new upgrade for their iPod Video?

* Custom home builders don't return phone calls they've paid you to make. Then they tell the sales rep they haven't heard from you. Then they tell you they must have "missed your call". All ten of them. No worries. I have kids. I've waited for an five-year-old to finish his green beans. Now that takes patience.

* Dyslexia isn't always dyslexia. Sometimes it's dysgraphia masquerading as dyslexia.

* Boiling the significance of someone else's life down into a 200-word blurb can actually be fun. Does that make something wrong with me?

And last - I discovered this little nugget from a fellow-writer's blog (thanks, JA):

* All writers have to be a bit like narcississts. Otherwise they could never believe that someone else would want to read what they wrote, much less pay for it. Good thing this blog is free - I never have to know for sure who would or wouldn't read mine!

Schools Going to Four Days a Week?

2008-07-24T17:58:00.005-06:00

Oh happy days.

In case you've been dreading your progeny returning to school this fall, school administrators across the country may have just found the perfect way for you to spend a little more time with your loved ones.

According to Reuters, schools say they can save money by only opening four days a week, meaning three-day weekends for our currently undereducated public school population. I wonder why they're stopping at three day vacations. Imagine the money we could save if the kids only went to school one or two days a week or not at all.

Some parents who actually drive away from their house to go to work may have a hard time finding new daycare arrangements, but perhaps they should just look at this as a good opportunity for little Johnny to grow up and be a man. Shouldn't all six-year-olds know how to take care of themselves? Leave 'em a hot dog and a box of cold cereal and free access to the television all day, and I'm sure the kiddos won't mind Mom or Dad not being there all day.

Me? I'm just thrilled with the idea. Since my husband and I both work from home, we can just be one big happy family, kind of like the new generation of the Walton's. It's certainly worked for us this summer with all five of us bouncing around the house. The kids haven't gotten on our nerves - or each other's - and thanks to the extra help around the house, I've even been able to let the maid and the groundsmen go. We've hung on to the butler, but if the schools cut back on days in the classroom, I may have my teenage son measured for a tuxedo and white gloves.

Many of my friends have asked me what the secret is to keeping everyone so happy and pleasant under one roof. Due to popular demand, here is my three-phase Family Bliss Plan ready for you once your school district decides you don't need a five-day break from the kiddos:

PHASE ONE: Develop a card system. Here's how mine works:
Complain: earn a "go scrub the bathroom" card.
Bicker: receive a "pick weeds in the garden" card
Pick on a Sibling: earn a "clean your sibling's room" card
Talk Back to a Parent: earn a "do the dishes by yourself" card

These cards work fine for a while, but soon the kids start behaving. Then it's time to launch
PHASE TWO: Voluntary Bedroom Confinement
So you have the card system going strong, and your kids are not only getting along but are also doing quite a few of the household chores in the process. But they're still under foot. Every time you turn around, there is a new teenager lopping his big glopping shoes over the side of your hand carved chair or a dripping her nail polish onto your coffee table. The best way to prevent these headaches is to provide incentives for your children to voluntarily stay in their room out of your way all day. Every time you spy a child in the family room relaxing, give them a task. Taking out the trash and sweeping the floor are excellent tools for motivating teenagers to vacate an area. Send them up to their room with some laundry to put away, and you won't see them again for several hours. It is the perfect way to have your house just as quiet as when your kids actually did attend school five days a week.

PHASE THREE: Extended Family Visits
Start lining up overnight trips for your kids to get to know long-lost relatives. Sure you've burned out the grandparents with all those weekend sleepovers, but, hey - there's always Great-Uncle Gus who hasn't seen the kids in years. Surely he'd enjoy a night or two getting to know the kids. If not, he won't know that until after they're already there. Just make sure you let the phone go straight to voicemail. Hearing your kids cry because Cousin Sarah bit them can tug on the heart strings if you're not careful.

Oh, and if these three steps fail to bring you the peaceful, quiet bliss that every parent looks forward to at the end of August, there is one last step you can try: sign them up for every school club and sport you can. Then you can drop them off at school even when it's closed. When the school principal calls to tell you that there is noone there to watch your kids, you can feign a mistake in the practice schedule. At least it'll buy you a couple of hours of peace and quiet.

Rural America Still A Great Destination

2008-07-18T07:07:00.007-06:00

"Want me to run down to the Chug-n-Jug to get you some half and half? I can put in the fridge for you."

The question is not delivered with the haughty snobbery of your usual concierge and the man asking is dressed in jeans and a checked shirt instead of a starched uniform. And that is exactly why it is so refreshing.

I am in Mountainair, New Mexico, tucked away inside the Cibola National Forest in a town with only a flashing yellow light where the two main highways intersect right by the railroad tracks. The little community, originally established in 1903 as a stop along the AT&SF Railway is almost preserved from time with a main street filled with facade storefronts reminiscent of the good ole' days. It doesn't take much imagination to picture a few cowpokes riding in from the range for a drink at the local saloon (which still bears the simple name SALOON). The town thrived in the early 1900's and soon earned the title "Pinto Bean Capital of the World". But after the Dust Bowl and the subsequent years of drought lasting into the fifties, the farming community dried up to leave only a few townfolk and ranchers.

There isn't a lot to do in Mountainair proper - a few restaurants, a bed and breakfast, an historic hotel. There isn't a movie theater or even a Wal-Mart. But there is a tight-knit community of warm, friendly folk who will treat a city slicker with the same consideration as they would one of their own. Visitors mostly come to view the surrounding ruins of three Indian pueblos and a 17th Century Spanish Franciscan church. It is also a magnet for artists, writers, photographers and poets who draw inspiration from the wide-open scenery and majestic mountain ranges. And just this past spring the usually quiet town was overrun with fire fighters battling a raging blaze in the nearby mountains which destroyed several homes.

So when I find myself standing in the lobby of the Turner Inn and RV Park wishing that I'd brought some half and half for the coffeemaker in our room and realizing my schedule will prevent me from picking something up before the town rolls up the carpet for the night, I am treated to a dose of small town hospitality.

We arrive late at night to find an extra towel draped over a chair and a pint of half and half in our refrigerator. No bell boy is waiting with his hand extended for an expected tip. No room service bill with a hefty gratuity. Just a quiet act of consideration - something often lacking in those high priced luxury hotels in urban America.

Lacing Up the Begging Shoes

2008-07-14T13:20:00.004-06:00

There's this part of me that is bursting with pride that two of my kids did so well in this past weekend's national climbing competition. The other part is wondering why they couldn't be lazy, good-for-nothing teenagers like everyone else. It's not that I don't want them to be in shape, learn the great lessons provided by competition and training and all that jazz. In fact, it has a lot more with me wanting to be a lazy, good-for-nothing parent.

It was such a mixed bag of feelings this morning when I received the following messages:

A text from my son: I made it to Continentals (and no, he wasn't bragging that he'd tumbled out of bed at the hotel before they shut down the free buffet).

An email from my husband: Looks like Jonathon is next in line for an invite to World's (one could only wish he meant Disney, as in Florida).

Seems one kid earned an invitation to the Continental rock climbing competition (click on the title above to see their website) to be held in December in Montreal and the other barely missed an invite, so if someone can't make it we could have both of them competing in Continentals. And if one of the US Team members can't make it to the world competition in Australia, my son will receive the invitation.

How amazing is that? And how scary. Instead of a few stolen moments of relaxing on the deck working on my novel, it looks like we're going to be organizing team car washes, bake sales, and kid-for-hire fundraisers. I like to bake brownies as much as the next guy, but I can't imagine how many brownies I'm going to have to sell to get all the way to Australia.

The part of me that is so proud of my kids will be at the airport tonight when their flight comes in; I'll be full of hugs, smiles, and praise. But inside, I'll be quaking in my shoes and running around in circles screaming in a high-pitched wail.

It'll be a marathon of fund raisers, but if my kids can pull off a performance like that, then certainly I can lace on my begging shoes and help them on to their next big competition.

Next year, though, I'm scheduling some time to be that lazy, good-for-nothing parent. Maybe I'll sign up for the Maui Writer's Conference and stay a week on the island hobnobbing with some of the elite who congregate there. I wonder how may brownies that'll take.

They made it to the Finals!

2008-07-12T16:23:00.002-06:00

For the first time since my kids started competing in rock climbing 8 years ago, both of them earned an invitation to compete in the final round of the national championship. Hosted this year in Sunnyvale, California, the kids have spent the better part of the year training for this weekend. Self denial, climbing on a broken toe, pushing past the fear - these kids have earned their place at the table among some of the best in the nation. Both placed 7th in their categories, earning a comfortable position for tomorrow's events.

Team Mojo, their climbing team coached by Lance Hadfield at Stone Age Climbing Gym, took several kids to the national competition - more, I believe, than any other team in the country and certainly more from one team than any other in the region.

Way to go, Rachel and Jonathon. I am so very proud of both of you!

Cheering From The Sidelines

2008-07-11T21:01:00.003-06:00

I spent my day today calling folks for brief phone interviews, writing up profiles, and mostly thinking about my children. While I sit here at my desk going about my daily business, my two teenagers are in San Francisco competing in the USA Climbing's National Climbing competition, proving the value of months of hard work and sacrifice. Both kids went up against some of the best climbers in the United States and ended up close enough to the top to make it to the semi-finals tomorrow.

I may be working in Albuquerque, but this weekend my heart is in a very loud, hot climbing gym in San Francisco.

Writer's Market

2008-07-09T07:45:00.003-06:00

When I first decided to test the waters as a freelance writer, I was an exhausted mother with two elementary-aged kids and a very sick newborn. I was battling post-partum depression, stuck in the house every day and needed an escape. I couldn't use either of my two majors in college - elementary special education and Spanish, because I needed to stay at home. It seemed like a bleak, dark year ahead, and I wasn't sure how I'd get through it.

Funny enough, it was my husband who suggested that I consider writing from home. He's never been a fan of my writing style and to this day has only read a handful of articles I've written. He's never read either of my fiction manuscripts. But he knew I loved to write and encouraged me to give it a try. Every elective in college had been honors level English and Creative Writing classes, but I wondered if I really had what it took to write on a regular basis.

I searched online and found a very clunky writer's forum - the original Writer's Digest forum where every post was screened and would often take several days to appear. A seasoned writer or two who frequented the site answered my endless questions about the trade of writing and encouraged me to try my hand at it. Both suggested a single book to get started - the Writer's Market.

I checked out an older copy from the library and scanned the pages of listed markets - book publishers, magazines, and periodicals. It was the first glimmer of hope; surely one market in the hefty book would be a good match for me. I eventually bought my own copy, which is stored in a box along with my first year's worth of writing notes and published clips. The dogeared, highlighted book helped launch a career and was often better therapy than a paid professional during that first tough year.

I've had a lot of published bylines since that first year, and I honestly thought the giddy feeling of finally seeing one's name in print was a faded memory, kind of like the feeling of a first kiss. Sure there are others, some far better than that first one, but none are ever quite as memorable or reach the heights of emotion as the very first time.

I was wrong.

When I saw my byline in this year's Writer's Market with my article about syndication, I felt that silly schoolgirl giddiness all over again. I couldn't wipe the smile off my face as I paid for my deluxe version at our local Border's bookstore. And I couldn't put it down once I got home. I scanned the rest of the articles - some very good ones I want to read - and marvelled at how many more markets there are now than when I first started. But then I returned to my own article and read every last word of it. Robert Brewer did a fantastic job of editing, and I am very grateful for the chance to contribute to the book which helped launch my own career.

I may not have a lot more "first kiss" moments left, but this one - well, I'll remember it for a long time.

How I Survived a Broken Garage Door Spring and Lived to Tell About It

2008-07-07T15:00:00.007-06:00

Today's good news from the home front is that I was not killed by the broken spring in my garage door. Well, to be honest, it wasn't even a near miss. Ok. The truth is that I didn't even know it was broken until I returned to find that the garage door would no longer go up with the push of the button. Believe me, I tried numerous times.

But have you ever Googled broken garage door spring? Link after link shout this warning: people are often killed and maimed by broken garage door springs. Does it matter that most of the websites are promoting the services of some company who will rescue unsuspecting homeowners from this horrid danger by having their trained technician come right to the home to replace the dangerous spring?

In five years' worth of episodes of the popular HBO series Six Feet Under - where a woman was crushed by falling "blue ice" from a passing jet liner, another was done in by a low-hanging street sign during a open-air ride through the roof of a limo, and a wide variety of other wild and crazy deaths were documented, not once did the writers think to use the deadly garage door spring as the launchpad for an episode.

The journalist in me began to wonder about all these deaths and maimings, so I Googled killed by broken garage door spring hoping to find some juicy news articles which chronicled the many deaths and maimings by this silent killer hiding inside everyone's home. After plowing through several pages of do-it-yourself sites and garage door sales websites, I finally hit pay dirt.

In bold letters I spied the words a woman was killed ... broken garage door. Turns out the woman was killed when she was shot in the head climbing through a broken garage door window to burglarize someone's home.

Moving on, I found another. SWAT officers, broken, garage ... nah. Some guy hiding in a parking garage. An intruder running towards a garage door when an employee fired and killed him. After a few more pages of research, I came to the conclusion that the real danger is to intruders running towards and climbing through garage doors. Seems they get shot a lot.

Anyway, all's well that ends well. A nice technician came out and rescued our little family from sudden death by replacing our garage door springs. He even talked us into the cadillac version with the promise that the fancier springs would last longer.

I'm just sorry to find out Six Feet Under is no longer in production. This could have been my big break for selling a script about some mom on her cell phone driving into the garage when ... you get the picture.

Generous Neighbors Share Fireworks Show Free of Charge

2008-07-05T07:50:00.006-06:00

It wouldn't be Fourth of July without black cats rat-a-tatting in the street and bottle rockets screaming through the air. It's the one night that neighbors have license to blow things up in their own driveway without the rest of the street calling the cops. The Fourth of July brings out the redneck in even the most wealthy and conservative among us.

And thanks to my own redneck-for-the-night neighbors, my family and guests were literally showered with the closest, most personal of firework shows.

After a wonderful meal of grilled brats and burgers, we invited our guests to join us on our upstairs deck to enjoy a private viewing of the city's official fireworks show. From the relative comfort of patio chairs, we looked forward to the unobstructed view of the annual show hosted at the city's International Balloon Fiesta fields. We had no idea just how many fireworks we were about to enjoy.

We jumped in our seats when loud bang was followed by a bright flash of green right above our deck. Two more bangs followed more flashes. And then silence. We sat back, ready to enjoy the real show.

Instead, our wonderfully considerate neighbors allowed us to enjoy their private fireworks show free of charge. For two hours, we were allowed to share in each explosion. They were even generous enough to let some of their sizzling fireworks crash onto our tin roof.

Bang! Thump, thump, thump, szzzzzzzzz....

Really, it made the entire evening so much more exciting than we'd planned. Instead of viewing the beautiful, choreographed display glowing to our west, it was like our own stereo version. And the neighbors didn't even charge us.

When the street above us finally went quiet, we were disappointed to think that two hours worth of illegal fireworks was all that our wealthy developer neighbor could afford. How sad that the slowing housing market was hitting so close to home.

Thankfully, we were wrong. No sooner had one neighbor finished his show than another started the next show with even bigger, brighter, louder fireworks. He, too, donated more than a few still-sizzling fireworks to our now littered roof.

I had no idea how lucky we were to have such wealthy neighbors. They shared thousands of dollars of pyrotechnics with our entire neighborhood, motivated I am sure, from some deep, philanthropic place within their heart.

I'm still trying to find the perfect way to tell the developers who live on the next street above us just how very grateful I am.

Life Goes On

2008-07-02T18:53:00.002-06:00

Eighty-eight years ago, a struggling young couple were blessed with a baby girl. For years they'd tried to conceive, but the poor homesteaders could only hope and try again. So when their child arrived, they named her Junior. It might, after all, be their only child.

The family grew to eight girls and one boy - a strong, hardy family of pioneer stock who ranched in the windswept prairies of northern New Mexico. The girl's name was shortened to June somewhere along the path, and until today, as we buried her back into the same earth that had been beneath her feet as a child, I never knew the story behind her name.

I've heard a lot of stories about that large family, because the only son was my maternal grandfather. Family reunions have always been loud, happy affairs. We once rented a place in Texas and had over 300 show up - and I knew them all. We were that kind of tight-knit family.

And so today as we gathered again to say goodbye to the strong matriarch who continued to pursue her life's calling up until the day she died. In 1942 she gave away all of her belongings except some clothing in a suitcase and launched out into the unknown with only her faith to keep her going. She spent her life as a minister, always telling others - even the lady in the grocery aisle besider her - about her faith and what it meant for her. She was an industrious, hard working woman who had a peace and serenity that made us all want to know her better, made us want to have her know us.

She spent her last day saying goodbye to a steady stream of mourners who trekked to her side to tell her thanks for the impact she had on their life. And to the end, she soldiered on doing the only thing she knew to do - encourage others.

I'll miss my Aunt June, but I'm also glad for the lesson she left me - life goes on. Don't waste a precious day.

Today's Good News: You can have a private birth

2008-07-01T18:55:00.006-06:00

Today's good news is that when you go into labor, your in-laws will most likely not find out about it on the national news. In fact, unless you call, no one has to know you are even in labor until the blessed event is over and you've had time to do your hair and wait for the pain meds to kick in.

Angelina and Brad are not quite that lucky. Oh, yes, you may say, but they are lucky in so many other ways. They are beautiful people. They have talent. They have fame. They have money.

I am sure about now they would trade it all for a few moments of privacy and the chance to have their new babies in the cloak of anonymity. Ok, maybe not all of it, but surely they'd want to throw a few thousand dollars at the possibility.

So the next time you feel envious of the fame and fortune that has befallen these two people, please remember that you have something they will never have: a completely private birth of your child. Well, unless you happen to live next door or even with your in-laws.

Then all bets are off.

Oh, and in case you're dying to know:
News feeds across the nation including CNN are going crazy spitting out breaking news: not only is the Jolie/Pitt blessed event now quite imminent, we also know where. Nice, France. I was worried about that and am so glad that the nation's top news agencies were on top of the case to bring me that tidbit of information.

Netflix Community Blog: Profiles feature NOT going away

2008-06-30T16:00:00.002-06:00

Netflix Community Blog: Profiles feature NOT going away

I wrote on my Diet Diaries Blog not too long ago about some very angry mothers who ruined my workout due to the profiles feature being removed by Netflix.

In case you think businesses this large or physically removed from their client base don't listen to customers, think again. Not only have their reversed their decision, it took less than two weeks.

Next time a company does something that you think is wrong, remember: the irate really do bend the ear of Corporate America.

London Bus Ad Is Fertile Idea For One Couple

2008-06-30T12:56:00.006-06:00

If you happened to be in London back in March of 2007, you might have seen a large ad plastered onto the side of a bus. This ad wasn't promoting a new softdrink, a better cell phone, or where to get your education. It wasn't even the more fun-spirited happy anniversary wish or marriage proposal, although the ad prominently featured a woman on her wedding day.

Nope - this ad was asking for an egg donor. And it worked.

Around 200 women responded to the ad, and one woman generously donated an egg to the couple who had been trying to a baby for fourteen long years. Having spent a large amount of money on fertility treatments, they were out of options. And then they shelled out another two thousand pounds on the bus ad.

According to today's BBC News, the couple, Linda and Richard Weeks, gave birth to a healthy girl.

The couple's creative approach to a seemingly insurmountable problem is to be commended. I think I may also steal their idea. I am wondering what our own city bus system would charge to take out an ad. No, I don't want any more kids - three is all the blessing I can handle. But the possiblities are endless.

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The possibilities truly are vast.

New Age Text Messaging

2008-06-29T15:40:00.005-06:00

At one time or another, we've all wished that some of Star Trek's concepts could actually happen. Just the thought of actually being able to tell Scotty to "Beam Me Up" instead of riding for seven long hours with a baby that will only stop crying if you keep singing "I'm A Little Teapot" makes even the strongest woman weep.

This Youtube video (that some are already calling a fake) makes us hope that iPhone is helping us get one step closer.

One of the new features being developed is the ability to send hologram messages. Instead of a note reading, "R U CMG HOME 2NITE?" you can now send a message that will create your hovering image above the phone asking your teenage daughter, "Dear, I know you are enjoying your date, but please be cognizant of the time and don't let your fun get in the way of arriving home before your very reasonable curfew."

Oh, but then there is the downside. You've finally decided to go out to dinner with that gorgeous brunette in accounting when you receive a hologram from your wife reminding you to pick up milk and eggs on your way home.

Or you are interviewing for a new job when a hologram from your boss announces that you've missed yet another deadline and that you're fired.

You could even be on the receiving end of that hologram from mom right in the middle of a hot date.

The more I think about it, I'm thinking I'll stick to text messaging. The last thing I want is to escape for an hour or two from the house only to get a hologram message from my husband with the kids all running around screaming in the background. Nah - I'll stick to a message that says, We R Hngry. R U almost here?

The Rosy Side of Life

2008-06-29T13:25:00.000-06:00

Sometimes I read these deep, insightful blogs that leave me wondering where I got lost along the way. I've never been one to be impressed by spouting seventeen cents words. You won't find any deep political insights within my writing, nor will you learn anything new about ion blasting. You will be hard pressed to find a topic within sports where I even know who you're talking about. Yeah I know Maria Somebodyorother is a big tennis hotshot, but the last time I kept up with the olympics was when Dorothy Hammil was all the rage.

I'm too busy yelling at the dog for deciding to pee right next to my herb garden or telling my eight-year-old that he cannot use my 200-year-old piano as a showcase for his latest Lego creations to worry about who has a great rbi this season or even what rbi means.

Now if you want to know what I think about red light cameras or lazy store clerks, I'm full of wisdom and a bucket load of opinions. If you wonder why pesto tastes great on a toasted sandwich or how to poach talipia, I'm full of advice. I can even chew your ear for several hours about things that I find annoying - people who let their dogs poop in the arroyo, neighbors who think I like hearing their music two streets over, or developers who think their right to make money ought to trump the sanctity of a neighborhood - ooh-ee, am I ever ready to talk about that.

For the most part, I like looking at the bright side of things. I like finding the humor in a tough situation. And I like making someone laugh, smile, or just let down their guard for a few minutes.

If you want the deep stuff, this is not the blog for you. If you just want to talk about the absurdity we find in every day life, pull up a chair and sit a spell. But don't spill your coffee on my new rug - sit over on the tile where the dog can lick it up. I don't have time for any extra mopping today.