Paaaartaaaay!!!!!!!

Just wanted to say real quick . . .

Happy New Year!!!!

I hope you're all partying and enjoying wonderful food, family, and great music. I'm so grateful to have each and every one of you as my friend! Many blessings for a grand year ahead!

Here it Comes . . .

I'm wishing everyone a Happy New Year one day early just in case life gets too busy to write anything before the ball drops. I've had a wonderful year reading and commenting and receiving comments from all you great bloggers. I'm so grateful to know everyone here!

So, what will you be doing for New Year's Eve? Any traditions? Every year I watch The Gold Rush with Charlie Chaplin. It's the perfect movie for this holiday, I think. So if you are out getting videos, give it a try.

The tree will come down, decorations will be put away. I'll start to look forward to spring and gardening. It's always fun to look through all those seed and plant magazines and dream about the perfect garden, especially when it's still cold and snowy outside!

Take care! I'll try to come back tomorrow and talk about resolutions. Ugh.

I Feel For You

Must have been seventh grade when I trudged out into the snow to make a visit to the library where Mom worked. I told her I was bored and she handed me Gone With the Wind. It was huge. When I held it there in the library, I had no idea of the weeks ahead of love and love lost, war, marriage, death, desperation, hunger, poverty, greed, slavery, fire, amputation, labor, hope, adultery, alcohol . . .

Cradling the book under my arm, I headed south to Becca's house. She lived with her mother in a very tiny 1930's shack in a lone field, right in the middle of Spring Hill. I knocked on her door. "Come on in!" she sang, opening the door in a breathless manner, ushering me inside. MTV was flashing away on the living room TV. "You're just in time. I'm gonna call Matt Wade." She picked up the phone and dialed six numbers, timing the last one for Chaka Khan's I Feel For You. When the video came on Becca dialed the last number on the rotary and put the receiver up to the TV. We both stifled our giggles. "Hello, hello?" She continued to hold the receiver up to the screen for another couple of seconds, then with a muffled laugh, dropped it down into into the cradle.

"I thought you were going to talk to him!"

"Nah, I've sent him five music calls today. He'll get the point and call me back, I'm sure of it."

I dropped my book into a ripped leather chair and followed Becca into her bedroom. Chaos. Makeup, clothes, glittery hair spray, high heels, posters of hair bands, posters of ponies, rainbows and unicorns. She grabbed her coat out of a pile in the corner and announced we'd go out for a walk.

We left the house and started a long trek through a quiet world of white. Dead grass cut through the snow with little wheat-colored blades. A lone bird chittered in a pine, and Becca and I walked together, talking about school and boys, boys and school. The only thing she loved more than boys was ponies, which she drew prolifically. The rules of society had deemed us both misfits; she was overweight and I was a stick. I didn't care about myself, but I always felt the world was missing too much by ignoring Becca. She had such interesting stories, was so full of life. But underneath it all, I knew she was desperate for attention. Her mother was always gone with some guy, leaving Becca to fend for herself.

We circled the field, eventually following our tracks. She made up a story that pirates had been there right before us, and we were only inches away from being captured. "Watch it!" she called out, ahead of me. "Your boots are too loud! Don't step on fresh snow, it crunches too much!"

I fitted my feet into each snowy impression and bit my lip.

We stood in the middle of the field. Snow fell in tiny flakes. A soft thud of a drift falling from a fencetop met my ears. A bluejay squawked and flew over our heads.

"Ah hell, they're gone. Let's go inside and make some hot chocolate."

Becca had accidentally locked the door. We tried getting in the back kitchen window, but it was so old and covered with layers of white paint, like frosting, that it wouldn't budge. She got a forlorn look on her face. "I guess I'll just have to wait till my mom gets home."

"Are you sure? Why don't we try the front door again. Maybe it's not really locked."

Becca slumped when she walked around the house. She barely even tried the knob, so I cut in front and gave it a good yank. Locked.

"Well . . ." We both looked at each other. "So much for hot chocolate."

She nodded, slow. The phone rang inside. "Oh no! I bet it's Matt!" She banged furiously against the door. "Come on!!!!!!" As if summonsed, it opened right up and we both looked at each other with surprise. Becca made no time in rushing to grab the receiver. Snow was caked on her boots, and her wild blonde hair hung around her face with melting flakes. "Hello? Matt! Is it you?" Nothing. "Hello?" She waited a few seconds before hanging up the phone. "He didn't hear me or something."

"Yeah. He'll call back."

Becca shook out her hair. "I was gonna send another music call anyway."

That was the way we coped: ignore the insult, keep trudging on. Just like me in the snow. I was back out in an hour, book in hand.

To Be a Dog

My beautiful sister has had a few days off for the holidays and got hit by a little inspiration. She wrote a poem about the life of a dog, most importantly, how good those four-legged creatures have it. She herself has two big four-legged creatures, Scout and Daisy, who ramble and frolick through each day with wagging tongues and tails; chasing squirrels and foxes, wrestling, running free in the semi-prairielike back yard. Scout is the spotted Blue Heeler, and Daisy is the sleek black Lab. Scout is good. And Daisy is . . . well . . . Daisy's still learning.

To Be a Dog by Catherine Lappin

Oh to be a dog . . .
what a great life that would be—
to lay on the couch and
watch tv.
To be fed twice a day,
and all the water
that you may—
I'd even sleep in the garage
if had be.
If I could only be a dog,
what a great life it would be.

The Attack

All the kids took the same shortcut through a stretch of unfenced backyards sloping down to a creek where, in the spring, grape hyacinth grew in fragrant clusters. But it was winter and snow blanketed all life. I stood in coat and boots, questioning my decision to take the shortcut. It had become obvious to me that there were boys lined up behind every tree stump and lawn chair, snowballs clutched in their gloves. I could still turn around and take the long way home, going down Jackson.

No. Nobody likes a coward.

Starting at the top of the hill, I lifted my chin and began the trek. Wham! I stopped only a moment to adjust my scarf. Wham! Wham! I'd just ignore them. If I could make it past the creek, I'd be halfway through and . . . Wham! I lowered my head and picked up the pace, trudging through a barrage of white grenades. Wham! Wham! Wham!

"Hahahahaha! Do you give in, female species?"

Ignore them. Just some stupid old boys. I recognized Trey Walker and Jack Deforest, hiding like mice behind an old rusted wheelbarrow. Just ignore them and keep walking.

Wham! Wham! I was close to the creek and everything would be just fine. A trio of snowballs hit me at the same time and I fell over into a drift. Granules seared into my skin and snow packed inside my boots, flash-freezing ankles left bare by slouchy socks. I sat there and felt anger begin a slow rise through my chest and up through to my ears. Son-of-a-bitch! I was gonna get those boys.

I reached to grab a handful of snow and attempted to stand up for a throw. Wham! Wham! Wham! Wham! On wobbly legs I scanned the area and began to approach through the fire. Wham! Wham!

"Do you give up, girl?" Their voices sounded distant now. Perhaps a little frightened even.

Hello no. I was going to kill, that's what I was going to do. Kill with snow. I drew back my arm and hurled my weapon. Flat flakes fell, the air whirled; it lifted my scarf, threw up the hem of my coat. Time slowed like it was molasses.

SLUG!

I hit him. Oh sweet Jesus. I hit him! A deafening silence stunned all humanity. I watched as Jack Deforest stood up slow, wiping his face.

Our eyes met and I swallowed hard behind the knot of my scarf, watching as he took a step forward. What would he do to me, out there in the field? He looked to kill, he really did. Strangle me with a scarf? Drag me down the creek? He wouldn't do that . . . would he?

Out of nowhere, a stream of snowballs began to pelt his back, his head, his legs. We both looked at each other in disbelief: his comrades—the whole field—had turned on him! He looked around with cheeks going from white to blotchy red in half a second's time.

"You jerks!" He scooped snow into both his hands and ran toward anyone he could find. Yells, cusses, grunts and wails—I had been forgotten. With a big smile on my face, I watched as the air blurred with an arsenal of white. I ran up the hill and made my way home.

I Believe

Is there a Santa Claus? Many adults believe there isn't, but I ain't one of them. There was a real St. Nicolas and you can read about him right here. But how did that guy turn into a mystical figure of love and light . . . and video game systems? Well, pagans will tell you he derived from Odin, a Germanic god who would ride his flying eight-legged horse Sleipnir through the sky, stopping to fill children's boots with yummy treats.

The Dutch claim Sinterklaas to be the origin. Then there's Tomte, Father Christmas, Kris Kringle—the list goes on. The thing is, it all stems from one ideal: a kindly old man brings presents to the good children of the world.

But, that guy is dead, and get real, no one's going to slide down my chimney on Christmas Eve to leave any presents. It's all a lie!

Whoa . . . hold on there folks. Haven't you ever believed in anything magic? Don't you think special things can happen, even to you? You need to rewire the way you think. What's a man? What's a chimney? What's a present? What's a child? What's really real?

Santa brings me at least one present every year. Sometimes it's something I didn't even ask for, but I can feel it in my heart when it comes. The truth is there are tons of families this Christmas who won't get any presents, who don't have enough money to heat their house, if they have a house at all. The truth is many folks won't see any wrapped gifts, or stockings filled with yummy treats. Children will be hungry, sad, feel defeated and alone in this great, big world.

But remember, a gift can be invisible to the eye, and yet so big, so beautiful, so important that there couldn't possibly be enough wrapping paper to cover it. These kind of gifts are the ones Santa leaves the most. The gift of a family being together, of a child seeing what true love is, of a mother being able to feed her child, of a father coming home from the war.

Yes, I believe in Santa. I feel his spirit every single Christmas. Don't let those smarties tell you it's all a lie and that the truth is blah, blah, this and blah, blah that. Give yourself a gift this season: let yourself have stupid, childish faith in something the rest of the world demands isn't real.

That's all I guess. Gotta go make some cookies and pour a glass of milk.

A Christmas Story

It was the start of Christmas Break and snow was falling in huge flakes. Mr. Hunt drove me home in his old truck and I hopped out with a Good-bye and a Merry Christmas and See ya next week. I'd spent the evening babysitting his little boy and had a five-dollar bill to show for my time; money for presents.

My whole family was in bed asleep. Marshall had come home earlier that night from the Savior of the World Seminary he attended for high school. I was sad that he wasn't awake because I looked up to him terribly; his incredible wit and calm sense of humor always made me forget any troubles.

A note was stuck on the Betamax video player: Watch this movie. It's hilarious! I always had trouble sleeping after a round of taking care of the brattiest kid on earth. Ryan was a three-year-old terror with flaxen hair and cold blue eyes. He was an ADHD Cujo and I don't know why I agreed to spend every Friday night chasing him around: part of my martyr complex and the money was sweet.

I made a sandwich and popped in the movie. Our black and white flared to life after I jiggled its grimy knob (I'd developed a hyper ability to convert grays and blacks into colors a millisecond after an image met my retinas). Strains of Deck the Halls threaded through the credits drawn out in old-fashioned letters: A Christmas Story. Wasn't that the movie my cousin and his date walked out of after only a few minutes? They said it was the dumbest movie they'd ever seen. I saw the familiarity of a small town much like mine: red brick school; snow-packed alleyways with bullies at your heel; a father shouting hybrid obscenities; failed reports at school; the unmet desire to be loved and heralded by your grade school teacher; beautiful, sparkling Christmas—every child's dream. And weaved in all that, Grofe's Grand Canyon Suite—my favorite to this day.

And the lines:

NOW it was serious. A double-dog-dare. What else was there but a "triple dare you"? And then, the coup de grace of all dares, the sinister triple-dog-dare.
I TRIPLE-dog-dare ya!
Schwartz created a slight breach of etiquette by skipping the triple dare and going right for the throat!

and

Strange. Even something as momentous as the Scut Farkus affair, which it came to be known, was pushed out of my mind as I struggled to come up with a way out of the impenetrable BB gun web, in which my mother had me trapped.
Santa. Yeah, I'll ask Santa.
Of course. Santa. The big man. The head honcho. The connection. Ha, my mother had slipped up this time.

and

The snap of a few sparks, a quick whiff of ozone, and the lamp blazed forth in unparalleled glory.

and

Oh, life is like that. Sometimes, at the height of our revelries, when our joy is at it's zenith, when all is most right with the world, the most unthinkable disasters decend upon us.

From Raphie's Pulitzer Prize winning report:

I want a red rider 200 shot carbine action range model air rifle with a compass and this thing which tells time built right in the stock.

I think the reason people love A Christmas Story so much is because they've all been there in Ralphie's shoes. We've all been that child who wanted something bigger than life to take us out of our own existence, or at least, make it seem more special. We've all walked home from school in the beginning amber tones of falling day and felt that desolation and joy of living. We've all lain awake wishing our parents would feel sorry for our miseries. We've all woken up to a cathedral of ice; Christmas magic woven in every branch and blade.

Jean Shepherd captured his youth so well, with both satire and tenderness. He re-voiced Ralphie and made each character flawed in such a common way, so that it was endearing. We knew these people, we've been in their house, we've felt the warmth of their grumbling furnace and misplaced carpet runners. Even Scut Farcus, the squint-eyed toady, is someone we can be jolly about—alleyways and bullies have been replaced by digital antagonists in the Xbox generation.

Ralphie teaches us all a good lesson: keep trying. Even when your parents, your teacher, Santa, the whole world tells you to secede, keep trying. There might be a shining red box behind the table in the corner. Just don't shoot your eye out, kid.

Kansas Christmas

—Photo Courtesy of Kansas Geological Survey

Yesterday was a family get together in Topeka for an early Christmas. My father-in-law from Kentucky, recently divorced, now has an apartment out in T-town, and wanted to do something with his kids and grandkids. He would break into Italian periodically when overcome, face turning red. Preparing a ham and sides, he worked in the tiny kitchen while we chatted and poured wine. After a toast, he put a glass dish of potatoes in the oven and closed the door. BANG! He opened the door up again only to discover the glass had exploded and everything but the ham had become covered with shards of glass.

We sent the teens out to get more food at the store while we chatted. He showed us emails of a first love he'd contacted after settling into town. And emails from another woman he'd contacted on a 50+ dating site. And another woman he'd contacted somewhere else in the US of A. And his landlady, who has, "Blonde hair and gorgeous blue eyes!" He loves blondes; his face glows when speaking of them. He even bought a Skype webcam so he can chat with this bevy of beauties. Oh, did I tell you I was greeted with a full kiss on the mouth when I walked in the door? I didn't?

The teens brought back piles of side dishes and we ate our dinner over Yanni (I'm not kidding).

As the day went on, this Italian family got a little more inebriated, and more, and more until things were really rolling along like boulders from a hillside; words, facial expressions, arm movements, laughter, foot stomps and knee slaps. "Get me another whiskey, will ya darlin'? Thank you so kindly. I love you so much!"

A guitar was brought out and my father-in-law commenced to singing. His grown children were crying over the songs they hadn't heard for decades; songs they'd heard while lying in bed in the dark so many nights ago.

It grew late, and I started thinking about my kids and how they needed to be in their bed at home. It's a long drive from Topeka and dark, dark. But there was more chatting and stories, more kisses (lip radar). More songs, more everything.

Anyway, that was Christmas in Topeka, Ks. Just thought you'd like to know.

Sunday Stew

Since it's a Sunday, and since my other post failed so miserably, I decided to post my favorite song of the moment: New Kid in Town by The Eagles. It says everything I want to say but can't since I'm all done tryin' to say anything.

Creepy Christmas

Well, here we go. I'm extending my advert love to Christmastime with a little weird. Remember, I did not make these ads. Some other freako did. What were they thinking?!

This is just creepy. Whoever put this ad together was definitely on an illegal substance (or a couple). You never hear about hair tape anymore. It's one of those products lost to the sands of time. Perhaps this ad was the reason for its decline.

Oh yes. Let's give everyone in the family a rifle. That's real smart, folks. "I said I wanted waffles, Mother!" KAPOW!

It's the thought that counts. Right? Right??

And really rude. "Now you don't have to ask me if you look fat in all your clothes. You'll know."

Uh, Santa . . . think you can help her out a little bit there? Right . . . (Love those stockings!)

Again, what was this person thinking???

Not an ad, but I thought it was cute. The concept. I'm out.

Happy ChristmasKwanzaaHanukkahSoltice!!

A Story About a Short Story

I wrote a story today that I'm very proud of, but time will prove if it's really any good. I never trust my reactions in the afterglow.

I do think I have a handle on short stories though. It's probably the gratification of writing something that can be resolved so quick. Who knows? But I do love it.

I've noticed the most important thing with short stories is the first paragraph. You know how with books you need your first chapter to be killer? Well the first paragraph in a short story has to have a really strong hook or no one's going to devote three minutes or whatever to reading the whole thing. So what I do is write the story and go back and meticulously edit the first paragraph so it shines like the top of the Chrysler building. You take out anything that is cluttery and make those few lines sing and swing. It's kind of fun—though I totally don't think so at the time. It's only later that I feel the joy.

How's everyone doing this fine day? Sick of the holidays yet?

Writing Balance

I wrote that story yesterday, the one from the dream I had about a man and his wall gadget. It turned out pretty good! It's more sci-fi/time travel, which I'm happy about because I've been meaning to write time travel but have been staying in the literary/mainstream genre for awhile now. I love both and so I'm completely happy with what I'm producing.

I notice that while writing a whole story, in a day or a few days time, that I pay less attention to the kids and get grouchy when they interrupt me. Most of the time I'm doing dishes, laundry, reading books, basically being a mom. But when I get caught up with writing, being a mom gets pushed to the side and it makes me feel guilty. But then I'm happy that I wrote something and worked hard. I'm happy that I have another piece to send out.

Anyone else have this problem of being engrossed in writing and feeling the rest of their world crumble? How do you cope?

Last Night

I guess a few of us had strange dreams last night. I was lying on my left side when I woke from mine. Do you think it makes a difference what side you sleep on? Mom used to tell us not to sleep on our backs or we would have nightmares, and she was right. I stopped having them (for the most part) when I switched so sleeping on my side. Could be the power of persuasion, but who knows.

My dream was about a man who had this huge wall machine that could create anything we wanted by the touch of a button. Some of the details have already slipped from my memory now, which I'm mad about. Should have written it down! Well . . . it did give me a great idea for a story so that's a plus.

What did you dream of last night?

Monday Again

I saw the commercial on tv about an hour ago. How strange to be drinking coffee and see myself! Also, I guess the radio spot started this morning. Pretty cool!

Well, just a few weeks until Christmas. Next week the kids will be out of school, so anything that needs to be done has to be finished THIS WEEK. I need to send off line drawings to a magazine that was asking for art yesterday. So that's something to get done. Also, I have to make cookies, and clean, and maybe play in the snow : )

I've been cleaning up a few stories from Woodsocket '79. It's amazing how you think you're done with something but you find more to tell, or something that needs to be cut and you think, "Why didn't I see that before?" But that's the beauty of time and perspective. I'm learning how important it is to layer a short story. The more depth, the more symbols you have, the more of a thread you have running through the piece—can make such a difference.

Here are a couple of fun links. Actually the first one is my favorite website ever.

Ugly Christmas Lights

The Fruitcake Lady

Hope all is well with my fellow Bloggers. Take care and stay warm today!

Tied up in knots

I have a bit of a problem with my first book. Yes, yes, I know, AGAIN. I had Molly read it and she was so sweet to do so and gave me great comments. I love her for that. Love LOVE! And then I had someone else read it, my friend in Colorado who spoke of a boutique publishing business. Well, he said the book lacked tension and was pretty much unpublishable and should be put away for five months if not forever. I have mixed feelings about this. No doubt my book is laden with problems, yes, but after all this time and numerous revisions I think it's pretty darn redundant to refurbish a whole plot. I feel like I'm twisted in a knot and don't know what to do. Should I trust what he said? I mean, he kind of had a dismissive tone about the whole book, and I could tell he thought the whole thing was kind of silly. He said the beginning paragraph (which is my favorite part of the whole book and which also won an honorable mention) should be rewritten. He's a great guy, has always been very nice, but I worry that his writing standards are so high and he expected my book to be some killer John Grisham novel.

Again I want to say what a nice guy this friend is. That's what makes this tough, because I honor his opinion. Having said that, I honor Molly's opinion greatly. She is a beautiful writer and I feel like we are kindred spirits. I was hesitant about writing this because I didn't want to have any doubts in that area. I am very honored to have her read the book. I wanted to ask Cro too, but I had a feeling he would have said, "You won't make any money off the book if you let all yer friends read it!" Haha. Tom would have said that as well.

Anyway, so here's what I'm asking: do I honor this friend's opinion and put my book away again, or do I release it out to the world? I was going to try small publishers. Any advice is appreciated.

Let's All Go to the Bookstore

Let's just pretend we're going to the bookstore today. It can be any kind: new and vast with shiny books everywhere, a coffee bar in the corner, lights that make you want to linger and buy, buy, buy. Or it could be an old bookstore with that musty smell, creaking wooden floors, dim rows of shelves with clothbound and soft-spined paperbacks. Where do you head? To fiction, or mysteries, or sci-fi? Do you dare go into the romance section and pull out a thick novel with half-naked Fabio on the cover? I like to go to the used magazines and see if there are any old issues hanging around, or maybe some weird art or music mag. Then I slowly walk through fiction and see if there's anything that catches my eye. I read the back cover, read the first few pages . . . I really like old, forgotten paperback that has some weird element like time-travel, or one human against the world, or introspective-sappy romance.

Records are next. I'm always on the lookout for Rick Nelson, or some old folk/country artist, but today I'd look for Christmas records from the 1940's-1950's, or some Vivaldi or Beethoven.

Do you get coffee and look over all the books you've collected? Maybe someone is playing live and you get to hear a few new songs. Maybe you eavesdrop on a conversation between two teens and how horrible their lives are because they can't afford the blouse on page twenty of Vogue. Or two guys who found a car mag and wouldn't it be sweet to own a car like that? A guy and a gal who don't know what they're going to do after they leave, maybe catch a movie or go to a bar for a real drink.

You stand in line, long for this time of year, and try to ignore all the merchandise that you just have to have but you've already given in a few times and found you really didn't have to have it after all so today you're going to pass. The line moves forward and someone bumps into you. Another person smiles when you look their way. That sweater you put on is really starting to itch and you wish you were outside where the air is fresh. "Next!" You pay and leave. It's snowing outside and there's slush at the curb. The wind blows and you adjust your coat and all your books and forge your way to the next shop or to your car way out in the parking lot.

So, what did you buy?

The Commercial

All righty folks, here it is. I'm in the second half of the commercial, and won't be hard to spot—I think. Maybe I'm not really in the commercial after all, and I was just pulling your chain, using photos and video mash-ups to create this whole internet persona. Yeah, that's it. I don't really exist. I'm an enigma of a fake persona of a hologram statue from an alternate universe in a whole other time.

Okay, okay, I'm in it. Just watch the darn thing. It's getting chopped on the side, so watch here instead: commercial

No show for snow

Since we're not getting any snow here yet, or . . . ever, I'll just make my own blizzard blog and then curl up with a mug of hot cocoa and Talli Roland's book, The Hating Game on Kindle.

One Person Really Does Make a Difference

I already wrote how I feel about John Lennon on his birthday. It is much better to celebrate someone's life than their death. But I can't let this day go by without sharing some of what he meant to me in my life. I, like many children of the seventies, were spoon-fed The Beatles almost like classical music. They were all over the radio and so it was just part of the landscape of my existence, and not something to think about. When I did stop to think about them it was always with awe and curiosity, especially when it came to John. Who is this guy? Why is he so outspoken? My mother always painted him out to be this crazy drug addict who posed naked on album covers and who certainly shouldn't be admired or listened to with any ounce of seriousness. But there was something about him that made me think. I liked him.

When I was eighteen I was coming out of some pretty bad experiences from my high school years, along with a messed-up early childhood that had left me quite frail. My estimation at that point: life was hard and people were cruel and I, despite trying, had failed to fit in. I was literally struggling every day to not kill myself. I'd drive home from work and scream in the dark of my car until I couldn't scream any more. I was terribly alone and felt like the whole world had abandoned me. I prayed one night in my car that I could find real love to help me get through. I heard Imagine and it changed my entire life. It showed me that there is a thread of real love in this world available for all. There is a beauty and wisdom in being a human; in our pain and in our shared experiences. That some people really do see past the lines and walls, the skin, the money, the sex, the power—some people love you despite and because you are just you. I learned this from John Lennon and I will always love him.

Around his birthday they had a showing of his art, and let me tell you how touching it was to see his humor and his love for all the things in this world, including his family drawn out in such delicate lines. He, despite his faults, was precious to this earth. The queue went far out into the building.

I haz radio

I did that radio spot today and it went very well. We, having both had experience in theatre and time in front of a microphone, sat down and read our lines like pros--he has a great voice for radio. Wow. I'm still kind of amazed how well it went. I bet you guys were hoping to hear a story of how I went in there and messed up my lines and knocked things over on accident, haha. Believe me, I'm surprised that I didn't! I can be a real klutz sometimes. But no, it was great and I even got a tour of the station which was incredibly cool.

We went into a studio and sat down at a large desk with two microphones. The engineer told us to do a test run and we did and it went well, so he recorded the one after that. We did a 60 second spot and a 30 second spot. Then we were done.

On the drive home, I noticed that the highway and sky both had the same tone, and it reminded me of art class, oh so long ago, and the time we were all painting in shades of gray. It was winter and everywhere I went I saw gray: the road, the sky, the grass, it was as if my eyes were hyper sensitive to it and all colors had left the world. It's strange what happens to your eyes when you are an artist. Anyway it was weird to remember that.

We might get some actual snow this weekend, like all you folks across the water. If not, I'll never speak to you again. Snow hoggers.

Monday Shmumday

Tomorrow I'll be doing the radio spot with my friend Marshall Rimann. I'm excited, but, yes, just a little bit nervous. I've practiced tons and hope that all my inflections make sense, and that I won't be too loud, or obnoxious. The TV spot that was filmed last week will start runningFriday. If it gets posted to Youtube, I'll let you see it. I've already had a sneak peek and I can safely say that I don't look like TOO much of a dork, haha. That garners a big hooray!

On the writing side of things, I have been collecting all my little stories from this last year of blogging, mainly those from my childhood like the one I posted yesterday, and am seriously thinking about self-pubbing my own little vignette, if you will. It will have line drawings, and fine descriptions of the town, the joys of being a child in Kansas in the 70's, and the sadness of life with my father. It won't be a perfect book—it's something that I've wanted to do for me.

I'm also delving into a book I started last year about a young girl, very sarcastic humor, and her freshman year, trials et al. It's based on my freshman year- the year of hell- and so it will be painful to write at times, but I keep just enough humor to keep things afloat. Anyway, we'll see.

What are you up to today?

The Tacketts

Someone moved out and they moved in. First they were friendly, like any good neighbor, they said, “Hello,” and “How are you doing today?” But it changed as the seasons changed. They changed. Mr Tackett, an ex-police officer, became silent, moody, much like our father, but we had gotten rid of him and now were stuck with a new version; a stocky, salt and peppered grinch, with a wire fence between us as our only protection. In no time he’d bought two German Shepherds and let them loose in his yard to bark and snarl at us kids as we played. We had faith they’d never get free, and we laughed and jumped and ran about, until one day we saw they could jump. Perhaps he’d trained them—I don't know. I’ve never again seen dogs jump like that in my life. Never before and never since. They’d clear that fence as if springs were in their flanks, and come right for us, teeth bared.

Our mother marched right over there. “Do you know your dogs almost bit my kids?”

“They were taunting them. Poor things. They aren’t used to kids that wild.”

“My children are not wild, Mr Tackett. Your dogs are vicious. Tie them up.”

“No, Mam. I’m afraid you’ll have to teach your children not to jump about like that.”

We tried.

We tiptoed. We whispered. We subdued all childish whim. But alas, those dogs still wanted to kill us.

“Ahhhh! Run for the house, quick!”

“I can’t make it! They’re on my heel!”

“Then get on top of the play-set. Hurry!”

Screams sounded and blasted all across the neighborhood, and the only one who wasn't at their back door watching, was Mr Tackett himself.

Of course, there was a Mrs. Tackett, for every killjoy has its mate. “Oh Steeee-ven. Do you want Salisbury Steak for dinner tonight, or fried chicken?”

“Leave me alone, Maria, I’m trying to tie these knots!”

“But what about dessert? Should I make Jello?” Her painted nails and high heels all matched with the same blood red.

“Knots, Maria!”

“OK, then. I’ll just put in some tv dinners.”

The dogs ate better than Mr. Tackett. They needed the stamina.

Another day went by with us running for our lives. We could have just stayed inside, but kids aren’t like that. They will face bad weather, bullies, disease, rusted nails, and killer dogs all in the favor of some vitamin D and fresh air. One particular day, the whole block was on our swing-set and had been for about half an hour. The German Shepherds were jumping at our feet and Mom was at the back door wringing her hands.

“Run for the house!” she yelled, in between blood-lusting growls.

“No, Mom. They’ll kill us!”

“Can’t you try?”

Um, no. I’d personally have to rip my bellbottom out of one of their fangs and jump right into the action—and lord, I’d just seen Jaws and hadn’t stopped having nightmares. I shook my head. “Can't!”

“I’m calling the cops then!”

She did. She actually called the cops. And they came, and Mr Tackett had a fine conversation about his old days on the force, and could he get a ride around town in one of those new Buicks, and all the while his dogs were still trying to eat us for lunch, and Mrs. Tackett was prancing around the front garden in her heels with a hose in her hand.

He had to build a higher fence—one that didn’t push over like a melted stick of butter when his dogs jumped against it. And he, well, he had to act nicer. And we got to play again. But there were memories that lingered, that kept us from ever being wild and free again. We’d been trained, like dogs, to act still, be calm, obey. Because Mr. Tackett had desired it be so. He watched from his back screen door. He watched, and smiled.

Ralph's Christmas Card- a repost from last year

Spring Hill Middle School was ready for Christmas. Every room had been decorated with a tiny tree, paper garlands, and glittery tinsel taped along the walls in scalloped bows. There were even presents, brought in by the students themselves for a classmate whose name they'd pulled out of a hat.

Every year they showed a film in the dusty auditorium, whose radiators bubbled and hissed under each curtained window along the eastern wall. This year's was A Christmas Carol. It flickered on the large white canvas in black and white jolts, hitting my retinas like a jumping match; drawing me into a world of old London, and crooked, mean-spirited Ebenezer Scrooge. The moment Alastair Sims looked out over us in the darkened middle rows with a sneer, I smiled, and from that moment on have loved this particular version of the classic, and Sim's brilliant performance as the miserly changeling.

Looking around, I could see the faces of all my classmates. They looked bored, tired, restless. Some were whispering, wishing it was Christmas break already. They had big presents to open, perhaps an Atari game system or a brand new sled, just right for the time away from school. I didn't know what would be under my family's tree, aside what I had bought at Gibson's a week before with only five dollars. A little purse for Cathy, a strategy war-game for Marshall, and a box of bath soaps for Mom. They were already wrapped, and had been placed carefully under the lilting boughs in a little mound of silvery ribbon and plain red paper.

The movie ended and the auditorium expelled us out in to the hall in a noisy stream of girls telling each other secrets and boy jumping up to hit the door frame above their heads. Then it was on to our classrooms for our Christmas party, where we'd open our presents and then leave for break.

Our teacher had a slightly different plan. She sat us down and began to tell us about Ralph, the man we'd seen in the senior citizen home during the last few months for our weekly class visits. He was eighty years old, she said, and he didn't know how to read. He wanted to write a Christmas card to his family, but needed our help. Would we like to help him?

The smart and popular girls raised their hands right away. Of course they would love to help. They had an unending confidence that they were the perfect people for the job. I also raised my hand, but with hesitation. Mrs. Harris smiled, selecting me to join with the girls and also some of the boys, causing me to be filled with doubt. I would ruin it, for sure and shouldn't have raised my hand.

We were led down to the school library, where Ralph sat at a table, wearing a red flannel shirt and denim overalls. His face was wrinkled with deep lines, hair jutting out in white feathery puffs. He smiled at us, getting up with a wobbly stance as we came to stand around him.

"Ralph, these kids have offered to help you write that Christmas card. Kids, use this paper I printed out, and show him what each letter is, then show him how to write out each word that he wants to say."

Everyone agreed and was ready to get to work. Susan Kips treated him like a baby, and I hated it. "Okay, Ralph, this is an A . . . can you say A?" I rolled my eyes. He repeated the letter in a dry, gentle voice, then repeated each one from the whole alphabet we chanted to him. Next we taught three-letter words like D-O-G and C-A-T. He seemed embarrassed, but was focused, even in the moments we spoke at him in unison, voices raised and excited with our task. Someone handed him a pencil to use to start writing his letter, but when he reached for it we all became quiet. He was missing the index finger on his right hand.

"Ralph!" Corey Olmeier, exclaimed. "What happened to your finger?"

The old man laughed, holding out the rest of his knotted digits. "Aw, that. I was about thirteen, trying to get my Pa's horse out of the barn, and I shouldn't a been standing behind so close. That horse up and kicked me, bruised me up real bad, crushed my finger and they had to cut it off. My Pa was so mad at me. Been dead a long time now. Only one left is me and my sister, but I ain't seen her much since I left home at sixteen."

A horrible silence followed his story. No finger, couldn't read, no family. What kind of life was that?

"Did it hurt Ralph?" somebody finally asked.

"Hurt like hell."

More silence, then I, after searching through the faces and seeing no sign of activity, opened my mouth to speak. "Okay Ralph. You have to write your letter now. What did you want to say in it?"

He smiled, "I just want to say, Merry Christmas."

I pointed to the letter M on Mrs. Harris' guide, and he started to print. It was poor execution, but he was determined. We sat and watched him trace every letter that we pointed to, then when he was done, we folded the paper so that it looked like a real Christmas card.

Shelly Wentz started to draw a snowman on the front cover, then Alice Day traced a glue stick on the ridges, sprinkling glitter over the top. Next we had him write his name on the envelope, and the address he wanted to send it to.

When it was done, Mrs. Harris came over to see the completed project. She was pleased.

"Well, Ralph, did these kids help you out?"

He nodded, looking at each one of us in gratitude. "They sure did. I never wrote a Christmas card before. I never read nothing before." He had to stop talking, because he couldn't make the words come out of his throat.

The bell rang.

"Bye Ralph!" everyone yelled, heading for the door. "Merry Christmas, Ralph!"

I looked back to see him clutching at the letter. He stared at it for a second, eyes looking more red than when he had sat next to us a few minutes before. Then, that imperfect, knotted hand slipped the letter down into the front pocket of his overalls and he started a wobbly trek past Mrs. Harris and I at the library door.

"You mail that card, Ralph," she spoke in a warm, sure voice. "Your sister has waited a long time."

He nodded, grabbing both of her hands in his for a quiet answer to her request, moving on to the hall and outside where snow was falling in hurried flakes.

"Enjoy your Christmas," she whispered to me, handing me my Secret Santa present with a little smile. I opened it carefully, revealing a little book of poetry, just right for a young girl with millions of dreams in her head. Looking up, I returned her gentle hug, then turned away to make the long snow-filled walk all the way home to Franklin Street, where the holiday exploits had already begun.

Don't look behind you

This really cracked me up. Yes, I do feel bad for these people—especially the last guy who seems to accept his fate rather quickly, as if he'd expected this sort of thing to happen—but lord no, not in a Quickie Mart! Do you think this show should pay for their therapy afterwards?

I've got some French tunes in my head . . .

A long time ago I found a record in a second hand store that I thought looked interesting, so I bought it in good faith and went home. It was called Adamo A L'olympia- 16 Septembre 1965. I was into French films at the time and thought it would be up my alley, and I was right, so right. It's still one of my favorite records. After setting the needle down into the grooves I heard a crowd cheer wildly, and a live band started to pound out a fast tune. Then a thick french accent of a young man sang out, "A vot'bon coeur Monsieur!" with gusto (something about a good heart, mister). The song, and his infectious delivery instantly drew me in. I didn't know of my French heritage until recently, but I've always felt it. I always thought I belonged on some street corner singing French Tunes to passersby and sketching caricatures of every face that came my way (not at the same time, of course). I would be Alice Prin—Kiki of Paris—and bare all for any lover who wished to spend some time. Well, that was just me dreaming, as I sometimes do.

Anyway, pass the wine.

Tallie Roland, Fabulous Author and Chick Lit Extraordinaire

Just wanted to remind everyone that starting today you can download The Hating Game by our very own Talli Roland.

Visit Talli's blog for all the details!