Bare Inspiration

Sometimes people will ask me if it's hard to keep writing a column every week.

Not with this cast of characters.

In fact, there are weekends where my column just writes itself - like one particularly memorable weekend. I'd just dropped off my grandmother after we'd been out for twice as long as anticipated.

It's never good at my house for Mommy to be gone twice as long as anyone expects. This is how we end up with pet lizards that require live crickets for lunch and captured tarantulas that everyone is too scared to look at, let alone release back into the wild. So I was anticipating trouble.

When I pulled into the driveway, I came upon my husband and two daughters sitting outside in that unmistakable posture of people who have narrowly avoided complete mental breakdowns.

Apparently, while I was out (for once, my timing was perfect), my husband had released the girls to playing in the backyard while he vacuumed out his truck. A fairly picky guy about the condition of his vehicle, he was soon lost in the task of master detailer. He didn't notice the long stretch of relative silence that is a sure sign of impending disaster until it was too late.

Suddenly there was a cry from the back yard. He ran over to find that our youngest had been knocked over by the dog, bumped her head on a rock, and while fine for the most part, was quite upset.

And naked.

I believe I deserve some sort of award for not bursting out laughing at that point in the story. In fact I may have given myself a hernia in the process.

Everyone involved, including the four year old, denied any knowledge of exactly how or why she came to be naked. When I asked her point blank, she just looked at me as if the question itself made no sense.

So like the mystery of lost socks, the Bermuda Triangle, and why bumble bees can fly, the day Mireya decided to play in the buff is just one of those episodes in our life that will remain shrouded in obscurity.

Maybe shrouded isn't the right word. But you get the idea.

Hopefully the next time I'm delayed coming home I'll get another column out of it – as long as I can avoid getting a hernia in the process.

..

I fixed my @#$# titles!

At last! Now there will be titles to my posts! WEEEEE.

I've also set up an old computer for my use when the kids are surfing faster sites. Because blogging is so old school and low band width, that I can do it from a Commodore.

Ah. It's a good day.

PLUS I found out the kids don't have MLK day off, and while I wish they were a bit more enlightened about holidays at CISD, this means I have my OWN day off!

My own day off!

!!

I've already got enough plans to put a White House Chief of Staff to shame.

I wonder, could complete an entire novel in a day to myself?

Could I paint the bedroom some sassy color that will haunt my nightmares for years to come?

Is it possible to put 83,467 photos in albums in one day?

Stay tuned.

Can I Have a Word?

As a writer, I spend an inordinate amount of time selecting the just right word. Many conversations with my daughters will grind to a halt as I try to pick the right metaphor to demonstrate an otherwise simple point.

“Being a good sport is like being a … a… a good friend. Well, no, it’s more like being a good dog trainer, because even when your dog doesn’t do the trick, you still have to be positive… Actually, no, that doesn’t work. Okay, how about…”

“Moooom!”

Or “You know, that was a good story, and it’s true, you don’t want others to define you. You can’t let them tell you if the music you like is the right music. It’s like being a bird… no, a coach or a trapeze artist, for example…”

My daughter, whose eyes had been glazing over, suddenly springs up. “Oh my! I totally forgot. Did I tell you about how I had to change desks on Friday and now I’m sitting between two BOYS?”

Sigh.

See, when I type up this column I’ve got a little more time to work with and I imagine that I’ve got at least one person’s attention. (For all I know everyone heads over to the jumble, but hey, a woman has to dream.)

So I spend quite a bit of time sweating over every little word. Which is fine, until I hear my husband read to the kids.

Let’s just say that no author’s work is safe when Daddy gets a hold of a story book.

Here’s the scene. They’ll all settle in for a bedtime story. The lamp light is glowing softly and the story is unfolding into the night air. Then, there are a few blips. Silly pronunciations. Mixing up of characters. Before you know it, princess are burping and horses are passing gas and entire communities burn down to the delight of his audience who giggles through it all, correcting him every time.

Writers all over the world can sense, I’m sure, the havoc being wrought on their work. Their carefully paced sentences suddenly flying apart like some sort of Three Stooges routine.

I’ll tell you one thing. He’s definitely not reading them any of my stuff… er… work.

At least not unless I’m there for the corrections.