An Unexpected Surprise--Warrior Elf

    I thought I was being witty.  My brother and I sat at the table.  Our mother had just given us each some water and I wanted to prove how cool I was--at the age of fifteen.
    "When I look at this half full glass, I don't see it optimistically or pessimistically.  I simply see what is.  I'm a realist.  This . . . is a glass of water . . . and it's half full."  I smirked at my brother; surely he'd be scared to play Scrabble with me AFTER THAT since I knew big words and I was a realist!
    Shane just looked at me.  "That was weird.  Plus, you're lying.  If there has ever been an optimist living on this Earth, it's you, Elisa."
    "Is not!" I said.  Then, I didn't want him seeing how mad he'd made me, so I quickly slapped a smile on my face and turned to him.  "But I guess maybe there is a bright side to that.  You must think I'm awfully happy."
    "See," he smirked, "you are an optimist.  I called you out on your crap, and you're still seeing the bright side.  Nice!"

    Maybe my brother was right.  I guess that's what I realized last night as I went through Zeke's box.  I haven't been through his pictures in years.  I think I did find some amazing things to share with you on 11/18--the release of "The Golden Sky."   
    As I went through his box, I found my two journals (filled with emotion), piles of papers, napkins, paper place mats, everything I'd written on when Zeke was in the hospital and after he died.  
    Here's a picture of the main journal I wrote in, as well as the mass of papers I wrote on when I'd been desperate leaving my journal at home.

    It's crazy what I wrote down and how I described my feelings.  I was, after all, only nineteen.  Maybe it's a good thing that youth brings honesty, at least it did for me.
    I had so much material to use from my journaling efforts, I couldn't use it all in "The Golden Sky."  As I went through my own writing yesterday, I found one of the many entries I didn't put in my book, and I think you might find it interesting.  That's for tomorrow though, today, I need to share something else I found in Zeke's box.
    First, let me tell you how handsome my husband is--I know everyone says that about their husband, but I'm really into mine.  I guess that's what happens when you marry a hunk.
    Here's a picture.

    
    I had to share that with you because yesterday, as a friend helped me go through Zeke's box, I was almost in tears.  I just couldn't forget how his little hand would hold my finger, or how cute he'd been.  Well, as I thought all of that, I came upon this picture--IN ZEKE'S BOX!  I suddenly laughed so hard I couldn't help it.  My father-in-law made it at my request--he did an excellent job.  It was nine years ago though, and we've grown up so much since then. 
    Anyway, the thought of the picture being in Zeke's box.  I don't know why it hit me so funny, but it did.
    So, in closing, I'd like to ask you, what do you think?  Isn't he sexy as an . . . elf/warrior prince?  I should be careful posting this--who knows, it might go viral.

    P. S. And I wonder why Cade wants to help my brother with the blog war . . .

    Oh, and my memoir "The Golden Sky" comes out in 8 days!  Holy cow--I remember when it was over 100.

How do you put your kids to sleep?

    Sometimes it can be hard putting little ones to bed.  Half of the time, I think the Zombie Elf would rather be running around the neighborhood naked, than sleeping.  That little boy is such a card.  I call him my rainbow baby boy since Zeke died and then the Zombie Elf was born on Cade's birthday.

    Anyway, I went to put him to sleep last night, but things got crazier and crazier.  I put the puppy (our husky) in her kennel.  Poor dog, she always goes to sleep first.  I finally put Doctor Jones and my Zombie into their pajamas when suddenly my boy requested that we fly to the moon.  (Not a big deal, right--it is JUST the moon.)
    "Fine," I said and all four of my kids hopped onto the bed.  "Oh, my gosh.  It's a rocky ride this time."  I shook the bed and made rumblings noises.  "You better hold on for dear life."
    "What's dear life?" the Zombie screamed.  "I need to hold it." 
    My oldest girls started giggling as we flew past an asteroid and some comets.  The Scribe held Doctor Jones (my one-year-old girl) and the Hippie helped the Zombie as we battled aliens and so many things I bet Neil Armstrong never saw! 
     "We're almost to the moon.  Can one of you float over to the light and turn it off?" I begged since I couldn't leave the controls.
    It was the Scribe to the rescue.  That kid loves to float!
   Then, all five of us stared at the ceiling.  I put some glow-in-the-dark stars up there a while back--since we go to the moon a lot.
    I snuggled close to each of my kids and as we rested in the dark, looking up at the stars, I thought of how I may never go to the moon--or even Europe--but there's no place in existence quite as great as having family.
    "I love you," I told my kids.
    "And we love these trips to the moon," the Hippie said.
    "I do to, but we can't do it ever again!" the Zombie Elf said, suddenly ran, turned on the light and put his hands on his hips.
    "What?  Why can't we go again?" I asked.
    "Mama," he said.  "It's because you always leave someone out.  Mama . . . I have to tell you.  YOU forgot the dog."
    So, amends need to be made.  I love our trips to the moon, but do you think we'll actually make it there if our bed rocket tries hauling a mom, two older gorgeous girls, a zombie, a legend, and a husky?  I need your help!  How do you put your kids to sleep?

I wrote a song for my son who had CDH.

I have some VERY exciting news!  

    Zeke's birthday is in ten days!  That means my book about his life will come out a week from Friday!  You'll get a chance to join my blogfest and win an iPad2 or $500 cash!
    If you'd like to be involved in the blogfest I'm hosting on 11/18, or want more information about my book, please click here:  

"The Golden Sky" Blogfest!

    As I got excited about this, I did what any good blogger would do; I googled the number ten.  And these were some of the top results.  Can anyone tell me what this potty has to do with the number of the day?

Oh and I LOVE Sesame Street--that's where I got this picture.  

(Some people just never grow up!)

  
    So, since I've been working on this book launch since January, 2011, I do have some special things to share with you for the next couple of weeks.
    In my book, "The Golden Sky," I described a song I wrote for Zeke.  Well, I took live footage from the funeral, and thought I'd share that with you today.  I hope it won't be too sad, and I'm sorry if it's hard to hear.
  
    Here are the words if you're curious:

Zeke, strength of God
Come now and strengthen him
love him and help him through
the battle

My baby it's so hard
yet so beautiful
God please
give me understanding

though I know some hurts may come
you're worth every one
struggle so deep
for a gift so pure....
I can't imagine life without you...

Sorrow is around me
but it's never gonna drown me
because our love
will see me through

Our love is timeless
no beginning or end
Our love will tie us
I'll never lose you
I'll never lose you

This is what I said at the beginning of the video:    

    "When we first found out Zeke had problems, I went to the piano because that's how I deal with things.  Well, this is the song I wrote for him." 

  


    If you'd like to see a more recent version of this song, with Cade (my husband) playing the guitar, and me playing the violin, here it is:

   

Also, I wrote a guest post today. It's over at  Daily (w)rite. 

Click HERE if you'd like to read about how to advertise your book.

I'm feeling suicidal what do I do?

    I was looking through search topics that brought people to my site, and this one broke my heart: 

"I'm feeling suicidal what do I do?"

    I can't describe how many emotions are running through me right now.  "Why?" you ask.  Maybe it's because I've been there.
    I'm not a professional . . . I don't have a simple answer, so today, I took time to write a story that shows how I feel.  When I'm depressed, this line of thinking gets me through.  I hope it will help someone else as well.


    Once, a long time ago, a father lived in a cottage which sat in the middle of a bright, magical forest.   Part of him had crumpled and died from sadness after riding through the test of fate, but new-found joy came from his housekeeper and two children who stayed with him.  His children were very young though, and if their father died, they wouldn't have remembered his name or even his face.  
    The father and housekeeper looked out through the window, and thought about all of this as the children played outside, enjoying the shade and bounty the trees offered.  It was then that the forest turned dark with pain.  The very trees bent away from the cottage, cringing as if they grasped the mood of everything around.  
    A knock resounded from the front door.
    "Hello?" The father answered the door, then his eyes turned wary.  
    A massive snake slithered into the house, grew and billowed, smoking into the shape of a man who was pale, dismal and graying.
    "What do you want?" the father asked.
    "The lives of your two children."
    "Haven't you taken enough from me, Levi?" the father spat.  "Do what you're best at--go prey on the weak.  Leave what's left of my family alone!"
    "Are you afraid?" the evil man asked, chuckling softly.
    "Never!  You're beneath me; your very presence has no power here."  But the father did seem worried despite his truthful words.
    "Then you won't mind taking a wager.  I bet that if your children couldn't see you or even touch you, they would turn into greedy or self-loathing people."
    "No they wouldn't," the father yelled.  "Not my children."
    "Ha!  Well, then, give them the chance.  Let's see what happens to these amazing children without guidance from you or their insignificant housekeeper.  I'll spare their lives now, but if they do fall for my ploys, then when they die, I get to keep their souls."
     The housekeeper ran into the room and tugged on the father's arm.  "No," she pleaded.
    The father didn't listen though.  "You'll both see the power of a human heart," the father said and shook hands with Levi, the darkly-clothed sorcerer.


    Years passed and although the children no longer saw their father, the housekeeper or even the cottage they'd once lived in, they survived in ignorance.  
    The father was a powerful magician as well, and when he'd bargained with Levi, he'd used magics of his own.  Yes, his children couldn't see him or touch him, but if they wished, they could still sense his presence.
    He watched them grow and every time they fell or got hurt, fought or cried, he wished he could protect them from the pain.  But he couldn't, he'd made an unbreakable deal, and his protection could only do so much.
    "I hate him!" the boy said when he was a teenager.
    "Who?" his sister asked.
     "Our father, if we ever had a father.  Our parents must have left us alone in the middle of a forest.  I don't know about you, but I'm getting out of here."
    So, they left together.  And as they traveled, the father and housekeeper followed them closely.
    Rain and snow came, but the housekeeper protected them.  She'd always had a special relationship with the elements, and so she used it to help the children while they were growing up.
   The father nearly cringed when they passed beyond his property because although he couldn't do anything, they were entering the lands of Levi the sorcerer.
    The second they passed the boundary, a strange woman appeared before the two teenage children.  "Are you lost?" she asked.
    "No," the boy answered, "but we would like to find our way out of here."
    "Well what are you seeking?" she crooned.  "After all, the only thing worth seeking is power.  I can bring you to a place where riches can be found and friends can be bought.  Your wildest dreams can come true."
    The girl didn't seem convinced, but her brother jumped at the chance. "Take us there."  
    So they traveled with the woman, and the whole time the father and housekeeper tried warning them with whispers and worries, "Don't follow her.  She's really Levi!"
    But the teenagers couldn't hear the warnings.  And when it came time that they saw a beautiful castle in the distance, the brother sneaked off before anyone could wake up.  He figured if he earned a fortune, he wanted it all to himself.
    The father and housekeeper grieved over the son's poor choice.  But nothing could be done--he'd shown his worth.
    When the sister woke up, no one was there.  In fact, where the old woman had slept, the only thing in her place was a glistening knife.      
    The girl turned her face away. She held her knees close to herself, and cried.  "I'm so alone.  Doesn't anyone know what it's like living this way?  My brother left me.  I never wanted gold or jewels, I just wanted someone to really appreciate me.  There's nothing to live for!"

    "Then do it," a voice whispered into the recesses of her mind.      
    Although Levi, in his true form, stood behind her, he'd made himself invisible to her.  "Your brother is greedy; now you're the most pitiful human known to man.  Just end it now.  KILL . . . YOURSELF.  The world would be better without you."    
    The young girl sobbed even harder.  At first the notion seemed ridiculous, almost silly.  But as she sat there for hours, the more she thought, she nodded.  Maybe it wasn't so silly after all . . .
    "Don't!" the father screamed.  He and the housekeeper had been watching the whole time.  
    Levi laughed as the girl picked up the knife which had rested where the woman had been.  "One simple action could end it all."
    "No," the father ran to her.  "I'm here, I've been here.  You can't see me, but I know you're strong enough to make the right choice.  Don't kill yourself!  Please just open your heart and you'll feel my presence."
    But the girl, so absorbed in her own pain and self-pity, could not hear her own father.  
    "You're terrible. Filthy!"
    "Stop it!" she screamed aloud.  "Won't anyone ever love me.  But why would they?  I am so pathetic."
    The knife came closer, closer to her wrists. 
    It wasn't until the housekeeper sent a wind toward the girl, that she paused in her action.  
    The father tried taking away the knife, but he couldn't.  The choice--the victory if she conquered this test and lived--that would belong solely to the girl.  She sniffled into the wind, sat in the middle of a beautiful meadow, and no longer saw the beauty of life.
    The father cried then, big tears which seemed strange coming from such a strong man and as he cried, the wind carried his tears and they fell on his daughter's cheeks.
    "If she only knew that someone out there loved her.  If she didn't feel so worthless."  The father bent and hugged her.  "I love you.  I'm so sorry.  I wish I could take away the pain, but this is something you have to conquer on your own," he said.  "Please be strong!  I promise things will get better if you just hang in there."
    The knife came closer and then wavered.  
    "I love you," he said one last time, and as the winds subsided, the beautiful girl looked up, confused.  Pain filled her eyes. "Father?" she asked.  The knife slowly fell from her hand.  "Father!" 
    "Yes," her father said expectantly, and his daughter actually heard him.  
    She stood and looked around as a gentle understanding lit her face.  "Things will get better?" she said.  
    "They will."  He stood so proud.  She proved herself strong, resilient in adversity.  She'd faced one of the biggest battles in life--and overcome depression. 
    "Because this is my one life to live," she nodded.  Her face turned to the fading wind and she smiled.  "I'm so glad you're real."  Then her eyes looked at the glowing city.  "I need to tell my brother."
    Levi screamed more upset than he'd been in centuries.  "Leave your brother alone!"
    "Leviathan," the father said using Levi's full name.  "You may think you've gained my son.  But  remember . . . you've lost my daughter.  She was never weak enough for you, and now she's going to share her strength with my son!  My power multiplies growing with love and knowledge.  Your strength only feeds off the weak!"
    Leviathan turned to angry vapor as the father and housekeeper followed the girl.
    "Levi's on his way to influence my son."
    "But she hears you now," the house keeper said.  "Don't lose hope."
    The girl walked ahead of them.  The rising sun kissed her dancing hair and resolute face.
    "She is beautiful," Father God said to the housekeeper.
    "Of course," Mother Nature Replied.  "She was made in your image."  
    They held each others' hands as they followed the daughter, and walked toward the city where each human in tested and tried.





    In closing, I just wanted to write something to the person who googled this . . .
   YOU are special!  
    There have been three times when I've depressed to the point of being suicidal.


    Once, in high school, certain kids were being VERY mean to me.  I asked for help from a teacher and a youth pastor as well.  Unfortunately neither of them helped me.  It was at that point I decided I had some abusive, toxic relationships in my life.
    So, point one is: If you're feeling suicidal because of things people have or are telling you, break off those relationships and surround yourself with people who realize your worth.


   The next time I thought about suicide was months after my son died.  I came through that because I knew, deep down, things would get better.  Life is how you see it.  Choose to see good and you'll see it.  Choose to see bad, and you'll see that too.
    At that point in my life, I started looking beyond myself and my own problems, I began helping others.  Doing this--helping others in need often takes the focus of yourself and will help you realize your own value as well as the value of others.  How can you help?  What is your place in this world?  We're all special, find what makes you special by helping others in the way only you can.  If you've been hurt by someone, find others who have gone through similar things.  Help them!
   Point two: If you're suicidal, look for the good and also try to help someone else.  


    The last time I struggled with this was several years ago when I had SEVERE postpartum.  
    Point three: If you're having thoughts that don't seem logical at times--even to yourself--seek professional help.  


    These resources are often free!
Call a suicide hotline: 1-800-273-8255
Or call for prayer: 1-800-759-0700


Find online resources:

1. yourlifeyourvoice.org

2. ContactWeCare.org

   
    I know this post might seem silly, but I felt compelled to write it after reading what someone searched.  


Dear reader,
    Please know how special you are.  Whether you believe in God or not, you have to admit we're all different.  You have something amazing and wonderful to offer the world.  Don't give up now.     
    There's a whole future waiting just for you.  Grab ahold of life and don't let go.  Just imagine the positive impact you can make on the lives of others.  Think how many people could learn from your story.
    Things will get better.  Just hang in there.  You are not alone.  And like I wrote before YOU ARE SPECIAL! 
                                                                                        -Elisa

Vlog of my Brother!

    What started off as a simple request for an interview, went silly rather quickly.
    Enjoy!

    Here's a link to my brother's blog:

Middle Damned

Flirting With Death--Reprise

    I remember the dream well, because I had it so many times I've lost count.
    A man died.  My heart throbbed when blood poured from his side and he looked at me one last time.  It was my fault, yet so much love filled his dimming eyes.  He knew he was dying for me--someone so unworthy.  His final breath left him, wavering like a shade in the stormy night.  His life disappeared with all reason as his head lulled no longer having a purpose.
    The moon shone on his once strong face no longer marred with pain or intrigue.  I wanted to bring him back, do whatever I could, but he was gone forever.  He'd taken the blame and left me alone with my guilt. 
    My heart shattered in that moment, more than when I'd seen them torture the man I loved.  I crumpled onto the ground and shivered in the coming rain.  No amount of crying would take away the ravaging sorrow.  I felt lifeless like the body near mine, as if existing in a world without God.
    The fact remained, he'd looked at me last.  He'd died for me . . . died because of me and I felt dirty.
    I clutched onto the dirt by my face, dug my nails into the ground, and fell asleep at the foot of the cross.
    I don't know how long I cried, but when I opened my eyes again, sleep clung to my eyes.  A wall loomed behind me and a staircase spiraled far below.

    I walked down the winding, stone steps--the only place to go. The hot granite stung my bare feet and I ran as fast as I could. No railing thronged the stairs.  Instead, the only support was the wall which sweated with a strange smelling liquid.
    After an eternity of running down aged granite, and leaning against eroding corners, I made it to the base of the stairs where a desk waited. A "Welcome to Hell" sign hung crooked from the front of the gnarled wood.  It seemed such a funny room.  Moss lined the ground, Gothic trees grew in clumps.  And at the far end I saw a petrified door.
    "This is a strange place," I said.  And the more I imagined what I hoped for, the more I saw.   It was inviting, as beautiful as Persephones' home.  I swooned over its glory, until seeing the creature at the gnarled desk.
    He wore a black cloak that wrapped over his face.  "You've come.  We've been watching and indeed you are ours now," he croaked.  Huge horns protruded from the sides his hood and long-nailed fingers tapped the desk.
    I stepped back, wanting to scream as the world around died reflecting the fear which ate at my soul.
    "But don't worry.  The Master would have a word with you first."
   "The master?" I asked.
    "Our Lord.  The Prince.  Don't worry, you'll meet him soon . . . just walk through that door.  He always likes to speak to the living."
    "The living?" I asked.
    "Oh, yes.  You are very much alive . . . for now."  His finger ran across a large black book laying open on the desk.  Its old pages were marred by time as if they'd gone through a fire.  He scanned down to a name, highlighted in blood and I saw it was my own name.
    I looked back, but the stairway was gone.  In its place sat a pile of ash staining the wasteland's air. A long trail of women stood beside the pile and beyond it as far as I could see.  They wore lacy black veils and dresses with bridal flares to their designs.  Even though they dressed as if mourning, excitement showed in their movements and smiles.  Their gaunt faces and flickering bodies made me run to the petrified door.  I clutched the door knob before turning to the horned figure at the desk.  "What are they waiting for?" I whispered. 
    "Eternity . . .  They can't wait to come back . . .  See how welcoming death can be?"
    A chill ran the length of my body as I opened the door.  The scene beyond it brought a moment from my past, relived in an even stronger beauty.
    I suddenly understood the line of excited women.  Purple flowers bloomed at my feet and I gazed at the bright sun-filled sky.  I blinked and breathed with the same anticipation I'd seen on the women's faces seconds before.  "Maybe death is welcoming?" I said aloud as the door shut behind me and completely disappeared.
    "It is a beautiful day," a strong voice said from the field at my back.
    The man appeared so much like my lost lover, I could hardly believe.  "Are you . . ."
    He nodded.  "I've been waiting.  It seemed like forever . . . without you."
    "Have we both died, then?  Are you here too, in this strange place?"
    "Yes, and we can live again.  I'll give you your heart's desires."  He held out his hand, unmarred by the nails I'd seen driven there before he died.
    I smiled, but his eyes turned hungry and when I touched his hand, his featured distorted if only for a moment.  I shirked back.
    "Don't be afraid, dear heart.  Death is a strange thing."
    The sun shone, but the more I looked, it appeared like a metallic glow.  I picked a flower, smelled the lavender which seemed dusted with the scent of sulfur.  As I turned back, the greed on the man's face told me more than words ever could.  "And what is it that you'd want in return for my life and my heart's desires?"
   "Just an eternity with you.  Promise, you'll come back to this place, and I'll never leave you again," he said.
    His perfect face made my heart dip with pain.  I'd watched him die.  I remembered how he'd taken me in and showed me truth.
    "Just an eternity with you?"  I asked.
    "That's all and you can have everything, be anything, do anything."  Evil laced his words, something so fetid no amount of deception could hide it.  He pulled a necklace from his shirt.  "You see these?" he crooned.  "These are the keys to eternity now.  I can let you in at any time."
    "I . . ."  He bent next to me and  my lips faltered.  He was so utterly perfect, so amazing, it seemed wrong denying him such a small request.
    Even though, I wanted to believe his words, I'd already tasted the truth.  So in that metallic sun, I spoke as bravely as I could.  "I can't.  I won't come back."
    "No?  No?!  How dare you tell me 'no'!"  The world cracked with the anger I saw on the man's vile face.  His features shifted and changed as he drew a dagger from his cloak.  "Did you see your name in my book?" he asked.  "Did you see it? You are mine!"  He held the dagger in the air and prepared to deal out my death.  "Once your name was covered with the blood of the lamb . . . once.  Did you see it?"
    I stepped back, a shaky step.  "Yes, I . . . did."  I tried standing strong, but his face made my soul crawl with fear.  "It's still covered in blood."
    "His blood has no power now!  His blood is useless.  He's dead and can't protect you ANY . . . MORE!  Did you hear me, you insignificant mortal?  He's dead!"  He cackled into the metallic light.  "Tell me you still love him, even though he's powerless and weak.  Tell me you still adore his perfect nature and flawed ideals.  Tell me you still loathe me even though I'm the only one who can save your soul now!"
    He loomed, like a blackened tree.  His eyes pierced through my spirit, knowing every bad thing I'd ever done--every vile thought I'd ever had.  "We deserve each other, you and I.  We deserve an eternity together.  Imagine staying here . . . forever.  I'll give you one last chance, to save yourself from the ultimate pains of Hell.  He's useless to you now anyway.  What other choice do you have?  Just tell me you hate him.  Curse the name of Jesus and Hell will be more bearable."
    The knife came closer.  My legs shook and I dropped to my knees and cried.  I'd seen the blood seep from my savior's hands and feet--the red pouring from his side.  A part of me died with him the day I watched Him at Calvary, yet I could never curse His name, even if it would lessen my fate in Hell.  I'd always love Him even if He'd lost all power.
    "NO!!!"  I spat at the devil's feet.  "I will never curse His name.  Even if He won't save my soul, I'll never curse the name of Jesus!"
    The moment froze.  I watched the confusion sprinting across Satan's face.  He couldn't understand, would never understand that type of love.  In his own world, the sky melted and folded in on itself as a light that passes all understanding ripped through the metallic sun.
    Satan ran across the field, scurrying as fast as he could go, but the light encompassed him and he cried in pain.  I closed my eyes and peace curled around, overcoming my soul.
    I stayed wrapped in that hope, the feeling reminiscent of Heavenly visions.  When I opened my eyes again, I rested at the foot of the cross.
    Jesus was gone.  The light of a new day lined the horizon and I smiled.  Hell may have wanted me, but Jesus' blood was still my protection.
    The cross drew my eyes; I saw the nails that had held my savior there.  My smile broadened because from a nail hung a massive set of keys--they were the keys to Hell.

Is He Really Into Me? Blogger Style.

    We've all had vague, random comments left on our blogs.  Maybe we've wondered, did this new, non-English speaking person really read my blog?  Or maybe it's just me, but seriously, several months ago, Melynda from Crazy World (click here to visit her blog) and I met a strange blogger.  He wrote the most hilarious, posts, but his comments on our blogs seemed a bit odd.

    On several different ocassions here are the comments he left:

    :)

    Nice blog!

    Love your Header.

    I'm following.

lol

Wish there were more of you.

    Well, being the time it was, Melynda and I hardly had any male readers and for some reason (probably since we're both tomboys) we were both thrilled to have both a male and female readers.  (If you're a chick I know you'll understand this.)
    So, one day, this man left a VERY nice comment on Melynda's post.  "I LOVE this blog topic.  I laughed SO hard.  You're hilarious."
    Not even a half of an hour later, I read the EXACT same comment on my blog.
    Now, that would have been strange (#1), but (#2) the fact that the particular post was about my son who died after only a few weeks in the hospital.  I just didn't understand how it was even funny, although HIS comment is now.
    So, I went to his post, and went to all of the people who had left comments for him.  He'd returned to ALL of their blogs and left the same comment he'd put on my blog and Melynda's!
    He shut his blog down not long after this experience.  I still wonder if someone contacted him--I didn't--even though Melynda and I thought it was hysterical.

    Well, I've been thinking about all of this, because yesterday morning something similar happened.
    I shared my brother's blog post on various websites.
    He wrote an ummm . . . interesting blog where Melynda and I were well . . . you might need to check out his blog.  

Here's that link:

Middle Damned: Siamese Twins

This picture might give you an idea of what it's about:

    I read his blog and laughed so hard that I cried.  Well, like I said, yesterday morning, I shared his link everywhere.  I received a personal response from a man who I believe didn't read the blog, but instead just looked at the pictures.
    "Wow," the long response began, "you must be wonderful best friends to make pictures like this of yourselves.  I would never be brave enough to share this with the world though.  You must be very close indeed."
     I gasped!  Melynda and I didn't MAKE those pictures.  We were victims--V-I-C-T-I-M-S.

    Seriously, read what my brother wrote on Melynda's blog a few days ago.  We ARE the victims:

Middle Damned said...

Lo! Listen small and insignificant fools. Your paltry, curried words are not enough to flavor the weakest of stews! It was not I that has thrown it, but the gautlet HAS been thrown, the die has been cast and fate's will tested. Crazy is an apt adjective for both Melyinda and Elisa. For they are crazy indeed and will pay the fare for riding on this sladerous ride of madness. I am now struck by the revealed commonality between them, luring you to their blogs with this siren-song of profane defamation. CRAZYness Abounds - The CRAZY Life of a Writing Mom. They are, the both of them, crazed indeed. I will be REVENGED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (Literarily speaking)

    I just had to share because this made me giggle so hard.

    In closing, have you ever had people leave strange comments on your blog--comments that made you wonder if they even read the title or the post?

I Went Underground--Fiddler Style; Part 2

    Before beginning this post, I just have some things to tell you really quickly.  
    The winner, for a free advance copy of my book "The Golden Sky," was announced here: 

 The Golden Sky: Review and Giveaway!

So fun!

Also, my book is now on Goodreads!  (Click HERE to include it on your to-read list.)

    In addition to all that wonderful, magical stuff, Baiba posted a review of my book--God bless her.  Here's that link if you're curious: 

Baiba's Blog  

 

And last of all, my brother struck the meanest blow of ALL today! 

Please go visit him here: 

Siamese Twins 

I still can't believe he stooped this low!!!

     If you didn't read my post yesterday, I ended with a cliffhanger mostly because the post was getting long and secondly because it's just fun.
    So, where we left off, I'd been invited to an underground bluegrass contest.  I dragged my violin to a condemned building downtown.  A bunch of old people sat around ready to fight a musical duel.  The old lady "Champ" made me sit at the crappy part of the circle with the only younger person in the whole place.  The younger guy was a symphony-loving jerk, and I wanted to show him up more than anything.
    I looked at everyone as we played.  If Georgie tapped you, it meant you were out.  We were suppose to out-play each other (by ear) or die trying.
    But everyone else there was so old!  I realized that's the thing about old folks--they're just ballsy.  There I was in my early twenties; I didn't want to die or go to jail, but those old people--they didn't care about anything!  They knew death was creeping close like a spirit in the night.  That's why they'd planned the meeting where we could get caught and end up being arrested.  They figured even if they were sentenced for life, it wouldn't be that long anyway.
    As we played, the Champ winked at me as if I'd never make it to her side of the circle.  Her taunting was just what I needed and as Georgie came closer, my bow turned to fire and instead of tapping me, he tapped the old banjo player on my other side.  The Symphony guy and I moved up a space.  I was getting closer, but could I best that old woman at the far end of the circle?

Picture taken by: Shear Luck

Gotta love my socks--matching is overrated!

     So, we played round after round.  The Champ eyed everyone taking in our weaknesses.  I got scared then because she didn't even have to stop playing to talk!  Her fiddle was an extension of her body and she studied everyone while kicking our butts!
    I hate admitting it, but I do have a weakness.  My left pinkie is double-jointed.  That wasn't an issue until I cut my thumb in half on a table saw and had to reteach myself how to play the violin by holding it differently.  Now (even after years of work) it nearly kills me to use my pinkie on the strings.
    As long as she didn't go to a key with a ton of flats or sharps, I knew I could win.
  "We're going to G Minor," the Champ said and we started again. 
    That wasn't my favorite key, but I still kept up.  It must have been a bad choice for some of the banjoists and guitarists, though; most of them couldn't adjust to the key change as fast as the fiddlers did.   
    Georgie went around, tapping people who dropped out like flies in the winter.  They left the circle and only a couple guitars remained after that.
     I moved next to a crazy harmonica player.  He looked like the cliche I've always imagined.  He had a straw hat and overalls.  A scruffy face and blood-shot eyes.  He didn't want to be friendly though.  He was ready to smoke me with the harmonica if he could.
    The Symphony Jerk huffed on the other side of me.  "I still can't believe I'm here with this . . . elderly crowd.  I got recruited to an underground contest, by a bunch of old people!"
    I couldn't take it then, and before the next round came, I looked at him.  "Old people?  They're pretty damn talented if you ask me.  But if one of them doesn't beat you, then I sure as heck will.  You're not that great for a Symphony Jerk."
    The Champ laughed--I didn't even realize she'd been listening.  The Symphony Jerk glared at me then.  He really didn't like me at all after that, and it showed in his fancy fingering. 
    "D Minor," the Champ yelled, and I nearly laughed.  Talk about easy!  The Harmonica player pulled out a different harmonica and that made me so mad--he could just switch instruments, while the rest of us had to compensate!  Talk about cheating.
    Now, at this point, there weren't many people left, probably less than ten when there had been over fifty to begin with.  All of the losers stood behind the circle, anxiously watching the musical duel.
    I suddenly understood why people have underground duels and fights.  It was epic!  There I was, doing something illegal with a bunch of aging daredevils.  We were beating the odds!  Playing music that actually sounded good!  That was even cooler than nice boots and hot coffee!
    Well, it finally got to the point where the last three people left were me, the Champ and the Symphony Jerk.  I couldn't believe the turn of fate.  But I almost felt as if the Champ had rigged it that way.  She looked at my scarred thumb and I suddenly knew she'd found my weakness.
    Her voice went low and I wished she wouldn't say it, not when I was so close to beating the narcissistic symphony guy.  "G flat Major."
    I swear black clouds swirled above us.  I forgot about everyone else in the room.  The Symphony Jerk went to stand on the other side of the Champ.  "I've played concertos in E flat Major, so switching it to G shouldn't be too hard."
    Oh I wanted to punch him!  If the Champ or I didn't best him, I swore I would melt onto the floor and evaporate from pure anger.
    It was the three of us, testing fate.  We played in one of the hardest fiddling keys ever!  Have you ever heard how a violinist can play an open string--that means you don't use any fingers for that note--well, in G flat Major, you can't play any open strings!  That means you HAVE to use your pinkie; if you play two strings at the same time, you HAVE to use multiple fingers!!!
    The song started.  I barred my teeth.  That's when something amazing happened.  I think I was so determined, so upset, I started doing slides and hitting harmonics.  I plucked my strings instead of playing regular notes.  I bent and swayed.  Every time I came upon something I couldn't do, I did something cooler instead.


    I love how I'm giving you a music lesson today, but if you go to second :30, I start the song on an open string (no fingers).  And on second 2:00 I attempt to hit a harmonic.  (Gotta love attempts.)

   The song got faster and faster.  As we picked up speed, that Symphony Jerk started messing up.  He just couldn't play as fast as we could.  
    He stood straighter, much taller than me, turned red from exertion, and before Georgie could even tap him out, the Symphony Jerk, pulled down his violin and said, "This is stupid!  She's cheating.  That old woman obviously rigged all these songs ahead of time."
    The Champ and I looked at each other and smiled; we had something important in common; we'd helped each other beat a creep.
    She just had fun with me then.  She played things, and I followed her lead, copying her melodies.  It's the first and only time I've done that with another fiddler.  It sounded just like we were talking back and forth, having a musical girl fight in front of a underground crowd.
     "You call this a competition!"  The creep yelled.  "Let me out."  The door was still locked.
    The Champ winked at me.  She got so fast and fantastic, shifting her finger position and doing things I've only seen on TV.  The accompanying guitars (the ones who hadn't even been in the competition, but had provided the chords and rhythms) even dropped out at that point.  
    My thumb ached like when a storm's coming; it must have sensed her unrivaled skills.  I dropped out at that point too. 
    It was the Champ, amazing us with her ethereal gift.  She played alone, her eyes shut and her bow sizzling the strings.  I gazed over at the Symphony Jerk, and his jaw was nearly on the ground.
    The winner was obvious--our awe was complete.  After everything had ended and we all packed up, the Champ came over to me.
    "Elisa, right?"
    I nodded, surprised she'd remembered my name.
    "Let's take a walk."
    I grabbed my violin case and followed her to the back of the building.  She pulled a HUGE cigar from her pocket and lit up right there.  "You remind me of myself," she said.  "You're not bad.  But you know in a few years I'll be dead and you still won't be as good as me.  Give it fifty more years though, Sunshine, and sometime you might get this good."
    I just looked at her.  I loved the woman; she had more spunk than most people I know.  "How old are you?" I asked.
    "Don't ever ask a woman about her age."  She winked, then held out her hand.  "But I'll tell you anyway,  I'm ninety-two."
    I couldn't breathe.  Was she for real?  I had my butt kicked by a ninety-two-year-old--that was awesome--how many chicks can say that?!
    She laughed so hard.  "My name's Opal.  It was nice to meet you."
    I shook her hand.  "You too."  But before I left, I had to tell her one last thing.  "Thanks for jamming with me; I've never played like that before."
    "I knew it," she said.  "I just hoped I could pull some new talent out of ya.  Just don't forget it, Kiddo.  You can always get better, always."
   "I won't forget," I said, and never have. 
 
    So, to Opal:
    Thanks, woman.  If you're up in Heaven, beating those string-loving angels, I hope you didn't forget me either, 'cause I'm getting better, and someday I just might beat you! 

I Went Underground--Fiddler Style; Part 1

    Before beginning this post, I have one thing to tell you.  
    If you'd like a chance to win a free advance copy of my book "The Golden Sky," please go here: 

The Golden Sky: Review and Giveaway!

    Now, onto the post of the day . . .
    I'm a violinist (but mostly a fiddler).  We talked about that yesterday, and today, I remembered a story.  

    Cade and I used to play music everywhere.  We'd have a gig at least three times a month.   
    To listen to our music please go here:  

The Fifth Side

Picture taken by: Shear Luck

     Well, at one of our gigs, a strange, little man walked up to us.  Instead of buying a CD, or putting a tip into my battered violin case, he winked at me, set a business card on my chair and hobbled away.

    The business card was different.  On the front it read, "Old-fashioned Fiddlers' Society.

See if you have what it takes . . ."

On the back it read,

 "The condemned state building--6 am Saturday.

fiddles, guitars, banjos and harmonicas are welcome."

   "What do you think?" I asked Cade.

    "I have to work this Saturday.  If you can get Grandma Gertie to watch our Scribe, maybe you should check it out.  It sounds interesting."

    He didn't think it was scary, but I knew how fiddlers can be.  If you catch the wrong sort of person with a bow and some strings--well, things can get CRAZY!  Plus, I'd never been invited to an underground event, even though I'd heard of them.  Usually they were for street fights, racing or dancing.  Was this seriously an underground event for fiddlers?  I turned the card over.  "6 am Saturday.  All right,"  I nodded, "I'm gonna do this thing."

   

    So, Grandma Gertie babysat, bless her soul she's pulled me out of more jams than I've even been in!  

    Here's one of those stories: Grandma Gertie and the Break-in Patrol

    I had to park around the block since no one was in the parking lot.  That should have been my first red flag.  
    I tip-toed into the back door which was propped slightly open with a piece of wood.  I hurried to where people whispered and just when I stepped into the room, a big elderly man shut the door.  "One after six," he bellowed and locked the door.
    What the crap?  Was it really necessary to LOCK THE DOOR?
    I looked around the room.  About fifty chairs were in a huge circle, all facing the center.  Three of the chairs at one end had microphones in front of them.  In the center of the circle, two chair rested by a microphone AND a speaker.  Two old men sat in those chairs.  One of those guys tuned a guitar and the other polished the surface of his banjo with a cloth.
    That all seemed interesting, but what threw me off the most was how old everyone was.  I mean seriously, some of them must have been in their 90's!
    An old woman sized me up then.  "You're a fiddler?" she asked, and I nodded.  "Well, I'll be shocked if you make it through the first round.  Sit here," she led me to a seat which was farthest from the microphones.
    "I'm Elisa," I said, but that old woman didn't have time for a newbie like me.  She rolled her eyes.
    "Just try to keep up, Sunshine," she said and walked away.
    I sat down, next to the only other young person there.
    "What is this place?" I asked him.
    "Heck if I know," he said, pulling a violin from its case.  "I'd just finished playing with the symphony when some weird old man handed me a business card."  He sat up straight and gave me such a stuffy look that I wanted to whip him with my bow--see what I'm saying about fiddlers!
    A symphony?  Well wasn't he just God's gift!  At least I'd show one person up--and it would be him.
    The guitarist in the center nodded to the old lady who'd sized me up earlier.  She stood at the other side of the circle--across from me--the side with the microphones.
    "We're here to find the best bluegrass musician in this state.  We've been gathering you for weeks and now it's time to shine.  I'm the reigning champ." She took a bow and many of the old people clapped.
    "So, let's see if you have what it takes.  We all play by ear.  The first song will start easy.  We'll go by the chord progression 'A' Major to 'E' Major.  If Georgie taps you, then you're out and everyone else will need to move closer to this side of the circle--toward the champ."  She motioned to herself.  "Let's start."
    And it was just like that.  The guitar and the banjo in the middle started.  The old woman who'd spoken started kicking up dust.  Then, everyone started playing and I couldn't believe it, but after a few seconds, it didn't sound too bad.  They must have picked a bunch of professionals.  Plus, the fact that Georgie kept eying me and the Symphonic jerk, that made me want to play better.  But although I tried keeping up at first, I felt like all those people were kicking my butt!  Here it looked like we were in the Alzheimer's Unit and I (the young one) was having a hard time.
    That's when I caught the old champ's eyes.  She winked at me as if I'd never make it to her side of the circle.  Her taunting was just what I needed and as Georgie came closer, my bow turned to fire and instead of tapping me, he tapped the old banjo player on my other side.  The Symphony guy and I moved up a space.  I was getting closer, but could I best that old woman at the far end of the circle?


    To be continued . . .

A Wingless Angel

    The Scribe woke up very early this morning.  "Can I tell you a story I made up?" she whispered, snuggling into my bed and pulling the covers tightly around her.  Her eyes looked a bit bloodshot as if she'd been making up the story all night long.
    "Su-re.  I'd love to hear a story."
    "Well, once upon a time," she began and I knew it would be epic!  "There was a violinist.  When she played her violin, people forgot who they were and why they were there.  Her music was strong and powerful. 
    "She had a little girl who she loved more than anything.  They would go places where the mother would play and the daughter would listen.  But like you said, stories need conflict, and things couldn't be perfect forever."
    I nodded, and somehow as I closed my eyes and listened, I felt like I was inside of the story.  
    "The woman and her daughter both wore togas."  
    That cracked me up, and I immediately imagined a figurine my mom gave me, it's of an angel wearing a toga and playing a violin.  That figurine is VERY special to me, and I loved picturing it as part of the story.  
    "The mother and daughter had light hair which moved when the mother played her violin.  Both of them were beautiful--unique--and although the mother was a violinist and the daughter was just a kid, those two people were warriors inside.
    "The violinist smiled and laughed, no one knew things were going wrong inside of her.  She was about to have a baby who would die."
    At this point, I kept my eyes shut even tighter.  I knew the story would be about us; after all I play the violin and the Scribe is my oldest.  I guess I just didn't realize she would talk about Zeke too (her brother who was only eleven months younger than her--her brother who died).
    "The violinist had a beautiful boy, someone whose short life changed everyone.  She played songs over him.  She fought more for him than for anyone, battling with the power of her music.  But nothing could save him, not even her daughter because she was a child and the nurses wouldn't allow children to go into the NICU.
    "The day Zeke died, the mother took her violin and threw it into the headstone at the cemetery.  The pieces of wood flew, sinking into the ground.  She swore she would never play again.  She would never love again.  
    "Her daughter stood by another grave, just watching the whole thing.  She wanted to help, but her heart was on fire too--she'd just lost her only brother.
    "It was then that the daughter prayed, 'God please help my mother.  Please help me.'
    "The ground cracked.  A storm blew above and a little boy brought wings from Heaven.
    "I knew it was Zeke," the Scribe said in a shaky voice.  "He looked so handsome and healthy.  He looked a lot like the Zombie Elf.  I saw him handing you the wings and I thought I might die too.  How could you leave me?  Why would you leave me?  I couldn't believe you'd even think about it!
    "'Only one can go,' Zeke said.
    "Mom, you put the wings on your back. I'm sure they felt good because you seemed happy even as my heart beat with pain.  I couldn't stand looking.  You'd forgotten about me.  I didn't open my eyes until you asked,  'But where are your wings, Zeke?' I watched him.  He did look like a normal little boy."  The Scribe stopped talking for a moment, tears filled her darling eyes and she looked at me, snuggled in my bed.  
    "'Mother,' Zeke said.  'I know you want to be with me, but it's not your time.  'I know you want to go to Heaven so badly though, so I've given you my chance, my heart . . . my wings.'
    "You stopped when you heard that.  You knew it was wrong to be there, hoping for something that isn't meant to be.  You'd looked for death, when life was all around you.
    "'But why mother,' Zeke asked, thinking the same thing I had, 'Why do you seek the living among the dead?'"
    My heart tightened as I listened to my own daughter's words.  It was a scripture I've heard many times, but it hit me especially hard when she told me this story today.
    "You gave the wings back," the Scribe said.  "You tore them from your back and handed them to Zeke even though it hurt so badly and you knew it would mean losing him . . . maybe forever."

     "He flew away, far from sight, smiling as if he didn't realize how much we miss him.
    "I went after that to pick up the broken pieces of your violin.  You turned to me and cried, 'Oh, Scribe.  I love you so much.  We're both alive.'
    "We couldn't fix the violin, but it reminded us to always appreciate what we have.  And when we put all of the pieces together, they looked like a notepad and a pen--a symbol that you can share this lesson with other people who have lost children.  Your gift had changed from one thing to another.  Your pain has turned to joy."
    I couldn't believe the depth of her story.  I cried and cried.  It was amazing--beautiful!  The whole lesson of the journey, wrapped up into a short story of love and acceptance.  No wonder her nickname is "Scribe!"
    "Are you happy I'm healthy?" she asked.
    "Of course I am," I said wiping my tears and slobbering like an idiot.  I hugged her tightly, as if she might sprout wings and fly away too.  "I love you so much.  I'm sorry if I ever took you for granted--so sorry.  I was nineteen when Zeke was born--just over nine years older than you are now--it was a lot to handle."
    "Wow, I never thought of it like that."  She sat up and a strange look crossed her face. "Now while you're thinking about that, I have something I need to show you."  She pulled a figurine from the side of the bed and handed it to me.  "I broke the wings off your angel."      
    And it was true.  The angelic violinist, the special one my mom gave me, the Scribe had broken her wings off.  "But you like my story, right?" she asked.  "I've been making it up all night.  I figured if you felt bad for me, and understood why she didn't have wings anymore . . . well, do you feel bad for me or not?"
    I'd been crying, but I suddenly burst with laughter.  "You mean to tell me, you were just trying to get out of trouble?"
    "Yeah, but did it work?"
    "I guess it did."  I took a deep breath.  "Honey, did you really feel abandoned after Zeke died?"
    "No," she laughed.  "I was one!  I just thought that might soften the blow about your angel.  So, what's for breakfast?"
    I hugged the angel and smiled.  It was special to me before, but it has a deeper meaning now. 
   So, I ask you, how can I get mad at a kid like that?  I think somewhere deep down, she did feel abandoned, and I don't blame her.  At least she's resolving things with her stories, just like I am.
    I'm glad she knows I'm here now, and that I'll always be here watching over her; she's my wingless angel and maybe I'm hers too.

    For more information about my book, please click here:  "The Golden Sky" (My Journal About Zeke)

The Zombie Elf and Halloween

    Sometimes when you're a mom, you get the crap jobs.  Daddy gets to take the kids on their first bike rides, while mommy is stuck at home changing poopy diapers.  Daddy takes the oldest kids out to a movie, while Mommy is stuck watching Barney's Sing-along.  Daddy gets to go to a basketball game with your oldest, while you clean the spit-up off your shirt--enough said.
    So, last night was one of those nights.  Cade offered to take the girls trick-or-treating, and I "got" to hand out candy and watch our two babies.  
    The Zombie Elf (our three-year-old) seemed thrilled about this idea because while I was glued to the door, he could teach Doctor Jones (his one-year-old sister) all types of bad things.
    It's funny how when you get busy, it's easy to forget simple things.  Like the fact that they were in the kitchen and I swore I heard the oven open and close.  But when I checked on them, they seemed innocent and okay, so I went back to the door.
    "I want cake, please," the Zombie Elf said.  "Cake and eggs."
    "You're really that hungry?"
    There was no time to talk though, because someone else had knocked on the door.
    Now the thing about last night is that the parents even dressed up.  Yes, that's wonderful except the mothers looked like gorgeous play-boy bunnies while I wore jeans and a loose t-shirt.  I'm not saying I want to show my butt cheeks to the world, but I did feel under dressed.
    Here's the point, I'm a tom-boy.  Some people will fight this, but it's true.  My hair is normally in a ponytail.  If you've seen it down in my vlogs, that was since I wanted to impress you--YOU--seriously.  I LOVE hiking, camping, fishing.  It seems like my soul comes to life when I'm in the mountains.  I'm just that type of girl.  So the fact that these partial nudists made me feel like an idiot really bothered me.  
    "Thank you," a volumptious waitress said as her baby vampire toddled toward her.
    "It doesn't smell like candy in there," her little boy said.  I ignored him though and waved to his fish-netted mother.
    "No problem," I said sweetly, boiling inside.
    I slammed the door.  "Let's make that cake.  Those people come here with their legs and boobs showing.  They think they can out glamor simple mothers!  Ha.  I'll make cake and then they'll smell it billowing from our house.  They'll know I can cook AND be modest.  Ha ha!  Let's see them do that!"  
    The Zombie Elf and Doctor Jones looked at me as if I'd lost it.  I baked then.  I cooked like someone was dying and cake was the antidote.
    "Boiled eggs too?" the Zombie Elf asked.
    "Yes, EGGS TOO."  I put the eggs on to boil.  I was batting a thousand.  Cooking and baking.  Boiling and stirring.  Before we knew it, the cake was in the oven and someone else knocked at the door.
    "Yes," I said sweetly, with my apron still on--I could dress cute too--with pants underneath!
    "Trick-or-treat."
    They took forever at the door.  The mother wanted to gab about my darling apron.  She'd dressed like a sexy alien.  Her alien makeup went green well past her eyebrows.  She wore some strange skirt, that would have been too short in high school.  But she was nice and I decided even middle-aged mothers who dress like that, well God loves them too.

    I wanted to impress her then.  Maybe we could be friends after she put on some clothes.
    They stayed so long, talking and gabbing, that my cake started cooking, but it wasn't the smell I'd hoped for. 
    "That stinks," her baby alien said.
    "Don't say that," she said, but then held her nose.  "Wait, it does smell . . . bad.  We'll let you go.  It smells like something died in there."
    They scurried off, reminding me of an elderly Brittney Spears and her babies.
    I ran into the kitchen and black smoke puffed from the oven.
    I opened it and gasped!  The Zombie Elf and Doctor Jones had put a few of their toys in the back of the oven UNDERNEATH the pan that catches drippings!!!
    I put on an oven mitt and shook.  My cake had barely cooked, but even that smelled like rubber and plastic.
    As I saw the bottom of the oven, I just couldn't hold in my anger.  It looked like toy soup.  A Barbie's hand wavered in the air like she'd fallen in quicksand.  I watched as her hand melted into the soup below her.
   It would take HOURS to clean up--hours.
    "Egg?" the Zombie Elf asked, calling on all of my vengeance.
    "You put toys in the oven--TOYS."  My voice was low.  My eyes were red!  "And then YOU . . . asked ME . . . to make you a cake?  You set this up.  You set this whole thing up."
    "Sorry, Mom.  Egg?"
    "Fine," I spat.  "But don't make anymore trouble!  I peeled two eggs, put my kids in their seats at the table and heard a knock at the door.
    "Don't move," I told the Zombie since I can't buckle him in.  "Don't touch the oven.  It's hot . . . and it smells like death--Barbie death."
    I was handing out candy when another mother wanted to visit with me!  What is it with these fancy mothers who dress up like bar-maids and want to talk to me!  Nobody wants to visit with me, unless they're in miniskirts.
    So I accepted fate and we visited.  After a time, she asked what the smell was, and that's when a tiny hand sneaked next to me.
    A girl screamed.  "It's a naked boy.  He's naked and he has a dinosaur mask on!"
    Why was she freaking out?  Naked--boo hoo--hadn't she seen her mother? 
    I turned to see the Zombie Elf who was indeed bare like Adam in Eden.  His hand snaked out and placed a half eaten hard-boiled egg into the girls trick-or-treat sack.
    She looked at me.  I looked at her.  Time froze for us, as her eyes slowly glided back to my son.
    Have you ever been guilty of a crime, but you don't know what to do.  I just looked at the little girl, whose eyes were now glued to my kid's dingleberry.  I glanced at the mother and did the only thing I could . . . I slammed the door.
    Rubber and plastic fumes nearly overtook us.  "You're going to sleep," I said.  I put my kids in their bedrooms, shut their doors tight and opened all of the windows downstairs.  I knew those fumes weren't good for us, they weren't good for anyone!
    But at least it was a good excuse to turn off the porch light and call it good.
    After I'd gotten most of the goo out of the oven and the fumes from the kitchen, Cade came back with our older girls.  "Did you have a great night?" he asked.  "Isn't Halloween fun!"
    "It was definitely memorable."
    "Oh good," he said.  "Wait, what's that smell?"
    "Oh that . . . it's just what Barbies smell like when they die."
    "Really memorable, huh?"
    "Oh, yeah.  It seemed terrible earlier, but now it's actually quite funny." I smiled.  "The Zombie Elf put a half eaten egg in someone's sack."
    "No way!" the Scribe and the Hippie said.  "That is funny."
    "Yeah . . ."  I hugged them both and we laughed together. "I guess it was."