Rock Canyon (Entry 20)

This post has been removed for the novel's debut in April, 2012 . . .

    Elisa isn't your regular nerd.  She's not the kind of person who quotes Monty Python, or has a periodic table tattooed on her butt.  No she's a different sort altogether.  She carries a duct-taped Bible everywhere, wears bright-orange polyester pants, and dyes her hair with red kool-aid.
    Even though she tries slipping by apart from the crowds, it doesn't help that her best friend happens to be "The Boarder," one of the cutest and most popular boys in school.  He's not willing to let her go unnoticed—not until she goes to the homecoming dance with another guy.
   "The Boarder" starts acting weird after the date goes well, and Elisa begins wondering if he's only been looking at her as a friend or maybe something more.  She must choose between her best friend and "The Bad Boy," but will she make the right choice?

The Dance (Entry 19)

This post has been removed for the novel's debut in April, 2012 . . .

    Elisa isn't your regular nerd.  She's not the kind of person who quotes Monty Python, or has a periodic table tattooed on her butt.  No she's a different sort altogether.  She carries a duct-taped Bible everywhere, wears bright-orange polyester pants, and dyes her hair with red kool-aid.
    Even though she tries slipping by apart from the crowds, it doesn't help that her best friend happens to be "The Boarder," one of the cutest and most popular boys in school.  He's not willing to let her go unnoticed—not until she goes to the homecoming dance with another guy.
   "The Boarder" starts acting weird after the date goes well, and Elisa begins wondering if he's only been looking at her as a friend or maybe something more.  She must choose between her best friend and "The Bad Boy," but will she make the right choice?

Feeling Sad

    My ten year high school reunion was this summer.  Several months ago I got this cute little e-mail inviting me to join the alumni blog, submit a bio, send pictures.  I was super excited.
    I visited the blog, oohhed and aahhed over the pictures.  It was great seeing how people are doing.  Everyone wrote about their awesome education and their darling families.  They really were nicely done.  
   I decided I'd add my rendition.  How great would it be to submit a bio with some reality AND humor?  So,  I'm sure it wasn't the greatest thing ever, but I wrote from the heart.  

    Here's what I wrote:

    I'm a mother of five, I always say that even though one of my children passed away eight years ago. (But it would be mocking his memory if I didn't include him.) So, anyway, I spend most of my time taking care of four rambunctious kids who make life better than green ham and eggs. They're pretty darn fun, but despite that, after I had kids, my boobs shrunk, I've lost hair, but gained a greater sense of humor--thank God for that half full glass of water!
    When I'm not scavenging through the vents, which my son thinks are the best place to hide things, I'm sewing, playing my violin, or writing. What don't I do? Well that's easy, I don't sleep. There's too much going on. But that's how I like things anyway, because someday in the future I'll be a ninety-year-old. When grumpy nurses aren't helping me to the toilet, THEN I can sleep all day.
    But right now, I'm still in my twenties and by golly, I don't want to sleep my life away. So, we're taking it a day at a time. Enjoying the small things and happy to be alive. 

    Please check out my blog: ecwrites.com 
and my business: ecboutique.com (Which made the ebay pulse three consecutive years as one of the five largest custom sewing businesses in the world.) 

 

EC Boutique

Here's the picture I included with my bio:

And the link to that silly blog:

I Went Sky Diving With Edward Cullen and Jim Croce

    But something strange happened.
    More bios kept popping up on the alumni blog, more and more recently submitted, sometimes multiple bios a day, but mine never did.  A couple of my friends chalked it up to a flood of bios.  "Yours will show up soon.  Don't worry.  They've just received a ton." 
   But mine never did . . .

    It reminded me of high school again and why I graduated early.  I was taking a debate class.  We were supposed to hold a trial.  Everyone would play a part, either be a lawyer, a witness, a judge, be on the jury.  It was a huge part of our grade.  Well, the teacher selected me to be a witness.  I worked on my testimony for days.  I'd be a redneck farmer who like chewing ta-backy, and I'd seen the criminal leaving the scene of the crime!  But when the "court date" came, and we spent hours on the trial, the popular lawyer never called me to the stand and the teenage criminal got away!
    "I wasn't called," I told the teacher because I wanted a good grade.  He asked the popular girl to stay after school the next day and you know what she said?  
    "I thought she'd hurt the case because she's such a dork."
    Too bad for her, that I got the 'A' when the teacher read my testimony.  I still don't know how Miss Popularity did on the final grade, but legend has it that she got docked quite a few points.  

    So, the reunion reminded me of high school drama again.  I waited and waited.  They listed my blog among the alumni blogs (which showed they'd received my e-mail), but still no bio or business listing.
    Either someone's incompetence got in the way, their pride, or maybe the fact that I'd written about them in my blog memoir--my bemoir!  That did make me chuckle, thinking about Sarah or Poodle-face reading my blog.
    I sat, thinking about how much it upset me.  I normally don't get down.  I considered going to the reunion, giving them a real show.  Cade couldn't get off of work, but I could bring one of my sassy friends.  We'd wear push up bras and high-heeled boots!  I could spike that religious punch and fiddle my way to success.  It would have made an amazing blog, but instead I acted like a ball-less chicken and I just stayed home.

    I hate wallowing, and the whole thing chapped my butt, until I got a text from one of my friends.  Her message pulled my mind from snooty high school reunion planners.
    "I don't know how to tell you this, but my teenage daughter read an advance copy of your memoir about Zeke.  She found it on the table . . . and she posted a review on her blog.  Please don't be mad.  I never know what she'll say, but I'm a little worried.  She's very honest with her opinions.  I can't get home yet, but I'm sooo worried.  Please don't be mad."
    My hand shook as I went to her daughter's blog.  The thing with my memoir is that it's about Zeke.  It's actually my journal from when I was nineteen.  I've edited it and revised it a bit, but it's real and raw.  Every tear, every laugh, every moment--they happened and it's like ripping open my ribcage and seeing into my soul.  
    I wasn't sure I could handle a negative review just then--not one about my son who died.  I know criticism is a part of life, but I didn't want to be sad anymore that day, especially after the reunion thing.  
   Anyway, I read her post and cried.  
    It was one of THE NICEST, KINDEST THINGS anyone has said about my book.  I am so thankful because her words came at the perfect time.  I just had to say, "Thank you, Marshelle!  You took a hard day and made it into a wonderful one!  I'll never forget your sweet post, or how amazing you are."

    Here's the link to her review.  She's such a doll!   

My Hero....

   So, I didn't spike any punch and I didn't wear heels.  I'll have to do all that at my twenty year!  I'll be looking forward to that madness.  
    But I guess the real point of this post, is how awesome life is!  It's just amazing how you can have a terrible day, but somehow God is always there, looking out for you.  He's waiting with open arms, just like He said He would be!

The Online Minister (Entry 18)

This post has been removed for the novel's debut in April, 2012 . . .

    Elisa isn't your regular nerd.  She's not the kind of person who quotes Monty Python, or has a periodic table tattooed on her butt.  No she's a different sort altogether.  She carries a duct-taped Bible everywhere, wears bright-orange polyester pants, and dyes her hair with red kool-aid.
    Even though she tries slipping by apart from the crowds, it doesn't help that her best friend happens to be "The Boarder," one of the cutest and most popular boys in school.  He's not willing to let her go unnoticed—not until she goes to the homecoming dance with another guy.
   "The Boarder" starts acting weird after the date goes well, and Elisa begins wondering if he's only been looking at her as a friend or maybe something more.  She must choose between her best friend and "The Bad Boy," but will she make the right choice?

One Fatal Question (Entry 17)

This post has been removed for the novel's debut in April, 2012 . . .

    Elisa isn't your regular nerd.  She's not the kind of person who quotes Monty Python, or has a periodic table tattooed on her butt.  No she's a different sort altogether.  She carries a duct-taped Bible everywhere, wears bright-orange polyester pants, and dyes her hair with red kool-aid.
    Even though she tries slipping by apart from the crowds, it doesn't help that her best friend happens to be "The Boarder," one of the cutest and most popular boys in school.  He's not willing to let her go unnoticed—not until she goes to the homecoming dance with another guy.
   "The Boarder" starts acting weird after the date goes well, and Elisa begins wondering if he's only been looking at her as a friend or maybe something more.  She must choose between her best friend and "The Bad Boy," but will she make the right choice?

The Hippie's Mystery

    Yesterday, I woke up, made some coffee, wrote my blog--basically did all the important stuff--when The Scribe and The Hippie started acting very strange.  I strutted to the coffee machine and whistled some tune, but when I came back to sit down, The Scribe pulled my chair out for me (like she was a gentleman or something) and I almost fell on the floor.  She then proceeded to pour me some cereal and give me a big hug.  "I hope you'll have the most wonderful day."
    "Ooo-kay."  I had no idea where all that kindness had come from.  She giggled, an incredibly fake giggle, sat down and just stared at me.
    I set down the coffee and worried she'd put something in my cereal. "What do you want?"I asked.
    "Just a long life."
    I was about to ask her more, but The Hippie stubbed her toe.  "God did that too me," she grumbled.  "You know, He's in control of everything."  She rubbed her sore foot and then bounded toward me.  "I've decided something," she said as The Scribe sneaked from the room.  "The only reason people want to buy The Scribe's book and not mine, is because I haven't written one yet.  So, I'm writing a mystery!  It's gonna be awesome!"  
    Twilight Zone music played softly in my head.  "Really?  That's great.  What will you name it?"
    "I've decided on naming it. . . The Mystery!"
    I thought that was funnier than Charlie Sheen AND his face!  Next time I write a book, I think I might just name it after the genre too.  I could have The . . . Romance, The . . . Memoir, The Suspense, El Erotica!  It's gold, pure and sweet. 

    "Well, won't you help me?" The Hippie asked.
    "Sure, just get a piece of paper."
    "That's not how this works, Mom.  You sit at your computer and I tell you what to write."
    I laughed.  "No, Hon.  You have to write it yourself first."
    "Are you kidding?  I actually have to write if I want to make a book?  That's crazy."
    So, I grabbed her some paper and showed her how it's done.  As soon as she got the hang of it and was writing on her own, The Scribe came back into the kitchen. The kid was still acting COMPLETELY weird!  She had a picture in her hand, of when she was six.
    "Look at this picture, just look at it.  Weren't you beautiful?" The Scribe asked.
    "That's not me."  I raised a brow.  "That's you."
    "Oh my gosh, you're right!  It's just that you're so beautiful, I thought you were me."
    Like I said, she was trying to be nice.
    So, as The Scribe did some major sucking up, The Hippie kicked out her first chapter (which is below). As soon as I dropped the girls off at school, I called Melynda from:



    I thought of how she's been bringing my girls to VBS, and wondered if that was why The Scribe acted so strange. The Hippie was doing more than writing a mystery.  I felt like we were living in one!
    "The girls are acting really weird today.  It's hilarious," I told Melynda.  "What did they learn last night?"
    "Well, they learned about God and then when we were driving home I told The Scribe if kids are nice to their parents, they can live a long life."
    I thought about The Scribe's insane kindness and then about Exodus 20:12.
    "You know," Melynda said.  "She seemed a bit worried."
    I laughed really hard and told her all about my morning.  I talked to The Scribe about it later and she said, "I got worried I wouldn't live long.  If God lets you live longer for being nice, doesn't that mean He'd cut you short if you were mean?"
    I hugged her.  "You'll live a VERY long life, Honey.  You're a doll."
    "You really think so?" she asked.
    "Yep."
    The Hippie burst through our hug.  "Oh my gosh!  You've just given me a great idea for my book, The Mystery.  I can have a mom and a daughter, and for some reason one of them is worried about dying soon because she was too mean to her dad and then, something was . . . stolen!"
    I smiled at her.
    "So, you gonna post my first chapter tomorrow?" she asked.  "I can't wait to find out what people will think of it."
    "Sure, Hon," I said and I typed her "chapter" into the computer.  I hope you'll love it as much as I do.  (The kid just learned about exclamations.)

The Mystery
by: My Hippie

    Once there was a girl. Somebody! stole her jewels. How did that happen?

    "I want them back," she said.

    But nobody gave them back. She worried if anybody would steal anything else. She got REALLY worried--her necklace was gone.

    Who stole it? 

    "Oh! how! did! I not see that?" she asked.  "Somebody stole my jewels and my necklace with my father's picture in it and the picture of me on the other side!  I want them back really bad.  I have to find out who it is." 

Talk about a cliffhanger, huh(!)  I LOVE those kids.

You Know You're a Mother When . . .

    The Scribe and The Hippie are in Vacation Bible School this week.  A couple days ago, The Scribe came home, plopped onto the couch and read her Bible.  Her mouth dropped and her eyes got big like a Precious Moments illustration.
     "What's wrong?" I asked her.
    "It's just this Bible.  I realized that a bunch of people in the Bible 
. . . are dead."  She'd just finished the sentence, when a new discovery lit her eyes.  She put her hand to her mouth and gasped.  "Mom, this is terrible!  But EVERYONE in the Bible is dead!"
    So, I spent the rest of the evening trying to console her.  "They may be dead, but they're alive in Christ."  I said it, because it was the right answer!
    She blinked patronizingly, like I'd lost my mind.  "They're still dead."
     That got me thinking about all the crazy things we have to go through as a parent.  Sometimes it isn't easy, but at least it makes for a good laugh.

Here's my list of:  You know you're a mother when . . .

~you wear three hairbands in your hair, just in case one of your girls needs one


~you say "poo poo" and "pee pee" in public

~your shoulder smells like spit-up and your pants smell like baby powder

~you forgot to put make-up on your left eye (just your left one)

~you scream randomly, because you can

~you've cried because your child ate--A COUPON! 

~toys fill your vents and unflushed pee is festering in your toilets

~you sing Barney and Dora just for fun

~you're happy to buy a vacuum

~you've memorized the number to poison control AND the police department!


~you've called your children each other's names and maybe even the dog's name

~you no longer watch "adult" movies and if you do, your child likes the "s" word

~you have no hair, or gray hair where beautiful strawberry blonde hair used to be (I'm not naming any names, but this sounds an awful lot like my life)

~you don't wear matching socks

~your underwear is hanging in threads and you'd rather buy your kids clothes than get yourself something

~you don't dish up much food for yourself, since you know you'll have to finish your kids' food later

~you've chewed gum instead of brushing your teeth

~you've practically turned into your own parents


~you've said the phrase "if I have to say this ONE MORE TIME" 
. . . about a million times

~you still have pregnancy brain and your youngest is almost out of diapers




And finally . . .
~you blog just to stay sane

Do you have anything to add to this?

Savers and a Death-show (Entry 16)

This post has been removed for the novel's debut in April, 2012 . . .

    Elisa isn't your regular nerd.  She's not the kind of person who quotes Monty Python, or has a periodic table tattooed on her butt.  No she's a different sort altogether.  She carries a duct-taped Bible everywhere, wears bright-orange polyester pants, and dyes her hair with red kool-aid.
    Even though she tries slipping by apart from the crowds, it doesn't help that her best friend happens to be "The Boarder," one of the cutest and most popular boys in school.  He's not willing to let her go unnoticed—not until she goes to the homecoming dance with another guy.
   "The Boarder" starts acting weird after the date goes well, and Elisa begins wondering if he's only been looking at her as a friend or maybe something more.  She must choose between her best friend and "The Bad Boy," but will she make the right choice?

Gothic Baywatch (Entry 15)

This post has been removed for the novel's debut in April, 2012 . . .

    Elisa isn't your regular nerd.  She's not the kind of person who quotes Monty Python, or has a periodic table tattooed on her butt.  No she's a different sort altogether.  She carries a duct-taped Bible everywhere, wears bright-orange polyester pants, and dyes her hair with red kool-aid.
    Even though she tries slipping by apart from the crowds, it doesn't help that her best friend happens to be "The Boarder," one of the cutest and most popular boys in school.  He's not willing to let her go unnoticed—not until she goes to the homecoming dance with another guy.
   "The Boarder" starts acting weird after the date goes well, and Elisa begins wondering if he's only been looking at her as a friend or maybe something more.  She must choose between her best friend and "The Bad Boy," but will she make the right choice?

Hunting with my Daddy

Happy Father's Day!

    Of all the memories with my Dad, one sticks out.  It was just last year.  We went hunting.  Now I am not the best hunter.  I crunch when I'm supposed to sneak and I miss when I'm supposed to hit.  If you haven't guessed yet, I go hunting solely to hang out with my dad and wear orange! 
    I took the hunter's safety test months before that, while I was big and pregnant.  I tottered in the prone position which was hard because my belly was in the way.  Still, I shocked the instructor when I got the highest score.  Sure I was up against pubescent boys, but I had won!
    So we went hunting.  My Dad woke Cade and me at 5 a.m..  My Uncle was there too.  Now that man is part mountain man, part grizzly and part eagle--seriously.  He can track anything and do anything.  He has these crazy-blue eyes just like my dad and I think he charms the animals before we hunt for them.
    My Dad and Uncle made us shepherd 's coffee.  They lit a fire, boiled some water and then threw some coffee grounds in.  I watched the dark bubbles sliding over the edge of the rusty pan.  My breath came out in big, cloudy puffs that matched the color of the moon above us.  Even though I wore about fifty layers of orange it was still freezing cold.
    "You cold?" my Dad asked.
    I shook my head.  "Nope."  There was no way I'd let him know I wasn't as tough as Zeus!  I'd gotten enough crap from everyone, saying I wouldn't like hunting.  I'd rather lose a leg than admit defeat!
    My Dad dumped a cup of freezing cold water on top of the coffee soup and the grounds sunk to the bottom.  "We call this shepherd's coffee."
    "When we were boys," my Uncle said, "some of our friends would come up into these mountains and herd sheep for months.  When we came to visit, they'd give us coffee like this and rock-hard bread."
    The whole thing seemed magical.  Black coffee and rock bread!  I suddenly wanted to herd sheep!  My Uncle handed me an old mug filled with shepherd's coffee.  I wrapped my hands around it and smiled into the tendrils of steam.  The coffee was strong and harsh, like the mountains we camped in, but it warmed me up and ignited the magic of the morning.
    My Dad and Uncle rode on one four-wheeler while Cade and I rode on another.  I hugged Cade and leaned my head against his thickly coated back.  We crept up, further into the mountains.  I knew the animals watched us.  I felt their inquisitive eyes in the sagebrush, calculating our every move.  
    We climbed a jagged crest and my Dad decided we should camp out there and drive the deer down to Cade and my Uncle.
    They agreed and took both four-wheelers while my Dad and I found a couple of rocks to sit on.  
    I turned into a statue of completion after that.  I stared at the rocky valley.  It looked like a million stoney goblins rested beneath us.  I saw a ravine where they camped, never moving or breathing.
    Staying still like that reminded me of when I'd been a window model.  I smirked.  And to think, some people had said I wouldn't like waiting in the cold!  I'd practically trained for that moment--when I'd get to sit and hang out with my Dad.
    I thought about the window modeling thing again.  I hadn't been the best.  The problem was that some people would actually think we were manikins.  We'd pose in two hour sets.  I'd pick something to stare at and then stay frozen there.  It's funny because I still remember what I stared at; it was the reflection of the TV against the glass across from us.  Anyway, people would come and point.  They'd say how amazingly real "the manikins" were and then just for the hell of it, I'd suddenly jerk my head and stare at them.  I think I almost gave one old Chinese lady a heart attack.  I did feel bad about it, but sometimes it was absolutely hilarious!   

(I'm the one on the bottom right; this was taken the year I met Cade and ran away to Hawaii.)

    Anyway, my Dad and I stayed there for hours, not even saying a word.  My butt did get sore after awhile, but that was a small price for magical coffee, good non-gossiping company, and the color of my clothes!  I grinned toward the rising sun as the wind ripped past and tugged at the orange mask on my face.  I couldn't believe how beautiful the valley was.
    "Look."  My Dad grabbed my arm and handed me the binoculars.  "There's a family of them over there."
    I peered through and he was right; just on the other side of the mountain three deer rested, a momma and two babies.
    "Are we gonna go after them?" I asked, my heart clenching.  I could do it!  I could kill the mama . . . maybe.  I could prove everyone wrong.  Sure I wanted jerky and steak; I wanted my Dad to think I was awesome, but at what price?
    "Nah," he suddenly said.  "They're too far away."
    The truth was that they weren't.  I studied my Dad.  I wondered if he was trying to protect me or if there was a side to him that I'd never seen.  It made me want to cry though because he's such a great guy.  And I think he sacrificed the chance for me. 
    That night when we were back at camp, we put down a few beers and I told my Uncle, "We could have shot that doe, my Dad and I could have, but . . ."
    He put his arm around me.  "Sometimes your Dad will even miss on purpose.  Maybe he didn't take the shot . . . for you."
    "I can't believe he'd do that."  I looked at my father.  He sat next to the fire and grinned, talking to Cade, as happy as he could be.
    "Don't feel bad, pumpkin," my Uncle said.  "The thing is that for some people, hunting's really about shooting the bull with friends and drinking good beer."
    I laughed so hard.  "Even though I like being warm and I used to model in heels, I guess I'm a hunter, born and raised." 

I'm sick of looking incompetent!

    I mowed the lawn.  I'm not asking for an award or anything; I just had to beg for some advice.

    Our yard is almost a third of an acre.  Every time Cade mows it, I feel so bad for him.  That's why, the other day when the code enforcement guy drove past on his four wheeler, I decided to mow the lawn.  Now, this has never worked out well for me because two times (in the past) people have stopped and asked why I'm out working on the lawn.
    "Because I want to," I said each time.
    "Well, your husband should be mowing the lawn."
    "I wanted to mow it."
    "But it's your husband's job."
    Those comments made me so angry!  Especially since one guy came and had a talk with Cade about it.  "Your wife shouldn't be out mowing the lawn; it's embarrassing for you.  You're the man!"
   Those people make me hate living on a busy street--hate living in the town we're in.  Plus, if I want to mow my lawn, I don't see an issue with it!  So, the other day when I got ready to work on the yard, I slipped into a tank top, and swore I'd punch the first person who told me yard-work is a man's job!
    I mowed, having a grand ol' time, singing against the rumble of the mower.  I thought of growing up and how my dad used to love working on the lawn.  I giggled, wearing mower gear and deciding I might have a beer when I was done; I didn't know why but my dad said drinking and mowing went hand in hand.  That made me feel extra neat until some guy's truck purred to a stop across the street.
   He sat there, watching me and the birds stopped singing.  (Well, I couldn't hear them chirping before 'cause the mower was loud, but if I was a bird, I wouldn't have made a sound!)  I pushed the lawn mower faster and faster.  I glanced over my shoulder and hoped I could get away from the man's judgmental eyes.  It reminded me of the scary movie where the girl dies right after mowing her own damn lawn!  
    I swore he stared at me funny, looking at my back (or butt) and making me feel defiled.  Maybe mowing the lawn was too dangerous for me.  Maybe it attracted weirdos!  Even though I mowed faster, the jerk just waited for several minutes until my bag was full and I turned the mower off.
    "You need some help, miss?" he asked slowly in a crazy drawl.  "I'd happily mow the lawn for you.  You're an awful skinny, little thing to be mowing the lawn."
    An awful . . . skinny . . . little thing!   
    If he wanted to hurl some accusations, I could shoot some his way.  I was done being scared.  That old coot had made me angry!  He didn't seem the mowing type!  He looked like he was five-hundred years old.  He'd lost hair.  He was dressed up in a suit, on his way to church (not wearing mower gear and not someone who'd drink a beer). 
    I studied him; yep, I could mow circles around that sexist man.  
    "I think I got it," I said as I shook grass into the garbage can.  I'm sure I didn't look very capable as I did it.  The bag was a bit heavy.
    "Well ma'am, in my religion the men do the yard work."
     Did he really want to go there?  Seriously?  'Cause in my religion, you don't stare at a married woman's back for twenty minutes! 
    I gave him a crusty.  I actually gave that poor, old man a crusty--that's a big deal for me because usually I'm nice even when I'm mad.  
    The point is that I don't want to live life in some box.  If I want to mow my damn lawn, why do a million people always have to stop me?  Maybe I look really pathetic.  Maybe they think I've suffered a brain injury.  Or, maybe people are just being . . . nice.  But there is a point where it's not nice anymore and it's just offensive.  I mean, I could see him offering to help if I was a cripple, or if I'd cut off all my fingers and not just my thumb!  I'd understand if he hadn't eyed me for minutes on end!
    I probably sound terrible.  I probably do, but it's aggravating.  It makes me want to join the military just so I can look capable.  It's not that man's fault.  I bet he was being nice--maybe. And he would have mowed my lawn, even if he needed his cane and oxygen to stand.  
    I wasn't really mad at him or his religious beliefs.  I was upset that I didn't look capable of pushing a self-propelled LAWN MOWER!
    "You sure you don't need any help?" the man asked again, his eyes lingering on my boots, my holey jeans and then my tank top.
    "I'm fine!"  
    The man drove off toward the church.  I imagined Cade's response if people always asked him if he needed help mowing the lawn.  The thought was comical.  He would have ripped them a new one.
    So, instead of finishing the front yard.  I trudged into the house and grabbed a beer.  I suddenly understood why drinking and mowing go hand in hand.   My dad's such a wise man.  I swear I learn something from him at least once a week!

So what do you think?  Would you get frustrated or am I just being silly?  Basically I want you to pick a side.  Are you on mine or that old man's?  Be honest.  Go anonymous if you have to.  I need  some real opinions on this. 

The Zoring

    I bet you're wondering what in the heck a "Zoring" is. Well, so was I, until I read The Scribe's blog.
    Yep, you saw that right.  The Scribe is still blogging, but instead of sending juicy little notes, apparently she's writing a story.  

Here's what I read yesterday: 
    Once upon a time, I was playing basketball with my friends.  Oh and I am a girl.  (I love how she added that!)  When I saw a weird creature.  It had a cat head, bison legs, a zebra body and a woolly spider monkey tail.  (At this point I'm thinking whoa--hold up!  What in the crap was that about?  Then I turned the page and saw a picture she printed off the net.)
Here's the picture: 
 

    "Holy crap!" I gasped when I saw it.  I know the creature is weird, but there is something magical about it.  I can imagine the thing walking all dainty--cooler than Puss in Boots on a Sunday!  Sure, it looks as if an elephant is coming out of its butt AND like it's wearing leg warmers, but that's AWESOME.  
    I continued reading the story.
    Cats can hear very high, so I stayed calm and waited.  I told my friends about it, but they couldn't see it!  We talked and talked and the creature had enough time to go to sleep.
    Did my eyes have something cool going on?  Why couldn't my friends see?  I wanted to think about it more, but I have to go to sleep at 7:30.  
    My Mom called me to go home.  I hate it when I have to go to sleep early.  Didn't she understand that I had cool eyes?  (When I got to this part, I snorted--actually snorted!  Why did I have to be the kill-all.  And there's nothing wrong with getting a good night sleep--especially when you're an aspiring author!)
    The next day, the creature sat by me in class.  It was weird, but still, no one could see it.  I spent a lot of time with it, and actually came up with a name.  I called him  "The Zoring."  (That part gave me chills!  "The Zoring" sounded as cool as The Lorax!)  There was just one thing I couldn't stop thinking about.  Why couldn't anyone else see it?
    So that's how the magic began.  The next day I would see a lunchfairy and find out about my magical school.  But that's a blog for tomorrow.  I'll tell you all about it then.  This isn't the end of my life yet!

    Anyway, The Scribe is going to try and write thirty little pages like this.  I told her if she does, then I'll help her edit the story and print out a real, bound book.   

    "I already wrote five chapters."  She grinned.  "If you want to put this chapter on your blog, maybe you can ask me some questions about the story."
    "Are you kidding?  That would be awesome!"
    I interviewed the kid then.  Because she's made of gold and an author interview sounded like a great idea.
    
    "How did you come up with the ingenious name for The Zoring?" I asked.
    It just came to me.

    "Does The Zoring represent someone in your life?  I've heard that characters can sometimes be just like someone you know.
    Our cat is The Zoring because I think she might be magical deep down and if I write this story, her true magic will come out.

    Why do you think she's magical?
    Because I love her and when you love something enough, it can turn magical.

    I was hoping that I was The Zoring and maybe it meant I bring magic into your life.
    You're not The Zoring.

    Not even a little?
    No.  You'd look weird with buffalo legs.

     Why is your main character the only one who can see The Zoring?
    You need to keep reading the book to find out.

    Is there anything else you'd like to share about your book?
    It will be done by the end of the summer and I'd like to give copies to anyone who wants to read it.

    How much would you charge per copy?
    Free for people who don't have money and a quarter for people who do.

    She's such a ham and I'm so glad she joined us to talk about her upcoming book "My Adventures With The Zoring."  I'm excited to read the finished product. 

Halloween (Entry 14)

This post has been removed for the novel's debut in April, 2012 . . .

    Elisa isn't your regular nerd.  She's not the kind of person who quotes Monty Python, or has a periodic table tattooed on her butt.  No she's a different sort altogether.  She carries a duct-taped Bible everywhere, wears bright-orange polyester pants, and dyes her hair with red kool-aid.
    Even though she tries slipping by apart from the crowds, it doesn't help that her best friend happens to be "The Boarder," one of the cutest and most popular boys in school.  He's not willing to let her go unnoticed—not until she goes to the homecoming dance with another guy.
   "The Boarder" starts acting weird after the date goes well, and Elisa begins wondering if he's only been looking at her as a friend or maybe something more.  She must choose between her best friend and "The Bad Boy," but will she make the right choice?

Beginning of a Storm (Entry 13)

This post has been removed for the novel's debut in April, 2012 . . .

    Elisa isn't your regular nerd.  She's not the kind of person who quotes Monty Python, or has a periodic table tattooed on her butt.  No she's a different sort altogether.  She carries a duct-taped Bible everywhere, wears bright-orange polyester pants, and dyes her hair with red kool-aid.
    Even though she tries slipping by apart from the crowds, it doesn't help that her best friend happens to be "The Boarder," one of the cutest and most popular boys in school.  He's not willing to let her go unnoticed—not until she goes to the homecoming dance with another guy.
   "The Boarder" starts acting weird after the date goes well, and Elisa begins wondering if he's only been looking at her as a friend or maybe something more.  She must choose between her best friend and "The Bad Boy," but will she make the right choice?

It's Hard Being Deaf AND Blind

The Scribe and The Hippie fought as they got in the car.  They bickered all the way home from school.  My two girls pulled each other's hair so much I worried it would cause male-pattern-baldness even though they're girls and my dad isn't bald!  They cried and whined like pitiful cats and I'd finally had enough.  

That's when my voice cut through the chaos.  "I've had it!  You," I pointed to The Hippie, "you have to do whatever I say for the rest of your life.  But for the rest of today, I want you to act blind."

"Why?"

"Don't question me.  I'm sick of hearing you two fight.  Just do it."

"Shouldn't she be mute then, I mean if you're sick of hearing us?"

I glared at The Scribe.  "I'm the mother here!  You two do what I say.  Why are you still looking at me?"  I'd turned to The Hippie and saw her quizzical expression.  "Close your eyes."  

"Well, don't I at least get a dog to go with this . . . or something?"

"No."  I groaned.  




The truth was, I wanted them to stop fighting, appreciate what they have and not bug each other ANYMORE--new impairments seemed the only solution.

The Scribe snickered, thinking she'd gotten off free.

"And you," I growled, pointing to The Scribe, "you're deaf."  Then, since she'd been behaving the worst, I added, "And you've lost the use of your left leg."


"What?" she asked.


"For the rest of the day, you're deaf and you can't use your left leg.  That's your punishment."


"What?"


"I just said, you're deaf and you . . ."  I glared at her.  "Are you saying 'what' because you're deaf?"  

She nodded and a giggle left her throat.


So, for about two minutes everything seemed perfect.  The fighting stopped.  The Scribe couldn't hear The Hippie; The Hippie couldn't see The Scribe.

It was a wonderful moment, like discovering the moon's really made of cheese or that Johnny Depp is in town.

The four kids and I sat down for dinner after that.  I pointed to my mouth and explained to The Scribe about lipreading.  "Time . . . for . . . dinner," I talked slowly.

"Yes . . . it's time," The Hippie mouthed, with her eyes clenched shut.

The Scribe turned to the blind Hippie and said, "Just 'cause I'm deaf, it doesn't mean I don't have a brain."

"And just 'cause I'm blind, it doesn't mean I can't smell your stinky feet."

I put my face in my hands.  "Just eat your food, please."

"What?" the deaf Scribe asked and I glared again, perfecting the ancient art of wanna-kick-yo-booty.

The Hippie struggled to eat anything.  Every time she stabbed at her food, she came back with nothing.  "No wonder blind people are so skinny; YOU'D THINK you were blind, mom."


"That wasn't very nice, Hippie," The Scribe said.  "Mom isn't that skinny."


"Aren't you supposed to be deaf?  You keep forgetting.  You have two disappointments.  You're deaf and you can't use a leg."


"I can still lipread!"


"I doubt it," The Hippie said, then she laughed hysterically.  "I can almost imagine how mad you look right now."


"That's rude!"  The deaf Scribe stabbed her food so hard, some of it flew from her plate.  "I've never been this mad at a blind person!"


"Well, I never knew deaf people could be so mean . . ."

"And to think, I was trying to be nice because you're different," The Scribe said.


"Don't act like that!  Just cause you have two disappointments, that doesn't make you better than me!"


We were all quiet after that.  The Zombie Elf just stared at his sisters.  Doctor Jones ate her food and I wanted to slide deep into my sewing room, where no one would fight and I could have a moment of peace.


The Hippie finally broke the silence.  She tapped The Scribe on the arm and mouthed, "You wanna watch TV?"


"Sure."


They went downstairs, one feeling the wall and the other limping.  I heard the TV click on after a moment, then The Scribe groaned, "Well, this is lame," and there was no pun intended.  "I can't hear the TV and you can't see it."

"Being blind is terrible."


"You're right, but things are still harder for me.  Like you said, I have two dissappointments."


"They're called dis-abil-ities!" I yelled down the stairs.


"Yeah, well whatever they are, I don't like them.  I've only been deaf half a day, but I already feel like you're treating me bad because of it."

I did the dishes as the girls helped each other up the stairs.  It was slow, but I noticed a change in how they were acting.  The Scribe told the blind Hippie where to walk; she draped her arm over her younger sister and limped along, trusting in the blind girl.

They started laughing and joking after that.  At one point, The Hippie picked up her older sister.  

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"She can't walk, so I'm helping and she's telling me where to go."

The Scribe looked awfully heavy in her little sister's arms.  "Are you sure you're okay . . . wait, wait," I screamed because The Hippie almost walked into the wall and then down the stairs, where Doctor Jones was crawling backwards. 

I did avert the danger though.  I brought them into the other room, made some goofy noises and danced around.  "Poof! Your sight, hearing . . . and leg are restored.  How do you feel?"

"But we were having so much fun."


"And now it's time to go to sleep."  I smiled at them.  "Girls I'm proud of you.  You stopped fighting and you did great."


"I know," The Scribe said.  "It's like we were in one of those old movies you always make us watch.  See . . . we were paying attention."

I felt like giving them a moral, an incredibly cheesy morel.  "With the right attitude and God by your side, you can make it through anything."


"Yeah," The Hippie said, " 'cause being blind rocks!  I love disappointments!"

So, maybe she missed the point.  Maybe neither of my oldest daughters understood the greater meaning I wanted them to get, but at least they stopped fighting for two seconds--that has to count for something--right?  Please tell me it does . . . 

If you want to read another story about hilarious disciplining methods, please visit Melynda at Crazy World.

The Scribe and The Fallout (Part 2)

The Scribe burst from the doors of the school.  "Mama, I'm going to die."

"No, you're not.  But maybe I am.  You told the teacher your friend would hurt the baby?" 

She gawked at me.  "Yeah, well that's not what this is about.  I need to talk to you because I told everyone I won't be friends with them anymore."

"What!  Why did you do that?"

"I don't want to lose my best friend.  I made her a little gift, wrote her a note and everything about how I want to be friends with her and everyone, but she said that wouldn't work.  I either told the class, or she'd drop me."

"This has gone too far."  

"Mom, I think I did the wrong thing.  My best friend is happy, but I'm so sad."

I drove over and visited with the girl's mom.  
She said The Scribe has been leaving her daughter out.  "My daughter expects loyalty from a friend.  She wants someone who will be as loyal as she is."  

"But I don't see anything wrong with being friends with everyone.  I'm sorry if she left your daughter out, but . . . "  I didn't know what else to say, so I left after that.  To me, The Scribe is as loyal as they come.  Maybe she had been leaving the little girl out, and I would talk to her about that, but I didn't see a problem with her having other friends too.

The Scribe sobbed on and off.  I took her to get her nails done and they turned out beautifully.  I'm still so proud she saved all that money by picking dandelion.



Right as we were about to drive from the nail salon, my cell rang.

"It's my best friend," The Scribe piped.  "Now we'll be friends forever."  She answered the phone and put it on speaker.  "Hello?"

"Hi," the girl said in a monotone.  "Ummm . . . I've been thinking.  I know you told everyone you can't be friends with them anymore, but this isn't working."

"What are you talking about?" The Scribe asked.  Her fake nails looked amazing holding the phone.  She suddenly looked so old, but I couldn't focus on that.  I was about ready to rip my phone in half.  It was bad enough that her best friend gave her an ultimatum, but now this?  

The best friend continued.  "I don't know how to say this, but we can't be friends anymore.  You're not popular like you used to be."

I almost growled.  Well gosh, I wonder why she wasn't popular, that girl told her to de-friend the world!  My arm suddenly snaked out and grabbed the phone.  "Hello!  This is Elisa, the mother!  I'm SOOO SORRY! BUT MY DAUGHTER NEEDS TO GO!  HAVE A FLIPPIN' GREAT DAY!"  I slammed the phone shut and you should have seen The Scribe's face.

"Why did you do that?" she asked.

"Because I'm tired of it.  You don't deserve a friend like that."

"But she was my last friend."

"Everything will be okay.  We'll work something out.  Even if we have to visit some people and tell them you're sorry, we'll work this out."

So, that's what we did.  We called and visited.  We apologized and laughed, and I'm pretty sure by the end of it The Scribe learned an amazing lesson and she got all of her friends back except her best one.

"Mom," she said as we drove home, "maybe you were right about that baby story.  A good friend wants good things for other people."

I nodded.

"Maybe that's why my teacher didn't flip out about the story.  I forgot, but she told me to tell you, it was a great anal-gee."

I smiled.  "You mean analogy?"

She nodded and I felt much better about the whole thing.  The Scribe had her important friends back and her teacher didn't think I was a psycho.     

Have you ever had something like this happen to you or your kid?  
I keep wondering if kids are becoming more mean as time goes on.  Sometimes being a parent is really difficult, but I guess we just have to do the best we can.

The Scribe and The Fallout (Part 1)

Note: For those of you who watched the video prior to this post and are still reading my blog, bless you! I can't figure why I called my Pung Chu actions "grammar" instead of "punctuation," or why I said "air grammar" would help with literacy and public schools. All I know is that Bootsie is a doll; the poor man who inspired the video (and constantly talks with "air punctuation") seems to have found my blog, and my hangover is finally gone.  

In addition, I would like to offer a public apology to the offended party.  I've made a mistake--even the rock stars do that and here I am just a mommy blogger--so please forgive me.

 

Dear Mr. . . . ummm Mot, 
    I am deeply sorry if I hurt your feelings, but no one is safe from my blogging madness.  Even my family, my pets, the neighbors and God are all involved in my ridiculous posts.  
    At least I did say that "air grammar" is a great way to get girls--if you're interested in women.  I looked more the fool than you ever seemed, and after all, I'm the one who posted a silly video of myself.
    Please take my vlog as a compliment.  I chose to showcase your actions (which speak louder than your words) and I didn't mean any harm.
Sincerely,
E



Now, on to the business of today, my very late daily post.


This week was busy because The Scribe and I fell into some drama.  Do you remember the story about "The Kick-me Kid?"  Well, months ago, The Scribe put a "kick me" note on a girl's back.  I made them have a playdate and the two have been best friends since.  It hasn't been easy though, and last week was no exception.  

Thursday night The Scribe cried in my arms.  I wondered again if I'd done the right thing by making them have a playdate and be friends.  

"My best friend said I can't have any other friends but her.  If I don't tell everyone else that I won't be their friends, especially Kellie, then my best friend won't hang out with me anymore."  The Scribe wiped tears from her cheeks.  "But Kellie said if I stayed friends with her, then I can be friends with everyone."

"Kellie sounds like a good friend."  

"I know, but I still don't know what to do, Mom.  I don't want to lose my best friend."

I breathed in and 1 Kings 3:16-38 popped into my mind.  Maybe it wasn't a good story to share, especially after how The Hippie handled Hansel and Gretel, but I figured it was worth a try.  

"Once upon a time," I said, telling a story from the Bible, "there were two women who each had a baby.  The women were both beautiful.  They always dressed fancy and had the nicest hair with flowers in it and nice conditioners.  But no matter how much one tried, she was ugly inside.  Her heart smelled like old steak and hatred grew in her soul."

The Scribe hung onto the story.  

"Well, one day, the evil one's baby died."


"Like Zeke?" The Scribe asked.


"Well kinda."  I cleared my throat.  "Except that the woman with the ugly innerds was so upset, she claimed her baby was the one who was still alive."


"No way!  That's horrible."


"I know," I said.  "That's why the problem was brought before the king.  He asked who the baby belonged to.  'Me,' both women yelled.  The king suddenly knew he'd have to take desperate measures.  He took the baby, pulled out a sword and said, 'Fine, then we'll cut the baby in half and then you can each have part of the baby'."

"What?!" The Scribe's face tore with concern.  "Why in thee heck are you telling me such a terrible story?  I'm gonna have nightmares now.  Gesh!"

"Hold up."  I stopped her from leaving the room.  "There is a point to this."  We sat down again.  "So, one woman said they could cut the baby in half, but the other woman screamed, saying she'd rather give the baby up, than see any harm done. 

"The king saw her actions then and gave the baby to her--the real mother--the one who didn't want her baby boy to get hurt."

"The baby was a boy?  I knew it!"

"Yes, but that's beside the point.  What I'm trying to say is that your friends are like the two women in the story and you're the baby."

"I'm the baby?  I am NOT the baby.  I want to be the pretty mother who wasn't evil." 


I hid a sigh.  "If you went before the king and he said, 'we can split the Scribe in half,' I bet Kellie would say 'no' and your best friend would say 'yes.' What I'm trying to say is that I think your best friend is being so selfish she can't understand what's best for you.  A good friend wouldn't care how many friends you have.  They'd be happy for you."

"You're right," The Scribe answered and I felt good about our conversation.  But apparently she didn't completely listen because the next day I got a bad phone call from school. 

"Mom?" The Scribe sobbed.  "I need to talk to you.  Things went really bad.  I just want to get out of here and buy those fake nails."


"Calm down, honey.  What happened?"


"Well . . . it's terrible!  So, I had a talk with the teacher.  I told her you said my best friend would be the one to cut the baby in half."


I coughed, choking on my coke.  "You ummm . . . told your teacher what?"


"That you said my best friend would cut a baby in half.  Anyway, I'm in big trouble, Mom.  Can you come get me?"


I hung up the phone and as I slid into the car, I felt like The Scribe wasn't the only person in big trouble.

Don't Blog When Yo're Drunk!!!

Her name's Bootsie, really it is!  We learned Pung Choo, can you?



I promise I'll write something lafter when the headache has subsided.

The Cave of Wonder (Entry 12)

This post has been removed for the novel's debut in April, 2012 . . .

    Elisa isn't your regular nerd.  She's not the kind of person who quotes Monty Python, or has a periodic table tattooed on her butt.  No she's a different sort altogether.  She carries a duct-taped Bible everywhere, wears bright-orange polyester pants, and dyes her hair with red kool-aid.
    Even though she tries slipping by apart from the crowds, it doesn't help that her best friend happens to be "The Boarder," one of the cutest and most popular boys in school.  He's not willing to let her go unnoticed—not until she goes to the homecoming dance with another guy.
   "The Boarder" starts acting weird after the date goes well, and Elisa begins wondering if he's only been looking at her as a friend or maybe something more.  She must choose between her best friend and "The Bad Boy," but will she make the right choice?

The Power of Reiki (Entry 11)

This post has been removed for the novel's debut in April, 2012 . . .

    Elisa isn't your regular nerd.  She's not the kind of person who quotes Monty Python, or has a periodic table tattooed on her butt.  No she's a different sort altogether.  She carries a duct-taped Bible everywhere, wears bright-orange polyester pants, and dyes her hair with red kool-aid.
    Even though she tries slipping by apart from the crowds, it doesn't help that her best friend happens to be "The Boarder," one of the cutest and most popular boys in school.  He's not willing to let her go unnoticed—not until she goes to the homecoming dance with another guy.
   "The Boarder" starts acting weird after the date goes well, and Elisa begins wondering if he's only been looking at her as a friend or maybe something more.  She must choose between her best friend and "The Bad Boy," but will she make the right choice?

The Bargain

Yesterday of all days, the new code enforcer drove past on his four wheeler. Now, if you remember the story about the yard sale, you know that Ticket Tom had an actual car.


If you're interested, here's that post:  
Ticket Tom and The Yard Sale Fiasco


Melynda (from: Crazy World) and I sat on my porch.  We weren't drinking soda out of beer cans again, so don't worry about that.  No, this time we were just talking, when suddenly a man on a four wheeler stopped in front of her house, pulled out an old-time yardstick and measured the length of her lawn!  We looked at each other.  "Did you just see that?"


"Yep."  She nodded.  "But wait . . . Wait, he's coming over here!"  He started too, except after he saw us, his face turned white and he gunned it as fast as he could.  He kept looking back.  I saw the fancy code enforcement license, which was kinda cute in a strange way.  The poor guy knew people don't like his type here.  And when he sped off the old four wheeler moaned going max at about fifteen mph.


He came back later though.  I saw him write a ticket for The Sprinkler Lover who lives across the street.  That guy always puts the sprinklers on ever Sunday morning so the church goers won't walk by his house.  Anyway, he got a ticket 'cause his grass was too long.  You should have seen his anger when he got the ticket!


The code enforcer didn't even shudder.  He just nodded to me as he ticketed The Sprinkler Lover. 
That's when I got this great idea:





We could be friends!  The ticket guy and me, we could mow my lawn together!  This just sounded fun, like chicken and spaghetti on a Sunday.  Then my hopes shattered.  I realized he was looking at all my dandelion and no ticketer in their right mind, will help someone pull weeds.  I knew then that things had gotten drastic; I'd have to take The Scribe up on her deal because the only good dandelion, is a dead one.


I walked into her room, trying to be extra sweet.  "Were you serious about picking the dandelion?"


"Yeah, for a dime a weed."


"Wow, isn't that a bit steep?"


"Not if you're me.  I'm trying to save up for fake nails and that means I'll have to pick two-hundred weeds."


"You . . . want fake nails?"  That floored me.  "You're a tomboy?  You won't be able to play baseball and basketball."


"I can still play soccer."  She shrugged.


"Fine.  If you can find two-hundred weeds to pick, then I'll give you twenty dollars."


"It's a deal."  She spit on her hand.  I raised a brow, seriously doubting my Scribe will enjoy fake nails.


The day continued on.  I got a couple calls from neighbors gossiping about the "four-wheeling enforcer" and then commending me on putting the kids to work. 


"What?" I asked and after hearing the explanation, I hung up.  My eyes shot out the window because I couldn't believe it.  The Scribe had an army of children out there, helping her pull weeds.


"What is going on here?" I asked a younger boy.


"Well, she really wants some nails and she said she'd give me some change if I help.


"And why are you here?" I asked a little first grader.


"She wants those nails.  Haven't you ever wanted something?"


I snorted.  The neighborhood probably thought I was terrible. 


But after a few hours, the kids got all the weeds and they seemed quite happy about themselves.


The Scribe tried lugging a couple huge garbage sacks closer, but they were too heavy, so she just pulled the weeds out and counted them in front of me.  "One, two . . . three, four, five."


"Hey wait," I stopped her, "Those last two were one weed that you split in half!  None of that, missy."


She started over, and I couldn't believe when she got to the end at exactly one-hundred-eighty weeds!  "We didn't make two-hundred, but I thought of that."  She dumped another smaller bag on the ground and without even counting, she pointed to a bunch of sticker weeds.  "Those are worth fifty cents each."


"What?  That's outrageous."


"I did the work?  Don't tell me . . . you want me to put those back."  She plucked a long piece of grass that had gone to seed.  She stuck the bottom end in her mouth and looked like the sassiest farm girl ever.  The whole thing made me sigh though; it reminded me that The Four-wheeling Enforcer couldn't ticket me for weeds, but he could still get me for the length of my lawn.  "So?" The Scribe continued.  "If you give me fifty cents apiece for these pokey ones . . . I'll have twenty and all these other kids will have their money."


I shook my head.  That Scribe, she'd shown some fancy footwork.  "How many weeds did The Hippie pull?" I asked.


"About twenty, before she started dancing on that corner and waving to the cars.  I figure you should only give her a dollar.  I don't think she should get paid for dancing when the rest of us worked so hard."


I scoffed.  "Fine."  She'd won me over.  "So, how much do I owe you?"


"Thirty dollars."  She smiled.  "I added a couple extra dollars because it was hot today.  Can we go get my nails tomorrow."


"Friday.  I'll set an appointment for Friday."


She spit out the grass and hugged me.  She had dirt and weeds in her hair; her hands were greener than Medusa and her smile was genuine.  I looked at The Hippie who still danced on the corner and waved to the cars.  "I love you guys," I whispered in The Scribe's ear.  "You worked so hard and I'm really proud of you."


"I know," she said.  "And now I get fake nails.  I can't wait!"


So, I set the appointment up for Friday.  I sure hope that kid will like her nails.