Why can't I get into the holiday spirit?

    It all started with a dirty diaper.  

    Wait, back up, that's a bad place to start.  You need to read the beginning of this story first.

    The day I turned into Scrooge, it seemed like a beautiful day.  My children sang Christmas songs.  I thought all was right with the world.  We planning on getting a tree.  AND it was Sunday and I figured, if God liked that day, then so could I.
    Things unraveled around lunchtime.  We didn't get a tree.  Cade packed to go on a business trip.  After he left me WITH HIS FOUR CHILDREN, the kids practically got rabies.  They ran around screaming.  The Zombie Elf (my three year old) lathered himself with shaving cream and looked like the lead in Avatar.  I dragged Doctor Jones from the vents and begged her to stop throwing my precious ornaments away.  
    It was when The Zombie Elf locked all of the doors upstairs and left me with no easy way to get into them, that I almost fainted.
    But could I rest? . . . No, because Doctor Jones had just made a poopy and I wipe butts for a living.
    So, as I changed her "bum bum" (as she says), I just knew my three other children were up to no good.  I wrapped the diaper in a baggie and put it on the porch.  
    Before going on, let me explain: the point is that the Zombie Elf made diaper bombs once.  It was so terrible, so horrific, I never blogged about it.  Needless-to-say, that's why I'll put poopy diapers on the porch.  I always take them out soon after--when I find where the kids have hidden BOTH of my shoes.

    Since you know about my hectic day life, now you'll understand why this next part made me so angry.
    As I cleaned another layer of shaving cream off of the Zombie (who'd just finished soiling and ROLLING IN THE CLEAN LAUNDRY), someone politely knocked on the door.
    I ran toward it, threw an apron on and smiled.  "Yes.  Isn't this a wonderful day?  How are you?"  I batted my lashes and tried remembering if I'd brushed my teeth.
    Okay . . . I wasn't that bad, but I did want things to seem all right, especially when I saw Miss Priss on the other side of the door!
    Do you remember her?  She's my arch enemy--seriously.  She never makes mistakes.  While I'm wearing sweats and sporting a ponytail, she's dressed to impress.  I always see her at the worst times and she doesn't even know what a bad day is!
    To read about our history, please go here:

Miss Priss and "The Wave"

A Date with Miss Priss

I left the bag in the turkey!

      So, Miss Priss was at MY DOOR--wow, what an honor--blah blah blah.  "We're doing just great over here.  How are you today?" I said louder.
    "Unwell," she said.  "I go jogging every morning . . . as I'm sure you know . . . and almost every day at this time, you have a dirty diaper on your porch."
    She was kidding right?!  She would jog looking like that?  That set was what I'd wear to a prom.  I just stared at her.
    "These diapers," she motioned to the lone diaper on my porch and scooted away from it, "are bringing down the property values in our neighborhood."
    "Really?"  I asked, but on the inside I wanted to punch her in the fake boob!  Our property values are already so low, how could a diaper bring them lower?
    "Next time, I suggest you take your trash to the garbage can where it belongs."
    "Thank you so much for your . . . concern," I said.  
    Then, as she strutted away, my children screamed in the house and I thought I might explode.
    The Grinch's actions never made sense to me.  I never understood Scrooge, not until last Sunday when Miss Priss made my heart shrink two sizes too small!  I hate admitting this but that day I hated the holidays; I didn't care for Christmas, but most of all I loathed Miss Priss!
    It's strange though, how strong emotions can bring unity.  The Scribe and the Hippie ran up to me after I shut the door.  "I don't like that woman," the Hippie said.
    "Yeah," the Scribe agreed.  "Plus, we've been talking and we think she's a witch."
    "What?" I asked.
    "Don't you remember reading 'The Witches' . . . Women like that always wear gloves.  They love wigs and they're mean to children."
    "So."  I crossed my arms.
    "She always wears gloves!" the Hippie said.
    "That hair can't be real."  The Scribe smiled.  "And we know she's mean to children.  Plus, take off all that makeup and I bet she'd look hideous."
    "O-kay," I said.
    "We need a plan."
    "What do you suggest we do?" I asked.
    "We need to pull off her wig!" The Scribe's eyes shone and I nearly died of laughter.  
    Sure the Zombie Elf had found the shaving cream again.  Sure, Doctor Jones made another poopy, but things weren't so bad.
    "I can think of something even better," I whispered, then cackled until my throat hurt like hell!  
    Miss Priss would regret talking to me; she's rue the freakin' day!  My idea was epic, even better than this!

    "If all of you can find the trash in our house and put it in a garbage bag, then I'll give you ice cream." 
    They were so excited.  They sang songs about sleighs bells and "Santa Baby."  My two youngest kids stopped being hellions and collected trash instead.  It was glorious, fantastic, and as soon as we finished filling two HUGE sacks with broken toys and ripped-up ads, I put the sacks on the porch, right on top of that diaper, then I shut the door.
    Miss Priss jogged by later that day.  She wore tight, black pants, a fancy sweater, ear muffs and (as my kids said) a wig.  I waved to her as she passed by.  But she gave me the look of death.  Maybe my actions weren't nice.  I know they weren't Christian.  I know it wasn't a good thing to teach my children.  It's just that I'm sick of people walking all over me.  
    Once a friend told me I have a flashing sign on my forehead.  "It says, 'come take advantage of me; be mean to me; steal the ADT sign that used to be in my yard!'"  Well, last week I stood up, and that garbage on my porch stands for something . . . it stands for the words "Have a Merry Christmas and LEAVE ME ALONE!"
    I've never flipped someone off--at least not intentionally--but now I understand why people do it.  Sometimes it's fun telling people to mind their own business.
    Have you ever done something like this?  Do you think I'm terrible?

Lying about Santa; Role Reversal With My Kid

Some news!

    "The Golden Sky" now has an overall rating of 4.78 out of 5.  Pretty neat. Go here to check that out: The Golden Sky

    Also, the iPad2 Giveaway is ending soon.  If you didn't know this before, Cade and I are funding it ourselves in honor of Zeke.  If you'd like to win, please check the bar above this post.  (I really want that beautiful piece of technology to go to a good home.)
    The last announcement of the day is that "The Golden Sky" is still on sale.  From now until January 6th (the Epiphany), my eBook is listed as 99 cents HERE on Smashwords and for kindle it's 2.99 HERE on Amazon.


Onto the post of the day:
   Yesterday the Hippie came up to me.  "Aren't you going to tell me how proud you are of me?  Aren't you going to say how amazing and beautiful I am?"
    "You are so amazing."  I hugged her.  "And . . . Wow, aren't you beautiful today.  Did I mention that I'm so proud of you."
    "Why?"
    Then I paused and whispered, "What's the exact reason you wanted me to be proud of you again?"
    She put her hands on her hips and sighed.  "It's because the Scribe just had a birthday.  She got everything she could possibly dream of and I'm STILL happy for her."
    Well, wasn't she the brave sort, a genuine warrior.  "Now that you mention it, I am so proud of you because of that."
    After all, this is what the Scribe got, an art kit (from Fishducky) and a fancy bedroom.

    "Thanks," she said.  "Yeah, did you see poor Johnny at the party?  He wasn't happy at all.  Some kids get so jealous; it's terrible."
    I nodded.  It was about that time when the Scribe entered the room.  I didn't really feel she should be part of the conversation, but that sweet ten-year-old started cleaning the kitchen.  It was strange especially since she's the biggest mess maker I've ever known. If you don't believe me, I say this phrase at least once a day, "It took hours cleaning the kitchen, and now I find THIS over HERE?!!"
    So, the Hippie continued talking and the Scribe listened.  "You know, Hippie," she said stuffing all the bills into various drawers.  "You should be happy for other people.  Plus, Christmas is coming and you'll get some great things."
    "But Johnny said everyone's poor right now.  He heard it straight from his parents.  The economy's even hurting Santa and his leprechauns."
    The word 'leprechauns' didn't phase me, but I still found one part disturbing.  "Did you just say 'economy?'"  She's seven for crying out loud!
    "Yeah, every kid knows that word . . . But even if Santa isn't poor too, I still won't get anything, not even a box of mints from Britain," the Hippie said.
    "Why's that?" I asked. 
    She looked at the Scribe who shoved my glass figurines into the cupboard.  "What are you doing?" I asked the Scribe.
    "Cleaning."  She shrugged.
    Then the Hippie whispered so the Scribe hopefully wouldn't hear her.  "It's because I lied about Santa.  Some kid at school said I'd never get a DSI, so I thought of those angels visiting people in the Bible . . . and I made up a story.  I told him Santa visited me late at night--like a glowing angel--and told me he was giving me a DSI.  It seemed like a great lie at the time until I remembered that song . . . He knows when you're sleeping.  He knows when you're awake.  He knows when you've been bad or good . . .  Mom, I feel like an idiot. He knows I've been bad NOT GOOD.  What kind of kids lies about Santa?!"
    The Scribe snickered in the corner.  "You can kiss that DSI goodbye-bye."
    "That is not funny,"  I said, stood and set my coke on the counter she'd just cleaned.
    The Scribe gaped at my drink.  "What, may I ask, are you doing?  It took hours cleaning the kitchen, and now I find THIS over HERE?!!"  She held the coke up to me and then paled.  
    "Oh, my gosh," the Hippie giggled.  "It's happening.  My teacher said I'd turn into my mother someday, but it looks like it happened to your first!  There are things worse than lying about Santa!  I could be the oldest!"
    "How rude," the Scribe said, then got a glimmer in her eye.  Still holding the coke and acting so old, she pointed at the Hippie, "I have a mind to wash your mouth out with soap, young lady."
    I felt pretty bad at this point, especially since I realized I didn't know where the Scribe had hidden the power bill.
    "But what can I do about Santa?" the Hippie asked.  "Can I send him an apology e-mail?"
    "I guess, but how do you know his e-mail address?"
     "Oh, I found it online yesterday.  It asked for my address and phone number, but I just gave my first name.  I didn't want Santa thinking I was super dumb."
     "Nice," I said.  "Very nice."


    Do you ever have moments like this?  Do your kids fight?  
    Did you ever fight with your siblings?
    Oh and the most important question of all, what should the Hippie do about Santa?

The Scribe's Birthday!

    Today is the Scribe's birthday.  She's ten--can you believe it! That kid is such a character.  Once a goofball, always a goofball?  I read through her baby book today and this section almost made me die of laughter.  Here's what I wrote:

    We have a fish tank and I’m not very good with pets, even fish.  The things kept dying, so we flushed them down the toilet. 
    One time you asked me, “Mama, where are all of these fish going?”
    I said, “We’re sending them to heaven.”
    That was when you looked down at the toilet and said, “Well, Mama, I never want to go there!”
    Things got worse after that.  I was potty training you and every time I’d sit you on the toilet you would cry, “I don’t want to go to heaven with the fish, I just don’t WANT TO GO!”
    Although you're almost potty trained, you aren't the only one who's learning through all of this.  Now I watch what I say when explaining where the fish really go.



    Birthdays are a HUGE deal around here, so today is shaping into a very busy day.  Tomorrow, I need to tell you about the Scribe's 5th birthday (because it's hilarious AND embarrassing), but today's too busy.  Since this is the Scribe's golden birthday, I've arranged for Grandma Gertie to take her out on a date this morning.  While they're gone, I'm going to completely redecorate the Scribe's room in browns, pinks, blues and greens. I hope she'll love it and it'll be better than that part in "The Little Princess"!
    So, to help me out, Dee from Coming Home to Myself has agreed to write another guest post.  The Scribe is such a special kid to me.  When she came into my life, everything changed, so what better day for Dee to write about someone special that came into her life as well.

Dulcy Claimed and Trained Me

    Yesterday, you read about what happened after the cat with whom I’d lived for seventeen years died. Dulcy channeled the story of our life together through me. On the left side of this page you can see the cover of her book A Cat’s Life: Dulcy’s Story.
    Today, I’d like to share with you how she and I became soul mates.
    The story begins with me living in Dayton, Ohio. I’d moved there after leaving the convent on Christmas Eve 1966. During the next six years, I made friends, dated a little, worked at a publishing house, taught in the inner city, went to grad school, and returned to Dayton to work in a warehouse.
    In March 1972, a friend proclaimed, “Dee, you need a companion.”
    “Can’t say I’ve got much interest in that,” I responded.
    “Doesn’t have to be human,” she retorted. “Natasha just had a litter. How ‘bout taking a kitten home with you?”
    We’d had a barn cat on the farm where I grew up and my brother’s constant companion was a dog named Kentucky—the road on which we lived—but I’d never thought about living with an animal in my diminutive attic apartment. Still, why not?
    My friend urged me to visit her home on Saturday. When I showed up, she led me to an upstairs bedroom. For over an hour, I lay on the floor, watching Natasha groom her brood, one by one, in their cardboard box. The rasping of tongue and the answering mews bemused me. The last kitten she licked, the lone female of the litter, wore white with black blotches.
    Wearied of mothering, Natasha lay back to nap. Her four kittens, just three weeks old, jockeyed for position against her, eager to suckle. When they, too, wearied, they nestled in a heap against her belly. Their eyelids slowly closed and they slept.
    I waited.
    Soon they yawned themselves awake. I held my hand out so they could smell me. I held it steady, saying nothing. Would my scent attract the black-and-white female?
    Long moments passed. Her eyes discovered my hand. The tip of her tongue led the way as she staggered toward me. Close now, she licked my index finger, claiming me as her own.  
    For the next three weeks, I visited my friend’s home often to bond with my new companion. During my third visit she gave me her name: Dulcinea, the “sweet one.”  Within the month I shortened this to Dulcy.
    In the years that followed, I learned that her deepest heartwish was for me to be a one-cat human. She, of course, would be the one cat. But at the outset of our lives, I didn’t know this. So I also brought home her marmalade brother: Ishmael.
    His heartwish was to be surrounded by laughing children. Within three months, he’d wandered away and found them. They claimed him for their own. How could I ever take him away from them? I mourned his loss but knew that they could give him a life I couldn’t.
    Did I settle down after that with just Dulcy? No. Dunderhead that I am I thought she needed a feline companion for when I was away teaching each day. So I brought another cat—Bartleby—into our home.  Eight years passed and he died.
    Only then did Dulcy’s heartwish come true. Just as she’d planned, I became a one-cat human. For the next eight and a half years, she was the one cat. And I was the human lucky enough to be chosen by her.

    Twelve other cats have now shared their lives with me and tirelessly trained me. But Dulcy was the first to find me worthy of training. In my more imaginative moments during our years together, I saw her as Antigone in the citadel of ancient Thebes. She was born to rule as queen. I, of course, was born to serve as handmaiden.




Like I wrote yesterday, if you'd like to advertise Dee's book on your blog (like I have), I've included the code below.
-Elisa

Coming Home to Myself

<a href="http://www.cominghometomyself.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><img alt="Dulcy" src="http://i27.photobucket.com/albums/c186/Elisabeth83/dulcy.jpg"/></a>

How A Cat's Life: Dulcy's Story Came to Be

    Many years ago. I went to a dinner party.  About a million people sat around.  I started laughing and joking like I do, and before long everyone had turned and was listening either with amusement or horror, to the things I said.  

    At one point I turned to the women at the table and said, "I think every sane women, whether young or old has thought about being a nun, or at least dreamed about it.  Wouldn't that be an amazing life, devoting yourself to God alone!"

    Two of the prissy women shook their heads.  "Absolutely not.  I've never dreamed of being a nun."

    I'd been daintily sipping my water, with my pinky out and one eyebrow raised.  But when she said that, I nearly spit my water onto the freshly pressed tablecloth.  After all, I'd just said, "Every SANE person has thought about being a nun."  That woman should have stayed quiet; did she really want everyone knowing how peculiar she was?

    Needless to say, when I met Dee from Coming Home to Myself, and found out she had joined a convent and (like me) dreamed of being a nun, I knew I'd met a kindred spirit.
    Dee is truly amazing--an inspiration.  She's been traditional published twice (once even by Crown, a division of Random House).  I'm so thrilled to have her guest post today. 
    Thanks for joining us, Dee, and for sharing more about Dulcy and your journey to becoming a published author. 

How A Cat's Life: Dulcy's Story Came to Be

    

    Seventeen and a half years after she selected me, Dulcy died of kidney failure. Without her, the house felt soul-less. I missed her in the marrow of my bones.

   She’d been a constant in my life for almost eighteen years, moving with me many times—from Ohio to Missouri to Minnesota to New Hampshire and then back again to all these places. She’d pawed my face gently when I cried. She’d sprawled on my lap as I hallucinated. She'd loved me through seasons of darkness and moments of giddy gladness.

She’d never deserted me as had my dad and mom when I was five. She’d stayed with me through depression and fear and thoughts of ending my own life. She was dear to me in a way that no one else was.

She died on July 6, 1989. Two days later I woke alert, compelled to go to my computer. As I sat in front of it, my hands automatically began to type. The first words that came were these: “At the end all that matters is love. My love for my human and hers for me. I have planted the memories of our life together in her heart. She will find them there when I am gone and they will comfort her.” I stared at the words, realizing that this was Dulcy speaking.

Each morning for the next two months I spent an hour at the computer before beginning my freelance projects. During that hour, I sat before the computer, hands poised, waiting for Dulcy’s words.

   She never failed me. Each day she shared memories of our life together. I’d forgotten these stories, but from some place deep within me—that place where Dulcy dwells in Oneness with all creation and with me—the remembrances of our life together spilled forth. Even in death, she gifted me. She channeled our story through me.

After completing a first draft, I began to edit. Dulcy tended to be wordy and as her editor I tried to find the essence of what she wanted to meow. Slowly the story glued itself together.

For a year and a half, I sent out query letters about Dulcy’s story to editors. In return, I received only form rejection letters. Then in April, nearly two years after Dulcy died, an editor at Crown responded with a typewritten note. In it, she said that if I’d cut half of the 42,000-word manuscript, she’d be happy to look at it again. She advised me to concentrate only on the relationship between Dulcy and me. She suggested that I cut out any mention of other cats.

    Within three days, I did the cutting. (Truthfully, I couldn’t abandon Bartleby and so one other cat has a large role in Dulcy’s story.)

I sent the manuscript back to her.

    Two months later I had a contract.

    A year later, Crown published A Cat’s Life: Dulcy’s Story. 

    Another gift then came my way: The publishing house decided to hire Judy J. King to illustrate the book. A truly gifted artist, Judy captured Dulcy’s sweetness. Her cover was as lovely as the one that later enhanced the story of Dewey, the library cat. I think Dulcy and Dewey would have been great pals.

    The royalties from Dulcy's hardcover enabled me to do three things

·      Buy a new Mac.

·      Take six months off work to write.

·      Travel to Greece for four weeks to research a novel

    I’d been aching to write since I’d been in the sixth grade and studied World History.
    One of the joys of being published is the letters a writer receives. I’ve read many letters from readers who have somehow gotten hold of a hardcover or a trade paperback copy of Dulcy’s book. They write to tell me how the book has touched their lives and changed their relationship with their pets.I know this pleases Dulcy. It certainly pleases me.

    Both the hardcover and trade paperback editions are now out of print. Only 670 copies of the paperback are still available and I have them all right here in my office! Her story has now also become an e-book. Both the paperback and the e-book are available from my blog:  Coming Home to Myself

            A Cat’s Life: Dulcy’s Story is a love letter she wrote to me after her death. I will always treasure it. I hope that if you get the chance to read it, you will treasure both the book and Dulcy.




In closing, if you'd like to advertise Dee's book on your blog (like I have), I've included the code below.
-Elisa

Coming Home to Myself

<a href="http://www.cominghometomyself.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><img alt="Dulcy" src="http://i27.photobucket.com/albums/c186/Elisabeth83/dulcy.jpg"/></a>

Find this book at Amazon; here's a coupon

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    If you've come for the iPad2 Giveaway, please go here:

The Crazy Life of a Writing Mom: "The Golden Sky" Ipad2 Giveaway!

Best Thing About Being Married

    Imagine for me, a moment where two people are about to take their vows . . . 
    The couple is soooo in love!  The bride beams brightly in her white dress.  She's a virgin and so she isn't feeling guilty AT ALL about wearing PURE white.  
    Now, picture the groom, a handsome man with a pronounced chin.  If one didn't know better, they'd imagine him as an underwear model, or some other profession where people pay for him to simply . . . look spicy.
    To make this vision complete, I want you to know that the pastor who is marrying this couple recently got divorced. 

    The scene is set; we're ready to go.


    "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today, to talk about marriage.  God will never leave you or forsake you, because He left that up to women."
    The couple might gape.  If I sat there, I'd stop playing the background violin music--I'd be feeling worthless since I'm only good at playing music at weddings anyway.
    "You might want to rethink these vows. You'll be with this woman a LONG time.  Today, you're about to sign a contract saying that if she loses her health, a leg, her beauty AND HER KINDHEARTED SOUL, you still have to stay with her . . . You could be stuck with the devil herself for all you know--is that a contract you're willing to sign, is it?  Seriously?!"

    The groom might pause, confused because sometimes people who look spicy, well they're schmucks.  
    "Of course he is," the woman would say, batting her eyelashes.  She might look kind, but she's gritting her teeth--she's a bridezilla inside--trust me I've seen plenty of them on their big days!
    The groom would turn to the pastor but not catch his eyes completely. "I guess so . . . yes," the groom says while looking at the bride's chest.
    "And you . . you wanna-be-harlot," the pastor turns to the bride, "are you willing to rip out this man's heart for better . . . FOR WORSE? To smash him into the dust, as long as you both shall live?"
    "Ummm . . ." the bride says, but before finishing, a wise woman interrupts her.
    "Hey, Bucko," the woman stands from the shocked audience, "You have this all wrong.  Is she willing to stay with a man who will probably trade her in for an upgrade?  Does she know she might end up hemming his UNDERWEAR and he might purposely pee on the toilet seat?  Does she know . . . he will bald and take her best years.  Her boobs will sag.  She'll have millions of HIS babies, then years later, he'll probably leave on their thirtieth anniversary?"
     I can picture everyone getting quiet because that's what the thought of pee on a toilet seat does to people. Then some kid would turn to his mother and whisper, "Why would anyone sign a contract like that anyway?  Plus, kissing girls is gross!"


I thought of all this today because someone asked me yesterday, "What's the best thing about being married?"


Honestly, it's that Cade is my best friend.  But there are A TON of silly answers to this question and I knew you were just the folks to share them with me.


Here are some things my friends said when I asked them yesterday (note, some of them are divorced):


"What's the best thing about being married?" I asked

1. The sex

2. A free paycheck, that I didn't have to do anything for.

3. The sex.

4. Nothing.

5. He was taller than me?

6. The sex.

7. She's faithful.

    If Cade answered this sarcastically, I bet he'd say, "It's that my wife blogs about me."


Anyway, those answers cracked me up because they were REAL answers and so honest too.

   In closing, what do you think is the best (or funniest) thing about being married?  Even if you aren't married yet, what do you think it would be?

Is Santa Claus Real . . . The Truth.

Is Santa Claus Real? . . . I want the Truth.
    Of course Santa is real.  I knew it from the time I was born.  I keep telling my kids, but the Scribe (my nine-year-old) stopped believing when she ate Thanksgiving turkey this year.  I don't know if it's because I cooked it wrong--or what.  And that coal-loving kid refused to believe anything I said after that!
    I heard her talking with her seven-year-old sister, the Hippie yesterday.
    "Santa isn't real," she said.  "Have you ever seen him?  Why does Santa look different in each mall?"
    "Because there are fakers in this world," the Hippie said, then she whispered.  "Santa is real, but there is something funny going on . . . If you want to know the truth, I don't believe in elves."
    "What?" the Scribe asked like it was sacrilege.
    "Yeah, it just doesn't make sense.  Why would Santa hire a bunch of elves, when he could use leprechauns instead?  The only thing elves are really good at, is making shoes.  Think about it; we got more than sneakers last Christmas.  When things don't add up, you know there's something fishy going on."
    The Scribe--that doubter--thought about it.  "I haven't wanted to say anything, but I still want to believe in Santa.  I just don't have any proof that he is or isn't real."  She paused then.  "Maybe people want kids to doubt Santa, so we won't doubt the lies about the elves."
     "Exactly," the Hippie said."But if I were you, I wouldn't tell this to anyone else. Last year, Jimmy Smith said he didn't believe in Santa and a bunch of kids chased him down at recess."
    "Oh yeah! I remember that," the Scribe said.  "That was a Christmas to remember."
    I thought about it, since I remembered too.  The day poor Jimmy almost got burned at the stake.  I walked into the room after their conversation ended.  "I have to confess, I've been listening and I think you two are absolutely right.  Those elves don't make sense, but leprechauns, that's much better.  It's obvious when you think about it."
    "Yep," the Scribe said again.  "I bet jolly, old Santa doesn't want kids knowing because everyone would rush to the North Pole to catch themselves a leprechaun. Who cares if Santa gave you coal, you'd have a live leprechaun to grant your wishes.  That's way better than Christmas."
    "So true," the Hippie nodded.
    "You both still believe in Santa again?"
    They nodded their pretty, little heads and I felt the magic of Christmas coming alive in MY heart once again.
    "We believe in Santa," the Scribe said, "but we know there are better things out there now.  Mama, can you tell us, how do you get to the North Pole?"

    So, here's my closing question:
    Who cares if you believe in Santa . . . Do you really think he hires elves? 

He read my diary!!! . . . for 99 cents

   On December 6th . . .    Everything will change . . .
    Oh crap, it's already here.  Let's start over.
    Today, December 6th, everything has changed!
    One woman is holding a sale.
    One woman is hoping for the absolute happiness of her readers this holiday season.
    One woman just got a Christmas tree and is so ecstatic to be typing in third person!
    Oh my heck, THAT WOMAN IS ME.  So, if you like my blog.  If you've ever enjoyed even one sentence in my posts--for all that is holy.  For all that is patient, kind, good, peaceful, of good repute (yes, I did just plagiarize the Bible--and it might have been a fatal mistake), please know that . . .
    Dun . . . dun . . . dun . . .

"The Golden Sky" ebook is now on sale for 99 cents!

    Today is The Feast of Saint Nicholas (better known as Santa Claus/St. Nick/the one who follows me on twitter).  He gave gifts, so what better day to share this news?  I've wanted to give all of you a Christmas present, but had no idea how until Dee, from Coming Home to Myself helped me think of a fun idea.
    So, from now until January 6th (the Epiphany), my eBook is listed as 99 cents HERE on Smashwords and for kindle it's 2.99 HERE on Amazon.

    If you'd like to read a fun review and one of my FAVORITE excerpts, please visit:

Jade Louise Designs: "The Golden Sky" Review

Now, onto my post of the day . . .

    I had the pleasure of interviewing Adrian from

 Maniacal Mind.  She's AWESOME and wonderful.  If you don't know her, please visit her blog--you'll love it!

The Interview

What is your favorite thing about Christmas?
    Decorating! I have 3 Christmas trees (all pink) and I love putting up the trees and listening to Christmas music.  

When you were a kid, what did you want to be when you grew up?
    I wanted to be a pediatrician until I turned 7 and learned that I'm afraid of vomit (one of my 25 fears) and children like to vomit.  Then I wanted to be a lawyer, then I wanted to be a puppeteer like Jim Henson, then I wanted to  marry a rich man, then I wanted to be a movie director.  Now I think I want to be a college professor.

Do you have a favorite fruit?  Why is it your favorite?
    I do not have a favorite fruit because I HATE FRUIT! Fruit is also on my 25 fears.  It smells funny, it all has a weird slimy texture, and it is awkward to eat.  Just typing this gives me the heebie jeebies!!! 
    If I did eat fruit, I'd probably like Granny Smith Apples.  

If you could be any superhero, who would you be?
    I used to want to be HeMan, only because I thought Castle Dungeon would be a COOL place to live :-)

If you could marry ANY famous movie star, who would you pick?
    Jay Kay from Jamiroquai.  We'd be the odd couple, but he's been my fantasy man for 15 years!! 

What's the most important thing you've learned in life?
    That what I thought was the most important thing, really wasn't.  Life is ever changing as is the earth.  Open your heart to accepting that what you think is important will change.....often.   

Do you have any advice for other bloggers?
   Yes, my advice is when they hear solid advice, forward it to:

 mymaniacalmind@gmail.com   

Turkey or mashed potatoes and gravy?
    Mashed potatoes and gravy with a tiny piece of turkey hidden under neath! It's like a happy little surprise :-)  


Are elves underrated?  Should Santa really be getting all the credit?
    Elves deserve WAY MORE credit than they get.
    Lets face the facts; they work long hours with little pay, they make help make Christmas possible for millions of deserving boys and girls, and the big fat man gets all of the credit!!! What kind of mess is that??
    I'd strike for better wedges if I were an elf. I'm sure they are union workers, but still!  Not to mention Santa may be a hard boss to work for!   

 

What are you hoping to get for Christmas?
    Hummm.....I want to much for Christmas.  Lets see:
   Continued health for my family. 
   I want my friends who are unemployed to get jobs.
   A new convertible Beatle.
   Some TV boxsets (I love classic television shows)
  

Tell us about yourself:
    I think my blog sums it up best! Maniacal Mind

Thanks for joining us!  That was so fun.

Helen Keller is Following Me on Twitter

    Yep, the title says it all.  I don't want to sit here and make a bunch of silly jokes.  I just had to tell you, that when I found out Santa Claus and Helen Keller were both following me on twitter, I was pretty ecstatic.  Christmas came early.  (Cade should be thrilled that he doesn't have to buy me a thing!)



    If you aren't familiar with twitter, it's this great place where you can find people (even famous movie stars AND politicians--ANYONE), and follow them.  Loads of people make up fictitious names just to gain followers, but if you watch closely, you can tell when someone's a counterfeit.  The great thing about Helen, was that I knew she was a fake right off the bat!  "Why?" you ask.  Well, it's because vampires aren't real.
    So anyway, these people don't have to follow you back, although you can still see their (few sentence) updates whether funny or serious.
    Whenever someone follows me, I follow them back.  It just seems like the right thing to do.  I believe in fairness, and I hate taking things from people.  If I borrow an egg from a neighbor, I practically want to buy them a chicken.  If someone gives me a ride to the store, I want to fill up their tank--you get the point.
    On twitter, I followed everyone who followed me first . . . Except for porn*lover.  I didn't follow him back.  I had a hard moment that day.  He'd followed me, the nice thing was to follow him back.  But the problem is, I'm not into porn--not at all--if he was, whatever (as long as he isn't a pastor).  Seriously, though, why make a twitter name about it?  If he could pick ONE name to describe himself online, why that?  Is porn his driving force?  After all, I picked the name ECWrites because it fits me.  Plus, if I die (while using that twitter name) I'll have an easy time explaining it to God.
    Poor, porn*lover on the other hand.  I can picture Judgement Day for that schmuck.  The angel of death would leaf through the Book of Life.  "Oh, Sir, it says here you named yourself porn*lover on twitter.  Of the millions of names you might have picked . . . interesting.  What would your mother think? Oh wait, she's right here, let's ask her!"   That would SUCK!

Back to the point . . .   
    Now that you have the basics down, you'll understand why I followed Santa Baby and Helen Keller Kelly back.  Too bad though!  I checked my profile today and Helen Keller is no longer following me.
    Some of these tweeters bother me.  They follow you, in the hopes that you'll follow back--so they can just unfollow you (did you catch that). Then, they'll have more followers than Zeus!  I checked Kelly's profile.  She has a few hundred followers and she's currently following 2 people back!  Would this bother you?  It bothers me.  Not only is this woman pretending to be Helen (even in her posts), she's trying to give her a bad name!  Helen might be rolling in her grave because some jerk doesn't follow back.  I've reseached the Kell-ster.  She would have followed back--honestly, that's a fact.


Do you believe in being fair?  
I sure do.  If someone helps you; it's right to try and help them back when the time comes.  But in the same sense, if someone unfollows you, it's right to unfollow them back.  Equality baby, I love it.


What would you have done?  Are you on twitter?

Signing off (with my twitter name)

ECWrites

My Husband AND My Wife; Part II

    This is a continuation from yesterday.  Here's that link: Part I
 Also, if you're looking for the iPad2 Giveaway or info about my recently published book, please check out my tabs.
    Now, onto the story of the day . . .
    Cade and I sat across from each other.  I bet $10 (which would go toward editing fees IF I won) that Cade's friend, "Tony," wouldn't say his wife's name.  Cade had laughed before this.  "I'll get him to say 'Barbara,' just watch me."
    So, we sat at the restaurant.  I'd always dreamed about being a superhero, AND wondered who my arch nemesis would be.  I just never guessed it was my own husband.  Remember that saying: "Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer?"  Well, maybe that's what I've been doing all these years; you can't get closer than marriage.
    We glared at each other, then Cade turned to Tony and smiled.  He obviously had a plan.  

Side note:  Is there any doubt, that I'm the white cat?!  Hmmm . . . that must make Cade the black one!

    "Have the two of you thought about having kids?" Cade asked.  "They say it's one of the first things a couple should think about before marriage."

    I sat, stunned.  Where in the hell was that going?  Plus, you don't just walk up to someone you haven't seen since high school and ask about procreation.  Why didn't he just ask if she was on the pill or the shot--or something?

    I'm sure I paled as Cade took a sip of his water and winked at me.

    "Well," Tony said, "we haven't told anyone except our parents. My wife and I, we'd like to have four kids."

    I looked smugly at Cade.  It was a nice try, but the man had still said "MY WIFE."  Cade would have to try harder if he wanted to defeat me.

    "We thought about naming the Zombie Elf, Caden.  It might have been neat.  We did end up naming the baby after Elisa.  Would you do that?  Name a baby Anthony or--"

    "I'm not sure if that's the best name for a baby," Barbara cut in, smiling.

    Oh, dear, sweet newly-weds. Didn't she know those were fighting words?  And I really didn't care, except for what I knew might come next.

    "Really!" Tony turned.  "What's wrong with my name?"

    Poor, Tony-rella.  That man has name problems left and right.

    "It just sounds like an old man," Barbara said.  "It's like naming a baby Brutus or Harold."

    The plot thickened.  Both of them hated each others' names!
    Cade held his glass toward me as if to make a toast.  Did he think he was drinking rum?  You can't toast someone with water--at least not when you've made a bet.  That just seems lame! Plus, the bet was to make Tony say "Barbara," not to cause a fight.

     "Well can you imagine a little girl with your name?" Tony spat.  "A little girl named Bar--"

    Now STOP, dear reader.  I need to take you away for a moment.  When Tony was talking, I freaked out inside.  I knew he was about to say it.  And it was tricky--underhanded.  He still wasn't calling her Barbara.  He was just using it as a weapon to make fun of baby Barbaras everywhere.  
    I couldn't stand it anymore.  I hate possessive people, AND I LOVE babies named Barbara.  In addition to that, I'm a starving author and I really needed that $10 for editing fees!

   So, let's go back to the story:

    "Well can you imagine a little girl with your name?" Tony asked (previously). "A little girl named Bar--"

    "Oh my gosh!" I yelled like I was in labor, and grabbed Cade's arm.  "I think I left the oven on."

    "What?" Cade asked, wearing a startled face.

    Tony didn't finish his sentence and Barbara acted as if she'd punch him while he wasn't looking.  

    "We came out to eat.  Why would you turn the oven on?" Cade asked, being the worst sort of cheater--no wonder cards are always missing from the deck when we start playing Rummy.  

    I'd made the whole "oven" thing up in the first place, now I had to validate my story?  

    I quickly thought of how Cade gets out of trouble, and I used his own weapon against him.  "Well, I did, Honey.  I'm sorry, but how do you feel about that?"

    "How do I feel?  I think it was a stupid thing to do."  Then that genius paused, realizing he's taught me everything I know. "Oh, geez." He shook his head.

    "My wife does that sort of thing all the time," Tony said.

    "So does my wife, obviously."  

     I scowled and excitement lit Cade's face after he said the words.  "In fact," he went on, "my wife once left the hose on outside.  We left for a few hours, and when we came back, our backyard had turned into a swamp."

    Cade laughed. This was getting serious, so I dug my heel into his foot--too bad he wore thick, steel-toed boots.  

    "My wife does all sorts of things.  I bet your wife does too," Cade continued.  "Wives . . . wives, can't live with them . . . Can't--"  He pushed his lips together and kicked my leg away.  "But Tony, tell us more about your wife . . . Your wife seems so nice.  Your wife seems great."

    "Gosh, Cade," he said,  "You know, she has a name."

    I hung onto every word then.  I knew he was about to say it, and I wanted him too, just to prove he wasn't such a creep.  Barbara deserves a nice guy, one that will say her name at least once a day AND even name a baby after her.

   So, we waited, quietly wondering what Tony would say, when he suddenly spotted the waiter and blurted, "Check please."

    We left after that and as Tony and Barbara walked to their car, I overheard Tony whispering when he didn't know we were close behind.  "They're awfully weird, Barbara.  Don't you think?"

    "Yes, Tony," she said.  "It's hard meeting normal couples.  But you really don't think Barbara would be a cute name for a little girl?  I was noticing during dinner . . . Do you hate my name?  You never use it."

    It was so funny I could have peed my pants.  I hurried to our van and bust up laughing after that. Cade sat in the driver's seat and we shut the doors.

    "He just said her name!" Cade was very proud.  "And he would have said it earlier, if you didn't yell in the restaurant!"

    "All is fair in love and war." I winked. 

    "But I still won.  Now you owe me ten dollars."

    "It was your money in the first place.  Go withdraw the cash, if it'll make you feel better."  

    He just stared at me.

    "Plus, I think you really lost.  Now I know you're a dirty cheater."  

     "Me?  You are!"

    As we drove home, I thought about our conversation in the restaurant.  "Were you really upset when I left the hose on that one time?"

    "Just think about it . . . Wifey.  How would something like that make you feel?"

    "Well, maybe it would have been--" I started before quickly shutting my mouth.  That genius sure has me pegged.  I guess he deserved to win after all.

My Husband AND My Wife; Part I

    Last month we got together with one of Cade's friends from high school.  It was great meeting him and his wife.  When they walked into the restaurant, I was shocked because I went to school with his wife, Barbara!  "What are the odds?" I asked and she hugged me.
    "It's so great to see you," she said.
    "Oh, you know . . . my wife?" Cade's friend said.  I thought we'd entered into a fun double date.  His first line though, that should have been a sign that things were headed in the wrong direction.
    Here's the thing, I have a pet peeve (maybe I have many), but one I CAN NOT stand is when a person constantly refers to their spouse as MY wife or MY husband.  Are they a flippin' object?  Seriously.  Do they have a name? 
    So, we ordered food and chatted.  It didn't hit me until later that CADE'S friend, kept referring to his wife as a possession.

    "You're so very lucky to have Barbara," I said.  And he truly is because she's packing the sweetest personality and a set of double D's--in fact, the whole time we ate, I wanted to run to the bathroom and stuff toilet paper into my bra.  I'd feel better, and I doubted anyone would noticed that I'd practically "grown in a flash."  But if I stuffed, I knew Cade would give me "the eye."  That man lives to give me "the eye."
   Anyway, I didn't stuff, or dump miracle grow into my bra--again.  Instead I listened to "Tony's" reply.  "You're right.  I am so lucky to have such a great wife."
    Very interesting.  Was he allergic to her name? It suddenly became my goal to find out if I could get him to say "BARBARA" or even "Barb."  I thought about grabbing Cade and dragging him to the back of the restaurant; we could make bets there--that's always where they make bets in movies.  We could even get the cooks and waiters in on it.  If Tony didn't say "Barbara," I'd be rolling in dough.
    I grabbed Cade's hand.  And then looked at the door.  "Cade can I talk to you?" I whispered, my lips not moving although one side had stayed open.
    Cade got up with me.  "Why are we going to the back of the restaurant?"
    "To make a bet.  I bet you ten bucks, that Tony guy won't ever say Barbara.  He's a possessive creep."
    "What?!  He's my friend."
    "Fine, maybe he's a great friend.  But he's far from a . . . name-dropper."
    Cade gave me the eye; he could earn money giving people the eye.
    "Seriously, haven't you heard him?  He says, 'my wife' and 'my bride.'  Would it kill him to use her name!"
    "Elisa, this is ricockulous."
    I kissed him full on the lips then, this knee bending, leg popping kiss.
    "Woah, what was that for?" he asked.
    "It's because you used my name."
    "Nice," he suddenly had such a hard time not smirking.  He put his hand up to his face and stroked the furry bit growing from his chin.  "Fine," he nodded, "ten bucks, says I can get him to say 'Barbara.'"
    "And ten bucks says he won't."
    "You do realize that my money is your money and your money is well . . . you get it."
    "Yeah, but if I win ten bucks, I'm putting it toward editing fees."
    "All right, you're on."
    So, we went back to the table and smiled as if we weren't pool sharks facing amateurs.
    "This is great," Cade said, tapping the table.  Then he pulled out the big guns and turned to Tony.  "Times does fly.  How long have you been married to . . . ummm."  He motioned to Barbara.  Oh! He was good.
    "My wife?" Tony asked and I nearly spewed my water EVERYWHERE.  "Six months."
    "Newly weds."  Barbara smiled.  "Tony's a wonderful man."
    I looked at Cade.  Did he hear that?  She had the decency--the humanity--to use Tony's name, yet he couldn't even call her "Barb" or "Barbie!"

To be continued . . . tomorrow.

A Tree Almost Hit The Scribe; Utah Under Attack

    Check my tabs for my newly released book and the iPad2 giveaway.

    For two nights, the weather has been terrible.  Winds rose up.  It was even worse than the time I went outside and watched our tree almost fly away.

    Here's that post if you're interested (it's still one of my top three most popular posts):  We Pulled the Plug 

    Anyway, forty-two schools are currently closed in this area.  50,000 residents without power (including my brother's and sister's families).  Utah sustained damages I didn't think were possible for this area--over 8 million dollars in Centerville alone.

    Yesterday morning, I woke with a start because our house shook in 100 mph winds.  

    I watched the news and gasped! I opened our front door and the wreath, holder and nail ripped from the door and flew away.  

    A huge garbage can slammed across the street and tumbled into my yard.

    Then, what terrified me the most, was when a bunch of dogs ran down the street.

    "Oh my gosh!" I screamed.  (Sorry to keep talking about movies in posts but . . .)  It reminded me of apocalypse movies.  Animals sense bad things first.  Maybe the end was nigh--AND it wasn't even 2012 yet!  

    I struggled shutting the door, then just stood there on the porch.  The winds whipped around me and a dog broke free of the pack.  It was my neighbor's dog, Sox.

    I ended up putting her back in their yard, despite flying garbage and winds that threatened to take my skinny body to Oz.

    And through all of that, I was shocked to find out the Davis School District hadn't canceled school for my girls.

    I took them after that because if my mother taught me one thing, it's that you go to school and get an education--even if you think the world is ending!  I was a bit worried though, so I went to check on them later in the day, around eleven.  Many of the classrooms were without lights.  The heater wasn't working.  I watched as one class huddled closer to the window, talking in the scant light it shed.

    But my girls--those warriors--insisted on staying at school.  I didn't realize until later what a scary day it had been.

    The school day ended and I picked my girls up.  The Scribe smiled with madness only a tomboy can know.  "I almost got hit by a tree!"

    She sounded ecstatic--WHY was that a good thing?

    "What?!" I barked, choking on my coffee.

    "Yeah," the Hippie jumped into the conversation, "and there's no school tomorrow because the school doesn't have any more electricity--isn't that awesome?" 

    "Wow," I said, "but back to the tree."  I tried remaining clam. "You were going to tell me the delightful story of HOW IT ALMOST HIT YOU?!"

    "Well . . ." The Scribe smiled, her hair bushy and her blue eyes sparkling.  "I was walking the track with Angel, and a tree just floated across the track--like it was a ghost.  I thought it was epic, so I just smiled at it, but Angel stood there screaming.  Then a teacher ran from the school and he was just as terrified as Angel.  He screamed too and so some of the other kids started staring at the tree and screaming with him.  Like this: 'Ahhhhh!' . . . 'AHHHHH!' Why would a teacher just scream?  

    "I kept thinking we should run, but it was so cool.  It wasn't special effects or anything!  Then the guy stopped freaking out like a girl and he yelled, 'Get in the school now!  Get in there NOW!' 

    "So we did, even if everything was really dark.  But it was exciting when everyone wasn't freaking out."  

    "It was crazy." The Hippie turned to me. "I wasn't scared either, though.  I was just cold and it's hard reading in the dark.  Anyway, how about you, Mom?  Did you see any ghost trees today?"

    So, that was our day yesterday.  We're all staying home today and I'm hoping to get some editing, writing and proofreading done.  I need to work on a scary scene, though--I bet I could write about writhing winds and ghosts today! 

    In closing, I'd like to ask you the same thing the Hippie asked me.  How was your day yesterday?  Did you see any ghost trees--I've heard they're all the rage . . .

I am so jealous; what is wrong with me?

    First off, HAPPY BIRTHDAY to C. J Duggan.  She is such a fun, brilliant, inspiring blogger; I'm so happy to have met her.  You can visit her here:

C. J Duggan

    
    If you're looking for my book or the giveaway, please check my tabs.

    Now, for the post of the day . . .
    My husband uses fictitious words all the time--seriously.
   "How's your day going, Cade?"  you might ask.
    Then, he'd respond and start talking about something like, "platypi."
    "And what, may I ask, do you think platypi means?"
    "It's the plural of 'platypus.'"  
     We could be in front of a million people and although he knows he's making up a word, he'll act like he's not and EVERYONE believes him and thinks I don't know what I'm talking about.
    "Platypi, is not the plural of 'platypus.'  The correct term is . . . Platypus . . .es?"  I'll say, then second guess myself--the one who used to pride herself on platypuses's facts during a fourth grade report!
    "You're not sure, are you?"  He'll wink and smile--that sassy thing.  "It is platypi, just like octopi, look it up."  But he always says these things when no one has a dictionary, and then half of the world ends up thinking I'm an idiot, that "the word maker" is correct and PLATYPI DO EXIST!

    Okay, I might be exaggerating A BIT.  The point is that he gets away with this madness, but every time I try being cool too, everyone knows I'm making crap up!
    "What a . . . conondrumism,"  I said once and everyone just looked at me patronizingly.  
    I thought I was the innocent girl no one would suspect of anything.  Turns out I'm so innocent, I can't even lie say fake words correctly! 
    How does he come up with these golden words that actually sound real?
    The fact remains, he does get away with this!  Why? CAN'T . . . I!


    Here are some other words he's made up over the eleven years we've been together.  (Maybe he didn't know it, but I've been keeping track--ha ha!)


    "Testiculating"  This is what happens after a man has been "fixed."
    "Gastulatory"  What's going on in someone's body right before, during and right after gas pains.
    "Transitionitory"  When you're moving from one phase to another (usually in reference to life).
    "Abominalazation"  The act of turning into a (yes you guessed it) abomination.
    "Defunctionary"  Far less than suitable.  Ex: the toy that didn't make it into the toy store--it was a sad Christmas for the toy that year.


    The list goes on.

    Once I decided to write this post, I started paying attention to Cade so I could have the gift too.
    But watching him was like being Princess Leia . . . wanting to be a Jedi and not just some force sensitive female.  What can I say though, some things aren't meant to be!


    --Sorry to get sidetracked, but don't get me started on Star Wars.  Joshua from Vive le Nerd already helped clarify some things for me and my girls.  "Dark Vader's" name is actually "Darth."  "Lightsavers" are really called "lightSABERS."  That show finally makes sense now!--

    
    Back to the point; here's what I learned from observing Cade:


#1
    If you want to make up a "Cade-ism" you need to find between two and five words, then smash them together.  "Cadenism" is a fantabulous example of that.


Deer + Ponder + Rain =  Peerderain  (Which sounds French!)


Union + Nation = Unition  (Which could be . . . the NEW global form of amunition!) 


For the last example, take:  Blog + Men + Women . . . and you get Blogomen!  (Which sounds like a cross between glaucoma and the boogie man!)  Okay . . ummm, scratch that.  Anyway, you get the picture.


#2
    Think of your new creative words as medical termitization.  The point is: don't make up words that sound obvious OR stupid--like conondrumism--those never work.  Trust me!


#3
    When confronted, lie like a dog!  You will not gain a following of believers IF you tell the truth.  When someone asks something like, "Is platypi a real word?"  Say, "Oh, yes."  Then act superior so they must believe you or feel like an idiot.


#4
    For the occasional know-it-all, give sources to back your claim, but obscure your sources.  For example, if they say, "I'm pretty sure 'platypi' is not a real word." 
    Say something like.  "It actually is, I learned about it on TV just last week." 
    "What channel?" they might ask.
    In response, you MUST be vague--Cade always is.  He'll say something like "the science channel" or "channel ninety-six on our TV."  You know, something they can't tie you too.   Don't connect yourself to the crime.


#5
    Make sure there isn't a dictionary in sight.  If you see one after the fact, leave quickly before a mob can gather.


    Seriously though, follow these five simple steps, and you should be golden!


    Oh and if you try this, please tell me if it works.  You might have to be quick on your feet, but if you're like Cade (and you play Scrabble without a dictionary or computer) it will be worth it.


    Do you know anyone who does this, or tells stories (that you suspect are fabricated) but everyone seems to believe?   Are you jealous--like I am--to be the undervalued seeker of truth.  TELL ME!  Am . . . I . . . alone?

In closing:

    Would you have believed "platypi" was a real word? 

(Go google it if you must or haven't already; 

I'll wait here for your answer.)