Spiders And Other Poisonous Habits

A couple of nights ago I sat down on the couch with Kids A and D to read, chat, and watch for my hubby to come home. It was relaxing until Kid A saw a spider on the couch.

I told her to kill it.

Being a brave young woman, she got some tissue and bent in for the death strike. Then she paused and calmly said, "Mom, it's a Black Widow."



We all vacated the couch in a speedy manner--a very speedy manner.

I told Kid A not to kill it. Some jobs you just can't have a kid do, and poisonous spider slaying calls for adult action. And something more deadly than a tissue. I grabbed the hairspray (yes, hairspray) and doused the intruder with it. Several times. You try escaping (or attacking someone) when your whole body is covered in hardening glue.

Needless to say, the evil interloper didn't take kindly to her full-body drenching and tried to crawl behind the couch. Kid A yanked it (the couch not the spider) away from the wall, and I reapplied the hairspray. Then I did it again several more times. We poked the spider into a mason jar with a pencil, sealed the jar, and put it on the front porch for disposal.

I'm still a little freaked about sitting on the couch. I may have to move every stick of furniture in the house, vacuum under/in/around them all with one hand on the vacuum and the other on the hairspray, and then shower (again) just to get the heebie jeebies to leave me alone.

What does this have to do with writing? A whole heck of a lot. All of us have spiders lurking in our pages or hiding as bad habits. It could be procrastination hanging out on the couch waiting to sink its fangs into you. Or it might be over-confidence and pride that keeps you from heading back to your manuscript for another round of revisions. It may even be doubt that builds its sticky web and entangles you before you can get going.

All of these, and so many more, are camouflaged against our writing couches. If we don't search them out with hairspray in hand, they will bite us. Ouch.

What spiders are you going to pursue and kill today? I'm going searching for distractions, and boy will they be sorry. Will you be a spider slayer today? Enjoy the hunt.

Nine Months Of No, The Accidental Engagement, and How To Face Rejection

I'm a writer. (That in itself should be enough for you to know that I'm a little bit cracked. But only a little.) As a writer, one of the scariest things I face is sending out my manuscript. Sure there's a chance someone will acquire it, but there is an even greater chance I'll get a rejection.

Rejection hurts. A lot.

I've been thinking about pain as I get ready to send out my latest manuscript, and this made me think about my hubby. Not that he is a pain, or that he causes pain, but because I caused him pain. A lot. It happened a long time ago, so don't look at me like that. Sheesh. This is how it went...

We met two weeks before I graduated from high school. I was young. I was a teenager. He was five years older. He was ready to get married. I wasn't. We fell in love. He proposed. I freaked out and said no. Did I mention I was young? Did I mention I was a teenager? Did I mention we were in love?

See? Pain. Poor guy. Poor me. I can only imagine the courage it took for him to get down on one knee and ask me. You can only imagine the terror that swept through my eighteen-year-old body as I thought about saying yes. Hence the no. But the real story is in the next nine months.

He proposed every other day for nine months straight. I told him no every other day for nine months straight. But he kept asking. I am so very glad he did, because it wasn't that I didn't love him, or that his offer wasn't good, or that I didn't want to marry him, it just wasn't the right time--yet. I needed to grow up a bit. So he kept asking--every other day--and I kept rejecting--every other day--until I accidentally said yes.

Yes, you read that right. We got engaged on accident. It happened over curly fries at the local Hardees. He looked up between bites and said, in the saddest voice imaginable, "Are you ever going to marry me?"

I dipped my fry in sauce and said, without thinking, "Well, yeah."

He stared at me with the most adorable goofy, shocked, I-must-be-dreaming expression, and then I froze with a curly fry halfway to my mouth and thought, What have I just done?

He said, "Really?"

I thought about it and realized (much to my own shock and surprise)that, yes, really. So I told him.

I had to take the keys away from him and drive us to my home. Friends just don't let friends drive in a love/success induced stupor.

But the whole point to this long and painful story is, he didn't give up. Last night I asked him why, and he said, "I knew I wanted to be with you, and if I kept asking one day you'd say yes."

Have you ever heard a more romantic thing?

So, in the tradition of my nine months of no, I will submit my novel, and submit my novel until someone says yes, because I know what I want. And if I keep asking, one day someone will say, "YES!"

What about you? What takes courage in your life?

Um, Do I Really Need That?

So, yesterday I was working on my WIP, and I came to a major part of the novel, I'm talking a big chunk of it, and I find myself staring at the screen wondering, "Do I even need this? At all?"

This question was followed by a whole lot of this:



Then a whole lot of this:(except I'm a girl)



I haven't decided if I need it or not, but if you hear crying coming from my house, it will be not. Then it will be followed by a whole lot of this:



Wish me luck.

How To Have A Romantic Anniversary or How To Torture Your True Love--If You're a Girl

Hubby and I celebrated our eighteenth wedding anniversary over the weekend. Not only does this make me sound really old, but what we did makes me sound even older--and just a fraction cracked.

Don't believe me? You might after I'm done writing this. And sorry in advance to my mom and hubby. Maybe.

So, what romantic activity did we engage in for our anniversary? A secluded retreat to a condo without the kids? A leisurely stroll along the fall colored mountain trails? A romantic candle-lit dinner? Um, no. We went bra shopping. Yup. My hubby loves me that much. It went something like this:

Me, showing hubby a newspaper advertisement for said clothing sale: Hey! Look! A sale!

Hubby: Okay?

Me: You want to go?

Hubby, just staring at me like I was a little cracked. (This happens more than you'd think it would. Strange.)

Me: Will you come with me?

Hubby: Do I have to stand in the bra department?

Me: No. You can go to housewares if you want.

Hubby secretly rolling his eyes. (It's secret because his actual physical eyes didn't roll, but I sensed the inner, mental rolling, because I can feel stuff like that.): Sure.

AND after I tortured him in the bra deptartment, Hubby took me to the book store. I left with two new books. Then he took me to dinner where he said this, "I have great respect for you."

And I said, "Respect?"

And he said, "Based on fear. I'm afraid you might bite me and I'll bleed out through my jugular."

See, isn't that romantic? And, yes mom, I am sorry for posting about bra shopping.

And, (just so I can start another sentence with and) I love you my awesome hubby.

A Night In Hawaii or Not

So, if any of you know me, you know I adore Hawaii. The beaches, the sand, the sun, the--oh lets be honest, I love everything about it. I've been once with my hubby and dream of going back. Literally.

Last night, my dreams took me there. Hubby and I stepped off the plane and the warm, salt-scented air greeted us. I was one hotel-room-stop away from sinking my toes into the surf. Paradise, right?

Wrong. I looked down, and there was Kid A. Now, Kid A isn't the problem herself, it was her eyes. They were red and had goobers attached to the eyelashes. One word shot through my dream mind. PINKEYE.

(I'd show you a picture, but I'm not that mean. And you deserve better, so imagine instead.)

Anywho, yup, paradise dream just went south fast and turned into nightmare city. Those of you who know me should be either groaning or laughing right now, because you know how pinkeye haunts me. There simply aren't words to describe the horror it brings into my heart. For those who don't know me, I'll try to explain. But remember, there aren't enough words. Really.

Some people are afraid of monsters, others have a hang up with spiders, or nuclear war, or death, or dismemberment, or I don't know, something bad. Well, they got nothing on me and my pinkeye phobia. It all started when my hubby received a corneal transplant and went from legally blind to ta-da I can see! (It wasn't that easy btw.) Then the doctor told me he could never get an eye infection-ever-or his body might reject his cornea, and he'd be blind.

Never tell someone with OCD tendencies something like that. Let's just say I change when someone gets pinkeye. Really change. It isn't good. The kids all sink into the corners and start to whimper, and I start scrubbing and randomly shouting things like, "Did you wash your hands?" or "Don't touch ANYTHING!" Then I wash and wash and wash every surface in the house till my hands start to bleed, and my hair falls out, and the paint starts to come off the walls, and the people with the white jackets show up, and the world ends, or hubby calms me down. A bit. See, not pretty. Picture Monk, but worse. (And if you've never seen Monk, go rent a season or two, or more, from Netflix. It's good.)



Anywho, back to my paradise dream turned nightmare. I stared into Kid A's red, demon eyes and went psycho. Do you know how hard it is to disinfect Hawaii? Sand just doesn't clean up well, and tourists touch things. A lot. We ended up in the hospital, which is another phobia of mine. Then we ended up lost in a maze of corridors trying to find a door to escape from. AND then as we raced through the halls, I TOUCHED MY EYE. Again, if you know me, you should be aghast at the horror. Aghast. If you don't know me, pretend to be aghast, or at least laugh. Please.

We never got out of the hospital. I got pinkeye. And then I woke up. I ran to the mirror, stared into my sleep-bleary eyes, and sighed. No red, not even a sign of pink. So, was it fun to spend the night in Hawaii? Not so much. It's good to be home.

What Driver's Education and Dr. Who Have In Common

Have any of you been watching the new Dr. Who on BBC? If you haven't, you should. It rocks.



Saturday, as we watched an episode, my youngest, Kid D, said, "If everything was real on Dr. Who, I'd be freaking my brain out."

Such words of wisdom from a six-year-old. We all laughed and agreed, but it got me thinking (hard to believe, I know). But, what things in our regular, non Whoish lives are like the show? Then I knew. Driver's Ed. (For an additional post on Kid A and driving click here.)

What does Dr. Who have in common with driver's Ed? Oh, so many things. The first one is fear--namely mine. When you watch the good Doctor, you know something bad will happen in each episode. It might be robot men invading from an alternate reality, or angel statues that come after you when you blink, but you know it will be bad, and people may die. See, fear. And, yes, I'm afraid people may die today as Kid A heads off to driver's Ed.

The second thing Dr. Who and driver's Ed have in common is the element of time travel. Seriously. As I watched Kid A getting ready to brave the unknown of driver's ed, I traveled back in time to when I did the same thing. (It took a while and was quite disconcerting, but I made it.) Strangely, I was happy to come back. Sixteen looks good, but who in their right mind would want to re-live that?

And the last thing Dr. Who and driver's Ed have in common is drama. Since this is day one of driver's ed, I don't have any examples for you, but I know they're coming. And that brings us right back to fear. Wish me luck.