The Moving/Packing Blues

It’s been a whole lot of years—like 20—since I’ve moved. But that’s exactly what I’m doing. Moving.

I’m going to another state and finally going to live my dream of living on the coast! I’m excited for sure.

And a little scared.

In the meantime, I’m making lists. And the lists keep growing. Today we start our first official packing day. You’d think this would be relatively easy. Well, not easy—labor intensive—but not involve a bunch of stupid stuff.

You need boxes to pack, right? Right. Well, finding boxes isn’t that easy. I guess if you don’t mind spending a ridiculous amount of money it’s easy—but not me! I called a couple of moving places about boxes. It was going to cost me $300.00 for boxes and packing tape. HELL NO! I looked in Walmart. Half that price but still a big HELL NO from me. I went online and found  a couple of sites that sell used packing boxes. Used packing boxes? Man…this was getting complicated. Those boxes were about the same price as new ones at Walmart.

So what did I do?

I decided that I deserved FREE boxes. Yep, I did. So I went into my local grocery store and asked for them. Took them about a week to get them together as they realized I’d need different sizes, but they did it. Now these boxes aren’t quite as sturdy as the REAL packing boxes, but I don’t care. They’ll do nicely. I’ve got packing tape to reinforce them, and I can manage. I’ve still got to rent a big truck to the tune of $250.00 a day. I figure I’ll need it a total of two days. Basically, I’ve got the packing and moving part solved. But I’ve got a problem.

No place to live yet. LOL

I’ve been online to every site I can find in the area where I’m moving. I’ve written down the particulars on probably a hundred different houses. And boy did it take a lot of work to find those houses. I never realized so many people were against having pets! But they sure as hell are. LOL And if you do have a pet, be prepared to pay a ridiculous non-refundable pet deposit. Yeah, I know why they do it. Not all animals are the kind you want in your house. Hell, sometimes I don’t even want mine. LOL But they are house broken and they don’t chew. My dogs are the kind that just couldn’t survive outside. They each have their own doggie beds but sometimes you’ll find one in a bed, head on pillow!

The other problem I’ve had with finding a house is location. I don’t want to be on the beach. I’m afraid of storms and flooding. But I don’t want to be more than a few blocks away—within walking distance. Then, of course, there is finding a “good” neighborhood. That takes a lot of research. I’ve even made phone calls to the local police to ask them about particular streets/areas.

There’s one thing for sure, though. I’m learning what is overpriced, underpriced, and spot on. Any time anything is below market value, I wonder why. So I mark those with questions about condition and area. If something is overpriced, again I want to know why. For instance, there is a house I’m interested in because it’s exactly what I want in a house. Hardwood floors throughout. Simple floor plan. Big kitchen. Four bedrooms and a sunroom. Two baths. It even has a nice size yard. In the back there is a huge live oak complete with Spanish moss. Gorgeous!

There are three problems. It’s farther away from the beach than I want to be. Ten blocks. And the yard has NO landscaping. Just a bare yard. But the biggest problem is price. Because of its location and the lack of landscaping I think it’s overpriced. So it’s doubtful I’ll be getting that house. We’ll see.

The worst problem I am facing with this move is cooperation from my kids. They are supposed to be helping me do things. They aren’t. It’s like pulling teeth to get them to do a damn thing. I’m sick of it. So this morning I had to pitch a fit. Now I have a headache. They are working—just barely. I’m not happy. There is just no way I can do everything alone and I shouldn’t have to. But it’s not right I have to beg and finally lose my temper in order to get anything accomplished.

Anybody got any really good suggestions on moving in general. AND…on getting the kids to move their asses!!!!

At least I'm getting good reviews for my latest release from Ellora's Cave--Strip Down. Check it out! 

http://www.jasminejade.com/p-9440-strip-down.aspx

Also available through Amazon  

http://www.amazon.com/Strip-Down-ebook/dp/B005E8ALB6/ref=sr_1_8?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1311696088&sr=1-8

Some parents...

My kid had a birthday party to attend Friday night and another for Saturday night. I was supposed to pick up at 8 on Friday, but got a call at 7:30 asking if he could spend

the night—two other friends were staying over as well. I said okay and dropped off an overnight bag. At 9 the next morning I got a call saying that the parents of the child wanted to take the boys swimming. Okay, I packed up my kid’s swim trunks, beach towel, sunscreen, etc. and dropped off. At 5:30 that day---uh huh that long—my kid arrived home looking like a freaking lobster. He could be the spokesman for the Red Lobster chain. No costume needed. Shoulders blistered, body completely red. Every step he took was painful.

The parents of his friend sped out of my driveway. Yeah. Good decision. It seems that the boys were left at the lake without parental supervision! Can you hear me screaming? I pray you didn’t hear all of the swear words I used when I found out. We’re talking about fourteen-year-old boys who can barely remember to brush their teeth let alone use sunscreen and NO parent around to remind them to do it.

So what kind of parents are we talking about here? Where is their brain power? I remember a few years back and another birthday party, this one involving one of my girls. She’d been invited to an overnight on a horse farm. Sounded pretty cool. They were all going horseback riding. They were in sixth grade. Then I found out that the overnight was going to be in the barn and a sixteen-year-old girl and her boyfriend were going to chaperone these girls and BOYS! Yep, it was a boy-girl sleepover. Now maybe I was thinking back to when I was sixteen, but no way in hell do you let a sixteen-year-old and her boyfriend sleepover together and be chaperones for a boy-girl sleepover. Boy-girl sleepover? WTF? My kid DID NOT go. And she hated me for it, too.

The last party I had at my house was a birthday party for my oldest. A total of forty-two kids. Boys and girls. The girls were staying overnight and the boys had to leave at 11. It was a pool party. The kids started arriving the MORNING of the party—yes, at 9 that morning I already had six kids in the pool plus my own. I had sleeping bags, cots, blow up mattresses, all set up in the house and an RV that could sleep another ten or so out in my backyard by the pool. It was a great party. The kids had a blast. But I stayed up just as long as they did and they didn’t settle down until 5 a.m. At 3 I looked out my window to see five girls on top of the RV—about 12 feet in the air—shaking their bootys and flashing everyone their boobs! The boys were indeed gone, thankfully. But that is when I made the decision—NEVER AGAIN. Too much responsibility.

I’m one of those people who takes responsibility seriously. If you leave your child with me, you better believe I will take care of him/her. And that bunch that night proved to me I was just getting too damn old for the job. Has anyone besides me had experience with parents who basically did a lousy job of taking care of your kid when they were clearly responsible for his/her well being?

http://tessmackall.com

Doggin' Anyone?

I've been really tied up this week with a sick kid. She was bitten by something and had an allergic reaction to the bite. Then she had an allergic reaction to the meds. So no blogging from Tess here this week. I don't have the energy to rant or feel funny. LOL Well, maybe a little. I finally got some sleep last night. But I received this post from Miz Management over at Miz Love Loves Books http://www.mizlovelovesbooks.com/ If you'll recall, Miz Management gave us a little glimpse into what happened when she read a certain book about ginger root from one of the erotic romance brethren...errrr...sistren? LOL So today this is about her getting close to getting her own little taste of the erotic. You're going to crack up for sure.
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Well! Would you believe it. Seems the power of prayer works. Or, more importantly, someone “up there” decided enough was enough for me and my not-seen-any-male-action love-hole. I got sent a man, oh yes I did, but it isn’t as straight forward as you might think. No, it never is with me, and I shall tell you all about my “encounter” now. I say encounter, because there’s no other word for it. Ok, maybe we could call it a freakshow. Or whatever word would best be used to describe meeting someone who wants something from you that you’ve dreamed about…only he isn’t especially pleasing to the eye and you’re not sure you want that something after all.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not the kinda girl who has to have a man be handsome like those in the erotic books I read (although that would be a welcome bonus, I must say). I’m realistic. Me, blessed with love handles and a generous helping of fat beneath my skin, can’t expect an Adonis to fancy me stupid, can I? Yeah, stranger things have happened, but they just don’t happen to me.

Let me start at the beginning. And be prepared to laugh at my dilemma, because I sure as shit am now. If I don’t, I’ll go mad.

So, there I was, on my bed with Quivering Quentin (for those who don’t know, he is my vibrator and the only length-like thing that has been in my love-hole in a long, long time), pondering whether or not to have a good time with him or just go to sleep early. My friend had other plans. Not Quentin, no. He didn’t jump alive and insert himself or anything equally amazing like that. My other friend. She rang to ask if I fancied going out for the night. Bear in mind it was already 9 p.m. and I was in my rather ratty pyjamas that have seen far better days and really ought to be in the bin right now. Bear in mind the time should have told me to stay in bed…

I said I’d meet her at the local pub in half an hour. Silly me.

I hadn’t dressed up. Far from it. I just had on some well-worn jeans and a long-sleeved black top. A pair of heeled boots, nothing to write home about, do you dig what I mean? And we stood at the bar, minding our own business, when this guy came over and offered to buy me a drink. He wasn’t ugly, just wasn’t my type, but I tell you, those erotic books had me all in a lather, so I wasn’t about to turn him down later in the night when he suggested we go off alone. He didn’t give me that creepy vibe, and although he didn’t look like Jack or John or Harry from my special little reading matters, and he didn’t have a ripped body and just enough stubble to tickle my inner thighs, I agreed.

Did I already say silly me?

Off we went in his car. I remember wondering where he was taking me as we headed towards our big supermarket on the outskirts of town. Wondered what the hell he thought he was playing at when he killed the damn engine in the car park of said supermarket. Beneath an overhang of trees. I looked about, feeling safe as there were other cars parked there too, all around the edges. I found that a bit odd. I mean, the supermarket was closed, so what was the deal here?

“You into doggin’?” he asked.

Doggin’? Wtf is that, I thought.

So I asked him. And wished I damn well hadn’t. He said it was watching other people have sex in their cars then doing it yourself in your car so they could watch you back. Um, dig me a hole called Get Me The Fuck Outta Here, would you? I mean, yeah, it’s all very well reading about this kind of thing, but when a less-than-glam man asks you for a bit of the old rudey-doody shit in the azz-end of a car park, you kinda don’t feel sexy anymore. You worry about your extra layer of fat, how it would be viewed in such a confined space, where the tummy has a tendency to fold in on itself and produce rolls a damn baker would be proud of.

I declined, wondering if I could make a break for it and scoot down the alleyway that, thank God, leads to my housing estate. He was surprisingly all right about it, said it wasn’t something everyone enjoyed (you’re damn right they don’t!), and that maybe we ought to go back to his place instead.

By this point I was feeling a bit uneasy and telling myself off for ever complaining that Quentin was a plastic bastard that didn’t satisfy my needs. He did, and I loved him then, loved him with all my heart. All I wanted was to feel his silky smoothness and tell him I was sorry. I’m not joking. That’s exactly how I felt. So I said no thanks to the man, who I think I’ll call Wally Weirdo from now onwards, and asked that he drop me off at my house.

I think I need to say “silly me” again.

What kind of woman allows a man who thinks she’s into doggin’, to drop her off at her HOUSE? Me, that’s who. The kind who’s been out of the game for so long I’m surprised my love-hole hasn’t got cobwebs. So, he took me home, asked for my mobile number. And God help me, but I gave it to him.

Then the texts began. Like, three or so minutes after he dropped me off. I wondered if he’d gone back to the supermarket car park and was texting me from there while perving at other couples. The thought gave me the damn creeps, so I was vague in my responses, hoping he’d get the hint I didn’t like his azz.

He didn’t.

The texts continued throughout the next few days, some sexually suggestive, others telling me about his airplane model collection (I AM NOT JOKING HERE!!!!), and I wondered how the hell to brush him off without making him upset. He knew where I lived, know what I mean?

So then he asked me what I thought of a threesome, and let me tell you, my jaw nearly hit the floor. I’ve said this before, but I don’t do this kind of thing. I just have regular sex (when I can damn well get it!) and only found out about the other, more adventurous bedroom antics through reading erotica. Never in my ever-lovin’ little life did I imagine I’d be asked about ménage for real. Never!

At this present time, he’s still texting, even though I’ve ignored his azz for a whole day now. He’s still asking about the ménage. And I don’t want to be mean, but who the hell has he got in mind to join us? A man? A woman? Will they look just as unappealing as him? Am I that unattractive that he’s the only kind of man I can snare? And I haven’t even done it with HIM yet.

Shit, did I say YET? Am I seriously that desperate I’m thinking of doing it with HIM?

Dear God. The perils of reading erotic romance…

Junque In The Trunk And Stoopid Men!

Welcome author Melissa Bradley to the Four Strong Women Blog. Melissa is a regular commenter here and an amazing author. Since most women are NOT a size 2, I think just about all of us will be able to identify with what she has to say here today. Sooooo...take it away, Melissa!

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I have been dying to come on Four Strong Women for some time. I crack up every time I visit because it’s so good to know I’m not alone with some of these frustrations and that certain homicidal feeling that comes when dealing with extraordinarily stoopid people. Yes, I said stoopid because for these people there is a whole other level. My rant today concerns men and dating, a common problem to be sure, but as someone who carries a lot more junk in her trunk than I should, I find that there is a unique attitude reserved especially for those us of the voluptuous variety.

I want to know when overweight became a synonym for desperate. Last time I checked Roget’s, I saw chubby, fat, round and other more colorful terms, but no desperate. So why is it when I was out with some friends not too long ago, that a certain ass came up behind me, leaned in and said (I’m not shitting you) “You have a spankalicious fat ass, Big Mama. Let’s get it on.” No greeting, no introduction, not even a name. And the worst part? He was not even drunk.

After I refrained from ripping his twig and berries off, I informed him that I was not that desperate, that I would rather blister from radiation poisoning than to suffer his touch. His reply of course was “Fat bitch. At least I was willing to fuck you.” A red haze filled my vision and my friend restrained me as the bouncer escorted the “ignorant prick” (his word) outside. I mean, I know guys get drunk, high, etc and say things, but as was the case with this guy, there are a lot of stone sober men who think that just because they deign to approach me, I should automatically be willing to hit the sheets for some bedroom games.

I handled such jackasses with aplomb when I was in my twenties, but now that I’m older I thought that I would be encountering real men and not have to be bothered by such immaturity. Sadly, that’s not the case. A few months ago in another incident, I had a blind date with a not-too-shabby looking guy who was a few years older than me. I was looking forward to a good time as my friend assured me he was pretty cool. At least according to her husband. His face fell the minute I approached the table and I could tell he was disappointed that his date turned out to be overweight. Which is funny considering the paunch he was sporting. I’d seen the look a million times before so I braced myself and prepared to walk out. However, he was very polite and didn’t make the usual excuse for a quick exit so I stayed. We had a few laughs right off and I began to relax. Unfortunately, he started flirting with our pretty young waitress. Disappointment arrowed through me, along with a healthy dose of anger and I readied some excuse to leave.

When I called him on the flirting, he seemed stunned and made all these valiant protestations. I started to leave and well he got very contrite and much to my stupidity, I decided to remain. He was nicer after that and I ended up having a good time. Then he walked me to my car. I thanked him and he leaned in to kiss my cheek. Right in that moment, his true colors came roaring to the fore. He said, “I had a great time, how about we go back to your place so you can shimmy out of those big jeans and show me how you big girls do it.”

I went cold all over, then told him in no uncertain terms that if he wanted to see how this big girl did it, he’d never have sex again because I would break him. Then came the requisite response of “Don’t be such an uptight bitch. At least I was willing to touch you. Think about it. How many offers could a woman like you really get.” I can’t win. Where are the guys who don’t care about looks, who have a modicum of decent behavior? My family and friends wonder why I don’t like to date. I have tons of male friends who are great, but I just can’t seem to find a great one who wants to be more than friends. Arrgh!

Thanks for letting me vent. It helps to get it all out there. As a treat so I don’t end on a downer, I have an excerpt for you to read from my newest release, Byzantine Provocateur.

Byzantine Provocateur

Amber Quill Press/Amber Heat

ISBN 978-1-61124-072-6

Buy Link http://amberquillpress.com/AmberHeat/ByzantineProvocateur.html

Blurb

An ancient city sparks forbidden desire…

Thalia Burton arrives in Istanbul to relax and enjoy the company of her old friend. Hoping to forget the boring rut her life had become, she never imagines one meeting with Fadi's brother re-igniting the dim flame of passion inside her. Captivated by the heat in his golden eyes, Thalia finds herself tempted beyond reason...

Murat Bahar had only intended to meet Thalia as a courtesy to his family. One look at the lovely American incinerates his intentions. She is an exquisite morsel he longs to taste, a taboo treat enthralling him like a siren of myth. Perhaps just one night…

Once is not enough. Thalia and Murat embark on a fiery, secret affair that could burn them both, costing them friends and family.

Excerpt

Thalia and Murat decide that one time together was not enough…

Pulse thundering, Thalia followed Murat as he drew her deeper into the gardens. She wondered what was up with him. He was going against everything he’d told her that day. He swept her along the twisting and turning paths, around topiary animals, past urns, statues and bushes, down until they emerged in a shadowed folly overlooking the Sea of Marmara.

The cool breeze nipped at her, tugging her upswept hair, chilling her skin as he faced her.

Murat slid a finger along her jaw, her neck, tracing a tingly path to her décolleté. He stared at the pendant nestled in the hollow of her throat, like he was trying to figure out exactly what to say.

She held her breath, the butterfly touch sending tiny thrills rushing along her nerves. This was crazy. If she were smart she’d turn around right now and find her way back up to the ballroom.

“Once was not enough, tatlim,” he said hoarsely.

“What?” Thalia wheezed, unable to get a deep breath.

His hands slid down, grasping her arms and drawing them around his neck, pulling her into the shelter of his body. The spice of him surrounded her, blending perfectly with the scents of garden and sea, a hypnotic perfume that drugged her senses.

“I think you understood,” he whispered, his palms gliding up to caress her back. His heat through the delicate silk radiated along her skin.

She glanced up, eyes widening at the intense emotions she found reflected in his glittery gaze.

“I have hungered for you these last days and nights.”

Desire rolled through her like a gathering thunderstorm.

Dear, Jesus, please, please don’t let me wake up.

She wanted to kiss him, to wrap herself around him like a vine and never let go, but… Her darned conscience nosed its way into her fun.

“You said all those things,” she managed in a surprisingly steady voice. “How can you just turn all that off? And what about Fadi, your parents?”

His arms tightened as he nuzzled his lips into her throat. He whispered to her in Turkish, as though he were too overcome to form the right words in English. The exotic syllables fell hotly against her sensitized skin and her breath caught at the tiny electric thrills.

He drew back, the moonlight rendering his golden eyes silver. The torment there matched her own.

“This is a quandary, I know, but you are a rare breath of sweet fresh air, Thalia. My world has become too narrow, too constricted. Always doing what others expect. I need to be with you, if only for a little while.”

No one had ever spoken with such passion to her before, had ever laid themselves so open. Reaching up, she traced a thumb over his firm lips, her gaze never leaving his, emotion making her throat tight.

Author Links

My Blog http://melissasimaginarium.blogspot.com/

My Space http://myspace.com/melbwrites

Facebook http://www.facebook.com/pages/Melissa-Bradley-Author/131443446902498

Yep! Size DOES Matter!

He’s built like a brick shithouse. Tall. Lean. Muscles out the ying yang. Powerful thighs and arms. The kind of man that makes a woman melt. Anticipation alone leaves you breathless. And then it happens. He strips out of his clothes and your eyes naturally gravitate to the Promised Land and you think…

“Okay. Just what the hell does he think he’s going to do with that little bitty thing?”

But! That’s not the kind of “sizing” I want to talk about today. LOL

Has anyone besides me noticed all of the downsizing restaurants are doing these days? Seriously. And it’s pissing me off. Why? Because not only are they downsizing portions, but they are UPsizing price!

I first noticed it a couple of weeks ago at Bojangles. As I’ve mentioned here before on the blog, I love a morning iced tea from there with plenty of lemon. So I hit the drive-thru a couple of weeks ago and they no longer have medium teas. It’s now small, regular, and large. The large is just too damn big. Hell, the ice would water down the tea before I was halfway finished. Not good. And the regular? About 12 oz fewer than the old medium. And the price? Twenty freaking cents MORE!

So, I told the manager, yep, I called the manager to the window and said: “I love your iced tea, but you just lost me as a customer. It’s now too expensive and the portion too small for that price.” Well…you know that got me a shrug and an almost-hidden eye roll. Screw it. I now make my own tea. I WAS spending like thirty bucks a month on that morning tea. So basically, I’m better off.

Three nights ago, the kids wanted Chinese. So I called in an order and had it delivered. I didn’t want any. I’m trying to be a good girl and stick to healthy foods these days. But the order came. I was on the computer and the boy ran out and paid and they all sat down and ate. When I got up to go and get myself a glass of ICED TEA, LOL, I noticed the size of those boxes the dinners came in. HALF the freaking size of the old boxes we’d just ordered maybe three weeks before. I flipped! I was charged the same damn price and got HALF the portion. WTF?????? So I said to the kids: “Last time we get delivery. From now on if you want Chinese, you’ll be going to the buffet so you can eat enough for three damn meals.” I don’t know about the rest of you, but I need some damn hellacious kissing before I get screwed!

Burger King. Yeah, let’s talk about Burger King. My boy loves those original chicken sandwiches, add cheese. I picked him up at school yesterday and he just had to have one. Told me he’d been thinking about that sandwich all day long because LUNCH just sucked. I gave him money for lunch yesterday instead of packing it. His idea. Not mine. Anyway, we hit the drive-thru and order the sandwich. I paid for it. Noticed a not-too-small increase in price. Shook my head, said nothing.

But when that boy of mine opened up that sandwich? HE went ballistic. It’s about one third smaller than the OLD original chicken sandwich. Not only that, but I checked the receipt and they'd charged me not the regular twenty-five cents for cheese per slice--two on that sandwich--but sevnty-five cents each for that processed food--yeah, it's not even real freaking cheese! And get this—remember I’m trying to eat a bit healthier these days—I went through Burger King this morning because I saw a commercial about their new English muffin breakfast sandwiches. English muffins. Cool. So I ordered one with just egg on it. No cheese. No meat. Healthy, remember? Opened the damn thing and IT’S about one third less in size than an average English muffin. Can you believe that? So NOT worth the price I paid. Just not.

What the hell is going on? Gas prices are through the damn roof. And now we’re going to starve to death or pay out the kazoo for it? My kids are in for a big damn shock. There is going to be one hell of a lot less take out, delivery, and drive-thru runs in their future. If these places thought no one would notice, they were wrong. And I bet I’m not the only one. So instead of them making more? I believe they have simply screwed themselves big time. And I hope nobody kissed them too! 

On the publishing side of my life, lol, I've had some great news. My erotic historical romance, Sunlight and Magnolias, is a finalist in Passionate Ink's Stroke of Midnight Contest. Also, Black Cougar Curse, co-authored with Natalie Dae, aka Sarah Masters, won Book of the Week at Whipped Cream Reviews...AND...Twelve Days of Love, my hot, hot, highly romantic short novel from Ellora's Cave just won Sweetheart Book of the Week at The Romance Studio. So I've had a pretty good week, all things considered. Now if I could just straighten out all these damn restaurants. sighhhhhhhhhhh Oh, and the Middle East and gas prices too!

Stop by Ellora's Cave and pick up a copy of my books. I need the money. LOL http://www.jasminejade.com/m-701-tess-mackall.aspx Gas is only going to get more expensive, and evidently so is food. Ya'll don't want me walking or going hungry, now do ya? LOL 

Hugs...and happy reading and writing to everyone!

http://tessmackall.com

My Daughter the Crow

Oooo... sparkly!

Gigi loves shiny, sparkly things. It’s not a new affliction. This is something that has been going on for a very long time, but now her favorite color has aligned with it. Once, she loved blue. She was all about blue. Seriously, she was. If she did not wear blue every day, she would get upset. It made for interesting days sometimes. (Have you ever tried to find blue clothes for a little girl? It’s gotten easier, but for the most part, everything is pink, pink, pink.) When asked what colors she liked, her answer was always the same: blue. All others paled in comparison. It may seem that I am going on and on and on about this (and I am), but her love affair with blue was such that we believed her first car would be blue. (At one point, she wanted blue hair and whenever she had her face painted, her face was…you guessed it: blue.)

Back to the shiny, sparkly things. One day, we were walking back from the park--she must have been three or so--and scattered all over the ground was a bunch of shiny, blue, metallic confetti. We had to stop and pick up every single piece she saw. My pockets were loaded down with this trash. Unlike many three year olds, she had a great memory. When we got home, she insisted I hand it over so she could add it to her stash of shiny things.

The other day, when I picked her up from school, we were walking home when she pulled me to a stop, said, bent down, and picked something up. She handed me one of those plastic jewelry stickers (no longer sticky).

“Look how it sparkles in the sun,” she said.

(And, yes, she does talk like that. g)

I looked down at this tiny sticker. It was no bigger than 1/8”, and I wondered how she had seen that with all the masses of people walking around. That was when I realized that my daughter is part crow. It’s the only explanation. (And yes, this sticker did make it’s way back to our house into her stash of shiny things.)

This attraction to sparkly things has only grown. It has grown to the point that her favorite color has changed to--can you guess?--that’s right, gold and silver. Gold first, of course. (I’m not sure if these are really her favorite colors because when she’s tired she still wants blue. HAHAHAHAHA)

I do have vague recollections of being enamored of shiny, sparkly things as a child. And I do think that at some point, my favorite colors were gold and silver, too. Matter of fact, I distinctly remember using the gold and silver crayons to color any a number of things (even animals) and usually being disappointed that the gold and silver colors on the page were never shiny or sparkly enough. (g)

Now, a couple of Gigi’s friends really like gold and silver, too. So, it makes me wonder if this attraction is something that is hard coded into women’s DNA. (That’s our excuse, right?) I eventually grew out of it. Oh, I still like gold (and diamonds and emeralds and rubies and…), but I don’t pick up a piece of trash because it’s shiny…at least not anymore. (g)

So, I have to ask: were you, or are your daughters/granddaughters, crows, too? Or are only some afflicted with this?

Play Dates and Things Kids Say

Kids are smart, funny, and downright maddening. My child is no different, but I have to say that she's never been so entertaining as when she started having play dates. Yes, play dates. You know, those wonderful occurrences that provide them with playmates and give Mommy (or Daddy) that little extra time to accomplish things. When they are at our house, I rarely accomplish as much as I could because I have one ear listening in on their conversations as I chuckle quietly in the other room. The way their brains work amazes me. Sometimes, they make such profound observations that I have to stop and think. I wonder, "Did my brain work that way, too?" If so, what happened? (g)

Some of my favorite play date moments are:

Charlie and I were sitting in the living room a month or so ago. Gigi had a friend over. They had asked if they could have a tea party. And this is how it went down:

"Mommy, we need some water," Gigi said.

"Mm..hmm..." I didn't get up because the magic word was missing.

Five or ten minutes passed before she says again, "Mommy, we need some water."

Again, no magic word, so nothing happened.

Another five or ten minutes went by and suddenly, Charlie and I heard them in the kitchen. I smiled because, well, this was how we learned as kids, right? Most of the time, we had to figure things out on our own...within reason.

Her friend: "You get the water, and I'll get the sugar."

Gigi: "We'll need the stepladder because we won't be able to reach the sugar without it."

The sound of the stepladder being dragged across the floor filtered out of the kitchen. I heard a thud, something being pounded against the kitchen counter, and then some frantic whispering.

Oh, this couldn't be good. My eyebrows rose, but I was trying not to laugh. How many times had I done something like this as a child?

Gigi: "I didn't spill that."

Friend: "Don't worry about it. I'll try to clean it up. You take the tea set to the table."

"Clean it up" got me out of my chair to investigate. Sure enough, the two conspirators were standing on the stepladder, the bag of brown sugar sitting on the counter in front of them, and a nice light coating of the same sugar all over the counter, the floor, and my stove. I struggled to keep a straight face and said instead, "You know, white sugar would have been easier to pour."

Friend: "I know, but I don't feel like white sugar." She held the little container she'd put some brown sugar in. "Do you think this is enough?"

There was probably a quarter to a half-cup of sugar in it.

Me: "More than enough."

Friend: "Well, if there's too much, I'll just eat the rest."

To myself, this was what was going through my head: HAHAHAHAHAHA. Outwardly, I said, "Um, yeah, I don't think your parents would care for that too much." (Sugar high here we come. grin)

So, they went over to the table and had some sugar water...for as long as it lasted, which wasn't very long because a few minutes later, her friend said: "We're out of sugar."

When I walked over to them after cleaning up the kitchen (it took me five or ten minutes to clean up all of the sugar off the kitchen counter and floor), there was a layer of brown sugar on the dining room table and on the floor. The girl was licking (yes, licking) the bowl that had held the sugar.

HAHAHAHAHAHA It still makes me laugh. It was hilarious. What can I say?

Now, just the other day, I was looking through Gigi's homework and came across this (Gigi is the blond girl in the drawing):

It made me stop and question why everything costs something. Why we can't just be sure everyone gets what she/he needs to live comfortably and be happy. I'm still pondering it. Is there a way? I honestly don't know, but they do say the darnedest things.

I'll wrap this up as I have to pick up that child right now, but I encourage you to share with me some of your favorite moments from your kids/grandkids/neighbor kids/any child you've witnessed doing something incredibly sweet, funny, poignant...

Unrealistic Fantasies by Nichelle Gregory

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We All Hang By A Thread

It never crossed my mind last night that when I went to bed I’d wake up to an email from a friend in Hawaii telling me not to worry because she was evacuating.

She gave no explanation and I suppose that was because she figured I knew what was going on. I didn’t, of course. I jumped up from the computer and turned on CNN to discover an earthquake of 8.9 magnitude had occurred off the coast of Japan—approximately 231 miles to the epicenter. The quake had triggered a tsunami with a wave of 20 to 30 ft (still unclear as reports have not been accurate on the size of the wave).

And in the aftermath of this quake and tsunami, Hawaii and our own West Coast had been placed under warnings. Thank God for those warnings. There has most certainly been enough lead time for everyone to have had enough time to evacuate by now. And as I write this post, the tsunami is presently hitting the Hawaiian coastline. So far no reports of any huge wave activity or damage. But they are bracing for this none the less.

My heart goes out to the people of Japan. The destruction that has happened is something they must live with for months and possibly even years to come. The death toll hovers at about 70 right now, but as those areas no one can get into at this time begin to open up, I’m sure that number will climb.

I can’t help but think of how we all hang by some delicate thread and that we never know when that thread is going to break. My prayers are with everyone affected by this disaster.