There'll be Parties for Hosting, Marshmallows for Roasting...

I looked up from my Christmas present wrapping to see my little boy sitting in the middle of a tangled mess of red ribbon.  It was wrapped around his little fingers lying in twists and turns all around him on the floor.  He beamed with happiness at his accomplishment.  While I had been busy measuring and cutting in the floor beside him, he had been busy unwinding an entire spool of ribbon in his lap. 

“Look Mommy, I have tape in one hand and ribbon in the other,” he said quoting his favorite Curious George story. 

Normally this is when my “Oh no, there’s a mess” tendencies kick in, but this time I just laughed.  We were having too much fun wrapping Mr. Alpha Male’s Christmas presents to worry about messes.  I have discovered recently that in trying to meet preholiday work deadlines, getting ready for parties, baking cookies, and buying gifts; I have forgotten to just enjoy the Christmas season.  My nose has either been in my laptop, or I’ve been scurrying around with a mile long to do list.  I have not stopped to enjoy the simple pleasure of laughing while wrapping presents or actually watching a cheesy Christmas movie on tv.  It’s an easy mistake to make, to live for the day at the end of the paper chain and not take the time to enjoy all the little links in between that make up the Christmas season.

“It’s not Christmas.” My little boy utters those words every morning when I go into his room to wake him up for the past week.  And every morning I tell him, “It’s not Christmas day, but it is the Christmas Season.”  The anticipation of Christmas Day is almost too much for any two year old to bare.  The presents, the cookies, the lights, the friends and the family that are all wrapped up into what makes Christmas the most wonderful time of the year.  But are we just counting down the days, or living everyday with the love that this season is built around?

Counting down the days…I can remember as a child making chains of red and green construction paper to symbolize the passing days to Christmas.  I would hang it on the wood paneled wall of the family room by the door to the kitchen.  Unfortunately, I don’t think my daily Christmas reminder ever made it to the big day, as I grew up with two older brothers that liked to jump and rip and tackle.  I’ve been thinking about my little paper chains this year more than ever because I am not only counting down the days to Christmas, but also counting down words left to write until I finish my book.

 I think as we get older we never really lose that sense of wonder involved with looking forward to a big box with a bright red bow under the tree on Christmas morning.  Instead, I think it is only what is wrapped up in those packages that changes over the years.  Is it simply survival of all the shopping, family visits and parties that await us under the tree?  The end of a long difficult journey of writing a book is wrapped up and waiting for me under the tree this year.  And yet, I am making an effort to experience and live everyday of the paper chain that is this beautiful season.  The end of the paper chain will be here before you know it.  What is at the end of your paper chain?  And more importantly, what should be cherished in the small loops of red and green somewhere in the middle?

Merry Christmas!

Tiny Slips of Paper

“Hang on, my checkbook must be in here somewhere,” I told the thickly accented lady on the phone as I dug with one hand through an accumulation of tiny slips of paper.  It never ceases to amaze me how quickly I am able to collect the debris of life inside my purse or how long I am willing to carry it around with me everywhere I go.  When I hung up the phone, I weighed my bag in my hand and became aware of how heavy it had become. 

“That’s it!  I can’t take it anymore,” I told my two year old as he popped another grape in his mouth, perched on a barstool at the kitchen island. 

“That’s it,” he repeated, laughing. 

As I dug into my cleaning project I pulled out handfuls of receipts, grocery lists, to do lists, coupons, business cards, bills, prescriptions, and advertisements, then piled them all on the counter before me.  It was then that I realized, my life could be summed up by these tiny slips of paper.  Where I’ve been, what I’ve bought, what I need to do, what I worry about, it was all there in print in a crumpled pile of paper.   

Which leads me to my question of the day:  Are we living our lives in large murals or on tiny slips of paper?

Life gets distracting, or should I say the necessary paying of bills, going to doctor appointments, going to the grocery store, taking the kids to school, and getting work done part of life gets distracting.  And, it is all too easy to get caught up in the day to day minutia of life and forget to live.  I think life should be about family and friends, sunshine on your face and wind in your hair, laughter and silliness, and enjoying the beauty of the world around us.  As I put away all of life’s litter and prepared my purse to receive more tomorrow, I made a vow to live in large murals.  I will never get back this afternoon I spent with my little boy building towers and eating cookies, for this afternoon only happens once.  I will give my family hugs and tell them how much I love them.  I will make time to go for a walk.  I will call an old friend and laugh at something she says.  I will take a chance and be scared over the outcome.  I will go to a party where I don’t know anyone and have the time of my life.  I will try a new hobby, a new food, and a new style of shoes.  I will finish writing my manuscript!

We only have this one chance to live today to the fullest.  Don’t cheat yourself out of the good stuff in life by living your life within the confines of your tiny slips of paper.  What are your large murals?

Invest In Thicker Curtains

My house sits on a quiet cul-de-sac in a neighborhood where the trees are still young and children are everywhere.  Because there are so many families here, we get hundreds of trick-or-treaters every October 31^st.  Last year we didn’t even have time to come inside between groups of children, and ended up leaning against the car with a giant bowl of candy.  So, this year I turned our problem into a party and hosted the first annual Halloween tailgate in my driveway.  We pulled out tables and chairs and I spent most of the day cooking and baking and baking and cooking.  It was shaping up to be an entertaining evening with the neighbors.  But I had no idea at the time just how entertaining it would become.

“Daddy went to the store to buy us fire,” my little 2 year old said, as he popped another piece of candy in his mouth.

Mr. Alpha Male had actually gone up to the Lowes with our next door neighbor to buy a fire pit because we were all freezing.  But, he got it right enough for a 2 year old, so I agreed.  And, soon the men were back from their manly errand, the fire pit was set up, and we were warming our fingers and toes, while the scent of wood smoke filled the cool night air.  It was the middle of the third bottle of wine and well after the children had collectively crashed from their sugar rushes and been tucked into bed.  Baby monitors and wine bottles covered the nearby table as the parents took a break at the end of a long day.  I had just taken a bite of warm buffalo chicken dip and was crunching the last of the chip left in my hand when I happened to look up and see something through the window of the house just around the bend from ours.  I took another sip of wine and wondered if I had already had too much and my imagination was running away with me.  The conversation and laughter continued to swirl around me, but I wasn’t listening to it anymore.  I had just seen my most prudish of neighbors, the ones that hardly ever leave the church and never socialize with the rest of us heathens, in the middle of a sexual act.  What sexual act?  Details, give us details, you may be screaming at your computer screen right now.  Well, since you asked…

The thin film of the living room window sheers hid nothing as she took him fully in her mouth; the silhouette of her head sliding up and down his shaft, as she moved with slow deliberate action.  He tensed then reached for her, clearly needing to feel connected to her, to the moment.  The living room light behind them illuminated their every movement as he ran his hands through her long hair, gripping, pulling.  Her pace increased and so did the size of my eyes; I elbowed my next door neighbor and quickly all conversation around the fire pit died as everyone turned and watched.  They readjusted their position and she straddled him.  His hands skimmed the outsides of her breasts as he ran them down to hold her waist and guide her into a wild rhythm of heart beats.  It was the rhythm of passion, the rhythm of sin.  They clung to one another as they reached for that peak just out of grasp.  She arched her back as he thrust into her once, twice, then she collapsed on him in a tangle of spent lust and satisfaction.  They left the room together and their house grew dark for the night.  

“Do you think he’ll come outside for a cigarette,” Mr. Alpha Male asked me.  Our Halloween tailgate party continued on into the early morning, but the evening’s unexpected entertainment was obviously over. 

Will I ever be able to say hello to my neighbor with a straight face again? 

Evil Men Never Wear Black Hats

You may think I live on the pages of a book where you can shut me into darkness.  Or, do you think I live on the movie screen where you can simply close your eyes and I will disappear?  No.  Villains are everywhere. You may think you are safe from us in real life, but that is where we thrive, we villains, as we feed on the goodness and hard work of those around us.  Slowly slipping, sneaking, some might say into your life.  At work you do business with me and are forced to endure my torture every day.  Yet, I wear no black hat to signify where my loyalties lie.  At friendly social gatherings, I lurk in the crowd waiting for the chance to carry out my evil plot.  Yet, I have no sinister laugh to signal those that I meet to tell them who I am.  When I finally find you, caught off guard, in a dark alley, with no one to hear your screams, I will not stop to explain my motivation in killing you.  With a flick of this blade you’ll be dead.  Can you feel it? The cold steel of the knife is pressed against your throat, and you thought I was fiction. 

In real life I have freedom.  I look like your friend, the one that smiles to your face just before you feel the blade piercing into your back.  I’m your co-worker that takes credit for your work and spreads rumors about you while you’re at home sick.  I sued you for thousands of dollars you didn’t have, just to line my pockets with your money.  When you came to me with a problem I took advantage of you. I could pay you what I owe you, but I want to vacation instead.  I bullied your child and there was nothing you could do about it.   And then, I lured your loved one away from you to steal a small sliver of your happiness.  But, you’re not happy now are you?  And the best part is you never saw it coming.  You never saw the trap I set for you.  You never saw it, because I look like you, I look like me.  Can you feel life slip from your grasp as I tell you what I’ve done?  Can you taste the thick metallic feel of blood in your mouth?  You trusted me and now you’re dead. 

Happy Halloween!

Hug Your Skeleton

Why won’t you talk to me?  I may not be able to help, but I can listen.  And, I want to support you through this.  These are the frustrated ramblings of someone who is horribly flawed just like you and loves you anyway….

What did the doctors tell you?  Are you going to be alright?   I need to know.  I love you, please talk to me. 

How bad is it?  Are you going to loose the house? I need to know.  I love you, please talk to me.

You’ve never told anyone?  How did you survive that alone?  I love you, please talk to me.

You have imperfections in your life too don’t you?  I know I do.  Are there issues at work in your life that you try desperately to keep swept under the rug, so your friends won’t know how bad things really are at home?  Whether it’s unhappy relationships, bad news from the doctor, or bill collectors calling, you are not alone. Or, is there something in your past that you’re not very proud of doing?  None of us are perfect.  We all have them, lurking in corners, hidden under feigned perfection and self righteousness.  Skeletons.  So, if we all have them, why are we so ashamed of them?  Why can’t we talk about them?  I’m bringing out my skeletons and dusting them off for Halloween this year.  After all, how can we grow and appreciate our own crooked paths that brought us to where we are today without showing our skeletons some love.  Through all of our experiences, the good and the bad, we are reshaped and molded everyday into the people we will become.    And, it’s the adversity in life that strengthens our resolve to become something more than our circumstances, and makes us grow. 

Most of you know that I am writing a novel.  How interesting would my characters be if they did everything right all the time and had never made a bad decision?  Nobody would read that book.  It’s the struggle to claw your way back from the edge of disaster that makes you beautiful.  That’s what people want to see, want to read about, want to be a part of.  It’s the overcoming part of it all that makes you interesting, so embrace it! 

Overcoming illness

Overcoming debt

Overcoming bad decisions

Overcoming depression

If we had no skeletons, the success wouldn’t be nearly so sweet.  So, bring ‘em out, dust ‘em off and let’s talk about it; because, without your skeletons you wouldn’t be here.  Have you hugged your skeleton today? 

The Love List

I love to crawl into the warm Him shaped indention in the sheets in the early morning after he leaves for work.  That last 20 minutes is the best sleep I get all night.

I love it when he inserts my name into songs while he sings along with the radio in the car, off key and loud.  It makes me smile.

I love to listen to him read to our son at night, patiently reading the same Curious George story over and over and over.

I love that the first time he told me he loved me was by accident at the end of a phone call; and he still ends every phone call that way.

I love that we’ve broken each other’s hearts into a million pieces and mended them back again, stronger than before.

I love that he orders for me when we eat out, not because he’s controlling, but because he knows me that well.

I love that he does dirty, ugly things every day that he doesn’t want to do; but he does them anyway for the survival of our family.

I love it when he bakes bread in the middle of the night because he felt like eating some bread; and brings me some bread because he thought I might like eating some bread too.

I love that he dreams with me and supports me in my dreams, no matter how crazy they may sound.

I love to be held in his powerful arms, it makes me feel small, and fragile, and stronger than I am alone.

I love that he always offers to say the blessing before a nice meal, and he taught our son to say “Amen.”

I love it when he plays with my hair when I can’t sleep, while I talk nonstop and he pretends to listen.

I love to watch him chop fire wood, sweat glistening off thick muscles, wood splintering into the air, sunlight glinting off the smooth steel of the ax, all while I sip lemonade in the shade.

I love that he obsessively irons his clothes, even when on vacation.  It makes me laugh at my wrinkles.

I love to listen to him talk eloquently and passionately about zombies and politics and society and plans for our back yard makeover.  It reminds me of how intelligent and completely insane he is.

I love that we have entire conversations in movie quotes, and we know exactly what we’re saying.

I love that he took me rock climbing on our first date, even though I barely remember the rock we were climbing, that day will be burned into my memory for the rest of my life.

I love the beautifully ugly cake he baked me for my birthday.  The words on top looked like a child wrote them and I could taste the love he poured into it in every delicious bite.

I love that he never lets me say, “I can’t.”  And when I do, he gives me his half-time pep talk that always involves digging deeper for a larger set of balls, guts and glory. 

And, I love the beautiful future we’re going to have together when we finally run away from all responsibility, live in a thatched roof cottage, and become sheep herders.

Are You My Friend?

Have you ever sat down in your only free 5 minutes in the day, logged into facebook only to have the stark realization that you have no idea who any of your “friends” are?  I’m to the point now that I know their names, their dog’s names, and what they cooked for supper tonight.  I celebrated with them when they got that job they’ve been wanting, and smiled at pictures of their children; yet I have no memory of ever meeting these people in my life.  Was it an acquaintance from high school or perhaps I sat beside them at some meeting I went to 3 years ago?  Who knows, but here’s the strange part; in some odd way I feel connected to these people, intertwined in their lives, engrossed in their dramas.  In some ways I’m closer to them than any real life friend I see occasionally or wave to as I drive through my neighborhood. 

Which leads me to my question of the day: has the internet brought back the idea of the pen pal?

Every day I sit down with my laptop on the sofa, my two year old driving trucks up and down my legs, Super Why with the power to read playing in the background on the tv, and I check my email.  I tell myself that this is one of my responsibilities as a small business owner, staying on top of all correspondence.  But, in reality, I have a friend that I email every day about anything and everything.  There have been really hard days when that email message was the only ray of sunshine in my dark and stormy life.  We talk about the men in our lives, her dating madness, and my crazy Mr. Alpha Male husband.  We talk about our dreams and deepest desires for the future, our children and the joys and struggles involved with them.  And, because we are forced to put what we are thinking and feeling into black Calibri type face and fill a screen with it, we say more than we would on the phone or, if we lived closer, over a glass of wine.  I cherish those few minutes every day when I get a new message and have a brief glimpse into her daily life.  And, in essence isn’t that what having a pen pal is like?

It seems like everyone has a blog these days, cathartically purging themselves of all of their innermost struggles into print and sending it out online.  And, now I have a blog where I write my personal thoughts on life and put them out in the world for everyone to see and examine.  Do we have that same level of openness and honesty with friends that we see in person regularly?   There was a time when people were friends in real life; and now it seems like all friendships stay firmly planted in cyber space, while we lock our doors and close our blinds to the outside world.  Which leaves me wondering both in real life and online, “Are you my friend?”

Bringing Home the Bacon Bits

 I was asked today what I do for a living, and I found myself floundering for a moment not knowing which job title to give.  A year ago I would have replied, ”Stay-at-home Mom,” without blinking an eye.   But sometime in the past year, I became an owner of a construction company, an interior designer, and an aspiring writer, all on top of my career as a stay-at-home mom.  My brief blunder caused me to step back and take note of all of the women I know that are working two and three jobs while raising children.  The more faces that crossed my mind, the more I realized that everyone I know moonlights on their job as a stay-at-home mom these days.  On-line business owners, tutors, aerobics instructors, seamstresses, and waitresses, all fighting for the survival of their families in a time filled with slim profits, coupons, and dwindling bank accounts. 

Then, I began to think of all of the success stories that have happened in the face of adversity.   They surround me every day. The small victories of purchasing back to school clothes for the kids, or simply keeping the bills paid for another month, small victories that keep families clean, fed, safe, and together.  When the storms of life are swirling around us and fighting for survival is the only goal, it’s difficult to stop working long enough to look around and appreciate all that hard work.  So, I would like to take this opportunity to applaud my fellow moonlighting stay-at-home moms for their perseverance in holding life together while life seems to tear itself apart at every opportunity.  Even as I’m writing this, I’m waiting for water to boil on the stove for supper, kicking a soccer ball back and forth across the kitchen floor with my little boy, paused once to answer the business line, and now I’m looking around my normally clean house at paperwork piling up on table tops and the accumulating dust bunnies in the corners.  So, what’s a girl to do?  When does a working stay-at-home mom get the 5 minutes necessary to sit down and congratulate herself on a job well done?  I’m declaring the time is now!   I challenge all of you amazingly strong women out there to celebrate in some small way today.  I will be celebrating today with a new shade of lipstick and some stolen writing time on my front porch!

We moms need to remember that we are worth being taken care of too.  And, while my contribution to the household may be more like bringing home the bacon bits, than bringing home the bacon, we’re happy to have those delicious salad toppings every night at supper time!  So, be proud of your many job titles!  Brag with pride about your list of official and unofficial job titles, and celebrate everyday with every success.

A Muffin Too Far

     As my little boy walked through the kitchen with his new airplane embroidered backpack strapped to his shoulders over his Thomas the Tank Engine jammies, his little face still sticky with this morning’s breakfast, all work on my manuscript came to a screeching halt.  This is one of the dangers and great joys of running the house, a construction company, and a budding writing career all from my small oak desk in the corner of my kitchen.  Constant interruptions that I would not eliminate even if I could, crash through my thoughts mid-sentence of an intense scene I’m writing.  But, isn’t that the life of every woman, every mom, trying to hold the loose ends of life together before they unravel and leave us with a heap of tangled threads at our feet? 

     “Mommy, I’m going to school,” my little boy beamed holding out his airplane lunch bag, not understanding that he doesn’t start preschool for another week.  

     I’ve spent the past two weeks obsessed with learning all that I can, not about daily life in the late 1700’s as would help in the writing of my historical romance manuscript, but the artistic creation of bento box lunches for preschoolers.  In my effort to keep the wheels on all of my works in process, writing and otherwise, I have once again gone overboard in my quest for perfection.  Little peanut butter sandwiches cut into the shape of cars, tuna salad rolls made to look like mice, cheese in the shape of the three little pigs, all intricately carved and packed into the matching lunch bag with his name embroidered in the top. Which brings me to my question of the day: Will my need to be a great mom overshadow my son’s need to be a normal boy.  In other words, will the elaborate school lunches I’m planning be a muffin too far?

     The great lunch debacle of 2010 has been the topic of conversation at my house this week.  My husband, who for the purposes of this blog I will just call Mr. Alpha Male, thinks that I am going to get our little boy beat up at preschool with my over prepared lunches and matching airplane themed school accessories.  I think that I want my perfect little angel to have the best of everything, including his lunch.  Then again, does Mr. Alpha Male have a point? (Now, now ladies, don’t be dirty.)  Bunny sandwiches are not exactly manly, after all.  And furthermore, would my current work in progress be finished by now if I spent more time with my mind in the late 1700’s and less of it on the perfect blueberry muffin recipe to put into the perfect airplane themed cupcake wrapper and into the perfect airplane lunch bag? 

Who I Am...

     Some of the first stories I ever created were with my Mom during early morning, long rides to school in South Carolina. Every patron of the road that we passed while in the car, had a name and a back story. Brillo Head waiting patiently at the bus stop, rain or shine, The Statue, standing vigil in his front yard in his old aluminum lawn chair, The Sweet family that began the day together every morning with their breakfast room windows thrown open to greet the day, they became my friends and in a sense the first characters I ever developed.


      I have always had a wild imagination and occasional delusions of grandeur. I have used my creativity for the past 10 years in my work as an interior designer and owner of a construction company, but once I conjured up Abby, the heroine of my current work in progress, I knew she needed to live out her story on paper. Her extraordinary tale is the first in a 6 book series, Forever Charleston. With dresses that twirl and so much southern charm you’ll need a mint julep, this Historical Romance series is set in Charleston, South Carolina in the late 1700’s.

A Matter of Time

A “Forever Charleston” Novel

     Alexander Darby, second son to the Marquess of Rosewood, never expected to be forced to leave England. Now fighting for the survival of his family and his land in South Carolina, he finds himself faced with another unexpected turn, an intense curiosity about the mysterious household governess. As her identity begins to unravel so does his desire to send her safely away. Out of the turmoil of his life will he find love or yet another loss?
     Abigail M. Rhode was drawn to Charleston South Carolina for its charm and history when searching for a fresh start after college. Little did she know that she would get thrown into the history she idealized for its beauty. Now she has to find her way back to the life she knew while surviving under the guise of governess to a set of impetuous twin girls. Their guardian proves to be her greatest challenge in secret keeping and returning home. Will they find a love that transcends time?



     I live in Charlotte, North Carolina with my husband and 2 year old son. I’m a member of Romance Writers of America and its local chapter, Carolina Romance Writers. When I’m not submerged in the lives of characters living in the late 1700’s, I’m acquiring building permits, ordering floor tile and chasing my little boy around the house. I hope you enjoy my blog about my daily life in pursuit of a life on the M shelf.