Oops.

So we managed to get through our entire trip without any major mistakes, things forgotten at home, etc. Well, almost all the way through--looks like I'll be getting a new computer soon.

We were returning the rental car to Alamo, and the place was a zoo. Cars everywhere, no staff to tell you what to do, and darnit, there's the bus that we'd really like to catch to the terminal so we have plenty of time for dinner before the flight. Finally someone shows up, and we hurry hurry through the check-out process, grab our stuff, and dash (or waddle quickly, if you're me) to the bus. We toss everything onto the luggage rack, sink into some seats, and then I realize something's missing.

"Dan! The computer! Where is it?!"

Off the bus he jumps and hits the ground running as the car is being pulled away to wherever it is they take returned rental cars. Luckily, the computer was not in the car--which got away before he could get to it--but had been left by both of us on the ground, each thinking the other was going to grab it. I see him bringing it back, and I sigh with relief, until he holds it up and says, "It got ran over."

Now, I've had this leather computer case for a couple years, and the leather has never broken in. A note to those of you looking for a way to make leather look old: run over it. Just once; don't even need to go over and over it. The thing looks fifteen years old.

Anyway, Dan pulls my little computer out and turns it over in his hands--"Looks good!" Nothing cracked, all in one piece. Whew!

Fast-forward seven and a half hours. We're back home, reveling in our Dish Network and squishy couch and the knowledge that we'll be sleeping in our own bed tonight. I pull out my brave little computer, flip it open, turn it on...

"Hm. What's with this two inch strip of screwed-up-ness smack in the middle of the screen?"

Yes, stretching all the way across the screen, and almost exactly centered, is...well...lines. They're a lovely turquoise, which is nice, because if you have to have a screen with a line in the middle that makes it impossible to see what's under it, you want it to be a pleasant shade.

Thank God, the rest of the computer is fine. Everything opens great, nothing has been deleted--I just have half a screen to work on, which sucks when your computer is only about seven inches tall in the first place.

So hey, DEFINITELY coulda been worse, but I have to admit, turquoise is ever-so-slowly starting to get on my nerves....

The Wedding, Part 2

Last night was the second reception for Kyle and Kelli. It was SO much fun to see all the relatives and friends of the family--some of whom still hadn't met Dan, much less Kelli! We had it at Maggiano's--home of YUM--and despite some audio/visual issues, we were able to show everyone pictures of the wedding and of their honeymoon to Bampff, Canada. Of course, something always has to go awry, and unfortunately it was Kelli's parents who had to endure it--their luggage didn't make it to Chicago until 4 hours after they did! Of course, 4 hours after they got there is when the reception started, so they ended up having to shop at Woodfield Mall (luckily right near Maggiano's and their hotel) to get outfits to wear. But they handled the stress swimmingly and looking at them you never would have known anything was the matter, so that was a relief.

Dan and I left the reception around 9:30, by which time all the fun stuff (i.e. bookstores) had already closed, so we went back to the hotel to pack to come home. After we finished we realized we were hungry, so we went to our second home-away-from-home: the IHOP next door.

Oh my, the characters that show up at IHOP in the wee hours (it was midnight by the time we went over there) provide enough fodder for ten volumes of short stories. There was the family of 6--three kids, two parents, and an infant--whose table was next to ours. The three kids were falling asleep at the table, and the baby was wide awake. I wanted to go over and ask why the heck they were out so late, since the kids were obviously not pleased to be there. Then there was the guy behind us who had four--yes, four--full dinners lined up on his table. He was in the process of finishing a bowl of soup when we got there, and then all of a sudden a whole tray of food gets delivered to him. Fifteen minutes later we hear the waitress tell him, "Your chicken will be out in just a minute." So now it's up to five dinners. And a bowl of soup. And he wasn't a big guy, so I don't know where he was putting it all, although the why of the situation fascinates me a whole lot more. On the other side of the partition from us was an older gentleman, all alone, who sat drinking coffee and reading a book the whole time, and behind him were three Middle Eastern women with their beautiful head scarves, talking and laughing about someone's wedding--"When I got married, everyone cried. Even the men. Even my father cried!"

After consuming the fourth short stack of chocolate chip pancakes that I've had since we arrived here, we made our way back to the hotel for our final night. Words cannot describe how much I am looking forward to sleeping in my own bed tonight, with my own pillows--especially my muscle-saving body pillow. Hotel beds always, always suck--at least when you're on a $70/night budget.

My Kind of Town...

Dan and I have been in Chicago since Tuesday. Actually, to be specific, we've been in the northwest suburbs, a.k.a. my old stomping ground, since Tuesday--we've yet to actually make it into the city. We had all sorts of grand plans for touring Chi-town, but with the Air & Water show going on, it's a zoo out there!

So far the bulk of the trip has revolved around two things: food and friends. There were/are still lots of people who haven't even met Dan yet, so we've been doing a lot of meet & greets with my old high school & church friends. We've also been gobbling up all the great food that California just doesn't have. For example:

1. Chin's Crab House: this place is phenomenal in every sense of the word. Fantastic seafood, and fantastic steaks, too--in fact, they sell more steak than any other restaurant in the city! Delicious egg rolls, which we consumed two baskets of, and the fried jumbo shimp...oh my heavens!!

2. Edwardo's Chicago Pizza: okay, I will admit there are, like, three variations on Chicago-style pizza, but I'm sorry, California just doesn't have any of them, despite some valiant efforts. Edwardo's is my all-time favorite. The outside crust is a good two inches tall, and you've never seen so much cheese!! The Strobel family favorite is spinach with mushrooms and Canadian bacon. I had three pieces. I felt like a junkie getting a fix after being in rehab--I just couldn't stop! Of course, I still had room for dessert--I've always claimed to have a separate dessert stomach--so we also went to...

3. Oberweiss Dairy: forget all that low-fat or low-carb ice cream crap. This place uses FULL CREAM and MAN is it good! Peanut butter & chocolate was my choice, and wow. WOW. Head & shoulders above 31 Flavors, or anything you can get in the grocery store.

4. Okay, well, I haven't done this one yet, and there's a chance I won't get to, but I'm going to really try!! Walker Brothers Pancake House used to have a crepe breakfast of chocolate filled crepes with strawberries and whipped cream on top. Now, they took it off the menu after I moved (I was probably the only person left in the world who thought that an acceptable breakfast), but every time I go there I explain how it was always my favorite and ask the waitress to beg the chef to take mercy on me. So far they always have! I'm going to try to get there tomorrow for breakfast, but only if I can find someone to go with me.

On a completely unrelated note: 91 octane gas is $3.11 up the street from our hotel. I was in shock. Thankfully our little Grand Am rental takes the cheap stuff, but I really was surprised--it was the first time I've seen stuff like that more expensive here than in California. (Although, I suppose the prices might have gone up since we left. Man, I hope not. It was taking over forty bucks to fill our Murano when it was under three dollars!)

Another August Anniversary

Congratulations to Kyle and Kelli! Yesterday my brother married the coolest girl in the world. It was a beautiful wedding in the scorching heat of Bakersfield, California. (We all thought a 10 AM wedding would avoid it, and while I'm sure it avoided the worst of it, it certainly wasn't what you'd call cool outside, although the wedding party got the best deal--we got to stand in the shade).

It's a weird thing to see your little brother wax eloquent about his new bride. He was such a grown-up! IS such a grown-up. I have a hard time believing that sometimes. When you've got years of stored up memories about the goofy kid who made a cottage industry out of trading ("I'll trade you that stereo for..." Actually, I don't know what he ever offered in his trades, he never had anything good--yet he always managed to make out like a bandit. And this was in, like, fourth grade!), who sported silk shirts and Cavaricci pants in junior high, who made mixed tapes with the best romantic songs ever and titled them things like, "Songs That Remind Me I Have No One," it's hard to envision him now as a man with a wife and a real life of his own.

I was a mess at the wedding. I suppose this shouldn't have come as a surprise to me, given the emotional basket case I've been lately. But the worst part is that the tears just would not stop! It started the minute I got to my spot in the shade, staring at the guests as everyone else came down the aisle, got worse when they exchanged their beautiful vows, hit critical when they took communion together and Kyle whispered a prayer into her ear, and, if I'd been smart, I would have found a secret place somewhere and just let it all out. But no, I had to try to be a strong woman and cork the tears and soldier on. WHATEVER. Into the reception and again I'm foiled: the toasts from Kelli's father and my brother, the speeches by various wedding party members (I'd planned on saying a few words--yeah right) and then the wedding party dance, which I got to dance with my husband. Yeah, a dance, that got me going again. Pathetic. Weep weep weep, sniff sniff sniff, blubber, blubber, blubber. Gag me.

But it was worth it. Now I have a sister! Always wanted one of those, but luckily we got each other without the messy adolescent years of hating each other and constantly competing for Mom and Dad's attention. :) I'm so blessed to have a sister-in-law that I not only get along with, but that I love. So, Kelli, welcome to the family. It takes a special person to blend in with our nutty clan, and you've got just the right combination of practicality, sense of humor, and quirkiness to make it. I can't wait to get to know you better, and I'm so thankful God brought you and Kyle together. We love you, Mrs. Strobel!

Happy Anniversary!

Wow. Today marks the end of Dan's and my second year of marriage. I can't believe it's already been two years. And on Saturday my brother, Kyle, will get married to the totally awesome Kelli, and on Friday Mom and Dad celebrate their 33rd year of holy matrimony. August is definitely the month for weddings in the Strobel household.

Dan and I are pretty much broke at the moment, so we promised each other no gifts. Dan, of course, cheated--he did this last year, too--and bought me a beautiful purple orchid and a gift bag filled with all sorts of silly goodies that are not romantic in and of themselves, but are romantic in that they show how attentive and observant he is of me and the things I like and need. I came down for a 2 AM bowl of cereal and saw them sitting on the counter and, being the emotional wreck I am these days (thanks, hormones), burst into tears and blubbered my way through my Corn Pops.

I think I was able to make up for not having gotten him something, though--check out My Pregnancy Blog to see the picture that was waiting for him on his desk when he got up this morning....

Halfway there!

Well, I officially surpassed the halfway mark for my minimum word requirement on my current manuscript! Unfortunately I think I'm more than halfway through, outline-wise, so I'm going to have to start stretching these last chapters. :) If I write 2000 words a day for the next three weeks, I'll reach my goal of finishing the book by the end of the month. (Well, clarification: if the story only last for 70,000 words, then I'll be done by the end of the month. If it takes longer, I'm screwed.) Hallelujah for flexible editors, though; Shannon said she'd work with me if I didn't quite make it by September 1. I think I can do it, though.

We leave the 16th for a week in Chicago--my little brother (heh, little--he's 27) gets married the 13th here in California, then we're all schlepping to Chicago for a second reception for everyone who can't make it out here the 13th. Dan and I are turning it into a little vacation, so we're going out early to be tourists and for him to meet all my friends out there that he still hasn't met after two years. (Our anniversary is the 9th of this month!!) I won't be able to write that week, but I'm going to do something I haven't done before with a manuscript, and that's print it out and read it like a book instead of just reading it off my computer. I figure I'm always editing the books I read without a problem, so maybe it'll be easier editing my own stuff if it's on paper and not on a screen. We'll see if it works. If nothing else, it'll give me something to do on the plane.

Fun new test!

Oh, my favorite...here's a great grammar, punctuation, and vocabulary test. Think you know the English language well? Test yourself. Here are my results:

You did so extremely well, even I can't find a word to describe your excellence! You have the uncommon intelligence necessary to understand things that most people don't. You have an extensive vocabulary, and you're not afraid to use it properly! Way to go!

Now I have to go look at the answer key and figure out which one(s) I screwed up!

Feelin' hot hot hot

Dan and I drove out to Vegas again this past Wednesday to hang out with his brother and his family. The original plan was to drive to the Grand Canyon while we were there--his brother just bought a Honda Oddessy and it's got the cool DVD player and super comfy seating--but after a bit more research we decided to save it for a time when we could spend the night there at one of the lodges and really take the place in. So instead we just hung out at their place.

We like their place. It's homey and comfortable, the AC is always cranked, and there's endless fun now that Simon is two and a half. Man, is that kid's vocabulary growing! And it's so cute, he says everything twice: "Play legos play legos?" "Wanna eat wanna eat?" "Where go where go?" He's being potty-trained, so they've got his little potty set up in the living room where he does most of his playing, and when he's gone he'll jump up and throw his hands in the air and shout, "I did it!" like he just ran a triathalon or something. It's hilarious.

He also does this intense love-you thing where he just gets so incredibly excited that you're there and playing with him that his eyes get all big and his face looks almost violent, and he'll just squeeze your cheeks or arm or leg or whatever is closest. It's hilarious. Until he pinches hard--kid's strong for two years old!

So anyway, Vegas, being in the desert and all, was FREAKING HOT. Like, unbelievably, indescribably hot. At one point our car's thermometer said 120. Sometimes the a/c would be on full-blast and wouldn't feel at ALL cold. You could practically feel your body losing moisture. Every day was at least 105. It was a truly incredible experience. I don't know how people can live there, honestly. I mean, I suppose you get used to it when you've been there your whole life, or if you are there longer than 4 days at a time like us. But wow...there are some things I really just don't want to have to "get used to," and feeling as though the soles of my shoes are melting to the pavement is one of them.

So once again I am so happy to live where I live. Today it was in the low 80's, which didn't feel nearly as hot as it usually does given the heat we were in yesterday. But now the sun is slowly setting and the temperature is dipping; the windows and doors are open and we have a nice breeze floating through. Beautiful. California is so cool. :)

CBA

This weekend I was in Denver to meet with all sorts of various folks before the onslaught of the CBA convention madness. (CBA = Christian Bookseller's Association) The convention actually started at the same time I was boarding a SuperShuttle to go back to the airport and come home, so I missed out on touring the convention floor and snatching up all the wacky freebies at the exhibitor booths. But I did have some fantastic meetings and managed to get my name and book out there to some retailers, so hopefully that will help sales in some small way. I was given a super-tenative, super-ballpark figure for my current sales, and found that I need to sell about 11,000 more units before I break into royalties. Oi. Hopefully that was a lowballed figure!

The best part of the weekend, by far, was the total miracle God wrought in my stomach. Ever since I was 6 I've suffered from motion sickness when I fly. I've always just popped some Dramamine and been fine, but you can't take it when you're pregnant, so I was totally freaking out about the flight. And then it turned out I had layovers both on the way there and the way back, which meant a total of 4 takeoffs and 4 landings. Needless to say, I was convinced I'd be puking my way to the Mile High City and back. Before I left, Dan and I raided Wal*Mart for snacks, my theory being, if I gave my stomach something to chew on, I wouldn't get nauseated. So my carry on bag was filled to the brim with Goldfish crackers, Combos, peanut M&M's, Pringles, Finding Nemo fruit snacks, and those little mini boxes of cereal.

On the way to the airport, my mom told me to concentrate on deep breathing, so I didn't get myself all nervous and worked up. I figured, between the food, the pressure bracelet thingies I bought, and the breathing, I might just make it.

I completely forgot to wear the pressure bracelets, and I hardly ate anything on the flight, but it didn't even matter: I didn't get sick at all!! I put on my Walkman, cranked up Simon & Garfunkel's Greatest Hits (almost always the first thing I listen to when I fly) and settled back into my deep breathing, and PRAYED LIKE MAD that I wouldn't get sick. AND I DIDN'T.

Now, you need to understand that, typically, I'll still feel a little queazy when I take the Dramamine. But this time there was nothing, except for a teensy bit on the way home when we hit some crazy turbulence. Usually that would have had my face in one of those throw-up bags, but not this time! I am convinved that God had mercy on my poor weak tummy and totally hooked me up. He's so freaking awesome!

'Course, now I have an entire bag of snacks. Anyone hungry?

God Bless the USA

I can hear two different fireworks shows in the general vicinity, and the neighbors in the house behind ours must be up on their balcony watching, because they keep cheering and shouting, "Higher!" Then, just a minute ago, they started singing the National Anthem. How cool. I love it when stuff like that happens.

Last night Dan and I went for a walk around the RSM Lake, and people had already laid out their picnic blankets and lawn chairs to stake their spot for the show tonight. I love that I live in a place where you can leave your stuff there overnight and not worry about it being gone in the morning. Today when we drove by it looked like a giant crazy quilt with big green gaps where people knew you couldn't see the show well and the grass was still clear. A couple years ago Dan and I claimed a spot around noon and spent the whole day there, playing Boggle and Scrabble and Yahtzee and cards and eating picnic meals, then watched with the rest of the city as the fireworks exploded over the lake. I'm such a sucker for fireworks, don't ask me why. For some reason they're romantic to me. Last year we listened to the explosions while playing badmitton in the backyard (lit with tiki torches at the corners of the court) as the neighbor kids above us gave a running commentary of what they could see from their balcony. This year we watched the Angels lose on TV and I paid bills. Geez, we sound like old geezers.

Next year we'll have a six-month-old and who knows what the heck we'll be doing. Probably not watching a fireworks show since the kid would freak out at the noise, I'm sure. But how weird is that? That at this time next year our baby will already be six months old. I was nearly walking at six months. I can't imagine chasing a baby around that early. Heck, I can't imagine having a baby!

But anyway, I digress, which seems to happen a lot these days. Chalk it up to a distracted one-track mind. The reason I was writing originally was to say: Happy Birthday USA. Thank you, President Bush. God bless you, men and women of the US military, who have to deal with crap not only in other countries but then here at home, too. I don't care what you think about the war: support the people doing their jobs in fighting it. They knew what they were getting into, they weren't drafted, they weren't coerced, and face it, Hussein was hardly a benevolent leader. Just because things aren't going as well as hoped doesn't mean we shouldn't have gone there in the first place. If our government went militant on us, I'd want someone to come rescue us, too.

Okay, so, I'm off the soapbox now and off to bed. Sleep well tonight knowing you're in a free country. God bless the USA....

New 'do

Well, I had this great haircut--the one in the photos on my website and in my profile here--but sadly it proved too complicated for someone as un-hair-savvy as myself. Plus thanks to the fact that my hair has been growing like crazy thanks to prenatal vitamins, I was having perpetual bad hair days. So yesterday I went under the scissors and chopped it off--the longest bit is now just at my chin, and pretty much all the layers are gone.

Changing my hair has always been one of my favorite ways to break up the relative monotony of my life. From haircuts to dyeing, I've never been shy when it comes to my hair. It's been past my shoulders and less than three inches long, stick straight and permed, burgandy and blond streaked and shoe polish black. And every once in a while it's the dull dark brown with a slight wave that I was born with.

But one of the many compromises of marriage has manifested itself in the way I fashion my hair. Now there's someone that I want to please and whose opinion I value. And frankly, he's got to look at me a lot more often than I do. So I can't just make a spur-of-the-moment appointment at the salon to have it all chopped off, can't swing by Target on the way home from wherever and pick up a bottle of Natural Instincts Spiced Tea temporary color. It's a small compromise, but a compromise nonetheless, and sometimes it chafes. But compared to the payoff of marriage, it's something I deal with.

And now, with Baby M on the way, I've been thinking about how weird it might be for my kid(s) to come home from school one day and see Mommy with red hair, or permed hair, or hardly any hair at all--all within one school year. And when my five-year-old emerges from her bedroom with scissors in her hand and a whole new 'do of her own, would I really be able to blame her? How about when my eight-year-old wants to dye his hair blue?

So the hair is short, and straight, and brown.

For now. :)

Earthquake!

Well, I am officially a Californian--I felt my first earthquake! It was a 5.3, located out in the desert, but felt all the way down in San Diego. There have been about 3 in the past week--there was one back on Sunday while we were rehearsing before the service, but we didn't feel it on the stage (the sound guy at the back of the auditorium did, though), and there was another one the other day that we didn't feel; it was up in northern California, but a 7.0, which is big. (Fun fact: the intensity of the earthquake increases TEN FOLD with every whole point on the richter scale. So a 6.0 quake is ten times stronger than a 5.0.) But this one--holy cow! I SAW the house move! The ceiling fan shook, the blinds in the windows moved--I was kneeling on the floor and it make me sway! It lasted about 5 seconds. And what's really disorienting is that there's this sound that comes with it that sounds like a big gust of wind, so I'm sitting here thinking, "Is it wind that's doing this?"

Dan's just rolling his eyes at me. We're sitting there watching TV and he says, completely nonchalant, "Oh, earthquake." I, on the other hand, have my eyes nearly falling out of my face and my jaw on the floor, going nuts. Dan points to me and says, "Hm. Chicago--" points to himself--"California." Okay, yes, being completely unfamiliar with these events, I will admit I probably overreacted a bit. But come on! It's so cool! I'm sure I wouldn't have thought it was cool if things had broken, but whatever. Anyway, I feel baptised into the culture. Dan's just annoyed that they've taken off the U.S. Open to broadcast the news, which really just consists of visuals of the seismograph and taking calls from residents all over the area and saying the same info over and over.

I love lists!

Apparently the UK likes them, too--this is the second list of this kind that I've seen. The year I lived in Glasgow (1996-97) one of their bookstore chains came out with the same type of list, in conjunction with the BBC. I used that list the year I was there to fill some of my dead time (which I had a lot of since I was only taking 3 classes), and now I get to do it again! Here's the brand new list of the UK's Best-Loved Books (I believe they're voted on by the general public). I've got 42 of them covered (in bold--thanks to all those English classes in high school and college!)--how many have you read already.

The U.K.'s Best-Loved Novels

1. The Lord of the Rings, JRR Tolkien
2. Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen
3. His Dark Materials, Philip Pullman
4. The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Douglas Adams
5. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, JK Rowling
6. To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee
7. Winnie the Pooh, AA Milne
8. Nineteen Eighty-Four, George Orwell
9. The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, CS Lewis
10. Jane Eyre, Charlotte Brontë
11. Catch-22, Joseph Heller
12. Wuthering Heights, Emily Brontë
13. Birdsong, Sebastian Faulks
14. Rebecca, Daphne du Maurier
15. The Catcher in the Rye, JD Salinger
16. The Wind in the Willows, Kenneth Grahame
17. Great Expectations, Charles Dickens
18. Little Women, Louisa May Alcott
19. Captain Corelli's Mandolin, Louis de Bernieres
20. War and Peace, Leo Tolstoy
21. Gone with the Wind, Margaret Mitchell
22. Harry Potter And The Philosopher's Stone, JK Rowling
23. Harry Potter And The Chamber Of Secrets, JK Rowling
24. Harry Potter And The Prisoner Of Azkaban, JK Rowling
25. The Hobbit, JRR Tolkien
26. Tess Of The D'Urbervilles, Thomas Hardy
27. Middlemarch, George Eliot
28. A Prayer For Owen Meany, John Irving
29. The Grapes Of Wrath, John Steinbeck
30. Alice's Adventures In Wonderland, Lewis Carroll
31. The Story Of Tracy Beaker, Jacqueline Wilson
32. One Hundred Years Of Solitude, Gabriel García Márquez
33. The Pillars Of The Earth, Ken Follett
34. David Copperfield, Charles Dickens
35. Charlie And The Chocolate Factory, Roald Dahl
36. Treasure Island, Robert Louis Stevenson
37. A Town Like Alice, Nevil Shute
38. Persuasion, Jane Austen
39. Dune, Frank Herbert
40. Emma, Jane Austen
41. Anne Of Green Gables, LM Montgomery
42. Watership Down, Richard Adams
43. The Great Gatsby, F Scott Fitzgerald
44. The Count Of Monte Cristo, Alexandre Dumas
45. Brideshead Revisited, Evelyn Waugh
46. Animal Farm, George Orwell
47. A Christmas Carol, Charles Dickens
48. Far From The Madding Crowd, Thomas Hardy
49. Goodnight Mister Tom, Michelle Magorian
50. The Shell Seekers, Rosamunde Pilcher
51. The Secret Garden, Frances Hodgson Burnett
52. Of Mice And Men, John Steinbeck
53. The Stand, Stephen King
54. Anna Karenina, Leo Tolstoy
55. A Suitable Boy, Vikram Seth
56. The BFG, Roald Dahl
57. Swallows And Amazons, Arthur Ransome
58. Black Beauty, Anna Sewell
59. Artemis Fowl, Eoin Colfer
60. Crime And Punishment, Fyodor Dostoyevsky
61. Noughts And Crosses, Malorie Blackman
62. Memoirs Of A Geisha, Arthur Golden
63. A Tale Of Two Cities, Charles Dickens
64. The Thorn Birds, Colleen McCollough
65. Mort, Terry Pratchett
66. The Magic Faraway Tree, Enid Blyton
67. The Magus, John Fowles
68. Good Omens, Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman
69. Guards! Guards!, Terry Pratchett
70. Lord Of The Flies, William Golding
71. Perfume, Patrick Süskind
72. The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists, Robert Tressell
73. Night Watch, Terry Pratchett
74. Matilda, Roald Dahl
75. Bridget Jones's Diary, Helen Fielding
76. The Secret History, Donna Tartt
77. The Woman In White, Wilkie Collins
78. Ulysses, James Joyce
79. Bleak House, Charles Dickens
80. Double Act, Jacqueline Wilson
81. The Twits, Roald Dahl
82. I Capture The Castle, Dodie Smith
83. Holes, Louis Sachar
84. Gormenghast, Mervyn Peake
85. The God Of Small Things, Arundhati Roy
86. Vicky Angel, Jacqueline Wilson
87. Brave New World, Aldous Huxley
88. Cold Comfort Farm, Stella Gibbons
89. Magician, Raymond E Feist
90. On The Road, Jack Kerouac
91. The Godfather, Mario Puzo
92. The Clan Of The Cave Bear, Jean M Auel
93. The Colour Of Magic, Terry Pratchett
94. The Alchemist, Paulo Coelho
95. Katherine, Anya Seton
96. Kane And Abel, Jeffrey Archer
97. Love In The Time Of Cholera, Gabriel García Márquez
98. Girls In Love, Jacqueline Wilson
99. The Princess Diaries, Meg Cabot
100. Midnight's Children, Salman Rushdie

Circle of Life

This whole pregnancy thing has made me pretty noastlgic and contemplative lately. One of the things that has been on my mind a lot is my Grandmother Strobel, whom we called "Meama." (Kyle's pronounciation of "grandma" when he was little.) Meama died right before New Year's Eve, 2003 from liver cancer. She had other great-grandkids, so it's not like she didn't get a chance to see any of them, but she won't get the chance to see mine, and I'm finding that really sucks.

Dan got to see Meama twice before she died. Our whole family went out to Chicago that May to see her, which was the first time Dan met her, and then again that October, when we brought her photos of the wedding since she couldn't be there. But I'm mad now that they won't get the chance to enjoy their mutual obsession together: golf.

Until I married Dan, I thought Meama was nuts to tape golf tournaments when she wouldn't be home to watch them live. I couldn't imagine sitting there watching hour after hour of a little white ball hopping around the monotonous stretches of green. Now I watch with Dan all the time and I totally get it, but I can't appreciate it the way he does, because I can't play worth a darn. Meama, on the other hand, was club champion many times over, an avid golfer whose entire social life centered around her country club friends and foursomes. She would have been so happy to have a golf watching friend like Dan. She would have taken him out to the club and showed him off to her friends--she had no problem with bragging about her family to anyone who would listen--and together they would have discussed green speeds, yardage, swing styles, their favorite clubs. I would have been bored out of my mind, but they would have been in their element.

Death just sucks, you know? We say it's natural, part of the circle of life, but really it isn't. We weren't meant to die, remember? Death came from the fall, it wasn't part of the original blueprint, and I think there's still a thread in us that remembers this and knows that it is not natural, that this isn't the way it was originally supposed to be. It's just wrong.

So now I have to settle for memories, and my baby has to settle for second-hand stories. Not fair.

New blog!

Well, I promised myself I wasn't going to let my blog become a pregnancy blog, but it looks like I'm failing at that, so I decided to start a new blog for all my baby stuff. I've moved the baby-related blogs from this journal to that one, and promise to keep this one strictly writer related!

(Hm...can't get the link to work for some reason...it's gobabymorrow.blogspot.com.)

LOST: one brain

LOST: one brain, medium-sized, grayish-pink, wrinkled. Right hemisphere slightly more developed. Believed to have been lost back in April when I got pregnant. Contained important information, like where my favorite brown sweater is, how to spell words I normally could spell in my sleep, and most of my friends' birthdays and last names. If found, please return immediately.

Think, type, ponder, type, daydream, type, blog...

I've started my second novel over from scratch. Given I already had nearly 200 pages on the first draft, this is pretty scary. Well, scary in the sense that I now have six months to write and edit an entire book rather than just the second half, but on the other hand, I think it's going to go a lot faster than the other one was.

You just know when a manuscript is working and when it isn't. When it is, the ideas flow (for the most part), and things seem to fit together before you even try to engineer them that way. When it doesn't work, it's like trying to jam the proverbial square peg into a round hole. I've known for a long, long time that this manuscript was one giant square peg, but I kept hammering away, thinking I could chip the corners off and make it fit. Silly me. Even when you shear off the edges, you still essentally have a square--you've just mutilated it and tried to make it into something it's not, and that's hardly the way to treat a perfectly innocent story.

So today I opened a new document and started afresh. I think it's going well, but I keep getting caught up in the details of the original draft, and forget I don't have to make them all the same in this new version. So what if six years lapsed in the first one? That was an arbitrary number when I first wrote it, I don't have to keep it if I don't want to. Yet when I try to change it, it feels like I'm altering reality, like somehow the reader is going to know I fiddled with things, so instead of going with the flow of the new version, I keep stalling and procrastinating between paragraphs. I think I just need time after each new bout of writing to get used to the new story; hopefully it is slowly replacing the memory of the original.

We'll see what happens.....

Sometimes 100% still isn't enough

I think I may have mentioned this before: I often refer to myself as 80% Girl. I do not mean that the other 20% of me is not girl. I mean that I tend to only go 80% of the way on things. There are very few things in life for which I will go all-out, no-holds-barred. I lack the drive to complete things. It is a character flaw evident in the many half-completed art and craft projects that I've stumbled across lately--cross-stitch patterns with only one color done, sketches that are missing integral components, boxes of supplies purchased for projects that never even got started. I'm big on ideas and not so big on the follow-through.

Well, almost a year and a half ago I found something that I thought I'd go 100% into: a direct-sales jewelry company that some colleagues at school worked for. It did not appear at first glance to be a good fit for me: I wore the same four pairs of earrings over and over, donned a necklace only on special occasions, and always forgot to put my wedding and engagement rings on after taking them off. But I liked the idea of working for myself, of doing the shows, of running my own little business, and there had always been that bit of me that liked being all dressed up and pretty. It also didn't hurt to see up-close and first-hand the profits some of these women were making. I thought to myself, "I've gotten fairly decent returns in the past for my 80%--just think what I could do if I went all the way!"

So I did. I spent a lot of money, a lot of time, and a lot of effort to get my business off the ground. And when I did shows, I was great. I really was. I had so much fun, and people always told me that I was good at what I did. For once, I was pulling out all the stops, and I couldn't help but dream of how far I'd go with the company.

But I found out that sometimes giving 100% isn't enough, and there isn't anything you can do about it. There are always factors beyond our control, and it turned out that there were too many of them getting in my way. At first I felt really bad about myself--I'd always blamed my lack of success in certain areas to the fact that I held back that 20%, and while I'm sure I could have succeeded more than I did, there's no guarantee I'd have reached every goal I ever dreamed of setting for myself.

So this week I decided to stop being an active consultant. I'm not folding altogether--I'm just not pursuing shows and sales anymore. And really, it sucks. I'd been really excited at the potential the job offered, and like I said, I had a fantastic time. But eventually you realize that your output isn't balancing your returns, and there comes a time to cut your losses.

So yeah, it's bumming me out. But at the same time, I'm glad I figured this out, because someday my kid is going to come to me crying because he/she did absolutely everything possible and still didn't reach their goal, and I want to be able to say to them, "It's okay! You're not a failure!" And it's one thing to say that to someone, and another thing to have lived it and speak from experience.

Oh really?

When I spellchecked my "Mysteries of the Freeway" entry, blogger.com suggested I replace "serenading" with "cremating."

???

Mysteries of the Freeway

Roadtripped with my mom yesterday to California's heartland--Bakersfield! Over the infamous Grapevine we went, getting caught in some nasty rain and emerging in the other side into a weird hybrid of Midwestern farmland and California mountains. Had it not been for the rocky horizon, we could have been on the highway I used to take from my Chicago-suburb home to U of Illinois--nothing but cornfields and the occasional house. Beautiful land, though.

On the way back, the I-5 took us through the cement jungle of Los Angeles, and it was there that we began to contemplate the Mysteries of the Freeway. With Carole King and Peter Gabriel serenading us, we discussed the conundrums of the highway:

1. With a shoulder merely a few feet wide and the majority of California drivers being borderline homicidal, how does graffiti get onto the side walls? How does one get to the side of the road without getting hit, or at least witnessed by the hundreds of drivers careening down the freeway every minute, since the I-5 is NEVER empty in LA? And then how does one have the audacity to sit there in plain view of thousands and tag the wall with their nonsensical letters?

2. Loosely connected to #1: how does graffiti get onto the overpasses? For the writing to be right-side-up to those of us on the road, the taggers must be writing upside-down, and in some cases, hanging from something, given how far down they write. Again, how do they do this without being seen? I think I'd notice someone hanging over the bridge I was about to drive beneath.

3. Despite my best intentions and most tenderloving attention, I can't get plants to grow. My thumb is beyond black. And yet, against these walls along the freeway that are miraculously graffittied, there are the most beautiful flowers and bushes and vines. What are they spiking their Miracle-Gro with to combat the exhaust these poor plants are constantly battling? Heck, half the time there aren't even sprinklers!

4. This one can also be cross-posted to the "Mysteries of the Grocery Store" list: why does it NEVER FAIL that, the minute I move into the lane that has been passing me at the speed of lightning, the fast lane grinds to a total halt, and my previous lane moves into warp speed?

5. How is it that the most deadlocked traffic can untangle and loosen for absolutely no reason at all? For that matter, why does it get deadlocked for no reason in the first place? It is as though 20% of the cars disappear off the road and no one notices; they just realize, "Hey, things are finally moving!" Buy WHY? WHY are they finally moving? WHAT HAPPENED??

We have no answers. The more we contemplated, the more confused we became. But as the three-laned potholed and littered LA portion of the I-5 gave way to the six-laned clean and smooth Orange Country stretch (gotta love Disney money), we shook our heads and gave up our ponderings and rocked out instead to the live version of "In Your Eyes." I guess some things will never be understood. They are, as my husband would say, mysteries wrapped in enigmas wrapped in bacon. Yum.

I got used!

I spoke at my old school's 8th grade chapel this morning. I've known about this for months, yet I waited until this week to really polish up my talk, which I thought was going to be a beefed-up version of a talk I did for the elementary kids earlier in the year. But when I tried to fix it up, I couldn't seem to do it. All these other thoughts--about how they're about to go into the big bad world of high school, how so many of them have been in this small Christian school for their entire school lives, how some of them, even after all the Bible memorization and chapels, still aren't Christians--kept invading my head as I'd try to work on that talk, and it just seemed so inconsequential when they were facing such huge changes. So finally, last night, I wrote a new talk, styling it like a prayer. "God, you know how I'm supposed to do this 8th grade chapel Thursday morning? Well, it's Wednesday night, and I still don't know what to talk about..." Then I devoted a little time to hashing out all the fears and concerns and desires I had for these kids, some of whom I feel rather connected to as they were in my very first class, and laid it out as though I was asking God to tell me which topic to pursue for the presentation. It was way shorter than the talks I usually do, and even after I was finished with it I felt like it was a cop-out. But that's all I seemed to have, so what was I going to do?

Well, God did His thing and it turned out incredible. First of all, the worship set was longer than usual, 5 songs, and the teacher that led it, Doug Harrison, chose the most awesome songs and brought the kids from fun, upbeat worship into contemplative, soul-seeking worship. Then I got up and almost lost it. My emotions have been on ultra-high lately, and between that worship set, the knowledge that my little babies were going to high school, and my fragile emotional state, I had to fight not to burst into tears for the entire ten minutes of my talk. (Actually, there was a rather substantial pause between my opening, "Dear God," and the next line, because I couldn't get myself together.) But I really felt like God was super-charging my words, and that it was going really well, and all was great until the closing line, and then I lost it again.

But then something cool happened. I just started talking. All I could say at first, in a strangled whisper as my throat closed with tears, was "God loves you." And then words kept coming, mostly reiterations and restatements of things I'd said in my talk, but some new stuff, too, and while I don't know if it was my words or the fact that I was sitting there in front of them with tears streaming down my face, I know I definitely had their attention. Heck, I think some of the teachers even got a little teary-eyed.

I wrapped it up somehow; I don't even remember what I said, but when it was over the principal, a really stellar guy, told me it was the perfect thing for them to hear. Some of the teachers told me that, too. I don't know if it really sank in--these are 8th graders, you know--but I know God did something, and as embarrassing as it was to sit in front of them and weep, it's a small price to pay if it planted a seed in someone.

Random

I was clicking that little "next blog" button I talked about earlier this week, just killing time, and the first eight blogs it took me to were written in languages other than English. For a second I felt like such an outsider. It was weird. The ninth one was English, but, like, some bizarre dialect that I guess the hip kids are speaking these days with all sorts of unidentifiable slang sprinkled through it and words spelled all funky. I took it as a sign that the blog world didn't want me around and went and played computer mahjong instead.

Tomorrow Dad and I are doing a reading, Q & A, and book signing at the local Borders Bookstore. I went through the prologue and first chapter to figure out what to read; funny how little of what is in there is absolutely necessary to the telling of the story. Quite a lesson in editing. I have about 12 minutes of material, which will probably stretch closer to 15 if I read at a slower, easier-to-follow pace. ('Course, it'll most likely end up being more like 10 because I'll get nervous and read too fast.) One funny thing, though: Grace, the main female character, goes to Barnes & Noble. And I'm reading it at Borders. Not sure if I should just say "Borders" so I don't feel guilty for product-placing their competition, or just say Barnes & Noble and apologize...

Free Your Books!!

This is the absolute best idea I've seen in a long, long time. It's called "Bookcrossing." The basic concept: turn the world at large into one giant lending library. How does it work? Basically, you take a book that you want to "release into the wild," and register it at bookcrossing.com. They give you a unique tracking number for the book, which you write on the inside cover, along with the website's url. Then you leave the book somewhere--at your local coffee shop, at the grocery store, at church, at a bus stop, wherever you want--and when someone finds it, they go to the website, log in using the book's tracking number, and mark where they found the book. Then, when they're done reading it, they do the exact same thing. You can go to the website and look up the book you've released and see where in the world it's gone--you wouldn't believe all the countries where this is happening! From Afghanistan (currently listing 3 books in the wild) to Burkina Faso (I don't even know where that is, but they have 2 books) to Spain (1,389 books) to the good ole' US of A (16,002 books--but we have an unfair advantage since we started the program). You can click on a country and go all the way down to the city level to see how many books are currently listed as being there--here in RSM there are apparently 7 floating around. And guess what?! Two members have "Worlds Collide" listed as being in their possession!

There's a lot more to the site than just this; go take a look so you can see what all they do. For those of us who consider reading to be more important than, say, eating, this is a dream come true. I can't wait to release some of my books into the wild!

Tell me who I am!

*It has come to my attention that you can barely see the text in the table I've included--I'm trying to figure out how to change it but so far have had no luck. Sorry!!*

I'm a sucker for profiles and personality tests--it's why I joined eHarmony in the first place, to get that free personality profile! Robin Lee Hatcher had a link to this one on her blog, and of course I couldn't resist. Here are the results of the kind of American English I speak:

Your Linguistic Profile:

65% General American English

15% Upper Midwestern

15% Yankee

5% Dixie

0% Midwestern

What Kind of American English Do You Speak?

5% Dixie, eh? Must be because I admitted to saying "y'all" on a frequent basis. Not even sure where I picked it up. Anyway, this site is great--another fantastic time-eating tool--they have tons of other profiles and quizzes. Knock yourself out!

More ways to kill time...

First we brought you Artpad.com. Now we draw your attention to the little button in the upper right-hand corner of the screen that says "Next Blog." It's been there since the day I started my blog, but I'd never clicked it until last night. It turns out there's no official "next blog;" it's not like they're in some particular sequence or anything. It just brings you to some other blogger.com blog. Once you're there, you click it again...and again...and again...and see all the bizarre and unreadable (because they're in Japanese, or Dutch, or Spanish, or whatever) blogs that the cybervillage has come up with. I had no idea how international blogger.com was until I saw all the non-English blogs out there; kind of eye-opening. Although, I suppose some of them could have been written by Americans; no reason they should give up their native language when they get here. Anyway, it was really kind of fascinating. Found one by a principal of a Seventh Day Adventist school who posted all the goofy things kids say (rasberries.blogspot.com, I believe) that had me laughing out loud. Found some rather disturbing ones; some really boring ones, and a lot of company ones, which was interesting. Never thought of using a blog for business. A lot of teachers, too, using them to update parents on classroom stuff; wish I'd thought of that back in the day.

Anyway, give it a shot and see what you get. But just so you know, if you hit the back button on your browser, it won't take you to the blog you just saw, it'll take you back to the blog you started on. So, like, if you deliberately come here, and then click the "next blog" five times, then hit the back button, it'll bring you back here. So make sure you're really done looking before moving on, or you may never find it again. (Although in some cases, that's a good thing.)

Mother/daughter tag-team ministering

I'm such a numbskull. I forgot to blog about the coolest part of my day.

THis morning my mom and I spoke to over 100 women who are "spiritually mismatched" in their marriages--married to unbelieving husbands. I was a little unclear as to what I could share--they wanted my perspective, having lived in a family where my parents were unequally yoked, as the lingo goes, but I was only 4 when Mom became a Christian and Dad started his spiritual journey, so it's not like I have a whole lot of vivid memories to share. But the woman hosting the breakfast said that, since my book deals with that kind of relationship, too, she thought I might have something unique to add to the morning. Despite being clueless about what I'd actually say once I got there, I accepted the invitation, because they also wanted me to bring my book to sell, and how can I turn that down?

Well, the breakfast was awesome. God totally spoke through my mom--she's such an introvert that speaking to 20 people can completely rattle her, much less 100. But once the interview started, it was like she does this kind of thing all the time. Not a single "uh" or "um" out of her the whole time. And I used to always think that she and I were equally emotional, but she didn't cry the whole time--got teary-eyed, yes, but didn't choke up. I, on the other hand, was biting my tongue to keep from crying while she talked, and once it was my turn to answer questions, I managed to get to within 3 words of the end of my response before I lost it. And truly, I didn't feel at all inspired; I doubted I'd said anything noteworthy the whole five minutes I talked. But at the end a lot of women came up and thanked me, even when my mom wasn't right there next to me making them feel like, "Well, if I thank Leslie, I really should thank Alison, too." And then we sold our books--mom co-wrote "Surviving A Spiritual Mismatch in Marriage" with my dad a few years back--and signed them for the women, and in the end I sold more than she did. :) 'Course that's probably because the majority of them women already had Mom's book. But still!

I may have even gotten a second speaking gig out of it. One of the leaders of the women's ministry that hosted the event asked if I'd consider speaking to the women at the college ministry. Not sure what on exactly, but she said she'd have one of the leaders from that ministry give me a call. I'm really excited about that. I'm finding that I really love to give talks, and honestly, I think I'm really good at it. Part of that whole teaching thing, I guess. And the head of the women's ministry--the woman that invited my mom and I, and who is actually a really good friend of Mom's--wants to meet with me for coffee next week because she wants to kind of mentor me in this whole speaking thing. How cool is that? Kinda funny how Dad used speaking as a springboard for his writing, and I'm using my writing (limited as it is so far) as a springboard for my speaking. It'll be interesting to see what the next couple years bring for me in these arenas....

Babies, babies everywhere

I co-hosted a shower today for a friend who's due in about a month. Lots of my friends from my teaching days were there, as the mother-to-be was one of us back in the day, so it was particularly fun because we so rarely see each other all at once.

The shower had basically ended, but all we teachers had congregated in the family room where it was more cozy, and were just chatting. Of the six of us in there, four were pregnant. Julie, the woman we were partying for, was obviously the soonest. But then someone said, "Okay, when's everyone's due dates?" And it went: August, September, October. Then one of them, who's been trying, said, "If I am, then I'll be due in December." And November stuck out like a big black hole in the calendar. The month I would have become a mom.

It's a good thing that there never really was a baby in there, because I can't imagine how wrecked I'd be if there had been, given how I can't seem to let this go. Another friend of mine, who miscarried twice before having her first, made a really good point about how the HOPE that is involved in being pregnant is what makes it so devastating when you lose the pregnancy. Your hopes get elevated to an astonishing degree, just sky-high and within an arm's reach of heaven, and then suddenly you're plummeted back to earth and the landing is not at all soft.

I started a journal the day I got my positive test, and recorded all my thoughts, and symptoms (very short list since I hardly had any), the people I told each day about the pregnancy, and I finally threw it away the other day. It was a bit liberating, getting rid of the physical evidence of the hope that had been decimated. Like finally getting rid of the trinkets an old boyfriend gave you years ago, or mementos from years past that conjure the choices you wish you hadn't made. But I can't help thinking that, the next time I get to start that kind of journal, all the excitement will be out of it, because it won't be the first time, and every time I write in it I'll wonder if this journal will last longer than a month.

I checked my new prayer book to see if it had a miscarriage prayer. It doesn't. I wish it did. I need new words.

For the traditionalist in me

Dan and I were at Barnes & Noble today. I was perusing the Christian section in search of nothing in particular, just scanning the shelves to see if my eye caught anything interesting. And it did. A little red book, hardbound, with the simple title, "My Daily Prayer Book." I opened it to see if I could find any denominational label, then scanned the table of contents to see what all it had. And the more I saw, the more excited I got. Prayers for each morning and evening, prayers for each new week, prayers for each holiday and for special circumstances. I flipped through to skim some of the prayers, and that clinched it. And it was less then $10 with tax.

It kills me that prayer is such an issue with me. I know better than to think anything will be a quick fix, but if nothing else, this will help me to ground my ever-spastic mind while I pray, and guide me beyond the cookie-cutter prayers I tend to pray every day.

Revelation

I was lying in bed last night, praying, when I had a revelation. I'm not sure if I can put it into words, which isn't good when you're a writer, but in a nutshell, I realized that God is....big.

Now, before you say, "Duh!" here's the thing. Of course I know God is "big," in the sense that he's all-powerful, all-knowing, all-seeing, all-everything but what's bad, and that gives Him a certain "big" stature to us. We don't imagine someone with all that God is being 4'9". But I think that I've "known" God for so long that He stopped being big to me. When I pictured Him I inadvertantly pictured the Jesus aspect of Him, and that shrank Him to human size in my mind. What's that line from the Genie in the Disney "Aladdin" movie, something about the biggest power in the universe, in a itty-bitty living space. He was kind of like that to me. Lots of power, small package that I could get my head around. But then last night, as I was praying, I got this sudden vision of God being like the sun: so big that, even millions of miles away, He's huge in the sky.

It's a bit like the concept of love. We toss the word around so much that, by the time you find yourself faced with a person you really and truly LOVE with all the facets that the concept entails, the word dribbles, powerless, off your tongue. Suddenly this word that should cause you to swell with emotion, to melt with pleasure, has no more oomph to it than the plainest, most ordinary word in the language, and even though the concept behind it is so intense, you have no way to convey it. So you say it over and over, thinking maybe you can pile it up and increase its potency, but instead you're just exacerbating the problem. Soon you've said it so much it's lost all meaning.

I think that's what happened to me and God. After 23 years of faith, after thousands of Sunday school stories and youth group meetings and Bible studies, God became commonplace. The idea of God creating the universe--did you hear me? CREATING THE FREAKING UNIVERSE-- held no more mystery or majesty. The fact that He managed to multiply two fish and three loaves of bread to feed more than 5 times as many people as attend my church is about as awe-inspiring to me as the fact that dirt plus water equals mud. How pathetic.

So anyway...I'm lying in bed, praying, and suddenly I saw Him staring down at me, patiently listening to my prattling, and I was overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by His existence. Overwhelmed by His strength. Overwhelmed by the privilege I have to speak directly to Him. This gigantic, enormous, massive power, this God that can speak solar systems into place and call all the stars by name and keep track of every sparrow all at the same time...this God sees me, hears me, listens to me, and speaks to me. And I, miracle of miracles, am allowed to see, hear, listen, and speak back.

Oh yeah, and He loves me, too. Me. Loves me.

Oh boy. Slow down. One mind-bending concept at a time...

***insert monosyllabic grunt here***

taxes done. three hours. brain hurts. jaw aches--clenched teeth. deductions income forms publications receipts wages your-return-has-eight-errors why-can't-i-find-the-dmv-payment-for-my-car congratulations-you-are-done. 24 pages printed. 12:30 AM. must sleep.

zzzzzzzzzzz....

Say that again?

Have you ever thought you knew the lyrics to a song, then found out the real lyrics were completely different from what you thought they were? And the funny thing is, your line makes complete sense to you in the context of the song; it's not like, "Gosh, I don't see where this is coming from, but I guess that's what he's singing!" This happened to me recently with a new worship song. I can't remember where I first heard it, but it was somewhere where I didn't have the lyrics in front of me, so when the chorus came I heard, "Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah, your love makes me stay." And I was like, Wow. That is a cool, cool line. Not the kickbacks of being a follower, not the fire insurance aspect of it, but God's love, the full-on 1 Corinthians 13, love-is-patient-love-is-kind kind of love that God has for us, with all its incredible facets and strength. Because, honestly, there are some times when there's very little else keeping me there, you know? But anyway, then the next time I heard the song, the lyrics were there, and I nearly cried with disappointment because I found out the line was "Your love makes me sing." Now, I've got nothing against singing--I'm quite fond of it, in fact, as my friends will tell you--but the line just didn't strike a chord with me the way my version did. So now, when I sing it, I sing my line instead. :)

Now this should be fun. What song lyrics have you misunderstood in the past? You know, there's a whole book of them, called "'Scuse Me While I Kiss This Guy,"which was the author's version of Jimi Hendrix's line, "'Scuse me while I kiss the sky." My dad got it to use as a sermon illustration one time, and I'm not kidding, I was laughing my butt off at some of them. So anyway, please post them, and tell us if you prefer your version or the original.

Death and Taxes

April 15th is looming large, and we've still yet to do our taxes. We're a last-minute bunch, I'll admit. I have managed to get my patootie down to Staples to get this year's Turbo Tax programs, and I just finished about an hour of receipt sorting and classification of documents so that, once we crack open those programs, we'll be all set to go. Last year we were so proud of ourselves for wading through it all--I'd used H & R Block or something similar for the previous years, and Dan's were always so easy he could just telefile with the easy form--and then we completely forgot to sign the silly printouts and include our W-2 forms. I totally freaked when we got a letter from the IRS a few weeks later. Nothing like those three little letter to strike terror in the heart of good citizens.

It's truly unbelievable how many receipts and write-offs one can rack up as a writer. The bummer is that, while I can write off tall these great things--printer ink, my computer, novels I buy, the drinks I buy at the coffeeshops when I go there to write--I hardly ever have the money to buy them in the first place. Like they say, takes money to save money.

I started working with a direct sales business in December of 2003 called Cookie Lee (corporate guidelines prohibit me from linking you there, but it's cookielee.com if you want to check it out), so last year was my full year of business, and sadly, I did not plan well for tax season. I was shocked, though, to see what my sales were--way more than I'd anticipated. Still, given all the money I poured into it, I could probably have claimed a loss if I'd better tracked things like mileage. But who am I kidding to think I'd ever keep track of little piddly things like mileage when I can barely keep track of the keys needed to drive the dang car? This year I managed to stay really, really organized--until about two weeks ago. Now there are receipts and stuff everywhere, and the little slips of paper I wrote milage and toll fees and postal costs on are who-knows-where. How I wish I'd gotten my mother's organizational gene. Apparently the "disorganized" and "writer" genes are on the same chromosome, inextricably tied together. Thankfully Mom's genetic contribution watered down my dad's--otherwise I'd have lost my husband under all the clutter by now.

So now my brain hurts. Too much thinking, too much math. I have my freshly-signed Jodi Picoult novel waiting to be read, so I'd better go indulge it and rest the part of my head that deals with taxes. Otherwise I may exhaust it end up forgetting to send them altogether this year.

Oh, the agony of defeat

Well, I did everything in my power. My family was making fun of my cheering because I was going so nuts. But, alas, it was all for naught: my poor Fighting Illini didn't quite fight hard enough against the Tar Heels and that's the end of that.

Until next season.....

Hail to the orange, hail to the blue...

Okay, so my team is in the NCAA final championship game. This is unheard of for the University of Illinois--we're usually pretty good, but not this good! Having graduated in '99, there's not a soul left there that is even remotely familiar to me, although to be honest I was never that keyed into the sport scene when I was there. All my friends were band nerds, though, so I'm used to seeing the familiar faces in the trombone or trumpet section. This is one of the few times I really wish I was still back in Chicago. There would be a lot more people to celebrate with.

Being part of these mass events is one of the things I miss most about college. I loved being a part of something huge. I loved Thursday nights in my dorm, knowing every other TV on the floor was tuned to NBC at 7:00 when "Friends" came on. (The entire floor screamed in unison when Ross and Rachel kissed for the first time.) I loved Saturday mornings in the fall when the football team had a home game; I'd join the throng and march with the band from the Armory to the stadium and go crazy during the pre-game show. (Gotta love band friends--they got two tickets to each game, so I never missed one.) I loved whatever day it was that The Onion came out and everyone was walking on the Quad with their face buried in the newspaper. And I especially loved singing "Loyalty" at the end of the football halftime show, arms around each other's shoulders, swaying and singing, The Chief standing proud with his arms outstretched in the center of the field. (Yes, I supported The Chief; still have the t-shirt.)

So tomorrow I'll just have to fake it. I'll don my Illinois wear, I'll pretend I'm in the dorm, ten floors up above Green Street, leaning against the bunkbeds as I sit on the floor staring at my roommate's 20 inch TV, instead of sitting on the couch in my parents' California living room. I'll pretend the shouts of "I-L-L...I-N-I!" can be heard in the street below and that the sidewalks on the Quad, filled with blue and orange chalk drawings, are just a five minute walk away instead of a five hour plane trip. I'll pretend that I'm still 20 years old and that my biggest worry is midterms and not paying the mortgage. And when its halftime, I'll embarrass my husband and sing "Loyalty" at the top of my lungs.

Hail to the orange, hail to the blue,
Hail, Alma Mater, ever so true! (So tru-ue...)
We love no other, so let our motto be,
'Victory!...Illinois...Var-si-tyyyyy!"

GO ILLINI!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Books I'm reading

Went on a book rampage the other day. Haven't had anything to read in ages and really needed to fill up the fiction tank. Got seven books from the library, and am planning on purchasing the new Jodi Picoult because she's coming here to sign it next week and I want to bring it in. So I thought I'd share some of the titles I'd strongly suggest you check out:

Eric Wilson's book "Dark to Mortal Eyes" was unlike anything I'd ever read. Seriously. Now, I don't typically read the Ted Dekker, Dean Koontz type stuff, but Eric's a friend of mine, so I checked it out. WOW. I think he's created his own genre, and thankfully he's got a second one coming out in a month called "Expiration Date." I'm lucky and got to read an advanced copy of it, and all I can say is, this guy is creative. And, of course, a fantastic writer. Definitely check him out.

Anita Shreve's book, "The Pilot's Wife," was a one-day book: started it yesterday morning, finished it last night before bed. Very moving, very sad, very surprising. Loved it.

Lisa Samson's new one, "Tiger Lillie" was incredible. I swear, every book that woman releases is just gold. I can't wait for "Club Sandwich."

I started reading Dee Henderson's book "Truth Seeker" this morning. I read "The Healer" a few months back and really liked it, so I have high hopes for this one.

So what are you reading these days?

Go kids, go...

Lisa Samson wrote a great blog on the youth of today. (Sounds stodgy but it's not, trust me; go read it.) She made a great point about how parents today limit their children's freedom so much. Once upon a time, summer meant taking off after breakfast and showing up somewhere around four-thirty in the afternoon, having filled the day with bike rides all over town, hours at the park, quick lunch at a friend's house, and who knows what else. Nowadays parents keep such close surveillance on their kids that they don't get to taste those same freedoms that we did.

Is this true everywhere, or just out here in SoCal? I mean, we have mountain lions and 45mph speed limits through the center of town and major streets absolutely everywhere, which is vastly different from the quiet neighborhood where I grew up and the pokey driving even on the main drag through town. But gosh, the miles I logged on my bike, riding to the park, riding to the library, riding to my friend Sara's house clear on the other side of town...no wonder I had the metabolism of a hummingbird back then. And it was so much FUN. That's the bottom line. Every day I got up I couldn't wait to see where I'd end up that day. And I just don't think our kids have that same feeling, because they know where they'll end up: the game room, the garage, the back yard, the front yard, or all those things at their friend's house. BORING.

When I was teaching, I saw this protection extend even further than just the physical parameters of kids' free-range areas. Parents were afraid to let their kids fail. Rather than treat a bad grade as an opportunity to learn from their mistakes (didn't study, didn't care, didn't write down the right page numbers to review, so now you've learned your lesson) parents acted like it was the end of the world and freaked out. (Start saving for the therapy now, folks!) I remember my first F. Math, second grade. Did the whole subtraction page in addition. Totally my fault; made an assumption and went with it instead of reading the direction. I got over it. Big deal. And I learned from it, lemme tell ya, because at 8 I was already very conscientious about my grades. Now when you write the letter F on a paper parents get mad at you for dashing their kids' self-esteem against the rocks. Like "32%" is any better.

Parents are also afraid to let their kids fall, both figuratively and physically. I've broken four bones in my body: wrist three times and thumb once. I've fallen out of a tree and sprained my ankle. I've fallen directly on my head and been knocked speechless. (Very weird experience--the words were totally in my head like I was saying them out loud, but my mouth wasn't working.) And everything still seems to be working as it should. But now parents are overly protective because heaven forbid little Johnny have to wear a cast for six weeks. Pul-leeze. You're the center of attention, people wanna sign your cast, it's great social exposure, and then you've got A Story. Kids today don't get stories because they're stuck inside playing SuperMario all day. Figuratively speaking, parents are afraid to let their kids "fall" as in "mess up." I used to tell my fifth grade parents at Back to School night every fall, "This is the year the straight A students will get a C or worse, and the year the angels will end up in detention. It happens. It's not the end of their world. These are excellent opportunities to help them learn from their mistakes, to show them you love them regardless, and to let them be human." And sure enough, the kid who had never "pulled a card" ended up pulling three and having to write an essay on respect. The kid who never got less than an A missed honor roll for the first time. And the kids who were okay with it were the kids whose parents said, "Wow, bummer, huh? What's up?" and not, "What happened!? Let me talk to your teacher about this...."

The plastic bubble is doing more harm than good. We've gotta find a way to let out kids out of the Habitrail and into the real world so they can learn to live their own lives and fend for themselves. I'm all for parental responsibility, but isn't part of our responsibility making sure our kids grow up with a healthy view of life?

The Mother Ship is calling me home....

Oh. Oh. Oh. It's too wonderful to be true: is there really an entire restaurant dedicated to cereal? Behold Cereality. Wisely setting their first location on a college campus (how fondly I remember those evenings when I'd walk into the dorm cafeteria and discover it was yet again another Lucky Charms night), this is a venture that is virtually guaranteed to succeed. How I envy those lucky U of Arizona and Pennsylvania students (and soon some yet-unrevealed student group in Chicago) who have stores near their campuses. Come here, Cereality! Please! We have a really big junior college just up the street--well, fifteen minutes up the street, but still! Perhaps I'm barking up the wrong tree with the book thing. Maybe opening my own Cereality franchise is my true calling. My passion for cereal is unmatched, my dedication to perfecting the cereal-milk ratio bordering on obsession--who else would be better suited? Time to rework my resume....

How cool is my husband?

This is love:

We pulled into the driveway last night, and when I got out I stepped on a snail. This is something I've managed to avoid doing since I moved here nearly 5 years ago, and the very thought of it as always grossed me out to the point of nausea. We didn't have snails in Illinois, but here, especially when it rains, they're everywhere. So I got all grossed out and whiny, and I was still fending off the involuntary shudders while cleaning the kitchen ten minutes later when Dan went outside for a minute. When he came back in I asked where he'd gone, and he said he moved the car. Puzzled, I asked why, and he said, "So you don't have to see the snail next time you go out."

How sweet is that? Those of you who are still searching for the love of your life, let me tell you, it's these little gestures that count. Anyone can plan big romantic dinners or elaborate dates, but when someone picks up on the little things you say and do, and then spontaneously does something about them to try to make you happy, you know you've found someone who's real quality. Dan is the King of Little Gestures That Speak Volumes. I'm so lucky.

Deprogramming

We saw The Lion King last night. Strictly speaking, it was not the best show I've ever seen, but I have to say, the costumes were unlike anything I ever could have imagined. The audience burst into spontaneous applause when the animals were all coming in for the opening number, "Circle of Life." I would give anything to be able to go back in time and be in on the costume design meetings that yielded these ideas.

So, I'm getting ready to go to the show, and I'm putting on my makeup. I've never been super-excited about doing my makeup, but with this side business of selling jewelry, I have to remember that I'm selling an image, not just a product, and I have to dress accordingly. But I'll be honest and admit that there's a part of me that feels like I really need to wear it, so I do.

Later, Dan looks at me with this forlorn face and says, "Ali, you're so beautiful, you don't need all that stuff! Why do you do that to yourself?" And the weird thing (and one of the thousands of reasons why I ADORE my husband) is that he's being completely serious. He's not just trying to butter me up or something. He hates it when I wear makeup. He really and truly thinks I look better without it.

It makes me wonder why I don't see what he sees when I look at myself. Why do I not see the smile that lights up a room and the eyes with the depth of oceans? Why does my gaze instantly go to the light freckles above my lip that I swear make me look like I have a mustache and the pores you could sail ships in? And why, even when I'm having one of my extremely rare good skin days, do I still think I really should put on some foundation?

One of my teacher friends is not, in her words, a "girlie girl." She doesn't like dresses and skirts and flowery things and pink and makeup. She especially loathes makeup, and can only think of three times she's ever worn it. She told me once that she doesn't want to wear makeup when she teaches because she wants her girl students to see that a woman can be perfectly comfortable in her own skin without having to doll it up. Given where we live, in the liposuction and plastic surgery capital of the world, this is a lesson that these girls desperately need to be taught. And I remember being so impressed that she could do that. And she's not one some Noxema model with skin that looks airbrushed even in person. She's a normal woman with normal skin that has a mind of its own sometimes, and she's okay with that. And I find myself very jealous of her confidence.

So I started trying to figure out who it is I'm putting the makeup on for in the first place. I used to do it to get guys' attention, but obviously there's no need for that, and frankly it didn't help me get the guy I've got because he hates it all anyway. Then I thought of that line from the song, "Wild Night:" "All the girls are dressed up for each other..." And I realized that I don't care what the guys think I look like. It's the women's opinion I'm worried about. What the heck!?!?!? And I thought back to when I first started wearing makeup in high school, and how I was always more concerned with how the popular girls might perceive me than the guys of any social rank. And even though the girl is outta high school by a decade, apparently the high school is not out of the girl, because I still find myself intimidated by beautiful women and worried about what they'll think of my clothes, my hair, my skin. They could be 19 years old and more shallow than a puddle in the desert and I'd still think, "She's totally mocking my skirt in her head, I can see it." WHY ON EARTH DO I CARE?!

So I'm thinking I've been brainwashed by society, by makeup commercials, by the guy in high school who once pointed to a billboard with some Baywatch girl on it and said, "Now, if only you looked like her...,"by the clothes in Express and Limited that are supposedly my size but wouldn't fit me unless I lost three inches off my hips. And I'd really love to say I'm throwing my makeup out today and thumbing my nose at the supposed standard of beauty our culture promotes. But I'm not there yet. But I'd love to know that there are some others like me out there who would love to deprogram along with me and learn to see the beauties that we are underneath all the base and cover-up and mascara.

Anybody?

Mais, je ne parle pas francais!

Okay, so now it's 4 o'clock in the morning--4:38 by my alarm clock--and I'm still not sleeping. But as I was lying there I remembered a dream I had earlier tonight, and I figured if I didn't get up and blog it now I'd never remember it in the morning.

In my dream I was on the run, trying to hide from someone or something, and to throw people off my track I started speaking French to everyone. And I really was speaking French. There was one scene where I was in a deli ordering a sandwich, and I did the whole thing in French, and I remember actually translating from English to French in my head before speaking. (and when people asked me to speak in English, I did it with this really bad accent. In my head I was actually thinking at the time, "That's a really bad accent. I'm totally going to get found out."

Now, I took two years of high school French, and in real life I can probably create about fifteen sentences, but that's it. But is it possible that all the French I knew at one time but now can't recall is locked in my head somewhere, and I actually accessed it in my dream?? Darnit, why can't I do that when I'm awake?!

I remember reading an article a long time ago about a girl who was in some sort of accident, I think, or at least in a coma from something or other, and when she woke up she spoke Korean fluently. Her grandmother was Korean, and she'd grown up hearing the language spoken by family, but never really learned it herself. And then suddenly she could. Can you imagine? Can you imagine waking up one day and knowing something you'd never known before? Being able to speak a different language, or paint like Monet, or sing like an angel, or pitch like Randy Johnson? And then realizing that the ability to do this new thing has always been there, and you just couldn't get to it? It makes me wonder what else is stuck up there in my noggin, just waiting to be tapped into.

Bon soir, mes amies, bon soir...

It's 3 o'clock in the morning...

...and sadly y'all don't know that song--unless you attended Axis in 1999 and 2000, anyway. "It'3 3 o'clock in the morning/another day as flown away/add it to the pile of yesterdays/with a hundred thousand more yesterdays to come/and when it's 3 o'clock in the morning/and I just wanna go to sleep/but I can't go to sleep/'cause when I'm alone in my room, this aching resumes..." SUCH a great song. Get that thing published, Doug. Sell it to someone because, honestly, the world needs to hear it.

So, it IS 3 o'clock in the morning--3:24, actually, according to my Mac, although it tends to run a bit fast so probably more like 3:18 or something--and it hasn't been the best of nights. Could have been much worse, though, so I'm grateful that I slept as much as I did. I took a three hour nap after church (VERY unlike me, I don't have a body that does the nap thing well) and had slept nine and a half hours the night before, but my miscarriage decided to choose bedtime to really kick in, so I had I've only slept on and off since about 10. But now it seems to be over. All done. Not pregnant anymore.

Weird.

Thanks to my Unofficial Fan Club!!

I am sooo kicking myself. I had this awesome book launch party yesterday, it was SO much fun, TONS of people came (well, 25, but for me that's tons) and did I take a single photograph? Noooooo. Did I remember my camera? Yes. Did I even comment to people at one point, "Oh my gosh! I need to get my camera out and get some pictures!" Yes. Did I actually do this? No. Blast. I'm so into the whole scrapbooking thing now, but I'm making it really hard on myself but not getting pictures!

The party, though, really was great. I'm not the best party-thrower. I never estimate correctly the amount of food, I'm not good at mingling and end up spending too much time with one group and not enough with another, and I think I lack that hostess gene that makes people think, "Oh good! Alison's throwing a party! We simply must attend!" But for once, I think I pulled it off okay. (It was really funny, though: at one point I realized everyone had totally segregated into "church friends" and "work friends" and "old church friends" and that my worlds were definitely NOT colliding. In fact, they were doing an excellent job of avoiding each other.)

If nothing else, this past week of pain and joy has shown me that I have a lot of people in my life that support me. I've no doubt that the line will be practically out the door when I do my book signing in April, because everyone wants to make an impression on the bookstore patrons, as well as make sure I am not sitting there alone like an idiot. And I can't even begin to count the emails and cards I've gotten from people showing sympathy for our miscarriage. I'm so blessed. Thanks everyone. :)

Clubs We Don't Want to Belong To

There are certain experiences which tie us together with random people all over the world, creating fragile camaraderies and initiating us into unofficial clubs. For example, I belong to the Broken Bone Club (membership first received with a broken wrist in 1979, renewed in 1986 with another broken wrist and again in 1989 with a broken thumb), the Pastor's Kid Club (initiated 1989 when Dad joined Willow Creek) and the International Traveler Club (joined 1994 with a trip to London; renewed 1996 and also gained membership into the sub-club of Those Who Have Lived in Another Country). Three Saturdays ago--although, with all that's happened these last few weeks, it seems so much longer than that--I joined a club I've always wanted to join: the Pregnant Women Club. But on Thursday my membership was revoked, and I was initiated into a club I'd rather have not joined: The Thwarted Pregnancy Club.

My particular pregnancy turned out to be hardly a pregnancy at all: all the support systems were in place, but no baby ever formed. The technical term is a Blighted Ovum, and the typical cause is abnormal chromosomes. Thankfully, this does not indicate an ongoing issue; it is apparently a very common occurrence, and according to my wonderful doctor, there's no reason why we should have any trouble getting pregnant again.

Technically I was not-really-pregnant for just over 5 weeks, and I only knew about it all for two of them, but let me tell you, it doesn't take long to get very, very excited at the possibility of having a baby. (At least, not when you've been wanting one for as long as you can remember.) So, as you might imagine, I've been a mess for a week now as blood test after blood test showed levels too low and issues aplenty. But God is so, so good. He's been telling me from the beginning that this wasn't going to work, and I could have saved myself a lot of trouble if I'd only listened, but it did prepare me for Thursday's meeting with the doctor and hearing the news. And even though I sobbed--and I mean, really sobbed--when I got home, I really was okay. As the old song says, "It is well with my soul." I expected to be a lot more shaken up than I am. God has soothed my emotions and given me hope that I will be back in the Pregnant Women's Club again someday.

So now what?

I've been trying to find just the right post topic to use as the next post after Laurie's death. As you can see by the date, it's taken me awhile, and to be honest I'm not entirely sure I found the right one. But I gotta keep writing on this thing, so I figure I might as well just jump back in.

The day we found out what happened to Laurie, we also found out what happened to me: we found out I am pregnant. We'd been in limbo for about a week, getting negative test after negative test, and not knowing why since all other indicators pointed to a pregnancy. Friday I was a mess: I was stressed about not knowing what had happened to Laurie, and I was stressed about not knowing what was going on with me. Finally, that night, I sort of opened my hands to God and said, "You know what's going on everywhere; I don't have to worry about this. Good or bad, what I want or not, both these things are in your hands. Do with them what you will."

The next day I got my first positive, and a few hours later we learned Laurie's fate. It was, honestly, a little creepy to have both happen the same day, and my emotions didn't know which way to go. It didn't get any better as the week went on: some things I won't go into here started happening on Tuesday that I knew weren't supposed to, and until today I've been in limbo yet again waiting to find out if everything was okay. Praise God, all is well (except for a hormone deficiency for which I get to take supplements and give up blood every week to test), and for the first time I think it's starting to sink in that I am going to be a mom. Wow.

It's funny how much easier it is to do things you hate when you know a little life literally depends on it. I hate water. Hate it. Never understood people who walked around with a water bottle all day. But now I'm sucking down the stuff like it's candy because I know the baby needs it. Hate exercise, although not as much as water, and yet I've had no problem getting up every morning at 7 to go walking, because I know the baby needs for my body to be healthy so its body can be healthy. Hate vegetables even more than exercising, and possibly even more than water, and yet I bought a ton of them at Whole Foods the other day because I know the baby needs me to eat them. Been in a total writing slump because my current ms is driving my batty, but now I'm motivated to finish it--as well as the third book--ahead of schedule so that, when the baby arrives this November, I won't have writing hanging over my head and can instead just enjoy getting to know my child.

My Child.

Good Lord, am I ready for this?

Trouble me

Ever hear that song by 10,000 Maniacs?

Trouble me, disturb me with all your cares and you worries. Trouble me on the days when you feel spent.
Why let your shoulders bend underneath this burden when my back is sturdy and strong?
Trouble me.
Speak to me, don't mislead me, the calm I feel means a storm is swelling; there's no telling where it starts or how it ends.
Speak to me, why are you building this thick brick wall to defend me when your silence is my greatest fear?
Why let your shoulders bend underneath this burden when my back is sturdy and strong?
Speak to me.
Let me have a look inside these eyes while I'm learning.
Please don't hide them just because of tears.
Let me send you off to sleep with a "There, there, now stop your turning and tossing."
Let me know where the hurt is and how to heal.
Spare me? Don't spare me anything troubling.
Trouble me, disturb me with all your cares and you worries.
Speak to me and let our words build a shelter from the storm.
Lastly, let me know what I can mend.
There's more, honestly, than my sweet friend, you can see.
Trust is what I'm offering if you trouble me.

I thought of this song when I found out Laurie had drown herself in Lake Michigan. A suicide letter was found in her car yesterday. I've had my brushes with suicide--not with myself, but with friends--and the one thing I've learned is that there's no way a non-suicidal person can understand what's going through a person's mind when they've gotten that deep in their despair. But even if you don't "get it," that doesn't mean you can't still help. No one knew Laurie was suicidal, no one knew she was depressed. If only she had opened up to someone, she might still be here.

To all my friends: trouble me. I'm begging you. Don't ever, ever, ever think your pain is of no interest to me. And don't wait until you're considering letting go of the knot at the end of your rope.

Laurie, you are so missed. I'm just relieved to know you're in the arms of Jesus now, and that every pain that drove you to this unfathomable depth is gone.

Where are you, Laurie?

Just received an email this morning from a friend of mine detailing the disappearance of the younger sister of a friend of ours. Laurie Boncimino was last seen leaving her job at a Chicago suburb Starbucks on Tuesday night. She's an honor student in college, recently engaged, and a strong Christian who loves the Lord and recently went to Mexico on a missions trip. She's a dear, sweet girl who is close to her family and well-liked. My heart is absolutely breaking.

If you live in Chicago or the suburbs and would like a copy of her missing person report, which describes her car, what she was last wearing, and has a recent photo, please feel free to email me and I'll send it to you. Regardless, please, please pray for Laurie's safety and return.

Mmmmm....meat.

If you knew me as a kid, you know I love ice cream and any combination of peanut butter and chocolate. If you knew me in high school, you know I used to have a bagel and cream cheese and chocolate soft serve with Reeces Pieces on top for almost every lunch. If you knew me the last six years or so you know I live on cereal (Cheerios and Lucky Charms, especially). If you've known me for any length of time, you'd be surprised to find out I'm turning into a health food nut. And if you don't know me, then trust me, this is weird.

My mom turned me on to mercola.com. Dr. Mercola has a clinic outside Chicago where people go when doctors have either given up on them because they can't figure out what's wrong with them, or where people go when they're not pleased with the treatment their doctors insist is their only choice. He's done a ton of research into the foods we eat and how we are affected by them, and he has found that your metabolism runs best on certain kinds of foods. he says everyone falls into one of three metabolic groups: protein group, carb group, or mixed group.

Now, of course, I have lived my life as a carb girl. Bread was my best friend, cereal my soulmate, and sugar in any form my dearest love. And guess what! I'm a protein type! No wonder I've been hungry for the last ten years; my metabolism has had hardly any fuel.

His research is fascinating. I strong urge you to go check out his site and sign up for his newsletter. It comes twice a week and has all sorts of great stuff in it. And if you like milk, you should definitely type "milk" into his info search engine and read some of the articles that come up. Talk about insightful!

Now, what's really ironic is that my THREE boxes of tagalong Girl Scout Cookies were just delivered and, despite the fat that I just told you I'm a protein type who shouldn't be eating sugar or carbs, I'm totally pigging out. Dr. Mercola talks about how carbs in most forms (candy, potatoes, pastas, cereals) are addictive, and I am living proof. Does it matter that I lost ten pounds just by cutting out sugar and grains? Nooo, I go right back to sugar's sweet embrace the minute I am tempted. It's a process, lemme tell ya.

What a nightmare...

...literally. Woke up crying from a dream in which this little boy appeared in my house, and I knew it was actually Satan in disguise. (The boy was in a disguise, too--a Superman one, for some reason.) He was soooo cute, like, 4 years old or so, with curly blond hair and perfect little white teeth and a great big 4 year old grin, and just being a little boy by wrestling around and being goofy. But then he got hold of some wooden thing off our mantel (that we don't have in real life) and swung it at me, and when it hit me it nearly killed me. So I started defending myself, and this little boy just thought I was playing; he didn't realize Satan was using him to try to kill me. And I realized, I have to either kill this little boy and thus destroy the vessel Satan is using in order to save myself, or I have to let myself be killed. And I couldn't do it, I couldn't kill this little boy. I kept trying to defend myself and hit him as gently as I could, but then he just got mad and started hitting me more. And then I thought I'd woken up, because I fainted and when my eyes opened my mom was there. But she looked all weird, all pale and undead-like (thanks to the five minutes of "Resident Evil" that I saw Dan watch while I was making dinner last night) and I realized I wasn't dreaming, this was reality. And then the little boy came tearing around the corner and I thought, "This is it. I'm going to die." And my mom just sat there watching while the boy acme up to me with this wooden thing and prepared to take a swing. And then I woke up sobbing and couldn't stop.

It's been a really long time since I had a serious nightmare. Every once in a while I have one of those kinds that jerks you awake and you think, "Whoa, that was scary," then take a deep breath and go back to sleep. But when I was in high school I used to have night terrors almost every week: wars, bombs, attacks, people trying to kill me or kidnap me or worse, watching people I knew die or be taken hostage. And I never read scary books or watch scary movies, because I know how impressionable my subconscious is (hello, FIVE MINUTES of "Resident Evil!"), and quite frankly my imagination doesn't need any help thinking up scary things, so I don't know where all these dreams came from. The worst is when the bad people were people I knew; because I'd see them, like a school the next day, and my gut reaction would be to run, because those dreams were so darned real.

Dan can dream lucidly, most of the time, anyway, and I'm so jealous of that. Every time I think, "This is just a dream" while I'm dreaming I'll end up "waking up" in my dream and finding it's all still there. But he can know it's a dream and play around with it for a while, and then wake himself up if it gets out of his control. And he rarely remembers his dreams, whereas mine are always so detailed and vivid that they become like a set of memories from another life or something. I actually had a dream in college that was a full-on movie, complete with dissolves from one scene to another, cameras that panned across as view and zoomed in or out on certain subjects, and a musical soundtrack! And it was an almost complete story, just missing the very beginning to explain how exactly I got into Thailand, but it had a complete plot and a twist ending and everything. I started writing it as a book my sophomore year, back when I used to actually keep things on disks instead of my hard drive, and I left the disk down in the computer lab where I'd gone to print something for class and it got stolen. I still remember the entire thing, though, and one of these days, if I can muster the energy to do some serious research on Thailand and prostitution rings (piqued your curiosity yet?) I'll write it.

But right now it's time for breakfast and some mindless morning TV to purge that nasty dream from my day, lest it cast a pall over the rest of my Monday. Hope you had a better night than I did!