How to sell your house. In 4 days.

Write a letter like this and leave it on your counter.

To the potential owners of XXXX,

We found this house probably much the same way you did, scrolling through hundreds of web pages, sipping wine and dreaming. Our kids were young, three and seven. We wanted a safe, family-oriented neighborhood with a pool and playground and good schools nearby. We hoped for a flat, fenced yard and beautiful big trees on a cul-de-sac, a house that we would make a home.

 That was eleven years ago. Our son is now in college and our daughter's a freshman in high school. They were born on different coasts, but this is the house they'll speak of when asked about their childhood. This is the place where Christmas magic happened, where baby birds fell from trees and were handfed until they could fly, where puppies grew into dogs, where slumber parties and birthday celebrations and over ten years of mystery parties were forged into lifelong memories.

This house has a distinct soul. You'll feel it on quiet mornings sitting on the patio with a cup of coffee, on cool evenings burning twigs in the fire pit as owls hoot, cooking and baking in the kitchen, scents drifting into the dining room where guests wait, lounging in the family room on movie night, or hosting outdoor barbeques on game day—even in those times when the pace slows and the bubbling aquarium tells you to relax.

 We have been very blessed in this house. It has, what some call "good juju." We welcomed that and tried to add special touches along the way, upgrading features whenever possible, yet always honoring the bones of the home.

This is a special community. We've made many wonderful friends here and enjoyed pool parties, bunko night, book club, and swim team. We've even kept in touch with neighbors who moved away. It's that kind of place. You'll meet people who grew up here twenty years ago and have returned with families of their own to call XXX home again.

I know we'll miss living in the yellow house on the hill. And we really hope she finds someone who will love her and care for her as we did. Maybe that's you.

*** also called, how to make your family cry***

Do I Have It All Backward? Or Am I Just a Planner?

Growing up, my parents didn't use the word, "planner." They used the word "dreamer."

After quite a few years of seeing my plans come halfway true (there is this thing about you wanting something to happen.. more than you actually trying to make that thing happen.)
 And there's the whole, not now, later part of the equation.
But, it's true. I am a dreamer.

It's not a bad thing. It's another good thing.

 I have a room in my house that is all blues and whites, along with three crates of accessories in the attic on the same theme, because one month a long time ago, I had the idea that I would decorate an entire house in just hues of blues and whites one day.
( I still believe I will.)

I have a file drawer dedicated to torn-out design mag pages, brochures from flooring, tile and paint stores, my own sketches and even three designer house plans. Whenever we'd buy a new house, I'd start a notebook on all changes needed to make each room perfect. I kept the pages as I accomplished each update.
( In the current house, a place I have the lived the longest EVER as an adult, each room has been done over twice- some three times.)
That means... I need a project.

Beach property. Preferably low maintenance: condo or townhome.

Fits the blue and white theme, right?
I already found some cool ideas- like this:

and this- which is the same porch couch my Grandma had

 Of course, I like some crazy stuff too, like garage door walls:

and a hanging bed..

 but with a smaller space, and all that time outside doing all the things I love... am thinking the most important things I will be concentrating on are:

 and buying a toy like this to drive around and enjoy it all:

go ahead, call me a dreamer. I dare you.

Today, we shop.

Rising early with money in the pocket, an idea in the back of my mind, a carload of gal pals and the directions to the nearest HOMEGOODS store = perfect Saturday. Whatever will you be doing today?

You know it's time for a new bed when...

I have been asking for a larger bed for sixteen years. You know the drill, your family grows, you grow, your dog decides the foot of your bed is much more comfortable than his crate, you add more pillows, a puffier duvet, and pretty soon you end  with more "stuff" than mattress and sleeping area. 

Part of my hesitation one buying another bed was the memories attached to this one.
...read more.

A new bed. Is bigger better?

It's going to mean larger, more expensive sheets and more pillows. But it may also mean sleeping through the night.

 Of course, I am second guessing my selection. Don't we all do this in making large furniture decisions? And I mean that in two ways: large dollar decisions, and large pieces you'll have to live with for a long time.
 I found a site that allowed me to mix and match base and headboard, in effect creating my own style of bed.
 I felt, at first like I was bathing suit shopping, and wondered if I wanted my bottom to be bigger than my top, or ...

Because I am inherently cheap. I thought about making my own headboard and just buying the base. Especially when I saw these:

Hey, I could do all of those. I had already mastered the trompe l'oeil look at another house, and the picket fence one and even the screen behind the raised mattress one.
Building, no prob. Painting, upholstering, also, fun and easy.
 I even found this designer who walks you through a whole DIY headboard under $100 project. Here.

The only thing I'm battling right now, is time.
so, I went with a store bought combo, and will receive it on Thursday. But since today is trash day... I'll be sleeping on a mattress on the floor for a few nights and imagining what I can do to the room to meld old and new.

Multi Tasking like Lady Gaga meets Octo Mom

from TVB

 In the Spring, many of my neighbors clean out garages and sheds. They cut back hedges and rake up last Fall's leaves. I see kids finally old enough to push a mower out in the yard, see parents pointing more than doing. Trash cans fill up by the curb.

Out with the old. In with the new.

How does this work in your life?
 Is it a cycle, where you purge closets and attic space because you grew up doing the Spring cleaning/ wardrobe seasonal switch?

 Or does the "new season" make you grow in other ways, forcing the cleaning and purging because you've got a new job, a better house, the kids are growing up and don't need all that now that you're moving to Switzerland?

I find myself swamped every March. Mostly by self- imposed deadlines and calendar events the I SCHEDULED... yeah. me.
Can't help but wonder what the draw was? To complete everything so I can enjoy lazy summer days? Or to catch up after I farted around all Winter? Sigh.

The Chicken Little Syndrome

Dear God,
It is not necessary for you to put leaks in structures over my head at the end of every year.
 I will not run outside and cry, "The sky is falling The sky is falling." You know me better than that.

 Instead, I will host martini matinees and shower in the other bathroom, for as long as it takes.

Love,
me

Look, Ma, It's a Messy Recipe Contest!

Had nothing really great to share today... yet. So, thought I'd share some mail with you. Someone has been peeking in my kitchen, if they sent me this:

The Best Messy Recipe Contest

• Sponsored by
• 

$500
Contest ends on 02/14/2010

Got a delish but messy recipe that you think twice about making? Bring it! Roll up your sleeves and break out the Bounty because we're looking for your best, most perilously-messy recipe -- definitely not for the faint of heart. From sloppy Joes to saucy ribs and chicken wings, we want to see your most creative original recipe. The prize: $500. But remember, photos must be of the actual recipe submitted, and the recipe must be original. Entries that don’t follow these guidelines are ineligible to win.

   See contest rules     

 

Really, Honey? I don't think we need a new roof.

This Spring, horrible hail storms rattled our rooftops in Georgia, damaging twenty year old shingles on houses of people that still believed in twenty-five year warranties.

We watched neighbors go through the early morning, late afternoon, early in the evening construction upheaval. We sat in our backyard, drinking cold beer all summer, pleased that we weren't one of the blue tarped houses, one of the people stuck at home while roofers took three hour lunches, arrived late to work, or not at all.
We saw the proud signs go up in the neighborhood, pulled ads off our mailbox and kept our money in the bank, chanting, not us. not us. not us.
And my other mantra- this is not our forever house, just do enough to keep it saleable.
We laughed as the rains came and we sat dry- in one of the oldest houses on the block.

But when the next door neighbor- who never does anything to his house- was re-roofed... and the other next door neighbor- who has the crappiest luck with his house ( and he's a preacher, which opens up a whole different theory about luck, as far as I'm concerned) signed up for his new roof, telling us about insurance claims and ease of install...

we bit.

After not having any grand problems with our roof pre-inspection by insurance man, pre-quote by two roofing companies... pre- having any men walk, slip and slide over our roof, we now have two new stains on the upper floor ceiling and a nice drip, leak and crack on the lower level, way too near the expensive AV system.
Hmm.

Soon, I will be the woman who needs to be fully dressed by 7AM. The woman who will wish she had taken Spanish in high school instead of French, the woman who will have a proud new sign in her yard and a dozen less cold cokes in her fridge. And I will be reminded that every time I tell my house that it doesn't need that new carpet, that upgraded dishwasher or matching micro-oven combo, it will retaliate as any good house should, until I beg for mercy and pull out the yellow pages chanting, this may not be my forever house, but it's our home and we deserve the best.

She's a Little Runaway

I ran away for a few days. But I'm back. And I was never that far. And I did what I needed to do.

I suppose we all have our runaway stories. My kids have both done it- or at least attempted it.
Not sure what that says about me as a Mommy.
Granted neither one of them got far, they were definitely missed and certainly the reason behind the attempt wasn't taken lightly.

I know I had my share of runaway attempts growing up. The worst part was when I'd thought I'd runaway from home- had packed my favorite stuff, taken some food and a book, managed to stay away for hours and hours and hours... yet when I came home, no one had even known I was gone.
That sucked.

I remember that woman back in the '80's who holed up in her kid's tree house saying she was going on strike- as their mother. I thought she was nuts at the time- especially when her kids lured her down with a plate of homemade brownies- but later, when I was a mother and a wife... I pretty much got where she was coming from and started wishing for my own tree house.

Sometimes, that's what it takes. A strike. A packed suitcase. A white flag on a stick.

Like the 41 year old SAHM who picketed in front of her house in Indiana, saying she was unappreciated and wanted some help around the house... her point was made, even though she got a bunch of hate mail from single working moms and husbands who still believe in the barefoot and pregnant role of house wife...

( of course, you can't be all crazy and do what this mom did. because then you have to go to jail.. and while that sounds like a bit of peace and quiet, I don't know how many of you would be comfortable using that toilet... and no, I'm not going to tell you how I know about using the toilet in a jail cell. )

At any rate, know this. Thinking of running away is perfectly normal. Disguising a little runaway as a guy's golf weekend, high school pal reunion, girls' getaway or spa retreat is also acceptable.
AS long as when you return home, you want to be there, you feel like you've been missed and you are in a hurry to unpack and settle in.

Little Runaway Interlude

One of a few things I'm trying to not dwell on.

Here's the backstory if you're new here-
or if you're like my husband who only hears the words that come after steak, beer, bed, free or panties.
I wrote a (steak) novel- actually three, but here- to minimize dwelling potential- we're only talking about the one my agent read, liked, edited and last week pitched to a bunch of (beer) hot NYC editors.
It's summer, so of course I have plenty to do to keep me busy (panties) during the waiting period- which I have been told can be three days, four weeks, five months, six years or somewhere short of forever. So I wait. And I check my horoscope and the tarot and throw chicken bones like rune stones. It's just that, I am so freaking good at dwelling... that I've about given myself a (free) crazypersonbreakdown- which is good for prepping a body for bathing suit weather, (steak) and pretty good for sleeping long periods of time or drinking large bottles of wine.

I blame the crazypersonthing on (panties) travel, planning, packing, (beer) kids and all their messes and friends and problems and arguments, money difficulties, (steak) the IRS, running another literary business, (beer), replacing household appliances, hiring workers and (bed) prepping our house for sale, while trying to figure where to move, how much to spend and when. Add in (free) difficult work and personal relationships and a growing dislike for (panties) your location in the world, and you pretty much have a recipe for disaster. Or at least the perfect combination of events that lead someone like me to buy a first class ticket on the train to crazypersonville, Xanax included.
I'm not complaining. really, I'm not. I'm just stating the facts. I'm just sharing in the way one might share one's thoughts, feelings, ideas and current status with her loving caring extended family over a Sunday Dinner. (though in my family? We ignore all the bad shit, only talk about the done deal stuff that won't hurt anyone's feelings and definitely never mention hopes or wishes or desires because that's all just dreaming and God knows where dreaming gets you... nowhere little girl with her head in the clouds, and guess what? No one ever wins the lottery or beats cancer either.)
( beer, panties, bed, free, steak)
Mostly it's my fault for taking too much on. For feeling superior over normalcy, for desiring more and more- not the material stuff, just the wrapping up of the regular stuff. If I had a real job in a real office I would be the one with the uber-neat cubicle, the one who was never late, who stayed overtime and always always cleared her desk before she left for the day. You, as my co-worker would hate me for making you seem incompetent, and I would spend all my free time trying to get you to like me. Going places with you I never wanted or needed to go, planning events that would please you and offering, always offering to pay, to drive, to negotiate, to make things simpler. In my head, you'd be my friend, and I'd think it was all normal, sane.
But it isn't. Which brings me back to dwelling- which makes me think I have way too much brain time on my hands because I now have twenty pages of new novel experiences and insight to the characters in the work in progress, all from my crazypersonville experiences of the past few months, and honestly? This may be some of the best work I have ever done- and that's not fucking crazy to dwell on.
Is it?

It wasn't me. Thank God.

Growing up with three sisters, I always had someone to blame- for the broken vase, for the dirty dish in the sink, for the wet towel on the floor. Our mother frequently referred to this classic Family Circus cartoon... understanding exactly how that worked.


Last week, someone tried to kill a venomous snake and instead killed our downspout and housing.
Someone tried to play soccer with little girls and ended up breaking one of their wrists.
Someone forgot how to pedal their bike and wasn't wearing a helmet.
Someone didn't finish their homework.
Someone tried to hide the mess in the closet by simply closing the doors.
Someone left a multi-colored pen in their pocket then washed a full load of whites.
Someone forgot which store and even which mall held the necessary item they needed to buy.

Someone didn't go to graduation.
Someone forgot they weren't supposed to ride the bus home, but wait in the parking lot.
Someone tried to get out of church.
Someone didn't save the reading list.
Someone ate all the chicken in a biscuit crackers.
Someone ordered the wrong pizza.
Someone messed up the TV settings.
Someone didn't clean up their room.

and for once? Guess what...
 it wasn't me.

Living a Dimmer Life

I have this thing about lighting.
I think it is the most important piece of ambiance one can master. Think of the moods set by bright sunshine, by soft candlelight, by the foggy gloom of a rainy day...

I used to be into the whole candle thing, but wax drippings and the black smoke marks and all the fire hazards... well, now I leave the candlelit moments up to long baths, outdoor lanterns and special dinner celebrations.

Now, I create my candlelit atmosphere with dimmer switches on every possible lamp in my house. I have been known to unscrew bulbs in people's chandeliers hanging over a card table so the people across from me look softer, so I don't have to squint, so I can feel more at ease.

I have even given dimmer switch installation sets as house warming gifts.

So, yesterday when I went out to buy some replacement bulbs I was surprised to see my regular fix had changed.
No longer are we offered traditional incandescent bulbs of 40 watt, 60 watt 75 watt or 100 watt bulbs.
Now, it's wattage like this: 34/52/67/90

or for the really dim... 200 watts.

How odd is that?
Even saying it sounds stupid. "I need a 67 watt bulb, please."
And if you're shopping at WalMart, like I was, you might want to learn how to say it in Spanish.

I know, the whole incandescent bulb thing is going the way of the cost effective, yet ugly fluorescent bulbs which make everything look worse and have a high pitched whine to them that bothers me and the neighborhood dogs.
sigh
what's a girl to do--- besides stockpile all the old fashioned bulbs she can find?
Bulbs she will one day sell on E- Bay.

When it rains, it pours.

Not only did Morton salt jump on the idiom, but apparently Rapper 50 Cent thought it was meaningful enough to use in a pretty nasty song that you can even download as your ringtone- if you're into that.

Around here, we have had the literal problem with the rain. Downpour conditions, referred to by some locals as "gully washers" should have been a welcome respite from years of summer drought conditions, yielding the lowest levels in our lakes in decades and a whole crapload of rules and regulations we had to abide by when watering our yards or washing our cars, even taking showers.
But no, we complain. Because that is what we do.
We say the commute is longer and more dangerous. We say we can't do our yard work or repair our houses.We say the soccer and baseball game schedules will be forever screwed up. People who need to work can't and those of us easily depressed by gloomy weather don't want to.

On the other side of the saying, there's the idea that when one bad thing happens, a bunch of its friends join the poo-poo party and the shitstorm is on.

Or maybe that's just how it happens for me. Never a bunch of good stuff joined by happiness and butterflies, nor in small tidy bunches of threes like for some people. No for me, it's more like a snowball at the top of a very tall mountain, set loose by a two year old.

It may be household related: the new ac unit and hot water heater issue and water leak and sprinkler system shitstorm of last year. Joined by the dying microwave attached to the built in oven which was preceded by the death of its stovetop counterpart...
Or the way I can blow light bulbs by merely touching the switch. My best day? Three bulbs, one flood light and then I shocked the crap out of myself just by touching the metal mailbox. My doctor says I am highly electrical.

The shitstorm may be family related: a sister tells another sister who tells the other sister... and so on. Something is bound to fall out when you play telephone that way. And even in my small immediate family: the he said, she said, don't tell Dad and why did you do that? all roll into one very large and dangerous ice ball heading for the pretty chalet.

It may be financial, business-related... the stuff we don't talk about. Money and jobs and what we want to happen. How not holding on so tightly makes losing something easier.

It may be school for the children, weight and body issues for everyone, food and provision for the bread-winner, relationships for the mediator... we all have our shitstorms.

It may be predicated by something you said.
Most times ...it's something I said.
or did.
or didn't do.

As a writer, I spend a lot of time in my head. I make my own shitstorms daily. I need the downpour. It feeds me. I live many different lives and if you join me in any of them, at any given moment, you will need an umbrella.

Some days, I wish God had had enough sense to install an off switch when he made me, and given me the brains to know when to use it. And legs fast enough to outrun a speeding ice ball.

When you say it like a good ole' country boy, it's MUCH funnier

Actually, everything in the South can sound much more funny to a born and bred Yankee. It's almost like a suave Frenchman telling me to take out the garbage. I swoon.

Sure, sometimes, Southern accents sound choppy and angry, even less than smart... but sometimes they are so charming and sweet, your pants practically fall right off.

What I like the best are the common working man accents. Nothing pretentious there.
Take the other day, when Mr. Bugman came to spray for ants.

I explain the problem we're having with a few pesky critters in one corner of the kitchen, and oddly enough in the bedroom above- where P tends to leave plates of orange slices out overnight.

He looks around then calls me over to see.
"Yes, Ma'am. I see the problem. C'mon down here and take a look. Now that-" (he points to a tiny spider) " - is a telltale sign you got yerself an ant problem." ( and here I thought the ant trail across the counter and down to the floor was the tell tale sign)
Bugman says, "You see? He was probably keeping the population down for you." ( and how many ants can a two ant-sized spider eat, Mr Bugman?)
"Don't worry," he says. "I'll take care of him for you." He leans in and with a thick index finger, squashes the little spider with a tiny pop- then wipes his finger on his Dickies and smiles at me.
oh yes.
He says, "And now I'm gonna take care of those ants."
Sensing a ripe opportunity for illuminating conversation, I say, "Your brochure says there are many species of ants that may require different treatments, is that right?"
"Yes Ma'am.We have 14 varieties right here in this area." He squats to spray something lethal from his backpack of death. "But the Argentinians? They're the troublemakers."
He wanders off to another room. I notice he has slipped some sort of paper covering over his shoes, and I wonder if a medical procedure is imminent.
"Is that right?" I say, following him. "Oh, those Argentinians..."
"Yes, Ma'am."
"And so, how will you treat for them versus other ants?"
"Well, we try to provide a smorgasbord ( yes- he said that) of food for them."
"Uh-huh."
"See, they forage for different things during the day. Carbohydrates, proteins, sweets... so we want to attract them with our bait-"
"I see. (thinking maybe I am part Argentinian Ant) And then?"
"Then we draw them outside." He smiles. "And kill them."
"Oh."
"Yes, Ma'am."

Later he wants me to come outside where he has sprinkled something sure to make neighboring cats sick, and show me the trail from the mulch to the siding, where he has been watching worker ants leave my house to take his poisonous bait back to the colony. He assures me it is all very interesting, something I should squat right down there under the Gardenia bushes beside him and watch. And I do, for a little while, trying hard not to think of the movie ANTZ and those big bug eyes.

Let's all bitch about our HOA.

....sung to the tune of MY DICK, from Harold and Kumar Escape from Guantanamo Bay...

My HOA wants me to change my blinds.
Your HOA says your payment's running behind.

My HOA drives around in Caddies.
Your HOA will fine you for noise on St. Paddy's.

My HOA tells what color to paint my door.
Your HOA is run by a whore.

My HOA says don't park in the street.
Your HOA says you ain't fuckin neat.

My HOA closes the pool when kids pee.
Your HOA thinks your yard is weedy.

My HOA told me to hide my trashcan.
Your HOA gives it to you in the ass, man.

My HOA charges too much for too little.
Your HOA's covenants read like a riddle.

My HOA says no to sheds.
Your HOA wants you to prune your beds.

My HOA is run by Nazi finks.
Your HOA is full of MILFs and DINKs.

My HOA took down the basketball nets.
Your HOA won't let you park your jet.

My HOA won't answer the phone.
Your HOA won't toss you a bone.

Family Dinner Charades

I'm all about the family dinner conversation, the "meeting." As long as it's low-key and ends in my favor, well, generally anyway.
The problem in our house starts with getting everyone to sit down at the same time and maintain a common pace through the meal.
Invariably, someone will have to hop up for a condiment or the phone or a bathroom trip. Then there will be someone whose food needs to be warmed or cooled or spiced differently. And there's me, who grew up with three hungry sisters and hates having the "end piece" of anything. I'll eat what's on my plate and do it quickly. Sadly, meals have become more necessary than enjoyable.

But the other night we were talking about impressions, and after my daughter chickened out of doing 5 teacher impressions for her school talent night ( they were GREAT!), I joked about someone else at the table, and in imitating him, got a rise out of her.
We then took turns transforming into each of the other three family members... like a physical caricature, we walked the way they walked, tagged everything with the familiar phrase they utter or nickname they use for a loved one, and exaggerated common mannerisms they employ when trying to make get their point across.
It was funny and no one had any problem coming up with material.

The next night when the kids wanted to do it again, I said, only if it could all be positive. It was harder, but still fun, and interesting to see how you come off in the eyes of your children and your spouse.
Maybe a little too eye-opening for some of us.
Try it in your family and let me know how it plays out.

Still Chasing the Dream

While packing for my recent writing conference in Florida, I did the three things any smart gal does: check weather.com's extended forecast, choose the prettiest shoes, and bring lots of books. I was ready for some sunshine, as Atlanta's teaser of Spring went from 60 degree days to 30 degree days and I hate being teased.
The conference was called Sleuthfest, sponsored by the Mystery Writers of America, the Florida Chapter and was geared to the detective/police/PI/thriller/suspense market... more suited for the novel I'm almost done with, not really the one I wanted to pitch, but the agent list was very respectable and I had at least one friendly face in Florida to look forward to seeing, an author pal who told me most of the business gets done in the bar. SO that was one thing I could look forward to. He also promised to show me this cool place. Vizcaya.
One of the statues at the entrance. Boob Anole extra.

Of course, I enjoyed the workshops, learned some new stuff, made some new friends, got the requisite author photos and signatures,
Big name to watch out for and a great guy, John Hart.
Super funny and talented Brad Meltzer, who taught me the value of giving.
did some shopping and went to the beach where we saw this guy catch a snapper, though he had no idea what kind of fish it was until someone told him.All the things you cannot do on the Pier. And now you KNOW I wanted to do them all.


Yes, it was a great trip. Fun times, good food, a bed to myself. Coupled with the fact that my reading of a chapter of We're Not Waving, We're Drowning was very well-received by my peers and I didn't choke on pitch day, nabbing me two agent requests, while two others came in electronically. I also scored some points with a positive and encouraging critique of the work in progress. It's always good to know you are on the right path.
It may have cost a bit of money, time away from the family, and the bitch of a delay getting home on blizzard day... a delay in a terminal where some guy almost died- when no one could heimlich the chicken sandwich out of his throat.
I am dead serious. That guy is going to have the sorest most bruised chest when he gets out of the hospital. Freaked me out. All I could think about was Palahniuk's book, Choke.

When the people near me invited me to join them for dinner before we flew out, I declined saying there was no way I could eat after seeing what happened with that guy.
"Are you sure?" they asked, "We could bring you back some chicken wings."
"Great," I said. "Chicken bones. Thanks."


So, to wrap it up, I'll say this. I'm glad I went, though coming home in high-heeled sandals to snow drifts and my son's Hooters Snow Girl was a bit unexpected.

Anyone who has spent any period of time with me knows I am stubborn- though I prefer to call it "determined."
I knew a guy once who made his Queensland Blue Heeler attack a deflated soccer ball hanging from a tree on his farm in Southern California with a simple whistle command. That dog ran and leapt into the air, snagging the ball and clamping his jaws onto the scarred leather. His hind legs hung two feet off the ground as he spun in slow circles.
We sipped our beers and watched, waiting for him to understand his predicament and give up, until the guy said, "He'll hang there all day. Once he's locked onto to his prey, until it gives, he can't open his mouth."

I'm like that dog.
I've been swinging under the publication tree for seven years. It's what I want and it's what I'll get. Sure, along the way there have been a fair share of hits and accomplishments for my short stories and essays, but my deflated soccer ball is the elusive book contract dangling from the branch of the perfect literary agent.
And after a few years of hearing, "It's not for us." and "Great writing, but..." my jaws are getting tired.
But here I am. Sending out the novel to a bulldog of an agent, another who wears pink and two secret links, continuing to hope for the best.

Sometimes Bunko is just Bunco.

Some of our husbands like to call it "Drunko."
I've played in three different states, with at least five different basic rules. But one thing remains the same: there is nothing SERIOUS about this dice game.

It's all fun and games and drinks and chocolate. It's socializing and home decor ideas and husband bashing and kid bragging and shoe swapping. It binds friendships with stories and private jokes and sometimes, it pays for the gas to get there and the beers on the way home.

In our group there are themes and costumes... and always, always laughter. We've had some Bunko Nazis, some party crashers, some fall down imbibers and some sad sacks... we've made memories as people have moved on, as babies are born, as children grow up, as jobs change and cars crash, we are there to hear the story and clink glasses. We hold each other up in good times and bad, something the men will never understand.

This month, we had a six gal carpool for our "out of the neighborhood" Bunko, and six more ladies at the other end. Much fun, with lots of food, mojitos and a bourbon slush worthy of the Derby.
In this day, when money is tight and party planning can be a bother, it's nice to have that one night a month to count on, a night when you can let your hair down and be with women who get you- who understand the pressures and problems and questions you face every day- whether it's at work or at home, dealing with bosses, or diapers, or deadlines. We are our own best support system, and one that I hope we can grow and expand, because who doesn't need a good round of bunko to help them put life in perspective?
In bunko, even when you lose. you win.

For the ladies who couldn't make it this month... we missed you and will see you in March. And for the newbies that had fun in February, we hope you will join us again. I'm sure by then we will all have a new story to share as the dice go around.

Happy belated birthday to Karen. Who did the smart thing this year... and stayed home. Whew.

Being spoiled is a good thing. When you're the Mom.

My husband says I'm spoiled. I am. And it's mostly his fault.

He gives me more than I deserve and tells me I've earned it, when I think I am just doing my wife-mother-homeowner job. From expensive clothes and jewelry to a new car and trips away... he is a good good man.
This weekend he took me here, to this suite, to see the Atlanta Falcons kick some Panther ass. Meow.I say my husband is mostly responsible for spoiling me, because I grew up with three sisters and my parents gave us alot, but let us know what a lot meant, and later, I had boyfriends who spoiled me in their own ways.. usually that meant me getting my way, and them sacrificing their needs before mine.
God, put that way, I do sound spoiled, selfish even.
Let me say, I am grateful for everything I have ever received and like to give in return. My husband and I are alike in that way, and we hope we are raising children who think similarly.

There may be a difference in "spoiling" when it comes to guys and girls. I never really figured out the whole boy thing- which was very confusing when my son was born and I was new to a strange town, living 3500 miles away from family. Those were some long phone calls.
I still think I favor him more than my daughter, because I grew up knowing that the woman has to handle a lot more than the man. The man, he goes to work and does work things. He comes home and has his drink and his dinner and his TV. ( yes, yes, I am exaggerating.. relax)

The woman- she does all the rest.

So, when I tell my son to do all his chores, sure I check on him, but I also give him some slack- not expecting perfection or even great attention to detail. With my daughter, who is four years younger... I come down much harder, asking her if she thinks she's completed her task well or merely good enough. She needs to learn good enough isn't always enough, if you don't have a woman behind- spoiled or not- you picking up the slack.