Subourbon Mom


Blog Tour: Because Y’all Keep Asking, Here’s “Why I Write”

People often ask me how and what I write, and I usually mumble something about Southern Fiction and crazy people. I think my friends have this picture of me squirreled away in a brown robe in a cave somewhere, scribbling away with a feather quill on an ancient, dust-covered tome; or maybe more like Hemingway, looking grumpy and sitting at a desk with a half-empty bottle of bourbon by a typewriter.

Not so much. I usually sit at the kitchen table with my laptop because my desk is too full of papers I’ve never filed. Sometimes it’s with a glass of wine or bourbon, but more often it’s a cup a coffee and a bag of Twizzlers or a pan of Rice Krispie Treats.

But since people ask, and because my friend Josh Cane invited me to answer these types of questions on a blog tour, here goes: (Josh Cane is in my writing group. He writes vampire fiction and short stories, as well as running his own on-line publishing/website development business.  His blog is www.jpcane.com)

  1. What am I working on? 

As a working mom, my time (and attention span) is available in short spurts, so the blog tends to get the most regular action. I am also doing some free-lance non-fiction writing and editing, and am ghost writing a memoir.

When I have any spare time, I LOVE working on my Southern Fiction novels. The first, Virginia Gentleman (originally titled Six-Possum-Thursday, but I changed because it was too obscure) tells the story of Dallas Chirp, a 30-year-old returning to his small, rural hometown in Virginia ten years after accidentally killing his girlfriend’s father.  The book is less about the murder than trying to find where you fit in, when both you and your home have changed.

My second novel follows the newly-indigent and socially embarrassed Margaret Payne back to her southern, slow-to-change hometown after her husband is thrown in jail, leaving her penniless. There, she is forced to depend on her estranged sister Lettie, a fiercely independent housekeeper, and her bi-racial niece.  As Margaret struggles to find a job and get back on her feet, she must come to terms with what it means to be part of a family again, and how to navigate the murky river of race relations in a “modern,” small southern town.

  1. How does my work differ from others of its genre?

For those of you who read my blog, www.subourbonmom.worpress.com you know I am pretty snarky, but I like to think the blog is funny, and a little bit intelligent.  You might even learn something from it, although my main goal is to make you grin by letting you view life for a moment through my quirky, middle-aged, bourbon-sticky lenses.

My novels, while Southern Fiction, have nothing to do with slavery or the ever-present Civil War (excuse me, um, I meant the “War of Northern Aggression”). They take place in the present-day and deal with the issues of what it means to be in a family, and to call a place home. So many things about both of those topics have changed over the last few decades, but the overall ideas remain the same: families, no matter what size, race or relation love you and are there for you; and where you grew up is part of what made you, but you are also part of that place as well—the two are symbiotic. I like to think my characters are real people, that I would meet them on the street, and that I would be friends with them—even the characters that are flawed–they are usually the people I hang out with in real life and in my head.

  1. Why do I write what I do?

The simple answer is, I have to. I would explode if I didn’t.

These characters and ideas infest my brain constantly, like a new breed of cranium-lice, biting and wriggling until I wake up in the middle of the night and have to scratch them (maybe that’s why I have this 3:00am wake-up thing going—I thought it was just hormones). If I ignored them, I would probably become one of those festering cubicle-people that everyone in the office knows will bring a bazooka to work one day.

  1. How does my writing process work?

I wish I could say I’m one of those people who gets up at 5:00am and writes for eight hours straight, or even for a single hour every day.  Typically, I get one of those ideas gnawing its away around my head in the middle of the night or while I’m driving, and it’s a complete scene or conversation in my head, ready to go. If I’m lucky I’ve got pen and paper nearby, or I can convince one of my daughters to text it to me.  From there, I usually create an entire character, or an idea for a novel. I have a notebook full of ideas for books, short stories, and poems.

On a good day, when no pre-schooler has worn me down to a twitching, quivering nub, I can sit down for an hour or so without interruption and review some work or slog through a chapter.  On an average day, I usually try and whip out a blog, or re-read a chapter I’m working on to let those pesky writing bugs do their magic while I sleep—or chuck it all and end up driving The Daughters to whatever sports practice they have that day.

So, that’s how and why I do it. Oh, and one more thing:

If you write, I would like to shamelessly plug the importance of belonging to a writing group that takes itself seriously, that is not there just for moral support but also gives honest, constructive critiques. Over the past four years I have been able to watch myself grow as a writer, and I give full credit to Josh Cane, Mary Miley and Tom Fuhrman for that.

Bloggers for Next Week: (These bloggers will post something similar on their own sites next week, so check out their blogs–if for no other reason than we like the instant gratification of seeing that someone has looked at it!)

Jody Worsham began writing humor at age 61 when she and husband of 50 years adopted their one-day-old grandson and three year old granddaughter.  Retiring from thirty-nine years of teaching theatre arts, Jody needed a creative outlet.  Re-learning the basics of potty training after  thirty-five years  and being the “oldest mom” in the pre-k pick-up line provided topics for her blog “The Medicare Mom”.  She is a member of the Christian Writers Fellowship, and attended the Erma Bombeck Writers Workshop in 2210 and 2012.  The Jambalaya Writing Contest was her first attempt at writing a novel and she placed second.

Shawna Christos is a writer with several books in various stages of dressed, currently working on a mainstream commercial fiction book, as well as a young adult novel about a girl named Kelpie trying to survive Celtic legend’s clash with strong southern women.   Guess which one she’s working on now? She also had a short story published in an interwoven collaborative anthology last year called River Town which can be found at:

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/river-town-eric-l-douglas/1116399331?ean=9781491295083

http://www.amazon.com/River-Town

A long time volunteer and supporter of James River Writers, you will find her at a lot of the JRW and local book events and [unfortunately] a lot in their pictures.  [She doesn’t like her picture taken, and doesn’t like that people won’t accept her stick figure drawing instead.] Debating about advice she’s been given about having a blog at Word Press, she currently has two blogs she has struggled to post regularly to.

sgchris.livejournal.com/

bemusedwriter.blogspot.com

And a Twitter account – @ywrite – she alternately flings words at.

Grace Robinson is a writer of fantasy. She’s a fan of arctic places, world music, mythology, and linguistics. She is soon-to-be a published author and a world traveler. Born and raised in Virginia, she studied English and creative writing at Hollins University. She currently lives in Virginia with a rabbit and a lot of books.

Her blog: http://storytellergirlgrace.wordpress.com

 

 

 

 

 



Princess and the Pee

Coming back to reality after Spring Break—a snow storm in March (Are you kidding me?) naturally sucks. Coming home to find the cats have spite-peed on your daughter’s bed REALLY sucks.

And it’s also kind of funny, in a twisted way.  Just stick with me on this one.

In my house, the pets have aligned themselves with family members.  Hubby gets the psycho kitty we nursed from the time she was 3 days old; Daughter #2 has the beast in the barn; Daughter #1 gets Isabella FATrice (Izzy), our pudgy, orange cat who treats everyone like staff; and by default, I get The Dog.  Never mind the fact that I’m the one who gets up at six EVERY MORNING to feed them and let them out. For the most part, they simply tolerate me.

If Izzy (the orange cat) were to be on the game Survivor, she would probably be voted out near the end—she’s a leader who gets things done by being vocal and acting like she’s in charge, but in the end, it’s The Dog who would win, because The Dog flies under the radar, also getting what she wants but without the attitude.

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The Dog: note the super-soft blanket and matching manicure (thanks Aussie Pet Mobile!) as she lounges on my side of the couch.

For years I’ve been secretly jealous of Daughter #1 and her relationship with the princess pussycat.  It is like being in middle school all over again.  The popular girls (Daughter #1 and Izzy) hang out exclusively, draped all over each other, gossiping and messing with each other’s hair.  If I come in with some silly request like, “Please take the sheets off your bed so I can wash them,” I am met with an irritated meow. Pushing up my glasses (these days they’re “cheaters”), I retreat to the unpopular kids’ table (i.e. my room) and sulk.  I’m clearly the lowest creatures on the social totem pole in our house (except for maybe the fish). By asking Daughter #1 to move Izzy, I have clearly imposed my presence on the popular girls’ space.

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See? She even looks like a Mean Girl!

But as I took a bath on our first night home to ease my quads that were still burning from all the Spring Break hiking and zip-lining, I heard Daughter #1 through the wall:

Daughter #1: “Oh my God! Mooooooooommm!”

Me: (silence—I was ignoring them—bath time is sacred)

Daughter #1:  “You guys, come in here and look at this!” (thumping as Daughter #2 enters the room.)

Daughter #2 starts laughing.

Both Girls:  “Moooooooom!” (still silent)    “Daaaaaaaad!”  (also wisely silent)

Me: (I sigh and get out of the tub, knowing the alternative is a visitor, and all the bubbles have gone—always awkward.)

When I got to Daughter #2’s room she is nearly in tears.  Apparently, despite having a litter box handy the whole time we were gone, one or both of the cats spite-peed in her bed—a massive puddle that told me they’d been saving for at least a couple of days. (The Dog hd been farmed out to my mom’s.)

I looked at the clock—it was late, and I was NOT going back to the store.  So, I looked on-line for what I could use in the house, and quickly made up the extra bed for Daughter #2.  (I’ve copied the instructions below, in case anyone else ever has this issue—it worked!!)

The upside of the whole event was watching the Popular Girl drama play out over the next couple of days.  Izzy was banned from Daughter #1’s presence, sitting outside the bedroom, meowing, looking miserable and triumphant at the same time, like the best friend of the popular girl who managed to steal the popular girl’s boyfriend—the victory was soooo worth the short-term social ostracism to follow.  When that didn’t work, Izzy switched “besties” and went to Daughter #2’s room. She took to hanging out there, sleeping on Daughter #2’s stomach all night. Daughter #2 was happy enough to have the company, but she’s never needed approval from the popular crowd.

Even though Daughter #1 might not admit it, Izzy’s defection bugged her. Eventually, she relented, and Izzy was accepted back into the popular girl club’s good graces, trailing after Daughter #1 all day like a remora near a shark, making mean-girl comments to anybody who walked by (me).

Now, if the cat does it again and I can’t get the stench out, the she will be expelled, or at least placed in some serious detention. But until then, I’ll just keep hovering in the social wings of our pet-centered home, hoping that maybe The Dog will let me have my spot back on the couch.

Here’s the recipe from Animal Planet for de-funking cat pee (it really worked!):

  1. Blot dry or if already dry, get wet with water and blot dry the excess urine.
  2. Soak with mixture of water and vinegar. Vinegar is great for killing bacteria. This mixture is perfect for both old and new stains. Try 1 1/2 cups of warm water and a ½ cup of vinegar. Pour this concoction over the stain and soak for about 3 to 5 minutes. Note: vinegar is not good for marble or stone.
  3. There’s nothing like good all-purpose baking soda. After the water and vinegar solution is dry, sprinkle the area with baking soda. How much is enough? A lot.
  4. You’re not done just yet with the homemade remedies. Mix 3/4 cup of three percent hydrogen peroxide (you know you have some under your bathroom sink) with 1 teaspoon of dish detergent. Sprinkle this solution over the baking soda and test a small spot. You need to do this because sometimes peroxide can discolor or bleach fabrics (source). Work the baking soda into the fabric or carpet.
  5. It’s time to let the mixtures dry for a few hours (I did 36 hours). Once the spot’s good and dry, vacuum the excess baking soda. If the stain is extremely tough, repeat the entire process again.
  6. If homemade mixing is not your thing, there are commercial products on the market that work well too. Make sure to look for cleaners that contain enzymes because they work to break down the urine and neutralize the odor (source). Make sure you follow the instructions carefully on these products.
  7. Just because you can’t see the stain, doesn’t mean you can’t smell the stain. Deodorizing must be part of the equation. Once again, baking soda and a mixture of detergent and water will help minimize odors.


Zip Lines & Zebra Suits…The Loterie Farm, St. Maarten

Day Three of Spring Break, St. Maarten:

Today was one of those perfect days you fantasize about when you’re scraping the windshield and cursing the fact that you didn’t get that finicky backseat window in your car fixed before winter hit.

Our intrepid leader Mark and his up-for-anything assistant Stazzi took us to a place called The Loterie Farm (pronounced “Lottery Farm,”), an oasis in the middle of St. Maarten that offers an idyllic infinity pool with cabanas you can rent, straight out of “Who The Hell Lives Like That?” magazine. (This is the genre of magazine that features houses with all-white furniture and carpets, and ads for curtains that cost more than my snow-covered car.) For the more adventurous, there is a network of zip-lines and hiking trails throughout the jungle.

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Before we left, there was the usual 45 minutes of trying to round up seven people and all of their gear for the day:

Me:  “Does anyone have the bug spray? Did you put sunscreen on? No you didn’t—you’re not shiny enough. Put it on—not here, outside! Did you bring sneakers? You can’t zip-line in flip flops…”

Everyone else: “Mommmm…”

Eventually, Mark and Stazzi managed to corral all of us into the rental van. When we arrived at The Loterie Farm, we entered the pool area and plunked our gear down. What a surprise! We were a loud, laughing group of Americans invading a quiet and serene European setting–no wonder they hate us.  A frowning French waiter brought a complementary bucket of champagne, which made me salivate like a dog looking at a steak, but that would have to wait—there was zip-lining to do first.  After all, I do have a little bit of a work ethic.

The zip-lining was as fun as it was exhausting – I definitely recommend it to anyone with a sense of adventure.  After and hour of straining muscles over a ropes course and clipping and un-clipping ourselves to various cables and trees, the tired Fam plodded down the last wooden ramp to the fix-it-yourself rum punch bar—seriously, they had that.  I love Island People. The more athletic and wise among us (Daughters 1&2) made do with water.  Dripping with jungle sweat from squatting and zipping and maneuvering my not-as-limber-as-I-thought body around, I went back for champagne and my bathing suit.

Guess who didn’t bring hers?

Hubby, already in his suit and ready to get into the pool and cool off with a glass of the bubbly, saw me getting ready to FTFO and took me to the Teeny, Tiny boutique that was there just for forgetful people like me, to buy a suit. Everything in that boutique was Teeny Tiny, including The Loterie Farm Dog, a Chihuahua named Felly who periodically got the “zoomies” and ran in circles before collapsing in the grass ( I think I lost 20 minutes just watching him).  The only things not Teeny Tiny were the price tags.  Of course, the Teeny Tiniest things in the boutique were the bathing suits. And Ladies, in case you were wondering, Land’s End tank-inis don’t exist in Europe or The Islands, except on suburban-American moms. We may think we are camouflaging the muffin-tops in them, but the rest of the world can spot us a mile away, and they shrink back in horror.

What I ended up purchasing was a band-aide-sized, black and white bikini that, next to my sunburned skin, made me look like a zebra with a bad case of mange. You could clearly see the tan lines left by my forgotten suit.

Mortified, I wrapped a towel around my waist, trying desperately to ignore the fact that there was air coming down the back of the bottoms because—yes, it’s gross, but true—I’m pretty sure I actually had crack showing. Classy.

But, after a delicious tapas meal and a couple (make that several) boat drinks over which we solved the problems of the world, I was no longer mortified.  In fact, I felt kind of French—I had a too-small bathing suit, lack of inhibitions, and an attitude of undeserved privilege—or is that more like a recent college grad? It’s hard to tell the difference, except for the accent.

Either way, I decided it was a pretty nice way to spend time on vacation; and since Daughters 1 & 2 are closer to graduating than I will ever be again, I’ll just have to become French.  Oui?  

“Mommmmm…”

“I know, I know. Put some more sunscreen on. You’re not shiny enough.”



Revenge is Best Served Wearing Chameleon Glasses

Many of you know I’m not a gadget girl.  I am missing the shopping gene that Daughter #1 has, which enables her to spend hours in a mall, touching everything that is for sale.  However, recently I was in our local REI store, killing time while the family roamed around, and I found something that was so cool, I almost spent the $14 just to wear it once into my classroom:

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That’s not me: it’s my big brother…you can’t say I never made you famous!

How could you not want chameleon-vision glasses? I would LOVE to spend one afternoon driving around in these, watching people’s reactions. Of course, since the glasses enable you to see behind you and to the side, I would be an even better driver than I already am (my insurance agent Stephanie would agree, saying something like you can only go up).

Despite the cool glasses (which I opted not to buy), I’m still not a gadget girl. I don’t need the latest and greatest bells and whistles on everything I own—but I married someone who does.  Most of the time this works to my advantage—my dishwasher is super-quiet and my car has heated seats and intermittent wipers, things I never would have bothered with. The fact of the matter is, it’s a pretty safe bet that if something ever happened to Hubby, I would be living in a shack with nothing but a CD player and a black and white t.v.

About a month ago, Hubby bought a gadget that might cause our entire marriage to implode. Apparently, he has always wanted one of those alarm clocks that shines the time on the wall or ceiling.  Yes, the man who claims to not be able to sleep if I have the bedside light on, or if my book light is too bright, has purchased an alarm clock that projects bright blue numbers a foot high on the wall opposite our bed.  All night long, the room is bathed in a Poltergeist glow, and I keep waking up, expecting to see Drew Barrymore in her white nightie sitting in front of out t.v., saying, “They’re heeeere…”

As a woman in her 40’s who finds herself awake in a puddle of sweat for no good reason, having a giant blue announcement that it’s 3:00 AM is unbelievably annoying.  It’s even more irritating when, as I turn over for the twentieth time and crack open my eyes, it informs me it’s 3:10…3:13…3:42…4:00.

So I’ve decided on my revenge. I’m going to put on those glasses (looking like a Sleazstak from the old Land of the Lost show), and wake Hubby up.  I’m pretty sure they don’t have alarm clocks like that in the hospital. No matter which of us ends up there, I win.

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The Eyes Have It

I was looking through our latest copy of National Geographic (I think I am one of the dozen folks in the world still getting it–thanks Mom!), and I came across a couple of articles I couldn’t resist commenting on.

A recent study from Canada’s McMaster University tracked the way men and women moved their eyes as they scanned pictures of faces.  In a nutshell, women made more eye movements between the features then men, generating a more vivid picture in their minds.  I would like to know why women scan faces more—does this mean we’re naturally more critical of each other? (“Oh Lord, she’s got a glob of mascara on her left eyelid, Bless her heart.”) Unknown-4 Or is it just part of our enhanced communication skillset? (“Caveman Bob looks like he would be a better mate than Caveman Steve—he’s got laugh lines.”)

I would also like to know if the same holds true for other body parts—say, breasts, for example.   I would love to see a study done that determines if men spend the same amount of time scanning breasts as they do faces, or if it is more.  staring_at_boobs_640_88-588x492

To be fair, a study should also be done to determine if women scan men’s bodies as much as they do faces.  I’m betting they do—I like big…feet as much as the next girl.

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In another article, Caltech and UCLA used pictures of celebrities to study how the brain processes what the eyes see. They found out that an individual nerve cell fired up only when subjects were shown pictures of Halle Barry, even is she was dressed up as Cat Woman. Apparently, we use very few neurons for every image we see, and this makes our brains super-efficient at storing information. But if I’m using one neuron for each image, tv must REALLY be using up my brain capacity.

Think of all the images we see every day on tv, YouTube, and SnapChat.  No wonder I can’t find my keys or remember where I parked; I’m too busy assigning neurons to hotty actors like Patrick Dempsey and Ian Somerhalder while I Google people in the carpool line.

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 Since I am completely unable to pull up the name of the lead singer of U2 if I’m asked on the spot, or remember why I came into a room at any given time, my image storing capacity is clearly taking away my language and memory recall.

Maybe this is why in the 1950’s they called the tv “the idiot box.” I think they were on to something.

Now if only I could remember where I put the remote…maybe if I think of Patrick Dempsey holding it I’ll find it.