Subourbon Mom


Sadness Brownies and other Spring Quotes

As many of you know, spring is an especially crazy time of year in our house: sports seasons wind down (“Has anyone seen soccer my jerseys? They were due yesterday…”) and start up simultaneously (“What do you mean none of your riding pants fit?”); prom (“A new dress is going to cost How Much???”) and general hormonal mayhem ensue (“I’m going to put all my projects off until I stress-cry”); and preschoolers finally start losing it with each other (Teacher: “Why did you poke him?” Child: “I don’t like him anymore.”).

So, my apologies for not posting for a while. I haven’t started stress crying yet, but it’s only because I don’t have time. Even now, you’re only going to get what I like to call a window post—I’m just going to give you a peek through the window of my life, so you can see what I’ve been hearing over the last couple of weeks…

Daughter #2: “Mom, if you hadn’t married Dad, we’d be ugly.”

 

Daughter #2:  “I’m going to make sadness brownies.”   A week later: “I’m going to make sickness brownies.”

 

Daughter #1 (driving) to Daughter #2 (behind her in the back seat): “Stop pressing on my seatbelt with your toes!”

Daughter #2: “You can feel that?”

Daughter#1: “Yes. It’s pressing into my ovaries!”

 

Me to Daughters: “The dishwasher makes things smell because you don’t rinse your dishes. Eggs turn into cement of you just throw the plate in the sink.”

Daughter #1: “Well, why did Dad get that dishwasher?”

Me: “It’s super-quiet and has a delay setting.”

Daughter #1: “It’s super-quiet because it’s not cleaning anything.”

 

Next post….”Underwear and how many pairs women supposedly have” (working title)…seriously, that’s the next one…enjoy your week beneath the fine powder of pollen.

 



National High Five Day–Seriously?

Apparently, today is National High Five Day.

Seriously.  Somebody made that a day of national recognition.

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We’ll, if we’re going to give a celebratory gesture it’s own special day, I think we should also have “slap your team mate on the butt” day; or “dance in the end zone day;” or, for those who like to celebrate the stupidity of others, how about we make note of some of our most-used hand gestures?

Naturally, I Googled it. One website claimed the high five originated in the University of Virginia. Somehow I doubt that—I can’t really picture a bunch of Hoos in their khaki pants and blue shirts spontaneously jumping up and slapping hands—those hands would have been busy holding a bourbon bottle and a cup.

As a preschool teacher, I’m all about the high five, even though when I do them, the kids’ hands are usually sticky and covered in snot. What a simple, concrete way to show a child they did a great job on something!

I don’t, however, have any use for the high fives that sports teams make the players do with the opposing team in a conga-line at the end of their games.  Several times, my kids have complained that the other teams have spit on their hands before doing the walk–classy.  If leagues are going to make the players have contact after the game to show good sportsmanship, I think the players should have to shake hands and say “Nice Game” with the opponent they were lined up against—one at a time, in front of everybody. A little eye contact never hurts anybody, and it might just make some of these kids with bad sportsmanship think twice, either before the game or after.

Of course, if I didn’t like that team, I would do the dead fish handshake—nothing grosser than holding a limp, sweaty hand.

I’m not good at high-fiving. I often miss, which is awkward; and, because I have funky shoulders that dislocate, I tend to pull back at the last second—also awkward.  The other person must either think they are freakishly strong, or that I suddenly didn’t like the way they smell.  It’s even worse when I have my suitcase, er…purse, on that arm.  Sometimes it cuts loose and swings forward, almost knocking the other person over. Then my high-five looks more like an assault.

But the worst part of doing a high five is when you’re left hanging.

According to that bastion of truth, Wikipedia, this could be interpreted as an insult, friendly joke, or form of enlightenment, depending on the context of its use.

Form of enlightenment? What on earth does that mean?

Here’s what I picture:

(Worker, waving one, ignored high five hand in the air): “Hey! Don’t leave me hanging!”

(Colleague): “High fives are for children and have no place in our exceptionally stuffy office.  You should be mature enough not to need physical acknowledgement of a job well-done. It would be better if you meditated on your achievement instead—if you found your center and breathed through your success.”

I high five (mostly little) people every day, and every day it makes us both smile, but I don’t think we need a national day to remind us to do it. Everyone needs encouragement and to celebrate a victory now and then. Patting one’s team mates/co-workers isn’t always PC, so why not high-five?  Just don’t leave someone hanging, especially if his name is Chad. (Ba-dum-bum—silence…crickets…)

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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.


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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