Correction a.k.a. The Grinch Who Unwrapped Christmas a.k.a. Quasi-motive a.k.a. Claus and Effect

   Correction: I find that I must once again perform an apology before continuing with my ramble. I don't think my children realized when I began this blog, how often they would find themselves to be the 'star' of the show. I have already been brought to task, a.k.a. reminded sternly, a.k.a. lectured, regarding the 'Freaky Finger' blog that, 'It was NOT jammed, it was in fact broken in three places.' Naturally, I assumed that the comparison of said finger to a lightning bolt alluded to that fact since generally speaking something that goes from straight to accordion-shaped in the space of five seconds is usually broken; alas I was wrong. And so I stand corrected. The Freaky Finger was indeed mangled beyond repair, it never really quite healed from its breakage, and is now and forever a Freaky Finger (thus the name.)

   However, this error shall not slow me down because my children are what I consider excellent fodder for this blog (at least until they launch the first law suit whereupon I will have to reconsider my thinking and/or share in my millions [of pennies] but I'll cross that bridge when I come to it- if they don't push me off first- and honestly who could blame them?). Okay, so as I was saying, my children are excellent fodder because they are weird. They come by it honestly; they get it from me, so really I can't blame anyone but myself. I like to think of us as quirky, interesting and terribly entertaining; but most people just call us weird. Having said all of that, allow me to delve into the latest reminiscence (I know I am stuck…) that struck my brain at precisely two AM- really? Two? Could my brain have let me sleep a bit and THEN told me the tale. Apparently not, so this has been stewing about in my brain for the last six hours affording me very little sleep. In other words- if this sounds like pandemonium by the time I am done- it probably is- I've had no sleep and only a few sips of coffee. Best of luck keeping up!

   Moving on.

   It is a wonder- really it's a miracle- that my daughter celebrates Christmas at all in any form, because for her growing up, Christmas was a traumatic holiday akin to Halloween (I'm talking about the holiday AND the movie here!). Only one of my children can manifest such horrific fears over a perfectly innocuous holiday. But somehow she managed not only to develop a paranoia, but to hold onto it tightly with her chubby little hands (sans Freaky Finger) for nearly five years.

Allow me to explain ('cause you know I'm gonna!).

   Let's set the scene: Christmas circa 1992- daughter- beautiful, angelic (looking but not acting) baby girl with pretty blonde curls and adorably chubby cheeks- she looked like a cherub. Christmas tree stands majestically in the living room, twinkling lights abound, garland contrasts brightly against the green boughs, and heaps of presents littered the entire surrounding area. Two babies- son a few weeks shy of three, daughter- a few cards shy of a full deck- I mean two months shy of one year. Both babies' eyes are wide, son with anticipation, daughter with curiosity. Okay, everyone say it with me: AWWWWW!

   That's where the idyllic scene ends.

   Son and daughter are each handed a gift. Son immediately starts tearing in- he's ridden this particular bull before- he knows this will be the greatest eight seconds of his entire almost three year existence- until the next present that is.

   Daughter, upon witnessing the horror- oh the humanity of it!- of seeing her brother- a.k.a the Grinch- slash through the pretty paper- loses her ever-loving mind. She chucks her own gift as far away as she can get it, crab crawls across the living room where she then gives into hysteria- in the form of a screaming fit- for the next half an hour. Incidentally, that was exactly how long it took her brother to open all of his gifts as well as peruse what was in his stocking.

   Evidently, my daughter had thought the tree and all the packages with their pretty paper and shiny bows had become a permanent part of the home décor and was NOT on board with the removal of it- especially in so violent a manner.

   We spent the rest of the day attempting to coerce her into opening her gifts, which her brother finally did for her. But somehow, she blamed the toys. Those evil toys were at fault for this wanton destruction and she was making a stand. She was having NO part of them. For this reason, every single solitary toy- down to the last block- sat in a dejected pile in my living room for SIX months completely untouched by my daughter. In fact, her brother played with them for months after and she was only just beginning to allow some of them to integrate with the rest of her things in her toy box when the next Christmas rolled around. I am not exaggerating.

   Further, because as I have mentioned her birthday was only two months following Christmas, I received many panicked calls from friends and family wanting to know what they could possibly get her for this milestone birthday. Naturally I encouraged everyone to purchase clothing and to 'whatever you do' NOT wrap them. My daughter received more clothes than she could ever possibly use, all neatly 'wrapped' in grocery sacks. She was delighted.

   Okay, move ahead to next Christmas- surely she's gotten this under control by now- she's witnessed many a birthday and she has finally started playing with her toys from the year before- this will go much better right? Um, no. (But if you regularly read this blog you already knew that.)

   The child is nearing two when she celebrates her second Christmas and once again refuses to participate in opening any gifts, in the end capitulating enough to allow one of her aunts to do so for her. Not that it mattered, because aside from a stuffed bear that she took an instant liking to (no idea why, but this thing was her BUD), she would have nothing whatsoever to do with the rest of her things. I was beginning to consider a change in religion because obviously I was never going to experience one of those Currier and Ives moments with my youngest child…

   Ah, but alas there is sweet relief: firstly she deigned to play with these toys within about three months- we are making progress, and secondly on her birthday she opened gifts for the first time in her life- though she still tried to be gentle with the paper (as gentle as any two year old can be anyway).

So let's barge on ahead to Christmas #3. My daughter had spent the last year ogling and envying her two older cousins' Barbie dolls and there was nothing in the world she coveted more. She begged, pleaded and PRAYED for Barbie to find her way under the Christmas tree. And she did. Sort of.

   One of her aunts purchased a Barbie (sort of- I know I keep saying that- but you will understand) for her. My daughter was tearing away the paper in her creeping semi-gentle fashion when- OMG- what should peer out of the box but the round smiling face of Barbie herself. Now if she had been more than three, my daughter might have suspected something as Barbie was not blond. Instead, she sported midnight locks- the first clue to the fact that she is an imposter. But alas, my child only saw the face, became excited and began tearing the paper away in a more hurried fashion.

   I was in no way prepared for what happened next, I had no idea what was in the package. (After that I bought an x-ray machine and a metal detector in order to examine the packages more fully before handing them over to Ellen-eezer Scrooge. Okay, slight exaggeration, but you get the picture.) Anyway, this was 1994 and Disney's 'The Hunchback of Notre Dame' was all the rage, though my children hadn't seen it because a) they were too young to really understand it, and b) I am one of those mean moms that feels the subject matter- a.k.a. Esmeralda was a bit of a slut and the priest is on sexual over-drive- is not really meant for children. Maybe it's just me, but all the same, I had avoided that film. Singing gargoyles or not, I didn't think it was appropriate. The aunt apparently did not hold the same qualms, and so she had purchased a generic version of the gypsy girl and her would-be boyfriend Quasimodo.

   My daughter was appalled. Inside the box with her beloved Barbie was a monster who was trying to get her. The world was coming to an end. Panic ensued, the box launched across the living room (with much more force than she had been able to achieve at almost one) and there was no way to calm her. (Where was that damn bear from the year before, I ask you?)

   Quasi got an unceremonious burial in the trash can, and it took some time to convince my daughter that 'Barbie' was unscathed and did NOT in fact have monster cooties and would not call anymore hideous beasts to her.

   This was the same year my child received a 'singing' baby doll from her grandmother. My daughter, delighted by the new baby, began to hug it whereupon it began to sing (in a chorus of voices- really? A CHORUS? Seriously folks, does this baby have split personalities?) which naturally freaked her out and baby required emergency surgery to remove the Sybil box from inside its abdomen. It was a nightmare.

   So finally we get to Christmas #4. The child is nearly five, you would think that this time she would experience a holiday that didn't send her straight to the nearest psychiatric office, right? Yeah, yeah, you know the answer. Nobody likes a smarty pants.

   When the children were young, Santa used to take the extra measure of opening all the boxes and removing the eight billion twisty ties, plastic straps and miles of tape that a) would pose a choking hazard for small children, and b) would disallow said children the immediate enjoyment of their gift. Thank you Santa. It was a BRILLIANT idea- brilliant I say!

   Until…

   My daughter begins to open a sizeable gift (it was a Barbie car incidentally- Quasi had not managed to quash that passion). As she moved the box on her lap, the car- now freewheeling thanks to Santa's BRILLIANT scheme- rolls to one end. Repeat scene from year one and year three. Apocalypse!

   There is a monster inside that box- she knows it with every fiber of her being. Something hideously evil is just waiting inside to jump out and grab her. Something alive, like, say, a viper. Either way, she is having no part of it, uh uh, not now, not ever, no way, NO SIR.

   The only thing I can say is, Yes Virginia, there is a Santa Claus; and no, he's not out to get you.

When Customer Service Flies Out the Window a.k.a. The Great Cookie Debacle a.k.a The Battle of the Blossoms and How I Won a.k.a The Pants Predicament

   The other day I was revisiting an old story- The Great Cookie Debacle- with my husband. I seem to be stuck in reminiscing mode. Anyway, this was one of my all time favorite DTRJH? moments, so I thought I would share.

   It was my niece's birthday and her favorite cookie ever is something called the Peanut Butter Blossom. (It's a peanut butter cookie with a chocolate kiss centered on top.) We thought on our way out of town we would stop at the local cookie store in the mall which I shall call Blunders. Blunders is apparently famous for their Peanut Butter Blossoms, but not so much for their common sense.

   We had an hour's drive ahead of us so we were in a bit of a hurry when we rushed in- not that it mattered since it was nearing close on a Sunday and there were no lines. I was nervous as I scanned the case hoping to find the cookie to end all cookies (not necessarily for me as I hate peanut butter but my niece would argue the point so I thought I'd throw that in). There they were, in all their shining glory (okay, not shining, brown really, but brown glory just doesn't have the same ring to it), one full dozen- twelve, count them TWELVE- Blossoms- for my niece and her friends to savor (or fight over depending on how many were in attendance at the party).

   A young lady came to the register and said, "How may I help you?" in a chipper voice.

   Okay, really that's just me daydreaming. What really happened was a Brainless Employee came to the register and mumbled something indistinguishable that I could in no way understand, making it obvious that she had been pleasantly piddling away her time during her last-UGH- hour of her shift and I had interrupted, but I didn't care; I had cookies to buy.

   I told her what I needed and that's when this conversation commenced.

   BE: But I can't sell you all twelve.

   Me: Huh?

   BE:  I can't sell you all twelve.

   Me: Okay… (I'll bite) Why?

   BE: Because I'm not over eighteen.

   Now in Alice's Wonderland- a realm ruled completely by chaos- this might make sense- but as I had not fallen down a rabbit hole or stepped through a looking glass I was a bit confused.

   Me: What has your age got to do with anything?

   BE: Indiana state law doesn't allow me to work the ovens because I'm not eighteen, so I can't bake.

   Me: No problem. I wasn't asking you to bake- you got twelve- I want twelve. (Fork 'em over sister.)

   BE: But I can't sell everything that's in the case.

   Still not believing I am having this twisted argument when time's a tickin' away, I bravely persevered.

   Me: That's not everything in the case. Look there, you have sugar cookies and chocolate chip cookies and oatmeal cookies and even cookies that look like the Cookie Monster. I'm not buying those. Just the Peanut Butter Blossoms. Thank you. (I was still striving to be polite at this point even though I was starting to feel my own IQ points trickling away. I mean really, we were arguing about purchasing cookies INSIDE a cookie shop. Isn't that the purpose of a cookie shop? To SELL cookies? I wasn't asking for a lung transplant.)

   BE: No, I mean I can't sell all of one kind. That's our policy.

   Me: Uh huh. Well. Could you please explain that policy to me? I mean, you're here to make money right? And look- you're already halfway there- you have the customer, who has the money and you have the wares. All you have to do is bag the cookies and I will pay you and voila- feat accomplished!

   BE: I'm sorry, I can only sell you half.

   Me: What?!

   BE: That's our policy. We can only sell half of what's in the case so that the next customer can buy some too.

   Me: What if I'm the last customer tonight? What do you do with the other half of the cookies then? Do you sell them tomorrow? (Considering the 'Fresh Baked Cookies' sign as opposed to the 'Day Old Cookies Because We Are Blithering Idiots' sign, I doubted it.)

   BE: No, we throw them out.

   My head was spinning.

   Me: Have you ever heard the saying 'A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush?' 'Cause you're kind of banging on the bush looking for more and you've got one in your hand RIGHT NOW. You close in like an hour- chances are no one else is coming but me. Yet it's perfectly logical to you to hold on to six cookies you will throw away later rather than sell them FOR MONEY right now.

   BE: It's just our policy.

   Me: Policy Schmolicy. How do you guys make your rent?

   This brainiac was in HIGH SCHOOL. Yep, she's great at taking orders- talk about your lemmings committing mass suicide following all of the others into the sea. Pink Floyd had it right- these kids really are getting processed through a meat grinder- she was the proof of that. I think I even saw a little hamburger coming out of her ear.

   Nevertheless, this had now become a challenge. Brainless Employee had thrown down the cookie gauntlet and I was not one to pass it up. One way or another I was buying those cookies if it killed me in the process. I swear I was willing to go to jail for them. I was determined to get them for my niece yes, but at the same time I was determined to empty that damn case. IF IT KILLED ME. (Did I already mention that?)

Looking around I devised a plan. I was not alone on this mission. My two children and their father were with me. Instantly I started passing out cash.

   Me: Okay. I will buy six cookies. That leaves six- HALF of the cookies. He (I pointed at the childrens' father) will purchase three. Leaving HALF again, that's three cookies. (I knew math could NOT possibly be her strong suit.) Then, he (son) will buy - oh wait- do you round up or down?- never mind- he'll buy one and a half and my daughter will buy one and a half. Now you have two choices. Sell me twelve cookies all at once, or start ringing 'em up, 'cause if it takes all night halving cookies, then so be it. Those puppies are mine.

   She must have realized she was in a no win situation. Maybe most people wouldn't have waged an all out Blossom Battle, but she hadn't met me yet.

   Finally she gave in.

   BE: Fine, but if I get in trouble I'm telling my supervisor what you did.

   Me: Go right ahead. And tell her she's an idiot if she can't figure out how stupid her policy is.

   Honestly, what's better, a pretty case for the customers to look at, or a full cash drawer? For me, there is no debate. Take the money and run.

   Which brings me to my next customer service epic fail. This took place back when my son was still in high school. He had mentioned to me one morning that he needed new jeans- judging by the various holes he was sporting in the pair he was wearing at the time (holes not actually MEANT to be there- not some high dollar 'ripped' jeans- he actually wore them out) I told him to meet me at my work on my lunch hour.

   We took said lunch hour to run to a nearby store to purchase the jeans- and YIPPEE - they were ON SALE. Now my kids can tell you nothing makes my eyes light up more than a clearance rack. When I pinch a penny (which is always) it ends up flatter than any train could ever do. So we managed to purchase four pairs of jeans for the low, low price of $60, plus my 20% coupon making it $48 plus tax- WOOHOO. Momma's doin' a happy dance all the way to the register. Twelve bucks a pair for jeans- now we are talking!

   It wasn't until I got back to work and read my receipt that I realized I had been charged $96 plus tax- one of the pairs of jeans was over $60 (remember 20% came off the top)- WHAT? Now in my lifetime I have NEVER paid $60 for jeans (and God willing never will). Naturally I told my son to meet me back at the store after work- the very LAST thing I wanted to do.

   We arrived at the store and went back to Customer Service- a loose term that. Anyway, I dutifully waited in line with my little number- yes folks- we were taking numbers and standing in line. I was kind of hoping they might give me a half pound of smoked turkey- hey that's what my deli does… Finally my number came and I explained the problem to the woman behind the counter. She took the jeans I was returning and told me to head back into the store and find another pair and she would do the exchange.

   My son and I returned to the clearance racks whereupon closer inspection I discovered they had literally been positioned in a circle around another rack of jeans that were NOT on sale. We had found the $60 winner. I told him to look more carefully- AVOIDING the naughty rack- and eventually he found another pair.

   Back to Customer Service where one would assume we would not have to wait again- but naturally I was wrong. We took another number, stood in line another thirty minutes, and then met with the same woman who needed to be reminded who we were. (I suppose after an hour you do forget.) This was not the problem however. The problem was that she had misplaced the jeans that were to be exchanged.

   My patience was at an all time low- remember- second shopping trip in the same day and I had worked a very busy ten hour shift. I was tired. I was hungry. I wanted to go home.

   But, I bit my tongue and maintained a polite attitude, telling her, no problem, we'll wait while you find them.

   And that was when she accused us of 'trying to pull a fast one' and stealing the jeans.

   WHAT?!

   You could literally hear tires squealing as everything around us ground to a halt. Now everyone in the room had all eyes on her and us. My son and I stood there baffled, with our mouths hanging open.

   I tried to remind her she had taken the jeans- along with the bag and the receipt- before sending us back into the store.

   Her response was: "I don't know what you're trying to pull here, but it's not going to work. You had them with you when you left. It's not our policy to take the customer's merchandise."

   (I am SO sick of hearing the words, 'Our policy.')

   Eventually (still mid argument- and no I did NOT leap across the counter and throttle her although I REALLY, REALLY wanted to), her supervisor joined the melee. Stupid-visor- after hearing both sides including the insinuations the 'Customer Service Representative' was making- proceeded to back up her employee with the words- 'It's not our policy-'

   At this point I wanted to scream. I DID yell. Loudly. With much vehemence. And some spit.

   'I don't care what your policy is. I am telling you, she TOOK the jeans, AND the bag, AND the receipt, and I don't know what she did with them, and at this point I really don't care. Just give me the money I paid for the jeans and I promise you I will never darken your door again. I can NOT BELIEVE this is how you would treat a customer. Really? REALLY?! Accusing me of STEALING some stupid jeans? If I was going to STEAL them don't you think I'd be stealing the $60 ones and not the $12 ones? HOW can I STEAL something I'VE ALREADY PAID FOR?!'

   At this point I think the Stupid-visor realized things had spiraled too far out of control- I'm half convinced someone had already placed a call to 911. However, the Stupid-visor began looking around and DID find a bag (buried under a bunch of crap the CSR was folding and hanging) sitting on the BACK counter about ten feet away from the customer service counter.

   Stupid-visor was feeling rather sheepish when she presented it to me and asked if this was my merchandise. Which of course it was.

   'Yeah, I'm a pretty damn clever shoplifter- I hid the merchandise out of MY reach.'

   She then dismissed the CSR, performed the exchange, and attempted a weak apology.

   And she never so much as offered me that half pound of smoked turkey.

Disclaimer a.k.a. Jenga Trash a.k.a. Bowl Roll Lament a.k.a. The Doo-doo Dilemma

   Disclaimer: Fair warning- this is a rant. All names have been removed to protect the not so innocent. If you think any of this applies to you, it probably does. If you are one of my children- at one time most of this DID apply to you so just because you do or do not do these things now means NOTHING- you no longer live with me so the fact that you are now housebroken benefits me in no way. These are the things that drive my husband and myself completely crazy and will no doubt lead to our long confinement in a nuthouse somewhere where we will sit and rock and babble nonsense to ourselves. End of disclaimer.

   I don't know what it is in my house, but please tell me this is happening everywhere and I am not stuck in some kind of Trash Can Bermuda Triangle, because for some reason in my home, the taking out of the trash is equivalent to asking someone to perform brain surgery: they avoid it because it is far too complicated and it must require some kind of special training.

   Inevitably whenever I enter the kitchen I find trash practically spewing from the can. I have actually watched as some people (who for the sake of maintaining a peaceful atmosphere in the home shall remain nameless) add trash to the already full can like they are playing Jenga.  Oh look, the soda can will fit just here and if I fold this paper plate into a teeny weeny, itsy bitsy, tiny little rectangle ala the Jetson's car, I can jam it into that millimeter of open space just so. Ta da!!

   Five minutes later (the approximate time it would take to pull the bag and add a new one) the trash is lurking in the can waiting for the next poor schmuck (if you're not paying attention- that would be me- resident schmuck) to try and pull the bag, whereupon countless objects rain down around said schmuck's feet.

   Of course that's not the only thing, there's always the bowl roll lament. Toilet paper: it is the bane of my existence.

   I ask you, how HARD is it to change a roll of toilet paper? I live with people that can categorize every last component of an engine and tell you how it works and what it does. They can take it apart and put it back together again. They can run wire, repair plumbing, and carpent with the best of them. (Carpent- what carpenters do- I know it's not a word- deal with it.)They have power tools I've never heard of which require some pretty extensive maintenance. They have jigsaws (not the puzzle), chain saws and weed-eaters out the ying yang. (If you've ever added a spool of wire to a weed-eater you know what a pain that is. I'd rather buy a new one.) They watch hours of Cool Tools and How It's Made (which by the way is enough to put you into a coma) and comprehend higher mathematics and actually enjoy them (really??). They watch science shows and understand quantum physics and time space continuum crap that gives me a headache just hearing the words. Yet they can't handle the bowl roll?

   It's a simple two step process people (one that does not require a degree in engineering, I might add).

   Step one- Take off empty roll. Step two- Replace with new roll. Not hard.

   Then go find some tiny corner in the overflowing trash can to stuff it, would you?

   Now I understand the little springy thing can be challenging, (you could put an eye out with that thing if you're not careful), but sincerely, if you can work a cable remote, you can handle the toilet paper roll. Because if there's one thing I want 'On Demand' it's toilet paper. I'm a girl, I use it A LOT. I almost don't even care if you neglect to put the seat down, I can work that out just fine. But I hate, loathe and despise being trapped on the toilet calling for help and waiting for someone to a) hear me and b) take enough pity to toss me a roll. And if I'm home alone, oh boy are you gonna hear about it later. (As well as everyone else since it's in my blog…)

   A more recent thing has been what I like to call Tidbit Tossing. There are people in my home who do not like to take the last of anything. For that reason there will be one spoonful of whatever kind of food (mac and cheese, mashed potatoes, single slice of bread, half a cinnamon roll, tadpoles on toast-whatever- it doesn't matter what it is). Now naturally what's left behind isn’t enough to feed a two year old on a hunger strike, but Lord knows, we can't touch it. Not until it starts to turn an unnatural color. Then the tidbit gets tossed into the trash can-score two for the trash can- it's quickly becoming public enemy number one in my house.

   And don't even get me started on the dishwasher. Unloading it is completely out of the question, because the Men in Black have visited my home with their little memory erasing flashy thing. I know this because the same people who removed the dishes from the cupboards have suddenly had their memory banks erased and cannot possibly recall from whence they came. As far as loading it, that is also out of the question because although they excel at Jenga trash, they are incapable of finding a hole to poke a dirty dish in. They also are baffled by the load requirements- aka glasses on top, plates and pans on the bottom. Even matching them up with what is already inside is too much of a strain.

   As if the humans aren't bad enough, then there are the dogs.  These two nitwits can handle life just fine if I go out the back door and leave them inside- which makes no sense because that's where their leashes are therefore they spend a lot of time back there; you would think they would feel compelled to join me. But no, if I go out back they sit at the door and watch me quite interestedly, cocking their heads this way and that, but there is no massive freak out.  On the other hand, if I go out the front door I better look like getting in my car and driving away, because anything else out front is completely against the rules. There will be no gardening, mowing, sitting, skating, walking, whatever. I know this because whenever I dare an infraction of these rules (rules the dogs set, not me), the dogs go NUTS.

   They will race around the house like the demons of hell are chasing them, darting from window to window, barking like wild animals and tearing up everything in their paths. I come inside the house to find the comforter and pillows off my bed and on the floor, the couch pillows in the middle of the living room, the drapes opened and/or dismantled in every room of the house, and two nitwits sitting politely in the midst of this tornadic destruction, greeting me at the door with their tails thumping and their tongues hanging out of their mouths. Hey ma, watcha been doin'? We missed you.

   I can see that.

   And then there's the doo-doo dilemma. For some reason the dogs think that the back yard is their own personal bathroom (maybe because it is, but I don't care, just go with me on this one). It's like a magic trick; every time I pluck up poo, three more appear. No sooner than I discharge the doo-doo that they do do so well (nice alliteration there right? I am all about alliteration- there see? I did it again- accolades for alliteration- okay moving on), then they feel the need to let fly with some more. I've seen these two eat- I feed them for crying out loud- there is NO way they eat THAT much. And yet they can manufacture manure at a rate that would put any politician to shame.

   Okay, rant over. Time to go empty the trash, load the dishwasher, and change the roll…

The Dradon Project

   The Dradon Project has finally been published! This book ('epic novel' according to Smashwords- of course they are referring to the length; still I like it- 'epic' makes me happy) has haunted me for some time; I originally started it about five years ago and then gave it up because 'life got in the way.' And then two years ago I got injured and was put on medical leave for several months. During that time I didn't know what to do with myself and so my husband began urging me to get back to writing.

   I remember saying, "Well there was this one project I was piddling around with….  But that was a long time ago and I don't even have very much more than an outline." I didn't even have a title. I knew it was a 'project,' but I didn't know it was the 'Dradon' project.

   "Unless you got something better to do…" was his response; and considering at the time I was in screaming pain twenty-four hours a day and couldn't even turn my head, the answer was, "Nope. No. Not really. Hmmm…"

   And so the project was reborn.

   With so many of my books, the story seems to tell itself and The Dradon Project was no exception. Often I found myself waking up in the middle of the night going, "Oh!!! So that's what happened- as if one of the characters suddenly stepped out of the story and whispered some bit of information in my ear while I slept.

   Sounds crazy I know (but those of you who know me, already know that I crossed the bridge into Crazy Town a LONG time ago…). But that's what was happening- the book was urging me almost as much as my husband was.

   And so I worked on it. And worked on it. And worked on it.

   Normally I carry some kind of notebook around with me everywhere I go because I never know when an idea will hit me and I have to jot it down because I am getting OLD and I forget…

   What was I talking about?

   See what I mean?

   Oh yeah.

   Anyway; normally when writing a book, I will use one or two notebooks- three tops- to record various bits of information, or notes on any research I might have done. In the case of The Dradon Project, I have used ten- count them TEN- notebooks for all the information I had to keep track of. And that's not even including all the mini-notebooks and post-it notes that were randomly stuck EVERYWHERE. I think I was even sticking them to myself at one point.

   In short (too late I know), what I am saying to you is that this has been by far the greatest undertaking I have ever attempted in regards to my writing. I juggled so much information and so many characters that I often found myself with a migraine trying to keep it all straight. But I believe I have succeeded (thanks very much to my editor in chief H.V.!!) and I hope you will all enjoy it. There will be a sequel (H. V. is already hounding me on that), but after such a massive project I am currently taking a break and working on something a little less heavy for a minute. Already though, the next book is plaguing my mind (unlike its predecessor, it already has a title) and I have about half a notebook's worth of notes- I can't get away from my brain.

   The Dradon Project is currently only available on Smashwords but will become available to other venues such as B&N, Apple Store and Amazon in about three weeks; naturally I will let everyone know when that happens. I also published another short story (more of a long essay I suppose, rather than a short story) about two weeks ago that I didn't announce and it has been surprisingly popular- it's flying off the cyber-shelf!

   Thanks again to everyone for all their support- I really DO appreciate it! The e-mails, FB messages, and encouraging words I have received not only from the blog, but also from my previous short stories have been heartwarming. The overwhelming responses from Losing Myself, But Not Entirely (the only piece of non-fiction I've ever written) actually brought me to tears! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! I can never say it enough! It is my greatest joy when someone tells me that my blog made them laugh, or that they really enjoyed one of my stories- I am blessed!

Gilda's Locket -Free

Losing Myself But Not Entirely  -Free

The View from the Top -Free

The Dradon Project - $0.99

Pink Bird a.k.a Popping Out of the Cake a.k.a The Finger a.k.a. And I Will Always Love You

  Recently I've been feeling a little bit nostalgic. Maybe it's because my children are grown and so many of their friends are starting to get married and have children of their own. (Disclaimer: I am in NO hurry for my own children to do the same- thanks guys!)

   Anyway, it was only a few weeks ago that my daughter asked me to regale some friends with an old anecdote about my son when he was three, which commenced the nostalgia and all systems were a go for Reminiscence 2012.

  Various memories popped into my brain. Like the time one of my nieces set fire to the microwave oven trying to make S'mores. Apparently it is unnecessary to cook the marshmallow on high for eight minutes. Who knew?

   And then there was the time my sister came home to find her daughter (then two) lying in the middle of the living room floor in a sort of strung out position with her eyes closed. The conversation went like this:

   My Sister: What are you doing?

   My Niece: (Opening one eye to look at her mother) I'm a pink bird. (Eye closes.)

   My Sister: Okay. Why are you lying there?

   My Niece: (Eye opens again.) I'm a dead pink bird. (Eye closes again.)

   Meet my niece, Wednesday Addams…

   Or the time my son and one of his friends decided it might be nifty to go sledding. Indoors. Let me work out the equation for you:

   Toy-box lid + staircase= two sad boys

   The boys were roughly three and four at the time and probably spent a total of two minutes on their brilliant scheming. Criminal masterminds they weren't. They failed to take into account that the staircase split at a landing in the middle. This debacle ended with my son face-planted into the bookcase on the landing and wearing the toy-box lid as a hat, and his friend (upon the mean old parents putting an end to their dangerous activity) saying, "But Moooo-om, I was taking turns." Great job being fair and taking turns Skippy, but you see your friend right there, the one with his left knee behind his neck and his elbow jammed inside his ear? Odds are your turn won't fare much better…

   And then there was the time my daughter (then three) decided to perform a striptease act at her brother's fifth birthday party. Let me just say, thank God for tights! As it turns out, tights aren't just a torture device for women, they actually prevent a toddler from streaking when you least expect it.

   While all the party-goers were busily pinning the tail on the donkey, I caught my child in the kitchen, naked from the waist down, (with the exception of the blessed tights). Somehow she had managed to remove her panties past the tights, though to this day I still haven't figured out how. The girl could've been the next Houdini. Since she was determined to be completely undressed, it was the valiant struggle with the tights that allowed me to catch her in time to prevent her from popping out of the cake…

   Here's one that will live in my mind forever: The finger.

   My kids seemed to like to make it a competition to see who could get hurt the worst. I took semi-annual trips to the ER for stitches, broken bones, and a myriad of other injuries. And they took illnesses to all new, never seen before heights. If they got something (be it chicken pox, pneumonia, the flu, whatever) their little bodies had to perform some strange demented magic that put a twist on it so bizarre even the doctor would say, "What the heck is that?" Not what you want to hear from your pediatrician.

   For example: the time my daughter had mono and she had to have an MRI because her neck and throat were so swollen the doctor thought it was crushing her larynx and impeding her ability to breathe. Really? Who gets an MRI for mono? The kid with the size 52 neck, that's who.

   One of the most minor injuries which serves to substantiate my claim that my children are just flat out weird, was when my daughter jammed her finger playing basketball. Yup, jammed. That's it. That's all. Minor injury.  No one's dying here.

   It should have been that simple right?

   Never is.

   Anyone who knows my daughter knows about her 'freaky finger.' It was during the summer and we were having a cook-out. We had all had just finished eating and we were feeling fat, dumb, and happy. The kids were out front playing basketball and I was busy cleaning up the remnants of the meal.

   Suddenly my daughter came up to me. She was holding one hand inside the other and was saying, "I can't make it go back."

   Naturally I was confused. "Make what go back?"

   "My finger. I tried and I can't make it go back."

   Confusion multiplied. Let me explain:

   The child was calm. She was not crying. She was not exhibiting any signs of pain. She was speaking as if she were talking about something as mundane as the weather. I was in NO way prepared for what happened next.

   She showed me her hand.

   I almost showed her my dinner.

   Her finger, one that used to (operative words here- USED TO) be gloriously straight and used to bend at three points, all knuckles turning INTO her hand, was now shaped like a lightning bolt and was a lot shorter than I had remembered it being. The middle knuckle was bent sort of backwards and kind of folded over on itself. In the WRONG direction. The top knuckle was doing the same thing.

   Have you ever seen those cartoons where the character (think Tom and Jerry or Wile E. Coyote) slams their fingers in a door and they come out all crumpled? That's what it looked like. Funny in a cartoon. Not so funny in real life.

   One other thing I want to add: if my finger (or any other part of my body) ever looks like THAT- the ENTIRE world will know about it. There will be no calm, "I can't make it go back." I will be screaming bloody murder for all the world to hear. Before I pass out. And vomit on myself. Just sayin'.

   After months of physical therapy (seriously- physical therapy for a finger- I swear to you, I had to take the child in a few times a week to watch her do finger 'exercises') and several specially made finger 'casts', her finger still does this freaky thing where she bends all her knuckles backwards. And she does it every opportunity she gets.

   Consider that when you dream about having a darling baby girl you can dress up in little frilly pink dresses.

   And now for the story my daughter wanted me to tell- drum-roll please…

   It was circa 1993; my son was three and my daughter was a year old. The two of them were upstairs playing in their rooms while I was cleaning up whatever havoc they had already wreaked downstairs. Suddenly I heard the distinct sound of my son singing. Fervently. Passionately. With much ardor.

   Now this caught my attention for two reasons. #1- my son did not sing. Ever. For any reason. Not so much as crooning 'Happy Birthday' at a birthday party. And #2- he was singing a love song with tremendous gusto.

   Son: "And Iiiiiiiieeeeeeeiiiiiii wiw ahways wuv youuuuuuuuuuuu! Iiiiiiiii wiw ahways wuv youuuuuuu!"

   (My spell check just LOVED that one. I think it melted.)

   (Tangent Alert) The song was Dolly Parton's I Will Always Love You, made even more famous by Whitney Houston's remake which was playing nonstop on the radio that year. And the year before. And the year after. I pretty much learned to hate that song. (Though not nearly as much as, 'I believe that children are our future. Teach them well and let them lead the way…' Obviously Miss Houston had not experienced the toy-box lid debacle as of yet…)

   Tangent over. Back to the subject. Son singing passionately:

   Suddenly poignant images painted themselves in my mind; my darling three year old, possibly down on one knee, singing his heart out to his precious baby sister (who was the only one upstairs with him, aside from the dog).

   Being the mother I was, I instantly grabbed the video camera and raced up the stairs. Now let me tell you, this was no easy effort. Let me bring you back to the Stone Age; this was a time when video cameras were not something that fit into the palm of your hand. Oh no, that would be too easy. Video cameras then were shoulder held apparatuses that made you look like you worked for CNN and required a sound man and a lighting engineer to follow you around.

   So there I was, fifty pounds of video equipment stacked on my shoulder, racing up the stairs in an effort to capture this heartwarming scene on film. In seconds I had the camera running and snuck into my daughter's bedroom.

   Upon entering the room I was flummoxed.

   My daughter was busily setting her miniature table with plastic teacups and silverware in preparation for the tea party that was apparently about to begin. My son was not kneeling on the floor ala Cyrano de Bergerac; instead he was seated on her kitchenette, still singing with all the passion his little heart could hold, "And Iiiiiiiieeeeeiiiiii wiw ahways wuv youuuuuuuuu!"

   To the Raggedy Andy doll he held out in front of him.

   He loved his doll. Good to know.