My sons are on two different schedules (one half-day kindergartner and two middle schoolers). Because of some…ahem…”issues” I’ve ended up driving them to and fro rather than putting them on the bus I paid for with my property taxes fueled by the gas I paid for–but I digress. They’ve had track, band, academic team, robotics, music lessons–all of those things I swore when I wasn’t yet a parent that I wouldn’t let them get into so that they could “just be children.”

As a result, most days of the week I haven’t had more than two or three consecutive, uninterrupted hours to do anything. My days are as broken up as the stale spaghetti noodles I poured into the pot for dinner last night.

Writing is actually easier when they are all at home. Or it should be. The older two (in theory) can feed, clothe, bathe and watch the youngest. Everyone can call 9-1-1 and the pizza guy. I should be able to lock myself in my office with my laptop and my imaginary friends and enemies in my imaginary town.

Before I was a parent, I chose myself a good man. A mellow man. A quiet man. A peaceful, calming person. The Spawn of Stevens look like him. They make his gestures and repeat phrases that have come straight from their father’s mouth.

SO WHAT IS WITH ALL OF THE BICKERING? Zom-GEE!

They LOVE each other. We had them so that long after we’re gone, they’d have each other. They cuddle together on the floor beside the bed when they’re asleep (because sleeping bags are always more fun than beds.) They drown army men together in the sandbox (which is full of mosquito-larva-infested water). So why won’t they stop with the bickering?

I make them stay on separate floors. Behind separate doors. I fine them for speaking to each other (I’ve made back most of their allowances). I make them hug and kiss one another when they fight. Nothing, but nothing creates peace.

Advise me, those of you who’ve been trapped shared halcyon summers with your offspring, the sun glinting on their hairs as they frolicked in slo-mo through non-wasteful sprinklers. I need you. My children’s lives may depend on you.

Easy to smile at the beginning . . .

by Laura Drake

Alpha Dog and I had been training for three months, so I had mixed feelings about finally attempting my first organized Century bicycle ride (100 miles in a day.)   On one hand, I was looking forward to not having to spend 8-10 hours a week on that darned bike seat, training, and was getting behind in chores around the house.  On the other hand, I was dreading it. I had serious doubts about my ability.  How embarrassing would it be not to make it after telling everyone my goal?  No such fears for Alpha Dog, he could do this with very little sweat.

We decided to spend the night before in Poway, so we would be at the starting line in plenty of time.  After a huge Italian dinner (one of the advantages – you can eat whatever you want the day before the ride) and a good night’s sleep, we were up at 4:30.  I had planned on a big breakfast, but found that I was too nervous to eat much.  When we got to Old Poway Park it was still dark, but the place was soon hopping with 1500 bicyclists.  Who knew there were THAT many crazy people in Southern California?

There didn’t seem to be an official start; no gun going off, or cheering. We just inserted ourselves into the huge peleton of bikes on the road.  Police were directing traffic through town and it sure was nice to have someone to stop cars so we didn’t have to wait at intersections.

That hill was a bitch-kitty

Within a mile and a half the dreaded “Poway Grade” began.  They’d closed off one of the lanes to traffic for the ride.    4 miles of 9% grade…ugh.  The good news was that we’d come down the weekend before and I tackled the hill, so at least I knew I could do this part!  I hadn’t done it elbow to elbow with 1500 of my closest friends however.  It was scary to be clipped into the bike with people either whizzing by me at close proximity or lugging ahead of me slowly.  I was so hyper alert that I didn’t even notice that the hill was hard!

On to the next 96 miles.  We were lucky with the weather; overcast and a high of 80 degrees.  Alpha Dog’s dust wasn’t even visible — I was sure I’d seen the last of him for the day. He was testing his testosterone level against a bunch of young riders at the front.  As the riders spread out, I had a chance to look around.  The land is beautiful: rolling hills, trees overhanging the road, and gated estates.  We went by the Wild Animal Park, Legoland, a thoroughbred racetrack, the ocean.

It’s funny, I only remember “snapshots” of most of the ride; I think the rest of it I was concentrating on the road, traffic and my level of energy (or lack thereof).  The motorcycling skills paid off going downhill, as I was able to whiz along while others heated up their brakes and slowed down.  Saw one wreck along the downhill…a guy had been going too fast to take a turn, and he went off the road – CHP was on the scene.  That slowed everyone down!

I caught up with Alpha Dog at the rest stops, where he’d waited to be sure I was okay.  He was so happy he was giggling, and by the third one I was a little “testy.”  Okay, to tell the truth, I was snapping at him like a woman in labor.

The last 25 miles were seen through a haze of pain: legs, lungs, butt.  They had advertised the ride as having 4500 feet of climb, and I kept looking down at the ascent display on my bike computer every few minutes, and when we passed 4500 feet, we still had twenty miles to go.  I thought to myself, “Oh good, now the rest will be downhill – I can do this!”   But the road kept climbing.  At 5000 feet, I realized we’d been duped!  Then I really got bitter.  The route took us along the freeway on a bike trail, with retaining walls on both sides.  We were climbing endless hills, and it was HOT!  We finally rolled back into Poway and I heaved a sigh of relief when I saw the city limits sign. Alpha Dog was ahead, but keeping fairly close at that point, and stopped me from taking a shortcut 3 miles from the end.  Boy he was lucky he was out of earshot from then on!

The Finish Line

To his chagrin, we finished in the bottom third of the riders (obviously not due to HIS lack of ability!).

I was just happy to have finished, and to pull the seat out of my butt.  I hobbled to where they were serving food and sat as far from anyone else as I could . . . I stunk!  You can’t imagine how filthy you get – you’re slathered in suntan lotion, which picks up road grime and seven hours worth of sweat.  I wanted to burn the clothes I wore, regardless if I was still in them or not.

When I got off the bike, Alpha Dog said, “Wasn’t that fun?!” He looked so happy that I didn’t hit him.  But I did lay some ground rules:

• I didn’t want to hear the word “fun” again,
• He seriously needed to stop smiling,
• I didn’t want to talk about the ride, or what ride we were doing next, or even LOOK at the bike for at least a week.

By that time I figured the last 25 miles will have faded like the pain of childbirth (it didn’t.)

Final mileage: 104.  Final total ascent: 5700 feet.

Am I glad I did it?  Yeah.  Am I going to do it again?  Not in this lifetime.

Of course everything cost more than originally budgeted. That always happens, right? So by the time the granite was installed, the wallpaper removed and the walls retextured and painted, the cabinets sanded and painted and new carpet installed, there wasn’t much left over for new office furniture and artwork. That’s where cheap, bargain-shopping Liz Talley came in. And I figured while I was in the office frame of mind, I would spiff up my own digs. So off I went to all my favorite places to scoop up bargains.

At a furniture store I scored a nice leaning bookcase for $199.00 which meant I could give my old smaller bookcase to my husband to put in his closet for storage. Ding! Money saved and I got a new bookcase. Next, the office chair. I had recently bought a nice leather one for my home office that was too big for me and causing me to slump. With my Louisiana income tax return, I bought an ergonomic chair for me (something called a Quantum) and sent the distinguished leather and wood chair with my husband. More money saved! And lest you think he got all my leftovers, I found a beautiful Riverside desk and filing cabinet on sale at Dillards. Using my 10% off coupon meant I saved over a $100.00 there. Then I found an orginal painting won at an art auction, found a frame on sale at Michaels (using my 40% off coupon) and brought forth a nice, masculine Labrador Retriever piece to hang near his desk. I scored another large metal sculpture at Tuesday Morning and a wood table at a salvage store to hold the coffee, etc. So, yeah, I took my mad shopping skills and helped trim the budget down considerably. All in all, it looks pretty darn good.

So now you’re wondering about the title, right?

Well, after helping my husband put together my new chair last night, I felt empowered. So empowered that I decided I could put together the bookcase I bought for my office. Piece of cake, right?

Well, it was…mostly because I was determined it would be. I did use the eldest son’s brawn and asked for his help bringing it in the house. After that, I was on my own. They had homework. Whatever! But I let it slide because I do want them to do their homework and we had yet another baseball game. So I unboxed, laid out the parts and after a few slip ups trying to hold the sides up while I screwed the shelves in place, I found a rhythm and a system. Thirty minutes later, I had a completed bookshelf that I built ALL BY MYSELF! Trust me. This is an incredible feat. I don’t do well with instructions or screwdrivers…but when a gal needs a bookshelf up and functioinal, she does what it takes.

So I posted a picture of the end result which I was very pleased with. Got the pillow on sale at Pier One for under $25.00, too. Another bargain since it’s really cute. The Louisiana Writers print was found in my grandfather’s storage shed after he passed away and the rug was a bit more than I like to pay but it had flowers on it and my office is the only place I seem to be able to do flowers in this masculine household.

So what about you? Ever done something on your own that you thought you couldn’t accomplish?

Then I began to notice it on other cars. Now it seems to be on EVERY car. Am I insane, that I never noticed this before? If not, what the heck caused it? Has anyone else noticed such a thing?

I tried to take a picture of my car, but the light shifted and it didn’t come out. So I Googled to see if I could find anyone else commenting on this. Nothing, but I didfind this website: Dirty Car Art Gallery. I’m unable to post a thumbnail here, so pleaseclick the link and check it out! It takes some real talent to draw people in car dirt.

Okay, that’s the theme for today. Tell me your weird window story du jour!

I’ve been aware I was at high risk for the disease my entire adult life.  My grandmother had breast cancer.  My mother had breast cancer.  I had a benign tumor when I was 22 and started having routine mammograms early on.  So when the doctor confirmed what I already suspected after having several biopsies in as many years and a scare with DCIS (ductal carcinoma in situ) two years earlier, I wasn’t completely surprised by the diagnosis.

What did surprise me were my options.  I went in expecting a lumpectomy like I had with the DCIS.  However, although the cancer was Stage 0, it was in more than one area and  scattered.  A lumpectomy would require losing one-third of my breast, radiation, and chemotherapy.   My other option was a mastectomy.  I would lose my breast, but no chemo and no radiation.

My decision shocked everyone including my husband, my doctor, and maybe even me.  I didn’t choose a mastectomy.  I chose a bi-lateral mastectomy.  Both breasts.  People told me how brave I was to take such a radical approach.  Let me assure you in no uncertain terms that I was not brave; I was terrified.  Terrified that in three months or three years I would be hearing the same terrifying diagnosis about my other breast.

I chose an option many women aren’t aware of—a simple, skin-saving mastectomy with only a 4% chance of recurrence.  The surgeon and the plastic surgeon were both in the surgery.  The surgeon removed my breasts, leaving as much skin as possible (which wasn’t much).  When he finished, the plastic surgeon inserted saline implants, each containing a port.  For two months, I went to the plastic surgeon’s office every two weeks and he would inject more saline solution through the port.  The skin stretched a little at a time until he had the mounds the correct size.  I was fortunate; he was able to stretch me to my previous size.  Then, we waited six months for everything to settle.

After the wait, I had a second surgery.  The plastic surgeon removed the saline implants and replaced them with silicone ones followed by another wait (three months).  The third surgery was optional—nipples.  But I’d gone this far and was thrilled with the results, so why stop now?  I took the option and loved the completed feeling I got from it.  No more blank faces staring back at me in the mirrorJ.

When the post-op report came back after the first surgery, I learned that my “good” breast did indeed have cancer; it was just too small to show up yet on a mammogram.  I made the right choice and have never regretted it.

I realize how blessed I am to have caught the cancer early, and I acknowledge the others who haven’t had the choices I had and have bravely faced whatever they had to endure.  But there are a lot of women like me out there who could have a choice.  Please help me get the message to them that EARLY DETECTION IS THE KEY.  I pray that every one of them can celebrate a Re-birth Day like me!

So my question for you today is an extremely personal one.  When was your last mammogram?

In a time when men rule their households with firm hands, can a quiet man tame his rebellious wife with persevering love?

Angry at being forced to marry a man not of her choosing, Adaku stubbornly shuns her new husband on their wedding night. However, she soon discovers there are worse things than giving in to a man whose touch awakens her deep desires. In a land where fruitfulness is celebrated, she could soon be labeled a barren woman.

Obinna knows there are several ways to tame a rebellious woman. Patience and perseverance are two of them. Adaku is his treasure and he would never let her go. When her fears push her into his arms, will he be able to convince her to stay with him forever by unleashing the passion within her?

Adaku is forced to marry Obinna against her will.  Her heart is with the prince and she refuses Obinna in all ways.  Obinna loves his wife and hopes to win her over.  He is kind to her and provides for her every need, except one, he will not touch her against her will.  As Adaku sees the happiness in her friends eyes when she reveals her pregnancy, she knows that something is missing in her life.  She wants her husband to look at her the way other men look at their wives.  Is it too late for her and Obinna to have a future, she hopes not.

Adaku is strong willed.  She always thought she was going to marry the prince but that didn’t work out as planned.  She is now married to a kind caring man that dotes on her.  As time progresses, she grows to care about him and dreams of having a real marriage with him but doesn’t know how to show him.  She is concerned that because of her stubbornness, she will be labeled as barren disgracing Obinna.  In the end she is willing to do whatever it takes to save her marriage.

Obinna is such a strong man.  He is kind and patient with Adaku, hoping that through his kindness she will come to love him as much as he loves her.  You feel empathy toward him because he’s living with a wife that doesn’t want to have an intimate relationship with him but also admiration because he refuses to force himself on Adaku and is waiting on her to come to him.  There are not many men that would allow this type of behavior from their wives.

This story drew me in from the very beginning.  It was interesting and different from anything I have read before.  The main characters are complex and strong.  There are a limited amount of secondary characters but each one is needed to advance the story.  I also loved getting a glimpse into the Nigerian village and their lifestyle.  It helps the reader understand the characters better I believe.

Overall I really liked this story and give His Treasure 3½ Flaming Hearts. 

Hi All! Once again, I’m out playing…not really. My local chapter is hosting a writers’ retreat. Sort of like a lock-in for chapter members. We’ll be doing 2 hours writing blocks. The idea is to get words, words, and more words this weekend. Lucky for me, good friend Silver James stepped up to fill in for me. Thanks Silver!  Take it away…..

Hi, everyone.  I’m Silver James and I write romance. We’re all about the romance around here, right? I happen to love my romance with a healthy dash of magic and mystery. Are you wondering what the word “Lunacy” has to do with romance? Funny you should ask.

According to the Merriam Webster on-line dictionary:

lu•na•cy noun \ˈlü-nə-sē\; plural lu•na•cies
: insanity; also : intermittent insanity once believed to be related to phases of the moon

Way back when, the medical community thought the phases of the moon affected the human body much the same way as it does the tides. Even though various studies have discounted this, talk to any cop, firefighter, EMT, or emergency room worker and they’ll tell you The Crazy™ happens when the moon is full.

There’s another moon word that people use when describing some of the craziness that goes on under a full moon.

moon•struck adj \-ˌstrək\
: affected by or as if by the moon: as a : mentally unbalanced b : romantically sentimental c : lost in fantasy or reverie

And that’s why I’m here today. I love the sentimental fantasy—though whenever I listen to those voices in my head, people might consider me to be a little unbalanced. I only worry when I talk back to them. *looks shifty-eyed* *bwahahas* Hey. I’m a writer. I’m supposed to have voices in my head. Right? Right??

Who went outside last Saturday night to see the super moon? Raise your hands. It’s okay. This isn’t a quiz. *raises hand* I made my husband take a detour after dinner so we could get a better view of it. I love moon watching. And I love all the legends that go with the moon—especially werewolves. The wolf is one of my favorite animals and the idea that one might morph into a sexy guy has long been a staple of romance—and horror. But in a horror story, the wolf is a bad beastie that eats the heroine for dinner. We won’t go there, ’kay? I’m all about the Wolf turning into the sexy beast who falls in love with the heroine and transports her to fantastic places while the full moon shines above.

 With that thought in mind, I set out to write a trilogy of stories around the idea that a Wolf becomes “Moonstruck” when he falls in love. When the Wolf in question happens to be a Special Forces soldier on a covert operation and the object of his “obsession” is a “superior officer”, sparks are sure to fly. Not to mention that lies, secrets, and betrayals are more personal under a full moon.

BLOOD MOON (Moonstruck Book 1) is on sale for the next few days for 99 cents for the Amazon Kindle. And to celebrate this new release, I’ll give away a Kindle copy of BLOOD MOON to one random commenter today. Leave your email address in the comment (so I know where to send your gift certificate for BLOOD MOON) AND you have to answer this question in your comment: Were you standing in the moonlight when got your first kiss?

(Moon picture Copyright © 2012 Clary Carey) Used with permission.)

Then we noticed he had a knack for memorizing things. Songs. Whole books. All the dialogue from entire episodes of his favorite cartoons, including the accents from English (Peppa Pig) to redneck (Larry the Cable Guy from Cars). We noticed he loved to do things in steps and got flustered if you made him change the routine. And we noticed he wasn’t especially coachable…as did his poor soccer coach who never quit figured out how to get him to stop spinning circles in the middle of the field while the other team was scoring a goal.

Those of you who are familiar probably already know what I’m going to say. After months of testing and observation, yesterday a whole committee of teachers, administrators and therapists convened to officially classify our son as autistic for educational purposes.

It’s a weird feeling, having your child slotted into Special Education, even though in Logan’s case it actually means an accelerated curriculum in areas like math. It also means he’ll get coaching in how to greet a classmate, how to join in a game, how to have a conversation, how to recognize other people’s emotions–all things that come naturally to other people, but that he must be taught.

No one exactly agrees on the specific label. Some would call it Asperger’s. Think television’s House, or Sheldon on The Big Bang Theory. Logan is at the very high end of the autism scale and tests nearly normal one on one with an adult. It’s in a crowded classroom amongst his peers that his behavioral and social issues really come to the surface. I’m sure spending a good deal of his time as the only child on a remote ranch with four adults at his beck and call has not helped in this respect.

Now we have to learn to adapt, to build on his strengths and shore up his weaknesses, one of which is the ability to process auditory information, especially verbal instructions without some kind of visual demonstration. The speech pathologist advised us to give instructions in a step by step manner and pair it with either pictures or gestures whenever possible.

Yep, the writer’s kid is a constant, living example of ‘show, don’t tell’. Now there’s some irony for you.

So Saturday afternoon we had a blizzard (Yeah, the kind with snow. I wish I could tell you that was a freak occurrence here in May but I would be lying). Snow in May comes down in giant slushballs and soaks through gloves and coats pretty much instantly, so by the time we dragged a newborn calf into the barn to warm up we were chilled through. Then we walked in the house and the power went out.

We got into dry clothes and hunkered on the couch to read and try to get warm. Logan was sitting on the end of his bed, playing his handheld Leapster game. My husband said, “Hey, Logan, hand me that blue blanket.”

No response. Oh, right–give instructions step by step, words and gestures. Emphasize eye contact. (And yes, in case you hadn’t reasoned it out by now, my child’s bed is in the living room, a few steps from the couch. It’s a bunkhouse, people. We consider ourselves lucky to have indoor plumbing).

So Greg said, “Logan, look at me please.”

Logan looked at him.

“There is a blue blanket on your bed.” Greg pointed to the blanket in question. “Would you please pick it up and bring it over to me?”

“Why?”

“Because I’m cold.”

Logan gave that some thought. Then he looked at the bed. Then he shrugged and went back to his video game.

“Logan,” Greg said, straining mightily for patience. No sense getting angry if the boy didn’t understand. Just repeat the instructions in a better way. “Look at me and listen closely. Would you please give me the blue blanket?”

Logan gave the bed another blank look and didn’t move, at which point I finally glanced up from my laptop, assessed the situation, and said, “Logan, get your daddy the purple blanket please.”

And Logan got up, grabbed the blanket and delivered it as requested. Because he might be autistic, but unlike his father he is not color blind.

Kari Lynn Dell – Montana for Real

Three words people and I was all perky again.

Snicker. Bar. Pie.

The picture helped to, but I mean, get a load of this thing, will ya?

There is cream cheese, snickers, peanut butter. Really…just click on the recipe. Totally worth it. I’ll wait here. Just Go.

Am I right or what? What do we think–5minutes of prep? Maybe.

So why am I giving you a pie recipe? Two words (to start with).

Gretchen Jones.

Gretchen is the heroine of my latest release, Rough Ride. She likes to bake and her friends love pie! Now, there’s a reason they all love pie so much, but mainly it’s because Gretchen likes to bake pie.

There are two things that get her into baking pies faster than anything:  A man she wants. And a man who’s pissed her off. I think there’s a lot of Gretchen in me. At least, I’m all over the eating part — not that I really  need a reason to sit down with a whole pie and fork. So, there’s a little peek at the woman behind the cranky hero in Rough Ride. Want to know more? EASY. Click the links below!

If you could have any candy bar made into a pie, what would you pick?

***

You do for family, no matter what. Lane Iverson knows that better than anyone. Harboring a secret about his mother’s death, Lane is counting the days until he finishes helping his brothers with some work and can head back to his hiding hole hours away. As long as he doesn’t have to face his three brothers every day, the guilt is easier to carry.

There is only one thing that can risk his plan. All of five foot tall, with these deep eyes and a voice that shudders through him. The completely addicting, Gretchen Jones. She’s been watching him the entire time he’s been in town. With courage from her friends behind her, she confronts what she wants. To her surprise, that’s the easy part. Keeping her heart protected when she knows he’ll be leaving? Not so easy, but her only choice.

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And then finally–the giveaway  portion of this post! Click Here to find out how to win my 6 novella series, Uninhibited in Apple Trail, Arkansas series! You have until Friday on to win that series!

Last week the doctor told me, based on Emily’s position and the severity of the Braxton hicks contractions, that it could be any day now. He recommended that I take it easy for the next two weeks. Um, yeah, right. But you see, I don’t have time to have a baby any time soon.

This week I am 36 weeks. This week I also have two baby showers, a school event, and my son’s baseball game to attend. Oh yeah, and Mother’s Day. The next week, I have a doctor’s appointment, my daughter has a dentist appointment, it’s my anniversary,  we have a tour of the maternity wing scheduled, and that Friday is the annual school carnival that the kids are wildly excited to attend. Oh, and I still have editing to finish for the day job before I can officially go on maternity leave and give in to my nesting instincts….which means my house isn’t ready! ; )

A baby? Really? She’ll have to wait until the week of the 21st. That’s all I’m saying.

Okay, since you put up with all of my whining above–or maybe you skipped to the end. I don’t blame you–I thought we could do something fun. Ms. Emily’s official due date is June 6th. Why don’t you all guess which day between now and then (or after, who knows?) will be her birthday. Date and time in case of a tie. After she’s born, I’ll send a .pdf copy of Altered Destiny to the person who guesses the closest.

Sound fun?