Eavesdropping on Kidlets For Fun and Profit

Kids are a writer’s best friend, bar none and this is why: Two little girls headed to bed, one with a story book, the other a journal. ‘What are you doing?’ says the one with the story. ‘I’m going to write in my diarrhea.’ ‘What?’ the other who was a bit older and infinitely more experienced with the language laughed hysterically. ‘You don’t mean diarrhea — that’s squirty poo.’ The documenter of daily events rolled her eyes and said to her older sister:’The word has two meanings, hello.’

You can’t make that stuff up and for a writer scenes like this are little gifts from the page gods. Lucky for me when I find myself in need of a precocious little imp of a character I don’t have far to look for an accurate portrayal—I’m a mom with a stack of great examples. For instance, did you know Urethra Franklin sang RESPECT? I bet you didn’t know that the birthday party was at Stella’s mom’s condom? Or the reason a 3 y/o is in the bathroom for so long is because he’s complicated and needs some piracy.

Oh. My. Gosh. If I’d known how dang funny kids were I’d have had ten more and they’d all be 4! If you want true enlightenment into the mind of a child you must eavesdrop and take lots of notes.

“Mom do you mind! Me and dad are conversating!”
“Holy crap! Look what I found in my nose!”
“Ooooo I smell someone’s stinky feet! Never mind, they’re mine.”
Weeping and wailing over the punishment of the day: “Mawwwwm please! Have some compression!”
Tall black man knocks at the door, 3 y/o answers it. “Mom! A basketball guy wants to talk to you.”

I’ve got a ton of em, but I really must go build a tiny character with a bit of an attitude. She sighs. On my headstone I would like it to read: This author eavesdropped on little humanity and died laughing. Yes, that would be lovely!

Sephora and the Land of Fully Ripened Women

So the hubs had to go to Vegas on business and I tagged along, laptop in tow–I’m a writer and, as such, I’m always on high alert for inspiration. One morning while Homer indulged some spoiled clients, I ventured down several floors and found myself in Sephora. Oh my! What to do? Alone with no apoplectic hubs aghast over the price of mascara, no eye-rolling at what pore-filler does, no watch-thumping, no deep sighs. Just exhilarating, unencumbered freedom. Now it’s important to know that I didn’t need a darn thing—I have a steamer trunk of beauty aids and a 5-year supply of my favorites—but it’s Sephora, so I had no choice but to shine up my plastic and commandeer a shopping cart foolishly left unattended on the sidewalk. (It did have a cat in it, but we got along fine.) If I purchased just the right recipe, I could walk out looking like a Tahitian sand goddess, or a porcelain-skinned kabuki dancer, or a goth inspired she-devil, or even Bruce Willis for that matter.

So there I was languidly roaming cosmetic utopia when in walked more than a dozen of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen. Two were pushing two in wheelchairs. One dragged an oxygen tank, and one ambulated with the use of a bejeweled walker. Most were wearing some shade of purple. They all wore red hats. Shut the front door! I’d heard of the exclusive club, but this was my first sighting, and, with fascination akin to that of Yale’s Skull and Bones Society, I stood in appreciative awe. These were lovely and wizened women who didn’t give a damn. The little bouncerette—a tiny, lovely creature who stood at the entrance of the store, eyes trained for shoplifters and poised to pounce if she encountered one—said, “Welcome ladies. Are you celebrating?”

“Honey,” said one in a gravelly voice. “We celebrate getting up in the morning!”

They filled the space with such elegant synergy that I simply had to follow them. Now, I have excellent hearing (especially when I’m eavesdropping), so in my surreptitious nonchalance I caught several scintillating snippets of their conversations: the mysterious death of an ex-husband (ooooh), the criminal price of olive oil (I hear ya sister), and the heartbreak of a dying pooch (ouch). They talked books (DOBG, anyone?) and the best source for foundation garments (Nordstroms—I knew that). They lamented insomnia, Obamacare, and the downward spiral of American IDOL. As they gabbed, they slathered cover, blush, and eighty-dollar moisture into velvety wrinkles. They shakily applied gaudy color onto perpetually smiling lips and rubbed exotic lotions into hands undoubtedly responsible for countless small miracles.

In their wake, I planned my own octogenarian years (right around the corner), deciding then and there to outlive the hubs and surround myself with gals just like these. Fully ripened women take such good care of each other. Little old men, not so much. I pondered this, along with my excellent luck at being born female, while I waited in line behind them. Thirty minutes later, they had effectively tripled Sephora’s morning sales. Me? I bought a tube of Pink Fever lipstick (looked a tad silly in my shopping cart), and came up with a fabulous story about the dead ex. Well, hellooooo inspiration! What if the true super-secret-society purpose of this seemingly innocuous association of women who tallied more than a millennia between them was to plot the demise of unsuspecting, but wholly deserving, old farts… hmmmmmm.

She smiles. It has series written all over it!

Valentine’s Day and the State of My Union

So the hubs has been under the weather for a couple of weeks—I blame his flu shot—and as his health is quite fragile (just ask him), I did not expect his usual massive display of Valentine gallantry. Cough. We’ve been married since we were children (18—cough, again!), and over the centuries the whole holiday thing has rather decompensated for us. Not everything, mind you, just the sentimental and material elements that make it so special, like gifts, flowers, love notes, a date that ends with that special dessert… you know what I’m talking about. But the big holiday came at a bad time this year–my guy has been slogging through a company buyout, a business reorganization, an ever-lengthening client list, contract negotiations that give him a migraine, not to mention his everyday dealing with the entitled and impolite—grown people who throw fits like expert children. Sigh. With that much on his plate, let’s face it, there’s not much left when he gets home exhausted and cursing his swollen sinuses and a throat so sensitive to swallowing that he has likened the experience to the pain of a thousand cuts… I know. Today he actually said it hurt all the way up to his Eustachian tubes. Yes, I have a husband who says Eustachian tubes.

So, yeah, he makes for a pretty dramatic sick guy. But, and this is a BIG but, I soooo love him. You might not be able to tell, but I really am living my own dream. Valentine’s notwithstanding, when you get married that young, it takes a lot of patience and forgiveness to negotiate the vast quantities of dumbness and all the countless mistakes. And it takes a long time to get things right. But “right” seems to be exactly where we’re headed. And as weird as my little hubs is, not to mention my own monumental level of self-absorption, I simply cannot imagine doing life with anyone else. Yeah, this week Valentine’s was a bit of a bust, but it was also a week when two amazing daughters brought us two amazing grandbabies. Deklan is our new mini man, and I’m sorry, but his fabulousness is not to be equaled. We also got a precious Maggie who arrived on the scene 7 weeks early in an emergency the caliber of which took our breath away and drove us to our knees.

This stuff is the meat of life. It’s the stuff you can really only face holding hands—at times completely white-knuckled. So, ya know, when seen in that perspective, candy hearts and tulips sort of diminish in importance. I am, however, promised that Homer (not his real name) will make it up to me, and I will add that promise to the pile. (Have you seen the Vonage commercial? That’s about the size of the pile.) But there’s no rush. We’re Mormons. We do eternity.

And it wasn’t a total bust anyway. I did get my oh-so-special dessert. Yep, a 4-dollar cupcake. What?

Going to THE-NEXT-BIG-THING Blog Hop… I Might Need New Shoes!

Now I know you’re shocked because it hasn’t been two months since I last blogged—I told you I was going to fix that as my 2013 resolution and here is the proof of my fragile honesty. Yay! Anyway, I’m excited because I’ve been invited to take part in a blog hop! What the heck is that and what am I supposed to wear? Well, apparently it’s like a big fat round robin where authors answer questions and help readers discover new books. Cool, right? So, I was tagged by the amazing Brenda Janowitz. Check out her blog to see who else she tagged. And I’ll tag some authors so you’ll have even more fun. I know it’s complicated, but follow the hop for long enough and you’re bound to find something fabulous to read!

So—drum-roll—Here are the big things in my writing life: First, my novel Dancing on Broken Glass, which is available now everywhere.

1-Where did the idea for DOBG come from?
The idea came to me sort of after the fact. I’d set out to write about three sisters, an illness, and a baby. But like most of my first pancakes, it had to be tossed to make room for the real story which was of a marriage, faulty genetics, three sisters, and a baby. The result was infinitely deeper than what it started out to be. The lesson I learned (and continue to learn): listen to your characters.

2-What genre does your book fall under?
Hmmmm. I thought it probably fit best under women’s fiction/literary fiction, however I have had very thoughtful feedback from men—a lot of men—the good kind who can relate to a flawed hero doing his best in a unique relationship. Not sure that exactly defines a genre, but I can say heart is required—and it doesn’t seem to matter if that heart beats in a man or a woman.

3-Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?
LOL! My husband is a bit full of himself and said he’d be perfect for… well, all the male leads. He’s hilarious. Honestly the only one I can actually see is Katherine Heigl as Priss.

4-Brief synopsis: (Is there such a thing?)
I’ll just quote a great review I got: DOBG is the story of Lucy and Mickey, a married couple in a picturesque Connecticut town whose relationship balances on the jagged, threatening realities of their respective biologies—she has already faced a life-threatening bout with cancer, and he wrestles continuously with the demons of bipolar disorder. They’ve built their marriage around a firm contract of dos and don’ts, but when life throws them a massive curve ball, they are forced to redefine what love really is. (Couldn’t have said it better myself.)

5-Who published Dancing on Broken Glass?
Simon and Schuster—under their Gallery imprint. They are fabulous!

6-How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?
It took me a long time because I’m a dork and edit and polish every paragraph along the way. Can you say OCD? Hello, nice to meet you. It’s not how you’re supposed to do it, but the upside of my compulsion is that my first draft is usually in pretty good shape.

7-What is the working title of your next big thing?
I’m calling my WIP The Duzy House of Mourning. Of course this is subject to change. But it’s a little like calling your pregnant tummy bozo or bean-dip…somehow it sticks with the baby long after the name is changed. So this is my bozo and will forever be my bozo.

8-Where did the idea for the book come from?
I’d have to say the kernel came from the heartbreaking story, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. Jean-Dominique Bauby’s memoir affected me in a visceral way. I’ve always been fascinated with the brain and what happens when it’s wounded and what happens as it heals… if it heals. These questions had been swimming around in me for a while when I became a bit obsessed about what a woman would experience trapped behind a silent voice. How she would love someone, and how that someone would know. And when I had noodled this to death, one day Cleopatra Duzy simply showed up in my gray matter and introduced herself. She is fascinating. And so is her story.

Thanks for blog-hopping with me! Don’t know about you, but I have to get out of these shoes! Now check out these great authors and see what they’re up to! You won’t be disappointed.

Malena Lott

Jacqueline Luckett

Jennifer Miller

Samantha Wilde

Christa Allen

The Truth About Snarks and Roses–R.I.P. Leo B

I’ve been bad. But it’s a new year, and I vow to blog twice a month. And because I have insanely scintillating things to say, it should be a labor of love.

Now to business: For those of you who know me, you know I’m not a spring chicken. For those of you who don’t, I’m still not. But I am not as old as Snarky Hilda (not her real name, although I am sorely tempted) who blogged that DOBG was the worst book of 2012. I know! I was shocked, too! Perhaps she’s not familiar with multisyllabic words, or was reading in the shower, or has only a 2nd grade education. Who knows, who cares, because I am a mature woman and such things simply roll off my back. Not. Hand to forehead—I’ve learned something surprising about my menopausal self: I tend to obsess about crap like this. (I’m not proud of that, but between hot flashes, it is what it is.)

Now to put this in context; DOBG was listed on several Best of 2012 blogs as well, and reviews on Goodreads, Amazon, and B&N continue to make me smile—the big, fat, toothy kind. I’m told that it’s flying off the shelves in Italy, it comes out in Poland next month (7 countries so far), so clearly the margin of silly Hilda-beasts in my world is miniscule and annoying at best—like a sprig of broccoli between my teeth or toilet paper stuck to my stiletto—what? old chicks can rock stilettos—or stepping onto an elevator where someone has rudely left behind a bad smell—I hate that. Really? I know I must graciously share the planet with snits. I know that. And I know that a mean review from the bowels of cyberspace doesn’t really mean squat in the big scheme of things—well, maybe just a little squat—a squatlette if you will.

But enough of this whining; it’s time for the point of my ranting.

I am tremendously indebted to the late Leo Buscaglia (one of the 3 people alive or dead to whom I would give a foot massage). I spent an evening with him years ago. (There were about 18,000 of us—he was sold out.) Little did I know that he would be speaking directly to me about a snark I would encounter so many years in the future. The crux of his message was this: Ka, (I added that) if the world says you smell like a rose, then odds are you’re a rose. And if one poor snark says you stink, it doesn’t mean you’re not a rose. No, no, no! It means there is something seriously wrong with the snark’s nose! Mind-blowing! Awesome in it’s simplicity! (Note to self—I must wisely share this logic with a small child being teased by a bucktoothed and portly 7-year-old boy with breasts! But I digress.)

So at this late onset of 2013, Leo B is the reason all is well in my world. Leo B is why I shall de-obsess about retired snobs with blogs. Leo B is the reason I shall fully mature…eventually. And as I limp toward that end, I promise to be smart and discriminating. For instance, if Mzzzz Hilda steps off an elevator that I’m waiting for, I shall smile knowingly… and wait for the next one.

Happy New Year Roses! Snarks need not apply.

Is It Just Me Or Is That Jay Carney Freaking Hilarious?

When I woke up last week, I had a new president. New, but the same, and I have to be honest, I wasn’t all that thrilled. It’s because my Commander-in-Chief doesn’t like me. I know! I was surprised, too. But the last thing I heard him say to a gathering of his devoted before the big ballot-casting began was: “Don’t boo. Vote. It’s the best revenge.” Revenge? Against me? Seriously, I’m the enemy? Cool! So because I have this great blog—that I’m certain my POTUS follows—I wanted to introduce myself. For your own safety, shield your eyes. I’m a 115-pound, married, employed, law-abiding, novel-writing, suburb-living, mortgage-owing, vitamin-taking, tax-paying, retirement-planning, capitalist-thinking, fast walking, fast talking, church-going, online bill-paying, mom.

AKA public enemy #1.

Wait. It gets worse. I’m married to a small business owner—need I say more? Nope. That’s all it takes to qualify the hubs as public enemy #2. It doesn’t count that he works endless hours, or that I razz him because his take-home pay is roughly 78 cents an hour–truly, we are the undeserving rich. He works a lot of really, really long days—hand to foreheadoh my, but life is so unfair. Sidebar: We were going to join the Occupiers, until we heard bowel movements in public places were a requirement. Clearly, only the revenge-worthy such as ourselves would draw the line right there…in the poop. Besides, we had responsibilities here in small business hell. Not sure my president was aware, (what with his busy campaign and grueling hobnobbery with the super-cool hollywooders) but it’s been a tough road for us small business reprobates who can barely keep our worker-bees out of the unemployment line.

If you can stomach it, further nefariousness can be found in my four children. All are grown up and have drunk the Kool-Aid. They’re married with families of their own. (See!) None of them live in our basement—Darn! None of them has broken the law—What? Nobody’s headed anywhere they can legally embark on the path to designer drugs—eye roll. They’ve each obtained an education for the sole purpose of offending those not educated. They work hard, I’ll be honest, just to bug those who don’t. They are evil incarnate. We’ve done all we can, but they still insist on paying their dues and their taxes, and none of them are getting much sleep. Worse yet, each is conscientiously rearing the next generation. Ridiculous themes abound in their homes such as: be responsible, be responsible, be responsible, hold the door open for old people, say your prayers, and don’t call each other fart-heads. When they get a bit older—get ready for more mind-blowing enemy-of-the state stuff—sex will be discussed. Sex is the big silk-sheeted lie in the sky for kids anxious to grow up and be all they can be in 30 seconds or less. Who are we to object to a world echoing the “you-should-be-having-sex-right-now-and-not-thinking-about-the-consequences”diatribe. What could possibly go wrong with kids having sex when they should be learning to tie their shoes? Is there a grown-up anywhere in the room? Anywhere? Sit down, Sandra!

Oh my, I’ve stepped in it now. Well, it’s like I always say; you can’t be a good enemy-of-the-state without engaging in a few things just this subversive. But how else can I prove myself revenge-worthy? She sighs.

Oh gosh! Look at the time! I’m gonna miss the Jay Carney show. Is it just me, or is that guy freaking hilarious?

Misery and Menopause Under The Big Umbrella (But It Makes a Good Story)

So the hubs and I went on a little vacation. We saved and planned and shopped and made sure our passports were not expired. (Sadly they were not, so we were stuck with mugshots worthy of America’s Most Wanted. You think I’m kidding). The hubs picked the trip and I packed accordingly. He chose a 16 day cruise. 16 days! When all was said and done I thought two bulging bags with industrial strength zippers, a bulging and conveniently expandable carry-on full of shoes, and a purse so full I had to carry my wallet in my teeth, were absolutely in order. I pack for all weather contingencies. My husband, however, packed one pair of shoes, a suit, some shirts, and a few socks. At the last minute, he smuggled his toothbrush into my purse. I shook my head in awe, as did he. But we were ready. Mail cancelled. Newspaper cancelled. Air conditioner off. Last Will and Testament taped to the door. But then we had a little scuffle regarding an umbrella that I asked the love-of-my-life to pick up because the forecast for the other side of the planet called for torrential rains. Now, I’m thinking 10 bucks, little retractable thing we could stuff in a pocket. Nope. With great gusto my man proudly introduced his 75.00 (on sale!) exclusive from Shapiro. What?? This umbrella was so big that two walls in my entry were damaged in the unveiling. It was an awning. Of course I had to razz him about it–because that’s what I do–and because I did, he was annoyed with me all the way to the airport.

Now it could have been the umbrella, but it might have been the double-my-weight-in-luggage that he had no choice but to help me with. And because I plan for all potential boredom with extreme grandiosity, I had surreptitiously stuffed several novels into my already overstuffed bag–big words, I know, but try to keep up. Of course the Kindle in Homer’s pocket holds his entire library, so naturally, he never broke a sweat. Me, on the other hand… Are you rolling your eyes? Rude.

Finally we boarded. And within mere moments the harsh, temperature-controlled reality of a 20-hour journey began to ruin my day. One hour in and I was weeping. Now you’d never know this about me because I am so good at hiding it, but I’m very hormonal—read riddled with hot-flashes and slightly irritable—so my position crammed between the hubs and the guy sleeping next to me with his mouth open made my hell exquisite. I think I’d rather have a 13-pound baby than reprise the experience.

I was tired, ugly, starving and my teeth had little sweaters on them when we finally landed in Copenhagen. And guess what? It was vomiting rain. (She sighs.) Needless to say, there was no more razz in me as the hubs made his way to the curb with his ONE bag and pushed the magic button on his magic umbrella thus creating a quarter-acre of shelter that nicely accommodated not only me and my steamer trunks of cruise essentials, but a forlorn family of three and their dog as well. I’m putting the scene in a book, I swear! But he didn’t say anything, he just grinned.

This is why I love him. And this is why I let him stow his toothbrush in my wallet. And this is why we had a fabulous time.

Do These Shoes Make Me Look Fat???

I lost the will to live a few days ago when I could not find an entire chapter of my WIP (work in progress). For two days I couldn’t sleep, and I couldn’t eat anything but cookie dough. I tore my den apart, raked through my C drive and Pen Drive and drives I had no idea I had. I read through all my saved copies and updated copies, forgotten copies and renamed copies of this novel in progress that is—get ready for drama—priceless to me. I’ve kept copies of everything even remotely having to do with my WIP for this very purpose: So NOTHING! would ever be lost. Clearly, that worked out well! After two days I finally brushed my teeth, took a shower and my Prozac and just accepted the irrefutable fact that I would have to re-create the entire chapter. You’re probably thinking waaa waaa get off your pity pot and get cracking! Rude. But rewriting lost pages is very much like re-cooking an amazing meal you’ve already eaten. Impossible in theory and headache-impossible in the details. So, ya know, I was bummed. But I picked myself up, whimpered a bit, then got to work.

Amazingly, two miracles occurred. First, the chapter flowing out of me was not half-bad. Upon my second re-write it was pretty darn good; it even sort of resembled the original as I remembered it. And upon polishing it to a high sheen I have to say I was down-right delighted. Phew. Now, I’m a reward-driven gal, and I always treat myself to new shoes when I clear a particularly gnarly hurdle and this re-write, by definition, was a gnarly hurdle. So, off I went to loll away the afternoon at my favorite shoe haunt–I’m on a first-name basis at DSW. I had a fabulous time and three hours later I was feeling pretty accomplished in my new orange cork-soled Kelly&Katie’s. And as I was admiring them on my tootsies, the idea for this post was born. (It really is true, for a writer nothing is ever wasted.)

So, I got on my computer where I keep–among other things–my ideas for blog posts in a catch-all folder I’ve named Random Brilliance. It’s several pages of ideas, names I like, descriptions of people who should not be seen in public, odd professions, recipes I want to try, over-heard conversations, grocery lists and all kinds of research. For example, I needed to know what trocar buttons were so I went cyber-trolling and the definition wound up in Random Brilliance. So did several great website addresses that boast all things mortuarial which is very important fodder for said WIP.

She sighs. Yep, there is some really, really good stuff in that folder. Including—wait for it—Miracle #2: My Lost Chapter.

It was laughing. I was not.

Dang! I think these shoes make me look fat!

Story Radar and a Really Cool Hero

So, I’ll tell you a secret about me; I have story radar. It’s true. It’s a talent and a curse and a little bothersome at times, but what can you do? Sigh. Maybe all writers are like this, but I can be anywhere, doing anything, when some random kernel of seemingly innocuous input burrows into my gray matter like a sliver in tender flesh. It refuses to be ignored–that’s how I know there’s a story afoot–and before long I’ve become wholly preoccupied with what-ifs.

Case in point: My very first novel was conceived when I stepped onto an elevator that reeked of Chanel #5. As my eyes watered and my throat burned and hacking ensued, I was beyond annoyed at the fool who’d clearly bathed in the pricey Eau De Parfum. But there was no one on which to inflict my umbrage since the only other passenger was a man who leaped (well, maybe leaped is a stretch–but he sure hurried!)out as I got in. I held my breath for 5 floors and when I got off the elevator I immediately thought: Oh my, what if I could still smell Chanel all the way to my apartment. What if when I got there my door was ajar? What if that smell permeated my home? What if something dastardly had taken place there? What if all my coupons had been stolen? Or my vast collection of leggings? Or, what if there was a dead plumber in the closet? What if the culprit was the leaper-outer of the elevator? Could I identify him in a line-up?

And on and on and on. It can be exhausting!

Happily that kernel became a novel–albeit one that I would never show anyone ever, even with a knife pressed at my throat, but I digress. The point is, I have irrepressible story radar. And even though I am currently hip deep in my WIP, and have a future WIP on the back burner, a sliver has again lodged itself in my gray stuff. It happened last week at the Air Force Museum. Hangars full of big ancient planes with big ancient bombs that were flown by amazingly brave men who did what they did so Hitler would not rule the world. Breathe. My path happened to cross with that of a delightful, now 89 y/o gentleman who’d been a prisoner of war some 65 years ago. He told a group of us that while he was a POW his wife thought he was dead, held a memorial service, and got on with her life. When he finally came home she had a brand new family. Wow, I thought as a rude dude cut in with a question about bombs. As I watched this cool old hero, I mulled and noodled ways to fill in the cavernous blanks he’d left in his tale. I imagined a 24 y/o soldier who’d just returned from hell looking at his remarried wife and her new fam thinking ‘Well this is a fine how-do-ya-do!’

But what happened after that? Hmmmm.

Hmmmm indeed! All I can say is I’m drowning in what-ifs. And I’m not getting much sleep, either.

Weapon of Choice: A Wet Finger

This is my fabulously funny first fam (say that fast 10 times). You can probably figure out who my little old gray-haired parents are. My dad will be 80 this year, my mom substantially younger—just ask her. They got married before I was born (novel, I know) stayed married through the poop, and are still married for which I am very grateful, impressed, and sometimes amazed. These three men are my brothers. They used to be merciless boys who lived to torment me. There should be an award for surviving weenies such as these—but I digress. Left to our own devices it’s likely we would have drifted apart since we have little in common (world views, religion, life styles, health of our lungs, to name just a few.) In fact we could not be more different. But we have this mom who likes it when we’re together, so we get together. On the day this pic was taken my only sis-in-law (fabulous woman!) was in another state on biz, and my hubs was in another country on biz—so as fate would have it, it was just my little family-of-origin. Not sure the last time so many memories yielded so many laughs. It was awesome, and as I looked around at the people we had all become I had new appreciation for where I’d landed–and with whom. It’s all my mom’s fault. She had a plan, worked every day building this family–teaching her four headstrong children the difference between right and wrong, good and bad, kind and cruel as she negotiated life with my criminally frugal father. One day at a time, sometimes one tear at a time, usually one laugh at a time. It’s a tedious journey, motherhood, and once you begin, it’s a lifelong proposition. But when it’s done properly it yields a resource more valuable to society than that of any other earthly profession. Sounds lofty, I know, but I’m hoping it’s true because I have four offspring of my own–all of them parents themselves.

Last week in the news a nasty non-mom derided moms everywhere when she derided Ann Romney for not working a day in her life. Hmmmmm, I thought to myself, what monumental ignorance, not to mention deplorable manners. I’ve been cranky about it for days. So much so that I think if I saw this derider on the street, I’d have no choice but to stick a wet finger in her ear.

There, I feel better now.