Where Was I?

I saw my friend Opal at work tonight and the first thing out of her mouth was, "Do you realize it's been almost a week since you've blogged? When are you going to blog?"

Oops.

Okay, in my defense:

A) I've had two weeks of out of town company that want to do EVERYTHING there is to do in the Nashville area. Yes, it's been fun. But I've been crazy busy.

B) I had no idea anyone would miss regular updates to this blog.

Sooo, I promised to blog tonight for Opal and I have (two new messages below this). I will be more consistent. I will put you before sleep, before email, before food - okay, that's last one is a bald-faced lie but still, you get the picture.

I've missed blogging.

I'm back.

How To Get Thrown Out Of A Volleyball Game

1. Give a friendly "hello" to the ref sitting up in his tiny silver chair above the net.

2. Assume that ref pays constant attention to the location of the volleyball at all times.

3. Spend entire time before game starts practicing only underhand serves so as to save your thunder for the game.

4. Assume that ref pays constant attention to the location of the volleyball at all times.

5. Serve underhand only at your first turn as server. This lulls the opposing team into a sense of complacency.

6. Assume that ref pays constant attention to the location of the volleyball at all times.

7. Believe coach knows what he's talking about when he tells you to serve overhand next turn.

8. Assume that ref pays constant attention to the location of the volleyball at all times.

9. Obey coach and serve overhand: use extreme care (some might call it timidity but they would be wrong) knowing that you do not yet have full control over your serve. Drive ball into net three times in a row and lose turn. This also lulls the opposing team into a sense of complacency.

10. Assume that ref pays constant attention to the location of the volleyball at all times.

11. Acknowledge coach's stern admonishment to put some POWER into your next turn as server.

12. Assume that ref pays constant attention to the location of the volleyball at all times.

13. Put POWER into your overhand serve.

14. Assume that ref pays constant attention to the location of the volleyball at all times.

15. Watch in horror as the volleyball slams into the ref's face and knocks him flying out of his little silver chair.

16. Discover that previously mentioned assumption was wrong.

17. Discover that the word "Wilson" does not look good as a raised welt on a referee's face.

18. Accept less than polite invitation to warm the bench for the rest of the game.

And that is how to get thrown out of a volleyball game. (Um, not that I know any of this from personal experience...)

Sleep

dawn will come
a subtle shift
of light as shadows
begin to lift

my eyes will open
a sudden moment
that rips at dreams
before i know it

and i will rise
and i will run
and i will do
what must be done

but until then
i'm captive here
where decadence
aligns with fear

and monsters swirl
past my thoughts
i try to sieze them
all for naught

i run through thorns
but cannot bleed
i hold the key
but am not freed

i breathe out passion
breathe poison in
cliffs fall away
and i dive in

i cannot swim
i cannot drown
i cannot fly
or touch the ground

the glorious
is possible
i find i am
invincible

so let the sun
draw back this curtain
that hides what might be
from what is certain

the promises i've made
will keep
and until then
i sleep

This Ain't No Free Show

I've lived in my current home for almost four years. 46 months, to be precise. In that time, I've grown to love and respect many of my neighbors and thought they appreciated me as well.

They did.

For very different reasons.

Our home sits at the entrance to a cul de sac in a neighborhood where yards are large and line of sight extends through several blocks worth of houses. In fact, the back of my home can be seen from a major road, two other cul de sacs, and from most of the homes on my own street.

A few months ago, one of the teenagers who lives next door and babysits for me often, dropped a most unwelcome bombshell.

She said, "You know your privacy glass in your master bathroom doesn't work, right?"

WRONG!

How am I supposed to know that? I never watch myself get undressed and into the bathtub that rests right below our large picture window. Apparently, I'm the only one who doesn't.

I ran upstairs and turned on the light while my husband ran to the backyard to check the truthfulness of this preposterous statement.

She was right.

The builders installed the privacy glass backwards so while I can't see out (not that helpful, in the grand scheme of things), everyone else can see in.

Clearly.

This means that my friends, my extended neighborhood, and random passing motorists have all received an eyeful at one time or another. (I did wonder about the cars-running-off-the-road-and-through-the-fence incidents that seemed to occur with alarming frequency on the road behind us.)

I have two things to say about this:

1. Why did it take OVER THREE YEARS for anyone to mention this crucial bit of information?

2. I think a lot of people owe us some singles.

Well, I Feel Safer

Yesterday, my dad flew out from California to visit. My dad, as anyone who's kept up with this blog now knows, is the MASTER PACKER. Often, this skill involves the use of unusual containers to accomplish his mission.

My dad is also a gardener and, being from central California, has an amazing crop of boysenberries this year.

I love boysenberries.

I don't grow berries. I don't grow anything. I kill plants on a regular basis. I walk by potted plants in the supermarket and they cringe in terror.

My dad decided to bring some berries to me.

This is not easily done on a long flight.

The MASTER PACKER kicked into high gear and formulated a plan. He froze bags of berries and searched for a container that would keep them relatively cool and stop any leakage.

He found his answer in a large empty plastic cat litter bucket, complete with lid. Yes, my parents save these. Yes, he washed it first. He labeled the outside "Frozen boysenberries. Keep cool." I think he assumes more care of his checked baggage than is actually available to him, but maybe that's just me.

So, he arrives at the airport and has to check his bags. One suitcase. Check. One garment bag. Check. One cat litter pail. Problem.

SECURITY GUY: What do you need cat litter for?

MASTER PACKER: You need me to explain how to use cat litter?

SECURITY GUY: Is this used?

MASTER PACKER: Used? You think I'm travelling with used cat litter?

SECURITY GUY: You can't check used cat litter.

MASTER PACKER: That's reassuring. But if you would just read the front -

SECURITY GUY: Says cat litter right here.

MASTER PACKER: Other side.

SECURITY GUY: You packing berries in cat litter?

MASTER PACKER: Of course not.

SECURITY GUY: But it says cat litter.

MASTER PACKER: I realize that. It's just an empty container -

SECURITY GUY: What do you want to check an empty container for?

MASTER PACKER: No! I mean it was an empty container and I packed frozen berries inside.

SECURITY GUY: Let's see it.

MASTER PACKER: *opens lid to display top layer of frozen berries*

SECURITY GUY: I see. Okay. That's fine.

Now, obvious "Who's on first, what's on second" issues aside, this security guy never even lifted the top layer of berries to see what was underneath. Could have been anything.

A bomb. A rogue copy of O.J. Simpson's stupid book. Used cat litter.

Anything.

Missing Miss Snark

Those of you who are not authors and are therefore not addicted to reading blogs by literary agents, bear with me.

Two days ago, the online literary community lost one of our most influential (and most entertaining!) blogs. Miss Snark, the venerable literary agent from the 212 who dreamed of Clooney while stalking about in her stilletos and swilling bathtub gin, closed her blog.

I feel bereft.

Miss Snark was my daily breakfast stop. My lunch stop. My just-before-bed stop. I was addicted to Snark. She offered insights into the publishing world, gave impeachable advice for landing an agent, and volunteered hours of her time to critique hooks, queries, and first pages.

She did it all as only Miss Snark could - with inimitable style and scathing wit. She was at once brutally honest and startlingly compassionate. She called a spade a spade, whether in saying a piece of writing was far from ready or in revealing an unethical agent or contest as a scam.

She honored writers, individually and as a community. She will be deeply missed.

Why Don't They Do THIS At The Olympics?

Despite the fact that I am fairly uncoordinated (oh, okay, "fairly" doesn't begin to cover it but hey - this is MY blog. I can say what I want.), I love sports. Maybe it's my fiercely competitive nature or maybe it's the chance to scream bloody murder at some poor schmuck in a black and white shirt but I do love sports.

Recently, I discovered a sport in which I truly excel.

Power shopping.

Before all you men reading this can complete that (very unattractive) eyeroll, I'd like to point out that there is NO WAY on God's green earth you could enter a shopping mall at one end, wearing adorable but slightly uncomfortable shoes, and exit the other end having purchased three nicely coordinated outfits (jewelry included!) that took eight stores, seven dressing rooms, and three escalator trips to accomplish.

In an hour and a half.

This is "sport" at its finest.

It takes teamwork - one person enters the dressing room while two others power-walk the store, snatching garments with potential and elbowing amatuers out of the way.

It involves strategy - there's one pair of gorgeous jeweled stilletos in size 8 and Ms. Big Hair across the aisle is going for them too. You choose one of two options: A) use the old trip and fall approach, effectively cutting her off from the shelf by flinging your body in front of her while one hand snatches the prize on your way down. This needs coordination, skill, and a small piece of luck. Or B) focus on the goal, act like Ms. Big Hair doesn't exist, and RAM her out of your way. Follow this up with sincere apologies (spoken in a soft, southern voice for best results) as you tuck the shoebox under your arm and leave.

It requires coaching - when one member of the team becomes discouraged at the realization that size 8 is no longer her friend, the others respond quickly with "There's no crying in shopping! Now you get in that dressing room and suck it up, soldier!"

It ask for quick-thinking and on-the-spot shifts in strategy. The point person must be able to walk four feet inside a store, scan the offerings with a critical eye toward fashion and clearance, and make a snap decision on the merits of shopping there. The other team members act as scanners, constantly evaluating the offerings in store windows and calling out potential stops to the point person. When a sudden shift in shopping is required, all team members must be able to displace large clumps of gawking, under-dressed teens using the time-honored bob, weave, and ram method to get to their objective.

With all this evidence, how can anyone say power shopping isn't an Olympic worthy sport? It's right up there in discpline and strategy as say - soccer or track. Besides, if curling can be considered a sport, how can anyone deny power shopping?