Catch you all on the flip side!

Hey hey, loyal Novel Girl Readers!

Everyone here at TNG is up to their stylish hip-waders in writing projects (that's a GOOD thing!) and so we've decided to take a collective hiatus for the summer!

But don't worry - we'll be back in the fall! With bells on and a bucket of large mouth bass! :-)

Or maybe just more fun posts about life, writing, and the writing life. And maybe some fabulous swag and giveaways... but only if you promise to behave and not torment your little brother in the backseat of the car on the way back from the lake. Deal?

xox,

Tracy, Maureen, Lisa, Jillian and Lesley

A Crazy Few Weeks

We don't have an official topic for this week (unless I missed something), but I've skipped blogging the past two weeks due to being ridiculously busy and overwhelmed, so I definitely wanted to pop in today with some type of a post.

I hate when I miss posting, and I hate even more that I haven't stayed up to date with all of the other Novel Girls, but time has been scarce as of late. My eldest son graduated from high school, I had book signings and other promo-related time-consuming details to deal with, and a book (By Magic Alone) that needed my attention.

I turned in By Magic Alone last Monday, so things are sort of beginning to ease timewise. Thank goodness! But I'm also behind on a bunch of other stuff, and once I get caught up on all of that, I have other books to write. That's right...more books! I can't announce anything officially just yet, but I should be able to by next week or the following. When I can, I'll share all of the details!

But here it is mid-June and my brain is back a few months, somewhere in April, I think. It will probably take me a few more weeks to actually be ready for summer. How's your summer going so far? I'd love to hear!

I'm totally cheating...

That's right. I'm cheating. But it's an open mic this week, so I'm allowed! Ha!

I'm totally cross-posting from my own sadly-neglected-over-the-past-few-weeks blog because I'm just too burnt out to write a whole new post for TNG - and I did want to let you guys know a little of why I've been so scarce and scattered of late (note that it is again Sunday night when I'm posting but that's because I was in Edmonton to receive the CLA YA Book of the Year Award for WONDROUS STRANGE!! Whee!). More on that at another time.

For now, this blog entry will hopefully give you a fun little taste of what's been going down in LesleyLand of late. I hope you enjoy!

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Well... the last few weeks have been all sorts of cool.

All sorts of exhausting cool.

And, yes, I know... I haven't blogged a stitch about it. Because the coolness was all-encompassing and ate up all my time and most of my higher brain functions! So to make up for that, I promise a series of posts wherein I get you all caught up. With pictures!

First of all, there was the the White Pine Festival down at Harbourfront. I know I mentioned awhile ago that I was shortlisted for this award and, let me tell you, the students and teachers in schools across Ontario take this thing pretty darn seriously! It's amazing. The award is student-voted on and at the two-day Festival of Trees celebration, the authors get treated like rock stars. The festivities are held outside and there's always a huge turn-out of students and teachers and librarians! And much insane cheering and hooting during the ceremony...

A view of the crowd and the author nominees on the stage.
(I'm at the very far left)

I had the opportunity to hang out with some really fabulous authors - Tim Wynne Jones was particularly entertaining to sit next to on the stage - but the best thing, as always, was meeting the fans and readers. These kids were outstanding. They are passionate readers and not shy about letting you know it.

That's me signing autographs in a very chilly tent for some very awesome students!

One of whom could totally be a leprechaun in my universe - check the awesome green 'hawk!

The award ceremony itself, with all the authors lined up on the stage.

WONDROUS STRANGE won "Honour Book"!

Aside from the awards themselves, there were weeks of school-visit shenanigans leading up to that. I went to Peterborough, North York, Etobicoke, Oshawa, Scarborough, Bayfield, and Belleville, among others.

Here are some shots from one of my school visits - in Scarborough, at L'Amoreaux Collegiate:

They put my name on the sign!

And created a cool display with a beaded horse-tail and a horn to call the Wild Hunt!

My hosts, Dianne and Officer Reeve and another WONDROUS STRANGE
display, complete with a 4-leaf clover pendant!

This particular visit was a lot of fun (who am I kidding - they're ALL fun!) because Officer Reeve is the School Resource Officer - a real live policeman who is stationed at the school as a community liason and he runs a reading club for the boys at L'amoreaux. Which is very cool, because there often isn't enough encouragement these days for boys to read. He was my escort for the day and picked me up from the subway to drive me to the school... in the cruiser! :-D

Okay, sure. Maybe I did wind up in handcuffs.

But I didn't actually try to steal his cruiser...

I only thought about it!

Anyway, he had to let me go - otherwise I never would have made it to the festival!

A Question of Fame

Since we're just having a free for all this week, I thought I'd write about something I was just thinking about this morning and that's famous people and why we're so fascinated with their lives, or more aptly, their deaths. Yesterday, I heard lots of talk about Al and Tipper Gore's divorce and I thought it was interesting that so many people found it shocking. Admittedly, I too was shocked. And then today, I watched Rue McClanahan's death ripple through Twitter, and I also had that sad moment where I remembered how much I used to love to watch the Golden Girls. And this is just the last two days -- last week I read with morbid curiosity and sadness about the death of Brittany Murphy's husband and also of Gary Coleman. But that brings me to my question: People get divorced all the time, and sadly, strangers (which is really what famous people are to most of us) die all the time. So why are we so saddened/shocked/impressioned by it when it concerns famous people?

Is it because we feel we know them, that through movies and TV shows, People magazine and Us Weekly, we feel like they're somehow distantly connected to us? Maybe. I think for me, whenever something bad happens to a famous person, it serves as a reminder that bad things can happen to *anyone* no matter how rich, privelaged, or famous they are. And things like death, illness, divorce, are scary to think about. These are the kinds of things we always want to think won't happen to us or our families, and so when they happen to famous people, who look and seem vastly shinier, wealthier, and more privelaged than the rest of us, maybe we suddenly realize we're a little less immune?

This morning, I found myself in a cemetary visiting someone's grave with my husband. As we walked around looking for the right place, I pointed out the very, very obvious to my husband that cemetaries are vastly depressing. They're huge, there are dead people everywhere, dead people you don't know, and names you don't recognize. And yet somehow, almost shockingly, that didn't feel as sad to me as reading about Rue McClanahan's death when I got home. Like all those graves I saw, she was just a stranger to me, so I have to wonder, what makes us feel more for celebrities?

What do you think?

The Ryman, Neil Young, Will and Me

Today I'll chat about my son, Neil Young and the infamous Ryman Auditorium in Nashville, Tennessee. The three converged last night as I escorted my youngest boy, Will, to the first of two concerts in Nashville for Mr. Young on his "Twisted Road" tour.

Here's the best. Will and I were lying on the couch at 6:30 p.m. when we looked at each other and wondered, "Exactly why aren't we going to see the show?" A ticket price of $127.50, maybe? Hmmm. Could that be the reason? I told Will that if he could get two for the price of one, I'd take him. "I'll find them, Mom. I swear," he says. So we jumped in the car, flew down to the Ryman, and ended up on the main floor - great seats - for half price!! It's amazing how well the scalpers will deal a few minutes after the opening act starts!

For those of you who don't know, I'm a rock and roll lover. Well, freak may be more like it. And naturally, so is my son. The beautiful part about last night is that Will loves Neil Young because of me!! I used to dream about the day I could take my kids to concerts. Now, he even knows more about the legendary rock star than I do.

The concert was, well there isn't really a good enough word that hasn't already been used to describe Neil's shows. But for clarification sake I'll just say the concert was everything we hoped it would be. Neil carried the show solo but had all of his different instruments set around the stage. Both his acoustic and electric guitars were in the middle, his grand piano on stage right. His pump organ was in the rear of the stage and his upright piano was off to stage left. And of course, his harmonica was usually in the holder around his neck. He spent the evening rotating around each instrument sharing the depth of his talent with the audience. Mr. Young didn't say much, but if you've been following his career at all you know that's his way - quintessentially Neil.

Each time he sang an old song my son jabbed me in the arm and I got to watch a huge smile spread across his face.

That was heaven for me. So was getting to spend an entire evening sitting next to my twenty-year-old son.

Pardon Our Dust!

We're doing a bit of housekeeping around here on the blog, so excuse our dust! This week, we're doing a Free-For-All topic, so we can talk about whatever we choose. I spent last night with one of my college roommates, so I'm feeling nostalgic. Thus, I'm going to talk about my favorite movies when I was a kid.

1. The Goonies
I honestly didn't think there was a man or woman my age who didn't like this movie. Until my friend's husband ratted her out last night that she didn't share our love for this movie. I shrunk back in horror, hand clenched to my chest. My eyes slowly narrowed as I pressed myself against the couch. Who was this person? How did she deceive me for four year in college? Today, I'm still baffled.

2. Stand By Me
My parents' wouldn't let me watch this movie, thanks to the R-rating, but thankfully I had babysitters who cared more about teasing their bangs than censoring my television. After a couple of viewings, it was my favorite movie, not only because it was forbidden. I recently re-watched it, and it definitely holds up--especially the soundtrack.

3. The Neverending Story
I would follow along with Atreyu as he tried to battle and find the Princess. My couch became the giant mud hill where the enormous turtle-man lived (Forgive me if I can't remember Giant Turtle Man Who Lived in A Dirt Mountain's name...) and my poor aging beagle was the killer wolf I had to fight at the end. Let's just say that I'm very glad my parents didn't really use their video camera much during this time period.

4. Halloween
I really don't think I've seen a scary movie--to this day--that I've loved as much as Halloween. With none of the gore and torture found in many modern-day horror films, Halloween is simple and brilliant in its chills. I force my husband to watch all of the Halloween movies each year in October. Even the really crappy ones that are supposed to be set in Illinois, but have very clear mountain peaks in the horizon of each scene.

So that's it! Did I forget any of your favorites?

HAIR!

First of all, CONGRATULATIONS to Maureen on the launch of NOT READY FOR MOM JEANS! I seriously cannot wait to read this. I love her voice and I'm really looking forward to seeing what kinds of knots Clare can tie herself into this time! Sartorially or otherwise.

As for me? My fashion faux pas usually happen above my neck.

Here's the thing about being shortsighted. When I go to the salon, and take off my glasses for the duration of the procedure, I have absolutely NO idea what's going on with my head until the thing's done and there's no turning back. This has led to some... interesting coifs.

Some years ago I let an obviously deranged stylist have a go at the ol' locks. He cut my bangs asymmetrically, in two layers, dyed the underside black and the rest of my hair bright red. The end result looked as if I was a French femme fatale spy in disguise whose wig had slipped.

My mother said I looked like Biff Naked. I don't even want to know how she knew who that was.

Then there was the spiral perm. The end result of which was that, in high school, one of my numerous nicknames was Fluffy the Wonder Poodle. That's the kind of a name that sticks with a girl.

Once I came away from the rinse station with the hair at the back of my head showing a muddy shade of green. I was in the salon until ten that night as my stylist had to perform a rather extensive color correction due to something the previous stylist had used. I think it might have been toxic.

I stick with straight now. And blonde. And a hairdresser who seems as though they haven't been in the back room sipping cough syrup all afternoon. And I have a team on standby to do an intervention the next time I say: "I'm thinking of having something different done with my hair this time..."

Fashion + Pre-teen Years = Disaster

Before I delve into my fashion mistakes, I just want to take a moment to say that I had the pleasure of reading an advanced copy of NOT READY FOR MOM JEANS, and I’m so excited that it’s finally out so that every one else can enjoy it!! It is a must read this summer – funny and overwhelmingly relatable for new moms and non-new moms alike. In the book, Clare tackles the dilemma that all new moms are faced with – can a woman still work and be a mom, and how can she be good at both? Add to that a cast of hysterical yet exceedingly real friends and family, and I found myself instantly absorbed in Clare’s life. Once I picked it up, I could not put it down and read the whole thing in almost one sitting!

So now to my fashion mistakes. Oh, there were too many to recount here. Remember my post a few weeks ago about my fabulous mom – well one of the fabulous things about her was that she always told me to make my own decisions. From a very early age, she wanted me to take responsibility for my actions. Apparently, this included my clothing choices. I’ve looked at many a picture from my childhood days and asked my mom what she was thinking to dress me that way. Her response is always the same, that it was my decision what I wanted to wear. Ahem.

Of course, I think my worst fashion mistakes were in my middle school years. I remember a fascination with tie-dye in sixth grade – I had this matching tie-dye pants/shirt set, and then a bright pink tie-dye shirt that I used to wear tucked into my tight rolled jeans (Okay, this last mistake was not entirely my fault, as tight rolling jeans used to be the only cool way to wear them, and sadly, in sixth grade, I was a fashion follower.)

However, if we’re talking about my worst fashion mistake ever, I’d have to say it was this. In seventh grade my best friend and I decided we should wear matching outfits to our school dance. Stop right there, you say? No, it gets better. The outfits we chose were these black and hot pink shirt dresses with big obnoxious silver zippers up the front, and we wore these over black leggings, of course. And yet, we got the reaction we hoped for when our collective crush took a double take when he saw us at the dance and called us “twins.” At the time we thought this was The. Best. Outfit. Ever.

Looking back I can laugh, because who hasn’t had a fashion mistake in their early pre-teen years? Isn’t that a rite of passage? So what was your worst pre-teen fashion faux pax?

My Fashion Faux Pas

Dear Maureen (a.k.a. former debut author),

Can you believe you have another book under your belt? You're only twenty-something and have two books published already. I'm so thrilled and happy for you (please overlook my bad case of the green-eyed monster) and I'm hoping you are taking this week to relish in all of your glory!

NOT READY FOR MOM JEANS is a fab title! And the cover - that's mighty wonderful, too! In case some of our NG Followers don't know, I thought it would be great to mention again that we share the same wonderful agent AND the same wonderful editor at Thomas Dunne Books. Does that makes us cousins? Three times removed maybe?

I would never call myself a "fashionista" but if truth be told, upon first glance at my closet, one might think that I consider myself one. It's stuffed, packed and overflowing with more clothes than I know what to do with. My biggest fashion mistake is that I buy erroneous pieces for my wardrobe instead of thinking "entire outfit." I've got more clothes that have only been worn once and the reason is: I have nothing to go with them. EBAY needs to become my best friend.

On to my worst fashion faux pas. . . If I think back to the most hideous thing I've ever worn I suppose it would have to be back in college when jumpsuits were all the rage. I sported a navy blue number with a wide white metal zipper that adorned the front and had a big white ring at the top - just under my chin. Hot Sexy Mama is all I'll say. And the worst part of the faux pas . . . I wore it to a Fraternity Pledge Swap. If that doesn't make you cringe, I don't know what will.

CONGRATULATIONS to you, dear Maureen! Picture me right now sending you a cyber champagne toast. Wish I could be in Chicago to help you celebrate in person!

XOXOXOXO

LISA

Happy Release Day to Me!

It feels very surreal to be celebrating the publication of Not Ready for Mom Jeans. I keep thinking the release is next month, or next year, or somewhere far, far away. As of today, I'm no longer a "debut" author, which is both thrilling and unbelievable. My dream was always to have a book out--just one--and now I officially have two. Pardon me while I say Whoa. (Bonus points if you were just reminded of Joey Lawrence on Blossom.)

In honor of the release of Mom Jeans, I chose the topic of fashion mistakes. My main character, Clare, is determined to stay somewhat hip and with-it, despite now having a baby. She has a serious case of minivanitis and refuses to trade in her j

For all those wondering, let me define what "Mom Jeans" actually are for you. Tyra banks actually had a very helpful diagram on her show recently. Mom Jeans generally have a very long zipper, well above the belly button, are pleated in the front and taper down toward the ankles, giving the wearer an ice-cream cone look. Very often, they are also really, really light colored, further adding to the unattractiveness.

Saturday Night Live did a hilarious spoof of Mom Jeans here: http://www.hulu.com/watch/10333/saturday-night-live-mom-jeans

While I can't admit to actually wearing Mom Jeans, there have been plenty of cringe-worth fashion mistakes in my time. I grew up in the late eighties/early nineties, and thus was best friends with my crimping iron. I even had the one that would crimp (read: burn) designs into your hair like a heart or a star. My mother never let me leave the house like that, but Still.

My favorite outfit when I was about twelve was an orange and black splatter paint shirt coupled with a poufy nylon bright orange skirt with black bike shorts underneath. I mean, Seriously. I also had acid-washed jeans with fluorescent puffy splatter paint all over it--that glowed in the dark. Again, I say: Seriously?!

And let's not forget the fashion trends of the mid-nineties--namely, a dark green crushed velvet babydoll dress paired with a black velvet choker and chunky black shoes. In 1995, I was extremely fashionable. Yet I still want to hide the pictures.

So let's hear it folks! What fashion mistakes will you admit to?

Congratulations, Maureen!

I am so excited to celebrate the release of Maureen's second book, NOT READY FOR MOM JEANS! I haven't received my copy yet, but it will go to the top of my TBR pile the second it arrives. From the little I know about this story, I'm pretty sure it will also go to the top of my favorite reads. See, the heroine in the book (Clare) is a new mom, her mom is battling breast cancer, and she has a real life that needs some attention.

A lot like my life. No, I'm not a new mom NOW. And, thankfully, my mother has won her battle with breast cancer, but the specifics aren't what I'm talking about. It's the overall journey I'm referring to. One filled with joy and sadness and fear. Moments of life that we can all relate to. And, I'm sure, there will be plenty of Maureen's wonderful humor wrapped into the story. I'm expecting I'll laugh out loud more than once.

So yep, can't wait to get it, and I'm bursting with excitement for Maureen. Huge, huge congrats, Maureen!

Now, from what I can tell, I'm supposed to write a post about fashion mistakes. But I'm not really sure I can do that. Mostly because I don't pay a lot of attention to fashion. Heck, I'm a stay-at-home writer. My fashion choices tend to be what's comfortable. Pajama bottoms and a T-shirt? Yep! Baggy sweatshirts and shorts? Yep! If it's clean and comfortable, I'm going to wear it while I write.

Even when I actually don real clothes to go out in the real world, I find I'm not that picky. As long as what I'm wearing is free of stains and not missing any buttons, I'm pretty happy. I'm also one of those women who can have her hair and makeup done in less time than it takes my husband to prepare himself to walk out the door.

Sad, huh?

Yeah, I know. But it's the way it is. So I don't really have a specific story about a fashion mistake. I'm sure I've made them. I just don't know enough to know when I made them or the particulars. It's probably best that I don't know, to be honest.

I find fashion interesting. I love watching the red carpet shows and checking out what all the celebrities are wearing. But that's about as far as it goes with me.

Do you have any fashion mistakes you'd like to share? And please, join me in congratulating Maureen for her release!

"You were banished because you were clumsy?"

Me and Jar Jar Binks. We have that in common. (That is all we have in common. I did not ruin a movie franchise with my ridiculous antics, thank you very much!)

And maybe I wasn't exactly banished, but I was definitely clumsy.

It's probably the thing about me growing up that drove my mom nuts the most. I mean aside from my lack of punctuality (er... see last week's post and, er... the timing of this week's post!)

You see... as a small child, I was fond of running into things with my face. It's like I'd get up to speed and then couldn't figure out how to stop, so I'd just point my mug in the direction of the nearest hard/pointy/sharp/injurious surface and cease forward momentum thusly.

For example, I distinctly remember the day my mother was baking snickerdoodles (I also didn't give silly names to cookies - that's just what they're called, all right?) and I'd endured an afternoon of delicious chocolatey smells wafting down from the kitchen. When, finally, she called down that they were ready, I went tearing upstairs, misjudged the door frame and door opening by several significant inches and split my forehead open on the corner of the wall. This was in the days before cell phones: my dad came home from work to an empty house, mouthwatering aromas, and random blood-spatters as my mom had taken my brother to the neighbors and driven me to emergency to get my face sewn shut.

Then there was the time I split my eyebrow open bouncing on my bed - having flown off wildly after a rogue bounce and finding it necessary to impede my flight by way of the dresser.

Oh yeah... and then there was the time I split my lip open on the fireplace hearth. I don't even remember what my reasoning was that time. Probably just kids havin' fun...

All of these incidences required various degrees of needle-work to make right. So by the time I slipped on a patch of ice in the school playground and broke my arm in the second grade, my adorable visage was a road map of scars both fresh and fading. Not surprising then that the doc who was plastering my skinny limb into a cast didn't believe me when I said I'd "fallen down". Sure you did, kid. Ma'am, we'd like to talk to Lesley alone, for a moment, please...

Honestly, I think the poor woman thought they were going to call a social worker on her! But then I probably did something like fall off the examining table, lending credence to the "No really - she's just unnaturally clumsy!" theory.

They let me go home and I'm sure my mother was relieved at that. But yeah - I'm pretty sure that it also drove her fairly nuts.

I Like My Karma the Way I Like It

According to my parents, I was a pretty easy baby and toddler. I napped when I was supposed to. I didn’t cry a lot. I listened. Even as I got older I was always the good/well-behaved child in the family, the one my mom didn’t have to worry about having tantrums in the mall or misbehaving at school. But, as I’ve been told, even as a young child I was a little bit OCD. (And okay, admittedly, I still am). Remember Sally in When Harry Met Sally – when she orders her salad in her own particular way, dressing on that side? That’s me. I also like what she says in the movie, that she just likes things the way she likes them. There’s nothing wrong with being particular, right?

But anyway, when I was around two or three apparently I had this thing, where I would only use a Kleenex if it came from this one particular box in our living room. If anyone tried to give me one from somewhere else, I cried and screamed and insisted the Kleenex must be from the living room. I’m sure this drove my mother crazy (and I’m sure it wasn’t just the Kleenex, although this is the story I’ve heard over and over and over again my whole life.) I’m not sure how long this went on, maybe months or years, but I do remember what cured me of it. Once I was at my no-nonsense next door neighbor’s house and I needed a tissue. I insisted my mom run back to our house and get me one from the living room, until my neighbor yelled at me and insisted I take the tissue from her house. I’m not sure why, or exactly what she said to me (but vaguely remember she said something to the effect that I should stop being such a whiny brat), but whatever it was, I never complained about the tissues again.

And like Maureen said, there’s nothing like karma. Because my youngest son is exactly this way. He will only drink his juice box if it’s facing a certain way and placed in the Sponge Bob cup-holder in one direction; he will only walk on one side of the garage, which is, of course the longer route to the door, and he has a fit if you try to make him go the other way. He instructs me specifically on where each part of his dinner should go on his plate. And I could probably go on and spout off a million little things he wants a particular way, things that drive me crazy on a daily basis.

Of course, when I complain to my mom about it, she just laughs and asks if I took a Kleenex from the living room today. Okay, point taken.

High Maintenance

I really, really hope that my mother doesn't read this week's post, as I know whatever I end up confessing, she would remind me of about 500 additional incidents that caused her to pull out her hair.

My mother always referred to me as her "high-maintenance child" because I was colicky as n infant and strong-willed as a toddler and beyond. She has since eaten these words, after raising my siblings who have totaled three cars, gotten brought home by the police, had our house t.p.-ed, and so on. "High-maintenance" sounds pretty good right about now, huh?

Of course, I had my fair share of difficult moments as a child. If my mom said up, I said down. She suggested I wear pants to school, and I'd only want to wear a dress. Sometimes I think I argued with her just for the sake of challenging her and to see if her head would pop off due to frustration. Like the time when I was in kindergarten and she brought me to a fancy department store and told me not to touch anything. I responded by knocking over a mannequin and shattering it into a million pieces. That one wasn't on purpose. I think.

And as a teenager, I had my fair share of "I'll just say I'm sleeping over at a friend's house" and missed curfews. Then, when I entered college, I decided to get a tattoo. Her reaction of, "That's nice" was somewhat anti-climactic.

But as I've said before, everything I did that my parents thought was terrible has been either matched or completely overshadowed by my two brothers and sister. Yet my mother still calls me her difficult child, despite never having crashed their car into the side of the garage and then pretended that the huge dent just "appeared overnight." Ahem.

A few years ago, I had my own high-maintenance child. My mother smiled and sat back, happy with the knowledge that karma is truly a great thing.

Oh, Let Me Count the Ways...

I giggled when I saw what this week's topic is. Truly, I did. There were so many ways I drove my mother crazy that choosing just a few to highlight caused me a fair amount of stress. Something my mother would appreciate hugely. Finally, after all of these years, I am going to admit to the world how many gray hairs I actually gave my mom.

Sigh.

So, where to be begin?

I could talk about the time I raised our phone bill (remember, this was long before all-in-one long distance plans) to a horrifying (really horrifying) amount for three months in a row calling a college guy I fancied myself in love with. What makes this story worse is I (okay, yes, I am sooo embarrassed to admit this) HID the phone bills when they came the first two months. The third month, I sort of had to give in and show it to her, because otherwise, we'd have lost phone service.

She was not happy. And, as a mom who has faced her own battles with phone bills caused by her teenage daughter over the years, I totally get this. Now. Not so much then.

I could talk about the time I, living in another state at the old age of eighteen, decided to marry a man I barely knew and gave her the news over the phone. When I shared that I met him at a "church" that was actually not a church, but some made-up religion centered out of another guy's house (um...cult? Maybe. I've never decided this for sure), and that this guy stated it was God's will for us to marry, I'm sure she hung up the phone and cried. (For the record, I did not marry this guy. I just thought I was going to, but luckily, sanity won out in the end).

Or I could talk about the time I, as a senior in high school, took off with a girlfriend for the evening (um, the entire evening), with her parents believing she was at my place and my parents believing I was at hers. When her parents called my house to check in, the entire story unraveled, and my parents phoned the police with my license plate number. Yeah. That was a fun night for all of us.

Or another night that I (also a senior in high school) took off with another friend for a party. And then, when it was obvious that no one should be driving, called home and left a rambling message that I was staying the night at my friend's house. The next day, when I got home in the early afternoon, my parents were just about to call the police again. Because, apparently, I hadn't left the message on our phone. They, for most of the morning, thought I was sleeping in, but when Mom finally checked my room and found I wasn't there...Well, let's just say it's a good thing I got home when I did.

Okay, you know what? Those four are enough. Let's leave it at that before I turn any of my own hairs gray! But Mom? For the record, I apologize for stressing you out and driving you crazy. I'm lucky I had you to always, always steer me the right way.

Now, just for fun, tell me some of the ways you drove your mom crazy. Please? Misery loves company and all that...

A thing my mom didn't teach me. And a thing she did.

Punctuality.

Obviously. Exhibit A - this post. Yup - late again.

When I was a kid, we moved across town when I was between elementary school and junior high. This meant that I would have to go to a different school than all my other little buddies come the fall. To say I raised a stink at this prospect would be a vast understatement. After all, these were my bosom, lifelong friends and they would remain so should we continue on in our studies together. (I can remember the names of maybe three of those bosom chums today, their faces not at all, and am facebook friends with one of them. Yes, my logic was flawed. Oh hindsight...)

My parents, to their credit, acquiesced and enrolled me at the school I pined to attend... and then my lovely, wonderful, long-suffering mother drove me to and from school every day for three interminable years. I have yet to adequately apologize to her for putting her through that.

I suppose that it wouldn't have been quite so bad for Mom except that, every single day, she would pull up in front of the school and watch as all the other kids came out the doors, got into cars, or walked to the bus stop, or wandered home in twos and threes... and I would not appear. The last of the stragglers would leave and the teacher parking lot would empty and still my mom sat there in the car, wondering where the heck I was.

Eventually--and it was always a long eventually--I would emerge, knapsack full of books (almost none of them homework-related) and clamber into the front seat, where Mom sat, frowning faintly as she tried to parse my unfocused gaze and unexplained tardiness.

"Where were you?" she would ask (meaning perhaps physically and/or mentally).

"Hmm?"

"What took you so long?"

"Uh... I dunno... I was just thinking."

"You can't think and get your coat on at the same time?"

Well - apparently not. Because my busy little brain wasn't really up to multi-tasking at such a young and tender age but it was certainly occupied. I was an inveterate daydreamer and, as such, was easily distracted to the point where I would just stand there in front of my open locker, staring into its depths, miles and worlds and adventures away. And, as often as it drove my mother positively bonkers to have to wait and wait and wait for me (ie: daily) she never completely blew a gasket. Popped a couple of seams, maybe, but that was only fair. I wasn't a particularly comprehensible or accommodating child. I didn't mean to be an unmitigated pain in the ass, I just wasn't that self-aware, you see. As frustrating as it must have been, my mom put up with me.

But she never taught me punctuality.

Because that would have meant teaching me to put my daydreams away before I was done with them. I wasted a good deal of her time back then... and she let me. Because I think, somehow, she knew deep down that those daydreams might lead me somewhere. And by letting me follow them, even at the expense of her own patience and sanity on occasion, she taught me that it was okay to do that.

She taught me that my inconvenient daydreams were important.

It was the absolute best thing she could have taught me. And she had to sit there listening to an awful lot of talk radio for me to learn it. Sorry, Mom. And Thanks.

Life Lessons

To say I’ve learned a lot from my mom is a massive understatement. When I was growing up my mom was (and still is) a very big part of my life. She stopped working after I was born to be a stay at home mom, but she wasn’t one of those stay at home moms who are obsessed with cleaning their houses or carting their children around to activities – no soccer mom status for her. For one thing, I never played soccer (which was probably a good thing for all involved). But also, my mom was very hands on in teaching me about life and, I think, shaping who I am as a person and a writer.

From a very early age she read me books and then, when I was old enough to read, she carted me on an insane number of trips to the library. She helped me with my homework every night when I was younger (reminding me to always double check my work and have the patience to sit there until I know what I’ve done is right and to the best of my ability.) As a result I became a voracious reader and always did really well in school.

But I think it was life lessons about believing in myself and persevering that were the best lessons she taught me. From a young age, my mom always told me I could be and do anything I wanted when I grew up. She never discouraged me when I told her I wanted to be a writer, or that I was going to major in English, or get a (pretty useless) master’s degree in creative writing. She never told me to be practical, get a “real” degree/job, or that a career in writing would be too hard. She always repeated what she told me when I was little girl – that I could do whatever I wanted to, whatever was going to make me happy. And on top of that, she added her encouragement. It was my mom who constantly reminded me not to give up after a lot of rejection, and that she was sure I was going to be published some day. She still keeps at this, in fact, as she often drops things into our conversations like “when you’re a NY Times bestselling author. . .” (and she says "when," of course, not if!)

If it weren’t for my mom being so involved, so encouraging, and so positive that I could do whatever I wanted with life I’m sure that I would be a different person today. I don’t think I could’ve persevered as a writer, and I’m not sure I would’ve felt so strongly about making sure I had a career where I could also stay at home and be very hands on in raising my own kids.

So for all that, and so much more: thanks, Mom!

A Living Legacy

My mother has been gone for nearly three years now and I miss her more today than I did the day she passed away. It wasn't hard at all to come up with the best thing she ever taught me. It's one of the most important virtues anyone could ever have. My mother taught me to be color blind. I can honestly say that I never once heard my mother utter a single prejudice remark in all the years I had her.

To fully appreciate my mother, you have to consider this: I was a little girl growing up in the 60s in the Deep South. And not just in any city in the Deep South. Memphis, Tennessee is my home. Home also to the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr. in 1968, two sanitation worker strikes and whisperings of local officials with possible loyalties to the KKK. I was surrounded by prejudice. The blacks had to use different water fountains, pulic pools, toilets and churches. Even the famed Orpheum Theatre had a seperate entrance and box office for the African Americans, after requiring them to walk five flights up to the Gallery to see the show.

To avoid his daughters attending school half way across town, my father enrolled my sisters and me in a private all-girls school which, at the time, accepted only white girls. He would not stand for any of his girls to have to be victims of busing - the transporting of public-school students to schools outside their neighborhoods, as a means of achieving racial balance.

Despite my father's and community efforts to teach me otherwise, my lovely mother made sure that I knew that people of color were no different than me. Be they black, Indian, Asian or Hispanic, we were all human beings. I can remember her stopping to pick up black ladies who were walking to the bus stop and offering them rides home. If my father knew that Mama was anywhere close to their neighborhoods, and especially with us in the car, he would have been furious. Sadly, my father was very much a racist. Thankfully, my mother was anything but.

Mama taught my sisters and me by example. Her best friend was a lovely black woman by the name of Julia. The best gift of all is to see Mama's legacy alive in the eyes of my own two sons. They are completely color blind and I can think of few other virtues I'd rather them have.

Sunday Night Dinners

It's hard to pinpoint one specific "best" of everything that my mother has taught me. If forced to choose, I suppose I would select the strong importance of family that she instilled in each one of her children.

I'm the oldest of four siblings, ranging from me down to my seventeen year old brother. We're each at unique stages in our lives--my brother is building his law career, my sister just graduated college and is trying to find her place in the world and my youngest brother is preparing to move away from home and start college. The past several years, my parents' house has been a revolving door of children moving in, out, and back again. My mom jokes that she'll never get empty nest syndrome since one of her kids will always be living under her roof.

Despite all of my siblings being scattered among different milestones in their lives, my mother always makes a point to cook Sunday night dinners for all of us. My brother takes the train to the suburbs from the city, my husband, son and I drive over from our house, my sister delays her night's plans and my youngest brother stumbles out of bed so we can all spend time together and cook dinner.

Sometimes, I forget how special those Sunday night dinners are, especially when I talk to other people who look at me strangely when I mention that I get together with my family once a week. People ask me if it's a burden, or even an obligation. It's not. After a long, tough week, it's great to be able to curl up on my parents' couches in my sweatpants and tease my brother or read magazines with my sister.

My mom has made such an effort to enforce an "open door" policy at their house, it really brings all of us much closer to each other. And that is something that will be both her best accomplishment and her legacy.

A Positive Attitude

My mother has always looked at any situation in a "the glass is half-full" rather than "the glass is half-empty" sort of way. She's all about the positive attitude, always has been, and likely always will be. Which is great. A positive attitude brings about positive thinking and positive energy. But...Well, I am not as positive a person as she.

I'm not a negative gal, either. I'm solidly in the middle. Some things will wear me down to the point that I can't find a positive anything to pick myself up. For example, when my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer.

Okay, all cancer is bad, but some cancers are worse than others. Hers was bad. While I spiraled in an emotional downturn made up of fear, sadness, and anger, she...Well, she did what she always does. She kept a positive outlook. She did everything her doctors said to do, she looked into holistic possibilities (and did some of those, as well), and she always said, "I will beat this. I will be at my grandchildren's wedding."

And I, outwardly, said the same thing. Of course I did! She didn't need to hear my fears, sadness, or anger. She needed me to be as positive as she was. And so, to her, I was. But in my head, I was anything but positive. I was petrified.

But she did just as she said she was going to: she beat the cancer.

There have been other crises in our lives, both before this horrible timeframe and after, that I've seen her positive attitude at work. From the little to the large, my mother always portrays a positive outlook. That isn't to say she walks around wearing rose-colored glasses, because she doesn't. She'll readily admit when something is tough and/or when something scares her. She leans on others when she needs to. She views each problem for what it is without trying to paint a pretty but false picture.

What she does, though, is formulate a positive belief, which she then latches onto with everything she has. She thinks, memorizes, repeats, and lives this belief. And you know what? Being positive helps. It truly does make a difference. What felt horribly scary becomes a little less so. The suffocating pressure of worry lightens...maybe only slightly, maybe a lot, but it lightens.

I'm not saying that having a positive attitude can cure everything that goes wrong in our lives. But I do believe that being positive can make the really hard moments of our lives a little more bearable, can give us something to focus on, and in a lot of scenarios, can give us whatever it is we need to push through to the other side.

So, while I'm still a student, the best thing I've learned from my mom is to stay positive. No matter what. Thanks, Mom!