Project 2,996: Remember Deborah Merrick

Image from Project 2,996

Mr. Wright originally wrote this tribute for Deborah on 9/11/09. He posted it on a blog we set up for our business, but never ended up using. Therefore, it gets relatively no traffic. I wanted to move Deborah's tribute here, where thousands can stumble upon it and say a prayer in her memory.


Deborah Merrick
45 years old
Resident of New York
Worked for the Port Authority
Victim of World Trade Center Attack 9/11
Appears to have passed away subsequent to 9/11

I looked and searched for details of your death. I looked and searched for details of your life. Unfortunately, not much was to be found.

Forty-five years old is too young to die, but certainly there was time to live.

There must be a story there. There must be a story to tell.

I wonder: What if...?

What if your story is never told?

Then it occurs to me...

How many other stories never get told?

Deborah, I want to recognize you.

In the end, you are not a story. You are not a statistic. You are not a name. You are a person; you have a soul. You had a life and that life was cut short because of 9/11.

Deborah Merrick, we remember you by name. As we remember your death, we remember to celebrate life.



This tribute is part of Project 2,996, a cooperative online effort to keep alive the memories of the 2,996 victims of the 9/11/01 tragedy. See other participants, and their tributes to those lost, here.

When "Happy" People Battle Depression

Someone this disgustingly happy can't be depressed...
Or, can she?

Photo by Mary Brownlee

This is, I know, not going to be an easy post to write. For many, it won't be an easy post to read. However, it needs to be written, because it's going to force all of us to look deeper into the issue of depression, and change our ideas of how it "looks."

At least, I hope.

Most people in my world view me as a relatively happy, if not over-zealous at times, fierce mama who kicks ass, takes names, and works hard on making an impact on the world around me. I mean, just check out my Facebook feed! All sorts of rah-rah advocacy, sunny posts, occasional outrage, and "you can do it!" encouragement lives there, on a regular basis.

What you don't see is how I've battled depression since adolescence. You don't see how, after a tumultuous series of medication changes several years ago, I had a psychotic break. You don't see how, at times, I feel hopeless, ineffective, and like maybe -- just maybe -- life is too hard to live.

To many people out there, I'm among the least likely to be battling depression, either publicly or privately.

 In spite of that assumption, I told my husband this week, "I don't want to live anymore." What I meant was, I don't want to live like THIS anymore.

I told him, "Our children deserve a better mother than I can be." What I meant was, My children may not be getting the best care and advocacy I can provide, because an invisible illness is stealing me away from my family, and myself.

I told him, "I feel like I am falling apart, and I don't know how to put myself back together." What I meant was exactly that.

And then, I yelled at him for saying he felt "neglected." What I imagine he meant was, I miss you... Where are you? I need you, and I don't know how to help.

Really, I can't blame him for not knowing what's going on in my head, especially when I struggle to understand it, myself.

We might think depression looks like someone who suddenly isn't interested in their usual activities; who withdraws from the people she cares about (I know men suffer depression, as well, but women are more likely than men to do so); who maybe spends her days in bed, lethargic, and unable to accomplish the most simple self-care or other tasks; or perhaps is overly emotional, and commits a great deal of her time to crying.

Here's what depression looks like for me:

• Ensuring my kids get to (currently) six therapy appointments per week, but dropping the ball on at-home therapy supplements
• Having my home and office look like a demilitarized zone, but not having the energy to care
• Dragging myself out of bed most days to do a lot of nothing, because the things which are most necessary, and bring the greatest return, seem unmanageable 
• Neglecting my business, clients, and team, but somehow, by grace and luck, receiving awards for my "achievements" during my most massive bouts of depression
• Mentally "rallying" before answering the phone, so I can have a conversation with someone which focuses on them, and deflects attention away from myself
• Always answering, "Great! How are YOU?" when someone asks how I am, because I would much rather hear about and worry about someone else, rather than myself
• Appearing and feeling numb most of the time when I'm alone or with my husband (because even tears require too much energy), but really knocking it out of the park as a "social butterfly" in public or at work
• Ignoring deadlines for things I really do want to accomplish, because meeting that deadline will mean new, different labor or work, which I can't even begin to think about right now
• Failing to dial the phone, but always hoping it will ring, and someone, anyone, will notice things just aren't right with me... and then assuring them I'm "fine... great, even!" when they ask
• Feeling constantly overwhelmed, and at the same time, being unable to feel good about the things I actually am doing well ("You navigated that IEP meeting like a boss today!" is met with, "Yeah, but I didn't cure world hunger, so... what's the point of even trying?")

But here's what you probably see:

• A super-active mom, who advocates for her kids daily, and tries to make the world a better place by spreading awareness
• A creative genius, or someone too busy for housework? Actually, no... you'll still see a demilitarized zone. I'm not even going to try to kid myself.
• A woman who enjoys her "free time," because she's designed her life to provide "self care" and "downtime"
• A small business owner who is killing it!
• Someone who greets each social interaction with enthusiasm and positive energy
• The "social butterfly" you are meant to see
• Someone who has a lot on her plate, because her talents are so varied... Surely, it's reasonable that some deadlines will need to be adjusted?
• Someone who simply doesn't give herself enough credit for all the awesome she brings into the world
• A woman who is -- depending on how much you like me -- either adorably or annoyingly distracted

Some days, I see that, too.

Some days, it's not so bad. Some days, I am the warrior woman, on a mission, and I succeed in conquering a lot of villainous things, and rescuing a lot of people -- metaphorically, of course. SOME days, I really am "fine... great, even!"

And then, there are the other days. The days when, as my friend Anna puts it, depression is "...like the boogie man hiding around the corner, ready to kick you down if you're not on guard." These days seem to come when I least expect them -- when things are going pretty well, thank you very much, and I really do feel like I have it all together.

As it turns out, I am not alone. 

I wrote the majority of this post based upon my own experiences and feelings, but I wanted to know if anyone else had similar thoughts, or even vastly different thoughts, on depression. I tossed up a couple posts, asking for folks to tell me what they wish others knew about depression. 

Overwhelmingly, I found that a lot of people had similar knowledge about how depression can strike even the "happy" people, and the deep feelings of confusion, helplessness and fear that accompany it. People shared with me their experiences, and really helped to sum up a lot of what I didn't think to say. Take a look:

Siena: It's frustrating when people ask me why I'm depressed, and then don't understand when I say, "I don't know." 

It's not as easy as "getting on something." (medication)

Lei: I hate when people think it's as simple as being sad about something. "what do you have to be sad about?" That just makes me feel more ashamed and guilty about having depression.

Audi:  ...it is real and it happens to the best of us. Especially Post partum, which is a time where you are "supposed" to be happy, by the definition of other people.

Kristin: Depression is heavy.

(NOTE: I found this simple statement so profound, I couldn't improve upon it. So much, in those three words. It goes along with the next quote.)

Anna:  It feels like having 1000 lbs of weight crushing you from every angle. And all people can say is "why don't you just take the weight off!?" I had a Bible study leader tell me that I must not have faith in God because if I did, I wouldn't have such a problem. Because God is JOY and if I don't have that then I am not "in-Christ."

(This last part hurt my heart SO MUCH! The church needs to better understand depression and other mental health disorders, and lead those suffering to hope, not condemnation over a perceived lack of faith.)

Cera: On the outside I look like I have everything together, while on the inside I'm battling years of hidden depression and making it up as I go along. 

The monsters don't live under my bed; they live in my brain. 

No matter how much sleep I get I'm still tired, no matter how tired I am I can't sleep!

Chelsie: I wish people didn't say "it could be worse." Everyone's situation is different and it is belittling to be told that "you don't have it that bad."

Kasmira: That sometimes it presents itself as anger, not sadness. Every single person is different, but it is no less real.

A parent with an adult child who battles depression: When you repeatedly feel something is wrong with your child/loved one, speak up. Don't be afraid to ask "Do you think you might be depressed" (I was afraid to ask) If you observe upbeat, 'appropriate' emotional responses when around others but experience negative emotions or worse, lack of emotions one on one, you need to pay attention.

A friend who chose to remain anonymous: Sometimes a depressed person is the funniest, happiest and most outgoing guy or girl that you know. (DING! DING! DING! We have a winner! This is what I was trying to say, at the beginning of this piece.)

So, today, I agonize over how to tell my mother that I'm not really feeling well enough, mentally and emotionally, to get together for Thanksgiving. (Mom, if you're reading, call me to discuss. I don't seem capable of picking up the phone, lately.) 

I think about the to-do list I should write (first on the list: MAKE A LIST). 

I hope my friends, my family, my team, and my clients somehow get the telepathic message that I care about them, and love them, and to please not hesitate to connect with me -- some days, it really is the fuel that keeps me going -- because I'm not always well enough to reach out and say so.

I spend all day blogging about everything I think I should say, when, really, all I want to say to those who love me is:

I'm still here. I'm surviving. I'm a little lost, a little hopeless, and a little mixed up, but I love you, even if I can't precisely show it.

Be tender with me. Understand I am rather fragile right now.

Be tough with me. Don't let me withdraw, or retreat, even when I say it's what I need. It isn't. What I need is to know I have a wall of love and safety around me -- even if I'm not brushing against it, it will be there when I try to run.

Mostly? Please... don't give up on me.

Can you ALL help me to change the way we think depression "looks?" Reach out to someone you haven't heard from in a while. Invite a friend out to coffee. Write a letter to someone you care about. Love on your loved ones a little harder. And, of course, don't forget to share this post. Let's change the world, friends. 

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Seeing Red

Photo credit

A few weeks ago at the dental office, Curlytop looked up from her book and said, “Mom, tomorrow is my last day of first grade… Do second graders get to eat Red Dye?”

“Not you, Sweetie – you’re allergic, and so is Snugglebug.”

The color drained from the dental assistant’s face. She’d just finished cleaning Snugglebug’s teeth, a small tub of RED cleansing paste still in hand. “You didn’t use that on my daughter, did you?” I asked, stupidly. Of course, she had.

At that moment, our dentist popped his head in. “How’s it going, here?” he asked.

“To tell you the truth, Doc, I’m a bit alarmed and concerned, since Snugglebug was just treated with red paste.”

He blinked. “But, she’s allergic to Red Dye.”

“Yeah. I know.” I’ve come to believe some medical professionals have hair-trigger backpedalling devices installed during their schooling which activate in response to potential liability, and our dentist didn’t disappoint.

“Well, I know you SAY she’s allergic to Red Dye, but – you know – is it REALLY an allergy? I mean, is it a documented allergy?”

“Well, it’s well-documented with our pediatrician, school nutritionist, neurologist, developmental specialist, five different therapists, and YOUR OWN RECORDS, as evidenced by the all-caps words on that screen.” I pointed to the screen next to him. “Do you need more documentation? I’m sure I can dig it up.”

I could tell our doc was getting a little nervous. “What sort of allergy is it? Do they break out in hives, or what?”

“It’s pretty much straight neurotoxicity. Curlytop has seizures.” I paused, letting that sink in a bit. “Oh, and they do this self-injurious behavior thing where they tear and bite their skin open. It’s a fairly awesome spectacle.”

“Uh-huh… Well, that sounds pretty serious, so, uh… well… erm…”

I took the time to text Mr. Wright: I think you’d better head to the dental office. I’m about to lose my sh*t with our dentist.

Then, I returned my attention to the stammering dentist. “I want a printout of the ingredients in that paste. Like, now.”

The dentist hustled off to find the data, and I was left with the wilting hygenist. “I actually don’t think it has Red Dye in it,” she said, hopefully.

“Really? What do you think makes it bright red?” As it turned out, there were two Red Dye ingredients, according to the emergency hotline for the manufacturer.

Most of the hubbub had died down by the time Mr. Wright arrived, and I informed him we had a rough night ahead of us, following Snugglebug’s exposure.

“I didn’t know whether to contact our attorney, or not,” he said.

“Oh, I’m sure we can document this and ensure it doesn’t happen again on our own,” I assured him.

“I meant for YOU. Where’s the bloodbath? I was looking forward to seeing you in action. I even have popcorn out in the car!”

Is it any wonder I love him so?

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My Husband Humiliated Me with a Cheeseburger

Get my recipe for a divine burger alternative here.

The email notification pinged on my Blackberry. It was a message from a reporter, seeking information on local vegans for a piece she is doing on veganism for a lifestyle magazine. Would I be interested in participating? You bet your sweet potato, I was interested!

I dialed the reporter’s number from the passenger seat of the car while Mr. Wright drove around, running errands. She thanked me for calling, and asked me questions such as, “What led you to follow a vegan diet?” and “What advice do you have for those who’d like to try a vegan diet?”

The answers came easily, and for once, I expressed myself eloquently with just the right amount of humor balanced with emotion, intellect and compassion. I was brilliant!

She asked me if my entire family followed a vegan diet, just as Mr. Wright pulled into the high school parking lot to pick up Pepper. No, I explained, the rest of the family is omnivorous. However, the meat in our freezer is either hunted by Mr. Wright, or raised by extended family under humane and hormone-free conditions.

“I really think there’s more integrity in the meat my family eats than in that found at the grocery store meat counter,” I said. “The animals didn’t live a life of suffering, as is so common in commercial farming. They existed in nature, or in a compassionate, well-monitored environment.”

I was on a roll, driving home my point that, although veganism might not be for everyone, we can all make conscientious decisions about our food. Did I mention I was brilliant?

At that very moment, Mr. Wright made a sharp left turn into the drive-thru of an establishment which represents the very antithesis of the point I was making. I won’t name names, here, but suffice it to say all my credibility on the ethics of eating was destroyed when he rolled down the window and started rattling off, “I’ll have a cheeseburger, Quarter Pounder, Big Mac and a McChicken… Pepper, do you want anything else?”

Have you seen the movie Pulp Fiction? Never have I more desired to resurrect the classic line, “…I’m hanging up the phone! Prank caller! Prank caller!” I asked for the entire incident to be stricken from the record, but… I’ll have to wait, with the rest of you, to see what the final article includes.

By the way, do you know why divorce attorneys are so expensive? Because sometimes, they’re worth it.

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Making Time to “Make Some Time”

"Soup" is good for the soul.

Since collecting seven kids, I’ve learned that there just isn’t time for all the things we parents learn to expect and appreciate in our Before Children (B.C.) days. Twenty minutes alone in the shower, for example. If I have time to wash, rinse, and repeat, I know I’m either dreaming, or the kids are scheming to set fire to the house.

Nothing, perhaps, is so missed as the B.C. convenience of having Grown-Up Time at any time of the day, in any room of the house. We have so many little ears around, we don’t even call it Grown-Up Time anymore—we use code, and call it “making soup.”

B.C., steamy soup was abundant, but these days, it seems the soup kitchen’s experiencing budget cutbacks, with the all-important asset of time excruciatingly difficult to come by—especially since all the kids are too old to take naps, now.

Speaking of naps, I fall for it every time... Mr. Wright says, “Hey, the kids are watching a movie downstairs. Wanna take a ‘nap’ with me?” A nap? In the middle of the day? You can bet your bumpus I get excited about the idea of having a little siesta. The problem is, I always assume Mr. Wright is actually hinting at sleep—a breakdown in interpretation which always causes disappointment. For him, I mean. I’m usually sleeping and unavailable for disappointment.

If he really wanted to be clear, he’d say, “Do we have time to whip up a batch of soup?”

Gone are the crock pot days of slowly simmering batches of soup. Now, it’s microwaved, or everyone goes hungry—if we even stay awake long enough to push “start.” At bedtime, there’s always a kid who has to have just one more story read to her, and another who has to have one more drink of water. There’s always one more back that needs scratching or a kid who needs a parent to cuddle—just in case the closet monster decides to make an appearance.

Mr. Wright offers to do the bedtime routine, because (and I won’t lie, it’s true) I’m too much of a pushover, and I play into the kids’ hands for hours on end, reading The Little Fish That Got Away seventeen times. “Start without me!” he calls down the hall, determined to efficiently and quickly cut through the preliminaries of the nighttime games.

Soup really is best when made for two, and even enjoying an appetizer alone is, well, lonely. So I wait for my super souper to join me as the sounds of “one more story” drift down the hallway for thirty-some minutes, and then... Silence. Success! Any minute, now...

Seriously, any minute... What’s taking so long?

I tiptoe down the hall to the girls’ bedroom, quietly push the door open, and peer in. Curlytop and Snugglebug are wide awake. “Shhhhh,” they whisper. “You’ll wake up Daddy.” Sure enough, Mr. Wright is fast asleep at the foot of the bed.

“Oh, well,” I sigh. “Maybe we’ll be able to reheat some leftovers tomorrow night.”

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Jackie Versus Marilyn

Honestly, it’s not a difficult job.

Look pretty, plaster a smile on my face, make small talk with the right people, ask compelling questions at the right time… So why do I have so much trouble being Mr. Wright’s “plus one” at business and political events? Why can’t I be Jackie to his JFK?

I’m terrible with names, and I can rarely place a face. I’ve conducted lengthy conversations with bigwigs, discussing their families, the real estate market in their state—wherever that is—my upcoming book, and what the kids are up to, only to walk away, whispering to Mr. Wright, “Who in blazes was that?”

Jackie was too classy to bungle associations that way, I’m sure.

Last night, at a reception, I was greeted with an enthusiastic hug from a charming man who—sadly—was not wearing a name badge. “It’s so good to see you!” he said. Who was he? High brass? Someone we had dinner with in Miami? A leadership colleague of Mr. Wright’s? My mouth kicked into Stepford Wife mode, automatically producing an always-appropriate, “Great to see you! How have you been? How’s your family?”

“I’m fantastic,” he said. “As far as I know, my family is fine, though not much has changed since you and I chatted for an hour yesterday.”

Oh. He did look a little familiar.

My mental Rolodex is always flipping at top speed, trying to place the friendly folks who kiss my cheek, pat my back, or try to squeeze the stuffing out of me. I always feel inadequate when a well-wisher greets me with, “Christina-Marie! So wonderful to see you!” and I’m forced to respond, “Hey… you… It’s great to see you, too!”

As the wife of a man with a certain level of influence, I’m occasionally called upon to make introductions. It usually goes something like this:

“Mr. Bigwig, I’d like you to meet my dear friend, um,—I’m sorry, what is your name, again?”

“It’s Bill.”

“Of course, it’s Bill. I meant your last name, Silly!” Insert light, flirty laugh, a la Marilyn.

It’s anything but nimble, yet I’ve used this technique to not-so-gracefully reveal the first and last names of acquaintances I’ve forgotten many times, with success. Only once did a gentleman call me out, rolling his eyes as he said, “I’m such a dear friend, she can’t remember my name. Yeah, we’re really close.”

No social grace at all. It’s no wonder we’re not close, Mr.—I’m sorry, what was your name again?

As difficult as it is to open my mouth and say the right thing, it’s sometimes more difficult to keep it closed to avoid saying the wrong thing. The absolute biggest challenge is to remain absolutely silent.

During our most recent trip to Washington, D.C., I performed remarkably, if I do say so myself. I avoided the low-hanging fruit as we walked near the Capitol and two Planned Parenthood petitioners approached, asking, “Do y’all support Planned Parenthood?”

I equally avoided intervening when a particularly shrewish woman suggested Mr. Wright did not boast the proper credentials to attend a privileged reception.

I’ll never be the refined, polished Jackie-like gem on the arm of my husband I’m expected to be. I tend to be a bit too loud, too brazen, too forgetful, too aloof, too much of a spectacle, too “Marilyn” in drawing attention to myself.

I do succeed in sporting a fabulous collection of hats, though. Perhaps I’m Marilyn, with the benefit of Jackie’s hats.

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Bad Juju and Other Vacation Food Dangers

On Nassau, moments before the Juju hit

Mr. Wright and I recently enjoyed a trip to Miami, the Bahamas and Key West. By “enjoyed,” of course, I mean “barely survived.” In my case, anyway.

The first leg of our trip found us in one of the poshest hotels in Miami. To put it in perspective, the nightclub in the hotel commands an eighty-dollar cover charge per reveler—just to get in the door. Once inside, said reveler can expect to spend a minimum of twenty bucks per drink, plus tip, but most of the Beautiful People get table service for a grand or two.

A few weeks ago, eighty bucks could have filled my gas tank. I didn’t need to shake my moneymaker so badly that I found myself willing to pay a Tank of Gas to get in the door. We decided to consume, rather than expend, calories by dining at the hotel sushi bar.

I went through my standard monologue—vegan, allergic to seafood, fish and shellfish in any form—and emphasized the importance of preventing cross-contamination. You know, so I wouldn’t DIE? The server, kitchen staff and sushi chef communicated their comprehension, citing their knowledge and training as employees of a bazillion-star hotel.

Our meal arrived, and I expertly used my chopsticks to dip a piece of tempura into the accompanying sauce, took a bite, and… pushed my plate away. “It’s fishy,” I said. Mr. Wright is accustomed to my food paranoia. He tasted the sauce, shrugged his shoulders and said, “I think you’re imagining it.”

That single bite confirmed its fishy consistency hours later, when I lost vision in my right eye and watched half my face swell like a puffer fish. A call to the restaurant revealed the main ingredient in the tempura sauce as “fish sauce.”

A few days later, we reached Nassau. I’d downed an entire package of antihistamines, and the swelling was beginning to subside. Nearly dying of anaphylactic shock had left a bad taste in my mouth, but I was recovering. It was a short-lived reprieve, though, as Mr. Wright insisted on stopping by a local fruit stand for fresh mangoes. The mangoes were fine, mind you. It was the jujus that ruined my tropical bliss.

When it comes to exotic fruits, I’m pretty fearless. I’ve chowed down slices of durian—notoriously recognized as the stinkiest fruit on the planet—but I was poorly prepared for jujus.

“What are those?” I asked, pointing to a box of small, cute-as-a-button fruits. “Jujus,” said the vendor. “Ladies love the jujus.” He chuckled a deep, rich, Caribbean rum-coated laugh. He handed me a juju, urging me to sample.

It had a texture like a dry sponge, which proved to be the best characteristic of the fruit. The flavor, I determined while rinsing my mouth out with nearby gravel, was… old cheese. Wrapped in smoked, dirty gym socks. I’m not sure who the “ladies” are who “love the jujus,” but if I ever meet one, I plan to slap her soundly across the face to knock some taste into her.

The following day we disembarked at a private island, where Mr. Wright and I frolicked about, half-dressed, as if we weren’t middle-aged with bodies to match. I stumbled upon a cluster of aloe vera plants, which I cut and applied to my deepening sunburn. Not one to learn a lesson easily, I was thrilled to identify a Wild Dilly tree—a relative to the tasty sapodilla.

Fearlessly, I bit into a firm, green fruit. “How is it?” asked Mr. Wright. I think I managed, “Ims ur biff shticshy…”

Unfortunately, I hadn’t studied enough about the species to know the unripe fruit is laced with latex, and inedible until the latex is gone via ripening. Not only is the gummy latex difficult to chew; it is also an excellent adhesive. Good things to know about the immature Wild Dilly fruit, for sure. Of course, I didn’t learn them until we returned to civilization, and Google.

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Miami Vice-less

I'll admit, it was a bit unsettling getting to the airport with enough time to walk to the gate, instead of sprint. I was equally surprised when our checked luggage actually made it to the same airport we did. Those things just don't happen to the Gonzos. We're always rushing this way and that, making frantic phone calls after lost luggage, having difficulty with botched reservations at the hotel and so on, but none of those familiar, soothing scenarios presented themselves. I felt a tiny bit better when our seatmate on the plane filled us in on the latest news about cruise ships - namely, the recent capsizing of the ship in Italy and the widespread outbreaks of Norovirus among ships departing from Florida.

When you live like The Gonzo Mama, crisis and chaos are more comfortable than safe and laid back.

"Maybe, just maybe," I thought, "this trip will be a real break for Mr. Wright and me... No kids, sunshine in February, walking hand-in-hand along the beaches of Miami, and finishing with a cruise through Key West and the Bahamas."

We checked into the hotel with no glitches and headed to the welcome reception, where Mr. Wright effectively ate dinner while I sipped a mango mojito, in the absence of any vegan-friendly fare. We had big plans to take on the Miami nightlife, but I fell dead asleep as soon as we got to the room.

Mr. Wright says that's what happens when a girl drinks her dinner, but I'm blaming jet lag.

The next morning, it started raining. The winds picked up, giving a certain monsoon-like feel to our walk along South Beach, and adding a bit of flair to our outdoor dining experience. I ate a salad, by the way, and passed up the opportunity to enjoy a 36-ounce tropical drink served in a fish bowl in favor of a soy latte.

We headed back to the hotel, soaking wet but prepared to enjoy some private, grown-up time. We drew the curtains to prevent any guests at the neighboring hotel from benefiting from a room with dual views, set the deadbolt on the door, and looked into one another's eyes for the first time in a few years. Just as we barely reached our target aerobic heart rate, one of the kids called, which simply confirmed my suspicion that they intuitively know when it's most inconvenient to interrupt their parents, and they use that skill with deadly accuracy every single time the opportunity is presented.

I'm not asking for a hurricane or anything, but a little adventure would be nice. Where are Crockett and Tubbs?

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Lord, Won’t You Buy Me a Four-Wheel Drive?

Photo source

About three weeks before the first big snowfall, a wholly terrifying CLUNKCLUNKCLUNK began thunderously beating from my front axle. I pulled into the nearest parking lot (coincidentally, my favorite coffee shop) and called Mr. Wright, sobbing hysterically. He agreed to meet me, but wouldn’t arrive for about two hours.

I enjoyed a soy mocha while chatting with my barista pal, who was actually happy my car was kaput, because she hadn’t seen me in months due to some silly determination on my part not to spend a quarter of the family grocery budget on caffeinated beverages with enough calories to solve the world hunger problem.

Three mochas and ten bathroom breaks later, Mr. Wright arrived to rescue me. Or, at least, give me a ride. If he could fix or diagnose the car, I’d take it as a bonus. Plus, I was out of cash, and as spun out as a washer full of pantyhose. Mr. Wright started the car, threw it into reverse, backed up to the rhythm of CLUNKCLUNKCLUNK, and pulled back into the parking space.

“It’s making a lot of noise,” he said.

“Really? I didn’t hear a thing. Actually, how did you know I was here? Did you hear my synapses buzzing, from the caffeine?” I countered. “Of course it’s making a lot of noise! That’s why I called you.”

My husband gave an indignant sniff, then bent down and looked under the rig. I always sort of laugh when he does that. The thing is, he has no idea what he’s looking for—like when I walk into the laundry room and push a couple buttons or turn a dial on the washer or dryer. I don’t really know what I’m doing, but figure if I tinker around until the thing starts, the clothes might get clean. Or dry.

Mr. Wright walked around the car, peered under the other side, rubbed his chin and said, “Well, you got me.”

“Yeah, I know. And sometimes, I wish I’d accepted Mr. Goodwrench’s proposal. Then I’d have him, right now.”

He got back in the car, started it, and asked, “Why are you driving around in four-wheel drive?” I heard a soft click, and Mr. Wright backed the car up—with absolutely no sound but the tire rubber on pavement.

“That’s amazing!” I cried, and showered my husband with the appropriate number of “it’s so sexy when you fix things” remarks. The problem, he explained, must have been something wonky in the hub, making noise when the four-wheel drive was engaged.

When the Snowpacolypse hit, the only operational function on my big, heavy rig was rear-wheel drive, due to a crazy-high estimate from the mechanic and a crazy-low balance in the checking account. Why can’t those of us who need snow tires and chains every year file our taxes a few months early, to get those returns in time for winter vehicle maintenance? I’m going to write a letter to my Congressman.

There were a few scary slips, one embarrassing failure to get up my own driveway, and one miracle. Oh, yes—there was a miracle.

Mr. Wright had to drive me to Target to get a pair of snow boots for Curlytop because they were on a fabulous sale, and I was too chicken to drive. As we exited the parking lot, we saw a small car high-centered on the berm between lanes on the avenue. “I have a tow strap,” said Mr. Wright. “Let’s pull them out.”

“Are you crazy? Our four-wheel drive doesn’t work! We’ll get ourselves stuck, trying to pull them out, and you’ll cause an accident and we’ll die, making it impossible for me to punish you for weeks over insisting on such a stupid idea. No way!”

After the tow strap was hooked to both vehicles, Mr. Wright flipped the dial to four-wheel drive and started to pull. The CLUNKCLUNKCLUNK returned. The small car stayed high-centered, and the front of our rig was sliding on the ice, threatening to enter the next lane of traffic. Mr. Wright pressed down the accelerator, and the small car dismounted the berm.

The car’s driver and passengers gave hearty thanks to Mr. Wright, and we drove away. In four-wheel drive. Without a single clunk. The force of tugging the small car off the berm forced the hub to lock in.

Guess how many “it’s so sexy when you fix things” that cost me.

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Car, Pay Diem

Photo credit

“It rattles, shakes and knocks,” I said to my brother, Bubba. “I’m almost afraid to drive it.”

“So, it runs like a car with 280,000 miles on it?”

“No. We refer to 280,000 miles as ‘the good old days,’” I sighed.

Big Green came to us about seven years ago. She had more miles on her than we’d like, but she started, she ran, and she accommodated enough cabooses for our giant clan. Considering I’d just rolled our family van in a three-flip horror, Big Green was in considerably better shape than our other car.

Now, she shimmies and clangs like a two-ton belly dancer. The dash lights went out a couple years ago, and because Mr. Wright deemed removing the dashboard to fix the bulb too problematic, I now use a flashlight propped on top of the steering column to check the speedometer. The back window doesn’t properly close anymore, so we have a rag stuffed into the latching mechanism to keep the interior light from staying on – or would, if the interior light worked.

A family of four could be fed from the scraps and crumbs of French fries, potato chips, dry cereal and assorted other snack foods wedged into the cracks and between the seats. We could probably create a small island with the mud caked on the headlights – which, by the way, we can’t wash because we have a low beam out, and the dirt is masking the fact that we’re driving around with our brights on all the time.

Vehicle maintenance is not a gift the Gonzos possess.

Big Green is getting on in years. She has a ton of miles on her, and she’s held together mostly by prayer. She doesn’t look as great as she used to. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m responsible for the big scratch on the rear panel. I just haven’t confessed to Mr. Wright yet that I backed into the fence around the pool. He was pretty upset at the thought of a stranger doing the damage in a parking lot, so I’m not sure how he’d react to his beloved bride proving to be the culprit.

Like Big Green, I’m getting older. I’d like to say I’m aging gracefully, but really, I’m just aging. My odometer keeps ticking, and some days I, too, am held together by stubbornness and prayer. The mirror reports I don’t look as great as I did ten years ago – though Mr. Wright swears I look better.

As beat-up and sad as our old rig is, Mr. Wright isn’t making plans for trading her in. He has this funny idea about getting a full lifetime out of things. Thankfully, he feels the same way about marriage. I’d hate to see him driving around in a new, sporty convertible. Know what I mean?

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I’ve Adopted an Eighth Child, and My Husband Doesn’t Know

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I've “known” for a while there’s another kid intended for the Gonzo clan. I don’t know the sex of the child, the age, or where the little blessing is coming from, but I do know the name.

Asher.



That’s the name I hear, over and over again, during my prayers, my dreams, my most peaceful moments, and my most chaotic crises. “Asher,” I hear. Surely, this child is on his or her way to our family. I just don’t know how, yet. Or when.

In the meantime, I’ve taken the preliminary steps to securing the munchkin. That is, I said to my friend, Mike, who runs an adoption agency, “Hey, if you come across any kids named Asher, give me a call.” Mike asked if there were any other pre-adoption screening requirements, and I said, “No, just the name.”

“Does it have to be a given name, or can it be a kid whose name we can change to Asher?” he asked.

“I’m not sure, yet. Let me get back to you.”

I’ve been periodically checking the “children waiting” website for our state—you know, just in case—but have yet to see the name pop up. It’s silly, really, since we haven’t completed a new home study, submitted any paperwork, or taken any other steps to show our preparedness to welcome a new child into our home.

No matter. I’m way ahead of the game. In fact, I’ve already incorporated Asher into our lives. When I shop, I check out the baby department. If an incredible sale pops up, I want to be ready to stock up on sleepers and burp cloths.

That may be awkward if Asher turns out to be eight years old.

I envision the football games we’ll attend, cheering Asher on to victory. True, Asher may be a girl. That’s where my back-up vision comes in—dance recitals and volleyball tournaments. Maybe Asher will have special needs, so I’m reading more blogs by special needs parents. I’m also reading more blogs on food allergies. Asher may have special dietary requirements, you know.

I find myself preparing larger quantities of food these days. Asher has a large appetite, and is in the middle of a growth spurt. I marveled the other day how hot dogs—although I don’t eat them or feed them to my children—come in packages of eight. Surely, that’s a sign. What happens to the extra hot dog, if a family only has seven children?

When we’re headed somewhere as a family, I find myself counting Asher’s among the cabooses we need to seat. Since we only have five kids at home, now, we’re still doing okay with our eight-passenger vehicle. I don’t know what I’ll do if Asher is part of a sibling group.

Every fairy tale princess knows someday, her prince will come. I, too, “know” someday, Asher will come. Just as those princesses are too busy trying to survive wicked stepmothers and evil witches to actively pursue said princes, I’m far too busy raising the kids I already have to worry much about how the next one will find us. Some days, that’s on par with escaping evil witches.

Let’s not forget, dear readers, that Mr. Wright and I were minding our own business when we accidentally adopted the last two. These things have a way of working themselves out.

Until that time, I’ll continue to dress, feed and house my imaginary eighth child (Asher is so cute when he/she is sleeping!), while trying to figure out a way to break the news to Mr. Wright.

“Honey, we’re expecting.”

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The Unhappiest Place on Earth and Other Vacation Tales

Curlytop is NOT down with Disney.

For children with Sensory Processing Disorder (SPD), Disneyland may not be the carefree wonderland promoters would have parents believe. In fact, for some SPD kids, it may be something closer to one giant house of horrors.

We weren’t thinking about that when we forked over a month’s worth of grocery money at the hallowed gates of the theme park. We were thinking about the memories we were creating with our children.

Memories, indeed.

I’ll never forget Curlytop and Snugglebug screaming in terror at the sweet face of the wooden puppet who came to life during a gently ambling journey through a darkened ride which featured a blissfully beautiful good fairy and a kindly old man. Snugglebug reviewed the Pinocchio ride with carefully-crafted restraint. “It was scary, and I hated it.”

Next up was a ride so sweet and mild, adults dread it and children adore it. After all, it really is a small, small world, and if the syrupy song doesn’t give you a toothache, the angelic faces of children from around the globe certainly will.

Unfortunately, our mid-November visit meant the ride was outfitted for Christmas, and played not only that most-dreaded song but a Christmas carol in alternating blasts—and sometimes in tandem. The usually charming children were all but hidden behind blinking, glimmering, aggressively-featured holiday decorations. Add all that visual and audio busyness to chilling blasts of air to simulate snowfall, and it’s the perfect recipe for SPD meltdowns.

Oh, yes. We were “that family” on the Small World ride. The family with the shrieking kid who just won’t shut up? That’s us.

I got Curlytop to agree to board a carousel—on the condition that we’d sit on a bench, not a moving horse—only to have her burst into tears as the music started, resulting in an emergency disembarkation.

The crowds, smells, larger-than-life cartoon characters, noise, lights and general chaos of Disneyland must have felt like the equivalent of a straight-to-video horror flick for my girls. I’m ashamed to say I drank the Disney kool-aid, and never considered my children would be anything but thrilled to see Mickey’s stomping grounds.

The next day of our vacation was exceptional, by comparison. We hit Knott’s Berry Farm, with its old-school, carnival-type rides and games. The park lacks the hologram-filled adventure rides of Disneyland, but Curlytop and Snugglebug loved “driving” race cars and semi-trucks around a tiny track without sensory assault, and were perfectly content to hang at Camp Snoopy for hours.

Plus? It’s half the price of Disneyland.

While the little girls played with Mr. Wright, the older girls and I embarked on a quest to ride every rollercoaster in the park. While Princess loves a good ‘coaster, she’s a bit more selective than the rest of us—no vertical drops, and no rocket launches.

That put her on snack patrol with Curlytop and Snugglebug, while Mr. Wright begrudgingly agreed to be my seatmate while Pepper rode with GirlWonder on the Xcelerator—a ‘coaster which starts like a pinball machine, pulling the car back, then launching it at 82 miles per hour in 2.3 seconds to a height of 205 feet, then drops essentially straight down before hitting two overbanked turns and gliding to a stop. To top it off, it’s pink. It looks for all the world like the Barbie Dream ‘Coaster—not an encouraging thought.

Xcelerator at dusk.

It was amazing, and no one soiled their pants.

The coup de grâce was the notorious GhostRider wooden rollercoaster, which my fellow junkies and I waited two hours in line to board, due to a sudden cloudburst. Apparently, the ride can’t be run in the rain and, while we love a good shot of adrenaline, we’re more than happy to leave such judgments to the professionals. We’d like to stay on the track, and make it to the end in one piece, thank you very much.

It was dark by the time we finally boarded our car. Riding the rails in the dark made the experience even more exhilarating, and sealed our status as Knott’s devotees.

The drive back home to Washington featured a near-brawl in a supermarket parking lot, a highway flooded with spilled port-a-potties, sing-a-longs to Fleetwood Mac, carsickness, drive-thrus, and 1,100 miles of memories I wouldn’t trade for a month of Disney.

Eat your heart out, Mickey… The happiest place on earth is where is my family is.

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Things I Accidentally Taught My Kids

Curlytop, age 15 months
"Shhhh, Mama... you've said enough, already."

I’m the proud mother of two of the best little mimics on the planet. That means Curlytop and Snugglebug say, “No, thank you,” when they actually mean, “Not if my life depended on it,” and “Bless you,” for coughs as well as sneezes—because their mother believes a coughing body needs as many blessings as a sneezing one. Instead of “I hate that,” they dutifully respond, “That’s not my favorite,” when offered a food they don’t care for.

Unfortunately, they’ve also picked up some rather curious lingual patterns.

They’ve confused more than one waitress by expressly requesting a “cow burger,” because I feel it’s important for them to know hamburgers are made from cows, not from ham. They’ll also vocalize their preference for either “cow milk” or “soy milk,” depending on the kid, the day, or the mood.

Neither of my darlings actually knows how to “pet” an animal, but they routinely ask, “May I ‘softly’ the kitty?” due to my repeated cries of “Softly! Softly!” every time they reach for an animal.

I had no idea how deeply my chronic migraines were affecting my kids until I asked Curlytop to pick her dirty clothes up from the floor and she refused, claiming, “I need to lie down in the dark, ‘cause my head is making me sick. You just need to leave me alone and be quiet, okay?”

Ever vigilant of the girls’ sensitivity to food dye, I had a proud moment a few weeks ago when Curlytop refused a red lollipop from a bank teller, saying, “I’m allergic to Red Dye 40. Do you have a yellow one?”

This morning, Snugglebug disagreed with me about the best use of her time. I suggested she put her dirty cup in the sink, before she wanted to play outside. Tears ensued. “That makes me very, very serious,” she insisted. This, my friends, was the moment I realized I only say, “Listen to me—I’m serious!” when I am, in fact, running out of patience and on the verge of a mommy meltdown. My poor kid thinks “serious” is a synonym for “ticked off, and about to boil in my own rage.”

I got another dose of my own medicine the other day when I denied Curlytop a sixth gumdrop, and the enraged kindergartner fired my own words back at me—“Don’t you tell me ‘no.’ That’s not a nice way to talk!” In my defense, I was a bartender for years, and I’m well aware of the signs of over-service. The kid had reached her gumdrop limit, and probably should have been cut off after the third.

Some kids relish the thought of an adventure, but no phrase will ruin Snugglebug’s day like hearing, “You’re going on an adventure with Daddy!” Somewhere along the way, she figured out “adventure” is code for “a very long day, cooped up in the car while Daddy takes pictures of property for his real estate business.” I’m a fan of deductive reasoning, but do they have to learn so quickly?

I overheard Curlytop cry, “Are you kidding me?!” the other day when a crayon broke while she was coloring. I’ll confess to being the source of that phrase of frustration—one I adopted only after Mr. Wright insisted I stop using more colorful exclamations within earshot of the children.

Last week the girls were playing with their dolls in an adjacent room, and I heard the sounds of an imagined family scene—a mother making food, a father working, children playing… It wasn’t long before the mother doll’s “voice” instructed the children, “You don’t have to like your food, but you do have to eat TWO BITES before you can leave the table,” closely followed by, “I am NOT impressed with that behavior.”

It turns out I’m not the only role model around here.

A couple weeks ago, Snugglebug said, “When I get big, I want to have a big, big tummy… Just like Daddy!”

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Seven Reasons I Need a Clone

July 5, 1996 marked the birth of the first mammal to be cloned from an adult somatic cell. She was a sheep, cloned by scientists at Roslin Institute near Edinburgh, Scotland, and named “Dolly.” The cloned donor cell was taken from a mammary gland, and, as one of the scientists explained, “Dolly is derived from a mammary gland cell and we couldn’t think of a more impressive pair of glands than Dolly Parton’s.”

Which just goes to show, I suppose, that you can lead a man to science, but you can’t evolve his thinking.

I remember having serious concerns about the project, wondering if the cloning of humans could be far behind. I tend to agree with bioethicist Leon Kass, who opined back in the 1960s that “the programmed reproduction of man will, in fact, dehumanize him.”

Still, there are times I wish I had a double to fill in or give a little help during my busiest moments. Ethics aside, I can’t deny the allure of being able to be two places at once, or getting twice as much work done in my limited time, or perhaps training a clone to do the chores I detest the most. For example:

1. Parent-Teacher Conferences: While we only have five kids at home now, those twice-yearly conferences add up. In the past, we’ve tried the “divide and conquer” technique, scheduling conferences at the same time and sending Mr. Wright to one, while I attended another. The problem is, I’m too much of detail-oriented gal to accept “fine” as an answer when I ask how Mr. Wright’s conference went. Details, man! I need details!

2. Sports Season: Has it ever occurred to athletic directors and administrators that having a house full of ambitious children is particularly straining on parents? Having soccer, football and junior high volleyball seasons occur concurrently has certainly made our calendar full, and try as we might, we can’t attend every single game or match.

3. Work-at-Home Mom; Stay-at-Home Kid: I know I’m asking a lot for Snugglebug to happily entertain herself with educational materials while I work on a deadline, but if she’d just stop trying to climb the six-foot fence to get into the pool, I’d get a lot more done. This is where I ask for my clone to have a Mary Poppins gene or two inserted.

4. The 6:15 A.M. Alarm: I’m a night owl by nature, and that alarm does little but tick me off and make me want to throw things—namely, the alarm clock. If I could program my clone to do the morning kids-to-school bustle, I could sleep in, making me a grateful, cheerful mama instead of a cranky, sleepwalking beast.

5. An Extra Lap: When you have kids with Sensory Processing Disorder, you double as a jungle gym. Those sensory-seeking kids need constant touch, and they always seem to be climbing, sprawling, or rubbing on you. Such is my life with Curlytop and Snugglebug, and all too often, fights over who gets to sit on Mama break out. Imagine two mamas, with two laps!

6. Aviation Advocate: Somewhere along the way, I developed an unrealistic fear of flying. A few times a year, Mr. Wright gives me a sedative and pours me into a too-small seat on some enormous aircraft to fly to some wonderful place to attend some important event on his blessed arm. Once my clone arrives, I’ll be sending her. I’ll even spring for first-class seats, if it means I don’t have to get on an airplane.

7. Church Versus Deadline: Due to an illness I’m sure my clone would have been immune to, I had to ask for an extended deadline this week. Now, instead of attending church with my family, I’m eking out this column—and Mr. Wright didn’t spare me his look and oration of disapproval.

I’m convinced… bring in the clones!

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My Glamorous Life as a Rock Star’s Wife

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What’s the difference between a large pizza and a musician? 


A large pizza can feed a family of four.

It’s an old joke, and perhaps one even rooted in a bit of truth. We artsy types aren’t exactly celebrated for our ability to hold “straight” jobs. Still, Mr. Wright doesn’t completely fit the stereotype of Starving Musician—he has other skills that people actually pay him for, like selling real estate and lobbying politicians.

You wouldn’t know it by his last gig, though. I’m pretty sure he ran the gamut of stereotypical behaviors for musicians.

Always arrive late. The musician must always arrive late; so late, in fact, the people who hired him must be scratching their heads at 30 minutes before the curtain, wondering if he will actually show up. Mr. Wright met this challenge by making an eight-hour drive before showtime, and getting stuck in Labor Day weekend traffic.

Be disorganized. The musician must always leave an amp cord or microphone behind, causing the entire band to scramble and pray for miraculous provision before sound check. Mr. Wright is a drummer, so he doesn’t have an amplifier or cords, but he rose to the occasion by tossing every piece of his kit into the back of our Expedition, willy-nilly, and forgetting to pack spare equipment—a glaring oversight noticed mid-show, when his snare drum experienced a blowout.

Have an attitude of expectation. The musician must earnestly believe every person in his life is there to appreciate his talent and yearn to serve him. As Mr. Wright casually grabbed a glass of wine and chatted with his bandmates, Pockets and I were left to unpack the equipment. If you are the child or spouse of a musician, you may as well get used to being a roadie. The role is not optional.

Be broke. The musician must bum money off friends and relatives, because his gig money rarely pays his bar tab. Mr. Wright “borrowed” my last ten bucks cash, right before sending me off in a car with a gas gauge hanging a half-inch below “E.”

Be mysterious. The musician must have an air of mystery about him. People must wonder what creative beauty is churning in that brain of his. Mr. Wright actually failed on this count—at least as far as I’m concerned—but I’ve known him for more than ten minutes. 90% of the time he’s thinking about one thing, and the other 10% of the time, he’s thinking about food. Still, those dark sunglasses he wore probably fooled some of the audience.

That’s my man… over forty, father of seven, and still living his rock and roll dreams. Thankfully, he’s no longer wearing Spandex onstage. Back off, ladies—I saw him first!

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Tanks for the Memories

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I’ll never be rid of the heap of the metal Mr. Wright calls a car. “The Phoenix,” as I’ve taken to calling it, is a dilapidated pile of parts slightly resembling an older model Honda.

It is the bane of my existence. Well, the Phoenix and grease spatters on the stovetop.

Loyal readers may recall it was stolen last year. Unfortunately, our local boys in blue solved the crime and returned the bucket of bolts to us. Someone hit it in the grocery store parking lot and we received a check from the insurance company, but I decided I’d rather pay bills with the money than buy a new jalopy. I sort of regret that decision. A poor credit rating can be fixed in seven years, but the Phoenix seems determined to hang around much longer than that.

As a vegan, it shames me to say it, but I’ve sort of been hoping Mr. Wright would “accidentally” hit a deer, and the insurance company would be forced to total the car. I mean, he’s a hunter, so killing Bambi, whether by bow, firearm or vehicular deerslaughter shouldn’t bother him in the slightest.

When I was in high school, my idea of a “hot” car was a cherry 1966 Mustang. Now that I’ve grown, my idea has changed. I now know, without a doubt, that a truly hot car is one which has broken air conditioning and a radiator leak. The Phoenix is all that, and a bag of chips—spilled across the back seat.

As you can imagine, I was thrilled when Mr. Wright called me the other day to tell me he’d been in an accident. “Really? That’s fantastic!” I said.

“In case you were wondering, I wasn’t hurt,” he replied.

“But the car’s a total loss, right? I mean, you can’t possibly drive it, right?”

“Thank goodness I was wearing my seatbelt. Not a scratch on me. It was pretty scary, though…”

“That’s the best news I’ve heard all week! Be sure to get a lot of photos. I’ll start checking the auto section in the classifieds. What color do you think we should get? Black always looks so dusty, don’t you think? Oh—I didn’t even think to ask… Are you okay?”

As it turned out, the car wasn’t exactly totaled, and I must say I’m rather disappointed in Mr. Wright’s ability to get into a proper accident. He was driving down the highway, about twenty minutes out of town, when a rogue scissor jack, liberated from a vehicle in front of him, came bouncing down the road. In spite of his best efforts, Mr. Wright was only able to lodge the animated road hazard into the bottom of the Phoenix’s gas tank, effectively immobilizing the vehicle and requiring him to call AAA.

Our roadside assistance program provides towing for situations such as these, and Mr. Wright assumed he’d be picked up within a matter of minutes, being only fifteen short miles out of town. Imagine his surprise when the AAA agent told him to expect the wrecker to arrive within an hour.

“An hour? Are you kidding me?” he asked. “I’m only twenty minutes out of a major city.”

The agent laughed, and explained that Mr. Wright was two miles over the coverage boundary of a contracted company fifty miles away. It was hot and dusty that day, and Mr. Wright was not pleased.

He was even less pleased when the wrecker finally arrived an hour later, and the tow rig busted. “You’re not going to believe this,” he said when I answered the phone. “The tow truck broke down, so now the driver has to call for two wreckers—one for our car, and one for his truck.”

“That’s a shame,” I said. “Did you ask him if he has AAA?”

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Ten Signs Your Real Estate Agent is In the Wrong Business

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In today's tough real estate market, it's important to choose your agent carefully. Below, ten signs that may signal your agent needs a new career:

1. He says, "Are you SURE you want to buy now? I mean, the market keeps getting worse, and prices are just going to keep dropping..."

2. She says, "Are you SURE you want to sell now? The market keeps getting better, and prices are just going to keep going up..."

3. He says, "You know, if you stay in your apartment, all your maintenance is taken care of. If you buy a home, you'll have to mow your own lawn, and fix your own leaky faucets."

4. She says, "I think 'for sale' signs are sort of tacky, don't you? You probably don't want one in your yard, right?"

5. He says, "Why don't you take that earnest money, and hit the racetrack? I'll bet your chances of making a profit will be better."

6. She says, "Well, sure, we COULD do an open house, but... do you really want all those strangers in your home?"

7. He says, "I've found perspective buyers really appreciate it when I follow them around, room to room, breathing down their necks. You know - just in case they have questions."

8. She says, "Sure, you have the cash to buy now, but you'd see a better return on your money if you put it into a standard-interest savings account."

9. He says, "A lot of buyers like that 'lived-in' look, so don't worry too much about cleaning the place up."

10. She says, "You can just leave a blank check with me for the earnest money. I'll take care of it."

Is your real estate agent a REALTOR? Mine is, and he's devastatingly handsome, too. (You've met Mr. Wright, right? If you need to buy or sell in a home in North Central Washington, contact him, here.)

Your agent should be a REALTOR, too! Find one at REALTOR.com.

Note: I am not a representative of REALTOR.com or the National Association of REALTORS, nor do I represent the interests of either organization. The humorous post above is neither endorsed nor commissioned by REALTOR.com or the National Association of REALTORS. I just like to spread the word about great organizations I support.

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I Mean This in the Nicest Way Possible

The pen is said to be mightier than the sword,
but that doesn't mean I'm not tempted to test the theory.
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The deadline for Sweet and Simple Vegan Desserts, the vegan dessert cookbook I’m co-authoring with international best-selling author William Maltese is growing nearer. I’m actually not even sure when the deadline is, because I’m afraid to review my publishing contract. For some reason, though, “August” is written in bright red letters across my brain.

Mr. Editor once advised me, “No one cares that you’re writing.” At first, I thought he meant no one cared what I’d written. As my hate mail file clearly demonstrates, that is not the case. What he meant is no one—including, and perhaps especially so, my husband and kids—sees me banging away on my keyboard, with beads of perspiration running down my face, and thinks, “Wow! She’s really busy. Maybe I shouldn’t interrupt her.”

Um, no.

As far as I can tell, the sight of me typing on my netbook triggers an irrational, desperate, and immediate need for my young children to start an un-caged cage match, and for Mr. Wright to be mysteriously unavailable to send the fighters to their respective corners. Strangely, my tappity-tap-tap is also the signal for Mr. Wright to start unloading every small bit of trivial news from his brain.

“Did you read what Johnny Whosit posted on Facebook this morning?”

“No, Honey. I didn’t,” I sigh. “I’m sort of working, here.”

“Oh, well, he was just commenting on how the House Republicans need to blah, blah, blah-ity blah…”

“Mmmmhmmm…” Tappity-tap-tap.

“…and so I said, blah, blah, blah-ity, blah-ing blahblahblah. Pretty good comeback, huh?”

“Mmhmm.” TAPPITY-TAP-TAP. “Hey, could you pull Snugglebug off Curlytop? I think she’s starting to draw blood.”

Mr. Editor is right. No one cares that I’m writing. My amazing, generous, talented, handsome and patient co-author, on the other hand, certainly cares that I’m NOT writing. Sweet William doesn’t have seven children, or a very-cute-but-slightly-oblivious husband, so he doesn’t fully understand that when I said, “I’ll write a cookbook with you,” I actually meant, “I’ll attempt to bang out 140 pages while working in the domestic equivalent of a demilitarized zone, with chaos erupting on every side of me.”


Frankly (and I mean this in the nicest way possible), I want my family to shut their ever-loving mouths, get out of my personal space, and for crying out loud in the dark— let me write.

No, Mommy won’t open the pool for you, because her battery is low, and her extension cord won’t reach that far.

No, Mr. Wright, I wasn’t planning on making dinner, and yes, I was actually expecting you to feed yourself and the kids.

I’ll just have coffee, thanks.

I’m sorry you’re having trouble figuring out how to update your social media sites, Dear, but you’re just going to have to figure it out, like the rest of the world. I’m not your personal social media guru. Believe it or not, I’m an author—or, at least, trying to be one. Last time I checked, authors actually write books.

Yes, Mommy would love to play “princess” with you, as long as she gets to be the poor princess trapped in a tower by the evil queen. The game is even better if the evil queen forces her to make words with a mystical electronic device. Throw in a curse that doesn’t allow anyone to talk to the princess, tug on her arm, or try to climb in her lap, and we have mutual acceptance on the deal.

I considered running away to a cabin in the woods, Thoreau-style, but realized it’s difficult to write a cookbook without a proper kitchen, and considerably more so without power.

A hotel room with a full kitchen is outside my budget, what with the cost of vegan powdered sugar and all. I have a friend in Sandpoint, Idaho who offered to let me stay with her to finish the book, but she’s allergic to gluten, and I’d hospitalize her with my beignets and brownies—not exactly what I had in mind when I set out to co-author a book of “killer” vegan desserts.

What’s a writer mama to do, besides tappity-tap-tap—“Stop choking your sister!”—tap?

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