Heptadecagon

In early October of last year, I colored my hair black. (For all of you regular readers, I know you know this story already.) And when I say black, I mean all over black. I had, for all intents and purposes, a head of darkness, worthy of any villain you could imagine. (I'm including the picture to remind you of what it looked like, and for contrast with the second picture.)   At the time I placed the black into my hair, I was convinced that 28 washes and I'd be done with the new change. But apparently, my hair holds onto color the way Melina latched onto my nipple: with a fierce grip. By March of this year, I had tired of looking like Snow White or Bella Swan and asked for red highlights. They helped, but not nearly enough. I still felt like something wasn't quite right with respect to my hair. So yesterday, I sought the help of Chrissy once again, and in true miracle worker style, look what she managed to do. She lightened my hair more than I thought she would,

The powers that be say you should never start a story with the character waking up . I can't remember why. Maybe it's been overdone. Suzanne Collins did it and look at her...she got a three book deal and a four movie deal and is sitting pretty right about now, eh? But here's my beef with a rule like that: first off, it's a rule and rules are made to be broken. Secondly, how you wake up in the morning can really set the tone for the day, maybe even a few days. Let's take a few Mondays ago now, for example, when I woke up at 4:59 a.m. with a feeling of something warm trickling down the back of my throat. It didn't take me long to understand that the heated liquid was blood. I placed a hand to my nose and stumbled to the bathroom. Large crimson droplets hit the sink and the counter as I flipped on the light with the unpainted hand. I'd missed getting my shirt dirty, but my feet, the bathroom floor, and the carpet in the bedroom had not fared as well. I had, q

I wonder sometimes about our ability, as humans, to accomplish tasks. I'm certain I've spoken about this before, but the topic comes to light in my mind because I'm working on a project this summer. One that has deadlines imposed by me and a friend (we're working together). And while I know how difficult it is to get everything done at home and at work, I have to try each week to uphold my end of the bargain and get my work done. (As does my friend, and she's doing a great job.) What I find, though, is that not everyone else works that way, and I'm not sure why. Sure, I know we're all different and motivated by different things, but if I have a date on my calendar circled in red, indicating that I need to be somewhere or something needs to be done by that date, you can bet your last dollar I'll do my best to get the task finished. So I'm asking myself, and you, what motivates you to follow through with a task? Think carefully about that statement

My cell phone rings when I'm at the hair salon, speaking to the stylist while Talia gets her hair cut. The readout says it's Dad calling, at 4 p.m. on a weekday. I better take the call. "Hey Dad, can I call you back?" "I bought fresh green beans at the store and I need to know how long to boil them." "Oh, well I don't boil beans, I saute them. In a bit of olive oil and garlic." My comment is met with silence and I figure that he doesn't want to saute the beans. "If you don't want to do that, though, I'll have to get back to you in a few minutes." "Okay. Would you do that?" "All right. Bye." The man has an internet connection and scads of cook books, and he calls me. Maybe he just needed to hear a friendly voice, maybe he really thought I'd know and so he'd get a quicker answer than he could find with his computer. Who knows? What I do know is that it doesn't take long to sea

No one likes to talk about--or admit to having--bugs in their house. But sometimes, it happens... We came back home from a week's vacation to find an infestation of fruit flies. Anyone who has ever studied the small but mighty Drosophila melanogaster knows why they've been a staple of laboratories for years: the fly breeds quickly and lays many eggs (it also has only four pairs of chromosomes and is relatively easy as far as insect husbandry goes). After Tim had killed 20 or so flies and I had smashed at least 10 (in addition to Aaron's harvest of 6), I decided that my hands would feel much better if I found a different solution than simply slamming my fingers against the kitchen cabinets. And where did I find my handy dandy solution? The internet, of course. A capful of red wine vinegar and a drop or two of liquid dish soap later, and I had myself a real trap for these flies! I'm not usually into showing carcasses... Which just goes to show you that you d

Dear Agent, I'm beginning to think that I should quit writing books and simply focus on letters. I find the act of writing them very satisfying, and I always feel better after I'm done. Much like the last time I wrote to you , I will try to be short. But again, I have a request. (I'm fully aware that this letter is actually the fifth in this installment, and that last time, I chose a more descriptive title. Just consider it part of my creative license, if you will. Sorry if I have confused you.) I'm okay with the fact that you cannot respond to every query letter . And yes, since you specifically state on your site something akin to, Due to the number of submissions we receive on a daily basis, we are no longer able to send out personalized responses to queries unless we are interested in your story. Therefore, no response means that we aren't interested, you've covered your rump quite nicely. Well done, I say. Well done. Why then, am I writing? Because

On this Father's Day, I thought I'd keep the post short and sweet. And no, I'm not posting a lovely poem or waxing poetic on my father or my husband as a father. Instead, I'm gleefully laughing at yet another trend. ( Glitter beard , anyone?) But sadly, I'm a year behind on trends. (I'm sure you aren't surprised.) For in my quest to find something Father's Day related, I stumbled across this post from Bored Panda. On crochet shorts. For men (or women). I borrowed a few photos from the article, but to get the full effect (and view the actual patterns) you really should jot on over there and check out the offerings. Better yet, head over the Etsy shop that sells them, buy yourself a pair, and send me a photo! (Happy Father's Day!)

(I know a couple of people who could use these words in particular right now. Good luck to you, and please know that I'm here for you if you need me. I don't want to pester you.)

The last time I was up for critique at my writing group, I gave them a piece having to do with menstruation. The point of the piece is still out there somewhere--a little beyond my grasp at the moment--but I'm working on it because I think it has potential to find a home someday. But as I looked over the comments from my Plot Sisters, I was struck by one scrawl in the margin next to this sentence of mine, "My son knows what a tampon is and that someday, he might have to buy them for a friend or a spouse." "This is not normal," my friend had commented. "Your house must be a hoot!" Well, in this house, it is normal. I know my friend didn't mean to offend me by the first half of that comment (and I wasn't offended). She's just informing me that in her experience, boys don't necessarily know what a tampon is and how it works. (I forgot to show her this masterpiece by that same son.) But many people don't grow up with an anatomy and ph

The caller ID shows Dad's cell phone number. Ever since last summer, I pick up the phone when he calls because I'm never sure what he'll have to say. Thoughts move through my head: Is Mom okay? Has he fallen again? What does he need? "Hey! Are you going to be headed up here with the kids anytime soon?" No Hello? No How are you? I move toward the calendar and check the schedule. We have a vacation planned and then the girls have orchestra camp. The only time we'd consider being at their place is sometime over the 4th of July, when we're already scheduled to be in the state of Michigan. "Uh...the kids might not be with us if we come see you. They're going camping with T. But we could possibly meet you for dinner or something in July." "Okay! Well, when you come up, can you bring more of those Triple Ginger Snaps with you? I've eaten all the ones you gave me." I wonder sometimes if Dad even knows how his conversation

We haven't had a good old laugh around here in a while, especially when it comes to Melinaisms, because you know, as kids get older, they get less funny. (Don't believe me, just wait until your kids are beyond the age of 11.) Well, the other day, despite the fact that the kids have been out of school since May 19 (I know, can you believe that?), Melina decided to tell me about a story she heard at school. Melina:  Ava told me-- Me: Ava your cousin? Melina: No, Ava at school. She told me that Lauren wasn't at school one day because her brother tooted on her pillow and she slept on it and she didn't know and so the gases got into her eye and she got pink eye. Me: Oh. Pink eye from the gas? Melina: Yes. She recounted that story with a completely straight face, as if she believed it. And I really think she did.

A time arrives in everyone's life where they feel the need to utter, "That's enough." Or maybe, they have the compulsion to yell those words at the top of their lungs but they've been trained throughout their lives to act like a lady or gentleman so they don't yell anything out but instead, they sit down to the computer and place their fingers onto the letters and what comes out is not "That's enough," but something similar to a very bad expletive... As in, F%^* it, I'm done . That's where I am today. DONE, DONE, DONE. Done with our so-called ups and downs of weather. (It is technically late spring now, you know, practically summer, and I'm ready for sun to stick with us. In the sun's defense, it has been out all week.) Done with the viruses. Done with the kids who must stay home on the couch (Melina has a cold. I can't tell you how many viruses she's had this year alone). Done with the vomit bug that gripped our h

I sat with Dottie at the round table, listening to her justification of why Janie should have the job. "She's a whiz," Dottie said. "Just brilliant, really. Janie's just..." I turned my ears off for a moment and instead watched Dottie as her hands flew in the air and her eyes grew wide. A blush tinged her cheeks and she seemed to sparkle. And why? Because she was talking about Janie? What was that all about? "...it's amazing how much she notices things, and I think her ability to juggle tasks will be so fortuitous for us." Dottie sat back against her chair and folded her hands on the table top. No further words needed. That was that. Janie should have the job. I hadn't come to discuss Janie, though. I had come to Dottie's office to talk about a project we had in the works and to show her how much progress we'd made. I had spreadsheets and documents and tables and graphs. I held evidence in my hands that what we were doing--a