Heptadecagon

It's inevitable, you know, that I forget something. It could be the crushed tomatoes for the chili or a can of peanuts, the extra bag of pretzels that someone had requested, so that snack time will be perfect. Or maybe even the fresh pineapple that I myself had been craving. This week, it's the jelly. The simple strawberry spread that Aaron loves to eat, on top of the peanut butter that goes into every single sandwich every single day. Except for the days he eats lunch with Harper because she has a peanut allergy. Can you have just peanut butter? I ask him. And he swings his gaze my way, those light green eyes so full of mischief, the same ones that really don't ask for much. Silently they plead for some jelly to put between the bread, so that his sandwich doesn't adhere to the roof of his mouth like the duct tape with which he plays. And so, Melina and I will return to the store, to pick up the jelly, say hi to Tom and Yiota and Evan all the oth

I picked up a book two days ago off the library book shelf because the title sounded familiar. When I brought it home, I realized that I had stumbled across its recommendation a while back and had labeled it "want to read" in my Goodreads account. I read it. Was it a good read? It's difficult to say. And that's because I found myself mired in the depths of literary fiction. And if you've kept up with me, at all, you know I have trouble with many of the books labeled as literary. Why? I'll tell you, again. It's because NOTHING HAPPENS. So last night, I found my way 3/4 of the way through the novel, and realized that the only plot points were this: teenage child is sent a raunchy video by someone at school; he forwards it to someone, which causes a cascade of forwards; he's suspended at school and his family hires a lawyer; the entire debacle affects his family. Well there you go. You have the book in a nutshell. (I think if I wrote literary works

"Hey, kids," I said while sitting at the dinner table last night. "I received another rejection letter." "Another one?" Talia asked. "For which book?" "For my fairy tale," I said, and then was interrupted by Aaron, who forgets to be polite most of the moments of his life. We're working on that concept. "What's a rejection letter?" Aaron looked interested in knowing, so I told him. "It's a letter that says that the agent to which you sent your manuscript doesn't want it. Basically, this person didn't want my story." Aaron nodded his head as if he understood and went on shoveling lentils and rice into his small mouth as he looked over at Zoe. He could tell she had something to say. " No one wants your story, Mom." The words fell out of her mouth in such a matter-of-fact way, as if she'd been ruminating on them for a long time. My first instinct could have been to feel hu

This little morsel flew into my inbox yesterday: Dear Ms. C, My name is Saba Sulaiman, and I'm Rachael Dugas's assistant at Talcott Notch. Thank you very much for your query and patience--we sincerely apologize for not responding sooner, but due to the sheer volume of queries we receive, we find it difficult to get to all of them in a timely manner.  We just reviewed your submission, and after conferring with senior members of the agency, I regret to inform you we are going to have to pass on X. We read your query with interest, but we're afraid your project does not fit our current list, as Rachael isn't looking to acquire any MG/YA fantasy titles at the moment. Please do not despair--we are confident that with your talents and some perseverance, your book will find a home with the right agent. Of course, our opinion are entirely subjective and other agencies may feel differently. I encourage you to query widely, as you never know who w

Just when I think that my world is going to slow down, I get an email, stating that the week of March 10 is the elementary school Scholastic book fair. What? I'm looking that far ahead? If you haven't noticed, it's already February 24. So March 10 is not all that far away (two full weeks and we're there!). And I love the book fair. I like looking at the new books, holding the paperbacks between my fingers, smelling the aroma of the printed page. I think my body was indeed, made for books. Maybe I should print out a copy or two of my own novel and slip them onto the shelves...

I ran by a house this morning, in front of which stood an SUV. The vehicle's windows were plastered with decals, all of which looked very much like the one below. I'm going to make the assumption that the people who own the SUV and the house are probably pro-marijuana. I'm not here today to say on which side I stand for that lovely plant. I think everyone is entitled to free speech, especially by way of decals and bumper stickers. They don't harm anything except the car, in the case of a sticker. What I find so hilarious is that right next to that SUV, tied up in the front yard, was a collie with a muzzle around his mouth. Apparently free speech does not apply to their canine friends.

According to Urban Dictionary, Throwback Thursday is "when you put a picture from a 'while' ago on your social media sites." I'm not sure when the trend started and I have no desire to actually do the research (I'm busy, don't you know? And research like that doesn't take precedence over what I need to do today. Sorry.). Furthermore, I won't even speculate about when the trend started. Knowing internet trends and how quickly they catch on, #TBT (as Twitter users say) could very well have begun only late last year. And now, everyone's doing it. Can you see where this post is going? I should be predictable by now. If all of your friends decided to jump off a cliff, would you? Did your mother ever posit that question to you when you were growing up? Have you found yourself asking that very same question (or something similar) to your own children? As much as I love to see old photographs of friends and unknowns, I have a problem with Throwbac

My life is busy. It's a blessed busy, but a busy nonetheless. Each week, I manage to get to the kids' school, my school, and the library. I bring Aaron to piano, the girls to singing, and Melina to the grocery store. I help with homework, investigate nature, clean the house, do the cooking, run, write, do the laundry, and a whole host of other things that I tuck into my days. As I said, my days are busy. (Sure, you've all heard this before. Stop complaining...I'll get to my point. And no, I'm not playing the martyr. This is a part of my job of being a parent.) But if friend calls and asks if we can try to get together, I say yes, without even looking at the calendar, for I know that something already scheduled can be moved. If someone calls and asks if they can visit, I say yes, because the more people in my house, the merrier. If a colleague calls to see if I can sub for them, I find a way to make it happen. If I need to make another, unscheduled appearance at th

He called to me this morning, with a low growl, really, a voice that sounded like it came from the back of his throat. I looked out the window, and saw his dark skin, glistening in the morning light. Come play! he said. Slap your feet against my back! It will be good to feel your weight, since its been so long. He has been clothed, I thought, and wondered when his back had last seen the light of day. Was it two weeks? A month? I couldn't remember and tried to count the days, which piled up in my mind and made me look away. And because I felt the need to release my energy, I pulled on my shoes, tied up my hair, and gave into his seductive purr. But the moment my shoes first hit the long stretch of darkness, I knew he'd only been playing, toying with me like a cat would a mouse. For his skin was not clear, but mottled. The stripes of onyx I thought to be wet with morning dew were really pieces of ice, strategically placed so that if I did not run carefull

The moment I saw that a friend took the "What Arbitrary Thing Are You?" quiz, I knew there was no hope for me. I had to spend a few moments with that quiz. To find out what a few clicks of the mouse would say about me. My friend, unfortunately, wound up as dead AA batteries, objects I would not equate with her at all. So what would I possibly find as my thing? Any thoughts before I go on? Well, hot of the presses, my responses to the quiz garnered me a (drumroll, please): New York Times trend story. I kid you not. Here's what the website actually says: You’re a New York Times trend story! Are more people eating lunch? Are hats gaining traction? Is there an epidemic of teens going out at night and digging holes? Everyone can find out tons of ground breaking, definitely trendy stuff from you! And yet, I wear fleece that causes some people pain and embarrassment. I think I see something wrong with my results...

You've been waiting, haven't you? I took two days off, and there you are, wondering if I'm okay. Wondering how I can keep my mouth shut for so long. Go ahead and admit it. I know you want to know where I am and what I'm doing and why I haven't said a word over the past two days. Being berated at the hands of a sister can do that to a person. It's a short story, really. I hopped in the car on a snowy day to go see my sister for a very quick trip (I took three of the four kids and a friend with me). And the moment I arrive, she tells me that she doesn't like my fleece. Of course, she uttered the derogatory sentence right after saying, "I like your jeans," as if she could slip in the negative comment simply because she had praised me the moment before. (Passive-aggressive behavior, perhaps?) And if that wasn't bad enough, she continued to tell me that my fleece did not please her. The fleece probably wouldn't please you, either. It&#

Sung to the tune of "Do You Want to Build a Snowman" from the movie, Frozen . Me:  Kids?  (Knock, knock, knocking my hand against the table) Can I have some peace and quiet? Come on, please go and play. I always see you near my door, Or on the floor It’s like you’ve never gone away! It used to be so quiet, but now it’s not. I wish you would tell me why! Can I have some peace and quiet? It doesn’t have to be too quiet. Kids:  No way, Mommy! Me:  Please just fly! (Knock, knock, knocking my hand against the table, again) Can I have some peace and quiet? Or at least a slice of pie? I think your company is overdue To leave don’t you? What am I Talking to the sky? (Hang in there, Chris) It never gets too lonely All these cluttered rooms Just watching the fights ensue… (crash-boom, crash-boom, crash-boom, crash-boom) Orchestral (during which I inhale through my nose and exhale via my mouth. At least twice.)

Here's a message I received yesterday: Date: 2/12/2014 3:17:23 PM From: S******, D*** To: C********, Christina Subject: Lab Grade I was wondering what grade is a 41 out of 50 score The message, shown exactly as written, is bothersome for many reasons, any of which you can imagine, but mostly because of the minor math problem that apparently escapes this student. This is college, people. And I didn't miss it last semester. At all. (In case you're wondering if I'm too harsh, I asked the kids what a score of 41 out of 50 meant. They gave me this scoop: its 82% and a B-. Well, my college kids are in luck; we don't hand out minuses since we've been using the standard scale for ages. AGES. So this student gets a B. At least I know that my children will understand this concept before they go to college.)

I tend to be a law abiding citizen, and when it comes to driving, I really try to keep in mind my safety as well as the safety of the other people on the road. Last fall, an incident happened that irked me at the time, but happened so quickly, I didn't have much time to react. Here's what happened. As I traveled south in our neighborhood, I approached a four-way stop. There were cars to my right and left, both of which had come to a stop first, so I waited my turn. The car to the right of me (traveling east) nudged ahead into the intersection, and turned left, which means she was now facing my direction. Or partly facing my direction. Because the driver had turned the wheel such that she was in my direct line and unless something happened quickly, she would hit me. "Are you kidding?" I yelled into the empty space. I quickly looked behind me, threw the car in reverse, and slowly moved the car, backwards, down the road in the direction from which I had just come

As a wanna be a writer, no scratch that, as a writer and author (I have to count that one non-fiction, coffee table book as a publication, right?), I have this long-running debate percolating in my head. For those of you who have been with me a long time, the chances are good that you've heard a little snippet of this before. But that won't stop me now, because my brain is breaking with the words that need to come out. God help us all. Anyway, the debate is this: literary versus genre fiction. Which one would I rather write? Of course, this leads to the question of, What the heck is literary fiction and what is genre fiction? There are so many good websites out there that can explain the nuances of both styles of writing, but I trust you can find those on your own. So let's cut to the chase and reveal what I've discovered (via some research, because you know that I'm a mostly untrained writer): that literary fiction depends on characters to drive the story, more

I looked at my calendar this morning and hoped that something had been magically erased while I slept. Of course, that hadn't happened. The week is still chock full of busyness, with at least one volunteer opportunity, appointment, or party for each morning. I guess in all fairness, Tuesday is filled with teaching, a task I willingly took on as a favor to the college. But I haven't gotten used to going back to school yet and so I look at my trek over to the lab as a duty, but one that eats away at any writing time I might have. How selfish am I, right? At least I admit my shortcomings. Weeks like this, though, when the mornings are so filled with events that some of what needs to be done at home (including laundry and grocery shopping and yes, writing) spills over into the afternoon, lead to large bouts of self-doubt. The feeling threads its fingers in between every crevice of my brain, takes hold, and squeezes tightly. Will I find time to write? How can I write when Melina

For the third time in five years, the girls have donated their long, thick tresses to those who need them. I love their hair long, but when you take it all away, I'm able to see those sweet little faces so much more.

Those of you who know Aaron know that he loves math. And that he's good at it. Pi is his favorite number and he looks for patterns in many things. He understands fractions and percentages and many concepts that he hasn't actually learned in school yet. I don't tell you this to brag. On the contrary, I'm sort of jealous of his brain capacity. And I learn from him. Despite that brain capacity, Aaron sometimes doesn't like to work hard. Why master math facts when he can just do them in his head? Sure it takes longer, but it will, eventually, get the job done. Enter Mr. P., his teacher, who wants the math facts mastered to Level 5. I think Level 5 is mixed numbers 2-9, 48 of them in two minutes. "What level are you on, Aaron?" I asked him last week. "Uh, I still need to master Level 3 and then I can go on." "Seriously? I know you know these, Aaron. You need to get faster. Mr. P. thinks you should have mastered them all by now."

I did it. I took one more silly little quiz to find out my hidden talent. Can anyone guess what it is? If not, let me help you: my talent is ballet. And according to Buzzfeed, Anyone who has seen Center Stage (aka the best movie in the world) knows being a ballerina isn’t just about effort (although you are really good at giving 110 percent). You may have a ballet-friendly body if you have high arches, long limbs, strong legs, and natural flexibility. Sadly, if you’re over the age, of, like, 10, your career passed you by. But, there’s always the next best thing: Get yourself to one of those Yoga Booty Ballet classes. Yes, I am good at giving 110 percent when I want to and I have high arches; I also possess strong legs from running. But I don't have long limbs, or natural flexibility, and not only am I over the age of 10, but I never made it over the height of 61 inches. How many short ballerinas do you know? Furthermore, when it came down to a choice between taking

Nothing like another snow day to put a halt on the posting. Actually, it was good that I didn't have a chance to post yesterday because truthfully, the need to put words on the page had become a compulsion, something sinister almost, that pushed me to sit in front of the computer even when I didn't have the time. So now that I've broken the posting streak, I should be fine. Phew. Anyway, this post is practically like cheating anyway, because it's just meant to share a recipe. For the girls birthday, I wanted something different, but also something both girls would love. I have, in the past, made the girls separate cakes for their birthdays, but this year, they said it didn't matter. So I looked for something special and found it. Just so you know, I didn't tinker with the recipe at all, and the kids loved it. So here it is, but please watch out! The cake is huge and can serve many! Oreo Cookie Cake (Recipe shared supposedly from: Amy's Down Home Co

Zoe entered the garage wearing a very long face. "What's wrong, Zoe?" I said. "I can tell by your face something's up. What is it?" "Nothing." Zoe has mastered the art of using as few words as possible. It could be because she's twelve and in the tween years. It could be because that's just a side of her. Either way, it annoys the stink out of me. Sometimes, I let it go, but the face she'd chosen to put on that day urged me forward. "No, before we go pick everyone else up, tell me what the problem is," I said. I opened my car door and slid into the driver's seat. "Mom, I don't want to do my gym presentation." I felt relief, as always. So many other, far more wicked and egregious alternatives, pirouetted through my mind in the few seconds it took her to answer. This one, this simple answer, I could handle. "Why not?" said Talia. "It's not that bad." "And your presenta

This past Saturday night, we had the pleasure of housing two members of the University of Michigan Men's Glee Club. We attended their local concert, grabbed our assigned students, and headed back to the house. One student was a sophomore, the other a senior. Tim and I are old enough to be their parents, but they didn't make us feel too old. Really. It was almost ten o'clock in the evening when we returned to the house and they were hungry. We were prepared with lots of healthy food, snacks, and some junk food, so I wasn't worried. Much to my surprise, each young man chose to have a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and some fruit. "That sounds great right about now," they said, probably because they'd been eating on the road all weekend. They set to work making sandwiches while I washed some grapes and cut some strawberries. In the midst of sandwich making, Tim said, "Look, Chris, peanut butter on one side and jelly on the other." "Ah,

I don't know the person at Buzzfeed who keeps manufacturing silly quizzes, but I'd like to have a word with him or her. Actually, I could find out who is coming up with them by reading the byline. I just looked and apparently anyone on the Buzzfeed staff can put together a quiz. I don't have time to investigate these people, but I can say that the quizzes need to stop. NOW. Because I also don't have the time to waste in taking them nor do I have the discipline to not take them. It's a classic case of blaming someone else. Don't you just hate that? Anyway, each time I log on to Facebook, some friend has posted a new Buzzfeed quiz that he or she has just taken, and I get all wrapped up in taking that same quiz. Damn. It just happened again. So what have I discovered about myself? Here's the list and my commments. Career: Designer. Yes, this includes architect and editor and every other creative career out there. Okay, I'll go with that. Dog: Shiba

The girls stood in the study area of our home, about three feet apart and facing each other. They had a long chain of rubber bands in their hands, and rotated it in the space between them, like it was a jump rope. I walked through to place something on the table and looked at them. And this is what they said: We're playing jump rope. With a ghost. He's really good. So simple, so poetic, so funny.