Today call me Bombecked

Today call me Bombecked even though I didn’t win the Erma Bombeck Writing Competition. Still, I entered which is prize enough for me.

In my earliest memories, I’m climbing into my mother’s bed in the still-dark morning; leafing through books on her nightstand, the titles ranging from Browning’s Sonnets of the Portuguese to Bombeck’s If Life is a Bowl of Cherries, What Am I Doing in the Pits?

Before I could read or understand the words inside these works, I knew they spoke to my mother and I wanted them to speak to me. As I grew up, I read the books she did, sometimes more than once. I laughed, I cried, I felt closer to her.

So last month, when my friend urged me to enter the competition, I balked:

I will not win, I thought; and I was right.

However.

After opening my “thanks for entering…” email, I received a message saying my essay had made it to the final round; that the judge had written phrases like cute and poignant, relatable and funny and what a wonderful ending jab.

I was secretly (okay, openly) thrilled. But mostly because I could tell my mother.

So, Mom, I wish I could’ve won for you; but I know you’re proud I tried. And thank you for providing me with such a word-rich youth.

To Ms. Bombeck: Keep an eye out for me from your Great Writer’s Workshop in the sky; because in 2014, I’m coming for you again.

And until then, I’m working on my ending jabs for sure.

——

Foreigner Was Right: Love Is Urgent

Even though she knows I hate Urgent Care, my daughter (let’s call her Girl) has selfishily contracted poison oak again.  She’s reddening. She’s itching. She’s oozing.  The whole situation is downright miserable. For me.  But before you roll your eyes, I must explain.

I have a history of poor judgment regarding when a visit to Urgent Care is actually appropriate. And despite my best efforts, I tend to hit one of two categories:

“Mrs. Gardner, was it your inherent cruelty that caused you to ignore the Typhoid?”

or

“Welcome back to Urgent Care, Mrs. Gardner! Would you prefer your usual seat?”

My son (let’s call him Boy) has long been prone to exaggeration. So when he returned from school one afternoon convinced he’d broken his wrist playing soccer, I put him off.

“Swelling is normal,” I said. “Everyone swells at recess.”

The next day, we discovered the Boy had a bona-fide fracture and while he pouted about receiving an un-signable waterproof cast, the orthopedist asked why I’d waited SO LONG to have him X-ray-ed .

“The wolf’s never shown up before,” I stammered. But the doctor had no appreciation for Aesop. (Let’s call him Humorless.)

Fresh off of that humiliation, the Boy stumped me again.  This time we rushed to Urgent Care because, as he broke it down for me, his ears were being stabbed by a thousand knives. If it’d been only 753 knives, I’d have ignored his complaints. But a thousand?  Had to be serious.

Dr. Feelgood: His throat looks slightly irritated but there’s no need to strep test.

Me: Hooray! But it’s his ears I’m worried about.

DF: Left one? Looks fine.

Boy: No. The other ear hurts.

DF: Your right one? Nope. Looks fine.

Me:  Did he mention being stabbed by a thousand knives?

DF:  He does have some post-nasal drip.

Me: Are you freakin’ sure? Is there anything else?  Dysentery?  Rickets? Menopause?

DF:  Have a token for the toy machine.

After pocketing a prescription for nasal spray and proffering my $15.00 copay, I helped my post-nasal-dripping Boy limp from Urgent Care, hoping he wouldn’t fall and break his other wrist on the way to our car.  I also pondered the fact that while I would willingly die for my child, I simultaneously wanted to kill him. (Let’s call this Irony.)

So perhaps you’ll understand why I’m reluctant to seek medical assistance, even for the Girl who would likely ignore a severed limb. The diagnosis never goes my way. I rush in like Elvis Presley’s “fool,” or am accused of being Child-Protective-Services late.  Either way, I end up with leftover Veramyst and another plastic token for the toy machine.

(Let’s just call this Parenthood.)

Today call me stranded

Today call me stranded, as in “on a desert isle” but not really. I mean, I’m at home so you don’t have to worry about me. Unless it would scare you to know that I’ve spent the last half hour wondering whether or not the phrase is actually deserted island but people got lazy and dropped the ed and the and.

Is the point that we’re alone? Or are we in the Sahara? Even worse, is it an aisle instead of isle and I’ve mixed up the homonyms? That’s something else to Google. But not now.

No, right now I’m only pretending to be stranded in order to decide which ten songs I could listen to forever. If I were indeed stranded on a desert isle. Deserted island. Dessert aisle?

Yum.

Anyway. I won’t bore you with long disclaimers about how much I adore music and how impossible this task is besides this: I do and it is.

So to simplify my goal, I first decided to select two options from each decade in which I’ve been alive. Next, I sobbed a bit when I realized I’ve been alive in five different decades. Then I collected myself and Googled how to upload YouTube videos to a WordPress blog.

Sheesh.

I didn’t pick the “coolest” or the “best” tunes since the (sob) sixties. I simply selected songs that still move me. One way or another. Every time I hear them.

1960-1969:

“God Only Knows” by the Beach Boys: This band provided the soundtrack to my childhood summers but I could play this song for every season all year long.

“For Emily Wherever I May Find Her” by Simon and Garfunkle:  You probably haven’t heard this song but it’s pure poetry. Just listen to the lyrics and you’re welcome.

1970-1979:

“She’s Got a Way” by Billy Joel: Cheesy? Perhaps. But this song put to words exactly what I hoped someone would someday feel for me.

“Mamma Mia” by ABBA: Their outfits alone warrant ridicule; but my Swedish sister and I danced to this song so many times we wore out the bedroom carpet and the memory makes me happy to this day.

1980-1989:

“We Belong” by Pat Benatar: I harmonize with my sister like a rock star to this song. What?

“Red Hill Mining Town by U2: This is (by a landslide) my all-time favorite song from my all-time favorite band. Enough said.

1990-1999:

“Ghost” by Indigo Girls: More poetry, this time from the Girls. And I admire them both. Hard.

“Lightening Crashes” by Live: I almost didn’t include this song because it was so overplayed. But the live version is special and I can’t forget how much I  listened to this song and band in the nineties.

2000-2009:

“Feeling This” by Blink 182: They’re another of my favorite bands and I’ve listened to this while running more than any other song. I figure I’ll need exercise on a desserted aisle. (Sorry.)

“Fix You” by Coldplay: Another song I run to and I dig the way it builds. This one gives me goose bumps every time I really listen.

2010 – Present:

“Waiting for the End” by Linkin Park: The rhythm to this song is my perfect running pace. Plus, I kind of know Brad Delson (even though he probably doesn’t remember me).  Sigh.

“Someone Like You” by Adele: I feel  like a cliché including her, but this song is lovely and haunting and my nephew plays it on the piano. So if I’m stuck on an island without family, I’m listening to this. Often.

And that’s my ten.

I realize a lot of these songs involve LOVE. Or maybe how much I wanted others to love me. But you don’t have to love my list. (As long as you still like me, of course.)

Instead, please share a song or two from your top ten. And feel free to tell me my list sucks. After all, I’m stranded on an island (or in a desert aisle), remember?

Just kidding. I’m at home. And eating cake. So don’t be sad.

(Addendum: Three days after I posted this, my sweet husband Bill pointed out in the comments  - as Mr. Julie C. Gardner – that I have in fact been alive in six different decades and have listed twelve songs here. I don’t know what is worse: How old I am, how long it took him to finally read my post, or how poor my math skills are. You decide. And also, does anyone know a good tutor for Algebra? My kids are screwed.)

Today call me renamed

Today call me re-named and if you missed Part I, read this or the nutshell below:

Imagine you are ten years old; you’re young for fifth grade but you read like you are old. The grown-ups shoo you outdoors to play but you’d rather stay inside among your books.

You’re sixteen and disinterested in school. Your English teacher holds your essay test on Huckleberry Finn. He says, “If you can write like this at your age…” and lets you complete the sentence.

You’ve become a teacher, too. You love your career and labor to inspire students in 55-minute increments. You fill journals with poetry, musings, rants; you write stories and songs for Christmases and birthdays, the best gifts you have to offer.

You’re married and have two children during two summer breaks. You’ve written 200 pages of a novel but there’s insufficient time; for babies, a husband, 120 students and an incomplete manuscript. You make a choice and writing waits. For years.

You turn 40, armed with a leave of absence to address the words living in your heart, twitching in your fingers, occupying your dreams. You catch the interest of an agent but you’re not quite good enough. Yet.

You’re wondering: Will I ever be enough? And thus begins the story of Part II.

When we left off, Stephany Evans had requested the book proposal for my marathon memoir, then kindly passed on representing the project. Therefore, I decided to throw myself into fiction and worked for more than a year finishing my YA novel.

LESSON: Be patient. I’m convinced that if I’d hounded Ms. Evans to maintain a connection, I’d have exhausted her initial enthusiasm. Instead, I completed an entirely new package and only then did I reestablish contact.

I knew my genre sat outside her area of interest; however, she’d been receptive when asked if I might work with her again. So I took a chance and sought her input first.

LESSON: Trust your gut. I was aware she didn’t represent YA, but Ms. Evans had proven friendly and extremely prompt with feedback. I had an instinct she’d be – if not interested – at least supportive if I sent my query.

Whether she remembered me favorably or was too polite to say no, she requested the manuscript which she then steered into the hands of an associate agent interested in YA, Heather Evans.

In quick succession came the following:

- An email from Stephany saying Heather “quite liked” the book.

- A phone call to discuss the project.

- A contract from FinePrint Literary Management offering representation.

Next came the tears, the champagne, the jokes from friends and family about when the J.K. Rowling-esque bucks would begin rolling in.

Almost daily I heard, “When can I buy your book?”

And my answer – two years later – remains, “I don’t know.”

LESSON: The road toward publication is long and branchy. I wish I’d known how much time, work, and dues-paying I’d face. I say this not to discourage anyone but to prepare would-be writers for the groundwork you’ll likely lay.

Of course there are flukes; the few who are well-connected, well-timed or flat-out brilliant. But the rest of us endure hard labor, rejection, a two-steps-forward-one-step-back dance that attends the writer’s  journey.

So.

Heather and I worked on multiple revisions of the manuscript and on my biography that contained a title as English teacher. And blank space.

LESSON: If you have blog posts, articles or short stories to submit to online or print publications (whether or not you’re paid), do it! This is professional experience you might someday add to your writer’s resume.

Heather also suggested I jump into the social media pool where I initially floundered.

Twitter links, symbols and abbreviations baffled me. Friends said, “You’re a natural,” and “They’ll love you,” but no one could suggest how to be natural and loved. I was drowning until a few special Twitter-folk and  seasoned bloggers threw a lifeline to @juliecgardner.  (This is indeed a debt I hope I can repay.)

LESSON:  Help others when you can; be grateful and humble and nice. Generosity without strings is a wonderful thing. (And if you disagree I do not want to know.)

As for blogging, I was overwhelmed by the prospect until my brother-in-law, Randy Stuart, intervened. He had me peruse author websites (suggested by his fabulous friend, Jason Lavin) at which point I admitted to liking the “plain ones.”

My only other input was this: I wanted an anchoring theme, probably because I felt un-moored; and I mentioned calling the blog By Any Other Name after the title of my book.

Eventually, Randy asked me to write him something. “A journal entry,” so to speak. I sent him this in a Word Document then received his reply:  You’re live at juliecgardner.com.

LESSON: Seek help from those with more knowledge (and friends) than you. Randy wouldn’t give up until he’d launched this site; despite the fact that he, too, was a novice in the blog world. Quite simply, By Any Other Name would not exist without him and I am grateful for every one of you I’ve met here through his efforts.

Meanwhile, on the fiction frontlines, the small number of editors/publishers to whom we pitched the YA manuscript agreed: I have a strong voice but they want more connection.

So.

I’m revising, again; making my characters irresistible, upping the ante on our love triangle. (Hello, YA!) And then? We’ll resume submissions. Unlike before, however, we can point to this blog and to Twitter; to a biography that’s more than just blank space. It is my life.

And now.

Imagine you’re forty-three (or any age at all) and you’ve decided you won’t stop fighting until your words are published. And this time? You know you’re not alone.

No. This time, you’ve got an army that is writing right beside you.

Yes, our words are weapons as we battle on.

And on.

Today call me named

Today call me named. No one’s actually asked, but I’ve decided to explain the origins of my blog and why it is (or isn’t) what it is (or isn’t).

What’s that? You don’t care? Then you’re in for a treat. Because it’s a long story!

(I can shoot for brief but the tale involves my writing and I’m generally wordy.)

Yes, it all started when I was ten (sorry, brevity) and I wrote these words in my diary:

When I grow up, I want to be a teacher. And a writer. Like Judy Blume.

Thirteen years later, I was teaching high school English, living 50% of a sweet diary dream. Each semester, my students and I read. Wrote. Discussed what happens to a dream deferred. (It dries up like a raisin in the sun, don’t you know.)

I  absolutely loved my career but as my 40th birthday loomed, I began to worry about my own potential raisining. And that’s when my husband offered me the ultimate birthday gift – a leave of absence to explore the remaining 50%:

Being Judy Blume.

I’d spent my life eating more words than food (and I like food a lot); so I naively suspected I’d be decent at the writing gig. Except for the part where I knew absolutely nothing.

I also had no writer friends, no blog, no Twitter. (Can you imagine?)

To learn, I devoured – among other books – Stephen King’s On Writing, MittlelMark and Newman’s How Not to Write a Novel and Janet Evanovich’s How I Write. I scoured Jeff Herman’s Guide to Publishers, Editors and Literary Agents, dog-earing pages with biographies of agents I longed to query. After I figured out what a query letter was.

LESSON: Carve out time to both read and write every day. Otherwise, you’ll do other things. Like eat.  So I read and wrote and read and wrote and sometimes even ate.

I’ve shared my marathon story before, and the fact that I let my hapless training provide the metaphor for a presumably humorous memoir of a midlife crisis. But it was in Mr. Herman’s guide that I discovered one of my first-choice agents – Stephany Evans of FinePrint Literary Management – who’d recently run her own first marathon.

LESSON: Thoroughly research agencies and individual agents either in printed guides, on websites, or both. Learn the agents’ interests, what genres they represent. Be specific, honest, and don’t force a fit. Ultimately, you’ll want a meeting of minds and goals.

Having completed both race and memoir (hooray!), I followed the guide’s instructions and – per Ms. Evan’s specifications – emailed my query. (I also may have vomited from nerves.) She replied the same day: “Obviously this is a project I’d be interested in. Let’s have a look.”

Obviously? Try luckily, because the topic of my book coincided with a shared passion. However, I’d capitalized upon this fact in my query because I’d done my homework. Hard.

Ms. Evans requested a copy of four chapters and a complete book proposal.

LESSON: Create at least a preliminary draft of this package (minus an individual agent’s preferences) before querying. Such preparation would have saved me a great deal of last-minute panic. (And or nausea.) Jeff Herman’s guide provides examples of book proposals for non-fiction work and submissions of fiction. You can also find samples online.

I scrambled to create a book proposal/chapter package, and sent her my soul marked Requested. Then I pinched myself to check if I was dreaming. Still. My work was raw. Within six months, I’d rushed to produce a manuscript which I submitted without feedback or editing. The response was kinder than I deserved:

“The narrative is unfocused. I regret I cannot offer you representation.”

LESSON: Do not query too soon. Take time with your project. Ask other writers you trust for advice. Then revise revise revise. And repeat.

I thanked Ms. Evans for her consideration and expressed my hope that she’d be willing to work with me again. Her reply? “I’d be happy to look at something new. But memoir is a tough sell unless you’re an expert, a celebrity, or have a completely original platform.”

The good news: I’d made an actual connection. In the publishing world. Holy crap!

The bad news: I had to write a new book. Probably fiction. Holy crap!

LESSON: Don’t give up. Although my initiation required blood, sweat and tears (literally), it was also characterized by hubris and inexperience. I’ve since discovered that scoring a request to review my work the first time out was a fluke. However. It opened a door into which I later stuck a fictional-foot that’s still trudging down the road toward publication.

Because I wish you more luck and fewer missteps on your journey, I’ll post Part II of this story soon. I may even tell you how this blog got Named.

What’s that? You still don’t care? Nevertheless.

To be continued…

Today call me unromantic

Today call me unromantic. After all, it’s almost February 14^th and you know what means:

That’s right. Absolutely nothing!

I’ll admit to being a fan of generosity and I think it’s sweet when people acknowledge their loved ones; I therefore wish Godiva Chocolatier, FTD Florists, Kay Jewlers, and our economy all the richest spoils of the day.

But I hope you can forgive Bill and me for dispensing with the mad rush as we do most years; besides, of course, the first time we spent Cupid’s big day together, all dewey-eyed and hand-holding and breathless.

We were at Gladstone’s 4 Fish in Malibu and we faced a long wait for a table since we’d arrived without reservations. I mean, who needs food when you are feasting on each other? Fa la la and pass the complimentary peanuts!

After we’d unshelled and sucked down half a barrel, the host informed us he was setting up a banquet room for six other hapless couples who had  also planned to live on love that night. He asked if we’d like to share the room and feast together.

So we did.

We gathered, fourteen strangers around a table, making introductions, ordering cocktails, selecting appetizers; all of us convinced we were – among these couples and, for that matter, everyone – the most in love. The most lucky.

So we were.

That was seventeen years ago.

By our second February 14^th, Bill and I were focused solely on finding an apartment so we could be the most lucky every day!  Our third found us saving for a wedding. On our fourth, I was pregnant. Fifth, nursing. Sixth, knocked-up again. And then the next year also nursing, and etcetera.

At some point (sorry Hallmark!) we even traded investing in greeting cards for college funds. (Not really. We’re banking on the lottery. Or lack of interest.)

But either way, we long ago got real. And here it is:

Bill and I can clean up nicely. People who know us see a neat home and bright smiles, seemingly-organized couple-ness. Now, cue Barry Manilow singing Looks like we made it. (Or not. What?)

Still, underneath most families’ glossy surfaces lies some mess. Occasional mayhem. Frequent unrest. We are, at the end of the day, mere human beings; sharing a roof and space day in, day out.

Let’s face it: Life’s chaotic. And if you’re trying to do it right, you may have a junk drawer.

Or a junk closet.

Maybe even a junk garage.

(And if you do not have at least one of these things then you couldn’t be married to me.)

I think the key is finding someone whose  thatisawful you can tolerate and whose thatisawesome you embrace.

And then?  You simply hold on for the ride.

Because no matter how much green you spy over the fence, the grass – upon closer inspection – is simply peed on in different spots.

(Should I make t-shirts? Bumper stickers? I may need to pay for college if the kids get all, “We want high learning,” and I’ve lost that lottery ticket in the junk drawer.)

So on this February 14^th, Bill and I may sneak away to a restaurant. (Not Gladstone’s. We’re too old to share a banquet room with strangers.) Or we may simply enjoy a glass of wine and have some catch-up conversation. (If we’re not too exhausted and I’ve remembered to brush my teeth.)

But this is something we try to do whenever our busy schedules align. We don’t want to relegate the appreciation of each other to a few holidays each year.

You probably don’t, either.

Instead, we try to express our gratitude year-round.

You probably do, too.

Yes, mutual admiration may be the glue that keeps us all together. Alongside the junk drawers and closets, of course. Which means tomorrow night, as with most others, the last words we’ll speak out loud will be “I love you.” Because we do. Every day. Not just February 14th. Looks like we made it.

And also this: Happy Valentine’s Day, honey.

Let’s cue up Fringe and try to stay awake ’til ten o’clock.

Today call me well-aimed

Today call me well-aimed but at the same time, perhaps, ill-timed.

I have a post up at Aiming Low, one of my absolute favorite sites on the whole, wide interwebs. I wrote about aging, kind of. And how I’m not doing it as gracefully as I’d like. Please click here to laugh at me. (Or to let me know if you want in on the group Botox rate.)

But wait!

I have a up post at Mama Wants This too; and it embraces a completely different sentiment. I wrote about finding grace in the chaos that attends bringing a second child into the family. If you missed it, please click here to cry with me. (Because my babies are getting older, too.)

I know. I’ve become increasingly demanding in my old age. Still. I remain – as ever – grateful for the loyal support of my readers.

You are all simply fabulous. And ageless. And I mean it. But what are you still doing here?

Go. Here and here. And might I suggest you do this now?

Because none of us is getting any younger…

Today call me wanted

Today call me laid

Today call me laid but I’m referring to grammar; more specifically to the infinitives to lie and to lay. So if your Google search brought you here for something sexier, you’re in luck. There’s nothing hotter than the proper conjugation of verbs.

(Besides sentence diagramming or an explication of Moby Dick, am I right?)

Forgive me for taking the time to address the lie/lay debacle in a blog post. You’d probably rather read about my crock-pot chicken recipe or how my crippling fear of success leads me to sabotage myself with grammar-related musings.

(Wait, you wouldn’t? Well, okay! To my point.)

I’ve noticed a decent percentage of people misusing to lie (as in “to recline”) and to lay (as in “to place or set”). And since the English language is replete with homonyms and homophones, it’s no wonder there’s confusion among the masses.

Still. As a former English teacher, let me lay it out there:

You don’t tell a dog to lay on its bed; nor do you lay down for a nap or lay out in the sun. In the present tense, the proper conjugation for the infinitive to lie is lie or lies.

So.

I want my dog to stop humping me and lie down so I can lie on my bed to take a nap because it’s only 65 degrees outside which, for southern Californians, is so cold we will not lie in the sun. (Brrr!)

In the present and future tenses, no one lays down to rest.

I lie, you/we/they lie, he/she/it/lies down. Or out.  Or yowsa, this stuff is hot!

Now. Here comes the past tense of to lie to mess with us.

Yesterday, my dog lay by the fire while I lay on the couch watching The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills in which the ladies lay on the beach in Hawaii because life is hard.

Yes, indeed. The past tense conjugation of to lie is lay.

I lay, you lay, he/she/it/we/they lay.

Crap, right? Whose idiot idea was this? Maybe the guy who wrote Moby Dick, I don’t know. I do know if it sounds weird, it’s because so many people use it incorrectly.

But what about laid? you ask. And I’m glad you did.

The verb to lay, as in “to place or set,” is unsettling because the present tense is lay and the past is laid.

So.

You can lay your winter coat right there (brrr!) and join me as I lay placemats on the table and fold this laundry I laid on the guest-room bed three days ago.

Did I just blow your mind?

It gets even sexier when we add participles into the mix. Not to mention conditionals and perfects and futures and ohmygodnowondernooneknowswhatherightwordis!

So rather than alienate you completely, I’ll close with a few more of the most common conjugations. Then you can send me specific questions and/or death threats via email, Facebook or twitter.

——-

To lay (as in to place or set):

Today I lay, you lay, he/she/it/lays, they/we lay our heads on his chest. (Whose chest? Let’s say Ryan Gosling’s.)

Yesterday, I laid, you laid, he/she/it/they/we laid our heads on his chest. (Because why not yesterday, too?)

Tomorrow, I will lay, you will lay, he/she/it/they/we will lay our heads on his chest. (When is a bad time, really?)

The key is the direct object being laid, or placed. And the object is our heads. And the heads are lucky.

——-

To lie (as in recline):

We addressed present and past already so let’s skip to the future.

I will lie down on the bed. You will lie, he/she/it will lie down. We all will lie down. Why? Because we’re exhausted by this post.

I/you/he/she/it we are lying down. I/you/he/she/it were lying down. Still with me, yes? Also still exhausted.

Now it gets tricky:

I have lain in the sun for two hours, so I am burned. By noon tomorrow, you still will have lain in the sun less than the cast of Jersey Shore.  But he/she/it/they have lain together so many times on that show no one remembers who’s gotten laid by whom.

I know. Completely crazy, right? I mean the verbs. Not Jersey Shore. They’re awesome. Obviously.

So. Do you all hate me sufficiently yet?

Good. Now let’s talk Moby Dick…

Today call me tamed

Today call me tamed, for at least a little while; which is not to say my life’s what you’d call calm. Not exactly.  But I have been lately striving to balance all there is to accomplish within these too-brief waking hours. And I dare say, I’ve made progress. Or regressed, as it were.

Surely I could spend every minute writing posts or revising novels, but I’d still find more words to be worked at the end of each day. If I set about only reading and commenting on other blogs, new posts would appear before I finished those awaiting my attention. And were I to devote myself strictly to being the consummate wife, mother, homemaker? I’d never surface for air.

(Also, please don’t call me Shirley.)*

In truth, it’s unrealistic to choose a single path and seek perfection. We’re family members and friends; co-workers and partners; inside and out of our homes, we trudge through the mundane in order to free ourselves for the sublime.

Balancing pieces of ourselves, we weigh priorities and shuffle to-do lists addressing each responsibility as it becomes eminent.

(Except maybe the laundry. As it turns out, laundry can wait.)

And while stumbling through this life hoping for success and shaking off failure, I occasionally meet someone who makes me smile and nod and think. A person who forces me to laugh out loud (but never LOL) and who tugs at my heartstrings (or in this case, my ovaries).

Yes, KLZ of Taming Insanity has a two-year-old and a newborn so adorable I’d gladly trade kids. (Jack and Karly, if you’re reading this? I’m joking. I wouldn’t be glad. Mostly.)

KLZ was among the first to offer support and advice when I was flailing around blog-land and Twitter;  and I admire her authenticity, her humor, her strength. At this moment, besides juggling Taming Insanity, Eli Rose, Twitter and Facebook, she’s welcoming a new baby, a new home, a new life.

Therefore, it’s my honor to lighten her load with a guest post today. Click here to read my take on the wonderful world of blog comments. And don’t be afraid to LOL. Just be sure to spell the words out, or I’ll assume you mean Lots of love.**

*That was for you, Dad.

**That was for you, Linda.

And to everyone else: Let’s all regress together.

Today call me inspired

Today call me inspired and I hereby deem the time is ripe to simplify, simplify, simplify!! (But can we agree this philosophy does not apply to punctuation?) I’ve long been tempted to travel down Thoreau’s spare path; then I remember Walden Pond probably requires a lot of sweeping. Plus it may be difficult to get pizza delivered to the waterfront promptly.

Nevertheless. I’ve decided to overlook such negatives and also the fact that HDT left stiff (ish) transcendentalist boots to fill. (Gardening and Civil Disobedience? Let a girl catch up!!)   I shall henceforth trim the fat around here (figuratively, of course. I like a well-marbled steak) and to that end let’s examine the remaining aspects of my life where I hoard excess.

….Children: I’m not raising kids, I’m shaping future contributors to society; creating happy, healthy, generous teenagers who appreciate Modern Family, recite state capitals in alphabetical order and place dirty socks directly into the hamper!! So in the interest of simplification, I’ll ignore their laundry-related shortcomings. Because if Phil Dunphy can pare life down to six keys, so shall we.

….Marriage: Who am I kidding? After seventeen years, we’re already simple. Bill likes chipotle flakes, Chardonnay, jigsaw puzzles and me. I like string cheese, Cabernet, HGTV and him. I think he’d agree there’s nothing much we need to cut. (Except maybe the puzzles. They really clutter up a counter.)

….Friends: Old friends and new, Facebook friends and twitter; blog friends, friends who text and friends who (whywhywhy) repeatedly try to connect by telephone. But y’all? I can’t quit you. So I just won’t answer your calls. Sorry, ladies. Simplicity’s taken me from Luke Warm to Ice Cold, yo. (And also made me too fond of parentheses!!)

….Writing: I revise the old and compose the new; help others edit manuscripts while dissecting my own. I work my blog and guest posts, spewing words across the internets. But anon, I can’t abide stopping the madness. So let us dwell in the land of lesssweeping and morepizzadelivery. (Also, anon cancels out the yo. Am I correct?)

To recap: I’m eliminating clean socks, jigsaw puzzles, phone calls, housekeeping and cooking. (Sorry, well-marbled steak. Ice Cold!!) But I’ll be one step closer to the uncluttered heart of my inspiration.

I’m speaking of a certain 93-year-old who knows what matters and keeps life simple. He refuses to stop learning and remains curious about the world. He’s open-minded and embraces differences; never sidesteps an opportunity to grow or try something new.  He’s a man who built a house with his father but who also learned to email and Google before I did.

He loves his wife, his dog, his family and every day wakes up grateful for his freedoms and humble about his gifts. His politics and religion embrace the Golden Rule and he can rock a joke, spin a yarn and drive a golf-car like a pro.

This man spent last Sunday with all four of his great-grandchildren who are blessed to enjoy their singularly wonderful patriarch.  When he turned ninety, these same kids conducted an interview about his life from 1919 through the new millenium. Each of them questioned him about being an immigrant, about watching history evolve beyond imagination, about becoming a journeyman of this earth. We recorded the session and hope to recreate it at his centennial celebration.

Until then, I’ll pause each January 13th to thank Knute Anderson: For his unfailing support and his lessons in joy; for teaching me to whistle and reading me Heidi; for inspiring me to simplify, simplify, simplfy!!

Henry David Thoreau’s got nothing on you,  Grandpa. Except for maybe a prison rap.

So happy birthday, GGpa. Now and always.

And text me when you finally get your smart phone, yo.

Grandpa steals a bite of Grandma’s birthday sundae. Because when you’re 92 and cute you deserve hot fudge, too.

Fact: All Creatures Great and Small love Knute.

Grandpa and the ladies: My lovely grandmother, Renis; me (bending awkwardly); and my sister, Nancy. She got those legs from Knute. Grrr.

P.S. And this is important: The K is not silent. Because when you’re 93 and cute, you deserve to have every letter in your name pronounced.

(!!)