Please pass the Kleenex!

By now, some of you know that I’ve included a little extra at the end of Someone Like You…several of the recipes from Lex and Aspen’s kitchen. What you won’t see, much to my chagrin; is their playlist. A last minute decision to pull it from the book to avoid any kind of legal trouble meant I couldn’t share the music that played in the back of my mind as Lex and Aspen’s story played out on the pages.

One thing that some of my friends know about me is I am a softie. I will tear up at a Budweiser commercial and cry like a baby during movies like Steel Magnolias or Fried Green Tomatoes, no matter how many times I’ve seen them. Yes, the content gets to me, but more so the music. I love to hear a song and feel it move through my soul, evoking raw emotions. Without the music, the words wouldn’t move me quite as much. I love the perfect song. I could watch a scene with only the music and the tune would touch me just the same, or just listen to a song that played in a favorite movie and feel the familiar tug.

With that in mind, I’m sharing the songs that played for me as I stood invisible in a far corner and watched Lex and Aspen ache. I am sure you will put your own in there as well, but here’s my humble start. I hope you find the song that moves your soul.

Lex and Aspen’s Soundtrack

“It Was” – Chely Wright

“Beneath Your Beautiful” – Labrinth ft. Emeli Sande

“Can’t Stop” – Mozella

“The Story” – Brandi Carlile

“Fade Into You” – Mazzy Star

“Just A Fool” – Christina Aguilera ft Blake Shelton

“Answer” – Sarah McLachlan

“Dreamer” – Uh Huh Her

“First to Fall” – Laura Shay

“Taken” – Plumb

“Sometimes Love Ain’t Enough” – Heart

“Where I Stood” – Missy Higgins

“Ain’t No Sunshine” – Daryl Hall with Finger Eleven

“You’re Gonna Make Me Lonesome” – Bob Dylan

“Everytime You Go Away” – Paul Young

 “I Try” – Macy Gray

“I Won’t Give Up” – Jason Mraz

“When the Stars Go Blue” – Tim McGraw

“A Thousand Years” – Christina Perri

“Here With Me” – Dido

“Hold Onto Hope Love” – Amy Stroup

“Between the Raindrops” – Lifehouse ft Natasha Bedingfield

“In Your Eyes” – Peter Gabriel

The Next Big Thing Blog Hop

When fellow author Penelope Grey asked if she could tag me, my first response was Honey, I’m married and I don’t think the wife would appreciate that very much. She insisted it was all in clean fun. She was super excited about the opportunity to be a part of something that encompasses authors of different genres, but with one goal…writing great lesbian pieces. Hence, The Next Big Thing Blog Hop. Check out her blog posting. http://pensgreyspace.blogspot.com/2013/01/the-next-big-thing-blog-hop-continues.html?m=1

Here’s how it works:  It’s kind of like a chain letter with interview questions. Once I’ve been tagged by an author, I’m supposed to find another five authors that agree to be tagged. I came up a tad short and want to say a special thanks to Chris Paynter for giving me the honor of tagging her. There will be more about her novels and blog below.

I’m talking about my new novel for the first time. I’m super excited to get this one finished up. The story has been a work in progress and I’m ready to let these characters fly.

Questions & Answers:

1. What is the working title of your book?

The title is Someone Like You.

2. Where did the idea come from for the book?

I read an article about couples not divorcing because they couldn’t afford to and managing to keep it amicable. I started thinking what if you had to move back in with an ex for financial reasons or something else. Would the love be rekindled?? If it wasn’t, could two people work around that and stay friends?

3. What genre does your book fall under?

Lesbian romance. All of mine do with the exception of The Killing Ground, which is a mystery/thriller.

4. Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

I love this question. I always pick someone to play my characters. That way as I’m writing and watching scenes unfolding in my head, I can actually picture faces and how they speak and move and interact. Plus, it makes the love scenes so much more enjoyable.

Lex:                 Tonia Sotiropoulou – she is Greek and has that very distinct dark coloring

Aspen:            Nadia Bjorlin – Aspen has these ice blue eyes and Nadia’s are perfect

                     

Cass:               Kate Hudson

Ginny:             Diane Keaton

Susan:             Jane Fonda

5.  What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?

Ex-lovers thrown back together after five years to dissolve their marriage try to ignore the feelings that never went away.

6. Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

My book will be self-published under Syd Parker Books.

7. How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?

The first half I finished in about a month, the second half I left and came back to more than once over the last year.

8. What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

I don’t have one in mind, though I can’t think of one that has delved into this subject, at least from this angle. Although, there are a lot of very talented authors and sadly, I don’t have time to read everyone.

9. Who or what inspired you to write this book?

I think “the one love” and second chances inspired me. Sarah has a saying, which I use in the book, “I believe in second chances, just not with me.” My thought is what if the love story you think is done really isn’t done. What happens when two lovers lose their way? Can they find their way back to each other? Does love ever get a second chance?

10. What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?

Following the example of another author who put out a soundtrack to her novel, I’ve decided to do one for Someone Like You. The story is emotionally raw in places and as I was writing it, I would hear a song that made me think of Lex and Aspen. Also, per the request of a very good friend of mine, look for one more surprise to be included.  

That’s pretty much it other than to say that Someone Like You will be out in March.

http://ckpaynter.com/  Chris Paynter is the author of several novels, including the winner of the 2010 Reader’s Choice Award for Favorite Romance Book, Come Back to Me. She also penned Survived by Her Longtime Companion, Two for the Show and Playing for First. Check out her blog at: http://chrispaynterbluefeatherauthor.blogspot.com/

How He Smelled of Tobacco and Peppermint

There has been a lot of feedback from Jodie Foster’s Golden Globe speech. Did she come out? Is she retiring? All debatable points, but the one thing that touched me, actually made me tear up, was the moment she told her mother, who is suffering from dementia that she loved her. Three times, so the woman lost behind those blue eyes might possibly hear her and remember it. I know all too well the feeling of looking into someone’s eyes, praying this will be the day they recognize me and instead I am greeted with eyes that stare straight through me.

I don’t remember the first time I saw my granddad, but what I do have are snapshots in my head of all the wonderful times I spent with him. After we moved back to Indiana from California, my dad was on the road a lot, so my granddad became a father figure of sorts. I even picked up calling him Dad and did so for years. My granddad owned his own homebuilding business. To this day, I can remember running in to see him in his messy office, spinning in his chair, looking at blueprints and smelling his pipe tobacco. I still love that smell. He taught me to climb trees, swish a basketball and hammer a pretty straight nail. I visited him on job sites and scaled the framed out homes long before there were walls to keep me out. He loved to fish, and he shared that with us.

I remember at four years old climbing up onto the bumper of his truck and telling him to use baking soda to clean the battery posts to “fix” it. We asked him for crazy pills every time we visited, which were actually gum drops. We drank soda from adult cups and sat on the top of the refrigerator and waved at him from our perch. Before Christmas (my Pre-JW days), we would all pile into our cars and follow him to the boonies to find and cut down a Christmas tree. We played basketball with trampolines under the net and he soothed our wounds when we fell off. He took us up in the attic of the garage and showed us a treasure trove of goodies. Looking back, it was all just things in storage, but it’s the reason I love to antique because it reminds me of him.

A recent comment got me to thinking about the year that we watched my San Francisco 49ers play his Miami Dolphins in the Super Bowl. I remember actually orchestrating it so I could watch the game with my granddad. I bet him a Big Mac that we would win. It was a small wager, but to a child it was the world, especially when I won. I never collected that bet and sadly, it’s too late now. We are probably even though, because he lent me a foldable measuring stick about thirty years ago and I broke it and never replaced it.

My granddad was a very proud and independent man. Years ago, when the homebuilding market stepped away from the traditional custom home to a more popular and inexpensive cookie cutter model, my grandfather refused to stop treating each person and home as an individual. In the end, it cost him his business and his home. When I was 16, he and my grandmother lost their house to foreclosure. We didn’t find out until days before it was final and all we could do was pack as much of their life into boxes and cart it away. I met the woman who bought the house at auction years later and it had sold for a paltry sum compared to its value. I silently hoped that her kids loved it like we did, stood on the 2^nd floor and tossed things down the laundry chute to the basement, swung on the porch swing so hard they almost tipped it over, made imaginary calls on the antique phone or slid down the stairs on their stomachs.

He and my grandmother moved into my uncle’s house, salvaging what possessions they could and my granddad, trying to salvage his pride. It was in those years that he developed Alzheimer’s. It wasn’t bad the first ten years but in those final years, he became angry and forgetful, so unlike the man I had once called dad. In the end, one of the few people that could still get through to him was my cousin. He would sit with my granddad for hours and talk to him about baseball and fishing and the kids. He could still break through the wall and get my granddad to laugh.

I remember getting the call that he had passed away. We were driving home for 4^th of July weekend in 2010. I refused to break down, instead allowing myself small bursts of tears. Sarah finally insisted I pull over so she could drive. I think I cried the rest of the way home. At the visitation, we children gathered around and marveled at how unlike my granddad the man before looked. His “too busy to mess with a brush” hair had been cut and styled, his normally bushy eyebrows were trimmed to an acceptable length and his perpetually tanned skin was sallow. He seemed very lonely all decked out in a suit that wasn’t his and surrounded by nothing. So we scheming children, behind the backs of our aunts and uncle, outfitted him with a fishing pole and several pipes for the road, all discreetly tucked away for later.

I was never more proud of my cousin than when he walked up and messed up my granddad’s hair and tweaked his eyebrows. He walked away with the telltale family smirk and said that’s the way granddad would have wanted it. We spent the night of the funeral at my parent’s house…a reunion of the family he left behind, dancing to scratchy versions of “Brown Eyed Girl” and old Bob Dylan hits and singing into whatever utensil we could find. My grandmother, who has begun her own battle with dementia, was at times dancing alongside, forgetting why we were there and at other times, hiding her sad blue eyes. I brace for the day her eyes don’t see us. For now, I will enjoy her while I can.

Though my granddad may not have remembered those of us he left behind, there are a lot of people that remember what a good and kind man he was and that he always smelled of “tobacco and peppermint.”  

It may have seemed a small, random gesture to express her love to her mother three separate times and so emphatically, but I understand how she feels. For there comes a time when you can say it one time or a hundred times and it doesn’t matter. I applaud Jodie Foster for baring her soul, however brief it was.  

Bittersweet Symphony

To this day, I can’t hear the song “The Boxer” without thinking of my dad. The latest was a collaboration done by Emmylou Harris and Mumford and Sons that I had it on repeat as I drove into work this morning. Growing up, my dad introduced us to all kinds of music, from Journey to Mozart and Handel. I can still remember sitting in the seat of his semi listening to “Faithfully” and not realizing at the time how fitting the words were in our situation. As a truck driver, he was on the road all the time and when he was home, he drank enough to be “cool” and played the role of father, never giving us a look at who he really was. By the time I moved out, I knew my dad loved music and was a Red Sox fan and still had an East Coast accent that would keep up with anyone from Boston.

It wasn’t until he had a stroke five years ago, that my dad became a family man. He was always good at taking care of us before, but I never knew anything about him other than the person he let us see. I didn’t know his past other than he was born in Holland during the war and immigrated to New Hampshire and didn’t learn to speak English till he was ten years old. I remember driving to Florida for my grandmother’s funeral and on the way home he didn’t eat because there was only enough money left to feed my sister and me. What I didn’t know was he almost didn’t go to the funeral because his mom was never really a mother to him. She kicked him out on the street when he was 14 because she didn’t want him, or that after the state made her take him back, he hitchhiked cross country to catch the family when his mom and brother left him behind. He made it as far as Illinois before he stopped and got his first job as a driver with a gentleman that had picked him up along the way. He has worked every day since then.

Those are the sad memories, the ones that I can understand why he didn’t share. But along with those, he started to share the good ones too. When he was at the juvenile home, he got to serve the governor of New Hampshire at a state dinner. When he was younger, he worked with his dad making bread at his small restaurant. When he was 18, he bought his first convertible. He was airborne in the Army, dated a woman named Esperanza in Mexico. Wooed my mother in Sequoia National Park and started his own family. All bits and pieces of what made him the man I knew and I was finally getting to see that.

He changed with us too…in a wonderful way. He was no longer the cocky man I knew, who stayed just on the edges of our family. He was now involved, caring, devoted. He actually loved the kids, not just tolerated them. He has turned into this amazing dad who still loves music, but now he tells us about the first time he heard a song or why it means so much to him.

I have a lot of memories of and with my dad, some happy, some painful. I have some resentment for growing up with an alcoholic father and the challenges that came with that, something I’m still working through. That aside, I have some wonderful memories of time spent with him. Being on the road with him and driving towards the Rockies for the first time, or driving through Utah at night and thinking the Salt Flats glowed in the dark, talking on the CB and making fun of other drivers. Things that make me smile when I remember them.

A lot of my memories have songs attached to them and when I hear that song it transports me back in time. But “The Boxer” and “Faithfully”, those songs encompass my dad. Those are the songs that evoke the most emotional response. I picked up a lot of things from my old man. I am sarcastic to a fault, I wear my heart on my sleeve, I cry at movies (yes, this from the King of Cool), I can bullshit all day long, I can’t carry a tune but I’ll belt out Journey with the best of them. I’ve always done those things, but now when I do them, I can look at my dad and know a little more about the man I got those traits from and know that whatever his faults, he’s trying to be the best dad he knows how to be.

I may not agree with a lot of the choices he made and I will probably always carry some hurt and pain from growing up the way I did, but now my head knows that there’s a reason he was broken and that a lot of his path was just him dealing with that the best way he could. I know he’s spent his whole life fighting the feelings of being unwanted and unloved and how much that messes someone up, especially a kid. I know, despite everything, my dad loves us and no matter what happens, “the fighter still remains.”

http://www.cmt.com/videos/misc/839379/the-boxer-from-cmt-crossroads.jhtml#id=1694498

My conversation with Charles Darwin or I used to be a what??

As I was writing out the check for my stepson’s tuition recently, I started to think about the relationship that he and I have. I met… well let’s just call him Charles, more for your safety than for his, almost seven years ago. He was a young lad of thirteen, smart, shy and not entirely sure who he was yet, but as eager to soak up information as I was. Naïve to a fault, but innocently so, as are most children.

Over the years, we have talked about a great many things, including his coming out to me (this was not too much of a surprise) and asking me to tell his mom for him. I have been his friend and his confidante in important matters and ones that weren’t as serious. We have always talked and he even used to listen…a little bit. There are a few topics that I steer clear of as he is much like his mom in that his sign is Gemini and sometimes the evil twin comes out and wants to duel to a verbal death. He will harangue and cajole and whatever other means he can muster up to prove his point and change someone’s mind. He will start conversations about hot-button topics because as he puts it, people tend to say what they really mean when they are angry. I am not a fighter and I refuse to be pulled into his verbal shenanigans, but I understand his youthful exuberance and his eternal belief that he is right about everything.

I call him Charles in jest, but it is somewhat fitting. One of the conversations I refuse to have with him is religion, the other is the eternal debate between creation and evolution. He stands hard and fast on his belief in evolution and I respect that he is as sure of himself at twenty as he is. I, however, consider myself to be an enlightened adult also and feel there is a place for God and for science. I won’t try to push this on him or anyone else, but I won’t debate either just for the sake of showing my true feelings.  I prefer not to waste my time talking to a brick wall who doesn’t listen to counterpoints. There are times when I wonder if he will ever listen again.

He called the other day to tell me his latest plan of what he wants to be when he grows up and ask what I think about it. For as long as I can remember, he has talked about being a doctor and I’m proud to say, he has the mental capacity to be one. He is quickly learning that he doesn’t have the mental fortitude.

His mom works in surgery and sees everyday how miserable the doctors are that she works with, so her worry in this career choice was his unhappiness. He worked this past summer as a transcriber in an ER and got to see firsthand just how unhappy and incredibly smug most doctors are. Don’t get me wrong, there are a handful that have managed to keep the job separate from home and still manage to have a life, but the majority of them are miserable and exhausted, but can’t quit because this is all they know and they’ve grown accustomed to the lifestyle that money affords and don’t know how to give that up. As much as Charles believes that he is right, he isn’t smug or nasty about it and he realized that he didn’t want to grow up and be like that.

He then decided to change from being a doctor to being a Physician’s Assistant. Still a very good job, but without the time, debt and mental weight of being a doctor. We support him and encourage him in this endeavor. He works hard and we know that whatever he set his mind to he will accomplish. He’s also a hard worker and a bit of a perfectionist, which only fuels his goals.

Last month, he changed his mind again. He has decided he wants to be a social worker. This idea was so radically different and I couldn’t figure out how he picked social work. He isn’t a bad kid, but selfless and giving are not terms I would use to describe him. I finally realized that he is lost and not exactly sure what he wants to be anymore. He’s finally realizing that he is indeed fallible and it’s altered him in such a way that he isn’t so cocksure anymore. So he gravitates towards ideas that he hears around him, looking for direction.

He called me the other day, after his announcement that he was no longer going to go into medicine and he wanted to pursue a career as a social worker. He asked me if I thought his mom would be disappointed that he was doing that since we were paying for his school and would we think he was wasting his education. Granted, he has scholarships that cover a lot of it, but at least he is realizing that what we pay is a pretty hefty chunk and he’s at least thinking about that. I said that no matter what you choose to do as a career, as long as you work hard and do your best at it and you’re happy doing it, your mom will be fine. She just worries about you. As hard as being a doctor is, social work is no walk in the park. I asked him if he knows the types of people he would be helping. He said yes, but I don’t know that he understands how tough it will be. I don’t think he grasps the hardships that he will run across and the heartbreak that will be in every face that he looks into.

He has a big heart buried under all that bravado and he’s going to meet people that are going to break it without trying. His mom worries about that and probably worries a bit about him getting hurt. But I assure him that no matter what, we love him and it’s his decision.

He jumped right in, applying for a job as a tech at a mental facility for adults with mild disorders. He loves it! As a matter of fact, last night’s big news was that he got to drive the transport van. He still shares his stories because he’s happy, but also because he wants his mom to be proud of him. I told him I loved him before I hung up and I was proud of him too. He will probably change his mind a couple more times, but he will always look to us for guidance.

The thing that touches me most is that in a world where kids don’t worry about disappointing their parents anymore, I have been blessed with a stepson who despite his desire to argue, still calls to tell us he got an A, or makes sure that he’s making the right choice. He still worries about what we think and listens sometimes, even when I think he doesn’t. What I hope is that he will come away from it with the same values that we did. My mom always said that she just wanted to raise us so that when we ventured out in the world, we were responsible adults who made responsible choices and could support ourselves. We do our best to instill that in him, even if he does think we used to be monkeys!

What's Your Amazing?

A recent blog made me really start to think about myself and the people I have met in this journey. It’s been several weeks and I haven’t been able to shut my brain off. In the blog, I mentioned that my goal was to be in the best shape of my life when I am 40. Several encouraging comments later, I remarked that 40 is my new amazing! And this is where the churning started!

I realized in my conversations with several of the women I now call friends, while we have never met, we have one thing in common. We all have a story that makes us unique. We all have hopes and dreams and aspirations to be something amazing! Many of us have reached that goal and many, like myself, have more we are working towards. The one thing that has helped me to stay motivated  is the ability to share my dreams and have just one person give me a high five or some other form of encouragement. It’s what keeps me putting one foot in front of the other and keeps a smile on my face.

It’s easy to become dejected when it seems like our goals stay just out of reach. But what if we have one person, or maybe 100 that can pick us back up again and just say “I believe in you”? Suddenly, the impossible doesn’t seem so hard anymore. Suddenly, the point that seemed so far away gets a little closer, a little clearer.

With that little build up, I am super excited to launch a brand new Facebook page. What’s Your Amazing? This is a place where we can all get together and share our stories of what we have accomplished or what we want to accomplish in our quest to be able to shout “I’m the new amazing”!

So, whatever it is that you have in your life, we’d love to hear about it. If 40 is your new amazing, or climbing Mt. Whitney, completing a 5k or publishing your own novel, tell us about it. If you need a little pick me up along the way, I have a couple hundred friends that are great at that.

My first big goal was writing a novel which turned into publishing a novel. I’ve done that. I can tell you after the initial scared as shit feelings, which do surface with each new book, the feeling of holding my book in my hands made me feel amazing! My next challenge to myself will be a little harder, but I know that my friends have my back and when I say I want to put back a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Half-Baked Ice Cream, they are going to remind me that the fleeting feeling of joy I might get with that will pale in comparison to getting to stand up and shout, “40 is my new amazing!”

Whatever your new amazing is, look in the mirror tonight and shout it. And when you’re done, feel free to visit the new FB page and share your story, encourage a friend and leave with a smile. 

"Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night"

This past weekend, we went to Chicago to do another race. As many of you know, I live to do 5k’s, Warrior Dashes, Mud Runs, Color Runs and whatever other races I can find. A dear friend of mine told me several weeks ago that I needed to stop throwing my money away. To which I replied “How can it be wasting money when I get a really cool race shirt and medal?” It’s completely beside the point that the shirt will end up in a donation pile by next year. To me, it’s the thrill of completing something and wearing my “shirt” of honor proudly...at least once.

The other thing that a few of you know is I have a tendency to share my more embarrassing moments, sort of comic relief for myself. This weekend didn’t disappoint. The race that we had planned to do was on Sunday morning, so Saturday we spent the day sightseeing, taking pics for upcoming book covers and carbing up for the race. The weather was perfect and there were a handful of soon-to-be-married couples creating memorable wedding shots all along Michigan Ave. We happened upon one couple that was recreating their own surreal version of “The Kissing Sailor” moment right in front of the John Hancock building. I turned for a better look and when I did, I stepped into the street, hit an uneven bit of pavement and twisted the hell out of my ankle. Not one of my “cooler” moments. I did save face and refused to cry, but the damage had been done. I was going home raceless-without a finisher’s medal, overstuffed and a shirt that might as well have said “I paid to do this race and all I got was this crappy shirt.”  

I learned two valuable lessons this weekend. Rubbernecking no matter how much someone looks like they just stepped out of Madame Tussauds Wax Museum is at best dangerous! And second, I learned that even though I feel 37 at heart, this body isn’t as young as it used to be. Normally, I would wrap a bum ankle, get my ass to the starting line and self-medicate with Advil later. Now, not so much. What I did do was hobble back to the hotel, prop my feet up and play Words with Friends with my mother, groaning randomly for sympathy. Admitting that my body is breaking down slowly is a little hard for me to do. Not doing a race because of a sprained ankle calls into question my invincibility and inevitably the itchy wool tights and giant S on my chest will have to be retired sometime soon. Granted, when they were handing out super powers I did ask for the ability to teleport. Yep, didn’t get that or you can bet I would have “winked” myself to the beach every day. But I’ve made do with at least believing I was invincible, tripping along somewhat oblivious to the wrinkles showing up in my face, the creaks of protest from my knees when I walk up the steps, or the sore hip from being in the car too long.

I’m rolling my eyes a bit here because I’ve made myself sound 87 and not 37. It isn’t that I’m old, it’s more of realizing what the little aches and pains foreshadow. When I see my mother who I still consider “young” at 62, I realize I can’t remember what she looked like when I was 5. In pictures, she’s a beautiful 30-year old with a wicked twinkle in her eye that looks similar to mine. Now, she’s a little grayer, her face has a few more wrinkles and she’s constantly looking for 1 of 19 pairs of reading glasses she misplaced somewhere. Somewhere along the way, she went from a young woman to a mother to a grandmother and I see myself on the same fast-paced journey, sans the kids.

And knowing that I’m getting older doesn’t make me want to settle in and admit defeat, it only makes me want to work harder to age gracefully. I may have twisted an ankle and missed this run, but there’s a Title 9 run in October that’s yelling my name, with many more to follow. My new goal is to be in the best shape of my life at 40 and actually do another half-marathon. I know at some particular point, I’ll join my mother and we will spend lazy weekends rocking on the front porch remembering the time she chased after the neighborhood boys and beat them in a water gun fight. But for now, I’ll keep pounding the pavement, cycling the open road and pointing myself to a healthier future. And stop sightseeing.

As a footnote to this blog, while I was hobbling around town I did find this kickass, “I will shank you” pair of shoes that I can’t wear for fear of breaking my ankle, or for the public ridicule that I would surely subject myself to. But I can look at them and know that somewhere there is a woman walking the streets of Chicago wearing this pair of shoes and wishing to god she had worn a pair of Saucony’s and done a 5k instead. I know her body is probably feeling worse than mine right now and that makes my smile just a little bit bigger.